Management and Organization Paradoxes (Advances in Organization Studies)

Management and Organization Paradoxes

Advances in Organization Studies Advances in Organization Studies includes cutting-edge work in comparative management and intercultural comparison, studies of organizational culture, communication, and aesthetics, as well as in the area of interorganizational collaboration — strategic alliances, joint ventures, networks and collaborations of all kinds, where comparative, intercultural, and communicative issues have an especial salience. Purely theoretical as well as empirically based studies are included. General Editors Stewart Clegg School of Management University of Technology Sydney Quay Street, Haymarket P.O.Box 123 Broadway, NSW 2007 Australia [email protected] Alfred Kieser University of Mannheim D 68 131 Mannheim Germany [email protected]

Volume 9 Management and Organization Paradoxes Edited by Stewart R. Clegg

Management and Organization Paradoxes Edited by

Stewart R. Clegg University of Technology, Sydney

John Benjamins Publishing Company Amsterdam
/
Philadelphia

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TM

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences – Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ansi z39.48-1984.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Management and organization paradoxes / edited by Stewart R. Clegg. p. cm. (Advances in Organization Studies, issn 1566–1075 ; v. 9) Rev. papers from the APROS2000 conference in Sydney. Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. Management-Philosophy-Congresses. 2. Organization-Philosophy-Congresses. 3. Paradoxes-congresses. I.Clegg, Steward. II. Australian and Pacific Researches in Organization Studies (Organization). III. Advances in organization studies; 9. HD29.M283 2002 658’.001-dc21 isbn 90 272 3307 1 (Eur.) / 1 58811 257 8 (US) (Hb; alk. paper) isbn 90 272 3306 3 (Eur.) / 1 58811 208 X (US) (Pb; alk. paper)

2002021463

© 2002 – John Benjamins B.V. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by print, photoprint, microfilm, or any other means, without written permission from the publisher. John Benjamins Publishing Co. · P.O. Box 36224 · 1020 me Amsterdam · The Netherlands

Table of contents

Acknowledgements 1. General introduction Stewart R. Clegg Part I Representing Paradoxes 2. Management, paradox, and permanent dialectics João Vieira da Cunha, Stewart R. Clegg and Miguel Pina e Cunha 3. The meanings of risk and interorganizational collaboration Paul K. Couchman and Liz Fulop

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4. Workers’ playtime?: Unravelling the paradox of covert resistance in organizations Peter Fleming and André Spicer

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5. Paradox in symbols and subjects: The politics of constructing “The Wharfie” André Spicer, John W. Selsky and Julian Teicher

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6. Politics and popular culture: Organizational carnival in the Springfield nuclear power plant Carl Rhodes

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7. From value conflicts to multiple mandates: On organising ethical knowledge and its paradoxes Fernando Leal and Patricia Shipley

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Part II Materialising Paradoxes 8. Organizational paradoxes and business ethics: In search of new modes of existence Eduardo Ibarra-Colado

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Table of contents

9. Beyond the ‘war for talent’ hype: Occupational and organizational change in the business professions Timothy Morris and Ashly Pinnington

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10. Expectations, emotions and money: Finance organizations and futures Jocelyn Pixley

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11. Psychoanalysis and auditing David Crowther

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12. A paradox of governance: Convergent policy and divergent practice in corporate governance in Asia Thomas Clarke

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13. Multinationals, corporate governance and financial internationalisation Glenn Morgan

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14. Managing the interconnected organization: An internal tension perspective Antoine Hermens

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About the contributors

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Index

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Acknowledgements

This book would not have been possible without the assistance of many people and some organizations. First, I would like to acknowledge the work of all the stream coordinators at the APROS 2000 conference in Sydney, at which earlier versions of these chapters first appeared as papers — their work is appreciated greatly. Second, I would like to thank, in particular, Jenny Onyx, Thomas Clarke and Stella Ng and Thomas Clarke, from the UTS School of Management, and Ernie Waldstein, Jenni Stevenson and Mary Noonan, from the Executive Development Unit, for all the support they gave in facilitating the conference. Third, my appreciation to my colleagues in ORCA (Organizational Researchers in Collaboration and Alliances), a Key Research Strength at UTS, who helped in the organization of APROS, especially Thekla Rura-Polley. Fourth, I want to thank Peter Booth, the Dean of the Faculty of Business at UTS, and Robert Lal, Information Technology (IT) Manager, for their assistance at key stages. Salvador Porras did a great job of helping out at crucial times, especially with the website. However, it is one person, in particular, who deserves my thanks and those of all the contributors, and that is Cleusa Lester, whose executive assistance was - and continues to be - of inestimable value in achieving various projects.

Chapter 1

General introduction Stewart R. Clegg

The paradox is the orthodoxy of our age Niklas Luhmann

The Academy of Management Review, under the guest editorship of Kathleen M. Eisenhardt (2000), published a special issue of the journal dedicated to “Change and development journeys into a pluralistic world.” Taking “Paradox, Spirals, Ambivalence: The New Language of Change and Pluralism” as the theme, Eisenhardt said in her introduction: Several unanticipated themes emerge in the special issue. The most central is paradox. Paradox is the simultaneous existence of two inconsistent states, such as between innovation and efficiency, collaboration and competition, or new and old. Rather than compromising between the two in some sort of Goldilocks fantasy, vibrant organizations, groups, and individuals change by simultaneously holding the two states. This duality of coexisting tensions creates an edge of chaos, not a bland halfway point between one extreme and the other. The management of this duality hinges on exploring the tension in a creative way that captures both extremes, thereby capitalizing on the inherent pluralism within the duality (Eisenhardt 2000: 703).

It is not clear from Eisenhardt (2000) whether the paradoxes that she sees the journal dealing with reside in either the means of representation (a Goldilocks fantasy?) or in the material world, where “vibrant organizations, groups, and individuals change by simultaneously holding the two states.” In many respects the tension between materialisation and representation is the central issue. Are the paradoxes inherent to the nature of that which is being represented or the means of representation? It is the centrality of this question that determines the structure of the present volume,1 with its binary division between “representation” and “materialisation” — or, as I prefer in the active voice, between “representing” and “materialising”. The focus is on how we represent and materialise dialectics, (dis)organization and contradiction Of course, any division between materiality and representation is in part artificial, as the word is invariably material (Silverman and Torode 1980). Ever

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since the ordinary language philosophers, after Wittgenstein (1972) and Austin (1975), attended to the performative functions of everyday speech, one has been well aware of the things that words do. Some aspects of the world may well be seen as paradoxical, irrespective of the words used to represent them. Some paradoxes that are extant in reality may well be obliterated by the words — the theories — chosen to represent them. Marianne Lewis’ (2000) contribution to the Academy of Management Review, “Exploring Paradox: Towards a More Comprehensive Guide”, argues that conceptions of management and organization theory have, more often than not, stressed smooth rationality, linearity and planned change, rather than dialectics, discord and contradiction. Thus, the recognition of paradox is an effect of relatively recent forms of representation — because long-standing approaches have stressed singular rather than plural multi-dimensional perspectives.

Representing paradoxes The chapter by João Vieira da Cunha, Stewart Clegg and Miguel Pina e Cunha on “Management, Paradox, and Permanent Dialectics” addresses themes of dialectical representation of paradox in management and organization theory. A synthesis of these paradoxes emerges from a dialectical view of strategy and organization, built from four identifiable principles: those of simultaneity, locality, minimality and generality. In many respects this chapter functions as an excellent introduction to the overall themes of the volume. The fact that the concepts of dialectical strategy and dialectical organization offer a way to achieve a synthesis between opposing schools demonstrates the potential of a dialectical view of management. Competing representations can be held in conjunction, as Eisendhardt (20000) suggests. “The Meanings of Risk and Interorganizational Collaboration” by Paul Couchman and Liz Fulop, deals directly with issues of representation in a specific research project. How do management researchers represent the realities that they construct when working cooperatively with others whose constructions are very different? How should the ensuing paradox and tension of competing views of the same reality be dealt with? In this chapter they deal with sensemaking as discursive practices, shaping meanings; they also examine how organizations and subjectivities are constituted. Organization texts shape choices between contradictory and competing meanings. The choices between these competing and contradictory positions are not resolved through rational argumentation so much as the power of rhetorical representation. The chapter analyses how competing discourses emerged in a discursive arena (and how a particular discourse came to dominate). Various aspects of management practice were obscured by discursive dominance. However, the dialectical position of holding simultaneous ways of making sense

General introduction

was a source of risk, contestation and contradiction for the project. Not surprisingly, the dominant discursive practices, whose roots were in rationalism and modernism, overcame any sense of dialectics, paradox and contradiction. The dominant discourse provided a distinctive mode of talking and writing about collaborative projects. However, the consequence was that management was weakened to the extent that it did not engage with paradox and incommensurability — both of which are endemic to securing multi-disciplinary engagement in cross-sector collaborations. The dialectics of power and resistance have been staples of the labour process perspective in industrial sociology and organization theory for over twenty years. Authors such as Willis (1974) and Burawoy (1979) argue that resistance, when articulated in the form of humour, irony and cynicism, rather than overt “struggle”, may have the paradoxical outcome of inadvertently reproducing the domination that workers seek to escape, because it provides a specious and illusory sense of freedom. It is this false freedom that inclines them to disengage from more “material” and traditionally located resistances. Resistance through joking and cynicism can actually assume the (paradoxical) status of consent due to its “safety valve” effects in power relationships. In “Workers Playtime: Unravelling the Paradox of Covert Resistance in Organizations” by Peter Fleming and André Spicer, models of power underpinning judgements of “effective” or “ineffective” resistance in relation to humour, irony and cynicism are discussed. The standards of radical upheaval and economic transformation may be important criteria. However, holding to these standards may also marginalise many other forms of transgression that can effectively alter organizational status quo. Different forms of resistance may interact in complex, ambiguous and often paradoxical ways. Humour, irony, and cynicism may be subversive on one set of co-ordinates but support or undermine resistances at other levels. In order to think about resistance in this multiple sense, the authors develop the notion of “plateaux of power and resistance.” Representationally, they draw upon a spatial metaphor to illustrate how resistance may overlap, collide and interrelate in unpredictable ways with different outcomes. In the following chapter, “Paradox in Symbols and Subjects: The Politics of Constructing ‘The Wharfie’”, André Spicer joins with John Selsky and Julian Teicher to research one of the most celebrated industrial relations disputes of recent times in Australia. The Maritime Union of Australia was involved in a longrunning dispute with Patrick, a stevedoring company. The dispute involved secret meetings between government and business to organize strike breakers (what price the liberal state?) and a campaign of struggle waged on many fronts — not least in various media representations of the union. The symbolic aspects of the conflict centred on struggles around how “the wharfie” was constructed. The authors use

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Bakhtin’s (1981) concept of dialogue to analyse the paradoxical discourses adopted by key parties to the dispute. By examining the role of symbolic identity struggles concerning the ways that subjects are recognized, the authors show how discourse is central to workplace disputes. Bakhtin is also central to “Politics and Popular Culture: Organizational Carnival in the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant” by Carl Rhodes. As most readers will be aware, Springfield is home to the most famous family in America — The Simpsons. The proposition is that this television show provides the opportunity for a compelling and political critique of the logic of “normal” organizational life. In providing both a parody and a critique of organizations, The Simpsons also offers viewers the possibility of questioning alternatives to existing and potentially oppressive social relationships at work. There are clear continuities between the analysis of The Simpsons and the previous two chapters. Methodologically, Bakhtin is the link between Rhodes and Spicer, Selsky and Teicher, while the importance of humour links the chapter with that of Fleming and Spicer. However, all three of the previous chapters raise important and implicit issues about ethics — an issue that takes centre-stage in the chapter on “From Value Conflicts to Multiple Mandates: On Organizing Ethical Knowledge and its Paradoxes” by Fernando Leal and Patricia Shipley. Leal and Shipley start from the single most influential representation of the modern condition for organization theory — that of Max Weber’s “Outline of an Interpretive Sociology.” The key concept for Weber was “rationality”, which Weber placed at the centre of his framework for understanding modernity. Modernity was understood as a sphere in which conflicting rationalities and values were normal, and it is the clash of values that forms the focus for Leal and Shipley. At this point they connect Weber with another titan of modernity — Emile Durkheim. Durkheim sought to illuminate the problems of society from an ethical point of view, particularly as these were constructed in relation to the division of labour in society. It is through the particular roles that the division of labour frames that people learn both who they are and what is valuable within society and organizations. Leal and Shipley go on to argue that, increasingly, the moral order of modernity, in which divisions of labour functioned as a basis for moral order, is now disintegrating. The recent tendency is for a division to develop where the ties bind less than they cleave; the division is between disorganised junk jobs — parttime and secondary labour market options — and organized good jobs, which are challenging, varied, and creative, through which cleavage a contradictory reality is symbolised and materialised.

General introduction

Materialising paradoxes The second part of the book opens with a chapter by Eduardo Ibarra-Colado, “Organizational Paradoxes and Business Ethics: In Search of New Modes of Existence”, which also focuses on the possibility of ethical business practice. Management guru’s, whose voices became so insistent from the 1980s onwards, argue that the dynamics that govern organizations stress the normalcy of inconsistencies — rather than consistencies — in rationality. The chapter analyses business ethics, dilemmas and paradoxes, using three scenarios. The first scenario demonstrates the paradoxes that occur when corporate discourses and representations do not correspond to practices and actions. The second scenario shows the symbolic devices used by corporations to generate identification and to build consensus, especially in the “management excellence” framework. The framework of excellence projects an imaginary subject that permanently confronts and defeats the real nature of the person at work. The third scenario shows that the “ethical explosion” of the last decade of the 20th century reveals the business of ethics as a “non-ethical ethics”. In the final part of the chapter some ideas are presented for the construction of a different kind of organizational ethics. It might be possible to transform corporations from structures of subjugation and domination to spaces of greater equity, plural coexistence and recreation, in which free will might flourish. While Ibarra-Colado dealt with corporate companies, Timothy Morris and Ashly Pinnington, in their chapter on “Beyond the “War for Talent” Hype: Occupational and Organizational Change in the Business Professions”, address another aspect of organizational reality. The chapter develops a framework for understanding how the formation or adaptation of professions may affect, as well as be affected by, organizational dynamics. It challenges arguments that the new professional firm archetype is more managed and bureaucratic than the previously autonomous realm of professional practice. Some professional firms actually display anti-managerial values that mimic those of entrepreneurial innovation favoured by excellence models. The entrepreneur is seen as a heroic figure, replacing the previously held aspirations of a professional service ethos. Ironically, although work on professional firms initially focused on the interaction of occupational and organizational systems of control, the two types of control have become increasingly disconnected. Here is the paradox: as the professional firm became more researched by organization theorists, they focused less and less on what made it distinctive. When that paradox is faced, radically different interpretations of the professional firm occur. Jocelyn Pixley argues in the chapter “Expectation, Emotions and Money: Finance Organizations and Futures” that, in finance organizations dedicated to

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making money, rationality appears to be prevalent. On the other hand, tension, insecurity and irrationality also prevail in the finance sector, because of the fundamental uncertainty of speculation in the face of an unknown future. Corporate entities routinely compete and engage in internal conflicts concerning investment decisions, as they assess opportunities. The considerable quantities of data available for decision-making always “looks through the rear window” and cannot predict the business future. Decision-makers have to rely not only on data but also emotions, such as feelings of confidence and trust in organizations and their managers. Instinct and organizational rituals, as well as a constant preoccupation with “the news”, shape the reality that their investment decisions make and respond to. In such a scenario, it is irrational to represent the outcome of a complex data-driven and emotional decision-process, as if it were wholly rational. In David Crowther’s chapter on “Psychoanalysis and Auditing”, the critique of rationality is extended further. If corporations cannot make money rationally, as Pixley suggests, what are they doing? Crowther uses audits of company accounts as data. By applying psychoanalytic theory, he proposes in Freudian terms that the managers of organizations project their insecurity and a need continually to seek reaffirmation of individual worth and recognition. In Lacanian terms, managers see their own value as individuals by means of representation in the mirror of organizational existence. In this mirror, organizational routines and rituals provide a validation of the present through its connection to a sanctified past. Accounting routines are seen to fulfil a quasi-religious purpose within organizations, for both authors and interpreters of corporate accounts. The managers of the organization are depicted and instituted as a type of priesthood, in an organizational religion. Thomas Clarke also looks at the audit performance of organizations but does so in terms of their governance regimes. In a wide-ranging review of “A Paradox of Governance: Convergent Policy and Divergent Practice in Corporate Governance in Asia”, he argues that the Asian financial crisis proved a severe shock to the confidence of “miracle economies”. It revealed that a quarter century of rapid economic growth was based on frail foundations of corporate governance. The East Asian economies have adopted reformed codes of governance, at least formally. However, these reforms in codes may not transform practice nor alter the dependent status of economies based on the branch production of technology commodities for Western multinationals. The Asian crisis was symptomatic of a profound instability in the operation of international financial markets. Paradoxically, the introduction of global standards of corporate governance makes the developing world more, rather than less, exposed to unanticipated and overwhelming pressures from financial markets. In his chapter on “Multinationals, Corporate Governance, and Financial Internationalization”, Glenn Morgan analyses UK, German, Japanese and US

General introduction

multinationals, in terms of their financial internationalisation. Overall, Japan is the least internationalised, while US multinationals have the smallest amount of ownership by foreign investors. On the other hand, Germany is in an intermediate position, whilst the US and the UK hold the most foreign assets, and have changed least as a result of internationalisation pressures. Internationalisation of financial structures has variable impacts on corporate governance structures. The chapter argues that governance regimes vary according to the existing structure of the firm. Japanese firms are least affected by governance changes, because activities are cross subsidised, businesses built slowly, and failing units restructured without extensive external monitoring, because of the availability of long-term credit. German multinationals have to deal with competing modes of corporate governance while UK and US firms combine a strong hierarchy in terms of financial controls, with strong heterarchical organizations. The conclusion to be drawn from Clarke and Morgan’s chapters is that it would be inappropriate to assume that there is either a convergence in organization form or in capitalism — capitalism and organizations still have distinct national flavours. Hence, the national embeddedness of economic activity means that many of the discourses of modernity — the theory of the firm; of organizations; of governance — that assume a settled and stable ontological object for their reflections, theory and inquiry are fooling themselves. They are living in a paradoxical world because its material reality confounds their theoretical assumptions: the reality is highly contingent, embedded and variable, while the assumptions proffers grand narratives that deny the differences illustrated in these chapters. Antoine Hermens, an Australian strategist, contributes the last chapter on “Managing the Interconnected Organization: An Internal Tension Perspective.” The argument harks back to the themes of the second chapter, by João Vieira da Cunha, Stewart Clegg and Miguel Pina e Cunha, in its suggestion that strategic alliances should be examined as dialectical systems. The organizational strategies of firms in strategic alliances are comprised of a mix of embeddedness, cooperation, and a long-term orientation, while flexibility, competition and a short-term orientation frame the markets in which the alliances are formed. The balance between the multiple conflicting forces of firms and markets determine alliance stability, and the outcomes are linked to imbalances in these dialectical forces. It is only when market and hierarchy forces are in equilibrium, and cost benefit trade offs are equal, that alliances will be stable and effective. Overall, the contributions to Paradoxes and Dialectics in Management and Organization are diverse and challenging. Each contribution takes a different angle on the central theme. Although there are family resemblances between some of the chapters, at their outer limits these resemblances appear faint; nonetheless, all of the chapters illuminate diverse aspects of contemporary paradoxes in management

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and organization theory. The book provides, in each of its chapters, a challenge to the still overwhelmingly rationalist views of theory and practice that dominate the field and provides new directions for understanding organizations and management.

Notes 1. The volume arose from papers presented at APROS — Asia Pacific Researchers in Organization Studies. The APROS 2000 conference was organized by the editor in collaboration with colleagues from the University of Technology, Sydney, as well as others from the world-wide APROS network, and was held in December 2000. The papers selected are a small sample from the various streams of the conference. The papers were all substantially revised within the design chosen for the structure of the book, through a process of mutually constructive criticism by the authors. The theme of “paradox” was clearly signalled as the rationale and theme for the volume and thus the selection of contributions and the revisions were all made with this theme explicitly in mind.

References Austin, J. L. (1975). How to do things with words. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Bakhtin, M. (1981). The dialogic imagination: Four essays. In Michael Holquist (Ed.). Austin: University of Texas Press. Burawoy, M. (1979). Manufacturing consent: Changes in the labor process under monopoly capitalism. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Eisenhardt, K. M. (2000). Paradox, spirals, ambivalence: The new language of change and pluralism. The Academy of Management Review, 25: 703–5. Lewis, M. W. (2000). Exploring paradox: Towards a more comprehensive guide. The Academy of Management Review, 25:760–76. Silverman, D. and Torode, B. (1980). The material word: Some theories of language and its limits. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Willis, P. E. (1977). Learning to labour: How working class kids get working class jobs. Farnborough: Saxon House. Wittgenstein, L. (1972). Philosophical Investigations. Oxford: Blackwell.

Part I

Representing Paradoxes

Chapter 2

Management, paradox, and permanent dialectics João Vieira da Cunha, Stewart R. Clegg and Miguel Pina e Cunha

Introduction Few words appear more often in the recent literature on management than “paradox”. In the popular business press, managers are alerted to emergent trends in the “age of paradox” (Handy 1995), called on to “master paradox” (Peters 1987: 391–397) and to “own up to the great paradox” (Peters 1992: 615). In fact, Tom Peters — probably the most well-known business “guru” — when asked what would be the most important lesson he would like to teach humanity, answered the following: “success is the result of deep grooves, but deep grooves destroy adaptability [which is the touchstone of success]” — the “great paradox” (Peters 1992: 616). Academically, paradox has been a central topic since the Ancients. Zeno, the fifth century BC Greek philosopher from Elea, devised a number of ingenious brain-teasers constructed around the idea of infinity that have come down to us as “Zeno’s Paradoxes”. The most famous of these concerned a race between a tortoise and the Greek hero Achilles, where the tortoise — a notoriously slow reptile — is given a head start. According to Zeno, the speedy Achilles could never overtake the reptile because when he reached the point at which the tortoise began he would have moved on to a further position, a process that he took to be infinite. Philosophically, as many have attested since, the various “proofs” of the paradox have foundered on some aspect of other of the terms of their expression, as for instance, when, after Aristotle, infinity is conceived in either its “actual” or “potential” characteristics. What characterizes a paradox is the seeming impossibility of the existence of two simultaneous states of affairs because of their contradictory quality. In Zeno’s paradox it is the contradictory qualities attributed to time and motion. In the academic literature on management and organizations, paradox has a less august pedigree, but can be traced back at least as far as Adam Smith’s “pin

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factory”, where integration and differentiation surface as one of the major tensions underlying the rise of the modern industrial organization (Smith 1991). More recently scholars have found paradox in such diverse fields as organization theory (Weick 1993a; Hatch 1999), time and organization (Burrell 1992), organizational change (Orlikowski and Hofman 1997; Edelman and Benning 1998), organizational culture (Machin and Carrithers 1996), leadership (Thayer 1988) and communication (Yates and Orlikowski 1999). Ever since scientific management (Taylor 1947) several attempts have been made to tackle paradox. These attempts fall mainly into two approaches that succeeded each other historically, and that now can be said to co-exist. First, scholars attempted to find the “best way” to come to grips with the tensions between two terms — in Taylor’s case the classical terms of “time” and “motion”, which he redefined as being bounded by the poles of differentiation and integration. Thus, Taylor (1947) sought to find the best way to differentiate tasks along a production line (motion) and to define the principles that should guide managers’ behaviour for integration to be as efficient as possible (time). Fayol (1949) and Barnard (1938) aimed at the higher echelons of the corporation. The first attempted to formalize administrative principles, being concerned more with integration than with differentiation (seeing integration as the most pressing problem for top management). Barnard was more ambitious and coupled a normative statement of the functions of the executive — all related to coordination roles — with a descriptive statement of the basis and need for differentiation that aims to explain the need for the very existence of organizations. A different approach, often labelled contingency theory, emerged around the middle of the century. At this time, inquiry into the relationship on the determinants of organizational structure showed that different environments (Burns and Stalker 1961) and technologies (Woodward 1965), among other factors, determined the “right” organizational structure to adopt. These findings inspired a stream of research aiming at mapping different possible states of these factors and the adequate organizational configurations and decisions best able to succeed in each state. Hence, paradox was tackled by framing its poles as options that were fitter for different environmental and organizational states. Thus, assessing whether the environment favored one strategy or the other would solve the paradox of efficiency/effectiveness and determine the strategy to be implemented (Lawrence and Lorsch 1967). The contingency perspective is still dominant in academia but the explosion of normative theories (e.g. Peters and Waterman 1982; Peters 1987; 1992; 1994) in the popular business literature has revivified “one best way” approaches (Shapiro 1995). These have been driven by a social construction of the future of business environments that includes features such as “hypercompetition” (D’Aveni 1995),

Management, paradox, and permanent dialectics

shortening of product life cycles (Bettis and Hitt 1995), a highly educated work force (Drucker 1996; Handy 1991), and ever-shifting consumer tastes (Peters 1992). With such emphases emerged a series of prescriptions that set standards for organizational practice as well as strategies for success. Additionally, paradox gained pervasiveness in organizational settings for three other main reasons. The adoption of information technology has been seen as inherently paradoxical (Johnson and Rice 1984). E-mail communication, for example, is at the same time both formal and informal (Yates and Orlikowski 1999) and the implementation of this type of technology is a process that is both efficient and effective, and emergent and planned (Orlikowski and Hofman 1997). Second, environmental changes place increasingly contradictory demands on companies. Taking the personal computer industry as an example, companies in that sector need to have a high rate of innovation while keeping costs low (and lowering them further), which means they have to master the paradox bounded by the opposite poles of effectiveness and efficiency (Brown and Eisenhardt 1997). Not only has paradox become more pervasive in organizations but also has been more acutely felt and perceived by organizational members, especially by managers. While “management gurus” have been articulating the problems organizations face in a way that makes managers perceive their importance and urgency, when these “gurus” switch from being problem-tellers to problem-solvers, they advocate a series of policies and behaviours extremely counter-intuitive for the average manager (Micklethwait and Wooldridge 1996). These policies and behaviours usually come from the analysis of so-called “success cases”, and more often than not, these cases involve large, often multinational companies, which can call on resources and workers far beyond the reach of the “average” company. In addition, these prescriptions are frequently contradictory, not only between authors but also in the work of the same author. Tom Peters offers a striking example of this feature of “guru” advice. In a clear allusion to In Search of Excellence, he wrote in a later book that “Excellence isn’t, there are no excellent companies” (Peters 1987: 3) and then goes on to argue that the prescriptions he offered together with Waterman in the first book were wrong and fallacious. These contradictions increase the perception of paradox felt by managers by creating bipolar tensions not only in the problems they face but also in the solutions available to handle them. The presence of paradox thus becomes a problem on its own (Shapiro 1995; Peters 1992). Three possible answers to the problem of paradox appear to emerge in the literature. The first one, present in both business and academic literatures, states that paradox is essentially unsolvable — something to be sustained or endured, not tackled. In this vein, Miller (1993) has shown that success inevitably breeds failure, and Mintzberg and McHugh (1985) demonstrated that planning always brings

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unintended consequences that may end up jeopardizing the plan itself. In the practitioner-oriented literature, Peters (1992) has argued that success comes from both adaptivity and “deep grooves” (i.e. from exploration and exploitation), which are irreconcilable, while Senge (1990) contended that learning breeds ignorance (by hampering new learning). The second strategy available to deal with paradox is to reach a compromise between the two poles that frame it. This compromise may result from a contingency approach (Burns and Stalker 1961), where the organization chooses the right mix of opposites (e.g. foregoing some effectiveness in order to obtain more efficiency) in order to make the best of external and internal conditions. Alternatively, such a compromise may emerge from an outright inability to hold such a state of tension, allowing a solution to emerge from its pattern of actions and decisions. Finally, one can attempt to integrate these opposites and “solve” the paradox through a synthesis, foregoing any compromise. According to this line of reasoning, it is possible for the organization to be efficiently effective, loosely tight coupled, and follow a deliberately emergent change strategy. Dialectical reasoning, where thesis and antithesis are combined into a synthesis, is a potentially useful framework to address this challenge, and to help managers tackle paradox without having to subdue any of the contradictory goals often entailed. We argue for the relevance of this view by showing the need for an integrative dialectical view of management. We present its potential, for both theory and practice, by discussing its application to what Mintzberg, Quinn and Ghoshal (1995) labelled manager’s foremost concerns — strategy and organization. After assessing its fit under the four characteristics that Benson (1977) put forth as necessary for an approach to organization theory to be considered dialectical, we show that this perspective has relevant theoretical and practical implications and then proceed to draw four overarching principles guiding this perspective. In order to do so, our argument is organized as follows: first, we discuss the fundamentals of organizational dialectics, highlighting the importance of considering an approach to this topic in which thesis and antithesis are present simultaneously, and not sequentially, as previous approaches to dialectics in management have assumed. We then proceed to show how this approach can be used to shed a new light on the topics of strategy and organization and then present the four major principles guiding such a “permanent dialectics” view of management.

Fundamentals of organizational dialectics Dialectics can, in essence, be understood as a process or as a permanent state. Understanding dialectical phenomena as a process means that a given condition

Management, paradox, and permanent dialectics

and its negation come in a never-ending succession, in which a thesis gives birth to its antithesis, which is in turn transformed into its own antithesis. This view of dialectics started as a rhetorical strategy developed by Socrates (Durant 1991) and was employed by Marx (1978) to explain the historical evolution of society in an attempt to extrapolate the future of capitalist systems. The underlying principles of this approach — articulated by Engels in his Dialectics of Nature (Engels 1873) — are threefold. First, there will be a mutual struggle whereby a phenomenon inevitably generates its opposite. The second principle is the negation of the negation (the struggle of opposites is cyclical and never-ending), while the third is the transformation of quantity into quality (incremental changes lead to discontinuous change). The various applications of this approach to dialectics to organizations resulted in the building of a (process) dialectical model of organization. Table 1 categorizes the major contributions of a dialectical view of management. Blau and Scott (1962) first proposed the merits of approaching management through this lens but it was Benson (1973; 1977) who first built an overarching argument for its relevance for organization theorists. This author drew on Mills’ (1962) criticisms of reliance on natural dialectical laws to understand social phenomena, to reframe the bureaucratic-professional conflict as a dialectical phenomenon (Benson 1973) and to formulate the four underlying principles of this approach for the study of organization. These principles were social construction, totality, contradiction and praxis (Benson 1977). Other authors followed by explicitly or implicitly addressing organizational phenomena dialectically. Lourenço and Glidewell (1975) explicitly treated organizational conflict in such terms and Greiner’s (1972) understanding of the evolution of organizational structures also showed clear manifestations of this approach, although in a somewhat implicit form. Greiner (1972: 84) states that “delegation, which grows out of and becomes the solution to, demands for greater autonomy in the preceding [revolution] eventually provokes a major revolutionary crisis that is characterized by attempts to regain control over the diversity created through increased delegation.” In these words, although he may not know it, Greiner echoes Engel’s principles discussed above. The growing presence of contradictions, tensions and paradoxes in organizations and their articulation in the management literature provide evidence that thesis and antithesis not only occur in succession but can also be present simultaneously (e.g. increasing demands for “affordable innovation”). This led authors to adopt an approach to permanent dialectical phenomena in organizations. A similar conception would be that grounded on Heraclitus’ (more recently developed by Hegel [1892]) view of dialectics as a phenomenon where two distinct/ contradictory entities engage each other in conflict, generating a synthesis that incorporates, and differs from each of them (Duran 1991; Van de Ven and Poole

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Table 1.Major contributions towards a dialectical view of management Dialectics as process

Permanent dialectics

‘Total’ approaches

Benson (1975, 1977) Goldman & Van Houten (1977)

–

‘Partial’ approaches

Blau & Scott (1962) Chanin & Shapiro (1985) Georgiou (1973) Greiner (1972) Lourenço & Glidewell (1975) Mason (1969, 1996) Nielsen (1990, 1996) Schumpeter (1934)

Authors on organizational improvisation (for a review see Cunha, Cunha & Kamoche [1999]) Brews & Hunt (1999) Brown & Eisenhardt (1997) Burrell (1992) Camillus (1982) Church (1999) Edelman & Benning (1998) Eisenhardt & Tabrizi (1995) Follett (1940a, 1940b) Mintzberg & McHugh (1985) Mintzberg & Waters (1982) Stacey (1991, 1996) Weick (1979, 1995)

1995). The application of this approach to organizational research has, however, been limited to isolated themes. Thus, Follett (1940a; 1940b) showed how autonomy and control could be coupled in an organization; Edelman and Benning (1998) argued for the possibility of incrementally punctuated organizational change; Yates and Orlikowski (1999; Orlikowski and Yates 1998) showed how organizational communication could be formal and informal and how opposite views of organizational time can be integrated, while Brews and Hunt (1999) contended that strategy can be simultaneously emergent and deliberate. Nonetheless, these aforesaid authors have not put forward an integrative view of management from a position of “permanent dialectics”, such as Benson (1977) has done for “process dialectics”. However, they have proved the pervasiveness of paradox in organizational life and the potential that dialectics has to provide insights to study and to tackle those paradoxes. Drawing on this stream of research, a dialectical model of organization, strategy and change can be developed in order to show the potential of integrating these findings and laying out the groundwork for future efforts at a dialectical understanding of organizational phenomena. To accomplish this task, we will look at research that surfaces opposite forces in organizations, such as planning and action (Crossan and Sorrenti 1997; Moorman and Miner 1998a; 1998b), organization and disorganization (Weick 1995), incrementalism and punctuated equilibrium (Brown and Eisenhardt 1997), and exploration and exploitation (Orlikowski 1996),

Management, paradox, and permanent dialectics

arguing that they can be harnessed, via synthesis, for the benefit of an organization’s competitiveness and sustained success.

Dialectical strategy One of the most pervasive debates in management is that between the “planning school” (Ansoff, Avner, Brandenburg, Portner, and Radosevich 1970) and the “learning school” (Mintzberg 1990; Mintzberg and McHugh 1985). Proponents of planning argue that the main triggers of organizational action are pre-planned events (Miller and Cardinal 1994). They claim that the way to sustained competitiveness comes from excellence at environmental scanning and at organizational assessment, in order to combine the corporation’s strengths with market opportunities, into a plan for subsequent implementation (Porter 1982). This approach materializes in a process of high efficiency, because resources are allocated to the more profitable business units (Wooldridge and Floyd 1990), but of low effectiveness, because obedience to the plan hinders managers’ flexibility and reaction speed. Those adhering to this view see strategy as mostly deliberate, i.e. emanating from the organization’s will. Those that espouse the “learning” school contend that the high level of turbulence most companies now experience cannot be handled via reflection alone (or at all) (Lindblom 1959). Instead, organizational action is triggered by any event in the environment perceived as either a threat or as an opportunity, and not only by those events prescribed in a plan. The more radical adherents to this view, the members of the “action school”, argue that even without the presence of environmental stimuli for action, organizations must change and experiment. Their rationale for this statement is twofold. First, since environments are social constructions (Berger and Luckmannn 1991; Smircich and Stubbart 1985) stimuli may be misperceived as absent when they are in fact there, and thus uncalled-for action allows refinement of the organization-wide perception of the environment. Second, experiments allow the organization to shape its environment, increasing its competitive basis and depleting that of its competitors (Hamel and Prahalad 1994). In this vein, strategy is a highly effective process. The inexistence of a formal plan permits a high flexibility and a high reaction speed, allowing organizational members to reap unexpected opportunities or parry unexpected threats in the environment (Eisenhardt 1989). What is gained in effectiveness is often lost in efficiency. The use of experiments is costly due to the often low ratio of successes over failures (Cooper 1979) and the danger of the company “spreading itself too thin” over numerous opportunities, which is always a problem for a very flexible strategic process (Miner, Moorman and Bassoff

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1996). Thus, as far as this perspective is concerned, the results of a company’s strategy tend to be emergent and are only made coherent via a post-hoc interpretation of action (Mintzberg and Waters 1982). Recently, a synthesis between these two opposite views of strategy has emerged. This synthesis, through organizational improvisation, allows for integration between planning and action, without calling either for a compromise between these opposites or for the presence of one in spite of the other (Table 2 summarizes this approach). Instead, organizational improvisation or “real-time planning” shows that learning “action” strategies happen because of a plan and not in spite of it (Weick 1998). This view of strategy argues that organizational action is triggered when environmental stimuli call for fast, flexible action, grounded on a preformulated plan, aimed at providing the grounding for this posture. Jazz musician’s use of musical scores to improvise collectively (Berliner 1994), and Shell’s use of scenario planning to respond to an unexpected discontinuity in oil prices (Wack 1985), are but two examples of how plans can be used to foster adaptiveness and flexibility. This results in a process that is both effective and efficient. It is effective because the plan is used to foster flexibility by creating an unobtrusive means of coordination that allows action to be integrated towards a common goal (Bastien and Hostager 1988), permitting a substantial degree of flexibility. It is efficient because the bricolage dimension of improvisation (handling tasks with available resources) allows the organization to deploy its resources to multiple uses and thus escape from the increasing costs that using specialized resources for planned or emergent activities normally entails (Scribner 1986). As far as results go, one can classify improvisation as a deliberately emergent strategy inasmuch as a deliberate plan is composed in order to facilitate the organization’s ability to adapt and swiftly respond to emerging internal and external threats and opportunities (Barrett 1998). Organizational improvisation is grounded on the realization that organizations prefer following plans to constantly re-inventing themselves (Weick 1998) and thus, depends on the pre-existence of a plan and of an organizational infrastructure to guide its practice. However, these are not the only two factors that are needed to plan in real time. There are additional conditions necessary for the practice of improvisation and one can unearth a set of influencing factors that determine its success. These conditions and influencing factors can be grouped, using a dialectical lens, along three syntheses: (1) an experimental culture coupled with tight controls; (2) memory both as friend and foe, and (3) skilled individuals coupled with unskilled resources. As far as the first synthesis goes, the point is that a mix of formal controls can help foster an experimental culture. This type of culture results from a set of values and beliefs that promote action and experimentation — as opposed to reflection and planning — as a way of understanding and dealing with reality. The point is to

Management, paradox, and permanent dialectics

Table 2.A dialectical approach to strategy Thesis

Synthesis

Antithesis

Overarching synthesis Strategy is planned

Strategy is deliberately emer- Strategy is emergent gent

Elements Complying culture

Complying experimental culture

Experimental culture

Past helps future success (memory as friend)

Past can be recombined to Past hinders future success help future success (memory (memory as foe) as friend and foe)

Skilled/specialized individ- Skilled individuals with gen- Generalist individuals and resources uals and resources eralist resources

be able to tolerate errors and, ideally, be able to espouse what Weick (1999) calls an “aesthetic of imperfection”. Those that do, recognize that in turbulent environments it is difficult to survive, let alone prevail, without seriously pursuing innovation. These companies accept the 90%+ failure rates for which innovation is well known in the business arena (Craig and Hart 1992) as the price to pay for the 10% that do succeed and for the learning that ensues (Crossan and Sorrenti 1997). Cultures, in this kind of organizations, have strong “pro-innovation” biases and believe that a great plan can only be accomplished from finding an emerging pattern in actions taken in the past, through sensemaking (Weick 1995). To foster such a culture, these companies can use two major mechanisms. First, they reward people based on the number of “competent mistakes” they have made (a competent mistake being one that results from novel ideas and not from flawed execution) (Picken and Dess 1997). Second, they can tap the power of symbolic action and stories as third order controls (Perrow 1986; Weick 1999) by diffusing tales of “competent mistakes” as role models for the organization’s members. Another value that an organization must espouse for improvisation to occur is that of urgency. The occurrence of an unexpected and “unplanned-for” event is not enough for improvisation to happen. Those that aim to tackle this event need also to feel that only fast action can address it (Perry 1991). Otherwise they can fall back on planning (because they perceive that they have time to do so) instead of being pushed to compose a course of action in real-time — a process of a far more daunting nature than the former (Eisenberg 1990). In order for this culture to thrive, it must be coupled with a mix of control mechanisms that allow it to converge with corporate-wide goals. Otherwise it

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would risk sharp disaggregation and cross the thin line between flexibility and unproductive random action (Stacey 1991). This control mix is composed by three major elements: (1) first and second order “invisible” controls, (2) milestones and (3) clear goals. Most authors on improvisation argue that the only kind of control mechanisms applicable in an organization that aims to improvise are third order controls, meaning indirect controls that coordinate via culture or ideology (Perrow 1986; Mintzberg 1995; Weick 1993a). Such an argument can be justified by drawing on the work of Dougherty, who has shown the difficulties of pursuing novel actions in organizations stifled by first (direct supervision) and second (standardization) order coordination mechanisms (Dougherty 1996). However, drawing on recent findings in critical studies of organizational control, we contend that improvisation can happen in environments where first and second order mechanisms are abundant. The touchstone for controlling improvisation lies, we argue, not in the degree of obtrusiveness of those mechanisms, but in their invisibility. In what concerns first order controls, direct supervision can be “delegated” from superior to peers, allowing for the maintenance of this type of coordination without hampering creativity (Sewell 1998). In jazz improvisation, band members are often chosen because of their reputation not among critics but fellow players (Hatch 1999). Second order controls can be rendered invisible by incorporating them in the production technology itself (be it of tangible goods or services) (Joerges and Czarniawska 1998; Barley and Kunda 1992). Milestones or action deadlines have been found to be an effective mechanism to hold the momentum/sense of urgency first triggered by an unexpected and “unplanned-for” event (Gardner and Roggoff 1990). Furthermore, milestones are opportunities to perform a check between current actions and the development of the situation the organization is facing, allowing detection of any deviations/ misperceptions that need to be corrected (Eisenhardt and Brown 1998). Moreover, milestones are currently set in advance and planned, thus providing a sense of structure/routinization to improvisational activities often perceived to result from chaos and disorder (Eisenhardt and Tabrizi 1995). Finally, milestones serve as moments of feedback as partial stages/steps are concluded and thus, potentially increase individual motivation — building the momentum and the sense of urgency needed for improvisation to be sustained. Clearly articulated goals serve the all-important function of ensuring that improvisational activity amounts to the attainment of organizational objectives. In organizational settings clearly articulated goals perform a very similar function to that of the song in jazz improvisation. They are akin to a magnetic field (or a strange attractor, to use complexity theory) that, although not prescribing individual action, are strongly normative in concerning the results of such action (Weick

Management, paradox, and permanent dialectics

1993a). They also contribute to coordination among individual members by defining the results of their activity in a similar process to that of standardization of outputs (Mintzberg 1995). Memory, as stated by the second synthesis, can be both helpful and harmful to improvisation. On the one hand, as far as procedural memory goes, a small number of routines will be a central condition for improvisation. In this light, improvisation appears to occur only when an organization/individual does not have an adequate routine/procedural memory to respond to an unexpected situation (Moorman and Miner 1995). In situations for which an adequate routine does exist, then improvisation will be highly unlikely. This rationale is grounded on the following: first, it would be inefficient to invest in finding an improvisational course of action when another that is just as effective is already stored in memory; second, these response processes are often unconscious, automatic and undetected, lowering the deliberateness of choice. However, in spite of empirical proof that procedural organizational memory does hinder improvisation (Moorman and Miner 1998b), it is at least theoretically arguable that the opposite is also true. If we understand routines as grammars (Pentland and Rueter 1994), knowing that the elements in grammars can be combined in endless possibilities, procedural memory would be the organizational counterpart of the score of a song. Organizational improvisers could embellish/modify the score at will during action (Moorman and Miner 1998a; Weick 1998). Moreover, there is also empirical evidence that this is so: in a study of improvisation in the computer industry, Brown and Eisenhardt (1995) found that firms with established routines are more likely to improvise than others that do not. Our contribution to the untangling of this paradox lies in affirming that although organizational memory hinders improvisation, its ability to do so can be severely attenuated if the organization can build the necessary will to depart from current grammatical forms and use their elements to create new routines as action is unfolding. On the other hand, declarative memory, or knowledge of facts (Anderson 1983), is more related to qualitative variations of organizational improvisation. It plays an important role in the degree of improvisation: the more facts an organization knows the broader and, arguably, more diversified its basis for creativity, and thus for improvisation (Amabile 1998; Woodman, Sawyer and Griffin 1993; Moorman and Miner 1998b). Nonetheless, it must also be stated that a wide span of declarative memory may slow the speed of improvisation because of the time that individuals must invest searching through all available alternatives (Moorman and Miner 1998a). However, one could argue that bounded rationality would act to counter this phenomenon (Simon 1990). Finally, regarding the synthesis between specialization and generality, improvisation seems to call for skilled individuals to deal with unskilled/general-purpose resources. In an organization that aims to be proficient at real-time planning the level of

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performative skill that each individual possesses determines his/her ability to pursue improvisational activity very distant from organizational routine (Weick 1999 1993a; Crossan, White, Lane and Klus 1996). Additionally, when improvisation is a group phenomenon, this group’s improvisational performance will be limited by the ability of its least skilled member (Bastien and Hostager 1991; Hatch 1999). The relevance given to skill rests on it being a vehicle for creativity to be put in practice. Thus, individual creativity is also an important trait that an improviser must possess (Erickson 1982; Crossan 1998). Only high levels of individual creativity will allow for radical departures from current organizational practice. According to Weick these will reflect “purer instances of improvisation” (1998: 545), where lower levels result in “variations” or “embellishments” that still retain much of the original routine/idea and that may not be as effective. Another organizational attribute that can do much for the effectiveness of improvisation is member skill diversity. Homogeneous organizations are not prone to use diverse approaches to solve problems or to reap opportunities (Hannan and Freeman 1989). Thus, the “novel” element of organization improvisation will be seriously compromised if the organization does not benefit from a diverse population and it will probably be limited to mere embellishments or small variations upon existing ideas, products, practices and routines (Weick 1998 1999; Hatch 1997). Contrary to what happens with organizational members, the resources the individual/team/organization possesses are more favourable to improvisation if they are unskilled and unspecialized. In fact, specialized and limited purpose resources can thwart improvisation by limiting organizational members’ ability to turn their ideas into practice. Conversely, multi-purpose resources are flexible enough to be deployed in a variety of uses, even if those uses were never part of the organization’s original intentions (or even imagination) for their applicability (Weick 1993a). Thus, resources may affect improvisation through the bricolage dimension by augmenting the possible courses of action an organization can take, due to resource flexibility. General-purpose resources reduce the number of constraints upon those that are conceiving action as it unfolds, thus increasing their potential degree of departure from standard practice/ideas and, ultimately, their ability to reach “purer” forms of improvisation. Taking these three syntheses into account, one can argue that improvisation amounts to an integration between planning and action and thus offers a path for building a dialectical view of management.

