(Garry Crawford, David Hancock) Cosplay and The Ar

Cosplay
and the Art

of Play
Exploring Sub-Culture
Through Art
GARRY CRAWFORD
& DAVID HANCOCK
Leisure Studies in a Global Era
Series Editors
Karl Spracklen
Leeds Beckett University
Leeds, UK
Karen Fox
University of Alberta
Edmonton, AB, Canada
In this book series, we defend leisure as a meaningful, theoretical, framing
concept; and critical studies of leisure as a worthwhile intellectual and ped-
agogical activity. This is what makes this book series distinctive: we want
to enhance the discipline of leisure studies and open it up to a richer range
of ideas; and, conversely, we want sociology, cultural geographies and
other social sciences and humanities to open up to engaging with criti-
cal and rigorous arguments from leisure studies. Getting beyond concerns
about the grand project of leisure, we will use the series to demonstrate
that leisure theory is central to understanding wider debates about iden-
tity, postmodernity and globalisation in contemporary societies across the
world. The series combines the search for local, qualitatively rich accounts
of everyday leisure with the international reach of debates in politics, lei-
sure and social and cultural theory. In doing this, we will show that critical
studies of leisure can and should continue to play a central role in under-
standing society. The scope will be global, striving to be truly international
and truly diverse in the range of authors and topics.
Editorial Board
John Connell, Professor of Geography, University of Sydney, USA
Yoshitaka Mori, Associate Professor, Tokyo University of the Arts, Japan
Smitha Radhakrishnan, Assistant Professor, Wellesley College, USA
Diane M. Samdahl, Professor of Recreation and Leisure Studies, University
of Georgia, USA
Chiung-Tzu Lucetta Tsai, Associate Professor, National Taipei University,
Taiwan
Walter van Beek, Professor of Anthropology and Religion, Tilburg
University, The Netherlands
Sharon D. Welch, Professor of Religion and Society, Meadville Theological
School, Chicago, USA
Leslie Witz, Professor of History, University of the Western Cape, South
Africa
More information about this series at

http://www.palgrave.com/gp/series/14823
Garry Crawford · David Hancock
Cosplay and the Art

of Play
Exploring Sub-Culture Through Art
Garry Crawford David Hancock
University of Salford University of Salford
Salford, UK Salford, UK
Leisure Studies in a Global Era

ISBN 978-3-030-15965-8 ISBN 978-3-030-15966-5 (eBook)
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-15966-5
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019934713
© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s) 2019

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Cover credit: Nelliel & Yachiru (detail), watercolour on paper, 150 x 180 cm, 2012, by David Hancock
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Preamble and Acknowledgements
This project began life as an art-led doctoral research project undertaken

by David Hancock and supervised by Garry Crawford, Paul Sermon,
and also initially, Mathias Fuchs. So, our first thank yous and acknowl-
edgements must go to Mathias Fuchs for his input into the early direc-
tion of the project, but especially, a big thank you to Paul Sermon who
had an important guiding role throughout the doctoral research on
which this book draws and builds.
David Hancock’s work has throughout most of his career focused
primarily on various subcultures, and for his Ph.D. thesis, he chose to
consider and research cosplayers and cosplay culture. What first led
him to this was an interest in telepresence and how cosplayers make
physical characters and representations that may previously only exist in
films, comic books, and video games. As the main focus of his doctoral
research, David Hancock produced well over one hundred watercolour
paintings, sketches and drawings, and also several sculptures and videos,
creating a large body of work that explores and represents this subcul-
ture. As a key part of this practice-led doctorate, Hancock also wrote up
an empirically informed thesis that explored not only the inspirations
v
vi
and meanings behind his artwork, but also how this interprets and rep-
resents cosplay culture. It was then after the completion of the thesis,
that we decided that some of the ideas that Hancock had started to
explore in his Ph.D. were ripe for further investigation and hence, this
book.
This book has been primarily written by Garry Crawford, but it very
much draws and builds upon the data gathered by David Hancock, his
initial ideas, and importantly his artwork. It is David Hancock’s thesis
and artwork that form the foundations of this book, which have then
been developed further by Garry Crawford. The writing process has
been that Crawford begun each chapter with Hancock’s original work,
and then sought to develop, expand, and explore further those initial
ideas, and then once drafted, each chapter was returned to Hancock for
his added input, editing, and approval, to ensure we have stayed true to
the original ideas and data. Hence, this book is fundamentally different
to the doctoral thesis; they are different pieces of work, but both share
and build upon the same data, artwork, and essence. The project then
has become much more than a doctoral thesis and now includes several
outputs, including the thesis, this book, the artwork, numerous national
and international exhibitions, several conference papers, and at least
two published articles. Hence, we must also acknowledge and thank the
publishers of the Journal of Fandom Studies, in which we published an
earlier version (Crawford and Hancock 2018) of what would become
Chapter 7, and also, Critical Contemporary Culture in which Hancock
(2015) published an overview of his original doctoral thesis.
We hope, and certainly feel, that this has been a very fruitful collab-
oration between a sociologist and an artist. Our pairing was from the
outset, unusual, and has produced some interesting and new ideas, and
we have both learnt a lot from each other during this process and cer-
tainly feel we have produced something different here. It is also some-
thing we hope will contribute to numerous areas and debates. However,
we could not have done this without the help of those around us, and
hence, we owe several people some thank yous.
First and foremost, we would like to thank all of the participants,
most importantly those who David Hancock formally interviewed for
vii
the research and those who posed for him and made his artwork pos-
sible, but also, all of those we spoke to at events, conversations, meet-
ups, and online. Also, a thank you to the wider cosplay community who
we observed, both online and offline, for several years, and have always
been very generous in sharing their time and thoughts. Their actions
have inspired David to make this wonderful body of work that he is
immensely proud of. We are extremely grateful for their support and
assistance throughout. Though this book is undoubtedly academic in its
focus and target audience, it is still about cosplayers, and we hope that
they feel accurately and sympathetically represented in here.
We would also like to thank Palgrave, and especially Sharla Plant
and Poppy Hull, and similarly the series editors Karl Spracklen and
Karen Fox for commissioning the book and providing excellent support
throughout.
In terms of our personal acknowledgements, Garry Crawford would
most importantly like to thank David Hancock. It has been a pleasure
working with such a talented artist and scholar both as a doctoral stu-
dent and now on this book. Garry would also like to thank all of his col-
leagues in Sociology and Criminology at the University of Salford. Also,
a very important and necessary thank you to Daniel Muriel. The writing
of this book overlapped with finishing off Video Games as Culture writ-
ten by Muriel and Crawford, and undoubtedly, some of the ideas and
themes from that book have informed and fed into this book. Daniel is a
great scholar who significantly advanced my thinking in several key areas.
Garry would also like to thank Paul Joyce for always being willing to
share ideas and a pint. And finally, but most importantly, Garry would
like to thank Victoria, Joseph, and Grace, for always being there and
putting up with him writing another book.
David Hancock would like to offer special thanks to Debbie for all
the many, many hours of discussion, support, advice, and finally proof-
ing that she put into the original thesis that was the starting point of
this book.
A special thank you should also go to Garry Crawford who has
worked tirelessly to transform my initial research into this beautiful
written book, and offered advice and support as his Ph.D. supervisor.
viii
His support in understanding cosplay and contextualising it has been