Management, paradox, and permanent dialectics

Dialectical organization Paralleling the debate between the “planning” and “action” schools, both academicians and practitioners have been discussing whether the hierarchical/bureaucratic organizational model should be maintained or whether organizations should migrate to self-regulating and managing forms, such as networks. Those espousing the “hierarchy” school argue that the existence of tacit knowledge (Polanyi 1966), technological, human physical and mental limitations (Barnard 1938), and the appeal of lower transaction costs (Williamson 1971), justify the need for hierarchy and order-based relationships. Their emphasis is on the mechanisms that will allow the differentiation of workers in specialized roles and on how to control their efforts in order to attain the higher-order organizational goals. These control mechanisms are often of a formal nature, because organizational growth makes interpersonal coordination, such as mutual adjustment and direct supervision, very inefficient and sometimes outright impossible (Greiner 1972). Standardization of procedures, outputs and skills are thus the favoured integration devices (Mintzberg 1995). Control, and not mere coordination, seems to be the main goal of this type of organizations. Opposing this view are those that claim that changes in the environment, such as a higher competitive pressure (Bettis and Hitt 1995) and a better educated workforce (Handy 1991; Drucker 1996) allow and demand the shift towards selfmanaged/network-based organizational forms. Drawing from research on organizational learning, this view argues that shared values and beliefs are more pervasive than the “hierarchy” view holds. Shared beliefs serve as a powerful normalizing force that bind organizational members invisibly to a shared mental model of themselves, the organization and its relevant environment (Argyris and Schön 1992; Senge 1990). Thus, the major challenge for the organization is to harness this force in order to attain a higher integration level allowing employees, as a group, to meet the diversity/complexity of the environment (Emery and Trist 1965; Stacey 1996). Integration is thus assured by informal controls, such as culture transmitted by socialization and rituals (Schein 1985), in an attempt to manage what the “hierarchy” approach left unattended, thwarting its ability to change and adapt. The major goal of the “self-management” view is thus to foster integration/ coordination by engaging organizational members in the process of building a shared mental model of where the organization is, as well as what it aspires to be. The integration of these two opposing perspectives into a synthesis has already been attempted. The most notable of these attempts was Mary Parker Follet’s writings on business as an integrative unity (Follett 1940a), where she showed how to integrate the disparate needs of employers and employees, and how to give orders (Follett 1940b). She showed how framing orders as a “law of the situation”,

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instead of as a personal demand from management, allows the coordination and control of employee action while freeing it to take whatever course is adequate to handle the task at hand. Follett’s groundbreaking writings, however, did not take into account the pervasive role of culture and manufacturing technology as powerful, yet unobtrusive, controls and limitation mechanisms able to jeopardize any effort towards diversity (Barker 1993). Drawing on Follett’s work, we propose an integrative view of organization, which favours integrative differentiation (Table 3 summarizes this approach). Again, we present a set of syntheses to make this argument: (1) trusting unmet organizational members (minimal trust), (2) uncommitted commitment (minimal commitment), (3) agreeing on disagreeing (minimal consensus) and; (4) control to liberate (minimal structure). Table 3.A dialectical approach to organization Thesis

Synthesis

Antithesis

Minimal structure (loosely-tight organization)

Self-managed teams (loose-organization)

Overarching synthesis Hierarchy (tight organization) Elements Power / standardization (impersonal relationships)

Trust via standardization Trust (impersonal personal relation- (personal relationships) ships)

Uncommitment

Committed uncommitment

Commitment

Homogeneity (agreeing)

Diversified homogeneity (agreeing to disagree)

Diversity (disagreeing)

Control

Control to be free

Freedom

As far as the first synthesis goes, this apparent paradox is resolved by using trust as an integrating mechanism. Trust is grounded not in interpersonal ties but in stereotypes, thus exempting organizational members from the personal disclosure that trust-based organizational forms often entail (McAllister 1995), allowing for the necessary differentiation needed to meet the complexity of turbulent environments (Emery and Trist 1965). This “minimal trust” amounts, therefore, to organizational members trusting someone they do not know. The elements normally associated with building trust are kept to a minimum level just about necessary for the degree of integration needed to fight fragmentation. The point here is to create the conditions needed for trust to emerge (the belief that the

Management, paradox, and permanent dialectics

individual with whom someone is interacting, will act in a way that is beneficial or at least not detrimental to him or her), with the minimum level of commonality and personal disclosure. This is coordinated by means of a generalized other (Jarvenpaa and Shaw 1998), instead of social similarity. In this type of coordination, trust arises from a self-fulfilling prophecy of trustworthiness the individual develops, based on stereotypes of interactants and on previous network/team experiences. Indoctrination mechanisms have an important role to play in this process. Indoctrination need not to be related to the inculcation of particular organizational values and beliefs. Its purpose may be to facilitate coordination by a generalized other. The process would now aim at creating favourable stereotypes of the categories of people that newcomers are prone to interact with. It would seek to develop a favourable attitude towards working in trust-based settings (Armstrong and Cole 1995). Creating an attitude favourable to trusting other members of the organization is ultimately equivalent to fostering institution-based trust, because members are trusted on the basis of their affiliation with the organization (Frances, Levacic, Mitchell and Thompson 1991). For this to be possible, a different (one is tempted to say “minimal”) conception of culture and structure must also be present. The second and third synthesis can be grouped under the umbrella of a “minimal” organizational culture. Here, the high levels of commitment and consensus favoured by much of the prescriptive management literature — arising from the self-management approach — are replaced by minimal levels of both factors in order to avoid the detrimental effects potentially generated by this approach. As far as minimal commitment goes, its purpose is to promote the level of commitment needed to assure the necessary level of performance on behalf of the individual, while avoiding blind adherence to individual, group and organizational decisions. Organizational members must take the success of their organization as a central value, but they also have to be permeable to information that goes against decisions made both by them as individuals, and by the group or organization to which they belong as a whole. The dynamics that underlie a “healthy” level of commitment to an organization are coincident with those that explain individual and group pathologies found in organizations, such as groupthink and individual defensive routines (Janis 1971; Argyris 1992; Harvey 1996). Commitment is the result of attempts to resolve cognitive dissonance arising from making public and explicit choices without sufficient external justifications (Salancik 1977; Eiser 1980). The challenge lies in promoting a set of values and beliefs that foster a positive attitude towards public and explicit errors (Weick 1999), that attenuate the need for triggering the dissonance reduction process, because the organization values mistakes, when they are an input for learning (Sitkin 1992).

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Minimal commitment needs, however, to be coupled with minimal consensus in order to avoid the negative consequences brought by strong cultures, without losing the unobtrusiveness of the controls they rely on. Minimal consensus is grounded on the understanding that diversity of perceptions favours a richer understanding of the environment and, therefore, allows the organization to act in a more informed way (Starbuck 1965). Moreover, diversity in the composition of the organization’s population allows a wider repertoire of solutions and a higher level of flexibility (Hedberg, Nystrom and Starbuck 1976). These characteristics facilitate, in turn, a higher degree of adaptability to changing environments (Brown and Eisenhardt 1997) — the major reason why trust-based organizations are adopted (Powell 1990). This is accomplished by matching external complexity, which can reach significantly high values in this kind of environment (Emery and Trist 1965), with complexity of individual organizational members, instead of with complexity of organizational design (Weick 1993a). In short, the organization copes with environmental complexity by having very diverse members, instead of adopting complex structural forms. Minimal consensus rests on a deliberate and intentional effort to reduce commonalities among organizational members to the minimum level required for integration to be feasible. Creating such a basis for integration requires abandoning the pursuit of common perceptions of the environment, values and beliefs in favour of promoting compatibility among these in different organizational members. The purpose of this is to allow trust to emerge by a perception of compatibility instead of one of similarity (Weick 1993b). In this way, individuals acknowledge that they hold a valuable perception of reality, but also realize that perception is limited. Real capacities for action and decision-making can only be harnessed when combined with different views from other members. It is important, though, that those perceptions, while not being identical, are compatible in the sense that they illuminate a certain reality from different but complementary (as opposed to antagonistic) perspectives (Hedberg et al 1976). Finally, the fourth synthesis, which we label “minimal structure”, is constituted by three elements: coordination by action, based on a minimal set of rules and, on a shared social objective. Due to the absence of a strong culture from which trust and coordination can be derived, this type of organization replaces a shared system of values, beliefs and perceptions, by coordination through action. This means that the integration of the individual efforts of organizational members does not rely on sharing the same culture but on having a compatible perception of the challenges posed by the environment (Weick 1993a), that creates a “law of the situation” (Follett 1940b) for individuals to obey. Like coordination by culture, this is still a third order control, but one that promotes, instead of hinders, diversity. It fosters the emergence of compatible (as opposed to shared) views on the problem or

Management, paradox, and permanent dialectics

opportunity, facing the group, allowing for a broad variety of alternative courses of action to appear (Eisenberg 1990). Control in minimal networks is also achieved through a small set of rules that govern the interaction among their members (Weick 1999; Bastien and Hostager 1991). Those rules can emerge from the nature of the task faced by the group or from broader social norms (Hatch 1997). As far as the nature of the task is concerned, these rules are embodied in a restricted set of cognitive and behavioural alternatives the members can choose from. In spite of the diversity desirable in this kind of organization, this set of alternatives is restricted because of the necessary compatibility among its members for minimal integration to occur (Brown and Duguid 1991). This set of alternatives can be equated to an organizational grammar: a set of elements and combination rules among those elements that allow for the formation of an almost infinite set of different courses of action, from a limited set of inputs (Pentland and Rueter 1994). In minimal networks, social norms are limited to those coming from the professional and industry-specific cultures of its members (Hutchins 1991). The organization should restrain itself from adding to those rules at the expense of limiting the scope of diversity (Weick 1995). Another important mechanism of coordination in minimal networks is a shared social objective. In fact, because of the parsimony of control mechanisms, its members must explicitly share the organization’s goals (Orr 1990). Otherwise, although individual teams may adequately respond to problems or opportunities in the environment, the ad hoc basis on which they do so could continuously increase the fragmentation of the organization as a whole, compromising its longterm integrity (Senge 1990).

Towards a dialectical view of management The fact that the concepts of dialectical strategy and dialectical organization offer a way to achieve a synthesis between opposing schools begins to demonstrate the potential for a dialectical view of management. In order to accomplish this task, we will draw on Benson’s (1997) four principles of a dialectical view of organization theory. In fact, although this author’s approach is wedded to a “process” view of dialectics, the underlying principles of his approach appear to apply to a “permanent dialectics” perspective of this phenomenon. The principle of social construction calls for identifying sources both of constraint and of deviation/construction. As far as dialectical strategy goes, the source of constraint is the plan, the “minimal” prescribed part of strategy that allows for adaptivity to emerge (Brews and Hunt 1999). Its source of variation comes from the stimuli that press the organization/individual to adapt and to be flexible as

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action unfolds and from the ability to “bricolate” with and around the prescribed plan (Berry and Irvine 1986). In dialectical organization, the source of constraint is the minimally formalized structure, including shared goals and the stereotypes acquired in the indoctrination process (Covaleski, Dirsmith, Heian and Samuel 1998). Deviation and construction comes from the perception of errors as learning opportunities (Sitkin 1992) and from the role of action as a ground for coordination (Follett 1940b). The principle of totality calls for an underlying “whole” to which semi-autonomous parts are linked. At the organizational level, the “whole” behind an instance of a dialectical strategy is the overarching action culture that grounds it. Individually, looking at this phenomenon as an enactment of distilled experience (Crossan and Sorrenti 1997), and a high level of skill, organizational member’s life experiences frame the background that allows for discrete instances of improvisation to appear (Hatch 1999). These overarching elements notwithstanding, each dialectical strategy is autonomous in the way that it depends on the specific details of the plan driving it and on the people working towards it. Dialectical organizations, on their side, take much of their rules and structure from general societal norms (Bastien and Hostager 1988; Eisenberg 1990) and depend on the diversity of their members, who encompass a wide span of settings of which a particular organization is just a single element. Nonetheless, each organization uses these norms and this diversity uniquely, rendering it partially autonomous from the milieu where it stands. The principle of contradiction gives, perhaps, the clearer illustration of dialectics by stating that this type of phenomena only emerges where two opposing forces are at work. The fact that plans necessarily possess an emergent component (Minztberg and McHugh 1985), either because of the complexity of environmental interaction, or because of communication distortion, allows us to unearth this principle in a dialectical strategy. The fact that human interaction creates an informal “shadow” system in every formal structure (Krackhardt and Hanson 1993; Sayles 1989), allows the contradictions to emerge as a characteristic of the concept of dialectical organization. Finally, praxis (which Benson defines as “free and creative construction of social arrangements” [1977: 5]) is also visible in both concepts. Dialectical strategies are often prone to formalization, which eventually ends up creating punctuated change via an incremental process (Edelman and Benning 1998). Dialectical organizations, with their low levels of commitment and consensus, allow their arrangements to be in permanent reconstruction, a state of “organizing” (Weick 1979). Summing up, this argument appears to have the potential to contribute towards a dialectical view of management sufficiently for its major underlying principles to be worthy of closer scrutiny. By attempting this, we go beyond the

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current state of the art of the dialectical perspective on management — which has been focusing on demonstrating its relevance and applying itself to several disconnected fields of management inquiry — by proposing a set of underlying principles of permanent management dialectics. This is done with the purpose of providing a novel basis for research into the paradoxes present in organizations as well as contributing a new understanding for practitioners to benefit from those paradoxes. Four principles guide this approach: simultaneity, locality, minimality and generality (Table 4 contrast these with those of a “process” approach). Table 4.Contrasting ‘approaches to management dialectics Dialectics as process

Permanent Dialectics

Social construction – Source of constraint – Source of deviation / construction

Simultaneity – Mutual support of opposites – Manager as ‘surfacer’ and – holder of tension – Pervasiveness of paradox

Totality – Overarching whole – Determinants of parts autonomy

Locality – Local enactment – Action as arena of integration – Probability of formalization

Contradiction – Presence of embedded opposites

Minimality – Small causes lead to big effects – Quantity: border of necessity – Quality: unobtrusiveness

Praxis – Process of creative reconstruction of social arrangements

Generality – Toleration of opposites – Low skill resources – Efficient effectiveness

Simultaneity means that a dialectical view of management is grounded on the interplay of contradictory forces and not in the attempt to subdue one to the other. Under this principle, a thesis does not exist despite its antithesis but because of it. Each pole of the dialectic needs the other to sustain its presence. The concepts of dialectical strategy and dialectical organization support this argument. Research has shown that, under a dialectical view of strategy, the design of a “minimal” plan, where goals and deadlines are scrupulously prescribed and enforced, enhances the firm’s flexibility and adaptability to unexpected internal and external shifts (Brown and Eisenhardt 1997). Additionally, Hutchins (1991) proved that some level of structure is needed for informal cooperation to emerge and Ezzamel and Willmott (1998) found that loosely coupled structures were heavily dependent upon highly structured relationships and reward systems. Thus,

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a second insight from this principle is that the role of the manager shifts from choosing between the poles of a given paradox, as contingency theory prescribes (Lawrence and Lorsch 1967), and from holding this paradox, to surfacing it, making it visible, promoting an integration between its opposites. In fact, Follett (1940b) contended that using the “situation” as a source of “law” (or orders) allowed for integration between a directive and a democratic approach to leadership and organization. Weick’s research into firefighting has proved this point eloquently, and shown how rules and plans are critical in unexpected and unplanned-for situations (Weick 1993b). Finally, simultaneity means that one can seldom escape paradox in managerial life. Mintzberg has documented the close linkage between deliberate and emergent strategy (Mintzberg and Waters 1982; Mintzberg and McHugh 1985), showing that emergent and unplanned/unintended action will probably sprout from the most deliberate of plans. There are two brief explanations for this phenomenon. First, communication distortion impedes people in understanding a message exactly as its conveyor understands it (Mintzberg 1990). Second, changes in the environment surround most businesses (Bettis and Hitt 1995), shifting them towards a “turbulent field”, where emergence is the norm because of the complexity of relationships between environmental factors (Emery and Trist 1965; Lane and Maxfield 1996). Locality means that the synthesis between two opposing poles of a paradox does not result from an overarching design effort; but from case-by-case enactment. The first inference one can make from this principle is that a synthesis is a local phenomenon, resulting from the decisions taken by an organization or individual concerning a specific challenge or problem. Second, this synthesis occurs not in reflection but in action. Given most organization’s biases towards pre-conception (Weick 1998), few would endure the poles of paradoxes dealing with deviation from current practice if it were not because of poignant challenges from the environment (Mintzberg 1996). Moreover, it is these poles’ demand for action that permits and facilitates the integration between opposites as action unfolds (Crossan and Sorrenti 1997; Crossan 1997). Finally, and in spite of this, the transition from local responses to organizational (global) routines is possible. This is accomplished as those responses good results carry them throughout the organization via stories (Orr 1990) that get shared and slowly creep into the organization’s memory (Moorman and Miner 1998a 1998b). Again, the concepts of dialectical strategy and dialectical organization support these claims. The “planned” part of a dialectical strategy would go forever undisturbed without an external event demanding flexibility, because of most organization’s bias towards planning (Weick 1998). It is only in response to such an event that organizations/individuals adapt in and around a plan and, through action, create novel solutions that may end up stored in the organization’s memory, be it

Management, paradox, and permanent dialectics

procedural or declarative (Miner, Moorman and Bassoff 1996; Vera and Crossan 1999). As far as organizing goes, research into innovation implementation and group cooperation has shown that structures are often as enduring as the life span of a project (Johnson and Rice 1987), and that these structures emerge from action, which acts as the prime coordination mechanism (Bastien and Hostager 1988). Additionally, these organizational configurations are often formalized and crystallized in the organization (Orlikowski 1996). Minimality means that the ability to use a paradox to build a synthesis depends on maintaining only sufficient levels of each of the paradox’s poles in order to avoid one taking over the other. There are three arguments underlying this principle. The first is that, as complexity theory posits, big effects come from small causes (Prigogine 1984). Thus, synthesis occurs when the necessary “strange attractors” create an “organizational force field” that will bind corporate action, preventing it falling into an orbit that is too close to one of the poles of paradox. Two different tasks are called for, which one finds in the two remaining arguments sustaining this principle: creating the necessary quantity and quality of structure (plans, rules, procedures, organizational configurations) for integration to be possible. As far as quantity goes, this implies searching the level that is sufficient for synthesis to emerge, while taking care to stay on the thin line that separates stifling order from entropic disorder (the “edge of chaos” [Pascale 1999]) and that integrates them both (Lane and Robert 1996). As far as quality goes, this calls for procuring an unobtrusive type of structure, one which allows for both dialectical strategy and organization to thrive (Sewell 1998). Otherwise, independently of the extent to which that structure is developed its effect will always be more restraining than liberating. Thus, a dialectical strategy not only needs plans more akin to a jazz rather than classical music score (the latter having much more prescribed notes to be played [Perry 1991]), but also plans that do away with prescribed actions and replace them with goals and deadlines (Eisenhardt and Tabrizi 1995). In the same vein, a dialectical organization not only needs fewer controls but also less visible ones (Covaleski et al. 1998). Although one can expand the span of control almost to infinity, this will not transmit the perception of freedom of action that an empowerment program will, but it will reduce the perceived amount of control one has to endure (McGregor 1960). Replacing orders with the law of the situation (Follett 1940b), superior supervision with peer vigilance (Romme 1999) and procedural specification with technological limitations goes a long way in promoting nimbler organizational forms. Generality means that obtaining a synthesis requires that the “minimal” that is prescribed and pre-conceived must possess a high degree of generality. The first insight emerging from this principle is the need to “tolerate” opposites. If results have to be effective and efficient; structured and unstructured, and deliberate and

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emergent, then individuals and resources cannot be committed or specialized to a specific set of courses of action/solutions. They must be flexible enough to accommodate several, which may well be contradictory (refer to the concept of patching [Eisenhardt and Brown 1999]). The second insight is that the resources available to organizational members, whether materials, plans, structures or information systems, must be “fool-proof”. This means shifting the responsibility for avoiding dysfunctions from the individual to the organization (Anderson 1983) by embedding the necessary mechanisms for these dysfunctions to be avoided in what is formalized. Instead of relying on recruiting some special kind of employees that do not fall to phenomena such as groupthink (Janis 1971), one could build an organization and a strategy that subsumed this type of behaviour in an emergent way. Finally, generality allows us to answer what some consider the greatest paradox in modern organizations — the dilemma between effectiveness and efficiency (Peters 1992; Bennis 1989). By relying on general resources and plans, an organization can shift strategy and form using bricolage, that is, it can “make do” with available resources (Levi-Strauss 1966) without having to acquire new ones, thus exploiting those it possesses even as it changes direction. A dialectical view of strategy and organization supports these arguments because its plans and configurations, respectively, show how generality allows for several syntheses to emerge. Turning to dialectical strategies, research has shown that general plans that do not specify steps but instead provide major goals and deadlines allow for innovation to take place with high levels of efficiency (Sobek, Ward and Liker 1999). However, these plans, as Perry (1991) shows, allow organizations to adapt to unexpected circumstances and thus make its realized strategy a much more deliberate endeavour, allowing for opposite directions to be weaved into a synthesis. Moreover, such plans generally are simple and can be understood and improvised around even by the most junior of organizational members (see Orlikowski 1996 for an example). Dialectical organizations rely on systems such as MBO and mentoring (Covaleski et al. 1998). These allow and facilitate opposite goals of controlling and liberating and do not require much skill because they are either embedded in the general social fabric or built into the technology of production (Ezzamel and Willmott 1998). Additionally, the unobtrusiveness of controls allows for creative effectiveness-seeking behaviour, coupled with the necessary normalization for efficiency to be attained (Sewell 1998).

Conclusion Environmental changes and organizational opportunities have been planting paradoxes in several areas of organizational theory and practice. Some authors

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drew on a process view of dialectics to show how the opposing poles of these paradoxes succeeded each other in the course of time. Nonetheless, new competitive landscapes demand more of organizations. Contradictions now co-exist in time and must be tackled simultaneously. Several authors have acknowledged this and have been looking at how this could be accomplished in several fields of management inquiry. However, this effort has, until now, lacked the necessary overarching framework for its integration and fruition into insights for practice. In this light, we have presented a rationale for the potential of such an approach for current management theory and practice by developing a “permanent dialectical” view (where opposites exist simultaneously instead of in succession) of strategy and organization. Having surfaced the need and the potential for this perspective, we then postulated four principles that underlie a “permanent” dialectical view of management, after first assessing whether it was truly a dialectical approach by showing its compliance with Benson’s (1977) basic principles of dialectical analysis. Thus, the present effort goes beyond current theory because, first, it presents the need and potential for an overarching view of management as an act of synthesis, thus providing a platform to integrate the separate findings researchers have obtained when applying this view in a somewhat implicit manner to particular fields of inquiry. Second, it argues for the need to go beyond the process approach, to a permanent dialectical view of management, because of the growing simultaneity in the presence of opposite forces and demands upon organizations. Finally, the principles we put forth go beyond the argument for the relevance of such a view to management research by surfacing common themes found in dialectical phenomena in organizations — providing a basis for both investigation of, and action upon, this type of phenomena. Our effort has implications for both theory and practice. As far as theory goes, we contribute an argument for the need and the potential of a dialectical view of management and a set of principles to guide the construction of such a view. As far as practice goes, a dialectical approach shows that “traditional” practices, such as planning and formal organizations, are alive and well. Obtaining the results that “gurus” claim are demanded by current competitive environments does not mean adopting the practices they proclaim. It is just the opposite: plans foster adaptivity and flexibility, while structure and norms foster creativity and liberation. The challenge is to find a synthesis that integrates two opposing forces or demands, which means that one has to hold two contradictory ideas in thought and in practice, at the same point in time. According to F. Scott Fitzgerald (1968), to be able to do so is the nature of true genius. We might not go as far as this but we do think it might make for better management and organization theory and practice.

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Chapter 3

The meanings of risk and interorganizational collaboration Paul K. Couchman and Liz Fulop

Introduction: Paradox and meanings Paradox can be described as an all-embracing concept for dealing with conflicting demands, opposites or contradictions in organizational affairs that help expose seemingly irrational and absurd relationships, processes and practices (Lewis 2000: 760). Paradox itself does not represent something new in management and organizational theory but rather, what has changed is its meaning. It is now more than ever seen by many theorists as the sine qua non for making sense of a world that is both global and local, diverse in its workforce, technologically fast and smart, and destined for disruptive experiences and the unexpected. Indeed, paradox is an “umbrella” term for understanding the universal conditions of life, and for managing the inevitable complexity, ambiguity and diversity that this brings into organizations (Lewis 2000: 760). In this chapter we focus on two key aspects of paradox. The first is that paradoxes are constructed through sense making (Ford and Backoff: 1988, cited in Lewis 2000: 761). In this chapter we refer to sense making in terms of how discursive practices and discourses shape meanings. We examine how organizations, as sites of discursive practice, are constituted and, in the process, constitute the subjectivities of those who engage in sense making (Mills 1993). This notion of sense making is concerned with how contradictory and competing meanings become undecidable because of the nature of the texts themselves (Linstead 1993: 59; Jeffcutt 1993). In short, we are dealing with indeterminate meanings as understood from a deconstructionist perspective (Hassard 1993: 20) in which subjectivity is treated as an artifact of different historical and social traces that enter consciousness through symbolic systems that both differentiate and fix meanings (Linstead 1993: 58–9). Sense making renders any understanding or meaning of risk undecidable and contested in ways that are denied in the self-understandings of positivist approaches, such as in techno-scientific methods (Burton and Carlen 1979: 17;

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Linstead 1993: 68–9). As Linstead says, organizations as text partially constitute the subjectivity of those involved in their production but they can never completely constitute meanings. “Readers” come with traces of other texts, cultural forms and ways of reading (or reading positions) that change the nature of the text thus altering how textual materials are consumed by the “reader” (Linstead 1993: 59; also see Hassard 1993: 21). Deconstruction thus offers a way of theorizing and understanding risk as paradoxical. Such an approach to risk has been unexplored in the management and organizational literature. Deconstruction is at the heart of understanding paradox. One of its key tenets is that every text bears within it the disruptive potential of deconstruction and for “ironic self-negation” with each proposition or statement potentially containing its own contradiction (Norris 1982: 48; Hassard 1993: 21). There is no necessarily correct way to deploy deconstruction but the process is committed to self-engendered paradox because, from this perspective, texts defy any settled or definitive reading, and all texts are open to further deconstruction (Norris 1982: 48). The second focus of the chapter is on how paradox becomes evident through self-reflections or interactions (Ford and Backoff: 1988, cited in Lewis 2000: 761). We draw on the reflective account of one of the authors who became involved in a cross-sector collaborative research project. The reflections are based on recollections of discussions that took place over a six months period (between 1997–1998) that represented the developmental phase of the project. The recollections were written in a draft paper drawing on both the narrative form and theoretical arguments. The draft was then passed to the co-author to undertake a discourse analysis. The co-author questioned the account given in the draft and sought a more critical and reflexive rendition by its author. So the text was modified. The co-author, acting as the “other” or interpellator, interwove the text with other traces in the form of theories, insights and certain ways of framing questions, effectively de-centring the subject (the author of the text) as the authoritative source of meanings. The original author’s reflections were treated as “…a convenient location for the throughput of discourses” (Hassard 1993: 13; Linstead 1993: 59). In other words, once the text was written and passed on, the reading of the text by another created its intertextuality or multiple meanings that remain independent of any individual interpretations (Hassard 1993: 15; Linstead 1993: 59). We expand on this approach later in the chapter when we outline how language games and discourse shape meanings. The project, which was funded under the Australian Government’s Cooperative Research Centre (CRC) Program,1 aimed to provide support for collaborative R&D projects in the Australian manufacturing sector. The later part of the chapter analyses how three competing or incommensurate discourses emerged in the initial

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discussions over the direction that the project should take. It explores how risk management and techno-scientific ways of knowing were introduced into the emerging discourse and how these were contested. As Foucault (1972, cited in Chan 2001: 79–80) states, for a topic such as risk to become constructed in a discourse requires that three conditions be met. First, the ability to think, choose, speak and question has already to be part of “…broader disciplinary and institutional contexts … and disciplines that act to discipline and control their practitioners” (Linstead 1996, cited in Fulop, Linstead and Clarke 1999: 323). There has to be evidence of a disciplinary regime. Cross-sector collaborations bring into tension and conflict extraordinarily complex ways of framing problems, as well as divergent knowledge and truth claims based on competing disciplinary paradigms, particularly in academia. Second, to meet Foucault’s other criteria, such collaborations must bring together disparate institutional systems. The CRCs arose from deliberate attempts by government to break down barriers between the public sector and business and to use collaboration to change how specialist practitioners, with their distinctive forms of knowing (for example, scientists, product development engineers, academic researchers, business managers, etc.), solve major industry problems. Thus, collaborations of this kind across industry sectors create demarcations and contestations over diverse linguistic forms and truth claims within disciplinary practices and serve to redefine power relations across disciplines and within various fields of practice (see also Chan 2001: 72–4). Lastly, the settings have to be ordered to establish which issues have importance and whose interests are privileged. The CRCs’ policies clearly gave prominence to industry needs and privileged applied research over pure or discoverybased research. The policies were designed to create a more relevant and vibrant research agenda through university-industry partnerships and multi-disciplinary research. It also sought to shift the funding of public sector research increasingly into the private sector. Fairclough (1992, cited in Chan 2001: 78, 30) argues that discursive formations have to be examined in the context of economic, political and institutional settings that give rise to them and allow the object of a discourse, such as risk management, to emerge in the first place. In other words, the conditions of possibility of a discourse have to be understood in terms of the contextual conditions (described above) that mediate the emergence of a discourse. Discursive practices and relationships create the conditions of possibility through which material events are related to words and through which they attain some meaning (Jacques 1995: 19). Discourse analysis requires that account be taken of the constitutive role of such discourses and the historical conditions from which they emerge and become part of the discursive nature of reality (Sturdy and Morgan 2000: 4).

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Meanings of risk It is not our intention to cover all the many ways in which risk has been written about. Instead, we provide a brief historical overview of its place in modernist thinking and then consider its representation in the management, organizational and, more recently, interorganizational collaboration (IOC) literatures. The concept of “risk” emerged during the period of modernity and has been central to economic and business discourse since the 18th century. As Giddens (1990: 34) observed, the notion of risk has to a large extent replaced the idea of fate in human affairs and this “represents an alteration in the perception of determination and contingency, such that human moral imperatives, natural causes, and chance reign in place of religious cosmologies. The idea of chance, in its modern senses, emerges at the same time as that of risk.” While financial practices for coping with the hazards of trade can be traced back to antiquity that we would now call “risk management” (for example, Baskin and Miranti 1997), the word risk appears to have entered the English language from French as recently as the 17th century. By the early 18th century, the word was clearly associated with commerce and risk referred to as “the chance or hazard of commercial loss, (specifically) in the case of insured property or goods” (Oxford English Dictionary). In the new discipline of political economy, the discourse of risk was associated with profit, positing the entrepreneur as the model of virtuous individualism in capitalist society. The chance an entrepreneur took in venturing an investment was seen as the source of any profit obtained and the higher the risk taken, the greater the potential for profit. Investing entrepreneurs take a risk, defined as exposure to the chance of loss, in the expectation of a return on the investment. The risk can be a “calculated risk” (calculated through various technoscientific approaches), in that the entrepreneur may be aware of the threats facing a chosen course of action (also see Luhmann [1988] for a similar view). Herein lies the fundamental element of risk management in contemporary management discourse: to identify, evaluate and take action to manage risk is to reaffirm individuality (as embodied in the heroics of the male entrepreneur) and to do so by acting rationally. Put formally, this may be stated as: The theory of risk evaluation and management is a department of a wider theory of rationality in choice and action. In particular, it belongs to the domain known as practical reasoning, whose object is the rational choice of courses of conduct. The risks it involves are clearly one of the salient features of such a choice (Rescher 1983: 5).

In management-related studies risk is almost entirely presented within a dominant discourse described by Lupton (1999: 2) as a “techno-scientific approach.” Risk is

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largely taken-for-granted as an objective phenomenon, one that can be identified, for which causal factors can be mapped, and predictive models of risk relations built. People’s responses to various types of risk can be estimated and ways of limiting the effects of risks proposed. The notion of rationality, and even bounded rationality, governing management action has permeated management discourse and is also well established in organizational theory (for example, Abrahamson 1996). This phenomenon is most clearly observed in the field of financial risk management. While financial risk management has long been a key element in capital investment decision-making it has undergone something of a “revolution” since the late 20th century (for example, Lore and Borodovsky 2000). The theory and practice of risk management has advanced considerably. Following a number of widely reported major financial disasters in the 1990s it has now become “the paramount topic” in finance management. Shrivastava (1995: 120) describes nine different ways in which financial risks have been described in the literature and these are not exhaustive. The concept of risk also appears in other areas of contemporary management discourse, which we do not intend to explore at this point. We are more interested in how risk has been incorporated into the field of project management, where risk management has been embraced as a central element. The recognition of risk as a special concern of project managers was formalized in 1987 when the US-based Project Management Institute included risk management in its “Project Management Body of Knowledge” or “PMBOK”. PMBOK was a document that sought to cover “all those topics, subject areas and intellectual processes which are involved in the application of sound management principles to … projects” (Project Management Institute 1996: vii). Interest in risk within project management was given a major stimulus and institutional legitimacy in the 1990s as a result of major failures, and other problems in the management of software-intensive projects, especially defence procurement projects in the USA (for example, Conrow and Shishido 1997). The PMBOK is an attempt, by an organization that has sought to professionalize the practice of project management to crystallize the discourse of risk around a set of would-be disciplinary practices. The 1996 revision of this document (renamed “A Guide to the PMBOK”; Project Management Institute 1996) clarified this purpose, as to identify and describe that subset of the PMBOK which is generally accepted. Generally accepted means that the knowledge and practices described are applicable to most projects most of the time, and that there is widespread consensus about their value and usefulness (Project Management Institute 1996: 3).

The PMBOK model of project management defines its project management task as “the application of knowledge, skills, tools, and techniques to project activities in

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order to meet or exceed stakeholder needs and expectations from a project” (p. 6). Risk management is seen as one of nine distinctive knowledge areas included in the management of projects. Project risk management encompasses “the processes concerned with identifying, analyzing and responding to project risk. It includes maximizing the results of positive events, and minimizing the consequences of adverse events” (p. 11). As a number of writers in this field have emphasized, it is due to their uniqueness that projects are “risky” and are prone to things going wrong or not proceeding according to plan: Projects are particularly susceptible to risk because each project is unique in some measure. The degree of uniqueness can vary dramatically. …. This uniqueness means that the past is an imperfect guide to the future. We are never completely sure what the future holds. There is always the risk that things will not go as planned (Frame 1994: 75).

Rational managers — those who accept the PMBOK discourse — plan and act to ensure that positive outcomes are achieved and negative outcomes avoided or minimised. Management is promised control of its future and destiny. Another dimension contributing to project risk occurs in those projects that involve IOC, as is the case for projects carried out under the auspices of an R & D consortium or a supply chain partnership. Here a number of different sources of risk are identified and, although the concept of risk has long been central to management practice and discourse, and the “risky” nature of IOCs is widely acknowledged (see Powell 1990: 318), the concept of risk in this context remains poorly understood in theory. Of the many different approaches to the analysis of IOC, it is the Transaction Cost Economics (TCE) perspective that particularly privileges risk. The approach is embedded in techno-scientific methods and is premised on the argument that there are many incentives for self-interested opportunistic behaviour by actors in relationships of dependence. It is based on notions of what would be the rational behaviour of a self-regarding and possessively individualistic actor in determining appropriate forms of governance to minimize economic transaction costs (Williamson 1985). Because of this, the approach focuses on means to pre-empt the risk of opportunism and the associated lack of trust between exchange parties, for example, through employment contracts and the use of management fiat. However, the TCE approach to risk is poorly developed in addressing power dynamics and asymmetric power relationships amongst collaborating organizations (Gray 1999), and it ignores the embeddedness of economic activities in their social, cultural and historical contexts (Powell 1990; Granovetter 1985). However, there have been attempts to address these criticisms and further develop the TCE framework and position it as a dominant discourse in the field of IOC studies.

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Further developments of the TCE approach have introduced a number of different sources of risk, notably relational risk, and the trust dynamics involved (Ring and Van de Ven 1992; Nooteboom, Berger and Noorderhaven 1997; Nooteboom 1999). These sources of risk include the possibility of one partner opportunistically exploiting other partners to its own advantage (for example, by breaking confidentiality agreements, misappropriating proprietary knowledge, appropriating all or a disproportionate share of benefits, etc.). Additionally, there may be spill overs (that is, through collaborative relationships, a company’s strategic knowledge and core competencies are leaked to competitors, and competency-related risks (where one or more parties are unable to deliver on their agreed contribution due to a lack of the necessary capability or resources, rather than any opportunistic intention). Nooteboom (1999: 110) notes that unpredictable events in the environment can increase the risks of opportunism because such events may be the catalyst for one or more of the partners to act opportunistically, bringing risk into the foreground of theories of IOC (also see Das and Teng 2001). However, such work does not go far enough. One needs to regard risk as a construct of management discourse and as a language game (see Hardy and Phillips 1999) in which complex and indeterminate meanings defy the drive to rationalize the world. Additionally, the privileging of rationality, science and technological progress has been contested in more sociologically grounded approaches to risk. Socio-cultural approaches seek to understand risk and risk discourses as products of their social, cultural and historical contexts (for example, Douglas 1992; Douglas and Wildavsky 1982; Beck 1992; Lupton 1999). Socio-cultural approaches stand in stark contrast to the techno-scientific approaches that treat risk as an “unproblematic” fact. While risk is acknowledged as a generic feature of all epochs, the risk society thesis (Beck 1992) argues that post-industrial society is marked by a redefinition of the meaning of risk and the politicization of science itself (Shrivastava 1995: 120). Beck argues that we live in a world — a risk society — where, increasingly, disasters, catastrophes and other unknown and unintended consequences of new industrialized, decision-produced incalculability spread unanticipated threats globally (Beck 1992: 22). Germ warfare, ozone holes, genetically modified food and pesticides, global terrorism and even Internet viruses are immediate examples of such threats. The paradoxical nature of the risk society lies in the fact that science (and the techno-scientific method) is simultaneously one of “the causes, medium of definition and the source of solutions to risks” (Beck 1992: 155). In the period of modernization, risks were produced in tandem with wealth creation and were minor, often seen as the latent or side effects of modern production and scientific progress. In post-industrial society this relationship is reversed and risk comes to dominate social change and all notions of progress (Shrivastava 1995: 119).

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Science’s monopoly over the rationality of risk decisions is called into question once the knowledge base of science, and hence techno-scientific methods, is seen as flawed. Reflexive approaches to science open up debates about its failures and flaws and help politicize its knowledge claims. The risk society is one in which the fallibility of science is extended beyond its own knowledge-practices — as a matter internal to scientific practice — and opens up the possibility of breaking its monopoly over the rationality of risky decisions. New meanings can emerge around differences in the conceptualization of risk and knowledge (Shrivastava 1995: 120), developing new discourses of risk and hence, competing meanings.

Discourse and language games and competing meanings Discourse can be interpreted in terms of “what can be said” and is concerned with the “relationship between bodies, meanings, power and language” (Jacques 1995: 19). Foucault (1972, 1980) sees language as the embodiment of knowledge and power, which always implicated in how sense is made of the world (also Linstead 1993; Clegg 1998, and Chan 2001). Foucault contends that speaking embodies particular ways of seeing that give advantage to certain groups and give rise to particular forms of action and practice as expressions of power. Following Foucault, we conceive of discourse as a “complex nest of ideas, linguistic expressions, assumptions, justifications, defences, social institutions and practical actions” (Fulop, Linstead and Clarke 1999: 3). Our concern is with how power is inscribed in a discourse and how it transforms subjectivities through the language games within and between organizations. Chan elaborates on this point: “[P]arties construct competing discourses — and each discourse is linked to a contestation over power. Implicit within a discourse are the continued productivity of power and the movement of meaning” (2001: 72). Language games based on different knowledge regimes (Lilley 2001, citing Deleuze 1986: 51) ensure that various forms of discourse circulate in organizations (as discursive and non-discursive practices) and have the potential to create “collective” and unacknowledged blindness to entire courses of action or ways of understanding. Discourses in themselves cannot do anything: “Discourses inform texts … which in turn are ‘read’ by managers or others in specific organizational contexts — discourses must have participants in order to function” (Fulop, Linstead and Clarke 1999: 326). But participants are often “enrolled” into discourses (in the form of texts) that involve restricted styles and narrative forms that set up a self-referential context, foreclosing certain actions and thoughts. Discourses can involve highly restricted semantic fields, where meanings seem perpetually fixed, or have fixed criteria of relevance, where some ideas, tools or

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techniques seem immutable, “natural” or cast, as it were, as if they were inevitable (Fulop 1992). That fact that so many managers unreflexively resort to technoscientific ways of making sense of risk is partially explained by these aspects of discursive formation. Texts are crucial in revealing how collective and “unacknowledged blindness” emerges through discourse and discursive practices.