hugely influential to the original research and putting together the ini-
tial thesis. David would also like to offer a personal and special thanks
to Paul Sermon, who supported his artistic practice throughout his
Ph.D., offering assistance, guidance, and many opportunities. Paul has
encouraged and offered constructive and enlightening dialogue that has
inspired David’s artistic practice and research.
Thanks should also be given to all the artists who have inspired
David, or assisted and engaged with him throughout his research.
Particular thanks should go to The Digital Romantics: Simon
Woolham, James Moore, Andrew Brooks, Iain Andrews, Clare Booker,
Helen Knowles, Kari Stewart, Tom Ormond, and Ian Kirkpatrick and
Julien Masson, as well as to Juno Doran, Ulrika Wärmling, and Alex
McQuilkin, and all the other artists whose work is discussed and drawn
on in this book and the wider body of work.
David would like to thank the University of Salford who has supported
his research through the Ph.D. and enabled him to embark upon this
journey.
Thanks should also go to all the galleries, curators, and organisations
who have funded, supported, and exhibited David’s work, as well as pro-
viding opportunities for public engagement. These include: Arts Council
of England; Dominic Mason and staff at 20-21 Visual Arts Centre;
Marguerite Nugent, Helen Oliver, and staff at Wolverhampton Art
Gallery; Yvonne Hardman and staff at Touchstones; Vic Allen, Dee Grijak,
and staff at Dean Clough Galleries; Robert Teed and Paula Jackson at The
New School House Gallery; York Theatre Royal; Antoni Ferrer and staff at
Hanmi Gallery; Denise Courcoux; Michael Borkowsky and staff at Third
Person View; Hayley McPhun and Cambridge House; The Base; Sunarts;
and the PAPER Team.
Finally thank you to Charlotte Gould, Mathias Fuchs, Colin Fallows,
Gaynor Bagnall, Marie Griffiths, Jacques Rangasamy, Paul Hayward,
Chris Rivlin, Helen McCarthy, Ken Pratt, my family, and friends for all
your input along the way.
ix
References
Crawford, G., & Hancock, D. (2018). Urban Poachers: Cosplay, Playful
Cultures and the Appropriation of Urban Space. Journal of Fandom Studies,
6(3), 301–318.
Hancock, D. (2015). Play in the Sunshine. Contemporary Critical Culture.
http://www.criticalcontemporaryculture.org. Accessed 1 July 2015, no
longer available.
Contents
1 Introduction: What Is Cosplay? 1
2 Contextualising the Artwork 21
3 Cosplay and Art as Research Method 51
4 Cosplay as Subculture 87
5 Identity and Performance 119
6 Crafting Cosplay 163
7 Playful Cultures and the Appropriation

of Urban Space 199
8 Conclusion: Decentring Cosplay 231
Bibliography 249
Index 253
xi
List of Figures
Fig. 1.1 Link (The Wanderer), pencil crayon on paper, 2014 3

Fig. 1.2 Donald (Alex), watercolour on paper, 42 × 30 cm, 2012 13
Fig. 1.3 Goofy (Catherine), watercolour on paper, 42 × 30 cm, 2012 14
Fig. 2.1 Miriam as Lolita, pencil on paper, 76 × 56 cm, 2011 42
Fig. 3.1 Lanterns, watercolour on paper, 15 cm × 21 cm, 2014 68
Fig. 3.2 Installation views I at Touchstones Rochdale, 2013.
Image use courtesy of Touchstones Rochdale Art Gallery 78
Fig. 3.3 Installation views II at Touchstones Rochdale, 2013. Image
use courtesy of Touchstones Rochdale Art Gallery 78
Fig. 4.1 U.R.V.1, acrylic on canvas, 122 × 244 cm, 2000 100
Fig. 5.1 Jo as Yuki Cross, watercolour on paper, 150 × 100 cm, 2011 130
Fig. 5.2 Sam as Zero, pencil crayon on paper, 76 × 56 cm, 2011 131
Fig. 5.3 Advent Children I, watercolour on paper, 120 × 240 cm,
2012 133
Fig. 5.4 Pandora’s Tower II, watercolour on paper, 56 × 76 cm, 2013 140
Fig. 6.1 Advent Children III, watercolour on paper, 21 × 30 cm, 2014 174
Fig. 7.1 Air Gear Ikki, watercolour on paper, 150 × 110 cm, 2013 215
Fig. 7.2 Arkham Asylum, watercolour on paper, 150 × 170 cm, 2013 216
xiii
1
Introduction: What Is Cosplay?
Introduction
This is a book about cosplay, but also much more than this.
It is our central argument that cosplay can be best understood as a
craft, a subculture, and a performance, all of which are created and rec-
reated in the everyday online and offline lives of cosplayers, but take on
greater significance in certain locations, such as at science fiction and
fantasy convention and meet-ups. However, in doing so, we hope that
this will contribute to our understanding of many other related areas
such as craft, creativity, fan culture, identity, leisure, performance, play,
practice-led research, subculture, urban spaces, and much more.
In seeking to understand and explore cosplay, this book draws on tra-
ditional ethnographic methods while also more innovatively employing
art as both a method of research and as a form of data. A substantial
part of this book is theoretical and seeks to explore, develop, and set
out a number of theoretical tools that we suggest are useful in explor-
ing cosplay and cosplay culture. However, these are theoretical ideas
© The Author(s) 2019 1

G. Crawford and D. Hancock, Cosplay and the Art of Play,
Leisure Studies in a Global Era, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-15966-5_1
2
G. Crawford and D. Hancock
that are empirically informed, and in particular, this book draws on data
gathered over a period, in excess, of five years. Much of this research
has followed a traditional ethnographic path, where David Hancock
has attended events and meet-ups, spoke to cosplayers, followed this
community online, and conducted a series of formal interviews with
thirty-six cosplayers. However, as we shall explore in more detail in
Chapter 3, at the core of this project has been the use of art as a means
of both gathering and representing data. This project and book are,
therefore, a meeting and blurring of sociological and art-led research,
which has involved the production of well over one hundred watercol-
our paintings, sketches and drawings, and also several sculptures and
videos, representing a significant body of work that explores and repre-
sents this subculture.
The book begins in the following chapter with a discussion that seeks
to locate this artwork within the context of other artists who have sim-
ilarly been involved with, or drawn on, subcultures in the creation of
their work. We then more specifically consider the use of art in research,
before dedicating a chapter to each of the topics of subculture, perfor-
mance and identity, crafting, and place, before concluding with a final
and much broader chapter that seeks to consider the wider role of cre-
ativity in contemporary society. In each of these chapters, apart from
the conclusion, David Hancock’s artwork is presented in a number of
focused discussions. Each of these inserts uses Hancock’s artwork to
focus our attention and discussion on specific issues central to our anal-
ysis. Hence, each of these inserts uses artwork to represent the research,
but also as a tool to further explore key aspects of this. We begin this
with a discussion below of Hancock’s 2014 pencil crayon drawing of
Link (The Wanderer) (Fig. 1.1). This we use to discuss the origins of the
overall project, and also the relationship between the digital and the
physical, and how cosplayers ‘make real’ the often ephemeral. What
then follows for the remainder of this chapter is a discussion of ‘what is
cosplay?’; a question, one may assume, that would lead to a fairly short
and simple answer, but as we shall see in this chapter and the rest of the
book, pinning this down, is far from straightforward.
1 Introduction: What Is Cosplay?
3
Link (The Wanderer)

The starting point for this research was an exploration of how media
texts, such as video games, are (re)interpreted and (re)located within
everyday life. What could be referred to as the place of the ‘virtual’ in the
‘real’—if that were not such a problematic statement.
In particular, a key early artistic influence for David Hancock came from
his reading of Casper David Friedrich’s painting Der Wander über dem
Nebelmeer, or The Wanderer Above a Sea of Fog (1818). In particular,
Friedrich’s use of the Rückenfigur (the view of the figure seen only from
behind) is an example of a third-person perspective; a viewpoint now
commonly seen in, and typically associated with, video games, such as
Tomb Raider, Gears of War, and Max Payne, to name but a few.
In particular, what is quite striking is how a contemporary viewer
might, therefore, see The Wanderer Above a Sea of Fog from the perspec-
tive of a third-person video game. This idea of viewing an earlier work
through a more contemporary lens is explored by Svetlana Alpers in her
book The Vexations of Art (2005). In this, Alpers considers the remark
made by the nineteenth-century French critic, Baudelaire, that ‘Velázquez
can be described as resembling Manet’ (Alpers 2005, p. 219). The notion
that a seventeenth-century painter, Velázquez, could be influenced by
the artist Manet, working some two hundred years later, at first seems
Fig. 1.1 Link (The Wanderer), pencil crayon on paper, 2014

4
absurd. However, after Manet, the work of Velázquez is seen in a new

light. Manet thus becomes a filter to how a contemporary viewer might
read a Velázquez, and so perceptions of his work are shaped accordingly.
Similarly, we can see this reverse influence in Friedrich’s The Wanderer
Above a Sea of Fog. When viewing The Wanderer, we cannot help but
view this from our contemporary perspective and understand this as
resembling a third-person perspective video game.
The Wanderer has been used in many contemporary contexts, such as
a cover image for numerous books, including Dover Publications’ edition
of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1994), Ted Honderich’s The Oxford Guide
to Philosophy (1995), and amongst many others. It has also been the inspi-
ration for many other paintings and images, which include numerous film
posters, such as those for V for Vendetta (2005), Watchmen (2009), and
Inception (2010), and several video game boxes too, including The Legend
of Zelda: Breath of the Wild (2017).1
It was, therefore, the appropriation of The Wanderer within contem-
porary popular culture and, in turn, how a modern audience, raised on
a diet of video games and movie posters, might see this painting, which
was, in many ways, a starting point for this project. In particular, Hancock
used The Wanderer as inspiration for a number of paintings and drawings
between 2011 and 2014, including Link (The Wanderer) (2014) (Fig. 1.1),
featuring a cosplayer dressed as the character Link from Nintendo’s hugely
popular video game series The Legend of Zelda.
In the drawing pictured here (Fig. 1.1), we see a cosplayer, Mikey,
restaged in the seminal pose of Friedrich’s The Wanderer. It is through
this image that Hancock asks the viewer to see the world of Zelda and
Link through Friedrich’s work. In this use of the Rückenfigur, we see Link
as similarly ‘turning his back on the world of the spectator to be fully
engrossed by the world of sublime nature or to look inward to the sub-
lime depths of his imagination’ (Beech 2004, online).
As we shall explore further in Chapter 7, for cosplayers, their envi-
ronment can take on significant meaning; as it is not only where they
are physically located, but this can also become a resource they draw on
in their play and the creation of new narratives. The cosplayer Mikey is
therefore here, both a wanderer in a park in Cheshire, but also through
his play, a wanderer in Hyrule, the fictional world of The Legend of Zelda.
As with Friedrich’s painting, ‘we oversee the experience of someone else,
someone who was already there in a past long before our arrival’, as
Koerner (2009, p. 192) writes in his book on Friedrich. Hence, the viewer
has the same feeling looking at Friedrich’s painting as we do when playing
a video game or watching someone else’s cosplay: that of being granted
access to only part of a wider narrative, to being an observer, or tempo-
rary presence, in someone else’s story. As Koerner (2009, p. 192) contin-
ues, ‘I had a sense of undisturbed presence, here I am not the first in this
landscape, for the traveller remains spatially and temporally before me’.
As such, both the avatar and the artist never fully allow the audience to
5
experience the scene alone; this is always filtered through the perspective
of another, from a third-person perspective. However, as we shall see, cos-
play enables, at least partially, the stepping into a first-person role, which
allows the cosplayer to see the world through the character’s eyes.
What Is Cosplay?
In this section, we specifically focus in more detail on cosplay, and in
particular we address the fundamental, but far from straightforward,
question, of ‘what is cosplay?’.
The term ‘cosplay’ is a contraction (or portmanteau) of the words
‘costume’ and ‘play’ (Lamerichs 2015, 1.1), or as Lome (2016, 1.2) sug-
gests, possibly more accurately, it might be seen as a combination of the
terms ‘costume’ with ‘role-play’. Put simply, cosplay would appear to be
typically about individuals taking on (certain aspects of ) the appearance
(and to some extent mannerism and characteristics) of characters from
manga, comics, graphic novels, video games, films, or similar. However,
once we start to scratch the surface of this activity and its associated
communities, we begin to see that it is much more complex and multi-
faceted, and to some degree diverse, than any simple definition can ever
hope to capture. Certainly, what is and what is not cosplay is hard to
define, as both academics and participants frequently define its forms
and boundaries differently.
A lot of the existing academic, and many of the non-academic, dis-
cussions of cosplay wrestle with this idea of defining, or at least setting
the parameters, of what is cosplay? This is to be expected and is a typical
and important phase in the development of any new area of research. It
is necessary to ask the key questions of what is it we are looking at here,
how we define it, and what are its fundamental characteristics? One
only has to look into the not-very-distant past of early game studies,
to see very similar debates raging there and, in many respects, still con-
tinuing today (see Perron and Wolf 2009). However, there does come a
time when it is necessary to take stock, reflect on what has already been
argued and set out, and use this as a basis to move discussions forward,
6
and this is the purpose of this section. Not to silence debates, or even
provide a definitive answer as to what cosplay is, but rather, to set out
what the key debates, definitions, and ideas are in the field at this point
and, then hopefully, to use this as a basis on which to build new discus-
sions and carry debate forward.
In particular, it is the purpose of this chapter to identify and con-
textualise the substantive chapters that follow. In doing so, in this sec-
tion we start by charting the (commonly accepted) history and origins
of cosplay, and how it was the interactions and exchanges between fan
and convention goers and practices in the West and East (and most
specifically in America and Japan) that are typically understood as key
in defining the contemporary nature of cosplay. Next, we consider
who and what are commonly defined as cosplay practices and partici-
pants? As we see, existing fan and academic definitions of cosplay can
vary from the very specific, such as seeing this as the practice of wearing
costumes inspired by Japanese manga and anime at conventions, to the
very broad, which includes activities and communities including steam-
punk, Furries, zombie role-play, live-action role-play (LARP), and much
and many beyond this. Finally, we suggest that our reading and review
of the existing literature seems to point clearly to three key defining
aspects of cosplay, and we also add to this a fourth, that is present, but
probably less evident in existing definitions and debates. These then are
costuming, performance, community, and place, and these are the four
key defining areas we then focus on in more detail in Chapters 4, 5, 6
and 7.
The History of Cosplay
The making and wearing of costumes that draw their inspiration from
forms of popular culture is not new. An often cited, early example of
this was when science fiction fans Forrest J. Ackerman and his daugh-
ter Myrtle Rebecca Douglas attended the 1939 World Science Fiction
Convention in New York City dressed in outfits inspired by the 1933
film Things to Come (Lotecki 2012). However, it was in the 1960s and
1970s, with the advent of television series such as Star Trek and later
7
films such as Star Wars, that dressing up as characters from popular cul-
ture started to become more common at American science fiction con-
ventions (Lamerichs 2011).
It is generally accepted that the term ‘cosplay’ was first coined by
Nobuyuki Takahashi in 1983, while reporting on the phenomenon
of Americans dressing up for the Worldcon (World Science Fiction
Convention) (Bruno 2002). It is then suggested that Takahashi’s exten-
sive writing on the subject for Japanese science fiction magazines and
the publishing of his photographs of American science fiction fans
inspired many in Japan to similarly take up this practice.
However, this is not to say that dressing in costumes at science fiction
and fantasy conventions did not occur in Japan before the early 1980s.
Certainly, it is suggested that the science fiction author and critic, Mari
Kotani, while attending the Ashicon Japanese Sci-Fi Convention in
1978, went dressed as the character Umi no Toriton (Triton of the Sea)
(Thorn 2003, p. 175). Furthermore, in his Otaku Encyclopaedia (2009),
Patrick Galbraith claims people were cosplaying at COMIKET in Japan
in the 1970s (Galbraith 2009, p. 51). In particular, the Yamato Fan
Club Plaza newsletter contains photographs of people in science fiction
inspired costumes in Japan in 1978 (Galbraith 2009). Japanese fans of
manga and anime, often termed Otaku, have a long history of dressing
as characters from films and comic books. However, it is suggested that
it was Takahashi’s writings and photographs in the magazine My Anime
from 1983 that significantly inspired this to become more common-
place at Japanese science fiction conventions.
In turn, it is evident that Japanese culture has had a significant and
profound impact on Western popular culture and science fiction fan-
dom and its practices. It is evident that there is a fairly long history of
the influence of Japanese popular culture in the West. Some early and
notable examples include, when Osamu Tezuka’s Astro Boy comics were
redrawn and published in America from the mid-1960s onwards and
then in the late 1970s the Japanese anime series Science Ninja Team
Gatchaman was adapted for American television as Battle of the Planets.
Then, significantly in the 1980s we start to see more Japanese imports,
such as the manga series Dragon Ball, and then Akira, which was a glob-
ally successful and influential film in 1988. From the 1990s onwards,
8
many mainstream bookstores and comic book sellers in the West started
carrying imported and translated manga, and it is also important to
acknowledge the impact on Western popular culture of the hugely pop-
ular 1990s Japanese video game Pokémon, and its plethora of associated
media and products.
Of course, long before all of this, there is a very significant and com-
plex history of the West’s relationship to, and at times fascination with,
the East. For example, Edward W. Said’s influential book Orientalism
(1978) highlights how the West’s representations of the East in both
popular culture and scientific and academic texts create, on the one
hand, a romanticised view of what the West lacks in terms of spirituality
and exoticism and, on the other, justify Western imperialism, by por-
traying the East as degenerate and weak (Longhurst et al. 2017). Said’s
work, primarily based upon readings of nineteenth-century literature
and academic publications, argues that the East (the ‘Orient’) and its
inhabitants were portrayed and understood as radically different to the
West and its people (the ‘Occident’). This is a form of ‘geographical
essentialism’, which dichotomises regions and people, and assumes an
inherent difference between the two (Longhurst et al. 2017). Japan and
the Japanese become particularly demonised in the West during and
after the Second World War, but the West’s fascination with (and essen-
tialised view of ) Japan and its way of life never completely recedes, and
the rise of Japan in subsequent decades as a technological superpower
added both to the fascination and fear of this nation and its people, a
clear example of which can be seen in the film Blade Runner (1982),
which depicts a future America full of Eastern and Oriental imagery,
inhabitants, and language. Today, as Lamerichs (2013, p. 154) writes,
‘the relationship between Western countries and Japan is…significantly
performed in relation to its [Japan’s] pop-culture’.
It is suggested that due to the rising popularity of Japanese manga
(comic books) and anime (animated films), particularly from the late
1980s onwards, we start to see the increased frequency of individuals at
science fiction and fantasy conventions in the West dressing as manga,
anime, and Japanese video game characters, and it is this practice which,
in the West, first starts to be referred to as ‘cosplay’.
9
It has frequently been suggested that this (re)imported Japanese-