Texts, genres and subjectivity Texts comprise utterances (the use of language) in a social setting, including discussions between managers, as well as the most banal of social exchanges. Language, however, is patterned by genres and these include particular forms of narrative (the heroic, the epic, the tragic, etc.) and, as mentioned above, language games (see Clegg, 1975; Jeffcutt 1993; Downing 1997; Fulop and Rifkin 1999; Chan 2001: 71–2). Language is also made up of rallying symbols, myths, metaphors and imagery that act on social subjects emotionally and linguistically and help form particular reading positions from which meanings emerge (Fulop Linstead and Clarke 1999: 328; Browne, Banerjee, Fulop and Linstead 1999: 402; Linstead, 1993; Linstead 1999). Genres assist in reinforcing how narratives should be read, who should read them, and the contexts in which they should be read. They help create the stability of reference within discursive practices (Fulop 1992), even though multiple meanings and narratives circulate at any given time. In any activity (be it a discussion or some other form of linguistic exchange), more than one text is produced, and can include minutes, agendas, and other “products” (Fairclough, 1992 in Chan 2001:78). Texts are central to how we create multiple meanings because their constituent messages can never have a single, fixed meaning or remain static. One of the most significant factors accounting for a plurality of meaning arises from how a discourse is recognized by its readers. Such “acts” of recognition are based on the perspectives or positions adopted in any reading of texts. Texts also possess a specific staging, referred to as “genre”. “Participants understand texts in social contexts or specific social occasions because they have prior experience of them and genres assist in making texts identifiable and meaningful in specific settings” (Fulop, Linstead and Clarke 1999: 329; Linstead 1993). Genres are the signals, conventions and cues that allow someone to understand the meanings to be negotiated in a text — to anticipate what utterances, demeanour and expressions are warranted, and how they are likely to be received by the audience hearing or reading them. To a large extent, genres help define the rules of inclusion and exclusion, the silencing of some voices and the privileging of others, the marginalizing of certain accounts, and defining who are the objects and subjects of a discourse (Fulop 1992; Hardy and Phillips 1999).

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Challenging dominant forms of representation in any discourse, such as risk management, means understanding how individual subjects constitute their sense of reality and identities, and how these meet the needs of the knowledge produced. Discursive formations are only partially constitutive of subjectivity because of the traces of other texts that “readers” bring to any organizational encounter (Linstead 1993: 59). In effect, “subjectivity refers simultaneously to the conditions of individuality and self-awareness, which are continually formed and reformed under changing social, economic and historical circumstances” (Fulop, Linstead and Clarke 1999: 329; Linstead 1993: 59: Chan 2001: 17). Subjectivity is itself produced through different discourses, and “…for a discourse to ‘work’, the discourse has to produce the subject and to define the subject-positions from which knowledge proceeds” (Chan 2001: 18; citing Hall 1997: 61). Social subjects read discourses in different ways because we each adopt certain “reading positions” from which a text appears meaningful and coherent. In adopting a reading position, the subject complies with how the discourse is constructed in it. This compliance leads to the subject being defined and described by, and even identifying with, the discourse. Compliance leads to an inability to see contradictions and conflicts and, in particular circumstances, adopting such a position might be rewarded in the organization ensuring contradictions and conflicts are not “noticed”. Subjects who resist an obvious reading position encoded in a text are referred to as resisting or oppositional subjects (Linstead 1985). Power is exercised continually to ensure that there is complicity with particular discourses and to adopt compliant reading positions, as though there were no other choices (Clegg 1998). For Lilley (2001) the nature of language games means that there are a multiplicity of appropriate sites for our possible allegiances as well as inappropriate sites to stand against and that any potentially enduring site will almost always be immediately subverted by webs of micro-strategies. Power and knowledge are contested, as it were, and reside in a bewildering array of multifarious allies and assailants within certain language games (Lilley, 1995). We draw on this framework to make sense of how three competing discourses arose in a project that, for all intents and purposes (at least from the accounts of the author involved in the project) had nothing to do with risk management. What follows is a recollection of the events and discussions that occurred over a critical part of the project. These recollections will be treated as discourse and texts, as mentioned earlier. The recollections are imperfect, incomplete, and unlikely to be made the same way by other participants in the project. Thus, from the outset we acknowledge that what we are dealing with here is, to quote Jeffcutt (1993: 43), an “Unfinished Analysis”. More importantly, as we stated in the first part of the chapter, the subjectivity at issue here involves both the authors as writers and readers of texts.

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Reflections on a collaborative project In this part of the chapter we recount discussions and events that occurred during the formulation of a new CRC-funded cross-sector research project that was aimed at supporting collaborative R& D projects in Australian manufacturing. The project did not begin with any explicit consideration of risk but came to focus on it for various reasons that will soon become apparent. The discussions took place within the CRC for Intelligent Manufacturing Systems and Technologies, which was then one of ten centres under the CRC Program dedicated to manufacturing technology. The core participants of this CRC at this time comprised six companies, four universities, and the CSIRO Division of Manufacturing Science and Technology. At the time of the project discussions, R & D activities under the Centre’s three research programmes were all project-based, with each project being formulated and managed by a sub-set of the partners. Projects were mostly initiated in response to a specific industry need (that is, an operational or technical problem identified by one of the industry partners) and were developed during a preliminary “definition phase” that involved close collaboration between two or more of the research and industry partners. Once a full project had been agreed and approved by the CRC Board, a Project Leader and a Project Management Committee were appointed and CRC funds allocated (which were usually matched or exceeded by “in-kind” and other resource contributions from the collaborating partners). Projects were established and funded for a defined period of time to produce specified products, usually referred to in the CRC as “deliverables”. At the time of the discussions, there was a strong preference for projects producing intellectual property that could become a future source of income to the CRC (for example, as royalties from the licensing of a patent). Within the CRC, “intelligent manufacturing systems” were very much seen from an engineering perspective as encompassing the hardware and software employed in manufacturing processes (for example, computer software to optimize the cutting of shapes from flat steel plates, motor controllers for metal cutting machines, industrial laser cutting devices, etc.). The project discussions were initiated by one of the CRC’s industry partners, a supplier of structural components to several major high technology manufacturers overseas. Since the early 1990s, as in most areas of manufacturing in Australia, this company had adapted to major changes in its industry and these changes were themselves a response to a dominant government discourse. Changes included: – –

A policy environment in which there was a reduction in Government protection and support Volatility and change in the levels of demand for the industry’s products

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–

–

Significant change in the relationship between the major manufacturers and their suppliers, with a move towards collaborative risk-sharing contracts (requiring suppliers to undertake R & D and component design, rather than just building components to customer specification) and towards sole source suppliers for components (a trend which reduced the number of suppliers and increased competition for contracts) Increasing pressures from the major manufacturers to reduce the cost of components supplied.

It was in this context that the company had joined the CRC in order to gain access to knowledge and resources that it was believed would help improve its performance and expand its capabilities, thereby contributing to increased competitiveness. Prior to the discussions, one of the areas for possible collaborative research identified by the company had been support for new product development activities under the rubric of “enhanced concurrent engineering”. The company had pursued a concurrent engineering approach2 to the management of its design and development projects since the late 1980s. It had done so in response to pressures from customers to reduce development lead times, maintain tight delivery schedules, improve responsiveness to customer requirements (including the ability to respond to design changes initiated by the customer), and reduce both the costs of development and of the manufacture of the components produced. Furthermore, most of the major companies in the industry had adopted some form of concurrent engineering in their development programs, and the company had learned from a number of these through its various supply contracts. Through the proposed CRC-based collaborative research projects, the company now sought “process enhancements” that would help reduce development lead times and enable it to undertake projects of broader scope through strategic alliances. The company provided a starting point for the consideration of suitable projects by identifying a number of possible development initiatives. These suggested initiatives ranged from the establishment of a demonstrator networking technology (which could support 24-hours a day operations across global time zones) through to “a review of prospective alliance partners” (which would enable the company to undertake collaborative contracts of broader scope). Finally, in the discussions with representatives from potential research collaborators (from two universities and CSIRO), initiated at the instigation of the CRC’s Executive Director, two key problems experienced by the company in its project activities were identified. This was the first visible hint at an emerging discourse, not around the notion of risk, but around general problems and the management of projects. The first was that of more effectively managing the relationships with other organizations involved in development projects, most notably suppliers and the customer.

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Experience had shown that these relationships sometimes became problematic for the company during the course of a project; for example, when a supplier failed to meet a deadline, when there was conflict with a customer over the detail of a component design, or when a customer unexpectedly initiated design changes to a component. The second problem was that of ensuring the company’s two manufacturing sites were able to work together on development projects. These were geographically separated and had different backgrounds, cultures and specializations. Again, experience had shown that the desired level of collaboration had been difficult to achieve and manage and caused problems during projects.

Incommensurate discourses Initial discussions on an appropriate project focus and “deliverables” revealed diverging perspectives among the potential partners. Each of these perspectives was framed by a distinctive discourse, both in terms of the framing of the problem and the language used to demarcate it. An engineering perspective (adopted by the representatives from one university and CSIRO), was to focus on “collaboration technology”, described as hardware and software required to support geographically dispersed development teams. Under this approach, the emphasis was on the development of a technology “platform” — networked computers with design support software — which would enable project personnel to work together across time and space in a “virtual team”. Such an approach has been the focus of considerable interest within the engineering community, as a form of discourse, since the early-1990s (for example, Munkvold 1996). Key statements proffered by the engineers focused on structures and edifices that engineers could physically “construct” and were captured in the metaphor of a “platform” as a technological system on which to build support for human activity and thereby create “virtuality”. The emerging discourse was couched in the truth claims of expert knowledge specialized in information technology, system design and implementation. The obligatory passage points (Clegg; 1989; 1998; Chan 2001) in this language game concerned technical and physical mastery and objects of manipulation, such as circuits. From an organizational studies perspective (advanced by the author of these reflections, who was a management researcher at the second university), a different approach was proffered — one that drew on the findings and methods of the burgeoning field of “CSCW” or “Computer Supported Cooperative Work” (for example Shapiro, Tauber and Traunmüller 1996) to investigate practices and tools that would facilitate communication, cooperation and collaboration within geographically dispersed cross-functional teams. According to this approach, recent

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advances in information and communication technologies should not be seen as a panacea for the problems involved in collaborative projects. So, the proposed project should focus on “human factors” in the introduction of collaboration technologies. Support for this view was gained from a number of scholarly sources: It is now widely recognized that, despite the considerable investment in the development of these technologies, the results to date have fallen far short of expectations. A large and growing body of behavioural research has addressed this problem … and in virtually every case it has been discovered that the failure or poor performance was due to a lack of attention to the human and organizational aspects of the technology (Department of Management, University of Wollongong, CRC Project Discussion Proposal March 1997).

To address this issue of useability, a “user-centred approach” to technology design was proposed (Olson and Olson 1991) and a starting point for the project proposed as research into “user needs” within the social context of innovation in Australian manufacturing companies. Key ideas and concepts were derived from organizational studies, informed as it is by a rich and eclectic knowledge base drawn from the social sciences, and it was hoped that this would be the dominant discourse within which the project was framed. The following terms were proposed as core foci: – –

–

“Communication” — the exchange of ideas and information between cooperating parties “Cooperation/collaboration” — where parties work together effectively towards common objectives, a focus of considerable recent interest in the management and IOC literature “Useability”, addressing the interface between people and machines and focusing attention on the “fit” between technology and social systems.

The discourse, with its distinct discursive practices such as trying to encourage a polyphony of voices, was quite explicitly set against that of the engineers. From the management researcher’s point of view this was seen to be far too concerned with “technical fixes” and insufficiently concerned with the human and social elements of what many in the social science community see as “socio-technical systems”. A concern to reinstate the “user” as an actor in the design and development of the system, as both object and subject, was central to this discourse and stood in opposition to that of the expert-driven approach offered by the engineers, in which the human elements disappeared. The senior company manager, whose background was also engineering, and who was responsible for ensuring the proposed project would meet his company’s needs, took a very different approach to that of the engineers and the management researcher. According to him, the key issue associated with the setting up and

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management of collaborative R& D projects was the establishment of effective risk management systems. His approach was framed within a techno-scientific discourse of risk management, thus, already privileging rational action above all else — action that seeks both control and predictability. Rather than adopt a fatalistic, or more common ad hoc approach to project risk, this discourse positions the rational manager as calculating on the basis of “an understanding that unanticipated results may be a consequence of our own activities or decisions” (Giddens 1990: 30). As noted above, this perspective on risk management has become a central element in the discourse that informs the practice of project management. It provides for many managers the genre in which they make sense of risk, giving them a dominant reading position from whence it becomes exceedingly difficult to entertain oppositional views or competing discourses. From this can form the basis of the collective blindness referred to earlier. According to the company manager, his managers needed to be fully informed about possible sources of risk across the project life cycle, and needed to be able to develop strategies to manage the identified sources of risk. The managers and other project personnel did indeed act to manage perceived risks, but they did so in an unreflective and mostly ad hoc way, using rules of thumb and methods they had learned through experience. From the company manager’s perspective, the problems with such informal approaches to risk management in projects were several. Unforeseen risks could arise for which the project team was not prepared, the company could lose crucial risk management knowledge when experienced personnel left the company, and the lack of reflection and documentation meant there could be little or no organizational learning of effective risk management practices. The company manager argued that a more systematic risk management procedure would overcome these problems, and developing such a procedure would help the company identify and address the various problems that it had experienced in managing collaborative R & D projects. The language game that was being developed invoked, first, the heroics of “rational action”, of taking deliberate action aimed at maximizing positive outcomes and minimizing negative outcomes, and, second, “systematization”, the replacement of the informal, ad hoc, tacit, and unreflected, with action that is formalized, routinized, explicit and documented. The discourse generated privileged ways of seeing the world, worked from a fixed criterion of relevance (the technical-rational), and drew on a restricted semantic field (“the company” as represented by management’s voice) that prefigured the emerging discourse of risk within the project. Even while discussions were ongoing, and these tensions had not been resolved, the pressure was to deliver something tangible to the company. It was this that led to agreement to proceed with a formal proposal outlining the project’s aim, which

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was “to develop a user requirements specification for a Risk Management Toolkit, that will assist Australian firms to set up and manage collaborative R & D partnerships”. A key defining aspect of the collaborative project was the multiplicity of texts and traces that were creeping into relations, which were beginning to structure the collaboration into a particular form of discursive arena (Fulop 1992). Even though the dominant discourse of risk management was gaining pre-eminence, its meaning was far from agreed to by all but rather, was becoming fragmented, messy and intermingled with multiple meanings. In the context of a collaborative CRC project, the company is usually very powerful and can be decisive in framing the terms of reference for a project. In effect, it shaped the power relations of collaboration and effectively set the ground rules for legitimate knowledge claims and a “regime of truth” (Chan 2001: 17), to which all participants are expected to subscribe. Thus, it would not be unusual for the company representative on the CRC Board to promote the project and frame it in a particular discourse. The engineering-oriented Board of the CRC in question, with its focus on the creation of intellectual property rights through R & D projects, found the metaphor of the “toolkit” both familiar and acceptable. It provided a valuable rallying symbol (Fulop 1992) for focussing attention and making certain meanings stick. More practically, the risk management discourse gave the project a stable and legitimate focus from the vantage point of the company. A “toolkit” is a tangible and visible “deliverable”. The project proceeded with a clearly expressed industry need: technologies, tools and practices to support collaborative development projects (as in supply chain partnerships) involving Australian manufacturers. The project was to address this need through the development of a “Risk Management Toolkit”. The engineers and management researcher were embarking on a project that was largely outside their know-how and expertise, and the disciplinary bases upon which they could make their knowledge claims and assert their authority. While this had the potential of enrolling them as compliant subjects who would go along with things, this is not quite what happened. The risk management discourse was an interesting and an unexpected phenomenon for the management researcher, given the engineering orientation of the CRC with its bias towards “technical fixes”. However, the fixed criterion of relevance of the techno-scientific view of risk and the restricted semantic field of “toolkits”, and other such symbols, created instabilities and contradictions in how risk was being talked about by the participants. Risk management, which, before the project discussions, had not been considered as a possible option to pursue, became an object of interest and study and the more that was learnt about it, the more its methods and theories were questioned. By engaging with this discourse, the management researcher was afforded the opportunity to contest its more conventional

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meanings, even though the initial discussions were cast in terms of the narrow referential context of a techno-scientific solution. This narrowness did not go unchallenged and oppositional and resistant reading positions did emerge, as seen by the manner in which risk management was presented at the end of the project.

Contesting the meanings of risk The task of the project moved to producing the specifications for a “toolkit”, which would help those involved in collaborative R & D projects to manage project risks both within the company and hopefully, Australia-wide. The management researcher was forced to engage with the risk discourse, particularly as it had been applied as part of the prescriptive-normative discourse in project management. Even at a common sense level, it is easily recognized that projects can and often do “come unstuck”. That is, projects may not proceed according to plan, various problems may arise or be encountered, which lead to project objectives not being achieved or being only partly met, to budgets being “blown out”, and schedules “over-run”. Thus, projects are prone to risk, and the most significant source of project risk identified in this literature is what has been termed “human risk”. For example, as one project management practitioner put it: Human risk arises from the fact that the human players in projects — project staff, managers, customers and vendors — are complex, marginally predictable beings. Projects are constantly plagued with problems of human resource reliability, competence and availability. They are further buffeted by the consequences of political struggles, the turnover of key players, and the fickleness of customers. If one were to create a detailed list of risk factors affecting a specific project, the list of human risks would surely be the longest (Frame 1994: 81–82).

The essence of project management, as a formalized managerial practice, is that it seeks to systematize the activities through which risks are identified, evaluated, and managed. Risk management is the crucial aspect here and may be defined in this language game of managers as: The practice of reacting to a perceived risk (through risk analysis or other observations) in such a way as to minimize the adverse consequences that may arise, should the risk materialize. It can form part of a plan; it can be a purely reactive procedure; or it can be a combination of both (Webb 1994: 294–5).

Drawing on this “how to”, pragmatic, discourse, the project developed a risk management procedure. The overall aim of this was to provide a structured framework (a system or formal procedure accompanied by a set of supporting “tools”) to enable companies to move beyond an ad hoc approach and so develop

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a more systemic risk management capability for its collaborative R & D projects. The procedure was designed to lead project team members through four main phases of activity, in a programmed way, with specific tasks to be performed and designated outputs to be produced at each phase. The risk management discourse served to impose a structure on management action, somewhat akin to the “standard operating procedures” frequently deployed by industrial engineers to define manufacturing jobs on the shopfloor (for example, at assembly-line work stations). This was a form of disciplinary practice well recognized in the literature as a potential regime of control and surveillance (Foucault 1972). Under this framework, systematic action is meant to replace the informal and the ad hoc, and the activities of project managers thereby become rationalized. It is in essence a form of standardization and, as such, represents a significant departure from the discourses on organizational reform that have more or less dominated the management literature since the 1980s (for example du Gay, Salaman and Rees 1996: 266). The second step in this procedure (“risk identification and assessment”) provided a system to help project team members identify, evaluate (that is, make subjective judgements in terms of the probability of occurrence and the likely impact of occurrence) and prioritize all possible foreseeable sources of project risk. Such risk-sources were seen as events, decisions, resource changes or other phenomena that could detrimentally affect the project or its outcomes. As part of the formulation of this component of the toolkit, a typology of possible risk sources was developed, drawing on the risk assessment literature, the project experiences of company employees and input from the researchers. This was used to create one of the risk management “tools” — a risk identification “checklist” (see Table 1). Checklists are widely used in engineering practice and in project management. They serve as prompts for action and as guides for the sequencing of tasks. In this case, the aim of this tool was to ensure project team members identified all possible sources of risk to a project. The operators became the objects of risk (project team members) to be programmed to anticipate risks, avoid risks, and even “live” risk in their roles as employees. Examination of the checklist reveals fragments of the competing discourses in the project’s formulation, signalling an indeterminacy of meanings. Neither of the two competing discourses was “written out of the script” as one might have expected, with the engineering being the most marginalized. For example, the engineers’ focus on a technological platform to support a geographically dispersed collaborative project team, which in the engineering discourse was the solution to the industry problem, is found interspersed in the toolkit’s checklist. But the “platform”, rather than a solution to the problem, has become in this risk discourse a potential problem to be managed, that is, a possible source of project risk (D3). That is, the checklist prompts project team members to consider if such things as

The meanings of risk and interorganizational collaboration

Table 1.Overview of the toolkit’s risk identification checklist A A1 A2 A3 A4 A5

Process-related sources of risk Project estimates and planning Project management Project integration Project activities Hand-over to production

B B1 B2

Resource-related sources of risk Human resource availability Availability & effectiveness of tools & systems

C C1 C2 C3

Organizational sources of risk Organizational culture Organizational support for the project Potential sources of interference from within the organizational environment

D D1 D2 D3

Relationship sources of risk Relationship with the customer Relationship with key suppliers Relationship with other collaborating organizations

network-based collaborative technologies (for example, e-mail, Intranet, etc.) are likely to be an area where problems will arise during the course of a project. If so, the team members are charged with detailing the nature of the risk and assessing its probability and likely impact on the project. In the event that the risk source is judged to be a priority, then the team is required to formulate an explicit risk response strategy either to pre-empt it or to deal with its eventuation. Fragments of language used in the organizational discourse are more evident. Under “project integration”, communication among team members, coordination of the project activities, level of collaboration within and across the cooperating organizations, and teamwork effectiveness, are introduced. The sources of risk listed here derive from the concerns addressed in the organizational discourse though they remain subordinated in the hierarchy of the toolkit where the rational still dominates. While there has not been an overturning of the dominant discourse of risk management and the privileging of the techno-scientific discourse, the toolkit, as part of discursive practice, does reveal how contradictory and competing meanings are now inscribed in the text. Also, it shows that the readers of these texts — the employees and managers — will make sense of them differently and paradoxically.

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Conclusion The acceptance of paradox, as a central feature of organizational theorizing, signals the abandonment of the search for authoritative interpretations of meanings and instead favours representations that capture diversity and multiple voices (Jeffcutt 1993). Drawing on deconstruction and discourse analysis we have shown how in discussions leading to a CRC project, some things became permissible while others did not; some became imaginable while others were not, and some choices and options about the project’s direction were foreclosed by the adoption of a dominant discourse. Our analysis begs a number of unresolved questions: was it possible to have created another autonomous discourse and if so, how would it have unfolded? Was the context of the project, and the genre it adopted, impossible to change or transcend? More importantly, were the project participants engaged in a “collective blindness” and if so, would it have been possible to change this in any way (that is, alter the dominant discourse of risk management as rational practice)? More practically, given the industry problem facing the CRC project, what could have been an acceptable alternative to the toolkit as a “deliverable”? We have sought to highlight paradox and to show that, even though the risk management discourse worked to sustain a particular knowledge/power nexus, oppositional thinking did emerge. The analysis reveals that resistance and opposition are inherent in the nature of intertextuality but suggests that is difficult to overturn a dominant discourse in any radical way. It seems that making science socially fallible, the centrepiece of the risk society, will proceed only in small steps. By accepting the discourse approach, we have also subscribed to certain ways of seeing and reading risk that have likely foreclosed other possibilities. What we have presented here is only one of several different ways in which we could have analyzed risk as sense making. We chose to adopt a specific form of discourse analysis to apply to the management of a cross-sector collaboration and in so doing, have opened up this area of research interest to a potentially new mode of analysis, one which has rarely been attempted before. Our analysis shows how competing discourses emerged in a given discursive arena (as is typically the case during the establishment of every cross-sector IOC), and how a particular discourse came to dominate thereby providing a potentially powerful truth regime for all concerned. Through our representation of risk, as a dominant discourse of technoscientific rationality, we revealed how various aspects of management practice are obscured, that can become sources of project risk (for example, managerial incompetence, dishonesty, and intra- and inter-organizational politics), notably those arising from the “human aspect” of management action. Many of these aspects exist as sub-texts in our analysis and require further elaboration. However, not all elements of the three competing discourses were written out of the script of

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risk management and traces of them were incorporated within the discourse, “humanizing” it to some extent and opening a vitiating space for further contestation and contradictions to creep in. Perhaps most importantly, the analysis helps to make sense of risk management as a distinctive discursive practice with its roots in rationalism and modernism, through which (contrary to the claims of many) management action cannot be successfully systematized and rationalized. Thus, risk management discourse, as embodied in the toolkit procedures, provides a framework for the practice of management. It is a distinctive mode of talking and writing about collaborative projects that not only shapes the subjectivity of all involved but positions them in certain discursive relationships that frame the way in which they gain knowledge of the world. Management can be enriched when it has to engage with paradox and incommensurability and we have shown that both are endemic to cross-sector collaborations and multi-disciplinary engagement.

Notes 1. The CRC Program was launched by the Australian Government in May 1990 and since its inception 72 CRCs have been established (at the time of the discussions reported here, there were 65 in operation). Commonwealth funding for the CRCs was around $140 million in the 1999 fiscal year (about 3.5% of the total funds allocated for Science and Innovation Programs in that year), which made up around one third of the resources available to the CRCs. 2. The concept of concurrent engineering emerged in the USA in the late-1980s, and has since become institutionalized as a distinctive approach to the management of product innovation activities within an organization. It stresses the integration of new product design and development activities, for example through cross-functional teamwork (see Gerwin and Susman 1996).

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Sturdy, A. and Morgan, G. (2000). Beyond organizational change: Towards a discursive approach to change and a structural approach to discourse. Paper presented at Asia Pacific Researchers in Organization Studies (APROS) Conference, Organizing Knowledge Economies and Societies. Sydney: University of Technology, Sydney. Webb, A. (1994). Managing innovative projects. London: Chapman and Hall. Williamson, O. (1985). The economic institutions of capitalism. New York: The Free Press.

Chapter 4

Workers’ playtime? Unravelling the paradox of covert resistance in organizations* Peter Fleming and André Spicer

Introduction When corporate relations of power target the hearts and minds of workers, is employee resistance possible? That question has become an increasingly important issue in recent critical organization studies. With the advent of “cultural cleansing” (Strangleman and Roberts 1999), “designer selves” (Casey 1995) and other forms of “normative controls” (Kunda 1992) related to culture engineering and teamwork, numerous studies have argued that even the capacity for workers to resist management has been insidiously undermined. In the past, workers could usually resist corporate controls because they tended to be less normative but when attempts are made to shape the very identities of workers, dissent is all but erased from the discursive landscape (Willmott 1993). There is a problem with such a pessimistic reading of new management technologies, of course. It offers unwarranted exaggeration of the success of management power and the underestimation of the myriad of ways some workers resist corporate control, even under the most claustrophobic hegemonic conditions (Thompson and Ackroyd 1995). Just because open, overt and collectivised forms of resistance characteristic of Fordism are less prevalent today it does not necessarily mean that the recalcitrant worker has finally been subdued. Indeed, a recent stream of research has pointed to more covert, quotidian and even “subjective” modalities of worker resistance in “high-commitment” organizations, which were perhaps missed in the past because of their subtly and ostensible innocuousness (Fleming and Sewell forthcoming). In light of attempts to broaden definitions of worker opposition, an array of employee practices have been highlighted as possible strategies of resistance to cultural control. Joking, irony, cynicism and scepticism, for example, have been documented as “weapons” workers may use to block and resist new types of

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corporate domination at the level of selfhood, as our review will shortly demonstrate. In evaluating the research investigating these expressions of resistance, however, we have identified an interesting tension, or paradox, regarding their effectiveness as forms of opposition. Some commentators have argued that resistance articulated in the form of humour, irony and cynicism may have the paradoxical outcome of inadvertently reproducing the domination workers seek to escape because they are given a specious and illusionary sense of freedom and thus disengage from more “material” and traditionally located resistances. Indeed, Collinson (1992; 1994) and du Gay and Salaman (1992), among others, demonstrate how resistance through joking and cynicism can actually assume the (paradoxical) status of consent due to the “safety valve” effects they can have in certain power relationships (also see Fleming and Spicer forthcoming). In this chapter we attempt to unravel this paradox by surfacing the models of power underpinning judgements of “effective” or “ineffective” resistance in relation to humour, irony and cynicism. It is suggested that those interpretations that consider humour, irony and cynicism as outright ineffective still implicitly employ a singular model of power, one that judges all forms of opposition against the standard of radical upheaval and economic transformation. Such an approach is, of course, important for highlighting cases in which some types of resistance are inadvertently functional for a dominant system of power. However, it may also marginalise many other forms of transgression that are effective in altering different status quo (to pluralise the Latin term) operating in contemporary organizations. Although cynicism, for example, may not necessarily yield higher wages, it may still challenge, in transformative ways, the emotional or “psychic” normalcy of organizational life. Resistances to different status quo, however, are not mutually exclusive as they may interact in complex, ambiguous and often paradoxical ways. That is to say, humour, irony, and cynicism may be subversive on one set of co-ordinates but have spill over effects that either support or undermine resistances on other levels. In order to think about resistance in this multiple sense, we develop the notion of “plateaux of power and resistance”. We use this to conceptualise different articulations of force and their respective oppositions. The concept draws upon a spatial metaphor to tease out the multifarious power and resistance relations present in organizations and illustrate how they are not isolated from one another or mutually exclusive. They may overlap, collide and interrelate in unpredictable ways with different outcomes. Whether humour, irony and cynicism undermine or support traditional forms of organized resistance such as unionism or collective action, for example, becomes an important issue to explore in specific contexts.

Workers’ playtime?

Resistance to corporate colonisation? The emergence of culture engineering and normative control as prominent mechanisms of control in contemporary organizations has received much attention in organization studies. “Guru’s” of culture management argued that if managers instil in employees a unifying set of values, beliefs and norms about the company, then workers can control themselves and come to want what senior management wants of them, through their own volition (Peters and Waterman 1982; Deal and Kennedy 1982). The identities of workers have been a concern for managers since the dawn of the industrial era (Parker 2000). However, the extent and reach of corporate culture manipulation, as it has emerged in tandem with teams and electronic surveillance, has surpassed even the wildest control fantasies entertained by previous movements. Critical management scholars have been interested in this modality of control, showing how the relaxation of formal control and the promotion of empowerment and participation is to a large extent nominal, and often belies a more insidious network of influence operating at the level of selfhood. Under this form of governance, the subjectivities of workers are “colonised” (Casey 1995), thereby reducing or even erasing the desire to resist corporate hegemony. Consequently, the emphasis has been on the cultural constitution of “engineered selves” (Kunda 1992), “designer selves” (Casey 1995), and “enterprising selves” (du Gay 1996) — that is, the production of types of worker subjectivity that identify with the company and are compatible with the maintenance of asymmetrical relations of power. One of the most striking aspects of this research is what appears to be an almost total lack of employee resistance to management. As Thompson and Ackroyd (1995) forcefully argue, these studies give a totalising portrayal of new managerial controls whereby workers obediently mirror the demands of the dominant discourse (also see Ackroyd and Thompson 1999; McKinlay and Taylor 1996; Rosenthal et al 1997). Part of the reason why resistance is underplayed in this literature is because its conceptualization proffered an inadequate or incomplete notion. If one studies culture engineering and thinks of resistance purely as overt, organized and openly confrontational practices, then one will often come to the conclusion that employee recalcitrance has disappeared. Under the normative rhetoric of current management discourse (often using phrases like “We’re all friends now” or “We’re all members of one happy family”) resistance may seem an outmoded and old-fashioned concept. A relatively recent stream of research, conducted among others by Kondo (1990), Jermier et al (1994), Edwards et al (1995), Gabriel (1999), and Knights and McCabe (2000), is very useful in extending definitions of resistance to include forms of opposition that are more inconspicuous, covert, unorganized and

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“subjective”. This scholarship has attempted to re-evaluate traditional conceptions of resistance and, in the process, de-romanticise it to include what might appear to be more mundane and quotidian aspects of organizational life (de Certeau 1984). With this in mind, a whole range of employee responses to and experiences of culture engineering should be examined as potentially transgressive activities. Here we concentrate on three so-called subjective and often covert modalities of resistance identified in the literature as ways workers may endeavour to escape the insidiously psychological and identity constituting technologies of modern culture management. Humour, irony and cynicism have received some attention in organization studies as alternative responses to corporate culture programmes and possible strategies of employee dissent. Even those studies considered over determinist by Thompson and Ackroyd (1995) registered the presence of employee humour, irony and cynicism. However, we have noticed that the literature discussing these phenomena is riddled with uncertainty and theoretical ambivalence regarding their efficacy as opposition to corporate culture. That is to say, if we are to consider joking, sardonic humour and an ironic disposition, for example, as forms of resistance, then are they actually effective in changing the status quo and transforming relations of power? In light of earlier studies of counter culture (Willis 1977; Burawoy 1979), is an inadvertent outcome an “ideological” effect whereby workers gain a specious sense of freedom and autonomy that unwittingly reconciles them even more profoundly to their own domination? Or in a similar vein, may humour, irony and cynicism work as a “safety valve” that enables workers to let off steam in a manner that does not threaten prevailing relations of power? Or are these conclusions overly pessimistic and miss the point regarding the pragmatic validity of even the smallest of refusals? In order to unravel the tension animating these explanations we will set the scene by examining, in turn, the literature on humour, irony, and cynicism, as strategies of “effective” and “ineffective” employee resistances.

Humour Humour is a significant part of day-to-day interaction in the workplace. Jokes, parodies and spoofs can all be found in the informal interaction amongst coworkers, and between superiors and subordinates. There is a good deal of literature that reveals particular functions of humour such as reinforcing group norms and identities (Bradney 1957; Roy 1958; Coser 1959), a managerial tool of control (Malone 1980), and as a way managers negotiate paradoxical situations (Hatch and Ehlrich 1993). However, here we aim to probe humour as a strategy of resistance

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in organizations, particularly in the context of high commitment organizations and corporate culture strategies. One stream of research examining humour has pointed out that it can be a significant way workers subvert dominant forms of control. Linstead’s (1985a) analysis of employee humour in an industrial bakery highlights how it symbolically reverses dominant cultural myths supporting particular power relations. In another article, Linstead (1985b) extends this idea by arguing that humour is used to establish a discursive realm “outside” that which can be controlled by management. Building on Willis (1977) and Burawoy (1979), Collinson (1988: 184–5) observed in his study of workers in an auto factory how “shop-floor humour was in part a form of resistance both to the tightly controlled repetitious work task and to the social organization of production within the company”. This humour enabled resistance to management and corporate culture but also had a darker side, in particular the psychological abuse, individualism and masculinity associated with this workplace counter-culture. Indeed, resistance through “humorous distance” often ended up reinforcing the non-participation of workers in key management functions, thus having the outcome of consolidating and even perpetuating their own subordination. As a result, humour and joking are “unlikely to be effective forms of resistance given the disciplinary processes that characterise contemporary organizations” (Collinson 1994: 51) because they take place in the subjective realm rather than being emancipatory in any concrete way. Examining more formalised types of humour, Deeks (1993) argues that the cartoons found in the New Yorker magazine provide both a humorous look at corporate life and a cutting critique of the structure and norms of the modern corporate world. Similarly, Rodrigues and Collinson (1995) investigate how humorous cartoons produced in a union newspaper within Brazilian Telecom were employed as a subversive form of critique of a corporate culture program, staff redundancies, and managerial favouritism. They maintain that these humorous cartoons were effective because they created an alternative narrative or script for workers to understand their experience at Telecom, one for which they could not be directly punished. The cartoons also proved to be instrumental in so far as they facilitated an already established union movement and were crucial in changing some managerial policies (such as training) and augmenting bargaining power. Filby and Willmott (1988) also reflect on the transgressive potential of humorous cartoons used by members of a public relations division to resist and make sense of the incompetence and absurdity of bureaucracy. As Ackroyd and Thomson claim, in the context of corporate culture building, “a good deal of contemporary joking at work features cynical comment on the validity of managerial claims and the actions and motives of managers. It is no exaggeration to say that it constitutes a continuous undercurrent of satirical debunking of management pretension”

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(1999: 103). But as we can see from the literature, there is a tension between interpretations that view worker humour as a useful form of resistance in certain circumstances, and those that view it as a reaction that paradoxically reproduces employee dependence and disenfranchisement.

Irony A second form of resistance to managerial strategies, some writers argue, can be found in the phenomenon of irony.1 Irony overlaps significantly with humour, often with the two categories being conflated, such as examination of ironic humour or humour being seen as an ironic strategy (Hatch 1997). It is important to emphasise the distinction because although irony may take a humorous form (or visa versa) it is possible to have forms of irony that are not humorous (Trethewey 1997). The “ironic disposition” (Kierkegaard 1992) is sometimes referred to as a cultural symptom of post-modernity (Rorty 1989) but the question that concerns us here is whether it can be considered an effective form of resistance to corporate colonisation. Or, as Johansson and Woodilla (1999) ask, is irony a form of resistance that subverts the status quo or reinforces it? In the field of social theory, Richard Harvey Brown (1987) makes an interesting distinction between practices of irony that are “ritualistic” and those that are “dialectical”. Ritualistic irony works as a safety valve that allows subordinates to let off steam in a manner that does not radically challenge the existent social order. Some sects of the medieval Church, for example, celebrated the “day of the ass” once a year in which the figure of Jesus was replaced by a wooden ass and mockingly worshipped. Such a release provides a manageable outlet for tension and frustration, reinforcing the power of the Church for the rest of the year. Dialectical irony, on the other hand, is a practice that indicates how the ideals of power (freedom, democracy etc.) have the unintended and often opposite effect for those who are subjected to them (servitude, autocracy etc.). This kind of ironic insight disrupts power at an ideological level because it symbolically reverses the very foundational discourses of dominant groups. We could apply the rough distinction between ritualistic and dialectical irony to the scant but growing literature on employee responses in the context of culture engineering. First, in the context of a consideration of irony as subversive resistance, Fleming and Sewell (forthcoming) develop the concept of “Švejkism” taken from Jarošlav Hasek’s novel The Good Solider Švejk and illustrate how irony can operate as a practicable mode of resistance at the level of self. An ironic practice of self is not only a useful form of resistance when the target of power is the very subjectivity of workers. It may also be one of the few options immediately available,

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in a context where team normalisation is intense and traditional opposition, such as unionism, has lost its legitimacy. However, some have given a more “safety valve” interpretation of irony in this context. In his Engineering Culture (1992), Kunda argues that one element of role embracement was the perceived capacity to distance oneself from the demands of the culture. In “Tech”, the managerial push to build a high commitment culture was met by workers with a sense of irony, which he called “cognitive distancing”: Cognitive distancing — disputing popular ideological formulations — is manifested when one suggests that one is “wise” to what is “really” going on. Being “wise” implies that despite behaviours and expressions indicating identification, one is also fully cognisant of their underlying meaning, and thus free of control: autonomous enough to know what is going on and dignified enough to express that knowledge (Kunda 1992: 178).

This sense of autonomy among workers, Kunda argues, was vitally important in the process of subjective incorporation because their very ability to distance themselves through irony allowed them to internalise the culture without feeling they were being colonised. In not taking the culture seriously, they were even more profoundly controlled by it because of the psychic distance they felt they could achieve. Thus, ironic resistance did not really change the material power relations at Tech and, if anything, helped maintain managerial domination because of the illusion of freedom it often gave workers. A similar argument has been made by Kets de Vries (1990) in his analysis of the organizational fool. He argues that the fool deploys irony and other strategies of sanctioned critique in order to help leaders recognise their follies and bring them down to earth. The principal use of the fool’s irony is to sustain existing structures of power rather than radically transforming them.

Cynicism A third way that employees may respond to attempts to colonise their subjectivity via corporate culture management is cynicism. It has become somewhat commonplace to identify the widespread nature of cynicism in contemporary society (Lasch 1978; Sloterdijk 1988; Žižek 1989) and the workplace (Kanter and Mirvis 1989). We understand cynicism to be situations where people look for the “naked truth” behind the official “party line” so that blatant contradictions are laid bear: Cynical thinking can only arise when two views of things have become possible, an official and an unofficial view, a veiled and a naked view, one from the viewpoint of heroes and one from the viewpoint of valets. In a culture in which one is regularly told lies, one wants to know not merely the truth but the naked truth. Where that cannot be that is not allowed to be, one has to draw out what the

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“naked” facts look like, no matter what morality has to say about it. In a certain way, “ruling” and “lying” are synonymous. The truth of the rulers and truth of the servants are different (Sloterdijk 1984: 218).

A cynical search for the “naked truth” is evident in a number of recent studies of organizations where we meet workers who secretly voice statements of disbelief about the official culture and are rather jaundiced with respect to managerial exhortations. These workers could “see through” the hollow promises of human resource departments and do not really “buy into” the hype of the corporate culture pundits. Kunda (1992) found employees calling the culture “California bathtub crap.” Collinson (1992) records workers referring to the push to build a culture of excellence as “Yankee propaganda” and the company newsletter became known as “Goebbels Gazette”. Managerialist writers such as Kanter and Mirvis (1989), Anderson, (1996), Dean, Brandes, and Dharwadkar (1998) and Wanous, Reichers and Austin (2000) identify employee cynicism as a “problem” that impedes the smooth functioning of culture, team affiliation and other human resource management initiatives. Subsequently it is claimed that “research on cynicism should help us to better understand a phenomenon that is pervasive in modern organizations, and perhaps find better ways to manage or prevent it” (Dean, Brandes, and Dharwadkar 1998: 350). Scholars with a more critical view have interpreted cynicism as a defence mechanism, a way of resisting the corporate colonisation of the self. Kunda (1992) and Casey (1995), for example, argue that workers use cynicism to protect their “backstage selves” from the insidiously ubiquitous culture machine when it gets a little too claustrophobic. Cynicism is a way of escaping the encroaching logic of managerialism and provides an inner “free space” for workers when other avenues for opposition have been blocked. In Work, Self and Society (1995) Casey observed how a number of employees resisted the psychological “siege and assault” of the culture through cynical detachment. “Ironic cynicism protects against both commitment to the company… and its further encroachment into the private realm of (relative) individual choice and apparent self-determination” (Casey 1995: 175). Casey categorised the cynical response under the heading of capitulation, a last resort attempt to escape the culture, but an attempt that simply reconciles workers to the domination they are trying to escape. Again, this safety valve, or more accurately, “ideology” approach, is a popular way critical scholars make sense of cynicism in this context because, although cynicism has the appearance of opposition, it can actually give employees a feeling of freedom without changing their social status of subordination. Such an approach to cynicism can be found elsewhere. Willmott (1993) evokes Berger and Luckmann’s (1966) notion of “cool alternation” to argue that cynicism is a strategy whereby individuals subjectively “distance” or dis-identify themselves

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from the roles they play. Willmott then develops Kunda’s (1992) findings to show how such cynical dis-identification can actually incorporate workers into the relations of power they seek to escape. Cynicism at “Tech” may have allowed employees to resist naive seduction by the corporate culture. However, there was “a less obvious and perverse effect of playing the game of cool alternation … an undermining or numbing of a capacity directly to criticise or resist the cultural logic [because it] was interpreted as evidence of Tech’s commitment to openness, freedom of expression, etc.” (Willmott 1993: 537). According to Willmott, that there exists a possibility to be cynical about the culture is something that is perceived by employees as a sign of the company’s partial dedication to freedom. It is this partiality that consequently forestalled any initiative to organize more effective forms of opposition on the part of employees. The capacity to challenge company culture provoked a counterfeit sense of selfdetermination that allowed corporate roles to be enacted without the friction that is usually present when one feels hard done by. Employees became trapped in a “vicious circle of cynicism and dependence” (Willmott 1993: 518), which disarmed them of any ability to challenge the existing power structure. A similar reading of worker cynicism can be found in du Gay and Salaman’s (1992) analysis of enterprise culture. They discuss how the recent push to build cultures of excellence in the UK guilefully transmogrifies workers into entrepreneurial, enterprising selves. In broaching the topic of worker resistance to enterprise in the organizations they studied, it is claimed that: Certainly the discourse of enterprise appears to have no serious rivals today … even if people do not take enterprise seriously, even if they keep a certain cynical distance from its claims, they are still reproducing it through their involvement in everyday practices within which enterprise is inscribed (du Gay and Salaman 1992:630).