influenced form of costuming significantly differed from the kinds of
dressing-up traditionally seen at Western conventions. For example,
Helen McCarthy, a writer, designer, and early pioneer of cosplay in the
UK, suggested that ‘masquerade or hobby costuming in the Western
sense’ was very different from the ‘Japanese approach to the hobby of
costuming’. As she continued:
Having been both a convention costumer and a historical re-creation cos-

tumer, my view is that cosplay is a blend of the two styles, with the SFF
[science fiction and fantasy] media inspiration of convention floor and
masquerade costuming filtered through a whole-character, whole-lifestyle
approach that has more in common with the meticulousness of historical
re-creation. Convention costume can be of the joke or pun kind. Cosplay
usually approaches its subjects with greater respect for their original form
and content. (personal communication, 2014)
Here, McCarthy is expressing a typical and often cited assumption that

prior to the rising popularity of Japanese-inspired cosplay, the kinds of
costuming frequently seen at science fiction and fantasy conventions in
the West were typically done as a one-off, or very infrequent, activity,
where a costume had been (most typically) purchased ready-made or
else constructed with minimal effort. Most often these were science fic-
tion and fantasy fans dressed as the main object of their fandom, such
as (most typically) a comic book superhero, television, or film character.
Hence, the aim of the typical Western-costumed conference goer was
primarily to demonstrate their fans’ interests in a particular character or
text, and hence is typically seen as more akin to ‘fancy dress’. This then
is often contrasted with the (Japanese-inspired) cosplayer, for whom the
wearing, and often construction of, the costume, and the playing out of
a character’s role, becomes much more of an end in itself, and not sim-
ply an extension of their fandom.
Therefore, the widely accepted chronology, within the both cos-
play community and academia, is that the Western, and in particular
American, practice of conference fan costuming was exported to Japan
in the early 1980s and blurs with existing Otaku cultures and practices.
10
The popularity of Japanese popular culture then sees this form of cos-
tume play (re)imported into the West, where it begins to influence and
shape the nature of costuming and character portrayal at science fiction
and fantasy conventions and beyond, as Lamerichs (2011, 1.3) writes
‘many Westerns fans nowadays learn about costuming not through
science fiction or fantasy genres, but through Japanese cosplay’. Of
course, this is a rather neat, probably far too neat, chronology. As stud-
ies of processes of globalisation clearly demonstrate, cultural influences
rarely, if ever, take turns to flow one direction and then back again. The
exchanges and flows of cultural influences are multidirectional, com-
plex, and rarely easily mapped (Robertson 1995). Hence, it is important
to not see the relationship between the East and West as dichotomised
and simply as one-way or two-way flows of influence. As Appadurai
(1990) teaches us, in an increasingly globalised world, people, technol-
ogies, finances, ideas, and media move and intersect in complex ways.
Therefore, it is difficult, if not impossible, to try to simply map out the
origins and spread of any one cultural phenomenon, such as cosplay, in
a globalised world of immeasurable and constantly evolving exchanges.
However, this simplified chronology does highlight the important influ-
ence (and interpretation of ) Japanese costuming practices and cultures
have had on shaping the contemporary nature of cosplay.
Defining Cosplay
As Kirkpatrick (2015, 3.1) states ‘cosplay is not easy to define’. For some,
cosplay is fairly narrowly defined in terms of costuming (and the various
practices and cultures associated with this costuming) that relates only to
Japanese manga, anime, and video games. However, others see all forms of
costuming at science fiction and fantasy conventions (and beyond), such as
dressing up as characters from Western comic books and Hollywood films,
as forms of cosplay. Others are even more broad in their terms, such as
Lotecki (2012), who sees steampunk, Furries, zombie role-play, LARP, and
historical re-enactment, all as forms of cosplay. This is of course, where we
encounter one of our first difficulties. As what and who various writers and
commentators include in their definitions and discussions of cosplay can
11
vary greatly. In particular, there are several similar and aligned practices that
border on cosplay that could, and sometimes are, be included in definitions
of cosplay. This includes the activities highlighted by Lotecki above, but
also others, such as lolita (discussed in Chapter 2) and Disneybounding.
Disneybounding is an activity that is very similar to, and at times can
be almost indistinguishable from, cosplay; however, there are some key
differences between the two practices. Disneybounding is, at least par-
tially, the result of a ban on individuals over the age of 14 dressing in
costumes inside Disney theme parks; which Disney World in the online
FAQ label as ‘inappropriate attire’ (Disney World, online). Put simply,
adult cosplay is not allowed in any Disney theme parks (Kondooljy
2016). Hence, to get around this, many have resorted to dressing in a
‘manner that recalls (but not copies) their favorite [Disney] characters’
(Kondooljy 2016, online). That is to say, they wear ‘regular’ clothing
inspired by Disney characters, such as leggings or a skirt that matches
the green of Ariel’s (from The Little Mermaid, 1989) fishtail, accom-
panied by a purple top that likewise mimic’s Ariel’s apparel (see, e.g.,
Disneybound.co). This is, therefore, an act similar to cosplay, but at the
same time quite different, as those participating in this are simply wear-
ing regular clothing, but put together in a combination that is remi-
niscent of a particular Disney character. However, it is also quite likely
that those who engage in Disneybounding may well also be cosplayers.
This may also be true for many other similar practices. For example, it
is likely that many of those who engage in steampunk, Furry, zombie,
and LARP costuming may well also be cosplayers. Hence, defining who
is a cosplayer, and what is cosplay, can prove problematic, as those who
partake and are part of one particular community of practice may well
be (and most probably are) part of others.
Disney
Many individuals cosplay Disney characters. Disney2 provides a wealth
of characters and source material for cosplayers, but particularly com-
mon and popular characters to see cosplayed are Disney princesses,
such as Ariel from The Little Mermaid (1989), the eponymous Sleeping
Beauty (1959), or Snow White from Snow White and the Seven
Dwarfs (1937).
12
Part of the continued popularity of Disney films and in particular their