Similarly to Willmott (1993), du Gay and Salaman insist that even when we negatively distance ourselves from the dictates of enterprise culture, nevertheless, the discourse is reproduced. In approaching cynicism in this way, du Gay and Salaman draw directly from the work of Žižek. For Žižek “cynical distance is just one way to blind ourselves to the structuring power of ideological fantasy: even if we do not take things seriously, even if we keep an ironical distance, we are still doing them” (Žižek 1989: 32, emphasis original). Can cynicism be dismissed so easily as an effective form of resistance? Ackroyd and Thompson (1999) make the point that more subjective forms of resistance (such as irony and cynicism) may be effective in the limited sense of blocking identity colonisation. They write that “ironic, sardonic and satirical commentary on management initiatives … become in the current context significant forms of misbehaviour. Management today has an interest in trying to incorporate the

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sentiments of its employees and to harness their goodwill by doing so” (Ackroyd and Thompson 1999: 103). Similarly, Sturdy and Fineman (2001: 146) argue that, “cynicism is much more than a psychological safety valve; it is a conduit for questioning and resistance which may produce alternative, sceptical, rationales and rhetoric’s. These can provide the basis for challenges to existing orders or, more simply, limit the scope of totalising control.” Cynical commentary, in the vein of its originator, Diogenes of Sinope, may hold up to ridicule the hollow rhetoric of empowerment, teams, and participation and, in doing so, either facilitate other forms of resistance (Rodrigues and Collinson 1995) or simply deflect attempts to mould person-hood (Fleming and Sewell, forthcoming). To summarise our review of humour, irony and cynicism, we notice an important tension when they are investigated in the context of corporate culture building. Critical scholarship now recognises that workers often enact more covert expressions of resistance, but the problem then becomes how to judge its effectiveness. An implicit concern that we see in this research is whether resistance to corporate culture through humour, irony and cynicism actually transforms the status quo, or paradoxically reproduces it. A closer look at the problem reveals a set of complex and extremely ambiguous questions. What do we mean by effectiveness? What criteria do we use to judge the “success” of resistance and are such criteria singular or multiple? What do we mean by “transform”? If power is not manifested in one form but many, do we need to rethink what we mean by transformative resistance to account for multiple planes of influence? Similarly, is there simply one status quo in organizations or is the category manifold? And what are the relationships among different levels of power and resistance? In the next section we want to address these questions by developing the notion of “plateaux of power and resistance” in order to evaluate the efficacy of humour, irony and cynicism as resistance in contemporary workplaces.

Plateaux of power and resistance In many critical studies of workplace power and resistance, a rather simple notion of the status quo is used to posit a singular totality which is either shaken by resistance, chipped away at gradually, or inadvertently supported and reproduced. Here the status quo usually involves an assemblage of hierarchies, authority relations and forms of domination revolving around capitalism, and sometimes patriarchy. The sheer structural materiality of this status quo therefore calls for resistance that does not happen only in the minds of workers but is also engaged concretely. Thus, one of the reasons critical scholars often treat humoristic, ironic and cynical resistance with suspicion is because the spectre of “idealism” is deemed

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to be not far a way. That is to say, there is a danger of over-emphasising the power of the merely subjective to change, influence or challenge the “material” power arrangements of an organization. In romanticising subjective forms of resistance, we may be led to conclude that these kinds of opposition are sufficient to radically transform relations of exploitation and domination. We have sympathies with this cautious admonition because it does question some of the more naive “post modern” interpretations of resistance that are currently gaining vogue.2 However, privileging material resistance in this way has some problems of its own. It almost seems that power is seen as a singular force emanating solely from the relations of capitalist production. Effective resistance, from this perspective, must block power at this arcane material level because it is here that the totality of organizational domination coalesces and is maintained. As du Gay and Salaman (1992) stated earlier, subjective resistance may give workers some breathing space but it does not change the one important thing (ie, the material relations of late capitalism). Not only is the rather simplistic mind/body dualism perpetuated here, but the extremely complex play of different dimensions and articulations of power and resistance go unacknowledged. We argue that there are invariably a number of status quo in contemporary workplaces that matter to management and employees and are maintained by modalities of power that are not necessarily reducible to one singular articulation. If resistance is in some way immanent in the very act of power, and these power relations are multiple rather than singular, then transformations may occur and be effective in their own right, on different levels. We call this approach “plateaux of power and resistance” and hope that it may be useful to negotiate the tension in readings of humour, irony and cynicism. The term plateaux evokes a spatial metaphor that points to different (yet inter-related) planes of power relations, with the implication that upon each plateau we may see modalities of resistance that are best suited (or not, as the case may be) to challenge that particular line of force. We use the metaphor of plateaux in a geometrical rather than geographical sense. In geometry the notion of a plane refers to a flat surface that is rendered possible by a class of similarities and equivalences. Such surfaces in a social setting are multiple and semi-autonomous, but also intimately connected at unpredictable points. Although such a concept could be seen as too abstract and far removed from the processes of organizational life, we think it can make a significant contribution to the way we conceive power and resistance in the contemporary workplace. In the following sections the different elements of our model are discussed in turn.

A thousand plateaux of power There has been a significant and ongoing debate about how power should be conceptualised in the study of organization (see Clegg 1989 for review). Recent

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developments have seen a thorough rejection of agent-based views of power (Pfeffer 1981) where it is understood as a characteristic of the individual. State based views of power (Clegg and Dunkerly 1980), where power has been conceptualised as residing with the structure of the (capitalist) state, have also been rejected. These two conceptions have been largely challenged by a theory of power that examines relations of force as dispersed or “capillary” (Foucault 1980; Knights and Willmott 1989; Clegg and Hardy 1996). These dispersed power relations have been imagined as constituting multiple “circuits of power” (Clegg 1989) instead of a system that makes up a single relation of force and influence. This increasingly prevalent conception of power has seen attention be given to the various circuits of power that operate in contemporary organizations. These can include systems of technocratic knowledge (eg., Bihamini 1994; Sewell and Wilkinson 1992; Townley 1994), popular culture and consumption (du Gay 1996), and gender (Alvesson and Billig 1997) to name a few. This growing range of studies points out the qualitatively different and specific fields of power that co-inhabit a particular space, and show how each field of power tends to make particular courses of action seem rational while other courses of action are marginalised. It is these multiple fields of power we refer to as “plateaux”, after Deleuze and Guattari (1987). We use the term plateaux because it provides a spatial understanding of power that is especially handy for stressing the multiple lines of force and resistance. A number of other analyses of power and resistance use spatial metaphors such as “beyond the pale”, “transgressing the boundaries” and “escape attempts.” But for us the notion of plateaux (or plane, level, line) makes it easier to isolate the montage of diverse power/resistance assemblages without necessarily privileging one as more “real” (which is not to say all forms of power and resistance are equivalent). To be sure, a plateau is a system of force/resistance relations organized around a particular issue that may be visible or invisible to the actors involved. Examples of plateaux are gender, corporate culture, the wage/effort bargain, aesthetic codes, professionalism, and sexual orientation. On each plateau of power it may be possible to identify an attendant set of resistances that are constituted and characterised by the specific logic of the power in question (and vice versa). An important element of our model is the idea that plateaux of power and resistance do not necessarily exist in complete independence of one another but overlap and influence each other in ambiguous ways. Using the language of Deleuze and Guattari (1987: 7), each plateau is interconnected to the others by a rhizome — a complex system of underground affiliations where “any point of a rhizome can be connected to any other, and must be”. Thus, a particular movement or articulation on one plateau of power may also simultaneously initiate an action on another plateaux of power with congruent, conflicting or independent outcomes.

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The final aspect of our model is the idea that within a particular spatialtemporal context there are not an infinite number of equally important plateaux of power. Rather, some plateaux of power may encompass people’s lives more than others. For instance, multinational capitalism and scientific management might be some of the most encompassing plateaux of power for a worker in the Maquiladora on the US/Mexico boarder (Pena 1997), whereas power relations demanding an aesthetic form of labour or particular ethnic background may be of little consequence. Within a service sector company in a post-industrial Western city (the hospitality industry for instance) the plateau of aesthetic power may be central to workers lives (Nickson, Warhurst, Witz, and Cullen 2001). For women performing unpaid domestic labour in the home, the gendered division of labour may be experienced as the central plateaux of power. At any rate, the key task in an analysis would be to identify the plateaux of power that “matter the most” within a located situation, examine the inter-relationships between differing plateaux and how these inter-relations feed into one another.

A thousand swarming refusals Now that we have tentatively sketched a model of power, we turn back to the issue of resistance. As we pointed out above, many theories of resistance are based on a rather singular understanding of power — that is, there is one dominant system of power against which an act is judged oppositional, ineffective or even self-defeating. Using this approach, only acts that aim for some sort of “great refusal” (Marcuse 1972), or that radically overthrow the dominant system of power, are counted as effective opposition. On the other hand, resistance that does not pose any serious or systematic challenge to a dominant system of power is typically seen to be ineffective, and even reproductive of that power. This is why organized forms of resistance with more “revolutionary” intent have usually been privileged, whilst more covert forms of resistance are marginalised, or judged as nothing more than safety valves. If we adopt the model of power that we have advanced, we would see any particular act as implicated on a number of plateaux of power. This would mean, as Foucault suggests, a multiplicity of resistances are possible: There is no single locus of the Great Refusal, no soul of revolt, source of all rebellions, or pure law of the revolutionary. Instead there is a plurality of resistances, each of them a special case: resistances that are possible, necessary, improbable; others that are spontaneous, savage, solitary, concerted, rampant, or violent; still others that are quick to compromise, interested, or sacrificial; by definition, they can only exist in the strategic field of power relations. But this does not mean that they are only a reaction or rebound, forming with respect to the basic domination an underside that is in the end always passive, doomed to defeat (Foucault 1978, 94–5).

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Following Foucault, we maintain that there is not a single locus of opposition but a swarm of multiple refusals, because there are many plateaux of power that organize the power/opposition terrain in contemporary workplaces. We can then add a degree of complexity to this model and argue that each particular action is imputed simultaneously on a number of plateaux of power, which are interconnected. An act may be considered resistant in terms of the co-ordinates of one plateau, but may be thoroughly functional in terms of another plateaux. Or conversely, while an act may be deemed resistant on one plateau, it can be judged as thoroughly functional on another plateau but subversive on yet another. Finally, not all forms of resistance should be considered equally important or in some way “revolutionary”. A small refusal on the grounds of asserting one’s right to listen to punk music in the workplace, and thereby challenging the plateaux of aesthetic power emphasised by bureaucratic rules, may have little effect on race and sex discrimination. This is not to say, however, that such small refusals may not be strategically connected to other plateaux of power. For instance, by challenging a ruling on music in the workplace our recalcitrant punk fan may open up a space to challenge other aesthetic rules, such as dress, decoration of personal workspace, and perhaps even jolt latent gender discrimination based on aesthetics (“they don’t look professional”). Collective unionism in the hyper-Taylorised Maquiladora organizations may be useful whereas humour may facilitate effective forms of opposition but, on its own, will not change exploitation. For sure, if the resistance that these workers express is only humour and cynicism it may allow them to “get by” but it is surely a modality of dissent that multinational capital can live with. However, in an organization demanding the loyalties and sentiments of workers, that has an actual “investment” in the subjectivities of workers and the way they experience organizational life, then cynicism and humour may be extremely effective for challenging power on this particular level. For example, an exaggerated service smile or the “over identification” with a culture campaign may actually harm the productive and sales activities of the organization and undermine the legitimacy of management even more profoundly than traditional acts of dissent.

Discussion How should we approach humour, irony and cynicism given our model? The central insight of “plateaux of power and resistance” is that a number of interlinking resistances may occur simultaneously, with different effects on different planes of power and resistance. Humour, irony and cynicism may be judged effective forms of resistance against types of managerial power that specifically targets the selves of

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workers, a type of power that is significantly novel to the traditional wage/effort bargain (although the aims are the same). In other words, humour, irony, and cynicism may reside as opposition on a particular plateau of power and be best suited to deal with organizational domination of the “soft” HRM type. Such a disposition may not over-turn the economic apparatus and hierarchy of late capitalism. However, as Johansson and Woodilla (1999:29, emphasis original) point out in relation to irony, it “can be interpreted as turning the emotional hierarchy upside down and thereby, from a broader perspective, irony is altering the power relations.” However, plateaux are not separate but linked in ambiguous ways. When one of these resistances is articulated towards, say a corporate culture campaign, it may have outcomes that are subversive on one plateau but thoroughly functional and reproductive on another plateaux. For example, when an employee is cynically ironic towards a culture-engineering program, this may effectively block the colonisation of self by managerial interests or disrupt the emotional economy of managerial domination, but will also have ramifications for other struggles being waged on different political territories. These ramifications are almost always unpredictable and complex. Let’s look at some examples already discussed. Rodrigues and Collinson (1995) illustrated how worker humour actually facilitated and consolidated effective union opposition by caricaturing management and lampooning the corporate culture strategy. Here, humour is a strategy of resistance geared specifically towards dealing with managerial power that targets the sentiments of workers. Traditional unionism may not necessarily be enough to deal with this type of force. The two plateaux of resistance form a congruent relationship, giving employee dissent greater impact. The outcomes of resistance to power on one level (cultural symbolic system) support and are harmonious with those on another level (the effort/wage bargain). Rather than reducing all power to its capitalist/economic variant, and all resistance to that which successfully or unsuccessfully overturns economic exploitation, we produce a more multi-dimensional portrayal. It is one that surfaces the different criteria by which we identify power and the effectiveness of the resistance it may provoke, as well as the interrelationships among the different levels we have outlined. In the case of Collinson’s (1988; 1992; 1994) investigation of Slavs we witness a different situation regarding the outcome of the intermingling of cynical humour with the wage/effort bargain. The cynicism and wry humour of workers, in this case, obviously blocks the incorporation of their subjectivities into the corporate culture program designed by the new American managers. So at this level we have an effective modality of resistance because the managerial aim of identity colonisation and “cleansing” is thwarted. But how does this response spill over onto other plateaux of power and resistance relations, especially the capitalist wage labour arrangement? As Collinson argues in a number of articles, cynicism and

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ironic humour actually undermined resistance against economic privilege because it distanced workers from important managerial functions (managers were seen to be inferior and they did not want to have anything to do with them) and, thus, perpetuated their own emasculation. The outcome of cynical humour was, therefore, effective on its own plateau, but had self-defeating spill over effects on more traditional forms of organized dissent. In the Slavs case it would be tempting to simply dismiss cynical humour and irony as illusory forms of opposition that merely operate as a safety valve to capitalist domination. Such an interpretation would exclude, however, the significance of these so-called subjective types of dissent outright, which does not necessarily have to be the case. Although it is obvious that in this empirical example cynicism reinforces asymmetrical gender relations, and undermines “traditional” resistance that could have challenged economic subordination, we maintain that it is still best to have a pluralistic understanding of lines of influence and opposition rather than a reductive one. We should therefore speak of links, relationships and interferences instead of “illusions”, “falsity” or “ideology” because to categorise humour, irony and cynicism as merely safety valves underestimates the potential efficacy of seemingly innocuous words, gestures and emotions. This is especially the case when the very hearts and minds of workers is the terrain of struggle. We offer a third example to substantiate our argument. In a call-centre organization one of the authors is researching (“Sunray” Customer Development), union membership is strongly “discouraged” and there is an absence of other organized forms of worker opposition. Indeed, economic exploitation is rife. Management control strategies involve a whole variety of techniques typical in callcentre organizations, one of which is the promulgation of a high-commitment corporate culture. Even though some workers do become committed and loyal to Sunray as a result of the culture program, we also discovered an informal network of communications and appraisals marked by a high degree of cynical and humoristic satire. For instance, workers cynically transformed the company slogan into their own bawdy anagram that mocks such blatant attempts at thought control. It was in this way that workers resisted the almost ubiquitous corporate culture and the concerted managerial attempts to co-opt their very senses of self. Because this type of resistance does not overturn the capital/labour hierarchy one should not assume that it is merely “illusionary” and “unreal” (Knights and Collinson 1987: 472). Such resistance, in its own terms, disrupts and even transforms the linguistic and symbolic status quo upon which the unitary culture depends for its perpetuation. This very material aim of Sunray management, one in which authority has both economically and symbolically invested, is derailed by a marginal few. The cynicism we observed also helped employees to highlight economic exploitation at Sunray because the “discourse of empowerment” was

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turned back on management and used to accentuate the very real economic disempowerment faced by workers. This is possibly one factor that has created the conditions for more collective forms of labour dissent, as Sunray workers have contacted the local service workers union and have seriously discussed formally organizing their opposition. In specific contexts the findings will be different, of course. Our point is that we should be identifying the multiple lines of force and their attendant resistances without presuming a singular model of power and resistance when making judgements about the effectiveness and outcomes of opposition. Or put simply, one act or expression of transgression may have different consequences that should be judged by different but associated criteria. The temptation to reduce appraisals of power and resistance to “all or nothing” logic is strong, given the importance of totalities in the tradition of critical social research. Moreover, we have no intention of romanticising humour, irony and cynicism as resistance(s) that are always effective. Rather, we aim to place a more sophisticated theoretical grid onto our interpretations so that we can develop an appreciation for polymorphous logics of resistance and power, as well as their complex mutual influences.

Conclusion To conclude, both safety valve and transformative interpretations regarding the effectiveness of humour, irony and cynicism as resistance (to culture- engineering) seem to be underpinned by particular models of power and resistance that are either too reductive or unclear regarding the mosaic nature of force in any given situation. By introducing the notion of plateaux of power and resistance, we hope that future research may be in a better position to tease out the complex and often paradoxical dimensions of both overt and covert resistance in contemporary organizations. We are by no means advocating some sort of post-modern relativism that makes all forms of power and resistances equivalent and equally important. Rather, we are calling for a contextual sensibility that can distinguish, in concrete situations, the different lines of force (and the resistance that they may provoke), the characteristics that mark those lines of force as different, and then judge (using semi-autonomous criteria) their effectiveness on their own specific grounds. Only then can we gain a more nuanced understanding of humour, irony and cynicism as means through which employees may oppose the multifaceted and often paradoxical regime of contemporary employment.

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Notes * We would like to thank Campbell Jones, Andrew Sturdy, Yiannis Gabriel and Stewart R. Clegg for their comments on earlier drafts of this chapter. 1. Some research examines irony as a methodological tool for investigating organizational life (eg. Trethewey 1999; Johansson and Woodilla 1999; Sewell forthcoming). Here, however, we deal with irony as a phenomenon within organizations. 2. Here we are referring to the political (rather than epistemological) implications of post modern approaches. As Fraser (1995) points out, this has largely lead to an assertion of a ‘politics of recognition’ whereby issues of signification and representation become central at the expense of ‘politics of redistribution’. Examples of the former include Rorty’s (1989) suggestion of holding multiple views at once (also see Rorty 1998), carnivalesque celebrations where subordinate identities are over thrown (Rhodes, this volume), or the ‘re-signification’ of economic regimes (Gibson-Graham 1996). The main criticism levelled at such approaches is the ‘idealism’ of the assumption that simply changing our discourse (words) about the world will lead to radical transformations (Bourdieu 1983; Eagleton 1991).

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Chapter 5

Paradox in symbols and subjects The politics of constructing “The Wharfie”* André Spicer, John W. Selsky and Julian Teicher

Introduction In this chapter we examine how a bitter industrial relations dispute that occurred in Australian seaports during 1997–98 became important because it concerned not only economic entitlements but also symbolic reality. The symbolic aspect of the conflict centred on struggles around how a key figure, or subject, “the wharfie”, was understood. We use Bakhtin’s concept of dialogue to point out how multiple, often paradoxical discourses are related in an “ecology” of discourses to make sense of the subject. The chapter investigates the ways that different key parties constructed the wharfie in public media texts. We use a critical discourse analysis method, uncovering significant discursive struggle around the subject position of “the wharfie”, illustrating how different understandings of that subject led to different patterns in its engagement. By examining the role of symbolic identity struggles around the ways that subjects are recognized in discursive dialogue, we show that discourse is central to economic struggles in the workplace. The waterfront dispute that occurred in and around Australian seaports during 1997–98 was a central event in the changing nature of the Australian workplace. As is typical in labour disputes, many commentators explained it in terms of conflict around economic resources such as profits, jobs, and wages (e.g., Griffin and Svensen 1998). In Australia, industrial relations have always been strongly framed by legal process, so it was no surprise that the parties to this dispute contended in the legal arenas of the Industrial Relations Commission and the courts. But they also fought bitterly in the media and the “court of public opinion” (Trinca and Davis 2000). How are we to understand this dispute, deeply etched as it was with both economic and symbolic features? In such disputes, how can we interpret their symbolic features, which have not received adequate research attention? In this chapter we offer an understanding that draws on theories of language, discourse and identity as developed and empirically tested in organization studies.

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A number of researchers have highlighted how symbolic forms of power are not totalising but are sites of struggle (Ackroyd and Thompson 1995). Thompson and Ackroyd (1999: 100) have argued: “Struggle at work was, until recently, centrally concerned with material issues, with amounts of work done and the reappropriation of time and materials as the principal matters of dispute. These days, struggle is more centrally concerned with the matter of identity.” Power exercised through symbolic representations, such as discourse and identity, thus are crucial aspects of labour conflicts in today’s workplaces. Important research on power in the workplace has examined popular regimes of knowledge and highlighted the construction of identity or subjectivity, such as management rhetoric and the construction of the employee (Jacques 1996), as key sites of power (Knights and Willmott 1989; Clegg 1989). Such insight finds resonance in political studies, where the recent decline in traditional ways of voicing material struggle has been noted: [T]he language of distribution is less salient today. The movements that not long ago boldly demanded an equitable share of resources and wealth have not, to be sure, wholly disappeared. But thanks to the sustained neo-liberal rhetorical assault on egalitarianism, to the absence of any credible model of “feasible socialism” and to widespread doubts about the viability of state-Keynesian social democracy in the face of globalization, their role has been greatly reduced (Fraser 2000: 107–108).

Fraser (1995) argues there has been a shift from a politics of redistribution to a politics of recognition. The latter is concerned with how identities are constructed and who has a legitimate voice in society. This is reflected in the many contemporary movements of identity politics, such as around queer, women’s, and indigenous identities. According to Fraser (2000: 71), a politics of recognition aims to challenge cultural or symbolic injustices “rooted in social patterns of representation, interpretation”. She suggests that new theoretical frameworks are needed to encompass both the new identity as well as more traditional distributional politics. Fraser’s politics of recognition may enrich the understanding of political struggles in organizations. The politics of identity or recognition recapitulate the symbolic aspect of such struggles, while the politics of redistribution recapitulate the economic or material aspects. Thus, in this chapter we intend to show the paradoxical interplay between the politics of recognition and the politics of redistribution in a specific labour dispute. Such disputes have usually been associated with Fraser’s politics of redistribution but we employ conceptual tools associated with the politics of recognition in order to highlight their symbolic features. We show that paradox lies in how workers, in this case Australian “wharfies” (longshoremen or dockers), resisted attempts by key players in the waterfront dispute to construct and inscribe certain identities for them. By focusing on struggles in the symbolic arena of this dispute we are not suggesting that

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material issues were any less salient than in other disputes during the past century. However, in this dispute the material struggles were waged in part through the differing understandings of the identity or subject position of “the wharfie”, which did appear to be new or at least much more prominent than previously. There has been little research into the role of discourse and identity in the context of industrial relations disputes. An exception is Herod who argues that “discursive practices — how a dispute, process or situation is represented to a broader audience — can thus be important elements in the institutional reproduction of labour markets and, consequently, of workers themselves” (1998: 178). In this chapter we aim to further this insight by examining an important symbolic aspect of the waterfront dispute. We focus on how conflicting and sometimes paradoxical images of the Australian wharfie were mobilized and used by “business” and “union” networks of interest during the dispute. These images were constructed by different actors’ discourses as reported in the public media. We argue that the different ways in which the wharfie was represented led to very different courses of action becoming possible and legitimate for the actors within each network. We proceed first by reviewing the literature on discourse studies of organization in order to develop a framework to understand struggles around symbolic resources. Drawing on the work of Mikhail Bakhtin, we suggest that discourses in a social arena can exist in an “ecology” of dialogue, one that sometimes generates paradoxical constructions of the same object. We then describe the empirical setting, its history, and the context in which the waterfront dispute occurred. Next, we analyse the discourses used by the two key interest groups in the dispute to construct the wharfie and examine how these discourses connected to “legitimate” courses of action. We conclude with two implications for critical discourse theory: the need to appreciate the politics of multiple discourses, and the need to “materialize” discourse analysis by understanding the role of discourses in the reproduction of social structures.

Symbolic aspects of labour disputes Meaning and critical discourse analysis Meaning and sensemaking are central concerns in organization studies (Pondy and Mitroff 1979; Manning 1979; Smircich 1983; Weick 1995). A variety of approaches seek to understand processes of meaning in organizations (see Putnam and Fairhurst 1999 for a review), and one important recent approach is discourse (Grant, Keenoy and Oswick 1998). Broadly, discourse can be conceptualised as texts that momentarily fix a particular framework of meaning about something.

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According to Heracleous and Hendry (2000), discourse approaches in organization studies can be divided into three broad categories: interpretive, which examines discourse as constructive of social and organizational reality; managerialist, which examines discourse as a tool in the service of managerial processes such as leadership and change, and critical, which considers relations of power in the discursive construction of objects. In a previous paper (Spicer, Selsky and Teicher, 2000) we used an interpretive approach to study the process of active sensemaking during the waterfront dispute. In this paper we adopt a critical approach in order to examine how power worked through discourse in the same dispute. In the critical discourse approach, a discourse is a set of statements (Foucault 1972) found in texts that do not just describe but also construct or “make up” (Hacking 1986; 1999) an “object”. An object is understood here as a generic term for some aspect of reality; it can stand for a person, a physical entity, an event, an issue, etc. Understanding discourse is [a] task that consists of not — or no longer — treating discourse as a group of signs (signifying elements referring to contents or representations) but as practices that systematically form the objects of which they speak. Of course discourses are composed of signs; but what they do is more than use these signs to designate things. It is this more that renders them irreducible to language (langue) and to speech. It is this “more” that we must reveal and describe (Foucault 1972: 49).

These systems of signs may include written texts (e.g., literature, manuals, annual reports), spoken texts (conversation, interviews, speeches), visual texts (film, paintings), spatial texts (buildings, landscapes), and performance (drama, dance, non-verbal cues). The set of discursive statements found in any set of texts not only describes the object(s) with some degree of accuracy, but also constitutes the very object(s) that it purports to describe (Grant, Keenoy and Oswick 2000). Hay notes that this occurs through narratives or stories. In a particular case: [w]hat is interesting… is not so much the descriptive accuracy (or otherwise) of the presentation of key events. Ultimately far more significant is their narrativisation, the subject positions constructed and the resulting attributions of causality and responsibility — in sum, the discursive selectivity imposed by such narratives upon the decoding process (Hay 1996: 265–266).

Discourses and the narratives they create/construct fundamentally shape how actors act with respect to the object(s). That is, discourses “do not just describe things; they do things. And being active they have social and political implications” (Potter and Wetherall 1987: 6; see also Austin 1966; Van Dijk 1997a; 1997b). Moreover, actors in a social arena can use discourses as resources to seek legitimacy for their interest(s) and position(s) and to enact strategy (Hardy, Palmer and Phillips 2000). Discourses influence social constructions of the arena and make

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certain “strategies of engagement” with it sensible and legitimate (Hardy and Phillips 1998). Extant discourses in a particular social arena do not have equal prominence and political legitimacy (Fairclough 1995). In any discursive arena a dominant discourse is likely to be used by powerful actors and it will be rendered legitimate; other discourses may be voiced and used by less powerful actors and those discourses are likely to be marginalized. We can expect the dominant discourse to entrain a particular way of thinking and acting being considered normal or rational, whereas other ways of thinking and acting get branded as abnormal or irrational. For example, if the dominant discourse of the day “makes up” killer whales as dangerous creatures or economically valuable commodities, then a whaling industry is likely to develop to destroy or harvest them (Lawrence, Phillips & Hardy 2000). On the other hand, if the dominant discourse makes up killer whales as a natural beauty, then an eco-tourism industry and research stations are likely to develop to manage and enjoy them. One particular class of objects that has attracted recent research attention in organization studies is subject positions, how they are constructed through discourse, and how power works through them. The analysis of power relations should focus on the creation of an image of subjectivity in discourse (Foucault 1977). Judith Butler nicely summarises the central lesson in Foucault’s study of power and discourse in the prison: Foucault suggests that the prisoner is not regulated by an exterior relation of power, whereby an institution takes a pre-given individual as the target of its subordinating aims. On the contrary, the individual is formed or, rather, formulated through his discursively constituted “identity” as prisoner. Subjection is, literally, the making of a subject, the principal of regulation according to which a subject is formulated or produced. Such subjection is a kind of power that not only unilaterally acts on a given individual as a form of domination, but also activates or forms the subject (Butler, 1997: 84; emphasis in original).

A number of empirical organizational studies of the construction of subjects through discourse and the implications for power have been produced in the past decade (e.g., du Gay 1996; Fournier 1998; Townley 1996; Garsten and Grey 1997; Kunda 1992; and Sewell and Wilkinson 1992). In this chapter we examine the complex construction of the subject position, “wharfie”, in the context of the Australian waterfront dispute and the implications of these constructive activities in the dispute itself and for labour relations in Australia more generally.

Resistance and dialogue The approach outlined above couples a single dominant discourse tightly to a certain strategy of engagement with the subject. However, one cannot assume that

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a single dominant discourse is able to “inscribe” one or more subjects unproblematically (Ackroyd and Thompson 1999; Mumby 1997; Newton 1998; Gabriel 1999). Rather, subjects may resist and re-articulate the subject positions within which they find themselves inscribed. It is this insight that has stimulated a fertile research area on resistance to dominant discourses through humour (Collinson 1992), worker irony and “Švejkism” (Fleming and Sewell forthcoming), cynicism (Fleming and Spicer in this volume), and alternative or sub-cultural identities. Such a line of research pushes us to re-think the relation between discourse concerning a subject position and the frameworks of meaning and power mobilized around the subject position. This recent work on resistance may need to appreciate the contribution of traditional collective forms of organized resistance such as unions. For instance, as we indicate from the waterfront dispute below, a union and its allies organized a visible, articulate and potent response to a discourse that other interests were trying to position as dominant. In order to understand how worker resistance to and through a particular discourse takes place in an organized situation, it may be useful to think in terms of an ecology of discourses in dialogue. Mikhail Bakhtin argued that language should be understood as a dialogue in which different words come into contact with one another. Meaning is the result of this contact: The word, directed towards its object, enters into a dialogically agitated and tension-filled environment of alien words, value judgments and accents, weaves in and out of complex interrelationships, merges with some, recoils from others, intersects with yet a third group: and all this may crucially shape discourse, may leave a trace in all its semantic layers, may complicate its expression and influence its entire stylistic profile (Bakhtin 1981: 276).

Following its recent usage in organization studies, we use dialogue to mean a situation where two or more relatively legitimate systems of discourse co-exist within an organized site: Dialogical analyses explicitly acknowledge that “organization” is comprised of a multiplicity of discourses which reflect the “plurivocal” meanings brought to bear by participants. Potentially, this permits a multitude of “organizational realities” which, although relatively autonomous discourses, may overlap and permeate each other. Similarly, actors who are “locked into” particular discourses may experience and interpret the same discursive event — such as a conversation — differently (Grant, Keenoy and Oswick 1998: 7).

In situations where relatively organized groups offer alternatives to the dominant discourse, the notion of dialogue may help us to understand their positionality. From a critical discourse perspective, the “inscribed” subjects may understand discursive processes in an organization as a dialogue potentially involving both

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acceptance and resistance. This implies that different and often paradoxical understandings of the same subject position may be present simultaneously in the same social arena. Moreover, a dialogue of discourses means that different courses of action may be legitimated in the same discursive arena because, as suggested above, each discourse in a dialogue does not speak from a position of equal power and legitimacy — some may dominate and others may be marginalized. Some recent examples point out the differing discourses of a particular subject by different groups, and how this leads to certain relations of power and (often uneasy) interactional dynamics. Hardy and Phillips (1998), for instance, demonstrate how three different types of organizations constructed and hence acted on the subject of “the refugee” in different ways. By examining discourses in dialogue we may be better able to understand conflicting and often paradoxical constructions of particular identities and how these may enable paradoxical strategies of engagement to become viable. Indeed, examining discursive processes as a dialogue may prove to be relevant in situations where more than one organized actor voices a coherent discourse, as in industrial relations disputes.

Method For this case study we used a five-step process informed by previous studies of critical discourse analysis (e.g., Potter and Whetherall 1987; Fairclough 1995; Van Dijk 1997a). First, we examined the historical, political, and industrial relations contexts within which the 1997–98 waterfront dispute occurred. Second, we gathered a defined body of naturally occurring texts. For this project, the database consisted of 439 public media reports (see Appendix) about the dispute obtained from the Reuters Business Briefing database for the full years 1997 and 1998, using the search terms “port” and “Melbourne”. (Melbourne was the initial and primary site of contention in this dispute.) Third, through a close reading of these texts, we identified the discourses used to understand a particular object — in this case, the subject “wharfie”. Fourth, we interpreted each of the discourses that emerged by means of expansion analysis (Gephart 1993)1 and grouped them according to networks of interest. Using evidence from the contextual analysis and from existing studies of the dispute we identified two prominent networks of interests: – –

Union network: workers (including wharfies), their unions, and support groups in the community; and Business network: relevant firms, certain business support groups, parts of the Liberal-National Party federal government, and elements of the state administrative apparatus.

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Finally, we examined the ecology of discourses in dialogue in each network and derived which activities, or strategies of engagement, actors in each network considered legitimate. That is, discourses were used in each network to construct certain images and identities of “the wharfie”, and by each network in their dialogues with the other network and with the public.

The Australian waterfront dispute and its historical context The events of the 1997–98 waterfront dispute are receding into Australian history. Both key antagonists, Patrick Stevedores and the Maritime Union of Australia (MUA), have not only survived but also created a more productive and cooperative relationship. At one level the dispute was just one in a century-long series of “stoushes” on the waterfront but at another it was far more significant. There were clear resonances with the sometime violent history of class conflict on the Australian wharves. Indeed, the dispute bore more than passing similarity to the Great Strikes of the 1890s. Judging by the level of support from seafarers’ unions around the world, including the United States and the United Kingdom, this dispute resonated with their own battles. But the dispute also held particular significance in the contemporary Australian political scene. A confrontation between a militant union and an employer had been widely expected since the election of a Liberal-National government in 1996. In contrast to its Labor Party predecessor, which had cultivated a close relationship with the unions, the LiberalNational government was elected on a policy of reducing union power and influence in the workplace and reforming the waterfront.

The waterfront and unionism The importance of the waterfront and waterfront struggles is reflected in both art and history. For example, the legendary film On the Waterfront, was inspired by union corruption on the docks at Hoboken, New Jersey, its theme being that “selfappointed tyrants can be fought and defeated by right-thinking men in a vital democracy” (Murray 1978: 95). Numerous books recount the history of waterfront struggles and demonstrate the wider political ramifications of these confrontations (e.g., Nelson 1988). In the Australian situation, history and literature about the waterfront are intertwined (e.g., Morrison 1955, 1984; Lowenstein and Hills 1982). Unions of wharf labourers were formed in Australian ports in the 1870s and combined into a loose federation in early 1890. In August of that year these unions became key participants in the Maritime Strike, a major confrontation over the principle of freedom of association, a dispute that involved employers in the pastoral, mining and transport industries in the eastern colonies of Australia. In the

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ensuing struggle the waterfront was de-unionised and maritime labour came to be regulated through an employer-controlled agency (Svensen 1995). Following federation in 1901 (which created the nation of Australia out of what had previously been separate colonial states), the unions were formed into the Waterside Workers Federation and then registered under the fledgling Conciliation and Arbitration Act in 1904, thereby gaining access to arbitrated awards which regulated wages and conditions. Despite this, the waterfront was periodically convulsed by major conflicts, with de-unionisation a temporary outcome. For example, the union’s involvement in the 1917 General Strike resulted in the reestablishment of employer operated labour bureaux. Also, in 1928 strikes protesting an Arbitration Court decision reducing wages and conditions led the Bruce Government to enact its “Dog Collar Act” requiring wharfies to be licensed. Nonunion labour was again introduced to the waterfront and in the ensuing struggle in Melbourne police shot several unionists, one fatally. The union did not recover until World War 2 when labour shortages and the need to prosecute the war effort enabled it to secure an early form of tripartite industry regulation, marked by a shift from the “bull system” under which supervisors selected workers for regular employment. Permanent employment was not introduced until 1967. However, the continuance of industry employment and the “monopoly” position of the union and its strong influence over recruitment and redundancy were seen to inhibit the development of employee commitment and innovative working arrangements (Turnbull 1991; Productivity Commission, 1998). Under this regime work and technology on the waterfront was transformed, beginning with mechanization in the 1950s and containerization in the 1970s. Over the period 1957–1987 the workforce fell from 25,600 to 5,500. While the waterfront workforce continued to decline throughout the twentieth century, by the 1980s a range of business and political interests argued that the nation’s ability to compete globally required a quantum leap in waterfront productivity. The docks were represented as a crippling bottleneck to productivity elsewhere in the economy. The Labor Party held office from 1983 to 1996, having been elected on a platform that emphasized its corporatist relationship (“The Accord”) with the union movement, through the union peak body, its national federation, the Australian Council of Trade Unions (ACTU). Despite close links to the unions, this government also implemented a range of neo-liberal economic reforms including “deregulatory” labour market measures in 1987. The implementation of waterfront reforms was part of this wider program of microeconomic reform, though, characteristically, the mechanism was the creation of a tripartite Waterfront Industry Reform Authority (WIRA). The major outcomes of the WIRA process were a move from industry to enterprise employment; a retirement and redundancy program leading to a 57% reduction in the workforce at a cost of over

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$400 million; introduction of collectively bargained agreements allowing work arrangements to reflect the requirements of individual workplaces, and a merger of the Waterside Workers Federation with the Seamen’s Union of Australia to create the MUA (Productivity Commission 1998; Griffin and Svensen 1998). These measures were intended to facilitate more flexible labour utilisation through the elimination of restrictive working practices and greater use of “supplementary” (casual) labour (Turnbull 1991). Average levels of productivity — measured in TEUs (20 foot equivalent units) and crane lifts — increased between 1989 and 1997, although productivity levels remained below several major overseas ports and high levels of disputation were endemic, particularly in the ports of Melbourne and Sydney (WIRA 1992; Australian Bureau of Statistics 1997; Productivity Commission 1998). These outcomes fuelled calls from industry participants for further reform, calls only heeded with a change of government in 1996.

The 1997–98 waterfront dispute As indicated above, the key to the government’s involvement in this dispute was labour law reform. The Liberal and National parties had gone to the election promising waterfront reform and breaking of the MUA’s “monopoly stranglehold” of labour supply (Liberal and National Party 1996). Following the election, linked ministerial task forces were established in the areas of waterfront and labour market reform. The first outcome was the Workplace Relations Act (WRA) with its core objective of increasing the relative bargaining power of employers. Particularly important were provisions increasing the severity of penalties for engaging in unlawful industrial action, as well as easier access to industrial law to establish the illegality of disputes. The statute also established an award simplification process that reduced the safety net of wages and working conditions to 20 items and enacted new freedom of association provisions primarily directed against union closed shops. The WRA also made it unlawful to “injure” an employee because of their membership of a union (s.298K[1][a]); this provision proved pivotal to the course of the upcoming dispute (MacCallum 1998). The National Farmers Federation (NFF), a body representing 28 sectoral councils and individual farmers, shared the government’s interest in waterfront reform. Although the economics of shipping (including labour costs) is a major concern for exporters of primary products, the NFF has long exhibited an antagonism to union influence that exceeded the economic interests of its members and affiliates (Kitay and Powe 1987; Svensen 1998; MacCallum 1998). Certainly, the NFF had shown little interest in combating the other major source of inefficiency in the industry, lack of competition (Griffin and Svensen 1998). Lack of competition on the waterfront was nowhere more evident than the Port of Melbourne,

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which was effectively a duopoly between the Patrick Stevedores (a subsidiary of Lang Corporation) and the London-based transnational P&O Ports. Implementation of the government’s waterfront reform strategy began in early 1997. An official of the Department of Employment, Workplace Relations and Small Business (DEWRSB) met with the chairman of Patrick Stevedores (Chris Corrigan) and they agreed on an activist scenario involving dismissal of the entire workforce following an externally induced disruption. In July, Cabinet resolved to support the company through legal, financial and other means (Svensen 1998). P&O Ports declined to be involved, having concluded that the WRA was inadequate to deal with the MUA (The Age 1998). A scheme was hatched in which a newly formed company called Fynwest would recruit ex-military personnel to be trained in waterfront operations at a secret location, later revealed to be Dubai. It is alleged that Corrigan had funded the entire operation with a view toward replacing the entire workforce the following year (Wells 1998). This venture came to a halt following its disclosure by the MUA and exertion of pressure by the International Transport Federation (ITF) on the United Arab Emirates government to withdrew the trainees’ entry visas. Central to Patrick’s strategy to terminate its workforce but retain its stevedoring operation was a complex, covert corporate restructuring that established four labour hire companies. The companies had few assets other than a series of recently concluded contracts to supply labour to the parent company, and these were terminable without notice in the event of any disruption to the supply of labour. Thus, a strike or lockout would render the companies insolvent, providing a trigger for the companies to be placed in voluntary administration and then wound up (MacCallum, 1998; The Age, 1998). The Patrick strategy hinged its success on two elements. The first was a series of managerial initiatives, including a decision to introduce a new rostering system in Melbourne and serve a log of claims that sought reductions in “penalty” payments and other working conditions, under the award simplification provisions of the WRA. The second element was to use an NFF-owned company (P & C Stevedores) to provide stevedoring labour. On 28 January, Patrick announced that it had leased part of its Melbourne facilities (No. 5 Webb Dock) and stevedoring equipment to a “competitor”, P & C Stevedores. That evening the MUA workers were locked out of No. 5 Webb Dock and shortly after P&C Stevedores took control of the facility with the support of 60 security guards (Svensen 1998). The MUA responded by establishing a picket line protesting at the introduction of nonunion labour to the wharves. The MUA made no attempt to stop the operation and the union enforced strict discipline on its members. The MUA also responded with a series of stoppages and bans beginning in Melbourne and spreading to New South Wales and other ports.

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At this point Patrick resorted to legal measures. In Melbourne where the MUA had certified agreements with Patrick, the company obtained orders declaring the industrial action unlawful under s.127 of the WRA. In other ports, notably Sydney, where negotiations were ongoing, the MUA engaged in stoppages, ostensibly in support of their logs of claims, relying on the existence of a legal bargaining period (MacCallum 1998). The MUA sought to avoid being drawn into activities that could lead to its deregistration or the imposition of heavy penalties for unlawful industrial action. However, continuing industrial action provided Patrick with a trigger to place the labour hire companies into voluntary administration. Apparently, Patrick and the Government believed that by the time legal processes had been concluded, reinstatement orders would be impracticable (Griffin and Svensen 1998). If this was the case, the protagonists failed to grasp the scope and application of the freedom of association regime embedded in the WRA or the strength of public reaction. Events moved from skirmishes to confrontation at 11pm on April 7 when the Workplace Relations Minister advised Parliament that Patrick was terminating its MUA workforce and that it would be fully supported by the Government. Minutes later the public saw television images of uniformed and balaclava clad security guards with guard dogs removing the MUA members from Patrick terminals across Australia. If history had been any guide the MUA and other unions would have launched an immediate stoppage across the waterfront and related industries. Instead, the MUA worked closely with the ACTU and its assistant secretary (Greg Combet, a former MUA official), to develop a strategic response. The centrepiece of the response was legal action in the Federal Court, along with isolation of the dispute to Patrick, and the garnering of international and financial support for the locked out workers. Following the lockout, there were large and continuing protests at Patrick terminals around Australia. These were mostly peaceful. Community groups, members of the general public and other unionists joined picketing MUA members in Melbourne. The police confined their role to preserving the peace and did not force an entry into the port for containers carried by truck or train. According to one analyst, “police and the union movement averted major confrontation and violence by concerted negotiation and planning” (Baker 2000). The international campaign involved a blockade of Patrick operations co-ordinated by the ITF. Threats of action against the MUA under the secondary boycotts provisions of the Trade Practices Act did not stop ships loaded by non-union labour being turned away from ports in India, the United States and Japan. The MUA responded to Patrick’s initiatives with legal challenges commencing in February 1998. The union alleged that Patrick’s plan to dismiss its members violated the freedom of association provisions of the WRA. On learning that the

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lockout was to occur around April 7, the union applied for and was granted a speedy hearing of its application for interlocutory injunctions. The decision of the Federal Court was followed by appeals to a Full Bench of the Federal Court and then to the High Court. Both courts essentially upheld the original decision. The final act in this drama involved a series of negotiations among the MUA, the administrators of the labour hire companies, Patrick and the Government. These negotiations produced a framework agreement providing for a return to work for the MUA members (initially without pay), transfer of the employees from the labour hire companies to Patrick Stevedoring, and negotiation of an enterprise agreement with any outstanding matters being referred for conciliation and arbitration. Under the terms of the framework agreement the union accepted 626 redundancies and contracting out of operations such as cleaning and security but with agreement that the redundant workers be given preference for the contract jobs (Griffin and Svensen 1998). As part of this settlement redundancies were to be subsidized by a statutory industry levy (Reith 1998; Shergold 1998). Since 1998, Patrick and the MUA have negotiated two enterprise agreements, most recently (in 2001) providing concessions for both sides, including increasing the permanent workforce and provision for more flexible rostering (Workplace Express, 2001). At the same time stevedoring productivity has continued to improve, with the benchmarks set by the government having been exceeded.