‘princess’ films are their nostalgia. For many cosplayers, as children they
would have watched both contemporary and classic Disney films, and
hence these have nostalgic connections to their own childhood. As Anne
Marling (1999, p. 27) writes ‘we have false memories of the Disney films
of our childhoods, I think. In retrospect, they seem sugar-pie sweet and
neatly detached from the problems of the culture in which they were con-
ceived, made and marketed’ (cited in Do Rozario 2004, p. 37). There is cer-
tainly, for many cosplayers, a direct link to their own childhood memories
in their cosplaying of Disney characters. One of the most popular Disney
cosplay characters is Peter Pan, and the cosplayer and disneybounder
Cheryl Wischhover suggests that a reason for this might be that cosplayers
‘like the never-growing-up aspect of his story’ (Wischhover 2016, online).
However, it is also important to note that traditionally Peter Pan is, and
always has been, played on stage by women; hence, Peter Pan is a char-
acter, from its very first appearance on stage in 1904, that is typically
crossplayed (see Chapter 5).
Furthermore, Disney’s animated films are themselves also very nostal-
gic, both in terms of how they often draw on and reinterpret traditional
fairy tales but, as Do Rozario (2004) suggests, more than this they also typ-
ically portray a patriarchal and nostalgic world of traditional and subordi-
nate feminine roles. Disney films and characters, therefore, provide a solid
and known world; one from our childhood but also one of traditional
roles and stability. Disney animated films tend to feature men as gallant
and brave heroes, and women as beautiful princesses.
Of course, part of the appeal of cosplay, as we shall discuss further,
later in this book, is the opportunities it affords for play, or possibly even,
subversion. In particular, Disney characters are often played as ‘crossplay’,
where female cosplayers dress as male characters, or more typically, men
dress as female characters (see Chapter 5). Amon (2014) suggests that
this is one way that cosplayers challenge and deviate from the accepted
Disney narrative. Disney character crossplay is a topic discussed by sev-
eral authors, and it is a facet of cosplay that is explored in the artwork
of David Hancock, such as in his watercolour paintings of Alex as Donald
Duck (Fig. 1.2) and Catherine as Goofy (Fig. 1.3).
As will be discussed further in Chapter 5, cosplay offers an opportunity
to play with, and play out, various identities and characters, such as tak-
ing on (aspects of) different gender roles. This can be for some empower-
ing. For example, Margaret Haynes (2017) discusses a male cosplayer who
frequently cosplays the female character Ariel from The Little Mermaid.
This, Haynes suggests, allows him to not only play with his gendered
identity, but also gain confidence by posting pictures on social media
of himself in costumes that have taken a great deal of time, money,
and skill to produce. However, what Hancock also sought to capture in
his paintings, such as those of Donald and Goofy, is the fun and play-
ful nature of cosplay. For Alex and Catherine, cosplay is not necessarily
13
Fig. 1.2 Donald (Alex), watercolour on paper, 42 × 30 cm, 2012

14
Fig. 1.3 Goofy (Catherine), watercolour on paper, 42 × 30 cm, 2012

15
just about being the characters, or being masculine, but rather as these
paintings seek to capture, for them, as with many others, it is the playful
nature of cosplay that is important. This is a key aspect of cosplay, which
is present in Hancock’s work, and it is important that we do lose track
of this in the analysis that follows. The reason that many, if not most,
people cosplay is because it is a fun3 thing to do. This then is another
key value to the use of art as a method (discussed further in Chapter 3).
As, though in the contemporary art world, art is often taken very seri-
ously, it is important to recognise, as both Kant (1790) and Schiller (1793)
argue, that art is playful. Moreover, Katarzyna Zimna (2010) suggests
that play is not only an external strategy used in the creation of art, such
as in surrealist or postmodern art, but it is also internal to the philosoph-
ical tradition of art. Zimna argues that though art is often seen as labour,
such as in the phrase ‘a work of art’, there is a contradiction at the cen-
tre of art, which makes it both work and play. This we also see in cos-
play. Cosplay involves time, effort, and skill in researching and creating
costumes, maintaining social links, and perfecting performances. Though
cosplay undoubtedly involves work, it is also a fun and playful act, and
this is why most people do it.
However, it would seem the most common distinction for most cos-
players, and in turn most writers on cosplay, of what sets cosplayers
apart from other costumed science fiction and fantasy fans—including
steampunk, Furry, zombie, LARP, and Disneybounding costuming—is
that cosplay is not just an isolated activity, but rather it is one aspect
of participation within a wider community and culture, which revolves
around, but is not limited to, the act of dressing up. Hence, as Helen
McCarthy suggested above, cosplayers may have more in common with
those who regularly engage in historical re-enactment, than your typical
science fiction and fantasy fans.
Moreover, though cosplay may have links to Western fancy dress and
masquerade, it is suggested that what makes cosplay significantly dis-
tinct is how the participants are keen to embody (at least aspects of ) the
identity of their chosen character. Once exported (back) to the West,
cosplay becomes something different from fancy dress or masquerade,
where people simply dress as particular characters but retain their own
persona. In cosplay, the character’s identity becomes equally important,
16
if not foremost, as cosplayers will often strive to play out (a convincing

version of ) the character they are embodying. As Norris and Bainbridge
(2009, p. 1) write ‘in its purest form cosplay is akin to performance art,
taking on the habitus of a particular character through costume, acces-
sories, gestures and attitude’.
The Characteristics of Cosplay
A review of the existing literature on cosplay would seem to point

towards three key aspects that are frequently highlighted as important
in understanding and defining cosplay. These are, first, unlike activities
such as fancy dress, cosplay usually involves considerable commitment
from participants, particularly in researching and crafting a costume,
character, and narrative. Second, an important aspect of cosplay is the
performance; when a cosplayer publicly wears their costume and per-
forms an identity, which they associate with their costume, this then
becomes a form of costumed play. Third, cosplay is a social and sociable
act, it is a community and subculture that exists both online and offline,
and which is located within a wider social and cultural landscape.
Additionally, we would add a fourth key aspect of cosplay, often lurk-
ing in the background of many discussions, but rarely brought to the
forefront (with few notable exceptions, such as Lamerichs 2014), which
is the importance of place in cosplay. Cosplay is an activity that is most
visible in certain contexts, such as most notably at science fiction and
fantasy conventions, but, as we shall argue, this also takes on mean-
ing in other places, such as at fan meet-ups, in cosplayer’s homes, and
online. Lamerichs (2014) argues that the convention is like a ‘home’
for many cosplayers, but like all homes, what makes this place what it
is are multiple processes and exchanges that exist in other spaces and
places that all flow and feed into making this home. Home is a point of
intersection of various flows, which converge at that particular place at a
particular point in time. Hence, this is why the last substantive chapter
in this book is a consideration of the importance and role of place in
cosplay.
17
Conclusion
Defining what cosplay is, who cosplayers are, and understanding its
history and contemporary context is far from straightforward. Cosplay
is a culture and craft that involves performances and identities, which
exists and flows in and through multiple places. Hence, defining and
understanding cosplay is a very difficult task; however, it is still a very
important one. Defining an object, community, and field of study is
an important and necessary first stage in any analysis. Yet, it does not
advance our knowledge greatly if this is all we do. This introductory
chapter has purposefully set out our parameters of study and our way
forward. In particular, we argue for considering and analysing cosplay as
a subculture, a craft, and performances, which are all played out in spe-
cific places, and in doing so, we utilise both ethnographic methods and
art practice to generate new and novel data and insights.
The following two chapters then seek to first, in Chapter 2, contex-
tualise the artwork of David Hancock in relation to others who have
worked with or drawn on subcultures, and then, in Chapter 3, set
out our research approach, and in particular discuss our use of art-led
research. Next, drawing on existing literature and new research, we
make a case in Chapter 4 for considering cosplay as a subculture; as we
argue here, this provides a useful framework for contextualising cos-
play within a wider social and cultural landscape and also allows com-
parisons to be more easily drawn with other subcultures. Chapter 5
focuses in more detail on the question of identity, which appears central
to many discussions of cosplay. In particular, this chapter argues that
identity is created, and recreated, through social performances, which
includes not only the roles we play at work and at home, but also those
in our leisure lives, such as the various roles we play at, including cos-
play. Chapter 6 considers crafting and argues that cosplay can be best
understood as a community of practice, based around the creation of
not only costumes, but also social performance, narratives, identities,
knowledge, and emotions. Chapter 7 considers the role of place and
space as significant for both cosplayers and for artists alike. Here, we
consider the playful use and appropriation of space, and how cosplayers
18
see and draw on urban spaces and objects. Finally, in Chapter 8, we

seek to decentre cosplay and locate this within a wider consideration of
social processes, and in particular what Andreas Reckwitz (2017) refers
as the creativity dispositif.
Notes
1. David Hancock’s portrayal of the character Link in the style of
Friedrich’s The Wanderer predates the release The Legend of Zelda: Breath
of the Wild by several years. However, it is an interesting coincidence
that shows the links and influence of art on video games, and hence its
relevance to debates concerning gaming, and related, cultures.
2. Disney, the company, now owns the rights to (amongst numerous
others) Marvel and Star Wars universe characters; however, here we are
specifically interested in the more traditional Disney characters, and par-
ticular those featured in their animated feature-length and short films.
3. It is important to recognise, that though the meaning of fun is often
taken for granted, it is inextricably linked, and defined, by patterns of
social power and culture (see Fincham 2016).
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2
Contextualising the Artwork
Introduction
An important aspect of this research is exploring and employing the
links between art and subculture. In particular, in this chapter we seek
to consider how other artists’ work has previously linked to various
subcultures and use this as a basis to build upon and contextualise our
work. Specifically, the chapter begins by suggesting that there are two
main forms in which art and artists have typically engaged with subcul-
tures, which we refer to here as ‘definers’ and ‘documenters’.
The first type of subculture-related art is work that is produced by
artists who are usually part of a particular subculture or at least play a
role in defining certain aspects of its ethos or aesthetic. This can some-
times be a deliberate and contrived act by the artists, to contribute
directly to a particular subculture, or at other times, this can happen less
intentionally and artwork may be taken up by subcultures as their own
in ways that were not initially conceived by the artist. Artists that fall
into the second category are most typically, though not always, initially
outside of the subculture they are engaging with. Often these artists
choose to utilise a subculture as a means to critically engage with aspects

22
of wider contemporary society. Hence, they primarily use the signifiers

of a subculture to create a particular meaning or resonance. By using
attributes that are recognisable and typically associated with a particular
subculture, they are thus able to use this motif to create an association
or meaning in their work, which also speaks to wider social and cultural
issues. However, as we shall explore in both this and the following chapters,
even when artists are directly portraying members of a particular sub-
culture, there is implicit meaning in documenting them, as the artist’s
own particular ethos is inherent within the work.
Of course, to a large degree this distinction is largely analytical, as
the complex relationships that artists and an artwork can have with sub-
cultures do not necessarily fall neatly into one of these two categories.
For example, though an artist may consciously devise their work to be
seen by and speak to a particular subculture, the process through which
this comes to be accepted within, and part of the cultural currency of a
subculture (or not), is largely out of the artist’s control. Furthermore,
work that sets out to document a subculture may end up being viewed
and then either critiqued or accepted into a subculture or possibly both.
Subcultural participants are often very dedicated to their particular
practices and communities and will often seek out and discover com-
mentaries or artefacts that speak to or represent their particular cul-
tural affiliations. Furthermore, it is likely that any artist documenting a
subculture will need to have a direct engagement with participants and
some (if only partial and temporary) participation in that subculture.
Hence, while at an analytical level it may be possible to identify artwork
that is ‘within’ a subculture and that which is ‘on’ a subculture, in reality
the lines between these two are often blurred and continuously shift-
ing. However, this analytical divide does provide us with a useful way of
understanding and categorising how other artists have typically engaged
with subcultures.
Hence, the first two sections in this chapter examine the work of a
number of contemporary artists whose work is typically associated with
and at times has become cultural currency within particular subcultures,
under the headings of ‘defining’ and ‘documenting’ these cultures. In
particular, the artists we chose to focus on here have been selected due
to their relevance and influence on the project at hand.
2 Contextualising the Artwork
23
The chapter then moves on to consider in more detail artists who

have specifically worked with, or sought to explore through their work,
cosplay (and also the related subculture of lolita). In particular, here we
focus on the work of Cao Fei, Tobias Bernstrup, Elena Dorfman, and
Ulrika Wärmling and reflect on how these artists have used a variety of
media and platforms to explore and interpret cosplay, or in the case of
Wärmling, the lolita subculture. This discussion then helps contextualise
the artwork of David Hancock, which is discussed in more detail in the
following chapter, but also explores how other artists have understood
and represented cosplay. This is important, for as we shall argue in the
next chapter, art needs to be understood as a legitimate and useful way
of understanding, interpreting, and representing social reality, as this is,
in many ways, very similar to what social scientist do.
In particular, we would argue that in seeking to understand how oth-
ers have previously interpreted social reality, it is somewhat limiting to
restrict one’s scope to only academic written texts. The lines between the
academic and the popular, the written and the visual, have always been
somewhat blurred, but it could be argued in the world we live today;
these are becoming even more so. In seeking to understand how others
have interpreted and (re)presented social reality, limiting this to a review
of the existing academic literature can only ever give a partial account.
Of course, this is what we all typically do; we all focus on what is most
important and most relevant to our subject matter, as we cannot con-
sider everything. This book, and the wider body of work it draws on, is
similarly limited in what it considers. However, using art as a method
(discussed in more detail the following chapter) and as a contextualising
body of work (discussed here) adds new dimensions to our understand-
ing, interpretation, and representation of social reality, and in this case,
more specifically, the subculture of cosplay.
Defining Subcultures Through Art

Possibly one of the most notable and clear examples of an artist who
directly and visibly contributed to the style and development of a
subcultural look and ethos is the work of Jamie Reid. Jamie Reid is a
24
British artist who is primarily associated with the British punk scene in
the late 1970s and, in particular, in helping to define its visual look and
motifs. It is Jamie Reid who famously designed the artwork of many of
The Sex Pistols’ record sleeves, such as the 1977 album cover for Never
Mind the Bollocks, Here’s the Sex Pistols, which have been extensively
reproduced on T-shirts, posters, mugs, and all manner of other objects.
His image for The Sex Pistol’s God Save The Queen single, based on a
Cecil Beaton photograph of Queen Elizabeth II, but with a safety pin
through her nose and swastikas on her eyes, was described by Sean
O’Hagan in The Observer as ‘the single most iconic image of the punk
era’ (Tate, online).
Jamie Reid studied in the late 1960s at Croydon Art School with
Malcolm McLaren, the soon to be manager and founder of the punk
band The Sex Pistols. Reid and McLaren are two of a long list art school
students who have had a profound impact on shaping the nature and
landscape of contemporary popular music, including Brian Eno (Roxy
Music), Mick Jones (The Clash), Freddie Mercury (Queen), Pete
Townsend (The Who), Michael Stipe (R.E.M), Lady GaGa, Chuck
D (Public Enemy), Kanye West, and many others (see Frith and Horne
1987). There is even a plaque at Central Saint Martins commemorating
where The Sex Pistols held their first ever gig, and this most famous of
art colleges is also referenced by another former student, Jarvis Cocker,
in the Pulp song Common People.
It was while at art college that Jamie Reid and Malcolm McLaren
became close friends and collaborators, and along with other stu-
dents were inspired by the Situationists and the Protests taking place
in Paris at the time, to hold a sit-in at Croydon Art School in 1968
(Savage 2010). In 1970, Reid established Suburban Press and honed his
new icon graphic style of using stark imagery and ransom style cut-out
letters, which was later to become synonymous with punk. His work
was very much tied to the anarchism of the times. As Reid later stated,
reflecting on this period, ‘Punk was never about big master plans and
it was always much more collective than Malcolm McLaren and John
Lydon would ever admit. It was about finding yourself in a situation,
reacting and then moving on, and that’s what I do now’ (Mahoney
2001, online).
25
Reid is keen to downplay the uniqueness of punk, seeing it more as a