Constructing the wharfie In this section we examine how the actors in the waterfront dispute tapped into important economic, political and social trends by appealing to various discourses that they used to construct “the wharfie”. We examine the two key groups of organizations, which we call the business network and the union network.2 For each network we identify the discourses used to articulate the subject positions of the “wharfie” and show what particular series of actions were made rational by each understanding.

Business network The core actors in this network included Patrick Stevedores management, Fynwest, NFF, P&C Stevedores, senior officials in DEWRSB, and certain politicians in the Federal Government, most notably Prime Minister John Howard and Workplace Relations Minister Peter Reith. We include certain governmental figures and institutions here because academic (Wiseman 1998; Svensen 1998; Griffin and Svensen 1998) and journalistic (Trinca and Davis 2000) evidence strongly suggests that there was a close relationship between certain senior government ministers,

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the DEWRSB, and the central business interests in the dispute, as indicated in the abridged history presented earlier in this account. Around this core were a number of peripheral actors, including a wide range of businesses associated with the port (e.g., shipping companies, exporters and importers), multi-industry business interest groups, and other government officials and agencies. These groups were affected in various ways by the dispute, and the core actors often claimed to speak for these stakeholders. Industrial dinosaurs
: A major discourse used to construct an understanding of the wharfie by the business network was a neo-liberal economic one, which referred to them as industrial dinosaurs. This discourse promoted an understanding of the waterfront as a productive unit measured in terms of efficiency and productivity. These broad concepts were reduced to one very simple measure, crane-lift rates. Furthermore this discourse introduced a comparison of Australian crane lift-rates with the rates at other international ports. It was then concluded that Australian ports were so uncompetitive as to be “basket cases”. The reasoning stressed that this was a result of the labour monopoly on Australia’s waterfronts (Spicer et al. 2000). Given this chain of economic reasoning, wharfies were portrayed as being inefficient, outdated monopolizers of waterfront labour. The first key aspect of this neo-liberal economic view of the waterfront is that members of the MUA on the waterfront were industrial dinosaurs whose working practices had become “outdated”: Patrick attacked the Maritime Union of Australia, saying millions of dollars were lost because of their outdated approach to industrial relations (98_33).3 Australian container terminals still live with the result of rigid control by the MUA of the numbers on the work roster, and the precise order in which now-lucrative work is shared amongst permanent, casual, and overtime workers. Control of the “order of pick”, combined with pay linked to hours on the job rather than to productivity, means that the workforce is in a position to create and share out huge amounts of overtime almost at will… Every major initiative launched since [the WIRA regime of the early 1990s] has aimed at this one single issue: how to de-link pay from time spent on the job, and link it to productivity per man-hour and per crane instead (97_50). Late shipments and unfilled orders are undermining [meat exporters’] efforts. “We are the laughing stock yet again of the international trade community”… referring to the reputation Australia has had for many years as a nation where labour unions, and especially the dock workers union, strike incessantly (Justin Toohey, Executive Director, Cattle Council of Australia: 98_206).

Moreover union members were portrayed as being wilfully inefficient, and any resistance to reform was encoded as irrational, or caused by the entrenched nature of “the old way” of doing things:

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The continued industrial thuggery of the MUA and the union’s complete refusal to face economic realities have made today’s events inevitable…Put simply, the MUA’s blind ideology has cost its members their jobs…The union’s stubborn rejection of work practices that are the norm in the rest of Australia, has meant they have been left behind (Chris Corrigan: 98_150). But in other areas — most notably in the continuation of absurd penalties and working arrangements — the MUA has been a bulwark against change. In an international marketplace, you’re not competing against your previous best but the present performance of other people (98_28).

Finally the wharfies were seen as creators of a labour monopoly: Government ministers and officials… believe that Australia’s stevedoring duopoly is… part of the problem rather than the solution. A much more competitive market, the government reasons, would demand much more competitive labour deals. Employers would pick up the new union-curbing legislation and use it to get the best terms for industry. Competition would therefore consolidate all the other reforms (97_01).

This figure of the monopolistic wharfie not only posed a significant threat to the continued operation of Patrick but also to other port-related firms and even to the nation’s business sector in general. Peter Reith condemned the actions [blackbanning of ships] as union blackmail and said Australian businesses would pay dearly for being held to ransom by the MUA (98_216). It will be the fault of the MUA and it won’t be the first time that the activities of that union have cost people their jobs and damaged businesses (John Howard: 98_174).

These discursive images legitimised attempts to get rid of “the monopoly” of labour on the waterfront by dismissing the unionised workforce in order to institute changes in work practice such as increased container lift rates, pay-for-performance systems, decreased manning, and decreasing number of breaks. It also made rational changes in the labour market, in particular the employment of non-union workers on individual contracts. Those contracts had provisions for significantly decreased base pay with a large pay-for-performance margin. Bludgers
: A second discourse involved the way that the wharfie was assessed and referred to their work ethic. It was suggested that MUA members did not do a “fair day’s work for a fair day’s pay”. They were portrayed as doing little work in return for ridiculously inflated wages: The case for reform is overwhelming. Australia’s container ports, in particular Sydney and Melbourne, are expensive, inefficient, and unreliable. In terms of the number of container lifts per hour, the performance of Australia’s ports rank well

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behind similar ports elsewhere in the world… The militant, 100-per-centunionised stevedoring force in Australia is extraordinarily well paid, with average earnings in the vicinity of $70,000 to $80,000 per year, for a semi-skilled occupation. Some stevedores are able to earn sums of up to $120,00 per year with the aggressive use of overtime (Judith Sloan, Executive Director, National Institute for Labour Studies, Flinders University: 97_168). …and let me say to the MUA, don’t damage the national interest in your own selfish interest…The national interest of Australia demands that we have more competition on the wharves, … that we have the cheapest crane rates, … that we have the opportunity of selling at the most competitive prices (John Howard: 98_21). Most blue-collar workers find it offensive that anyone who works less than 38 hours a week can earn more than $100,000. Life on the wharves was once incredibly tough and genuinely dangerous — but the rise of automation and the adoption of stringent safety requirements means it is now no different from most manual work. The industrial argot which the MUA favours might have washed at the turn of the century. But when ports around the world are shifting up to 30 cranes an hour — and Brisbane, Fremantle and Melbourne can hardly manage 20–it seems that the lads aren’t so much being exploited as pampered (98_28).

Again the subject position of the wharfie was cast negatively because they were constructed to be an active affront to the traditional work ethic. This legitimated attempts to bring these “bludgers” back into the fold of the everyday work ethic through strategies such as union busting. Quasi-criminal thugs
: A third discourse used to portray the wharfie was that of “quasi-criminal thugs.” The portrayal of the MUA as standing in the way of national competitiveness is buttressed by the creation of a particular image for the union and an iconic character for those who work on the wharves. Around the figure of the “wharfie” we find a rich vernacular mobilised to make sense of the dispute. Terms often used to make sense of wharfies included rorters,4 thugs, monopolists, lay-abouts, and the rich wharfie. This portrayal of wharfies was well exemplified in a series of press photos taken during the dispute (see reproductions in Trinca and Davies 2000). There were also media descriptions that point towards uncouthness, violence, “stand-over” tactics and even anarchism: We will never countenance as a government any breach of the law, any thuggery or any violent behavior anywhere in Australia — that’s not the Australian way (John Howard: 97_147). Patrick’s chairman Chris Corrigan was keen to tell the assembled media at the Port Botany Terminal his new work force was learning quickly and bettering the container lift-rates of the MUA. But his briefing was rudely interrupted by union-

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affiliated crew who bellowed obscenities and told him to “go back to the sewer”. “I love it. Listen to it”, Mr Corrigan wryly said. “These are the gentlemen of the waterfront — these are the sort of stand-over tactics they use” (98_163). Patrick has claimed its managers “fear for their lives” if guards are withdrawn and expressed concern about its hundreds of millions of dollars worth of machinery (98_194). [The Western Australia Transport Minister] described the protestors as “anarchists” and defended the use of force…“They’re a group of people who are trespassing on private property… using abusive language towards other people, making threats towards personnel and property… including death threats, and no action has been taken against them” (98_174).

These are unambiguous images of MUA members as extremists who willingly upset law and order for their own selfish gain. This discourse pushes for harsh action such as union busting. Intertwining discourses
: The three discourses propose differing understandings of the wharfie but all have a negative valence. The neo-liberal economic discourse casts the wharfie as inefficient and outmoded, the work-ethic framework casts the wharfie as a bludger, and the conservative “law-and-order” framework casts the wharfie as a quasi-criminal threat to common decency. The difference among these discourses is in the differing degrees of plausible action to be taken. The neo-liberal economic discourse’s construction of the wharfie leads easily to the need for organizational and labour market reforms based on a technical, rational logic. The constructions of the work-ethic and law-and-order discourses demand harsher strategies of engaging with the wharfies. By understanding wharfies as actively subversive of prevailing belief systems, forcible, even violent action becomes justified. Instead of “reforming” the wharfies, these discourses make it legitimate to break the wharfies’ collective identity, even using “extreme” measures of mass sackings, military style operations, and government intervention. In this instance, these two discourses came together to underpin the implementation of the government’s industrial relations agenda.

Union network The key actors in this network included the MUA and the ACTU. There was also important involvement by a range of other unions and the “general community”. Proud unionist
: Throughout the dispute, participants in this network consistently and assertively drew on the concept of unionism and the preservation of collective identity. The “long proud history” of the watersiders union was often mobilised and framed in terms of what the waterfront workers were fighting for. The understanding of the wharfie imputed within this discourse was as a proud bearer

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of the long history of union struggles. Examples included several union histories and related papers released during this period (MacIntyre 1998; MUA 2000). In these texts the history of the union and work practices on the docks were consistently invoked, such as 19th-century wharf labour practices (where “workers were treated no better than cattle”), often mortal struggles with police (such as the 1890 strike when protestors were fired upon), and the subsequent development of the union (e.g., Lowenstein and Hills 1982; Svensen 1998). These union histories became a central part of the media debate about the waterfront dispute, both as academic research and as revered cultural objects to be handed down the generations: Unionists believe that the issue is not how much reform takes place, but on whose terms. A key factor is posterity. Many union members said they accepted outsourcing is inevitable, but they will insist that the unions keep the cargo handling jobs. As a generation, younger workers want to be the ones who keep the union and passed it on (98_209).

Within this discourse wharfies were also portrayed as representing the interests of the wider Australian working class. The 1997–98 waterfront dispute was seen as part of successive attempts by the representatives of capital (in this case, the Liberal-National Government and the management of Patrick) to destroy the hard won gains of the working class in order to increase profitability. This discursive framework led MUA members and their supporters to understand their engagement with Patrick in terms of a long history of efforts to gain and preserve labour rights. It also inspired them to try to ensure the continued existence of unionism — not just on the docks, but also in Australia at large. The mobilisation of union history and collective class identity was vital in explaining and justifying the long and tortuous sacrifice of many of the unionists and protestors, and in communicating the MUA’s leading role in defending the hard won rights of workers. New workers
: Alongside the resistant “proud unionist” discourse there was a discourse of the “new workplace” with a more conciliatory tone. Here the key notion was that wharfies were post-industrial workers who (perhaps grudgingly) accepted flexibility and pay for performance as a part of “the new realities of work”. These concepts arose in the late 1980s and provided an organizing discourse for union negotiations during the WIRA period. The concepts were based on the premise that the changing situation of Australian ports compelled fundamental changes in labour practices. The understanding of the wharfie in this discourse was as a member of a changing labour force whose work was now defined in work more technologyintensive than the back breaking physical labour so emblematic of the past.

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Moreover this discourse constructed a vision of the post-industrial worker as flexible and multi-skilled: [A] senior stevedoring industry source said yesterday that rorts, which once existed on the docks, were all but gone and most wharfies in the ‘90s were highly skilled and worked long, unsociable hours. The former stevedoring manager, with more than 30 years’ experience in the industry, said many of those criticizing the wharfies had no idea what they were talking about. “The waterfront is fully multiskilled” (98_33).

Acceptance of the discourse of the new workplace by wharfies and their leaders enabled concessions that would have been unthinkable previously, such as the MUA’s concession to a significant number of redundancies at the end of the dispute. Ordinary workers
: A third discourse used by the union network drew on a broad framework of class and “equality”. MUA workers were understood as being like any other Australian worker. This concept was coloured with images of “bread winners” and “family men” with important, though common, responsibilities: Sutton told the crowd the dockers were sacked as “sacrifical lambs” for the political career of industrial relations minister Peter Reith, who was determined to break the waterfront union. “Peter Reith last night put 1,400 workers and their families on the street”, said Sutton from the back of truck, calling on workers to donate to the fighting fund for sacked dockers. Maritime union officials warned that the dockers were the “thin end of the wedge” for unions in Australia. “If we allow this to happen on the waterfront, it will happen in the factories, in the hospitals, in the fire stations, and in the schools,” Paddy Crumlin, MUA national assistant secretary, told the Sydney protest. “Our attitude is that an injury to one worker is an injury to all workers. It’s all about solidarity”, said Andrew Ferguson, a building union official (98_149).

In this text the workers are portrayed as victims of a large corporation seeking profits at workers’ expense, in cahoots with allies in government. The Dubai scheme was labelled by Labour opposition as “nothing more than a bunch a heavies being trained to break strikes on the docks and an attack on ordinary working Australians” (97_138). The men were being trained [by Fynwest in Dubai] to kick Australian workers off the waterfront. “This is about industrial mercenaries, this is about as outrageous and improper as it gets, this is Australia’s sandline…You have deceit and duplicity on a grand scale, you’ve got people connected with the defence forces… being used to attack Australian workers” (Opposition transport spokesman Lindsay Tanner: 97_129).

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The wharfie is constructed in this discourse as a kind of “every-worker” who had a family to support while being victimised by forces beyond his control. This makes mass protest action rational because the wharfie is seen not just as a worker in a specific occupation, but first as a fully humanised subject and second as a representative of all workers. Defenders of social justice
: A fourth discourse used to make sense of the wharfie in the dispute is a broad one dealing with social justice. This discourse linked union interests to some wider societal interests. The most important was the amorphous “the way Australia is going”, particularly due to the incumbency of a LiberalNational government in the state of Victoria (1992–99) and at the national level (from 1996 to date). Patrick’s dismissal of its workers came to be understood as part of the general ascendancy of “New Right” thinking in Australia, and the associated interests of “big business”. Hence this discourse was one of infringements or erosions of social justice. Within this discursive framework, the maritime workers were seen as people who had been pushed too far, and were standing up for what was right in the face of increasingly ruthless and powerful governments and corporations. The first major component of this discourse was “Australian-ness”. In particular, we find the idea that the waterfront industrial relations issue had been captured by an alliance of corporate and military interests which was “un-Australian”: “How can sacking 2000 people be a cause to celebrate?” asks Hawke… referring to the government’s support of the sacking. With images of Prime Minister John Howard and Workplace Relations Minister Peter Reith on screen, Hawke declares: “Your job is your right, not a political game. Divide and conquer is not our way, we must have government for all of us” (television advertisement featuring Hazel Hawke, wife of former Labor prime minister: 98_176). “I just think it is totally un-Australian,” wharf worker Chris Rumley said after he finished one of Australia’s most unusual industrial actions yesterday by working nine days for no pay. “I mean, they put the rosters up as normal with our names on it and we go to work and don’t get paid at the end of the day. It is just unprincipled” (98_131).

There were also attempts to point out that the “struggle” on the wharves dovetailed with larger issues of social justice. In this way a dock in Melbourne becomes not just a microcosm of all Australian workplaces, but also symbolic of other struggles for civil rights around Australia, and indeed the world. For example, the notion was proffered of not allowing “ordinary people” to be “pushed around” by corporations: [The MUA] attack[ed] straight back down the line of Patrick’s original advance, using freedom of association principles to carry a case that the workforce which

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Patrick dismissed had been discriminated against because they were union members… Moreover, the union has now built the mass sackings into a huge allegation of illegal conspiracy involving secret planning with the federal government, the recruitment of Dubai mercenaries, and many other issues (98_209). [A]t a massive union protest rally in Melbourne, Dwyer read an open letter to the Victorian public. “Since day one of this dispute we have stood united in our belief that these co-conspirators have placed themselves outside the laws of this land and today we stand vindicated”. The letter said, “To Mr Reith, you’ve unraveled the mystery of our waterfront to the Australian public — we are neither criminals, bludgers, liars or cheats. We’re just ordinary Australians who have our integrity attacked beyond regard” (Peter Dwyer, MUA delegate: 98_194). [D]espite vigorous court injunctions aimed at breaking the pickets, unions have managed to prevent any cargo leaving Patrick’s docks by organizing “community” blockades. “Peter Reith, John Howard and Chris Corrigan have created something here they will not be able to turn back — a worker and civil rights movement” (Paddy Crumlin, MUA national assistant secretary: 98_180).

This discourse began when Patrick restructured and tried to eliminate 2000 jobs, an issue that was then articulated into a more universal concept of social justice. This led to the important broadening of the public support base for the wharfies and the MUA. Intertwining discourses
: The four discourses used by the union network led to a complex web of understandings and entrained their overall contentious strategy of engagement. There were significant overlaps among the culture-based discourse of the “proud unionist”, the class based discourse of the “ordinary workers”, and those who were pushed so far they became “defenders of social justice”. Each of these discourses legitimated the worker as being resistant and doing “what’s right” in the face of imposed, oppressive changes. It was then possible for the union network, and the public at large, to think that if big business could infringe on workers’ rights with quasi-military force on the waterfront, then they could do it anywhere. This made possible the consistent resistance to the pressures of the business network as well as public support for the MUA evident in the mass protests. However the discourse of wharfies as “new workers” made possible concessions such as greater labour flexibility. This represented a counter discourse to the other constructions of the union network. The juxtaposition of the two sets of discourses established a degree of tension; eg, redundancy concessions vs resistant pride in the historical context of radical conflict between waterfront management and labour. The tension was important in the union network in portraying and appreciating the wharfies’ struggles as linked to other struggles in the union’s history and in contemporary society.

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Other interests, other subjects In the material above we have focused on and analysed only two networks of interest in the waterfront dispute. There was some evidence of other networks operating in the Australian port industry during this period. For instance, actors in a “legal” network (consisting of the administrative and judicial organs of the state) saw the wharfie and their actions as demarcated by a series of laws that should be rationally administered and legal envelopes within which industry actors must operate, like a set of rules of engagement. They used a discourse that belied an understanding of their role as custodians of the public interest, an apparently neutral third party. The public media represent another possible network in this case, both in terms of the interactions among the numerous journalists covering the story, and in terms of their production of texts. Several researchers have undertaken analyses of Australian media portrayals of this dispute (eg, Warby and Morrison 1999). Space constraints prevent us from exploring these and other possible networks in the dispute.

Discussion Two main implications derive from the above analysis. First, the actors in the waterfront dispute accomplished several constructions of the wharfie, and discursive struggle occurred over these constructions. Second, these multiple constructions and struggles had important material consequences. These implications are discussed in turn.

Multiple constructions and discursive struggle Our analysis shows that no single dominant discourse was used to understand and construct “the wharfie”. Rather, different, and in the case of the “new worker”, conflicting, discourses were used by both networks to understand that object. Between the two networks there were striking differences in the substance and valence of the discourses constructed and used. Certainly part of the reason for the differences in the networks’ constructions of the subject “wharfie” lies in the asymmetrical nature of the constructions themselves: the union network (or at least the MUA part of it) was constructing their own identity, whereas the business network was constructing the “other”. However, we also find the wharfie understood in different ways within the two networks. Thus, both within and between the networks different and at times contradictory discourses interacted and played off each other, and the multiple constructions of “the wharfie” made different (kinds of) action legitimate.

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How do we interpret the existence of the rich variety of discourses of the wharfie in this social arena? Our first observation must be that a single dominant discourse of the wharfie did not exist and therefore could not be used to legitimate the activities of all actors in both networks. Rather, there was evident “discursive struggle” (Hardy and Phillips 1998) as the actors attempted to mobilise different discourses of the wharfie in order to legitimate different courses of action. Our second observation is that the discursive struggle in this case was not as simple as one group pitting a relatively well-defined discourse against another group’s relatively well-defined discourse. Rather, each network used a number of discourses, some of which constructed contradictory or incompatible identities. From the stance of any particular discourse this appears paradoxical. However, these discourses, both within and between the networks, arose and operated in relation to each other. An ecology of discourses existed in the arena of the Australian waterfront dispute, and the different discourses we identified were in dialogue within that ecological space. The implication is that any particular discourse of the wharfie cannot be understood in terms of itself, but only in the context of other discourses. Stuart Hall’s notion of articulation (1985; 1988) helps to explain this. For Hall, different, even inconsistent, discourses can be linked together (like an articulated truck), and the establishing and maintaining of these links creates a hegemonic discourse. We argue that it can also create discursive struggle in pluralistic situations. Mumby (1997), in supporting an articulation approach to understanding power in organized settings, argues that discourses need to be continuously articulated in order to establish hegemony — and also to mobilise resistance. In the waterfront dispute, linkages were created among the discourses of union history, social justice, and “ordinary working Australians”, which subsequently created a powerful resistant position and vocabulary. A different set of linkages was established in the business network. There we found the discourse of neoliberal economics constructing the wharfie as an “industrial dinosaur” whose work practices were outmoded and whose “monopolistic labour practices” were a significant block to the efficient functioning of the system. This in turn justified the reform of work practices and the labour market in order to create a rational economic system. The connections that we have suggested between discourses used by the networks and actions that those discourses made sensible are summarised in Table 1. In sum, surfacing the differing ways that the wharfie was constructed within these discourses is central in understanding how power operated in the waterfront dispute. In each network’s portrayals of the wharfie we find the strategic construction of subject positions that exercise power through linkage to a series of limited, but different, industrial relations options. Some of these options were at least partially contradictory. For instance the business network’s use of neo-liberal

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economic discourse to construct the wharfie as “industrial dinosaurs” legitimated reform activities, whereas the construction of wharfies as “bludgers” and “quasi criminal thugs” legitimated more radical courses of action such as using the military. Some proponents of the neo-liberal discourse were uncomfortable with or even opposed to the use of the “bludger” and “quasi criminal thug” discourses. Some actively sought to disassociate themselves from the actions legitimated by those discourses. Table 1.Summary of discourses used in 1997–98 waterfront dispute Network

Discourse

Image of wharfie

BUSINESS

Neo-liberal economics Industrial dinosaur

Reform

Work ethic

Reform Break the union

‘Bludgers’

Inferred actions made rational

Conservative rule of law Quasi criminals

Break the union

Union history

Proud unionists

Strong traditional union protest

New workplace

Post industrial workers

Concessions

Class

Ordinary workers

Wider public support

Social justice

‘Aussie battlers’

Wider public support

Legal

Judicial

Defined by legal envelope

Media

Not examined

Not examined

Application of law; legal battles Not examined

UNION

OTHER

Material consequences The discursive struggle in this dispute makes clear that conflict occurred around symbolic as well as economic resources. Our evidence highlights that conflict did not just occur on a physical level on picket lines at the docks, or on a material level over the control of jobs in the courts, but also on a symbolic level around how the wharfie should be understood. There was a significant interplay between the material and symbolic conflict in this case. The material effects of this dispute clearly involved the legitimation of various economic and political claims; for instance, the MUA’s claims for maintaining conditions, wage levels, and collective organization; and business and government’s claims for increased efficiency and profit through increasing productivity, decreasing overall labour costs through

Paradox in symbols and subjects

labour flexibility strategies and work practices, and decreased union power. All the major parties gained and lost something economically: the MUA members retained many jobs, pay levels and some conditions, but lost 626 positions through enforced redundancies; Patrick implemented some flexibility strategies and changed labour practices to increase profitability, but was forced to re-hire MUA stevedores; and the Government was able to claim increasing efficiency on the nation’s waterfronts, but suffered major damage to its waterfront reform strategy. Politically however, the established positions and interests were sustained. We have attempted to examine the symbolic struggles in a case of ostensibly class based identity using concepts and methods drawn from critical discourse analysis. What emerges clearly from our analysis is that political struggles around economic issues can be waged on symbolic grounds. In this particular case we saw that the struggle over the distribution of work time, labour conditions, and wages during a labour dispute was conducted in part through a struggle around which identities were used to recognise and understand the workers. This implies that political struggles around economic issues and around symbolic issues in organized settings like labour disputes may not be so distinct. Indeed they seemed to intertwine, or “oscillate” (Dugdale 1999), in the waterfront dispute. More generally, our study illustrates that power operates through discourse and brings into being particular subject positions that subsequently make rational particular courses of action. These processes appear to be important in the reproduction of industrial relations regimes. This is not to claim that these regimes are constituted solely in discourse or to deny important structural forces that have traditionally been the focus of industrial relations research. It is to claim that discourse plays a key role in the reproduction of social structures (see for example Parker 2000). As Reed (2000: 528) argues: The discourses which assemble, represent and perform or enact institutional structures — such as markets, classes and organizations — locate and constrain actors within a matrix of social relations and linguistic rules denoting who they are and what they can do (e.g. landlords and tenants in the housing market).

In sum, our focus on the discourses used in the waterfront dispute is not to imply that particular conceptions of rational action were simply conjured from the air or from ideas disconnected from social structures. Rather, it is to point out the interpenetration of struggles over economic and material aspects (wages, working conditions, profits) and struggles over symbolic aspects (how the wharfie was identified). This is consistent with Laclau and Mouffe’s (1985) argument that although material structures exist, they only continue to exist when they are bought into discourse, spoken, re-articulated. It is only through the consistent use of discourse from the position of these social structures that these same social

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structures are reproduced. This points to what we might call a “paradox of materiality” in the interplay of the politics of the economic and the symbolic.

Conclusion Our analysis of the 1997–98 Australian waterfront dispute has highlighted the role that discourses play in the struggle around work conditions. Our evidence has extended research in organization studies on how managerial discourses construct power relations and subject positions into the field of industrial relations. The discourses mobilised during the conflict did not simply describe what happened to the wharfie, but constructed this figure in a conflicting and politically charged way. Moreover, each construction of the wharfie was central to legitimating particular patterns of action with respect to the wharfie. Our research has also extended recent research on resistance and discursive struggle by suggesting how dialogue occurs in an ecology of discourses in complex organized arenas. Our approach also has demonstrated how a critical discourse analysis framework can be used to examine the increasingly important symbolic struggles that take place in industrial disputes. In recent times, unions have had to deal with trials by the media, which have appeared quite willing to publicise negative images promulgated in neoliberal discourses. The union movement may benefit from using discursive tools associated with identity politics to resist such images and to construct positive identities for unionists in the media, as has been done by aboriginal, gay and women’s movements. By pointing out the paradoxical ways that, on occasion, the same network constructed the wharfie in discourse, we have identified an important discursive tension that may exist in complex social arenas. The “articulation” of discourses that are sometimes paradoxical may be central to the operation of multiple discourses in such arenas. What remains to be investigated is how the articulations are continually formed and how subjects and groups cope with these articulations cognitively or phenomenologically. Examining processes of articulation more intensely may yield a more nuanced understanding of “multiple”, “paradoxical”, “plurivocal”, or “dialogical” discourses. Our study has trod a thin line between the economic/material and symbolic aspects of political struggles. We began by suggesting that it is important to understand the symbolic aspect of such struggles as reported in the public media if we are to understand the economic struggle of an industrial relations dispute (or more properly, the economic aspect of such a dispute). By highlighting how a discursive struggle led to important economic and political outcomes, we have attempted to point out the material implications of discourses. By contextualising

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the various discourses that appeared during the dispute, we highlighted an important “extra” aspect that shapes what discourses can appear and how they get understood. Thus, we have endeavoured neither to dismiss important institutional and economic aspects of industrial relations disputes, nor to discount their symbolic aspects as mere epiphenomena, but to hold the two in a dynamic tension. If the burgeoning field of discourse analysis is not to fall prey to charges of idealism or discursive determinism it is vital that discourse analysis place the institutional context more centrally in its analyses, and examine critically the struggles and articulations between discourses in today’s workplaces.

Notes * The authors thank Susan Ainsworth, Stewart Clegg, Paul Couchman, Liz Fulop, Cynthia Hardy, Jon Stokes, and Andy Sturdy for comments on earlier versions of this paper. Support for this research was provided by a grant from the Department of Management, Monash University. 1. “An expansion analysis is basically a written interpretation of a segment of discourse (Cicourel, 1980) in which the analyst assumes that the meaning of the discourse is not self-evident. The expansion includes information on how the participants interpreted the discourse, including background knowledge necessary to understand the discourse” (Gephart, 1993:1484–85). 2. These are networks of interests derived from the structural and historical analyses of industrial relations on the Australian waterfront, which show clear continuing conflict between workers and their representatives and employers throughout the history of waterfront industrial relations. The most recent change to this framework is the role of the government. In a traditional industrial relations model, the government is considered as a relatively neutral third party (Dunlop, 1958), a supporting institution of capital (Hyman, 1975) or as a set of institutions that labour and capital struggle to control (Clegg, Boreham and Dow, 1986). However, in this case there was an alignment between specific business interests and certain aspects of the state, while other aspects of the state (e.g., the judiciary) appeared to remain impartial. (Although the breadth of the injunction issued by Supreme Court Judge Beech partly contradicts that assertion, it should be added that the scope of that injunction was narrowed on appeal.) The alignment can partially be attributed to the legislative framework within which this dispute took place, in particular the Trade Practices Act and the Workplace Relations Act. These Acts are generally acknowledged as favourable for business interests because they are designed to curb the exercise of union power (Ford, 2000; Thorpe and McDonald, 1998; Lee and Peetz, 1998; Mitchell, 1998). 3. Sequence number of media report; see ‘Media Reports’ section of References. 4. “Rorts” is a uniquely Australian vernacular term signifying semi-legal or illegal use of job benefits or perks.

References Ackroyd, S. and Thompson, P. (1999). Organizational misbehaviour. London: Sage. Austin, J. L. (1961). How to do things with words. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Van Dijk, T. (Ed.) (1997b). Discourse as social interaction. Discourse studies, a multidisciplinary introduction, Vol 2. London: Sage. Warby, M. and Morrison, K. (1999). ABC-TV News and the 1998 waterfront dispute: Reporting or barracking? IPA Backgrounder, 11 (1): 1–16. Weick, K. E. (1995). Sensemaking in organizations. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Wells, M. (1998). I Michael Wells, make oath and say… The Age, http://www.theage.com.au/ daily.981508/news/news12html, 8 May. WIRA [Waterfront Industry Reform Authority] (1992). Final report. Canberra: Australian Government Printing Service. Wiseman, J. (1998). Here to stay? The 1997–1998 Australian waterfront dispute and its implications. Labour and Industry, 9 (1): 1–16. Workplace Express (2001). New Patrick agreement starts Monday, http://www.workplaceexpress. com.au/workplace/wpredirect?in_id=34232.

Media reports Sequence #

Date

Source

Title

97_01

06/01/97

LL

Big divisions to the fore in terminals war

97_50

28/05/97

LL

Productivity keystone of waterfront reform

97_129

04/12/97

WAu

Defence army harbours trade unions WWF Australian cabinet

97_138

08/12/97

GN

Australian port ‘strike-breakers’ train at Jebel Ali

97_147

12/12/97

DT

Alston fires $1b shot at MUA

97_168

22/12/97

Aus

Were they really waterfront mercenaries?

98_21

30/01/98

CT

NFF-Dubai mercenary link

98_28

31/01/98

Adv

Dockers wear black hats

98_33

31/01/98

WAu

Rorts in past — industry

98_131

25/03/98

Aus

Plenty kudos but no pay for productive wharfies

98_149

08/04/98

Reu

Australian unions protest dismissal of dock workers

98_150

09/04/98

ASX

Patrick to contract out services in major restructure

98_163

13/04/98

Aus

Stand-off, then Patrick’s ship comes in

98_174

17/04/98

Aus

Car workers face lay-offs in dock delay

98_176

01/05/98

Reu

Australian unions use TV ad in waterfront war

98_180

04/05/98

Reu

Australian dockers declare ‘solidarity forever’

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98_194

07/05/98

n.i.

Last to go waits on a word to be first back

98_206

20/05/98

JOC

Dockers strike bedevils US sailings

98_209

25/05/98

LL

Conspiracy claims abound as union battles for leverage

98_216

28/05/98

WAu

Non-union ship to return

Source abbreviations: LL = Lloyds List, London Aus = The Australian GN = Gulf News CT = Canberra Times Reu = Reuters News Service ASX = Australian Stock Exchange Feed AAP = Australian Associated Press

Dom = Dominion, Wellington, New Zealand WAu = West Australian, Perth DT = Daily Telegraph, Sydney Adv = Adelaide Advertiser CM = Courier Mail, Brisbane JOC = Journal of Commerce n.i. = not indicated

Chapter 6

Politics and popular culture Organizational carnival in the Springfield nuclear power plant Carl Rhodes

When will I learn? The answers to life’s problems aren’t in the bottom of a bottle. They’re on TV! — Homer Simpson1 I am disgusted with the way old people are depicted on television. We are not all vibrant, fun-loving sex maniacs. Many of us are bitter, resentful individuals, who remember the good old days when entertainment was bland and inoffensive — Grandpa Simpson2 Mom, romance is dead. It was acquired in a hostile takeover by Hallmark and Disney, homogenized, then sold off piece by piece — Lisa Simpson3

Television is a medium that, in contemporary times, has become a platform for the development of cultural representations of organizations. Organizations are everywhere on television, whether they are hospitals, police stations, law courts, coffee shops, factories or offices. At the same time, television programs are produced and broadcasted by organizations in pursuit of commercial interests. The result is that through television, commercial organizations are, in part, in the business of representing what we take commercial organizations to be. As Rowe (1995) points out, the result is a close, yet uneasy, relationship between cultural and economic activity. It would be simplistic, however, to suggest that the relationship between culture and commerce was one where commercial institutions seek solely to create cultural representations that support or advocate commercial or capitalist interests. Paradoxically, as this chapter will discuss, they are often quite corrosive. In relation to this, I wish to explore the apparent paradox whereby capitalist organizations can produce representations of organizations that offer a critique of the modes of production and consumption that create and sustain them. To do this, I will examine the paradoxical organizational practices and work place relations portrayed in the prime time animated television cartoon show The Simpsons. My aim is to provide a cultural and political reading of how organizational life is represented

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in The Simpsons. In providing this reading I propose that television offers an arena for understanding the cultural logic of organizations and for providing the opportunity for a compelling and political critique of that logic. Particularly, I will examine the relationship between Homer Simpson — the ‘star’ of the show, a bumbling, doughnut eating, beer drinking buffoon, and his employer, Montgomery C. Burns, the sole owner of the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant (SNPP), an industrialist and Yale graduate. The SNPP is the main organization represented in The Simpsons. In the town of Springfield, where the show is set it is the major industry and the chief employer, as well as being frequently both the subject, and the context, of the stories. My intention here is to examine how organizations are represented in this form of popular culture and how popular culture can provide the opportunity for compelling critiques of organizational life. Further, it is my argument that in providing both a parody and a critique of organizations, The Simpsons also provides its viewers with the possibility to interrogate alternatives to existing and potentially oppressive social relationships at work. As Weinstein (1998: 71) puts it: The show’s narratives celebrate the way individuals and corporations in positions of power — ranging from Homer to Mr Burns … can never entirely control their environment. Indeed, instruments and technologies that enable the exercise of power (money, video, nuclear energy) are rendered useless in the face of human unpredictability. Furthermore, a host of formal devices — non-linear narrative, verbal and visual puns, non-sequiturs, parody, animation, montage — suggest that not only television, but life itself, may be endlessly remade.

The chapter starts with a review of the contested relationship between popular culture and the commercial institutions through which it is created. The position taken is that the potential meanings of popular culture exist in paradoxical relation to those institutions in that popular culture can work to critique such institutions. The Simpsons is then explored as exemplifying this paradox through the way it represents organizations and organizational life in a way consistent with Bakhtin’s notion of the carnivalesque. The chapter concludes with a discussion of how The Simpsons can be seen to employ a critical ambivalence that provides a space for organizational critique without finalising or shutting off that critique fully for its viewers. This is a critique that offers the opportunity to question organizational practices in a way that is not dogmatic, evangelical or revolutionary. Hassard and Holliday (1998: 1) have pointed out that “popular culture offers more dramatic, more intense and more dynamic representations of organizations that management texts”. The chapter will argue that The Simpsons is a significant contemporary popular cultural form in which such representations are offered. The Simpsons is thus taken as a prime site for studying organizations — one where organizational life is vividly and irreverently represented. To develop an interpretation

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of these representations, the chapter uses Bakhtin’s model of the carnival to discuss the logic of how The Simpsons develops its critique of organizations. For Bakhtin, the carnival embodies a subversive culture of folk humour that mocks, satirises and undermines official institutions. Extending beyond the actual event of the carnival, carnivalisation is presented by Bakhtin as having a subversive and liberating effect in literature. The chapter argues that this “carnivalesque” spirit is alive and well in comic animation such as The Simpsons, and that this provides a wealth of knowledge about contemporary understandings of work — knowledge whose laughter and parody develops a compelling critique of modern organizations. The Simpsons started out as a series of short cartoons that were included in the adult comedy program The Tracy Ullman Show in 1987. From there The Simpsons was developed into a show of its own and premiered as a prime time weekly series in the US in January 1990. Today, The Simpsons is America’s longest running television situation comedy. The show currently airs in more than sixty countries and in 1999 it was proclaimed by Time magazine as the best TV show of the 20th century. Importantly, The Simpsons was the first cartoon series since the 1960s to be placed in a prime time slot (8pm in the US) and has gained significant popularity both with adults as with children. The Simpsons epitomises commercial success, but, as we shall see, this success has not tempered its critical stance. Kafner (1997) has argued that, although cartoons might seems on the surface to be without much substance or importance, on close examination, they can be seen to provide and important reflection on the society of our time. The Simpsons is an arena where such reflections have been particularly highlighted on account of the wide-ranging subject matter that the show has addressed. As Cohen (1998) points out, since the beginning, The Simpsons has broken the established “rules” and experimented with subjects traditionally seen as taboo for an animated series. This has included marital problems, adultery, sexual fantasies, drinking, swearing, gambling, suicide, and the ridiculing of religion. Significantly, added to this list is a questioning of various organizational practices. Marc (1998:193) has claimed that The Simpsons is perhaps the most morally exacting critique of American society that has yet appeared on television. This critique offers an array of texts for examining how organizations operate in contemporary western culture. This covers a material ranging from a questioning of consumerism or the role to the role of media organizations in society

Popular culture as business Postman (1987: 8) has suggested that the ascendancy of the “age of television” has recast the meaning of contemporary public discourse. He argues that “under the

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governance of television, [public discourse] has become shrivelled and absurd” (1987: 16) and has descended into a “vast triviality” (1987: 6). His proposal is that the growth of television means that we are “amusing ourselves to [cultural] death”, as culture becomes a burlesque where populations are distracted by trivia and culture becomes redefined as mere entertainment. It is here, according to Postman, that “serious discourse dissolves into giggles” (1987: 162). Such concern that popular culture is damaging to society also has a long history in critical theory. Such approaches have “demonised mass culture by apocalyptically condemning it as the chief danger to civilisation, leading to mass acceptance of and lack of resistance to, all that is bad and wrong in the world” (Docker 1994: xvii). Recently, for example, Krönig (2000: 43) has argued that “television is the preferred and most effective instrument in creating a culture based on consumption and commerce”. What Krönig proposes is that globalisation, commercialisation and the increasing concentration of media conglomerates have led to increased competition in the cultural industries — competition which, to his logic, has lead to deterioration in quality of today’s culture. As Krönig (2000: 44) puts it: Does the ratings war between competing media conglomerates inevitably lead to a process of dumbing down? I fear it does. It is understandable that people who work in the media industry want bigger audiences. This leads quite logically to the next step in the process. If you want to win new audiences, you have to appeal to there lower instincts. This is unfortunately quite a necessary assumption. The result is a dumbed down mass media culture, the triumph of banality and voyeurism. You have to lure the audience to titillate them and take into account their laziness.

Whilst agreeing in general that under capitalist conditions, cultural production is subject to economic exchange, Rowe (1995: 21) argues that it is an “unreflexive grand theorising” of the impact of capitalism that suggests that the production of popular culture is purely economic and/or exploitative. Instead, he proposes that the complex institutions and practices of popular culture are not reducible to an overarching economic regime and its ideologies. Rowe’s position is that the very notion of “popular” culture is different from rival formulations such as “folk” or “mass” culture because it is founded in the industrialisation of cultural forms where popular culture is seen a the “shifting sets of social and cultural relations, meanings and texts which in varying ways emerge as a contemporary forms of pleasure, leisure, style and identity, and which are linked to personal and expressive politics, aesthetic address and cultural economy” (Rowe 1995: 8). Although critics such as Postman and Krönig do not seem to recognise or acknowledge it, popular culture has the capacity to engage in “serious” debates and issues, although, the form through which such matters are represented differs from superficially “serious” forums such as speeches, debates and learned writings. This

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is not to say that the growth of television, as a media, has not influenced the nature of what is publicly communicated. Indeed it has, not the least of which has been a retreat from elitism through a broader circulation of debates in formats that appeal to a greater number of people. Street (1997) discusses that popular culture is a form of “entertainment” that is mass-produced and made available to large numbers of people. Its categorisation as “entertainment” however, needs not to define popular culture in opposition of more “serious” cultural pursuits. As Street (1997: 13) goes on to argue, popular culture can be a form of resistance and critique by providing defiance as a weapon to deny power and where “actions of political resistance are commonly played out within popular culture, in the way figures of authority are mocked in satire and comedy”. Thus, for Street, although it emerges from the bureaucracies and agencies of the culture industry, popular culture has political significance not only in its production, but also through its consumption — the ways that audiences have the capacity to interpret it. It is not that popular culture is necessarily a form of “serious” debate or of political resistance, but rather that popular culture has the potential to be such.

Bakhtin’s carnival Suggesting that popular culture has effects beyond that of “mere” or trivial entertainment is not restricted to contemporary televised forms. In Rabelais and His World the Russian literary theorist Mikhail Bakhtin (1984a) studied the popular sources used in the literary work of the sixteenth century author Rabelais (1494–1553). Bakhtin traces Rabelais’ inspiration to the folk humour of the Middle Ages as manifested in the social practice of the carnival. Bakhtin identifies that the carnival had an important role in the life of medieval people and that in large medieval cities an average of three months of each year were devoted to carnival. He discusses that the rituals of the carnival, which existed in all countries in medieval Europe, offered a form of life that was non-official, and outside of the feudal, ecclesiastical and political forms that dominated medieval life. This “carnival life” freed people from ecclesiastical dogma and operated outside of the religious sphere — carnival was subject only to its own freedom and was organized on the basis of laughter. As Bakhtin (1984a: 10) puts it himself, “carnival celebrated temporary liberation from the prevailing truth and from the established order; it marked the suspension of all hierarchical rank, privileges, norms and prohibitions.” A characteristic logic of the carnival is that of the “inside-out” through which a second world of folk culture is constructed — this is a parody of non-carnival life through travesties, humiliations, profanity and the comic crowning and uncrowning of kings. The result is a carnival laughter, which is not so much an individual

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spectator’s reaction to a comic event but rather laughter of all of the people, including the participants in the carnival themselves. Such laughter is ambivalent in that it is both triumphant and mocking but does not place itself above the object of its mockery. As Bakhtin (1984b: 129) puts it: It could be said (with certain reservations of course) that a person of the middle ages lived, as it were, two lives: one was that of official life, monolithically serious and gloomy, subjugated to a strict hierarchical order, full of terror, dogmatism, reverence and piety; the other was the life of the carnival square, free and unrestricted, full of ambivalent laughter, blasphemy, the profanation of everything sacred, full of debasing and obscenities, familiar contact with everything and everyone.