moment in a longer struggle for social justice. As he stated in interview:
Punk was part of a story that had been going on for the whole of the cen-
tury, if not longer — it was no more than an important bit of that story
in Britain. I came to it through community-based anarchism and situa-
tionist theories, and they came out of surrealism and dadaism. And punk
continues — at the anti-poll tax demonstrations in Trafalgar Square,
10,000 people were wearing T-shirts with the same ransom-note letter-
ing as Never Mind the Bollocks but saying “Bollocks to the Poll Tax”.
(Mahoney 2001, online)
Although Reid in more recent years has dedicated his time to paintings
that depicts his New Age beliefs, his earlier associations with punk are
still what he is best known for, and these were clearly and consciously
pivotal in helping to define the aesthetic of this subculture.
Another notable example of a subcultural definer is Anne Sudworth.
Her paintings of idealised moonlit landscapes suffused with gothic sen-
timentality have become extensively copied, appropriated, reproduced,
and distributed within goth subculture.
Anne Sudworth is an active participant in goth subculture and regu-
larly attends goth events, such as the bi-annual Whitby Goth Weekend,
where she usually takes a stand amongst the other traders promoting
and selling reproductions of her work.
Sudworth works in pastel on paper. In particular, she is known
for her depictions of moonlit trees, such as her ongoing series, Earth,
Light, Trees, which presents the central image of a single tree, lumines-
cent under the glow of moonlight. Though reluctant to label her work,
she describes them as ‘mystical fantasy with Gothic overtones’ (BBC
Lancashire 2008).
Unlike Jamie Reid, Sudworth is a self-taught artist. She openly dis-
cusses her disillusionment with the art education system, as from her
own experience she ‘found it restrictive and the lecturers domineering
and narrow minded’ (BBC Lancashire 2008). Though she states that
she admires the work of William Blake (1757–1827), Arthur Rackham
(1867–1939), and Mark Rothko (1903–1970), her own work is more
26
clearly inspired by her subcultural belonging. Sudworth’s artwork is

inspired by the Romanticism and mystical elements of goth culture.
With black backcombed hair, elaborate gothic make-up, and flowing
velvet gowns, she displays her allegiance to the subculture through her
own appearance. On her website, she describes her immersion in the
gothic: ‘for as long as I can remember I have had a passion for all things
dark, romantic and strange. Even as a child, the eerie or otherworldly
gained my immediate attention and amongst that which was gothic, I
felt completely at home’ (Sudworth, n.d.). Not only does she overtly
state her long immersion in the gothic, but in describing this passion
as dating from her childhood, she is asserting her credentials as a goth
to her audience. Her image, persona, and artist statements provide
her work an authenticity within the subculture that fans of goth can
securely buy into. Hence, though Sudworth’s work does not specifically
seek to define or drive a particular subculture, her work has been enthu-
siastically embraced within goth subculture and does clearly and notably
add to its aesthetic and identity.
Our final example of a definer is the work of Banks Violette, an artist
who has maintained his subcultural links while developing a critically
engaged art practice. Violette originates from upstate New York, USA.
Spending his formative years immersed in the hardcore music scene,
Violette originally made work for these bands and their fans, painting
leather jackets, and designing flyers and album sleeves. He claims, ‘there
was not a hierarchy between you and the audience. You were there, and
you were active and you had equal responsibility for making this thing’
(Gavin 2008, p. 160). There is a sense of a utopian vision overriding
Violette’s work that is also reflected in the hardcore scene. As a partic-
ipant, he is aware of their inner workings. He states, ‘subcultures are
often connected to this idea of youth — so there is this idea that they’re
predestined to fail and they are transitory’ (Gavin 2008, pp. 160–162).
His work also addresses the prejudices that can be held against youth
and subcultures, and though he attempts to dispel these stereotypes, he
is also critical of the posturing that rock music perpetuates. In a work
based around the suicide of Kurt Cobain, Violette suggests that this
event is ‘part of a devotional mandate’ (Iles et al. 2004, p. 249) that
27
is continuously repeated by both the musicians and also their teenage

fans, as they take their own lives to satiate the gods of rock music.
Though initially Violette’s work was inextricably linked with the
hardcore subculture, over time he developed artwork based around
notions of minimalism and abstraction. His work remains laden with
death metal imagery, successfully combining the raw animalistic rage
of hardcore metal with the sterile simplicity of monochromatic mini-
malism. In 2006, he collaborated with the band Sunn O)))1 creating an
installation at Maureen Paley gallery in London. The band, invited to
perform at the exhibition’s opening, became entwined within the instal-
lation of artworks. The singer performed from inside a specifically con-
structed coffin, while the group played on a series of drum risers. The
detritus of the performance formed the subsequent exhibition alongside
salt castings of the instruments used by the band. The presence of Sunn
O))) lingers ghostlike in the space, traces of their sub-audible harmon-
ics lost within the silence of the gallery. The show presents a sense of
absence; of having attended the exhibition after the fact or of having
missed a party, we clearly were not invited to. As Violette points out,
there is a sense of a responsibility in participating in a subculture. It is a
lifestyle choice and is not something that can be experienced on a whim
or by a person casually visiting a gallery.
Before moving on, it is important to note that this section has pur-
posefully categorised these artists as ‘definers’ rather than simply ‘par-
ticipants’ within a subculture. As we shall see in Chapter 6, this is an
important distinction. Despite Banks Violette’s assertion that there is
‘not a hierarchy between you and the audience’ (Gavin 2008, p. 160),
there clearly still is. There is a clear distinction between artists like
art-schooled Banks Violette and Jamie Reid, and even non-art school-
trained artists like Anne Sudworth, and the ‘ordinary’ participants
of subcultures. There is an authenticity, a legitimacy, or what Walter
Benjamin (1931) referred to as an ‘aura’ to the artwork of established
artists such as Violette, Reid, Sudworth, and others, which gives them
power and authority. A power and authority that enables them to, more
directly and significantly than other members of a subculture, define its
style, aesthetic, and parameters. Of course, there is not a simple or clear
dichotomy between ‘artist definers’ and ‘ordinary participants’ within a
28
subculture. The production and reproduction of any culture is always

an extremely complex and fluid series of cross-cutting processes and
influences, both internal and external; in fact, even what is internal and
external to a subculture is again often ambiguous and fluid.
To a considerable degree, subcultural identity and norms are defined
(and continuously redefined) by their participants through their con-
tinued participation within a particular culture. However, the work of
respected and professional artists often carries significant importance in
defining the aesthetics and artefacts of a subculture.
Documenting Subculture Through Art