Bakhtin suggests that the style of the carnival, the “carnivalesque”, is also employed in the novels of Rabelais. This style comes in the form of “grotesque realism” in which the material human body, including eating, defecation and sex, are represented in grandiose and exaggerated imagery. This is not the biological individual or the “economic man”, but rather a festive and abundant body. It is the body at a material level — a degradation of the “higher” principles of human existence; down to earth rather than up to heaven. This style has the attributes of exaggeration, hyperbolism and excessiveness where opposites are inverted and norms are transgressed. Such a carnival works to: liberate from the prevailing point of view of the world, from conventions and established truths, from clichés, from all that is humdrum and universally accepted. The carnival spirit offers the chance to have a new outlook on the world, to realise the relative nature of all that exists, and to enter a completely new order of things (Bakhtin 1984a: 34).

The carnival is thus a practice that both opposes and destabilises official views of reality. In doing so, it creates itself in opposition to official culture on a series of planes; for example from seriousness to laughter, from the dogmatic to the open, from the immutable to the contingent and from control to identity (Storey 1998). As Jung (1998: 104) discusses, these oppositions question hierarchy by creating an ambivalent space between the high and the low where hierarchical distinctions are not respected — “carnival breaks up and “reverses” the colourless and prosaic monopoly of the established order of power.” Jung goes on to argue that carnival does this in a way that is “jesterly” — it distrusts and aims to deconstruct attempts at stabilising social systems by being playfully and non-violently subversive. It is a form of “clowning” that dethrones established hierarchies and transgresses and transforms official orders of reality. In examining Bakhtin’s carnival, Stallybrass and White (1986) have noted that by the late nineteenth century the middle classes had rejected the carnival tradition, both culturally and through acts of legislation that attempted to eliminate carnival

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as a feature of European life. What had happened was that modernisation, with its movement towards urban industrialised society and the growth of the middle classes, had removed carnival as a festive form. Despite this removal of popular rituals in the form of the carnival, Stallybrass and White also point out that without the carnival, the carnivalesque spirit had been sublimated. Although the carnival proper had largely been removed, carnival as a social practice re-emerged in an altered and broken down fashion through new formations of popular culture. Through its sublimation, the gratification of the desire for carnival was achieved through socially accepted behaviours instead of through the prohibited original. As Docker (1987) describes it, the carnivalesque became a repressed desire that in conscious terms was regarded merely as entertainment and sensationalism rather than as knowledge; despite this, the carnivalesque sphere of popular culture still refuses to lie down or to be regulated and remains “outrageously omnipresent” in popular culture.

Television, carnival and The Simpsons Where, then is carnival to be found today? Docker (1994) has argued that carnival, as a “cultural mode” remains a strong influence on contemporary popular culture, such as television. He suggests that this is a culture that is creative, vigorous, exuberant and, importantly, excessive. Such a culture, he proposes, supplements, challenges, destabilises, relativises and pluralises official versions. Here television has significant continuities with pre-modern carnivalesque forms. As Eco (1984: 6) describes, carnival exists as an authorised transgression that is limited and set aside from the official — in this way: “modern mass-carnival is limited in space: it is reserved for certain places, certain streets, or framed by the television screen”. As well as being a potential site for the carnivalesque, television is also an important medium in terms of its relationship with organizations. Like many other forms of popular culture, television did not emerge until the post Second World War period when new consumer products were designed and manufactured for new consumer markets (Davies 1995). Television, as a mode of cultural (re)production is itself the product of big business. Interestingly this does not seem to have stopped television programs from biting the hand that feeds them and offering critical views on organizations. Fiske (1987: 93) explains this apparent irony when he writes that: Television’s economics, which demand that it can be made popular by a wide variety of social groups, works against its apparent ability to exert ideological control over the passive viewer … it is the audiences which make a program popular, not the producers.

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The implication here is that cultural industries do not necessarily make products that promote capitalist ideology; instead they make products that will sell. The result is that there is not just one ideological position that is forced upon industrially produced texts — the products of the cultural industry, therefore, might contain more than just the seeds of resistance (Benshoff 1992). Further, as Hassard and Holliday (1998) have noted, television representations of organizations are frequently different from more conventional understandings of work — in particular they represent workplaces as embodied, personal and emotional and explore everyday work settings and interactions that can be seen to contain implicit critiques of capitalist frameworks. The Simpsons is a good example of critique that “satirises the diverse social, political, equal norms defining American culture” (Korte 1997) in a self-reflexive way. The series’ executive producer James L. Brooks has described the show as “the normal American family in all its beauty and all its horror” (quoted in Steiger 1999). In being open both to this “beauty” and “horror”: Unlike many shows on TV, The Simpsons works to encourage critique, demanding that viewers be active in their consumption. Without hesitation or apology, it ridicules the advertisements, slated news stories, and inane talk shows that appear on their beloved TV set … very little is sacred on The Simpsons (Korte 1997)

This critique shares the dynamism of the carnival spirit, and as Lindvall and Melton (1998: 203) point out: Bakhtin’s notion of the carnival provides an inspired model for analysis of comic genres like the animated film, genres often overshadowed by more “significant” cinemas. Where the clown once ruled or misruled in medieval comedy, it is now the turn of the animator to show his motley.

Carnivalisation is made possible, particularly in animation, because cartoons “do not need the consistency or internal logic of a realist film. New codes can emerge where a reader encounters the unpredictable articulations of the cartoon” (Lindvall and Melton 1007: 209). It is in this way that The Simpsons plays with our views of both organizational reality and reality in general. As Hodge (1984) discusses, The Simpsons is set up to recreate a “realist” setting of American suburban life — the realism, however, is not intended to reproduce reality itself but rather to reproduce the dominant social view of reality and hence to enable the audience to identify with the characters and to enable those social views to be questioned. The Simpson family are not represented as social leaders, but are rather shown as working class people and their experiences of subordination. What Hodge argues is that the mixture of this realism with the animated production allows for greater creativity because the viewer knows that anything can happen. Combined with the satirical nature of the program’s storylines, this enables The Simpsons to question and

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problematise different aspects of everyday life by both representing a form of social reality yet being open to playing with the possibilities of that reality in a variety of ways. In so doing, The Simpsons addresses questions of the domination of powerful institutions such as the family, schools, police and, particular to this chapter, work organizations. The way that this is done has many features of Bakhtin’s carnival. One such feature of The Simpsons is the use of “grotesque realism” to portray its characters. Bakhtin highlights carnival’s preoccupation with the body and its “lower strata”, focussing on the materiality of the body in contrast with the “purity” of reason and “higher” cultural pursuits. Animation, in general, is an ideal medium for the representation of grotesque realism because it freely allows the human form to be represented in exaggerated ways. In The Simpsons the characters are frequently seen to be drawing attention to such bodily functions through, for example, the town drunk, Barney’s belching, Homer’s overeating and obesity, or Homer’s son Bart “mooning”. An episode, which makes particularly good use of such grotesque realism, is “Brush With Burns” (production code 7F18, original airdate 11 April 1991). In this episode Homer’s wife Marge decides to go back to study art at Springfield Community College after having given up painting when she was a schoolchild. Her first success is a painting of a fat Homer asleep on the couch in his underwear that wins first prize at the Springfield Art Fair; the painting is mockingly called “Bald Adonis”. Based on this success, Mr. Burns commissions her to paint his portrait. Marge struggles with the portrait and finds the challenge of painting Burns’ “inner beauty” too difficult. During one of the sittings, Marge accidentally sees Burns naked and, armed with this new imagery, decides to paint his portrait this way. This is a “warts and all” (literally) painting which depicts Burns as an emaciated, scowling, cowering old man — stripped of his business suit and of the pretence of either power or inner beauty. His body, ancient, weak, ugly and powerless, is portrayed in opposition to his public persona as the powerful owner of the SNPP. His body is also in contrast to the portrait of Homer — obese, and lazy. Each of the portraits has its own grotesqueness and the nudity of the characters in each demonstrates a bodily preoccupation and a desire to strip away social pretensions (represented by clothes) that might hide the material, bodily reality beneath. In the case of Burns, this opens up an ironic space where he is alternatively frail and powerful depending on which of his representations is looked at. This brings into question the stability of his social power as an industrialist by suggesting the possibility of alternative ways of representing him. These paintings also serve as a good introduction to the dominant characterisations of both Homer and Burns. Burns is the evil, mean, self-serving capitalist whose social power is contrasted with his physical weakness. Homer, as the middle-American dad, is fat and lazy, yet

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asleep as if he is unaware of his own predicament. Burns and Homer represent, respectively, the capitalist and the worker, but neither is heroised — there is no story here of the easy, just or idealistic resolution of good vs. evil. Instead, we are presented with humanity that is more complex, and less subject to narrative closure. What this highlights is the ambivalence of the carnivalesque. Rather of offering ideological answers that close down possibilities and options, the carnivalesque form is successful in opening up an arena for critique that does not seek ultimate resolutions. This creates a critical space without finalising the critique — a space within which change can be explored and critique can be made without the closure of dogma.

Homer, Burns and the SNPP A number of different workplaces are present in The Simpsons, for example, there is the Kwik-E-Mart convenience store, or the Krusty Burger fast food chain (with all its “subtle” similarities to McDonalds) but by far the most dominant organization is the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant. The SNPP is the place, where, in most episodes, Homer is employed and, at thirty-six years old, he holds the dubious honour of being recognised as the record holder for “the most years worked at an entry-level position”. The power plant, as a place of work, is staffed by largely unskilled workers, and is an occupational health and safety nightmare (where in the opening sequence to all the episodes a piece of glowing green nuclear material finds its way out of the plant into the town). The way the power plant is portrayed can be read as a television carnival, mocking and parodying the culture of organizations, just as the carnival of the middle ages did of religious and feudal culture. This parody is one, for example, where in the episode “Last Exit to Springfield” (production code 9F15, original airdate 11 March 1993), Burns implements a cost-reduction scheme that sees him replacing the employee dental plan with free beer for employees. Homer, when realising the costs this will mean to get the braces for his daughter Lisa, uncharacteristically opposes the free beer. As events unfold, Homer, who is a member of the “Brotherhood of Jazz Dancers, Pastry Chefs and Nuclear Technicians Union”, becomes elected as the plant’s union representative. Following a strike at the plant and Burns turning off all of the power in Springfield, the usually inept and apathetic Homer wins the battle with Burns and the dental plan is restored. It is here that the normal power relations between Homer and Burns are turned upside down. Homer, however, is not mythologised as a hero of the worker. In the industrial negotiations, Homer rejects Burns’ attempt to bribe him as a way to

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settle the dispute because he misreads Burns’ offer as a sexual advance. The scene is played out as follows: Burns: We don’t have to be adversaries, Homer. We both want a fair union contract. Homer’s brain: Why is Mr. Burns being so nice to me? Burns: And if you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. Homer’s brain: Wait a minute, is he coming on to me? Burns: I mean, if I should slip something into your pocket, what’s the harm? Homer’s brain: Oh my god! He is coming on to me! Burns: After all, negotiations make strange bedfellows. (Burns chuckles and winks at Homer.) (Homer’s brain screams.) Homer: Sorry, Mr. Burns, but I don’t go in for these backdoor shenanigans. Sure I’m flattered, maybe even a little curious, but the answer is no! (Quoted in Richmond and Coffman 1997: 110)

Despite Homer’s surprise transformation into the powerful union boss, the audience is left at the end not knowing what Homer might have done if he really had known that money was on the table. The inversion of Homer and Burns’ power is never complete and the heroisation of the working man is left in an open and ambivalent state. What this achieves is a critique of managerialism, in the form of the erosion of employee benefits for profit gain, whilst still not relying on an idealised or (left) ideological view of employment relations. Because Homer’s potential behaviour in response to the bribe is left unresolved (due to his ignorance) the episode resists the temptation to finalise the characterisation of Homer as the honest worker and Burns as the evil capitalist. Such simplistic logic is eschewed in favour of a more open and complex critique. Inversion is played out in other episodes in ways that transcend the more “realistic” setting of industrial relations disputes. Homer’s “normal” persona as the dumb proletarian is very much presented both as a stereotype and as a starting point that is frequently inverted in order to explore what might happen if the stereotype was otherwise. The program plays with the stereotype by enabling Homer to adopt various alternatives which see him become, for example, a prize fighter in the heavy weight championship of the world or a pop music star in the one-hit-wonder barber shop quartet the “B-Sharps”. The stereotype is presented but never taken for granted. A good example of this is “Homer the Great” (production code 2F09, original airdate 8 January 1995), which is set in the secret organization of the Stonecutters (a less than subtle reference to the Free Masons). Despite initial rejection, Homer cajoles his way into being accepted as a member of the Stonecutters. After almost being expelled, it is revealed that Homer has a birthmark on his back that identifies him as the true leader of the Stonecutters — “The

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Chosen One”. Here again is an inversion, as the normally unpopular Homer becomes the born leader. Burns is also a member of this organization, who, in the inverted order of the Stonecutters gets his nose tweaked hard by one of the SNPP workers and has to reply “thank you sir, may I have another”. This inversion, however, is not portrayed as heroic progress over dominant power relations in the power plant but, rather, just as a different system of difference. The Stonecutters is another form of hierarchical organization where the reason for the power differences between its members is as arbitrary as the shape of a birthmark. Eventually Homer is rejected and the Stonecutter’s disbanded after they rebel against his suggestion (based on advise from his daughter Lisa) that the Stonecutters focus their efforts on helping others in the community. The inversion presented in the Stonecutters episode highlights how organizational power is not a characteristic of a superior self, but rather is a condition that is based on highly contextualised social relations — relations that are always open to change. This is reinforced in the episode “Burns Verjaufen Der Kraftwerk” (production code 8F09, original airdate 5 December 1991) where Burns decides to sell the SNPP to a German company for $100 million. Soon after the takeover is complete, Burns goes for a drink at Moe’s Tavern and is mocked and abused by the townspeople who are there. Realising that because he no longer controls the plant he is no longer in a position of power, Burns says “What good is money if it can’t inspire terror in your fellow man?” The implication, of course, is that it is managerial control that can truly inspire such terror. Burns then buys the plant back. In each of these episodes, Burns’ power is questioned and in so doing the dominance of organizational power itself is also symbolically brought into question. What occurs here, however, is not a simple narrative of the triumph of good over evil, but rather a demonstration of the embeddedness of power in social relations. In the industrial dispute it is the power of organized labour that is balanced against Burns’ managerial power to eventually maintain the status quo. In contrast, in both the Stonecutters episode and following his sale of the power plant, the same character of Burns loses his power because he finds himself in a different context and he exists in different social relations. This carnivalesque treatment recognises that organizational power is a dominant social force, but simultaneously highlights that the power is a result of a particular set of relations at a particular point in time — it is neither immutable nor inevitable. Another demonstration of upside-down nature carnivalisation is seen in the episode “Simpson and Delilah” (production code 7F02, original airdate 18 October 1990) which takes the subject of corporate meritocracy and equality in career opportunities and turns it on its head. In the episode, the normally bald Homer discovers a miracle hair growth formula, which he fraudulently buys for $1000 through the nuclear power plant’s health insurance scheme. Overnight, Homer

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grows a full head of hair. Meanwhile Burns is faced with the dilemma of having to promote one of his workers as a result of a clause in his contract with the union. His initial reaction is that “none of these cretins deserves a promotion!”. When he sees the newly hirsute Homer Simpson through his security monitor, however, he announces to his assistant Smithers, “Wait, who’s that young go-getter?’ Smithers replies: “Well, it sort of looks like Homer Simpson … only more dynamic and resourceful”. Burns immediately decides to promote Homer and an announcement comes over the plant’s PA system: “Attention Homer Simpson. You have been promoted. You are now an executive. Take three minutes to say good-bye to your former friends and report to room 503 for reassignment to a better life.” With the help of an assistant named Karl, Homer impresses Mr. Burns. Particularly his scheme to reduce industrial accidents by adding tartar sauce to the fish sticks served in the cafeteria appears to be a great success. When accidents do fall Burns is so impressed that he even gives Homer the keys to the executive washroom — a symbolic parody of managerial privilege where even the act of going to the toilet exists in a privileged form for those in power. Of course the real reason that accidents have fallen is because Homer, now no longer on the shop floor, is not causing them any more. Eventually, Homer’s son Bart accidentally breaks the bottle of hair potion and Homer again returns to being bald. Without hair, no one takes him seriously any more and he is demoted back to his former position. Looking at this episode, we see that armed with his new hair, Homer has been able to climb the corporate ladder. His achievement, however, is not based on his skills or experience as an executive but managerial success is positioned as being a matter of “look”. My reading of this is that it offers a resistance to managerial power by suggesting that hierarchical seniority in an organization is not the result of any inherent superiority, but is a question of appearance and grooming. Homer got the job because he looked the part, however, when his baldness returned, the normal power relations were restored. Burns is also bald but retains his position of power in the power plant. The commentary here is perhaps that “true” power that is beyond appearance is that of capital and tradition, whereas managerial power is fleeting. What is apparent though, is the carnivalesque overturning of the official recruitment and selection processes and policies in place in large organizations. These processes suggest that people are hired and promoted based on merit and that people are offered equal employment opportunities without discrimination based on factors such as appearance. What happens in The Simpsons, however, is quite the opposite, when in fact, the least suitable candidate for the job (Homer) is successful merely because his appearance becomes that expected of a “young go getter”. Homer’s grotesque body is the source of inspiration for the episode “King-Size Homer” (Production code 3F05, original airdate 5 November 1995). Here Homer’s

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obesity and unhealthy eating habits are used to depict a carnivalesque “grotesque realism” in terms of Homer and the SNPP. Homer discovers that if he can increase his body weight to more than 300 pounds he will be classified as hyper-obese and will be officially declared disabled making him eligible to work from home. He pursues this goal by focusing on the “neglected food groups” such as “the whipped group, the congealed group and the choc-o-tastic”, as well as switching from chewing gum to chewing bacon. After gorging himself on every food possible, he achieves his goal and a computer workstation is installed in his home for him to work from. He proudly announces that “the slim lazy Homer you knew is dead. Now I’m a big fat dynamo.” Meanwhile, his proud son Bart fantasises about being a “lardo on workman’s comp, just like dad.” In an effort to find new ways to escape from work, Homer fits a “bobbing head bird” in front of his computer to press the keys while he goes out. As a result of the bird’s “work” in Homer’s role as safety inspector, the nuclear reactor core at the plant is about to explode. Realising what has happened, Homer hi-jacks an ice cream truck to race to the plant, and upon getting there, he attempts to climb up to reach the “manual shutdown” switch. His enormous weight breaks the ladder on which he is climbing and he falls into the gap in the reactor and seals the leak. In comic grotesque flourish, Bart announces: “for once Dad’s butt prevented the release of toxic gas”. Burns responds with the statement “Homer, your bravery and quick thinking have turned a potential Chernobyl into a mere Three Mile Island. Bravo!” Here we see the grotesque humour of Homer’s body used to parody both the worker and the capitalist. Homer is fat and lazy, and he takes advantage of his employer by finding a creative way to still get paid while not having to go to work, a task to which he employs himself assiduously. The SNPP is highlighted on the other hand as being an organization on the constant brink of creating an environmental disaster — irrespective of its “progressive” practices of using computer technology to enable Homer to “work” from home. The episode demonstrates again an ambivalent humour in which overturning (making obesity desirable) and hyperbolisation are used to draw attention to aspects of workplace relations — the unwilling worker and the environmentally corrupt organization. In the end, though, it is the organization that comes off the worse. Burns, as the character representing organization ownership is represented as a hyperbolised figure of evil. In commenting on the episode “King-Size Homer”, Hodge (1996) writes: The representation of Burns through the angle of the camera (or at least that which was conceptualised on the storyboard page) also informs the viewer of his villainy. He is always seen above his workers, showing his precedence over them — whether outside doing the callisthenic exercises on his purposely constructed podium (resembling various authoritarian regimes: Nazi speeches at Nuremburg, Communist China’s morning fitness rituals, or the Japanese business fitness plants, Japan

Politics and popular culture

being America’s new economic “enemy”), or in his office where, even though sitting down, the throne like chair rises (thus making his position) above whoever dares enter (in a reverse of the “halo effect”, the chair’s armrests also rise up to appear as horns above his bald head).

Paradox and ambivalence One of the things that I have tried to demonstrate in this chapter is that the animated television series The Simpsons shares many of the features of the medieval carnival discussed in the work of Mikhail Bakhtin and that these features can be seen as a way that television and popular culture operate on a level of critique that defies the superficial logic that sees television as trivialised entertainment. The carnivalesque is evident in the way that The Simpsons employs grotesque realism in its portrayal of its characters not only as “personalities” but also as partaking in the “real” life of the body. Further, The Simpsons’ carnivalesque features the regular transgression of the norms of organizational life. Where the medieval culture focussed on questioning and parodying the pre-modern dominant social institutions of the church and feudal society, The Simpsons parodies the more contemporary dominant social institution of the organization. Similar to carnival, this parody is enacted by playing with the rules of what is expected in more conventional or official representations of organization. Further, and perhaps most markedly, The Simpsons employs the carnivalesque practice of inversion and overturning, where normal social relations are turned upside down — where boss becomes subordinate, where the powerful become weak, and where failures become successful. Through its carnival, The Simpsons is an example of how popular culture has produced representations that reflect both a political critique and ambivalence towards organizations. This is not the celebration of American free enterprise; neither, however, is it the fetishisation of working people as subjugated, powerless, suppressed, ineffectual and in need of emancipation. Instead the carnival is more ambivalent, more complex and less binary — it shows that existing patterns of social relations are not immutable, but at the same time does not portray an idealistic or utopian vision of change. This is a critique of organization that does not claim to know it all and does not claim solutions to problems; rather it plays out issues of power in a dramatic, comic and irreverent way. Eco (1984: 6) states that comedy is achieved through the breaking of frames where normal expectations are transgressed yet where the broken frame is assumed rather than articulated. Carnival, in order to be enjoyed, requires that rules and rituals be parodied, and that these rules and rituals already be recognized and respected. One must know

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to what degree certain behaviors are forbidden, and must feel the majesty of the forbidding norm, to appreciate their transgression. Without a valid law to break, carnival is impossible.

In this way, much of the humour in The Simpsons is derived from transgressing the cultural “rules” of working life and in doing so makes these rules both more clear and less taken for granted. Through the dramatisation and frequent inversion of the relationships between Homer (worker) and Burns (boss), The Simpsons dramatically examines what might happen if the relations of power in organizations were different. The “rules” of organizational life are therefore made more transparent by the use of comedy to invert expected relations within organizations. Homer and Burns are presented on one plane as hyperbolised stereotypes of their social roles, yet subsequently these social roles are transgressed to reveal both their unnaturalness and arbitrariness. In terms of organizations, Ten Bos (2000: xii) questions the approach to management where “the popular is often suspect. It can’t be intelligent and it is linked to vulgarity, tastelessness, gaudiness, even to a certain laziness.” In line with Ten Bos’ observation about management fashion, at face value, popular culture seems like an inappropriate location to look for insight into, or critique of, management and organization. My argument, however, is that this is not the case and that popular culture serves as an important site for developing new understandings of organization life; understandings that are rooted in an experience of organizations unencumbered by the self imposed limitations of conventional theory. In terms of such theory, Burrell (1997: 52) has commented that organization studies ignores or, worse still, consciously hides that which is thought to be unacceptable in polite company. There is little mention of sex, yet organizations are redolent with it; little mention of violence, yet organizations are stinking with it; little mention of pain, yet organizations rely upon it; little mention of the will to power, yet organizations would not exist without it.

In popular culture, such as The Simpsons, however, the sex, violence, pain and power that permeate organizational life are permitted airtime through the carnivalesque representation of organizations. The implication is that popular culture offers arenas for the complex representation of organizational life not available in convention academic forms. As I have tried to show in this chapter, these representation draw attention to the embodied and contradictory power relations that feature in organizations. Moreover, what this provides is a critique of organization through an exploration that transgresses organizational norms and overturns “normal” social relations. Further, it offers this critique in a way that does not provide pre-digested solutions; it leaves a space in which the viewer can be active in making sense of the situations that are presented.

Politics and popular culture

In suggesting such critical implications, an important consideration is whether carnivalesque representation of organizational life, such as that in The Simpsons, is indeed critical, subversive and liberating, or whether by encouraging viewers to laugh at their own employment situations, it provides them with a “safety valve” that actually buttresses organizations from a more thoroughgoing critique. The question is whether The Simpsons provides opportunities to destabilise existing organizational relations or whether it reinforces them by providing a “safety valve” through which organizational members can let off steam before returning to the unchanged status quo of their employment conditions. Whereas a Bakhtinian reading of the carnivalesque suggests that the carnival and its manifestations are profoundly subversive of official institutions, a “safety valve” argument suggests just the opposite. Indeed, the word carnival itself derives from the Latin carnem levare meaning “to put away flesh”. The original medieval carnival was positioned as the last occasion before Lent that people were permitted to eat meat. The implication was that the desire to eat meat would be extinguished through the ritual of the carnival before the official institution of the church forbade it altogether. Arguably, what this achieved was a reinforcement of the official Lenten fast through the authorised transgression of the carnival. In tracing the ancestry of such a “safety valve” theory, Docker (1994) refers to the 1931 speech of the Russian intellectual (and Soviet Commissioner of Enlightenment) Lunacharsky to the Academy of Sciences. In this speech Lunacharsky argued that “carnival is a safety valve for passions that otherwise might erupt in revolution; the lower orders would let off steam in a harmless, temporary event” (Docker 1994: 171). An issue with such a view, however, is that it ignores the ambivalence of the critique that the carnival provides. It suggests that carnival can be considered either as a form of subversion or as a safety valve. Further, what is argued is that after such a consideration, it is revealed that carnival is indeed a safety valve. This is an argument that first constructs and then resolves the binary opposition between change and order. My suggestion here is that the carnival offers neither of these two — instead it provides a space for organizational critique without finalising the critique fully for the viewers. As I have tried to demonstrate in my reading of The Simpsons, the carnivalesque breaks the rules in order to make them more visible — in so doing, it opens up a paradoxical space where these rules can be interrogated, and questioned. By creating a representation of organization that is embodied and that plays out what might happen when norms are transgressed and social relations overturned, The Simpsons does not promise a new organizational utopia, but rather creates the opportunity for critique. It explores new behavioural and structural options for organizations and the people within them that reserve a right to critique and mock existing options. It does not limit itself to the status quo, yet at the same time it does not propose a new one — instead it explores the possibilities

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of what might happen if things were different. This is a critique that is not rooted in ideology but is based on the exploration and exposition of possibilities. As Docker (1994: 197) puts it, the carnival enables “both social stability and social protest and change.” Bernard-Donals (1998: 113) comments that “it is the possibility of a radical transformation of the ways that a culture sees and understands the relations amongst its subjects that is the central contribution of a Bakhtinian notion of carnival to cultural studies.” The realisation of such a possibility is inevitably a question of how The Simpsons is read. I have attempted to offer a particular cultural reading of organizations in The Simpsons — one that shows that in popular culture lie the opportunities to question dominant and oppressive forms of organizations and to explore alternatives in a way that is not dogmatic, evangelical or revolutionary. In The Simpsons we can laugh at organizations and see that no part of working life is immutable or to be taken for granted. It offers a mockery of organizations and provides a compelling arena for the critique of organizational life, one that plays out the complex and contradictory relations that people have with the organizations in which they work. It depicts organizational life as the paradox we so often experience it as being.

Notes 1. From The Simpsons: “There’s No Disgrace Like Home”, production code 7G04, original airdate 28 January 1990. Quoted in Richmond and Goffman (1997: 20). 2. From The Simpsons “Bart the General”, production code 7G05, original airdate 4 February 1990. Quoted in Richmond and Goffman (1997: 21). 3. From The Simpsons “Another Simpson Clip Show”, production code 2F33, original airdate 25 September 1994. Quoted in Richmond and Goffman (1997: 151)

References Bakhtin, M. M. (1984a). Rabelais and his world. Trans. Hélène Iswolsky, Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Bakhtin, M. M. (1984b). Problems of Dostoyevsky’s poetics (Ed.) and trans. Caryl Emerson. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Benshoff, H. M. (1992). Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, is Disney high or low? From silly cartoons to postmodern politics. Animation Journal, Fall: 62–85. Bernard-Donals (1998). Knowing the subaltern: Bakhtin, carnival and the other choice of the human science. In M. M. Bell & M. Gardiner (Eds.). Bakhtin and the human sciences, 95–111. London: Sage. Burell, G. (1997). Pandemonium: Towards a retro-organization theory, London: Sage.

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Cohen, K. F. (1998). Forbidden animation: Censored cartoons and blacklisted animators in America. Jefferson North Carolina: McFarland. Davies, I. (1995). Cultural studies and beyond: Fragments of empire. London Routledge. Docker, J. (1987). In defence of popular TV: Carnivalesque v. left pessimism. Continuum, 1 (2). Docker, J. (1994). Postmodernism and popular culture: A cultural history. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Eco, U. (1984). The frames of comic “freedom”. In T. A. Sebeok (Ed.) Carnival!, 1–10. Berlin: de Gruyter. Fiske, J. (1987). Television culture. London: Routledge. Hassard, J. & Holliday, R. (1998). Introduction. In J. Hassard & R. Holliday (Eds.). Organization — representation: Work and organization in popular culture, 1–15. London: Sage. Hodge, B. (1996). King-size Homer: Ideology and representation. The Simpsons Archive, (http://www.snpp.com) Jung, H. Y. (1998). Bakhtin’s dialogical body politics. In M. M. Bell & M. Gardiner (Eds.). Bakhtin and the human sciences, 95–111. London: Sage. Kafner, S. (1997). Serious Business: The art and commerce of Animation in America from Betty Boop to Toy Story. New York: Scribner. Korte, D. (1997). The Simpsons as quality television. The Simpsons Archive, (http:// www.snpp.com) Krönig, J. (2000). Elite versus mass: The impact of television. In an age Of globalisation. Historical Journal of Film, Radio and Television, 20 (1): 430–49. Lindvall, T. R. and Melton, J. M. (1997). Towards a post-modern animated discourse. In J. Pilling (Ed.). A Reader in animation studies, 203–220. London: John Libbey. Marc, D. (1998). Comic visions: Television comedy and American culture. 2nd Ed Malden MA: Blackwell. Postman, N. (1987). Amusing ourselves to death. London: Methuen. Richmond, R. and Coffman, A. (1997) (Eds.). Created by Matt Groening. The Simpsons: A complete guide to our favourite family. New York: HarperCollins. Rowe, D. (1995). Popular cultures: Rock music, sport and the politics of pleasure. London: Sage. Stallybrass, P. & White, A. (1986). The politics and poetics of transgression. London: Methuen. Steiger, G. (1999). The Simpsons — Just funny or more? The Simpsons archive (http:// www.snpp.com) Storey, J. (1998). An introduction to cultural theory and popular culture. 2nd Ed. Athens: The University of Georgia Press. Street, J. (1997). Politics and popular culture. Cambridge: Polity Press. Ten Bos, R. (2000). Fashion and utopia in management thinking. Amsterdam: Benjamins. Weinstein, D. (1998). Of Mice and Bart: The Simpsons and the postmodern. In C. Deglin Esposti (Ed.). Postmodernism in the cinema, 61–72. New York: Berghahn Books.

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Chapter 7

From value conflicts to multiple mandates On organising ethical knowledge and its paradoxes* Fernando Leal and Patricia Shipley

At any given time we believe in many different norms, which may have contradictory implications for the situation at hand. (Elster 1989:129.) The humanising of technology is likely to involve the increasing introduction of moral issues into the now largely ‘instrumental’ relation between human beings and the created environment. (Giddens 1990: 170.) The human animal, it is repeatedly said, is distinguished above all by his self-consciousness. This seems to mean that, having set up his society, he is not content to let things be; he must tell himself that the particular society in which he lives is the best of all possible societies, and that the arrangements within it mirror in their own small way the arrangements that providence has made outside. Hence every age breeds its philosophers, apologists, critics, and reformers. (Heilbronner 1992: 38.)

In this globalised world of the third millennium economies, societies and organisations are increasingly being defined by knowledge. That was the starting point from which this book emerged. Knowledge is, or has become, a commodity that travels around swiftly and efficiently. As such, it has a profound impact both in the places in which it actually originates and in other places very far from that origin, either geographically or mentally. This is all part of the very meaning of knowledge societies, knowledge economies, and even of globalisation. Now for knowledge to be able to go from one place to another and to exercise such tremendous effects, a previous process must have taken place, a process which we seldom think about: knowledge has to be packaged in appropriate ways, it has to be converted into bits and bytes, it has to be coded. Knowledge, whether true or false, sensible or meaningless, relevant or irrelevant, does not start its eventful and consequential career in the world in the form of clear, readily intelligible and communicable units of information. Knowledge is in the beginning always vague, formless, intuitive, elusive, hard to express. And means have to be found to do the work of expressing, means which are not innocent, which have all sort of intended

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and unintended consequences and even, we may say, a life of their own. We will never understand the nature of knowledge economies, knowledge societies or knowledge organisations if we don’t come to terms with this original fact. As such, it is an essential part of the diagnosis of our current malaise. If we may anticipate a little: our current malaise is ethical in nature. And it is the entanglement of knowledge and ethics that engenders a curious paradox. Whether it actually is a paradox for management or of management, you, dear reader, will have to decide. But in case you should be wary of such grand words as ‘ethics’ or ‘ethical’ and before you throw up your hands in despair, we want to make a point clear: we use them in full awareness of their complex history and of their being liable to all sorts of misunderstanding and misuse. The point we made before about the difficulty of expressing knowledge and the lack of innocence of the means of expressing that knowledge also applies to this particular case. Do we have misgivings about talking of ‘ethics’? Of course we do, which is why we shall introduce it as cautiously and gently as we can. For the undeniable fact is that no other word can do its work. The present paper, whose main task is to present a diagnosis of our malaise has thus to travel a long and somewhat meandering way to make its different points. Knowledge is certainly at the centre of it, which you may think is good, but so is ethics, which you may think is bad. Yet neither knowledge nor ethics can be the place to start. As far as the modern world is concerned, in the beginning there was rationality. So that’s where we start, at the beginning.

Two kinds of rationality As is well known, Max Weber conceived modernisation as a process of rationalisation. His analysis is still considered one of the best, if not indeed the single best attempt at a comprehensive theory of what has been happening in, and to, the advanced societies and economies. A lot of things have taken place since he died eighty years ago, but the tendencies he painstakingly observed and meticulously described seem to have deepened rather than radically changed. In fact, the iron cage seems to be even more strongly forged than it was when he wrote, memorably, about it (Weber 1917). Weber’s scheme is based on a theory of individual action whose intelligibility to the observer depends on emotion, habit, and reason — or rationality — in quite complex ways. A very common misunderstanding of Weber’s subtle distinctions is that emotion and habit are excluded from rational action. He never intended that. When he talked about emotional (‘affective’) and habitual (‘traditional’) actions as distinct from rational actions, he only meant to point out that some human actions are purely emotional or purely habitual, not that emotion and habit are not part of

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rational actions. In other words: the intelligibility of an action (our capacity to give a reasoned account of it) is inversely proportional to the amount of pure emotion or pure habit that action contains. There is nothing here to make anyone think that Weber neglects the ‘dark’ side of people. Anyway, rationality as a source of intelligibility has a particularly prominent role to play, especially as the specific traits of modernity begin to unfold. No other sociologist has made such a profuse and subtle use of the concept, or concepts, of rationality than Weber. A simple count of the occurrences of the word and its cognates, in Weber’s work, runs to several hundreds. The most famous passage (and the one we will be mainly referring to in this section) is, of course, §2 of the ‘Sociological categories’ (a first version of which was the general prolegomenon to his 1921 contribution to the Grundriss der Sozialökonomik, see Weber 1922). We shall see in a later section that another Weberian distinction (that between material and formal rationality) is as important as this one, if not more so. From the beginning Weber makes quite clear that there are, so to speak, two kinds of rationality, namely the rationality of ends (Zweckrationalität) and the rationality of values (Wertrationalität). Rationality of ends is usually defined by means of three procedural traits: 1. Define the end you desire with as much precision as possible. 2. Among the available means choose those most appropriate to that end. 3. Direct your attention to the success of the endeavour. Rationality of ends has been formalised via decision theory and game theory. Its most popular model is Rosenblueth’s idea of a teleological machine: the envisaged result is allowed to control the outcome via a feedback mechanism (Rosenblueth et al. 1943). Critics have also called it instrumental rationality, and their objections can be summarised as follows: 1¢. There is no rational procedure to search, choose, and evaluate the means over and above the need for precision. In fact, rationality of ends seems compatible with the pursuit of irrational ends. 2¢. The only criteria for choosing the means are availability and appropriateness. Availability seems unobjectionable in that it seems to be a kind of realism. But appropriateness may on the one hand be unrealistic insofar as it presupposes perfect information on the part of the actor and on the other hand, and perhaps more importantly, may ultimately lead to Machiavellianism (‘the end justifies the means’). 3¢. There are always hosts of unintended, unpredictable and undesirable consequences of human action. Such unintended consequences increase with the complexity of the environment and the technological sophistication of the means.

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The general picture emerging from these criticisms is that of a perfectly rational actor who is ruthlessly pursuing what may be horribly irrational ends. Hence the expression ‘rational fools’ coined by Nobel prize winner Amartya Sen long ago (see Sen 1976–1977). The critics’ picture can sometimes be quite bleak, for we know that there are no perfectly rational actors on earth, so what remains are only the possibly irrational ends. Yet in fairness to Weber, it must be said that he insisted on a fourth procedural trait to complete his picture of the rationality of ends, namely: 4. Foresee and monitor the consequences, desired and undesired, of the intended action, for not only the means should be appropriate to the ends, but the consequences of our actions should also be appropriate (commensurate, not disproportionate) to the ends. This other kind of appropriateness, clearly expressed in Weber’s writings, is often glossed over in discussions of rationality in general and of Weber in particular. Nevertheless, an objection immediately springs to mind: 4¢. Although concentration on success is mitigated by careful foresight and monitoring of consequences, the latter are increasingly difficult in a complex world. Considering the four objections to rationality, the three questions to be addressed concern the acceptability of: – – –

ends we want to achieve by our actions, means we want to use to achieve our ends, consequences of the actions we carry out in pursuit of our ends.

People, who criticise rationality of ends, would probably agree that such three-fold acceptability, would make a far better rationality than the merely instrumental one. In Weber’s work we often find that the concept of a rationality of values is introduced precisely to do part of that job. By the way, it is at least interesting to note that although the literature, both academic and professional, on the rationality of ends (often under the shape of ‘rational choice’) is enormous and multidisciplinary, writings on the rationality of values are rather scarce. In fact, rationality of values as a topic is clearly an underdeveloped field. A remarkable exception to this remark is Raymond Boudon who, in a significant series of books and papers written in the last 15 years, has been trying to develop Weber’s ideas (Boudon 1986; 1990; 1995; and for a direct interpretation 1996a; 1996b; 2000). Anyway, according to Weber rationality of values has to do with something like single-minded realisation of values, with acting in the world in accordance with deeply held convictions — duty, dignity, beauty, piety, truth, justice, ‘the cause’ — no matter what the (often quite predictable) consequences in the real world might be. The reader can sense here that rationality of values has its own problems. At its

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worst, it reminds one of old Roman adages like summum ius summa iniuria (‘the maximising pursuit of right produces a maximum of wrong’) or fiat iustitia pereat mundus (‘let justice prevail even if the world goes under’). It also inspired Weber’s important distinction between an ethics of responsibility (Verantwortungsethik) and a mere ethics of conviction (Gesinnungsethik). Idealists who just unflinchingly follow the latter sort of ethics will ignore the consequences of their actions at least as often as the amoral actors of the business and military worlds that we hear so much about. This theme, although present in Weber, constitutes a central subject of analysis in Pareto’s general approach to sociology, first adumbrated in a number of papers and in his courses on economics, then more particularly applied to socialism and liberalism (1901–1902) and finally systematised in his massive Trattato di sociologia generale (1916). We probably don’t need to remind the readers of the enormous, if not yet properly investigated, influence that Pareto had — especially via L. J. Henderson (1935) — on the American theory of organisation. In any case, Pareto believed, and demonstrated in great detail, that all good things — as well as all bad things — on earth are produced by deeply held beliefs and values. Ignoring the consequences of one’s actions is foolish, whether we are ‘rational’ or ‘idealistic’. That’s why rationality of values was not unambiguously better for Weber than rationality of ends. He was obviously worried about both rationalities and about the effects of both in the world. Nevertheless, he thought that rationality of values is often all we have to choose between incompatible or conflicting ends. In fact, one could say that for Weber the two kinds of rationality, in spite of their contrary nature, are more or less always combined in real human action. That’s one of the reason why we may want to say that rationality of ends and rationality of values are ‘ideal types’ in Weber’s terminology. Moreover, we will have to recognise that the distinction — albeit undoubtedly useful — masks the fact that ends are nothing if not an expression of values. (Incidentally, this is what Pareto meant when he classified ‘interests’ as a subclass of ‘residues’.) So what really distinguishes both sorts of rationality is not so much the opposition of ends and values, but the attention to consequences. Yet it is not clear that actions guided by instrumental rationality are necessarily always well aware of them.

From kinds of rationality to kinds of conflict In order to apply Weber’s analysis more aptly, we would like to remind the readers that the conflict between ends often takes place between different actors, either individual or collective. We can here usefully distinguish between conflicts of

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interests and conflicts of values. Both the distinction and the following argument have been developed at more length in earlier papers (Leal 1998; 2000; 2001). In a conflict of interests, the values of the conflicting parties are the same; for instance, the quarrel is not about whether money is what both parties want, but about who gets how much. In fact it’s because the parties want the same thing that a conflict of interests emerges in the first place. This sort of thing happens not only in profit-making organisations but also in so-called disinterested ones. The frequent quarrels among scientists and scientific teams about priority of discovery are a very good example. The parties here also share values — in this case it’s not money but knowledge — but their interests — who gets the prestige — provoke a struggle. (Some readers might cynically add that clear financial awards often accompany prestige. This may be true in our Big Science world, but only an outsider can truly believe the struggle is really at bottom over money alone.) Now, because conflicts of interests are founded on a solid rock bottom of agreement in values, they can be handled, and eventually even resolved, by negotiation. In fact, even the toughest negotiation is to some extent easy because the parties in a conflict of interests understand each other only too well. Not so in conflicts of values. To make our point perfectly clear, let’s imagine a situation in which the parties in a conflict of values share a common interest, say they are both interested in preventing the organisation in which they work from being swallowed by a bigger one; they want to preserve their organisation as it has been. Yet what each of the parties understands the nature and purpose of their organisation to be is subtly different — because of the very different values they cherish. Universities, for instance, can sometimes be very important from a political point of view in certain communities; this political weight can be something some administrators (and academics!) consider very valuable indeed. So, if such a university were to be threatened with cutbacks, privatisation, or dismemberment, the political people may be as interested in fighting back as those academics (or administrators) that value university life because of teaching and research. An interesting conflict of values might ensue which may manifest itself only at the level of strategies (how can we save our university?), but is much deeper than that. The curious thing about conflicts of values is that they are tougher than any pure conflict of interests can ever be; and that is because the parties involved do not really understand each other. Of course, the distinction between conflicts of interests and conflicts of values is ‘ideal-typical’ in Weber’s sense. No actual conflict is as pure as all that; in real life agreements and disagreements over both interests and values are always mixed to some extent. But it is a useful construct all the same, especially in view of the widespread cynicism according to which interests is all there is to conflicts. We think this is wrong and misleading. Values are not interests and the picture of our

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all too human struggles and quarrels is essentially incomplete if we leave values aside or reduce them to mere interests. Having said that, we admit that values are only part of the whole picture; our emphasis on them is in a sense methodological. Most social scientists prefer to talk about culture, meanings, symbols, discourse, strategies, modes of negotiation, interests, power relations and whatnot; all these are certainly important factors in social life, but not to the exclusion of values. This is perhaps the most important part of Durkheim’s legacy; but we tend to forget it all too easily. When discussing division of labour in society (1893), Durkheim indulged in the metaphors, images and ideas which the rise of Darwinian biology and the invention of experimental physiology (Claude Bernard’s control mechanisms of physiological subsystems) had made very popular in the late 19th century. That’s why it has become too easy to criticise Durkheim’s structural functionalism. But while we may be partly justified in doing so, we may also lose sight of the fact that Durkheim’s central intention was to illuminate the problems of society from an ethical point of view. (Durkheim, of course, used the adjective ‘moral’ rather than ‘ethical’, but he was certainly far from confining the meaning of ‘moral’ to the narrow field of sexual mores, as many people have both before and after him.) Durkheim was deeply worried by the signs of disorder (anomie) which he detected everywhere around him and which would indeed end up in an allembracing conflagration (la grande guerre), to be rapidly followed by an even more extensive and destructive second world war. He was worried by poverty, crime, suicide, popular riots, and political corruption. So for him the problem of the division of labour in society was an ethical problem, and the usual functionalist answers relating it to the creation of wealth and economic development or the increase of scientific knowledge, efficiency and excellence, culture and civilisation he found very unsatisfactory. Division of labour is for Durkheim not only, nor even mainly, a matter of being a social fact but first of all it is an ethical imperative (or rather, it is a social fact that it is an ethical imperative). Division of labour originates in ethical impulses, it serves ethical purposes, and it is the basis of the ethical order of society. How could that ethical order be maintained and developed? How could we prevent disorder from destroying human society? Durkheim’s great hope was that the different ethical orders generated in the professions as a result of the increasing division of labour were the answer. At the beginning of the 21st century, however, this hope appears to be not only unfulfilled but in a sense completely wrong. Yet his question, and the ethical viewpoint which informs it, is all the more relevant. So in that respect it would be useful to complement Weber’s immensely important and subtle conception of rationality with the ethical sense more clearly to be found

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in Durkheim’s work, despite all the misgivings we may have about other aspects of his functionalism.

Different kinds of people, different kinds of jobs (and a further distinction within the realm of rationality) Division of labour is not only about labour; it is as much about values. And if values are what ethics is about, then division of labour is a matter of ethics. Not only the work we realise jointly but our values as such — all those good things we want to realise through our joint working efforts — get divided and apportioned: some people take care of some of the good things and other people take care of other good things. In a university I take care of teaching, you take care of research, she takes care of the funds. In a commercial business I take care of the stock, you take care of the accounts, she takes care of the sales. In a police precinct I take care of the paperwork, you take care of the beat, she takes care of the prisoners. In a hospital I do the nursing, you do the room assignments, she does the diagnosing. This is, of course, a simplified version of often very complex arrangements. But the ethical essence of the thing is thereby preserved: each portion of the joint work is attached to certain values to be realised, either the comfort of the patients or the efficiency of the management, either the gentle introduction of beginners to the world of science or the astute manoeuvring between political agendas, either the satisfaction of the customer or the orderliness of a workshop. Thus each group develops its own norms, its own symbols, and its own moral climate. Within any single group produced by division of labour there are things one should do and things one should avoid at all costs. There are lines drawn, limits that cannot be trespassed, codes of conduct only insiders quite understand. This is how things work, and, more importantly, how people work, when division of labour is in place. That was the essence of Durkheim’s message. And also something that is only half clear in his own work, but which is, if anything, more important: human beings develop as human beings through such ethical division of labour.1 They learn what they are and what is valuable through the process of becoming a member of a group that has a particular role to play within society or an organisation. In this respect conflicts of value are absolutely central. They help us define who we are and what we stand for. This does not mean that we have to understand conflicts of value in a necessarily benign way. Our values, and the conflicts which emerge because of them, certainly make us; but they can also break us. For that is precisely what a value amounts to: the kind of thing without which we cannot live (because it gives meaning to our lives) and in whose defence we are prepared to go very far indeed. How far, that depends on circumstances. But people

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have been known to die, and even to kill, for an ideal, a vision, a dream. Of course, things are usually far less dramatic than that. But it is useful to remember we are not talking about trifles here. Otherwise we will be unable to understand the passion with which conflicts of value are experienced. Well then, what we are now witnessing is a post-Durkheimian order, in which division of labour thus understood is under massive and global attack. Or at least that is our diagnosis. Contemporary organisations and societies are increasingly polarising in that people are being assigned to one of two categories.2 On the one hand, we have people who only find employment in what may be called junk jobs. These are poorly paid, mechanical and externally paced, routine-like, boring, unqualified (even for the qualified, who are underemployed in them). Women and young people are very often the particular victims of junk jobs. There are plenty of examples in modern electronic offices as described by Garson (1988). The so-called ‘McJobs’ epitomise junk jobs as described by Ritzer (1998), who expounds the concept of ‘McDonaldisation’.3 On the other hand, we have people who have the good jobs, that is, jobs which are challenging, varied, creative, forever changing, self-paced, exciting, qualified and even highly qualified; in a word, the exact opposite of junk jobs. Everything is as it should be; or at least it may seem so until we notice that the old ethical structure, as found on the division of labour, is crumbling around the good jobs. (We don’t use inverted commas around the expression ‘good jobs’, because this would sound like cheap irony. The matter is too serious for that.) Not having a job at all is the deepest form of exclusion imaginable. But junk jobs are also a form of exclusion. On the face of it they are just an extreme form of division of labour. Its distant source is obviously Taylor’s ideas on ‘shop management’. In fact, there is a clear line of organisational thinking leading from Taylor through Ford to McDonald’s. It has to do with the kind of knowledge that can be defined and packaged into job descriptions, those that are precise to the last minute detail. Yet something fundamental has changed here. To understand that, we need another of Weber’s extraordinarily fruitful and sagacious distinctions: namely, that between material and formal rationality, which is orthogonal to the distinction between rationality of ends and rationality of values. The concept of ‘formal rationality’ was introduced by Weber in relation to the sociology of religion around 1913, and later extended especially to the sociology of law and more schematically to economic sociology (the most important sources are Weber 1920 and 1922). If the two distinctions are orthogonal to each other, we can have four combinations in the good old Parsonian manner, as shown in Figure 1. We offer there a list of some of the most obvious historical examples of people acting according to one or another combination of rationalities. The list is necessarily incomplete, but hopefully suggestive. Material rationality of ends is above all the province of the

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Rationality of ends

Rationality of values

Material rationality

Military strategists Peasants and landowners Artisans and craftspeople Judges and magistrates Magicians and doctors Businessmen Politicians Engineers Administrators

Priests and preachers Prophets and gurus Religious reformers Artists and writers Ascetics Zealots and freethinkers Moral leaders Kings/queens of fashion Advertisers

Formal rationality

Historians Lawyers Mathematicians Physicists Biologists Economists Psychologists Teachers Organisation theorists

Theologians Religious thinkers Rhetoricians Sophists Philosophers Ideologists Journalists Intellectuals Propaganda experts

Figure 1.Weber’s four types of rationality, and some social actors who typically embody them

‘man of action’. (No apology for the gender bias, for it reflects a social bias throughout history.) It is based on some form of means-end calculus that is rarely reflected upon, not systematic and mostly intuitive. At some point in history another kind of people emerged, more or less at the service of the ‘men of action’, who started to give formal (intellectual, cognitive) expression to that kind of rationality. Whole systems of thought, disciplines and even ‘sciences’ were constructed for that purpose and with more or less success. A parallel development took place in the domain of the rationality of values, where pundits of all colours have tried to find verbal and systematic well-reasoned formulations for the values which first made their appearance in the world via a different brand of ‘practical men’, those who dictate and pontificate on divine things, the order of the universe, the right morals, the good taste, and so on.4 Now Weber is often credited with the idea that the emergence of the modern world through rationalisation is a movement from rationality of values towards rationality of ends, and there certainly are passages in his work that suggest that. But he was actually more insistent on the movement from material towards formal rationality. And it is in this context that our argument about junk jobs can be stated. These are jobs embodying certain ends and certain values in such a way that the employee has nothing to say about them, but is simply an instrument to realise them: from the size of the hamburger to the smiling at the customer, everything has

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been codified and systematised. There is no conflict of values because (1) the employee is not asked to identify with the values involved in the job, and (2) there is no room for interpretation, modification or otherwise organic development of such values. In the old division of labour, the employee could be treated in the beginning of her career as an ignorant apprentice, but in the course of time she was able, and sometimes actively encouraged, to propose changes. Her development as a person paralleled her career and was an element in the development of the profession itself. That was a central aspect of what Durkheim had in mind when he thought so highly of the particular moral codes of the professions. In junk jobs all that is abolished (see Sennett 1998). Yet junk jobs can still be interpreted as a form of division of labour (even if degraded and degrading). What about good jobs?

From values to mandates, from conflict to duality (and multiplicity) Some examples of good jobs are: the nurse, the air traffic controller, the train driver. We could also include the academic and, perhaps even more acutely, the professional academic, in this category. These jobs are good because they employ and utilise the skills of qualified and well-trained people, they carry some status, are comparatively well paid and there is plenty of scope for discretion on the job. So far, so good. The problem starts when we see that it is in great part the challenging and creative aspect of these jobs that are increasingly accompanied by dual mandates. The concept of a dual mandate can be traced back to ideas developed in the 1950s by Everett Hughes in the sociology of professions (1959; see also 1958). In a nutshell, Hughes argues that social science has a dual mandate, in that it is supposed to deliver general knowledge of social processes as well as historical and contextual accounts of particular events. More relevant for our purposes, Hughes suggests that behind this hides another dual mandate: to help society cure its social evils as well as to deliver knowledge and truth. Such professionals are left coping with the dilemmas produced by such tensions and by a potentially irreconcilable inner conflict of values. We could provisionally characterise these hidden mandates as internalised value conflicts on the assumption that at best they are only partly in the jobholder’s awareness. There is a question of terminology here: a ‘mandate’ is more external, a ‘value’ more internal, yet (a bit paradoxically) the ‘duality’ is internal and the ‘conflict’ external. So we need to use both concepts to capture the complexity of the issues. The from-to in the title of our paper refers to the second fact, viz. that conflicts of value are more readily interpreted as taking place between different parties (individuals or groups) and not within a person, whereas the expression ‘dual mandate’ implies that there is an internal conflict. (Dual mandates were

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originally assigned to social science, thus to a social role or institution, not to a person. However, the extension does not seem to be unjustified.) The distinction between good jobs and junk jobs can only be clarified in terms of value conflicts: as we suggested before, junk jobs effectively exclude their incumbents from participation in value conflicts, and thus, we could say, from healthy development as individuals. (The social communities that junk jobbers belong to may also be deprived of the creativity and skill which such people may otherwise have been able to develop in the workplace.) Now, in good jobs value conflicts may in principle be said to take place between individuals, and/or between groups of individuals in organisations (classically between labour and management groups). The complex modern labour market consequent on socalled ‘globalisation’ is, however, replacing overt value conflicts with hidden dual (or rather multiple) mandates, taking place within one individual at a time. The nature of value conflicts is completely changed by this displacement with the consequence that the relatively few remaining good jobs are becoming increasingly inhumane too. Conflict can be healthily dealt with if it is out in the open. If not, it can be stressful. In his discussion on the dual mandate of the social scientist Hughes concludes that trying to unite the two sides of the hidden conflict could land the professional in trouble. To illustrate from our own experience one has only to consider the role of the professional ergonomist who may be torn between meeting the interests of big business or protecting and promoting the welfare of the workforce. Look also at the roles of health care workers and managers in Britain’s contemporary welfare state and National Health Service. Whose interests are they truly serving? The 1990s was a decade of great change in the NHS when the traditional caring ethic of the service was challenged by the introduction by the government of a neo-liberal market philosophy of competition and managerialism. Paperwork, meetings and cost-cutting tactics intruded into care work and resulted in the alienation of many care workers who point to a plethora of ‘them and us’ dualisms: care vs. money, budgets vs. employees, working for patients or working for the hospital trust, administration vs. hands-on care. We could generalise this question to cover all the officials in state bureaucracies. How far are they agents of the state or public servants? Nurses are archetypes of caring professions. They are under stress because of the intrinsic nature of their emotionally draining work, which is amplified by extrinsic stressors derived from excessive bureaucratic rationality. Jocelyn Handy (1990) investigated the dual mandate element of the British mental health nurse. In particular, she was interested in the hidden conflict between the caring side of the job and the controlling custodial side. She found that nurses were reluctant to acknowledge the existence of the value tension. Indeed, as if in some kind of

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subconscious process of collusion they were hardly aware of it. In Ritzer’s (1998) terms you could say that the nurses regulated themselves in conformity with management’s expectations. Their defensive coping behaviours in fact resulted in reinforcing the very stressors from which they were trying to escape. Management can exploit the old public service ethic. The rhetoric, the ‘angel of mercy’ role, is promulgated in many ways. The female child is ‘born’ into the caring role and this belief has been reinforced in the nursing schools and on the job.5 Lest this example is taking us too far away from the field of globalisation and the 21st century, we turn now to another good job, that of the air traffic controller, who in busy airports today with the aid of advanced technology is at peak times juggling high traffic loads. It is as if these people are at the edge of their skill in a world where technology, growth and rationality appear to have bumped up against the limits. It is a round-the-clock service, typical of the global modern economy. The obvious biological and psychological stress of this job is compounded by the stress from the subtle dual mandate — balancing the need for safety against the demands of the industry for growth and efficient and speedy turn round of highly expensive aircraft.6 Similar arguments can be presented on the current predicament of train drivers (the infamous Paddington/Ladbroke Grove, London, rail disaster was less an accident than a result of speed and efficiency pressures, which in this case overrode the driver’s concern for passenger safety), teachers, university academics, and all sorts of professionals. A common feature of good jobs seems to be the encroaching of a limited set of values — formerly reserved for a particular group of people within the organisation — upon the incumbents of all groups. We can conceive an organisation under the old Durkheimian dispensation as a set of interacting groups, each one imbued with a particular ‘ethic’, charged with the preservation and promotion of particular values. Conflicts then used to emerge from the fact that the different ‘ethics’ thus represented within any single organisation have to be fought out; they were part of some form of ‘political’ struggle. This is what in our view is coming to an end through the mechanism of multiple mandates.

On the knowledge of a practical Kantian The set of values being imposed on everyone else seems to fall all on one particular side — that of Weber’s rationality of ends, such as efficiency of output. We are certainly not against such values per se. We are as aware as the next guy that those values are necessary to the wellbeing and sheer survival of organisations. But it is a fact of life that those values sometimes enter into conflict with other values, such as the quality of the output. A case in point is the current predicament of academics.

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Under the old division of labour, all they had to care for was high standards in teaching, learning, and research. Under the new post-Durkheimian dispensation they increasingly, and sometimes oppressingly, have to worry about budgets, fundraising, student turnover, terminal efficiency of doctoral programmes, and so on. Why, even teachers of primary and secondary schools these days can be crushed by all the non-teaching (bureaucratic) duties they have to fulfil. Before we go any further, we would like to make an important disclaimer. People tend only to see the dark side of things — say, the division of labour as unmitigated evil. We are here in a sense making the opposite case that not everything is (or was) wrong with it. That does not mean everything is right, either (as should be clear from what we said about junk jobs). And again, in spite of the awful aspects of reduced division of labour, which this paper emphasises in relation to the good jobs, we do not think for a minute that everything is wrong with it. In fact, that is the main reason we still want to speak of certain jobs as good, even if they can be made better. The problem with good jobs is not just the intensive workload (the characteristically long hours and long weeks). The people we are talking about (nurses, teachers, etc.) are usually conscientious, so they go to enormous lengths to protect and promote the values endangered by the omnipresence of the gods of efficiency. They have to find by themselves ways and means to achieve a forever-precarious balance between conflicting goals and ideals. In the process they can, and often do, get burnt out. In his discussion on the role of norms in bargaining and collective action Jon Elster (1989) caricatures ‘everyday Kantians’ (his expression) as people who always, or almost always, want to act on principle and more or less refuse to consider the consequences of their actions. This is a suggestive picture of what happens when, for instance, the Durkheimian process of developing an in-group ethic, and defending it against other groups, shapes collective action politically. But our post-Durkheimian Kantians are vastly different. Yet they are there. For there is another side to the coin — we call it ordinary responsible behaviour or just ordinary goodness (see Oborne et al. 1993; Leal 1995). Without this quality (the responsible, caring commitment of the nurse, the train driver, the air traffic controller, the teacher, the academic: there are many examples from many walks of life) our systems would crash. If, according to the popular mechanical metaphor, the system (the organisation) is a machine, then the ‘everyday’ or ‘practical Kantians’ in it are like little greasers and oilers — there are many of them — and they are constantly monitoring and lubricating the wheels of the machine to guarantee its smooth functioning. They use their skill, know-how, their discretion, and will even rise to the occasion at times of stress and pressure on off days, prioritising the system above their own comfort needs. Management knows this and yet frequently fails to recognise it openly, and to support and reward such

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people properly. Instead, they may allow these ordinary responsibly-minded creative people to be exploited through means such as dual, or even multiple, mandates, covertly depending on the workforce’s sense of duty and capacity to cope with stress. What we refer to as this ‘ordinary goodness’ is a common phenomenon; but many workplace colleagues (easy-riders, if you like), who take advantage of its existence by not pulling their weight, also complicate the picture. So the system needs (and gets) these little dutiful oilers, who are forever running all over the place until they drop exhausted. Think of the dedicated nurse and her frantic efforts at trying to properly care for her patient against all the odds, as opposed to lapsing helpless into ‘defensive’ and ‘collusive’ coping (Handy 1990). It is often only when these committed individuals rise up in protest, or ‘leave the field’ — the job, the organisation — refusing to play the game anymore, where such protest is discouraged in the workplace in an anti-union climate, that managers sit up and take notice. We said before that these good people are there, millions of them. One question is, of course, for how long. Imprudent generals have been known to lose all their good soldiers in order to keep control over a strategically meaningless position (have you seen The Thin Red Line?). Even efficiency can be jeopardised by too single-minded attention to it. Anyway, the big question is here, again, one of knowledge — very important yet barely-understood knowledge — which is still crucial in a new machine age, in an electronic age of digital economies. What is it that these ordinary people know and what is it that other people know, or may think they know, about them? It is informal vital knowledge, closer perhaps to what Michael Polanyi referred to as ‘tacit knowledge’ (1958). It is under-researched and under-theorised knowledge. Why? For at least two reasons: Management might not openly value it, and even if they did it is difficult to research and pin down because it is more than technical skill; it is a sophisticated knowledge which includes a special psychological, indeed moral, something as well as skill. Skill is notoriously difficult to analyse, as any ergonomist will admit, even if seen from a merely instrumental point of view. It becomes even more difficult to understand and appreciate once we realise that in practice skill is always combined with certain values. It embodies individual intentions — to maintain the status quo because things are going well or to seek to change if it is judged to be not up to standard. But we barely know how to express these in a formal way. The textbooks and management training manuals are replete with formal knowledge. The clerks help the bosses with their administration and the professionals help them, in their capacities as agents of the state or of business, by doing the research, writing it up, and presenting it for ‘consumption’. They code it.

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Once coded it is subject to rules and regulations, to routines and procedures. In general, the material rationality of ends works well, but, sometimes, the ‘man of action’ needs the help of these pundits, recruited from the professional world (originally priests, lawyers and doctors, later also engineers) but in the modern university-based world increasingly from the academic world (statisticians, economists, sociologists and psychologists are the most obvious cases). They all help the ‘man of action’ to encode the knowledge necessary for sophisticated instrumental rationality. Such codes (from laws and regulations to contracts and job descriptions, from industrial psychology and time-and-motion studies to decision and game theory, from cost-benefits analysis and quality control to IQ testing, and so on) serve also the purpose of control. But the knowledge and rationality of ordinary goodness is very different: it is deeply informal. You can’t code it. It eludes analysis. That’s why individual creativity and discretion is always needed on the job. At the centre of that informal uncodeable knowledge is ethics. But that knowledge is in the last instance inexpressible. Which is why instrumental rationality (Weber’s rationality of ends) always wins over axiological rationality (his rationality of values) — being amenable to exact, even quantitative expression. Bosses who fail to acknowledge and sustain this are actually ‘rational fools’. They operate complex systems which can, and in fact, do crash, despite their efforts, systems which are always plagued with myriad unintended consequences — with stuff the people ‘in charge’ are never really quite in charge of. Their employees may thus fail to flourish in such systems and give of their best. However unintentionally, managers risk exploiting their staff instead of treating them with respect.

And finally, the paradox We argue that these ordinary people act on the basis of a Weberian rationality of values. Now that rationality is difficult to express for the actors. For the most part they rely on some form of Giddensian ‘practical consciousness’, although from time to time they actually manage to voice their concerns and complaints, either by themselves (Hirschman 1970) or with the help of another sort of ‘theoretician’ — social scientists prepared to listen to them in an appropriate manner. But it is painfully clear that we are much smarter and vastly more successful in verbalising and systematising rationality of ends in a quantitative manner than we are in doing the same kind of job with a qualitative rationality of values. The complex game played by the ‘man of action’ and his material rationality of ends aided by the ‘theoretician’ and his/her formal rationality of ends, constitute together the full picture of instrumental rationality at work. Anyway, the

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organisational malaise, together with the more general social (extra-organisational) malaise produced by the effects of wild instrumental rationality on the public, sometimes create the supposed need for codes of ethics. So enter the pundits again to help by formulating written codes of practice. But do these ethical codes help? Can one put one’s values onto paper in such a way that it really solves the problems? We have our doubts. Durkheim’s hope of professional groups building up strong ethical codes, which would save society from ‘anomie’, was probably mistaken. They are no substitute for ordinary goodness. In fact, people in organisations seldom find ethical codes helpful (Goodwin 2000). And that is because ethical knowledge — like that evinced by those little Kantian oilers we have just evoked — is clearly of the ‘wild’, ‘tacit’, embodied, intuitive, unconscious, implicit, not formalisable kind,7 and expressible mainly in narrative and metaphorical language.8 On the strength of such insights it has recently been claimed that all social science — and a fortiori all organisational studies — are fundamentally different from the sciences of the physical and biological world.9 Although this particular claim goes beyond the scope of this paper, it is certainly worth thinking about. Anyway, the formalization of knowledge which is typical of late capitalism does not — and cannot — include ethics in the living real sense, but at most the kind of formal ethics that fills the ‘ethical codes’ and the ‘business ethics books’ — not the practical, flesh-and-blood, real-time everyday ethical reasoning that so often saves the day in our increasingly complex organisations. It is certainly a paradox for management, if not indeed a paradox of management, that the more they try to formalise and codify ethical knowledge the less they succeed — unless, of course, the measure of success is a kind of ‘rational’ justification to hide a surface window-dressing that pacifies a manager’s conscience or the public’s conscience. (This would have been exactly Pareto’s diagnosis.) The Tavistockers with their concept of the socio-technical system in which social and technical dimensions were to be perfectly balanced were also misconceived. (They probably wanted to appease the techno-freaks). What we have now in reality is the social swallowed up by the technical, an axiological rationality subservient to instrumental rationality, with ordinary goodness saving the day again and again. This is surely the case in good jobs. In the case of junk jobs it is not even that, as McJobbers frantically try to get a proper human life outside the organisations in which they work, sometimes in surprising, admirable ways (cf. Wuthnow 1991), or sometimes in horribly wrongheaded ones, such as through the drug scene. To escape from the iron cages of instrumental rationality — whether Weber’s or Ritzer’s — we need technique that is subservient to the social, that is, instrumental rationality under the control of axiological rationality. (Although we would not wish to deny there are problems here as well). For sure, technology is a good

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servant but a bad master. Our diagnosis seems bleak on the face of it. Is there a chance for ethical people, trying to do ethical jobs in ethical organisations? If so, we would have to organise knowledge economies and societies in an ethical way. Nay, we would have to organise ethical knowledge in ways that are not barrenly formal. Is that possible? We believe it is; we even believe that there are some hopeful signs that people are starting to go in that direction (see the references in footnotes 8 and 9), ie in the direction of affording reasonable, responsibly-minded and skilled workers more not less discretion backed up with suitable organisational supports and structures so long as management retains overall systems accountability.10 Do organisations at the beginning of the 21st century perceive the ethical problem and the paradox it involves? Are they flexible enough to device ways of coping with the ethical impasse? Shall we all have the wisdom and the practical intelligence to fix the ethics of our systems and organisations before it is too late?

Notes * The present chapter is a revised version of a paper first presented to the APROS conference that took place in Sydney in December 2000 under the general title “Organizing Knowledge Economies and Societies”. We want to express our thanks first to Eduardo Ibarra for suggesting we take part in the conference and, also, the Society for the Furtherance of Critical Philosophy in London, for making our participation possible, by financing our trip down under. Thanks are also due to the people who partiicipated in the workshop in which we presented the paper, for a stimulating discussion, and particularly to Jon Stokes, for a wonderful chairing job, and his many kindnesses. Stewart Clegg was not only a charming host at the time but also invited us to publish the paper here. He is the only one to bless or blame; we certainly bless him for the opportunity. 1. Durkheim’s approach suffers from an important defect, inherited via Comte. This is the evolutionary idea that humankind progresses from an original state of division by kin through an intermediate state of territorial division towards a final state of division of labour. There is no such line of progress, but the three kinds of division coexist in human life and society. Each one has its own logic and no one is dispensable. In fact, they are interdependent variables. For an argument to the effect that territorial division is still very much with us, see Stephan (1995), which summarises and orders a thirty-year life work. As for kin division, it is only to be hoped that the efforts of sociobiologists and evolutionary psychologists will give us, someday, a similar view, once they renounce their misleading imperialism. In any case, a fuller picture of our ethical development should include our three basic human attachments: to kin, territory, and labour group. We really derive our values and thus become what we are, in the course of a life geared to being in these great three domains. Pareto’s analysis (1916) is, in this respect, more sophisticated. 2. The increasing numbers of unemployed complicate the picture. Having no jobs, they are forever beyond ethical development through division of labour. In terms of kin and territorial division (see note 2), we should also mention the homeless, the exiled, and emigrants. We mention all this just to insist that our paper tells only part of the story about the ethical impasse that we are being ushered into with the 21st century. See Leal (2001).

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3. Weber’s dystopian view envisaged the world as a complex of rational systems controlling our lives. For Ritzer the contemporary world is globalised through the spread of American ways of life, specifically American consumer habits. In fact, he sees the postmodern society in the West as based on consumption (whereas previously it was production), with McDonalds fast food chain being the champion exemplar. He also sees this form of consumerism as the paradigm of Weber’s rationalization, rather than the ‘iron cage’ of bureaucracy (the irrational side effects of bureaucratic rationality) with its rational centralised planning, which Weber regarded as the paradigm of modernity. Borrowing from an idea of Mannheim’s on self-regulation, Ritzer pairs it with the phenomenon of McDonaldisation to imply an even more threatening and insidious process than was forecast by Weber. If consumers willingly regulate themselves by clearing up their dirty plates in McDonalds’ cafes, and the technology, (such as the food dispensers), automates jobs, who needs to employ expensive management to externally control and regulate? McDonalds’ patrons are unpaid workers and pliable, passive, participants. The effect is the same in both the bureaucratic and McDonaldisation iron cages: an inability to think rationally for oneself and a habitual and widespread compulsiveness. The massive number of low-status, lowpaid service workers in the modern economy, working to tightly-controlled verbal scripts in dealings with customers, and the legions of customers trapped in self-controlling mind sets are, for Ritzer, a main threat to the notion of a civilised society. It is a subtle form of socialisation for conformity on a disconcertingly wide scale and is becoming increasingly standardised and global. Most of us are too busy consuming to protest against the threat of totalitarianism. Wrily, Ritzer sees no need for secret police. Such subtle control, in which ‘the enemy’ is less visible, less tangible, is harder to rebel against. It is Foucauldian in style. McDonalds, rather than merely being junk food, is junk through-and-through–for Ritzer, it is the symbol of what is wrong in the developed world. 4. This is the domain par excellence of Pareto’s ‘derivations’ (1916). On the other hand, it is clear that the frontiers in the above diagram are fuzzy and porous, much as all frontiers. Thus, psychologists sometimes play the role of pundits, say, for businessmen, but they can also set themselves up in business as gurus or at least as ghost-writers for gurus. Freud can be used for the selection of personnel or as a kind of secular theology. Similar shifts can be observed all around the diagram. Critical organisation theory, we suppose, is an attempt at moving from the formal rationality of ends to the formal rationality of values. 5. The fashionable use of the expression ‘identities’ in lieu of ‘values’ or ‘mandates’ only represents a comeback of the old sociological ‘roles’ — revamped to do justice to the conditions of modern life on three levels: simple flexibility (people behave differently in different circumstances or with different people), dual mandates (our topic in the proper sense), and pathological schizophrenia (as illustrated in extremis by the Nazi concentration camp ‘managers’, the Maffia capi, ruthless businessmen, secret agents, hit-men, etcetera–people who seem to be able to combine ordinary decencies with gross criminal behaviour). 6. For the British sociologist Anthony Giddens (1999) we are in a ‘runaway world’. It is similar to a juggarnaut running out of control. A major feature of late modernity for Giddens is sophisticated ‘manufactured risk’. Industrial societies manufacture risk (which, incidentally, addds to natural risks) and then are left with the job of controlling those risks, an impossible task to do perfectly, in complex sociotechnical systems such as air traffic control and railways. We may have become too dependent on technology–a prime example of over-rationalisation. In an ever-tightening circle we look to technology to provide solutions to fix a growing number of complex problems. The root metaphor of the age, that of the machine, creates an illusion of

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control; that what we manufacture we can always control. But these sociotechnical giants are fragmented, and it is no easy task, even with the best of intentions (and skills), to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. Like all technologies the digital revolution is a two-edged sword, only this time, like the weapons of war of the last century, the lethality and potential for environmental and social harm of the technology is much greater than anything known before. The recent railway disaster in London can stand for myriad examples. 7. The literature on this topic is immense. (For some highlights see Polanyi 1958; Lévi-Strauss 1962; Dreyfus 1972; Bourdieu 1972; Schön 1983; Benner 1984; Dreyfus & Dreyfus 1988; Varela, Thompson & Rosch 1991; Livet 1994; Claxton 1997; Klein 1998; Bloch 1998, and Atkinson & Claxton 2000. Particularly useful for ethical thinking and action from this point of view are Dreyfus & Dreyfus 1991; Pothast 1998, and Varela 1999.) 8. This is also a huge topic. The interested reader might want to have a look at least at the following recent ethics-related books: Johnson (1993); Lakoff (1996); Fish (1999), and Amsterdam & Bruner (2000). The ‘rhetorical’ approach to economic methodology (McCloskey 1990, 1998) does not always refer directly to ethics, but ethical issues are never far behind. Although older, there is still a lot to be learnt from Perelman and Olbrechts-Tyteca (1969). 9. The claim is Flyvbjerg’s (2001), although it recapitulates over a hundred year old debate on the demarcation between the social and the natural sciences. Flyvbjerg’s particular contribution refers primarily to ‘soft’ social sciences, such as sociology and anthropology, but it could be easily extended to ‘hard’ ones like economics (cf. McCloskey 1990; 1998). We are not sure, however, that his argument can actually work for demarcation purposes, for it can be argued that exactly the same cognitive features claimed by Flyvbjerg for social sciences are present in biology, physics, or indeed mathematics itself (see e.g. Krieger 1992; Casti & Karlqvist 1999, and Lakoff & Núñez 2000). 10. For earlier and fuller statements of this goal, see Oborne et al. (1993); Leal (1995), and Shipley (1998). Compare the related approaches of Cooley (1987); Norman (1989; 1993) Rosenbrock (1990), and Eason et al. (1995).

References Amsterdam, A. G. and Bruner, J. (2000). Minding the law: How courts rely on storytelling. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Atkinson, T. and Claxton, G. (2000) (Eds.). The intuitive practitioner: On the value of not always knowing what one is doing. Buckingham, UK: Open University Press. Benner, P. (1984). From novice to expert: Excellence and power in clinical nursing practice. Menlo Park, CA: Addison-Wesley. Bloch, M. E. F. (1998). How we think they think: Anthropological approaches to cognition, memory, and literacy. Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Boudon, R. (1986). L’idéologie, ou l’origine des idées reçues. Paris: Fayard. Boudon, R. (1990). L’art de se persuader des idées douteuses, fragiles ou fausses. Paris: Fayard. Boudon, R. (1995). Le juste et le vrai: Études sur l’objectivité des valeurs et de la connaissance. Paris: Fayard. Boudon, R. (1996a) De la rationalité instrumentale à la rationalité axiologique. In his Le sens des valeurs, 82–135. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France.

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Boudon, R. (1996b). La rationalité axiologique. In his Le sens des valeurs, 137–203. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Boudon, R. (2000) La ‘rationalité axiologique’ et la rationalisation de la vie morale. In his Études sur les sociologues classiques II, 201–246. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Bourdieu, P. (1972). Esquisse d’une théorie de la pratique, précédé de trois études d’ethnologie kabyle. Geneve: Droz. Casti, J. L. and Karlqvist, A. (1999) (Eds.). Mission to Abisko: stories and myths in the creation of scientific “truth”. Reading, MA: Perseus Books. Claxton, G. (1997). Hare brain, tortoise mind: how intelligence increases when you think less. Hopewell, NJ: The Ecco Press. Cooley, M. (1987). Architect or bee? The human price of technology. New edition. London: The Hogarth Press. Dreyfus, H. L. (1972). What computers can’t do: the limits of artificial intelligence. New York: Harper & Row. Dreyfus, H. L. and Dreyfus, S. E. (1988). Mind over machine: the power of human intuition and expertise in the era of the computer. Revised edition. New York: The Free Press. Dreyfus, H. L. and Dreyfus, S. E. (1991). Towards a phenomenology of ethical expertise. Human Studies, 14: 229–250. Durkheim, É. (1893). De la division du travail social. Paris: Félix Alcan. Eason, K. D., Harker, S. D. P. Raven, P. F., Brailsford, J. R. and Cross, A. D. (1995). Expert or assistant? Supporting power engineers in the management of electricity distribution. AI and Society: The Journal of Human-Centred Systems and Machine Intelligence, Special Issue on Ethics and the New Technology, P. Shipley and F. Leal (Eds.), 9: 83–96. Elster, J. (1989). The cement of society: A study of social order. New York: Cambridge University Press. Elster, J. (1999). Alchemies of the mind: Rationality and the emotions. New York: Cambridge University Press. Fish, S. (1999). The trouble with principle. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Flyvbjerg, B. (2001). Making social science matter: Why social inquiry fails and how it can succeed again. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Garson, B. (1988). The electronic sweatshop: How computers are transforming the office of the future into the factory of the past. New York: Simon and Schuster. Giddens, A. (1990). The consequences of modernity. Cambridge, UK: Polity Press. Giddens, A. (1999). Runaway world: How globalisation is shaping our lives. London: Profile Books. Goodwin, B. (2000). Ethics at work. Dordrecht: Kluwer. Handy, J. (1990). Occupational stress in a caring profession. Aldershot, UK: Avebury. Heilbronner, R. L. (1992). The worldly philosophers: The lives, times, and ideas of the great economic thinkers. 6th edition. New York: Simon & Schuster. Henderson, Lawrence J. (1935). Pareto’s general sociology: An introduction. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Hirschman, A. O. (1970). Exit, voice, and loyalty: Responses to decline in firms, organizations and states. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Hughes, E. (1958). Licence and mandate. In his Men and their work, 78–87. Glencoe, IL: The Free Press. Hughes, E. (1959). The dual mandate of social science: remarks on the academic division of labour. Canadian Journal of Economics and Political Science, 25: 401–410. Johnson, M. (1993). Moral imagination: implications of cognitive science for ethics. Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press.

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Klein, G. (1998). Sources of power: How people make decisions. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Krieger, M. H. (1992). Doing physics: How physicists take hold of the world. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. Lakoff, G. (1996). Moral politics: What conservatives know that liberals don’t. Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press. Lakoff, G. and Núñez, R. E. (2000). Where mathematics comes from: How the embodied mind brings mathematics into being. New York: Basic Books. Leal, F. (1995). Ethics is fragile, goodness is not. AI & society: The journal of human-centred systems and machine intelligence, Special Issue on Ethics and the New Technology, P. Shipley and F. Leal (Eds.), 9: 22–35. Leal, F. (1999). Antagonistic values or complementary value systems? The chances and limitations of dialogue in organizations. In Global management: Universal theories and local realities. S. R. Clegg, E. Ibarra-Colado and L. Bueno-Rodriguez (Eds.), 226–245. London: Sage. Leal, F. (2000). The relation between value conflicts and the Socratic dialogue. Occasional working papers on ethics and critical philosophy, 2: 35–50. Leal, F. (2001). Values and value conflicts in actual practice. Ethics in practice in the 21st century. In (Ed.) P. Shipley and D. Moir, 31–45. London: Society for the Furtherance of Critical Philosophy. Livet, P. (1994). La communauté virtuelle: action et communication. Paris: Éditions de l’Éclat. McCloskey, D. N. (1990). If you’re so smart: The narrative of economic expertise. Chicago, IL: Chicago University Press. McCloskey, D. N. (1998). The rhetoric of economics. 2nd edition. Madison, WI: The University of Wisconsin Press. Norman, D. A. (1989). The design of everyday things. New York: Doubleday. Norman, D. A. (1993). Things that make us smart: Defending human attributes in the age of the machine. Reading, MA: Addison-Wesley. Oborne, D. J., Branton, R., Leal, F., Shipley, P. and Stewart, T. (1993) (Eds.). Person-centred ergonomics: A Brantonian view of human factors. London: Taylor & Francis. Pareto, V. (1901–1902). Les systèmes socialistes. Paris: Giard et Brière. Pareto, V. (1916). Trattato di sociologia generale. Firenze: Barbèra. Perelman, C. and Olbrechts-Tyteca, L. (1969). The new rhetoric: A treatise on argumentation. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press. Polanyi, M. (1958). Personal knowledge: Towards a post-critical philosophy. London: Routledge. Pothast, U. (1998). Lebendige Vernünftigkeit: Zur Vorbereitung eines menschenangemessenen Konzepts. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Rosenblueth, A., Wiener, N. and Bigelow, J. (1943). Behavior, purpose, and teleology. Philosophy of science, 10: 18–24. Rosenbrock, H. (1990). Machines with a purpose. New York: Oxford University Press. Ritzer, G. (1998). The McDonaldization thesis: Explorations and extensions. London: Sage. Schön, D. A. (1983). The reflective practitioner: How professionals think in action. New York: Basic Books. Sen, A. (1976–1977). Rational fools: a critique of the behavioural foundations of economic theory. Philosophy and public affairs, 6: 317–344. Sennett, R. (1998). The corrosion of character: The personal consequences of work in the new capitalism. New York: Norton. Shipley, P. (1998). The ethical turn and the workplace.Ergonomics, 41: 1–19.

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Stephan, E. (1995). The territorial division of society. Available at: www.ac.wwu.edu/ ~stephan/Book. Varela, F. (1999). Ethical know-how: Action, wisdom, and cognition. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Varela, F., Thompson, E. and Rosch, E. (1991). The embodied mind: Cognitive science and human experience. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Weber, M. (1917). Wissenschaft als Beruf. Critical edition in: Max Weber Gesamtausgabe, part I, vol. 17 (Ed.) W. J. Mommsen and W. Schluchter (1992), 71–111. Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck. Weber, M. (1920). Gesammelte Aufsätze zur Religionssoziologie. Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck. Weber, M. (1922). Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft. Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck. Wuthnow, R. (1991). Acts of compassion: Caring for others and helping ourselves. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

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Part II

Materialising Paradoxes

Chapter 8

Organizational paradoxes and business ethics In search of new modes of existence* Eduardo Ibarra-Colado

Introduction Organization theory in the 1980s experienced a paradigmatic rupture, as the impact of new post-modern recipes and tools was projected on to the business world (Clarke and Clegg 1998). Implications were drawn from both older-style critical scholars as well as new style guru thinkers, with both being critical of established management and organizations as they saw them. Guru’s of the new order began to question technical rationality in favour of a more human world in which the normalcy of organizational reality was to be achieved through permanent revolution, constituting dilemmas and contradictions as the stuff of sensemaking (Peters and Waterman 1982; Peters 1991). New preoccupations emerged, such as the consideration of culture and emotions as decisive factors influencing both individual behaviour and enterprise results (Deal and Kennedy 1982; Ouchi 1981; Schein 1985). Political-cultural contextual factors also came into focus in the “new institutionalism” (Meyer and Rowan 1977; DiMaggio and Powell 1983), which were seen to produce and reproduce the structure of organizations and affect the way things are done. An absence of organizational control over interconnected realities that were in permanent movement, thus reproducing their own instability, also became recognised as “normal” (Perrow 1984; Weick 1993). The managerial and organizational knowledge of most of the 20th century centred on the analysis of structures, the results of which were regarded as an expression of the universalism of bureaucracy. In contrast, new critical theories stressed the interpretation of organizational forms as locally constructed, where the subjective sense that individuals gave to their actions played a fundamental role. Traditional problems of structure were displaced by the consideration of processes and relations (Silverman 1974; Crozier and Friedberg 1980; Weick 1979). Other critical theories began to represent organizations as nodes of networks,

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articulated across volatile and highly competitive space, emerging as systems with blurred boundaries favouring the circulation of information and trade in real time. For these reasons, change became considered as centrally important to the new approaches, which linked it to diverse forms of organizational flexibility and the use of new technologies in order to improve learning, adaptation and collaboration (Bartlett and Ghoshal 1989; Senge 1990; Castels 1996). In the 1980s and 1990s critical debates also reappeared, concerning the costs and effects produced by transnational corporations. In a world characterized by great contrasts, critical thinking tried to understand new problems. Some were traditional issues, such as discrimination based on class, gender, race, religion, politics or some other condition that functioned as a key element of differentiation (Nkomo and Cox 1996; Prasad et al. 1997). Other foci included power, and structures of domination, and their relation to disciplinary regimes based on surveillance and control (Clegg 1989; Deetz 1992). These were not the only foci: others focussed on the effects of bureaucratic administration, with its arsenal of management knowledge and tools (human resources, marketing, accounting, production) (Alvesson and Willmott 1992; Hopwood and Miller 1994; Townley 1994). A renewed appreciation of technical rationality and bureaucratisation as means for the alienation and de-humanization of work (Schwartz 1990; Sievers 1994) became evident. Organization growth and the concentration of wealth in periods of bonanza, the socialisation of losses in periods of crisis and recession (Clegg et al. 1983, 1986), and the role of the state in regulating economy and society, came into renewed focus (Laumann and Knoke 1987; Clarke and Newman 1997).1 The global dimension became evident, as the strength that huge corporations acquired during the last century meant great fortunes were accumulated and concentrated in what were relatively few capital-owning hands on a global scale, even with the spread of “pension-fund” capitalism. At the same time that the conceptualisation of poverty developed global dimensions (Bauman 1998) there also emerged a conception of this one world as being inherently at risk. Some risk was due to the scientific and technological advances with which science had previously sought to control the world, particularly a tendency to hyper-specialization that reduced and fragmented insufficiently understood realities. Consequently, scientific and technological development both increased risks and diminished control over complex systems that had become autonomous, producing unexpected and tragic effects, instead of predictable results (Giddens 1990; Beck 1996). The destruction of the planet increasingly appeared irreversible, expressed in wars between nations as well as in the destruction of nature, demonstrating the great tragedy of “development” that confronts homo sapiens with homo demens (Morin and Kern 1998). For each step forward there seemed always to be a countervailing move in the opposite direction.

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The 1990s developed widespread paradoxical social science representations of the “real world”. Authors began, insistently, to point out the paradoxical character not only of social science reality at the macro and global level, but also at the level of management and organization, within work, economy and culture (see, for example, Peters 1991; Handy 1994). It appeared that managers and scholars finally understood the dynamics that govern organizations, in terms of the normalcy of the inconsistencies — rather than consistencies — of rationality. However, these apparently novel positions overlooked the fact that the paradoxical condition of the organizational world is not a post-modern condition: the 20th century was full of examples that showed modern society to be characterized by ambivalence. What we are observing may be the recuperation of a condition of modernity eliminated by rationalist thought during the last two centuries. As Marshall Berman (1988; see also Bauman 1996) commented, recuperation of a project for modernity implies the return to past modernisms, which clearly assumed the contradictory nature of reality, the importance of the self and history, and the necessary understanding of a historical epoch as a totality. To talk about “post-modern realities” implies recovering paradoxical aspects of the condition of modernity as it sought to escape, definitively, from the iron cage. The iron cage in question was as much a construct of ethics as it was of control.

Introducing ethics Recognising the ambivalence of modernity, in the following pages we will analyse the dilemmas and paradoxes of business ethics. Our reflection will centre on the following question: “Is it possible to talk about business ethics?” This apparently simple question encompasses the space of both discourse and practice. A satisfactory answer requires new ways of visualizing the topic. To fulfil this purpose, we will establish three scenarios with the intention of pointing out three different ethical facets of organizational paradoxes.2 The first scenario shows the paradoxes of the world of the corporation when discourses and practices are confronted: we will see that discourses and representations do not correspond to practices and actions, neither in the declared ends of the firm, nor in the results actually produced. The second scenario looks at the symbolic devices used by corporations to generate identification and to build consensus. The discourse of excellence functions as an identity fabrication device, enabling the projection of an imaginary subject that displaces the real one. Individuals in the corporation become imaginary subjects permanently confronted and defeated by their actual shadow. Finally, the third scenario shows the sense of the “ethical explosion” of the last decade of the 20th century, revealing the paradoxes of

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the business of ethics. This dilemma opens urgent debate about what seems a “nonethical-ethics”, or to put it another way, consideration of ethical preoccupations in business reveal not only its unethical character but also the role of resistance in foreshadowing a new ethics, as practices of freedom. These three scenarios will allow us to delineate, in the final part of the chapter, some key ideas for the construction of a different organizational ethics. It is one that does not submit to the mandates of money but, essentially, to the exigencies of a society that requires spaces in which one may act through freely exercising will. From this substantive ethics it might be possible to transform corporations from structures of subjugation and domination to spaces of greater equity and plural coexistence and recreation.

Paradoxical corporations and business [and/or] ethics I have been a fool all my life as far as making money is concerned. (Cornelius Vanderbilt, March 23, 1878).

Recollect the history of United States industrialization, the cradle of the entrepreneurial culture that dominates the global world. The American empire was founded on mechanization, on the possibilities offered first by steel and then by oil, as well as on the new inventions that transformed business management and shop work, such as the telegraph, the telephone, the typewriting machine, and the calculator (Giedion 1975; Hughes 1989). The coldest, most algid moments of this savage industrialization, commanded by the Robber Barons (Josephson 1962), were featured in a recent book on the expansionary experience of the railroads, which by 1900, had already built 193,000 miles of track: The first transcontinental railroad was built shedding blood and sweat, and at the cost of political manoeuvring and fraud. The Central Pacific Railroad split the country in two, from the western to the eastern coast. In Washington, it spent 200,000 dollars in bribes to acquire 9 million acres of virgin land and 24 million dollars — 36 additional million over that calculated — to a construction company, which, in fact, was owned by it. Three thousand Irishmen and ten thousand Chinese were engaged four years in the construction, being paid one or two dollars per day. (Zinn 1995: 191, translated from the Spanish edition)

Almost one century later, at the beginning of the new millennium, things do not look much different. Who can deny the relationship between the wealthiest of men and the newspaper headlines narrating the juiciest of scandals during the last century? The captains of industry, represented by Andrew Carnegie, John D. Rockefeller, Cornelius Vanderbilt, and J. P. Morgan, have yielded their place to the new yuppies of money. There are many examples from which we will select just a few:

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Robert I. Maxwell, a publishing businessman who illegally used the pension funds of his employees to assuage the financial difficulties of his mass media empire; Michael Milken, the financial speculator who became famous thanks to his “junk bond” invention of interest-yielding speculative bonds where high risk is offset through diversification; Ivan F. Boesky, who built a large financial empire in Wall Street by purchasing confidential information, which he eventually used for illegal advantage in his financial transactions; Mario Conde, former Chairman of Banesto in Spain, accused of embezzling six hundred million pesetas and of trying to escape on false documents; and his fellow citizen Mariano Rubio, executive of Banco Ibercorp, accused of bribery, swindling, and misappropriation. And just to give some space to Mexico, my own country, let us mention Carlos Cabal-Peniche, known as King Midas, Angel Isidoro-Rodríguez, alias El Divino, and Jorge Lankenau-Rocha, whose work, according to widespread official accounts, endangered the Mexican financial system to its core. In this brief tour, Raúl Salinas-de-Gortari — known worldwide as the “uncomfortable brother” or the “ten percent man” — cannot be forgotten, any more than the new narcopolitical actors, led by Mario Villanueva-Madrid, former governor of the state of Quintana Roo, now resident in prison. One could go on, as it is an endless list. Taking such facts into account, is it possible to talk about business ethics amongst some of businesses most high-profile practitioners — or are these the “rotten apples” in an otherwise excellent batch? Let us quote the opinion of a wellknown North American celebrity, who gave an early diagnosis of this situation. An illustrious businessman made the following public statement, still relevant to our times, on October 17, 1931.3 Today, people no longer respect anything. Before, we placed virtue, honour, truth, and the laws on a pedestal. Corruption is embedded in the American life of our times. Where no other law is observed, corruption becomes the only law. Corruption is weakening this country. Virtue, honour and the law have vanished from our lives. (Quoted in Galeano 1998: 1, translated from the Spanish edition)

Before this dark scenario, leaders of the business world — despite the fact that some of those most prone to ethical nostalgia for the good old days were increasingly associated with politics and drug trafficking — shared a presumed ethical vocation, translated into heroic philanthropic acts, showing clearly the public virtues, while concealing their private vices. Some of the names we have mentioned before now appear as the names of foundations that make contributions and donations to foster education and research; to fight terrible diseases, such as cancer or AIDS; or to support the miserable and the helpless, who have received a marginal part of the benefits produced by the wealth gathered by these gentlemen. No action has been spared to publish their altruism and kindness, by means of ad

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hoc advertising campaigns, films, and heroic books that turn out to be best sellers. The device, as an arrangement of symbols and artefacts, can operate thanks to the logic of common sense: who could imagine that behind such exemplary behaviour lays the ethical absence so widely denied?

Corporate predators, from the centre to the periphery Let us shift from individuals to corporations. In this case, the scenario is little more encouraging. Suffice to refer to the classification made every year by Multinational Monitor, the magazine that highlights the ten worst corporations of the year. Multinational Monitor’s 1997 and 1998 lists included well-known brands, such as Philip Morris, Nike, Chevron, Coca Cola, General Motors, Mobil, Monsanto, and Wal-Mart (Mokhiber and Weissman 1999: 83–85 and 115–118). The charges that were levelled for award of this distinction varied, ranging from the payment of miserly wages to employees to the lobbying of Congress, so that laws could be passed that did not hinder their specific business interests. Also, we must not neglect the charge of destabilizing governments opposed to their operations, or supporting dictatorships that smoothed their business with unrestricted benefits and unlimited concessions. Environmental destruction, sales of proven harmful drugs, exploitation of child labour, and modification of the feeding habits of children, are some of the other usual charges. Besides, what economists know as “externalities” — which release the guilty from blame — such as those caused by the indiscriminate use of commodities such as automobiles, alcohol and tobacco, (maybe even mobile phones), can also be added. Before these facts, is it possible to talk about business ethics? These stories are not alien to the Mexican entrepreneurial and governmental environments. Suffice to mention the scandals associated with the sale of radioactive milk in Mexico by a public enterprise (CONASUPO); the as yet undisclosed profits made by businesses from the privatisation of state-owned corporations, such as the Telephone corporation (Telmex), thanks to the support of the “ten per cent man” (the already mentioned Raúl Salinas); or the huge frauds made under the umbrella of Banking Rescue, after the economic crisis of 1995 (Fobaproa). In the latter case, the cost that will be borne by the nation has been estimated at eighty five billion dollars, a sum equivalent to the external public debt of Mexico in the last one hundred and seventy years (Fernández-Vega 1999). While taxpayers underwrite these embezzlements, between one hundred and eighty thousand and two and a half million lawsuits have been filed against the “defaulting” debtors of the banking system, depending on which sources are cited: official data or the data provided by the debtors organization called El Barzón. Such a parade of malfeasant events indicates that the maxim of entrepreneurial behaviour remains “business is business” — meaning that, when dealing with businesses and money, the ends justify the means

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and no rule, whatsoever, exists in these cases, other than for purposes of convenience. It appears on this substantial evidence that the inherent opportunistic behaviour of the business world leaves no room for ethics, unless considered, basically, as a rhetorical complement to acting always in one’s own interest. A tension exists between entrepreneurial and/or political pragmatism and an ethical ideal based on individual freedom, which is illustrated whenever aid is not offered to victims of natural accidents or contingencies. Mexico is full of such examples. The powder explosions in the city of Celaya in 2000; recent floods in different states of the Republic; the severe consequences of earthquakes in cities such as Puebla and Oaxaca, and even the explosions which occurred several years ago in Guadalajara as well as in the district of San Juanico in the north of Mexico City. Many other examples exist in each of the countries of the world and I am sure the reader can provide their own cases. Generally, the neo-liberal argument is that the government, considered as a “liberal enterprise” and as having a human face, does not want to be disrespectful to the “dignity” and the “capacity” of the individuals affected by tragedy. It will, instead, provide them ample opportunity to show their fortitude and initiative when they succeed in overcoming adversity. Nevertheless, while this is being argued in official declarations, governments grant soft credits to corporations that face the very same events. Obviously, the convenience rule operates efficiently; however, is it ethical? Given such facts, one has to ask again: is the discourse of business ethics really possible?

Management devices and societal risks Let us change gear once more. What can we say regarding the implications of crucial decisions, which, through their effects, place many people and families at risk? For instance, at the tail end of the early nineties recession, in January 1994, the most important American corporations laid off 108,000 workers (Rifkin 1994). However, it is not only recession but also profits, which can destroy. Let us briefly remember, using some illustrative data, the results of one of the most celebrated management tools applied during the last decade, re-engineering (Hammer and Champy 1993; Grint and Case 1998). The re-engineered General Motors closed down 21 factories in the United States, which meant that 20,000 workers and 10,000 employees were laid off, leaving a total of 30,000 families without the possibility of covering their most essential sustenance needs. IBM downsized by 20,000 jobs and Digital Equipment by 10,000. The industrial world, in its search for the “correct” size of its businesses and corporations, seems to consider first and always, the pockets of their shareholders and the high salaries of their managers, despite causing increasing unemployment and paying low, if not starvation, wages to those sectors of the population actually employed.

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According to data submitted by the World Bank, in Latin America there are 196 million people who survive on 60 dollars per month, and 94 million people at extreme poverty levels, who struggle to survive on one dollar a day. And, if we analyse the situation in the countries of opportunity and justice, the cradle of reason, the situation is of no less concern: in Europe, there are, officially, more than 50 million poor people and 20 million unemployed people (Ramonet 1998; Forrester 1999). Among those who have a job, income differences are vast: in the United States, at the end of the 1980s, the CEO of a corporation earned an average of more than 2 million dollars annually, only 93 times the average wage of a worker of that same facility (Reich 1992). In terms of our modern global condition, this planet is inhabited by 800 million unemployed or underemployed people and 5 billion poor people, compared to the 500 million wealthy individuals who manage the economy, for their convenience, through 37,000 transnational corporations and their affiliates (Rifkin 1995; Ramonet 1998; Korten 1996). Expressed in different terms, the total wealth of the top 358 “global multimillionaires” equals the incomes of the 2.3 billion poorest people, that is 45 per cent of the world population (Bauman 1998: 70). Before these facts, is it possible to talk about business ethics?

‘In search of excellence’: Artificial identities or the killing of the self In fact, so strong is the need to have meanings, that most of the people relinquish a reasonable degree of freedom to the institutions that can provide these to them. The outstanding corporations can be distinguished for their very intense culture; so much so that either their rules are accepted or one is free to leave. There is no middle ground. (Peters and Waterman, In search of excellence, 1982, translated from the Spanish edition).

Let us establish our second scenario. Entrepreneurial activity has always been supported in discursive games that exalt the highest values of the ideal businessman and manipulate the symbols of success. Businessmen, as prestigious entrepreneurs that personify the ethics of work and innovation, represent mythical figures installed in the social imaginary as exemplars to be followed. One of the most successful versions, seeing the effects it has generated, is that of the so-called literature of excellence. It was born in 1982, when Peters and Waterman had a considerable impact on the business world, and on management, with the publication of their book In Search for Excellence (Peters and Waterman 1982). The book sold 122,000 copies within two months of publication and, at present, its world sales have surpassed five million copies (Clark and Salaman 1998:140). Its importance lies in the break it presents with the rationalistic paradigms that previously dominated management, replacing, in each of its pages, traditional rules of logic with practical recommendations consistent with the prevailing circumstances of the moment.

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In Search of Excellence exalted the indetermination, the heterogeneity, and the ambivalence characterising the business world at the turn of the century; it proposed new paths to collaboration to take advantage of the paradoxes and ambiguities of the post-modern world. The “excellence” proposal laid the basic foundations for governing the behaviour of individuals in organizations, by proposing to fabricate new identities for them. It suggested organizations must provide individuals with a figurative sense of themselves as subjects of excellence, making them directly accountable for the fate of the organization. The introjection of this image, founded on the exaltation of narcissistic perfection and entrepreneurial capacity, is supposed to enable organizations to take advantage of all the energies of individuals, who will thus work to the limit of their capabilities, with the only goal to be “simply the best”. With this approach we see the usefulness of language and symbols used as tools to shape behaviour, allowing us to acknowledge, once again, the importance that ethics discourses have for corporations. In fact, this type of discourse becomes a main component of a strategy that pursues the idealisation of the organization through the value of excellence. What is really important is the following: by projecting a representational system that does not have a specific reference point, strategic strength will originate in the operating capacity produced. Excellence is such a diffuse idea it is difficult to be against it. Therefore, its translation into specific practices is protected from potential criticism. The value of the individual is exalted as a personification of the ideal of the organization, as an employee of excellence (highly productive, disciplined, with initiative, always available, that is, literally committed to death). When this is the case, the re-engineering processes applied in organizations in the last two decades of the 20th century, are greatly facilitated. Successful corporations stress the need to create corporate cultures where individuals are involved, maintaining the organizationally built autonomy and initiative of a “champion”, supported by an informal environment that allows the unconscious exteriorisation of values, a type of behavioural code for reaching the highest levels of fulfilment. To attain its goals, the concern of the corporation should be to produce the individuals that lead it along the “appropriate way”, conducting their thoughts, beliefs, and values. In short, they must be responsible for finding the good way to excellence on behalf of the owners of money already alluded to. In accordance with these positions, effective organizational control rests on the capacity the corporation has to build a scenario in which individuals acquire a figurative sense of themselves as free individuals able to govern their own destiny. This strategy is based on the results of some recent psychological studies about the need of self-determination, which have shown that: […] those who think that they have modest personal control of their fate persist in their tasks. They develop them better and engage in them with more zeal. […]

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The fact, once again, of believing that we have a little more free will makes much greater our commitment. (Peters and Waterman, In search of excellence, 1982 102–103, italics in the original translated from the Spanish edition).

The figurative sense is founded on the exaltation of individualism, the entrepreneurial capacity, initiative and leadership, which would represent the values desired by the champions of excellence, the “self-made men”, prepared always to do the maximum as their only task. In this way, when all the responsibility is laid on the conduct of individuals, the corporation is released from blame for their failure, even though it was responsible for defining those rules that limit their actions and practices. In this context failures will be attributed to individuals, while successes belong to the organization. Nowadays, excellence is quietly disseminated through minute pores and social capillaries of action, for which “excellence” has been a blueprint, that outlines not only precise performance terms for individuals, in each of their vital spaces, but also the actions of corporations. In this case, power does not limit itself just to individuals and business corporations, but also affects every other type of organization, including the performance of the so called “New Public Management” (Rose 1989; Ibarra 1996). Focusing on the discourse of excellence shows the strength of language as a tool to mould and comport conduct (Foucault 1971). In fact, such language operates as a discursive strategy associated with specific practices that pay tribute to the advantages offered by individual performance to justify, with its ethical code at hand, the exclusion of large contingents. Merit acknowledgment makes it possible to find some justification to exclude those who are different, who follow their particular mode of existence, always beyond this idealised image of the “outstanding individual”. The absence/exclusion from the selected groups of excellence is explained by the low individual performance of the excluded; the message conveyed indicates that those who have been excluded are to be blamed exclusively for their own exclusion. The permanent reinforcement of the modes of existence or life styles that excellence presuppose, lies in the reiterated exaltation of expertise and the total devotion of those few individuals who have been able to qualify, who are displayed as examples to follow. As already said, the term “excellence” has no specific definition. Therefore, it becomes a highly operative symbolic artefact whose concrete meaning is always given by the institutional contexts within which it operates. In these limited environments, it is powerful agents who permanently negotiate sense. Therefore, excellence is amorphous, self-shaping and extremely flexible. It can be anything, because the sense it acquires is based on the specific devices with which it operates, in specific contexts. Nonetheless, the values projected as ethical values also produce their own costs and externalities. The consequences of these new ways of managing

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corporations have been very severe, as documented by several studies (Aubert and De Gaulejac 1993; Downs 1995, 1997; Kets de Vries 1994, 1995; O’Neil 1993). Executives have been subjected to social behaviour rules where everything is valid, so long as the maximum level is achieved, regardless of the sense that this goal entails. In these cases, stress and anguish operate as the force of fulfilment: these are individuals literally devoured by the organization, they are usually workaholics having the corporation as their only family, and whose only satisfaction is to go further on, although, frequently, the direction is not clearly known. Is it possible to talk about business ethics under rules of excellence?

‘The Business of ethics’: Is it ethical? […] the issue is not only to be ethical, but to look ethical. And it is difficult to appear ethical in a culture where little public trust exists. (Tom Hurka, Calgary University)

The 1990s could be termed the phase of ethical effervescence. Some data illustrate this escalation. For example, if we use an Internet browser and we ask it to detect the sites containing the terms business ethics, it will immediately start displaying hundreds of thousands of pages connected with this topic.4 On the other hand, according to a recent report, throughout 1999, in Canada only, 5,000 meetings on business ethics were organized. This figure gains importance if we compare it to the one hundred meetings held five years previously. Besides, since the publication of the best seller by Blanchard and Peale (1988), The Power of Ethical Management: Integrity Pays, which shows its (non)sense from the very title itself, more than 1,500 books dealing with similar topics, with very different postures, have been published. The same thing happens with the articles found in specialized magazines, which are being constantly published, with no end in sight. The most important magazine on this topic, The Journal of Business Ethics, has already been in the market for 21 years. The circle is closed with the increasing incorporation of business ethics courses, as a part of the Management curriculum, and with the proliferation of workshops and executive courses on the same topic. But, what is the reason for this growing ethical concern? This explosion can be partly explained as a reaction to scandals occurred in business, politics, show business and the sports worlds. For example, form the US, the classic case of Watergate; the widely discussed murky businesses of Banco Ambrosiano; the Lewinsky case, and O. J. Simpson’s trial. In Mexico, there is the local soap opera featuring one of the most popular Latin singers, Gloria Trevi and Sergio Andrade, her manager, who are now imprisoned in Brazil accused of kidnap and rape of minors, waiting to be extradited to Mexico. All these acts, and many

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others, have awakened the interest in “ethical investment”, expressed in the adoption of behaviour codes specifically made to fulfil these purposes, designed with the advice of an increasing number of consultancy corporations. Some authors state that ethics meetings replace the function of religion (Heelas 1996), thus generating, as we have already mentioned, a strong feeling of community, group belonging and faith in the corporation. To express it in different terms, this concern might seem a reaction to the sense of fragmentation and loss undergone by our current world; ethical representations operate as the glue that promises to restore this sense of community in a society governed by fragmentation, nonsense and individualism. If we took a more radical position, we could state that we are living in times when the “business” of ethics became a reality. In the quest for the “ethical one best way” to keep organizations away from scandal and disgrace, or at least can quieten it down when it occurs, organizations have placed normative prescriptions in their showcases which promise to orient “good” human behaviour. These formulae are highly quoted and increasingly demanded, and intended to reinforce the ethical profile of businesses, projecting a corporate image that deals with the highest ideals of society. These ideals are defined and defended by the enterprise under the formula of progress/consumption — indicating the rules that we should all observe when fulfilling our obligations in the corporation — obligations also defined by the corporation. Thus, the sale of ethical prescriptions is a palpable reality, one which provides consultancy with a new face, to replace that exhausted by the decreasing effectiveness of its financial and strategic planning models. The new consultants for souls — soul merchants — make their own business by offering ethical medicine and advice, promising to build strong corporate unitary cultures promoting coresponsibility and exemplary behaviour. And when this fails, it will always be possible to face contingencies and to reduce the costs a scandal would otherwise generate, with its pernicious influence on stock prices and options. This new discursive arsenal and its codes, formulae and practices, protect and cover what everyday behaviour in businesses cannot prevent: the battle for money at any cost. In this sense, the growing ethical concerns that feature in the business world nowadays escape all sense of ethical vocation. They are assumed because, as the subtitle of the book of Blanchard and Peale (1988) indicates, “integrity pays”. The movement that attempts to bring together the concepts of ethics and business clearly faces its ambivalence, redrafting the intellectual schizophrenia that for so long has characterised administrative and organizational knowledge. One may conclude that ethics, as business, with its store of values, codes and commandments for sale, its recipes and fashionable representations condensed in books, conference papers and web pages, with all its counselling — shows its role clearly as a device for hiding practices. The practices hidden respond only partly to

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the supposed universal values discursively assumed and exalted. Considering all this, could it be possible to talk about the business of ethics as an ethical activity?

Ethics in organizations: Towards new modes of existence Maybe the target nowadays is not to discover what we are but to refuse what we are. We have to imagine and to build up what we could be to get rid of this kind of political ‘double bind’, which is the simultaneous individualization and totalization of modern power structures. (Michel Foucault, ‘The Subject and Power’, 2000).

The three scenarios already discussed allow us to appreciate diverse faces of the paradoxical character of management and organization within work, economy and culture. These scenarios clearly show the ambivalence of modernity confronting discourses that glorify values rarely put into practice. Corporate accumulation imperatives have nothing to do with the presumption of universal values that guarantee the project of modernity, relating only to abstract concepts of progress invoked in discourses and representations of “the future.” On the contrary, the condition of modernity is one in which concepts and practices continue to represent antithetical projects. As already established, this paradoxical condition is represented in the confrontation between business and ethics: how can business and ethics coexist if they represent opposite projects in tension. Is the realization of the first one inevitably an obstacle to the realization of the other?5 The solution of this dilemma demands the de-ethicisation of ethics. By this phrase is meant the detachment of ethical content, to enable its functioning as a device for the comportment of conduct in order to facilitate accumulation and discipline, while hoisting the petard of an always delayed promise of progress and social well-being. Ethics becomes converted into a lucrative investment, not only because of its contribution to the production of profits by the imposition of a moral order on the corporation, but also because ethics itself become an independent enterprise. Ethics businesses accumulate dividends by selling symbols and values integrated in their ample catalogue for the interpellation of good conduct. What such a project required was a conception of ethics constituted as a will to truth, that is, as true knowledge capable of confronting the attacks of the critics, and of inventing an absolute identity as a synthesis of the nature of the subject in modernity. This “true self” — natural, coherent and transcendent — would clearly indicate the way in which one must conduct oneself, transforming individuals into moral agents that do exactly what the ethical code prescribes (Foucault 1985:26–27, Spanish edition).

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In this joint venture, corporations and ethics have assumed that the individual must find ways to use its natural capabilities to the maximum, considering the universal values that everybody must obey, those values that support the human condition. The existence of a superior moral order, it is assumed, demands the commitment of the individuals to fulfil the given objectives of the corporation. This is the only viable option to reach progress and attain the well being of society. In this way, business ethics tries to conduct the behaviour of individuals through the imposition of rules and practices that reduces individual margins of freedom. It provides a set of rational rules of governance and governmentality to manage and restrict the individual freedom of choice in the organization, allowing some conducts and discouraging others. Additionally, the multiple and variable modes of subjection imposed by business ethics, projects an idea of the corporation as a natural order, disposed to realize the great promises of modernity. The concept of “organization” aids this conception because it conveniently glosses contrasting and diverse realities, making them appear as the same or equivalent. “Organization” is an empty concept that takes the place of less fortunate terms, such as those of “corporation” and “bureaucracy”. Its use eliminates substantive differences among organizations, giving almost exclusive attention to their structures and technical functioning, considered always as the only (one-best) way to organize. The purpose of “organizations” — it doesn’t matter if they are giant corporations, public agencies, hospitals, prisons or schools — is reduced to their efficient performance, without consideration of the values that orient specific ends. In sum, it appears that, in terms of rationality, the technical defeats the substantive, and private accumulation defeats the free selfdetermination of the subject, through the triumphant logic of organization. In order to advance the search for a new ethics, it is necessary to think very differently. First, it is necessary to emphasize the impossibility of thinking of business ethics as if it appreciates a moral problem; generally, it is reduced to the capacity of individuals to discern between “good” and “bad”, as absolute values, to which there are no alternatives. Ethics cannot be seen as a set of universal values that regulate behaviours of passive individuals whose only option is to live by obeying the rules. On the contrary, ethics is the contingent outcome of the relations between active individuals and groups that maintain dialogues and conversations, inventing, in this way, life-styles that make possible renewed practices of freedom. The consideration of ethics as practices of freedom is sustained in the recognition of identity as an historical invention produced in accordance with specific conditions of possibility. It is neither determined beforehand, nor does it obey a supposed incremental perfectionist logic that results in “making better persons”. On the contrary, subjectivity is the result of relations between forces under conditions of life that haven’t been elected, but that can be transformed (Foucault

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1997a: 116–117). Through its reflexive acting, individuals can invent and transform their selves, always beyond any naturalised identity imposed by the organization. In this way, ethics is related to practices of freedom and the exercise of the reflexivity of the subject. It is a mode of objectification that operates through practices that allow individuals to recognize themselves as subjects. Individuals constitute themselves as moral subjects having a self-ordered knowledge that allows them to discover themselves as responsible for their own actions. Consequently, they are free individuals who can displace the limits that mark them as subjects, modifying some conducts to transform themselves in a different manner (Foucault 1985: 28, Spanish edition). If we consider ethics in this way, we are recognising the possibility of the transformation of subjectivity. Following Foucault, power relations are crossed by a multiplicity of mobile and transitory points of resistance, which displace unities and produce re-alignments, indicating the possibilities of the inversion of the situation. The operation of the transformation processes implies mobile, revertible and unstable relations between forces, precisely because there exists possibilities of combat and resist (Foucault 1987a: 116–117, 1990: 116–117, Spanish edition). To put it in other words, there exist active subjects who find multiple possibilities of resistance and re-creation associated with practices of freedom and modes of existence of each with the others (Foucault 1997b). It is precisely this openness that allows us to think of individuals as conscious and free subjects, who are capable of acting in order to transform the organizational realities that subject them, and in which they participate. They will operate their capacities in association with others to impose limits on the “behaviour of the organization”, impelling some rules and practices, and discouraging others. In this sense, from their reflexive singularity, individuals can encourage new identities in order to transform their particular modes of existence, allowing them to abandon their conditions as subjects, in order to begin to be free (Ibarra 2001b). From this point of view, organizations could constitute themselves as relational spaces in which the actions of some of their participants will function as modes of regulation of the actions of others. These relations rely on the mediation of the reflexive dialogue that permits structure of the possible fields of action and, at the same time, determine the substantive finalities of the organization, going beyond the specific interests of each one of the participants. The idea is to reconsider organizations as spaces of government that articulate different knowledge, powers, and modes of existence or ethical projects, operating under certain rules constantly negotiated (Clegg 1989: 209–211; 1994). It opens the possibility of fabricating new organizational realities liberated from any kind of moral codes and “appropriate behaviours” as new practices of freedom constituting individuals as ethical subjects acting in some contingent fields of actions.

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We search for new modes of existence and government practices based on dialogue and reflexivity. These imply the acceptance of plurality and diversity that constitute society and the recognition of diverse life-styles with their dilemmas and paradoxes. Further, they also presume the construction of new kinds of relations within and beyond organizations, based not on hierarchy, authority and control, but the potentialities and capacities of individuals and communities, achieved by effectively exercising freedom and auto-determination. In synthesis, we must consider organizations, no longer as places of confinement, but as spaces in which diverse groups produce a great variety of desires, with codes and practices that we need to understand. As Starkey and McKinlay established (1998: 239), organizations must be reconceived as a community-of-communities in which desires are expressed by forms of self-discipline that are willingly embraced. In this sense, analysis of organizational paradoxes entails modes of recognition of the possibilities of reconstruction of identities and their possible effects (Ibarra 2001b). We need new knowledge and practices to invent a new ethics in organizations — far away from business ethics, as acts of creative destruction that allow us to recognize what we are and who we want to be. This is our opportunity to find a life-style to confront dilemmas and paradoxes that function as the thermometer of a diverse society always permanently (re)producing its self and selves.

Notes * I would like to acknowledge helpful discussions with the colleagues that participated in the panel ‘Global Factors in Organizational Analysis’ at the VIII APROS International Colloquium ‘Organizing Knowledge Economies and Societies’, held in Sydney, Australia, December 2000. I want to thank, especially, the comments made by Peter Fleming, the rapporteur for the panel. His suggestions were invaluable aids to revision. In addition, I would like to thank Stewart Clegg for his acute comments and the editorial work he did in order to assist one whose native language is not English. 1. In order to appreciate the diversity and complexity of critical approaches in Organization Studies, see, for example, Alvesson and Deetz (1996), Calás and Smircich (1996), Ibarra (2001a: 201–216) and Reed (1996). 2. These and other scenarios that may be developed, demonstrate the quicksands within which business ethics has become trapped. Its current theoretical treatment is a very good example of what has been called the ‘intellectual schizophrenia’ (Reed 1985: 21) of management and organization theory. Traditionally, this kind of knowledge has gathered antithetical realities under different theoretical formulations. For example, the dilemma of choosing between cooperation and authority in order to regulate conflicts, a dichotomy initially established by Barnard (1968: 167), is the kind of formulation that tries to conceal–without much success–the

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paradoxical condition of corporations, when manifestly economic functions conflict with less evident social functions. For a deeper discussion of this problem, see Ibarra (2001a: 171–172). 3. We are referring to Al Capone, who made this pronouncement some days before he was arrested and imprisoned. 4. Using the Yahoo! search engine one could find, at the time the search was conducted, 493,000 web pages related in some way to business ethics; using Altavista the result was 1,292,837 web pages. The exercise was conducted in August 2001. 5. Other examples are represented by the paradoxical coexistence of private accumulation and general social well-being; the production of commodities and conservation of nature, and the control of work and individual freedom. In order to solve these, and other dilemmas, it was necessary to build a set of values and representations that projected these ‘maladjustments’ as temporal accidents to be solved in the near future. In this apparent process of [di-]solution of organizational paradoxes, ethics in business play a central role.

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Chapter 9

Beyond the ‘war for talent’ hype Occupational and organizational change in the business professions Timothy Morris and Ashly Pinnington

Introduction Dramatic phrases such as the “war for talent”, supposedly coined by one of its victims, McKinsey and Co., suggest that conditions in the markets for expert labour are radically affecting the nature of the professional firm. But does this phrase reflect anything more than a temporary supply-side constraint? In this chapter, we argue that to understand the nature and direction of change in organizations of professionals, it is necessary to explore the links between occupational and organizational levels of change and to focus on occupational formation more explicitly than do contemporary accounts. Paradoxically, for the world of organization theory, it is the occupational level of formation that is determining organizational changes rather than the converse. We use the case of the business-based professions and their organizations to illustrate our argument. The purpose of this chapter is to develop a framework of analysis for understanding how firms of professionals are changing. In recent years, there have been rich descriptions of the way in which professional firms have been transformed and built around the concept of archetype change (Greenwood and Hinings 1993; Greenwood et al 1990) but nonetheless, we suggest these are theoretically limited. Primarily, this is because they operate at levels of analysis that do not properly take into account the influences of occupation or profession. Hence, we have little sense in which the formation or adaptation of professions may affect, as well as be affected by, organizational dynamics. Following Reed (1996), we have defined professions broadly so that it includes occupations of those with expertise that is highly demanded and offers privileges, such as task autonomy, as well as those that have been more traditionally recognised. We argue that these new professions of knowledge workers have sufficient solidarity and common interests to pursue collective strategies that enhance their status and labour market power, even if they

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do not all have the support of extensive institutional associations common to some longstanding professional occupations. Through formal and informal actions, professions influence the ways in which professional firms are evolving, and act as a constraint on the pursuit of organizational strategies. We concentrate in this chapter on the business-based professions, but similar tensions between occupation and organization can be observed elsewhere (e.g. Ferlie and Fitzgerald 2000). We elaborate how professional firms are being reformed, and sketch out the possible shapes that the new model of the professional firm may take, under the influence of profession-level change. In particular, we challenge existing arguments that the new professional firm archetype is more managed and bureaucratic. We argue that some professional firms actually display anti-managerial values, and that these values mimic the entrepreneurial innovation favoured by some of the “new economy” professions. These values are reinforced by the emergence of the entrepreneur as a heroic figure, replacing previously held professional aspirations (du Gay 1994; du Gay et al 1996; Guest 1990).

The formation of new entrepreneurial professions The growth and prosperity of elite firms in various professions has been a characteristic of the last half-century. It has been fuelled by buoyant demand for access to expertise, particularly in the area of corporate commercial activity. It constitutes, and is constitutive of, the more pronounced segmentation of professions in late modernity, noted by Freidson (1986). Typically, the large professional firm has developed a wider range of specialisations, leading to greater internal differentiation, and it has acquired a larger set of clients. It is likely to work for them on a more transactional basis than previously, where the professional played a more generalist role of valued advisor, or concilieri to his or her longstanding personal clients (Baker and Faulkner 1991). For the largest professional firms, now dealing exclusively with corporate clients rather than private individuals, the process of internationalisation is the latest stage in their expansion (Aharoni 1999; Galanter and Palay 1991). In the process, the professional firm is said to have become more business-like in management and values. The contemporary large professional firm has been conceptualised in archetype terms as the managed professional business (Brock et al 1999; Greenwood and Lachman 1996). Used in this context, archetypes are both ideal types in the Weberian sense, and empirically observable phenomena (Greenwood and Hinings 1993; Gray 1999). In contrast with the more traditional professional partnership, the new archetype is said to be less distinctive from other types of organization, in terms of internal structure, policy and goals (Cooper et al 1996).

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Change has been in the direction of conscious management. The notion of the firm as a business first and foremost predominates, rather than as an organization with other competing professional goals. The most extreme cases of this archetype are the large accounting/business advisory firms. While notionally still organized as partnerships, they are to all intents and purposes similar in purpose and management to many of their multinational clients. Such archetypes may accurately describe much of what has happened to the modern professional firm, but they have limitations. While couched within a broader neo-institutionalist framework of change (Greenwood and Hinings 1996), they do not focus on the wider stimuli for change within and across professional jurisdictions. This is because institutional theories focus on the organizational field as the unit of analysis and this may include more than one occupation, as well as clients, agencies of the state and other organizational phenomena. This also means that archetype analysis is not directly concerned with the differences between professions and their historical evolution. Nor does it deal with the possibility that occupations might have collective interests, although this proposition is at the heart of numerous theories of the professions. For example, the notion of professional mobilisation in order to secure occupational closure or jurisdictional control, which is central to many power based theories of the professions (Abbott 1988; Hanlon 1997; Larson 1977) is not incorporated into archetype ideas. What is ironic is that early interest in the professional firm was stimulated directly by theoretical problems identified in studies of the professions. For example, in the context of interest in the power of professionals in society, Smigel’s pioneering study of New York law firms was concerned with the role and powers of elite lawyers operating at the level of the firm (Smigel 1964; Nelson 1988). In addition, early work on the professional firm was centrally concerned with the interaction of bureaucratic and professional forms of control on professional behaviour and attitudes (Montagna 1968; Hall 1968). Thereafter, analysis at the level of the organization (professional service firm) became less concerned with the influence of professional norms or institutions, while analysis of the professions was not concerned with organizational influence (see for example, Abbott 1988; Johnson, 1972; Perkin 1996). In consequence, archetype concepts have developed independently of occupational analysis. One outcome is that in using archetypes to analyse the nature of professional firms, ideas have been transferred across professions, with little concern for the ways in which different historical processes may affect organizational forms and practices. Organizational goals have been understood by researchers as determined independently of the evolution of professions (Barley and Tolbert 1991).

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To bring the profession back into the picture, let us take two inter-related phenomena that particularly impact on the formation of the business-related professions. The first is the emergence of what have been called the “new professions” (Reed 1996). These are a scarce resource to many of the large consulting firms - both in the strategy area and in the large business service/accounting firms. Many of these groups have developed out of computer-based technologies, and their power is derived from the potential that these technologies have for revolutionising modes of competition and industry structures. Despite this market power, they seem to be weak in terms of the status accorded to more traditional professions. Their fundamental scientific knowledge may well be built on formal education at high levels, but it is also likely to be strongly experiential and specialised around particular sub-systems or products. The constant updating of what is a rapidly obsolescent knowledge base and bets on where the best market opportunities are likely to lie in relation to this knowledge stimulate high occupational mobility. The ideology of the new professions is distinctly entrepreneurial. They are a heterogeneous set of occupations that have not sought to exercise “closure” through organization or control of a jurisdiction. Their power derives from their complex expertise and the market control this brings rather than the construction of the institutions of professional control. They display some contempt for both corporate employment and the institution-building characteristic of the professional project (Larson 1977), perhaps because many have tasted organizational employment and been victims of retrenchment. Akin to these technology professions are the educated elites that seek the credentials to enter business, most notably through the burgeoning global market for business degrees. What is important about this very large group is that most of them fund their own education, or human capital development, in a business school or a law school, to gain access to the professional firm. The law and business schools have prospered from this demand for institutionalised expertise. In return, individuals in this large group have expected labour market power and a healthy return on their investment. Collectively, the technology professions are weakly organized and lack the occupational identity of the established professions. Having made their own investment in education, they do not owe loyalty to employers, which would be paid back by working for them post-qualification. Further, having studied as well as participated in the processes of corporate restructuring that have involved “downsizing” and the demise of the corporate career, they are understandably cynical about the notion of commitment to a single organization. Their ideology is market-oriented and individualistic; again, these values are distinctly entrepreneurial.

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The second area affecting professional formation is change in the knowledge base of many occupations. For professions, claims to expertise form the basis of their privileged position and their assertion of jurisdictional rights (Abbott 1988; Freidson 1986). Hence, changes to knowledge that undermine the legitimacy of such claims are a serious challenge to professional status. Several different types of problem in the arena of knowledge have emerged for professions. For one thing, as consumers of professional services have become more educated and confident, they have been prepared to challenge claims to expertise more openly and to question the efficacy of outcomes from the application of expertise. Even in the most well entrenched professions, such as medicine and law, solutions have been seen to fall short of expectations and, in the process, competence challenged. In addition, new methods of knowledge distribution most recently via the Internet, for example, have furthered the power of consumers either to challenge professional expertise or to enact some of the solutions previously performed by professionals. Another characteristic has been the increased speed at which knowledge is generated and then diffused, particularly in the arena of business solutions. These knowledge products are the central service of consulting firms and have rapidly turned into commodities, which place pressure on firms to both exploit them as efficiently as possible and to produce new ones (Suddaby and Greenwood 1999). At the same time, a characteristic of all professions has been the greater fragmentation of expertise and resulting specialisation of professional groups. The overall consequence is more diversity within professions and the possibility of overlap with competing jurisdictions: claims to knowledge of corporate finance is one example, with accounting firms, investment banks, law firms and actuaries, all competing to offer advice, and each containing different occupations that seek dominance in the knowledge arena.

Entrepreneurial aspiration and the growth of the new professional firm Behind the growth of the business professions has been the notion of the professional advisor, be it lawyer, consultant or engineer, as the desired occupation of the young educated elite. The independent professional ideal may have long gone, as individual self-employment declined and was replaced by corporate professionalism and employment within a medium or large organizational setting (Johnson 1972), but the status trappings of professional occupations provided no less a substitute. In particular, within the business world the consultant won heroic status. As fashions for business innovations accelerated, it was the consultant who provided

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the latest elixir for clients anxious to swallow the medicine, if only to ensure that they were not missing out on any magic to which their competition might have access. Some have described this as the brokering of information across sectors (Hargadon and Sutton 1997). Others have suggested that consultants and other “knowledge entrepreneurs” were taking a more active role in the deliberate creation of fashions and fads (eg, Abrahamson and Fairchild 1999; McKenna 1998; Morris 1999). Both arguments assert the consultant’s influence on economic restructuring has been substantial. Consultants had the ears of CEOs; they were the power behind the throne. Their critics may have stereotyped them as young, inexperienced and arrogant business school graduates, peddlers of the latest jargon and concepts, with little understanding of, or concern for, the longer term consequences, but this did not deter those seeking the material and status benefits the business professions provided (O’Shea and Madigan 1998). Such a system of “expertise” production and distribution, underpinned by professional status, thrived in conditions of economic growth and stagnation. In recessionary times we had restructuring, downsizing and re-engineering (Grint and Case 1998), the last being the brainchild of the now defunct CSC Index consulting firm. In the good times we were promised “reinvention of the industry”. Meanwhile, the alternative of the corporate career came under greater stress and only the largest corporations, particularly in the finance sector, could match the material rewards of these business-professional occupations.

The dotcom effect Disruption to the traditional professional occupation and developments in the new professions, gathered pace during the e-commerce “revolution”. This was first experienced on the West Coast of America, of course, where the technologically innovative firms were clustered near to Stanford University. Its impact is still greatest there, but its influence has spread globally in the last five years. How did this change affect the professional firm? First, as new occupations emerged, they opened up for the first time in many years serious competition for “talent”, that is, recruits of the appropriate quality. Not only did this affect the consulting firms, it also affected the law firms and large business advisory/accounting firms. Second, these new occupations became concentrated in their own technology based professional firms. These firms also attracted experienced staff from within the established professional firms in law, accounting, management consulting and investment banking that had left to set up or join new ventures. These staff included some of the most highly productive employees, typically with four or five

Beyond the ‘war for talent’ hype

years experience, and which could be generating up to ten times their employment cost in fee income, and might otherwise have made productive partners for the firm. In combination, the first and second factors pushed up the price of labour, particularly at the point of entry to the internal labour market. Third, it affected the promotion system. We discuss the longer-term implications below but, in the short term, the competition for expert labour meant that each promotion to partner, occurring in the absence of ability to hire a complement of lower paid junior employees, affected the target leverage ratio of the firm. Leverage is the ratio of non-partner to partner fee earners and is generally seen as an important long run determinant of profitability (Maister 1993). Ceteris paribus, a decline in leverage caused by promotion to partnerships not matched by nonpartner hires, will reduce the profit-per-partner rate of the firm. On the other hand, to defer promotions of suitable candidates is likely to lead to defections, as well as generate a negative impact on the ability of the firm to make further hires at any level of seniority. Fourth, with a shortage of staff, traditional professional service firms switch to maintaining existing operations and meeting their current capacity demands. This has knock-on effects: the real utilisation rates (hours-worked on client work) rise, although staff quite often are not fully rewarded for their extra efforts in overtime payments. From the professional’s point of view, not only does work get harder (and longer), but also, the scope for project variety and developmental work may be sacrificed in order that the existing order book is fulfilled. Consequent decreases in professional satisfaction can provoke further quits. Another result of such unexpected capacity constraints is that partners become more actively involved in doi