As will be explored in more detail in the following chapter, the work of
David Hancock on cosplay, which forms a key component of this pro-
ject and the book you hold in your hand, constitutes one example of an
artist outside of a subculture documenting its participants and practices.
However, Hancock is not alone here, and there are several other artists
working with subcultures, similarly from the perspective of an outsider
looking in, including Tom Helyar-Cardwell, Iris Van Dongen, and
Steven Shearer.
Tom Helyar-Cardwell creates paintings and drawings of the jackets
worn by heavy metal fans. He states that a ‘battle jacket’, as they are
frequently termed within this subculture, ‘is a customised garment
worn in heavy metal subcultures that features decorative patches, band
insignia, studs’ (Cardwell 2017, p. 2). Helyar-Cardwell’s work falls

into two interlinked parts: paintings of heavy metal battle jackets and
of medieval armour. By producing these two connected sets of work,
he is drawing direct comparisons between the two forms of bodily
adornment and seeking to explore the cultural symbolism behind the
battle jacket (Kerrang! 2017).
Helyar-Cardwell examines the battle jacket ‘as a multi-layered sym-
bol, and locates its roots in heraldic and military image traditions and
plots its subcultural development’ (UAL 2018). He goes on to dis-
cuss how the battle jacket was used during periods of war to identify
allegiances, before being appropriated, post-war, by motorcycle gang
29
culture. The back of a leather or denim jacket was used by gangs, such
as the Hells Angels, to display logos of gang affiliation and rank. From
there, it was taken up by fans of heavy metal music, as well as some
punks and goths, who would sew on patches or paint logos onto their
jackets. In researching the work, Helyar-Cardwell interviewed heavy
metal fans about the meaning of their jackets and their affiliations with
particular bands (Kerrang! 2017). Hence, Helyar-Cardwell identifies
and explores through his art, how the battle jacket is used by a subcul-
ture to define their allegiances and cultural belongings. Fans assimilate
and then use the distinctive characters and logos of bands, such as Iron
Maiden’s famous ‘Eddie the Head’ character, in the adaptation of cloth-
ing into subcultural signifiers. Hence, in broadcasting these emblems of
fandom, heavy metal fans highlight loyalties through a shared identity
and the mutual appreciation of musical styles.
It is evident that Helyar-Cardwell’s work has started to receive some
recognition and cultural currency within the heavy metal scene. For
example, in 2017 he was the subject of an article in the popular and
long-running heavy metal magazine Kerrang!, and his work has been
displayed alongside other artists working on motorcycle and heavy
metal subcultures, such as the sculptures of Cathie Pilkington and the
photography of Sam Christmas, at shows including the ‘Motorcycle
Cultures’ conference and exhibition at the University of the Arts London
in 2013. However, Helyar-Cardwell’s work is yet to receive the kind of
subcultural status, afforded some artists, such as Anne Sudworth.
Another example of an artist working outside of the subcultures they
seek to portray is the work of Iris Van Dongen. Van Dongen is a Dutch
artist based in Berlin. Van Dongen’s works are typically portraits of
young women, created with pastels on large sheets of paper. They are
technically accomplished and beautifully detailed, focusing upon desir-
able youths; however, her subjects are not specific people known to
her, but rather young women taken from fashion magazines; ‘the poses
and the clothing of these self-assured women seem to have been bor-
rowed directly from the catwalk…. [and] The patterns of her colour-
ful dresses recall the multi-coloured decoration of Gustav Klimt and the
luxuriant dresses and absent gazes of the women in nineteenth century
Pre-Raphaelite paintings’ (Bugada and Cargnel, n.d.). However, these
30
fashion images are then subverted by Van Dongen through the addition
of subcultural iconography, such as a tattoo, skull-emblazoned wrist-
band, or in her (2003–2006) series Hooligan, football scarves.
Her work then is an amalgamation between past and present, and
though the work may ‘refer to earlier movements in traditional art,
there is always a small element… a symbol from a contemporary sub-
culture and, at the same time, an age-old symbol’ (Gavin 2008, p. 158)
that emphasises mortality and a sense of melancholy. Though not an
active participant in any particular subculture, Van Dongen states that
she feels ‘an affinity with many subcultures’ (Gavin 2008, p. 156) and
has shared their experiences of alienation and of being in a position of
an outsider.
Her subjects are idealised, focusing upon their transient beauty.
She is clearly inspired by the depiction of women in the nineteenth
century, particularly in the work of the Pre-Raphaelites, the Aesthetic
Movement, or the European Symbolists. As a female artist, she has
re-appropriated these representations of women that perpetuate an
image of femininity filtered through the objectifying gaze of these male
artists of the past. She retains their doe-eyed submissiveness, but these
are juxtaposed against an incongruous detail, such as a skull. These
items hint at a darker and a more malevolent undercurrent in her
paintings. In particular, Van Dongen uses subcultures to address more
pertinent issues that affect young women today. These images may be
taken from fashion magazines, but the use of subcultural parapherna-
lia challenges mainstream culture. Here, Van Dongen employs the codes
and practices of a subculture in order to imply an unwritten narrative.
In this way, then it becomes a device to discuss the representation of
women in art and their role in the wider society.
Steven Shearer is a Canadian artist whose practice shifts across a vari-
ety of media forms including painting, collage, and installation. Shearer
blurs the lines between insider and outsider. In his youth, he was an
active participant in the subculture he now documents. Time and age
have distanced him from this, and he can now be more clearly seen as a
documenter of a culture he was once part of.
Shearer is especially interested in the handmade and its ability to slow
down time, forcing the audience to appreciate the craft that has gone
31
into a specific piece of work. Based in Vancouver, Shearer’s focus is on

the 1970s metal scene, and he has amassed a huge archive of material
from this period that includes images found on the web, as well as his
own personal photographs from his youth as a heavy metal fan. Shearer
is a collector, and it is from this source material that he creates his work.
Shearer’s ‘accumulation and selection is derived from a researched inter-
est in popular modes of representation that is specific to forms that
have not yet established themselves or conformed to a set of established
conventions’ (Shier 2004, online). His research is based around items
that society no longer values, and a lot of his imagery is collected from
junk shops in Vancouver. Shearer recalls one in particular, ‘there was
this one place that was supposed to be an antique shop, but the guy
who owned it had so much junk that he’d leave boxes of old magazines
on the sidewalk. I found a lot of photographs that people had thrown
away there’ (Soltis 2011, online). This method of collecting seemingly
worthless ephemerae allows Shearer a unique position as an artist. By
employing the methods of a social historian or archivist, he is placing
these discarded items on a pedestal, demanding that they are worthy of
reappraisal.
It is in this mode that he turns his attention to the 1970s heavy metal
scene. He is interested in the blue-collar masculinity that the metal
scene embodies, and earlier works present how corporate record com-
panies manufactured their own accessible versions of these rock bands
to tap into a younger audience. Shaun Cassidy, Leif Garrett, and the
Osmonds presented a more family-friendly alternative and were regu-
lar features in teen pop music magazines. Shearer’s tribute to these teen
idols, Puff Rock Shiteaters/Sexualised Mormon Children (1997), is a series
of screen-printed paintings of androgynous pubescent male idols that
suggest how these teen idols have been manipulated by an industry and
sold as child sex objects. Shearer is fascinated by a music scene that is
willing to explore the extremes of androgyny that, while seeming fem-
inised in appearance, still retains its masculinity. There is a dichotomy
at the heart of rock music that exalts promiscuity to the point of misog-
yny, while simultaneously presenting an outward appearance of gender
ambiguity. In considering androgyny within his paintings, Shearer turns
32
to art history in which to contextualise his work. In an interview with

Redia Soltis, Shearer states:
The androgynous figure has long been a subject in the history of painting
that has interested me. A lot of Symbolist paintings depict figures that
have very mysterious and effeminate qualities. At the same time, they
often depicted their androgynous figures in an idealized way. (Soltis 2011,
online)
Shearer continues this theme of representing masculinity in a series of

red crayon drawings, Longhairs (2004). These monochromatic portraits
of shirtless heavy metal fans, rendered with intricate and precise detail,
juxtapose their feminine locks with an intense, brooding masculinity.
Shearer’s work focuses on subcultural participants on the margins of
society. He refers to the youths he portrays as ‘the lumpen’; taken from
Karl Marx’s term the lumpenproletariat, to mean the rabble proletariat,
outside of the ordinary working classes, but here, Shearer re-appropri-
ates Marx’s term as a badge of pride. For heavy metal fans, being an
outsider can be considered integral to their subcultural values, and they
would seem to revel in their degenerate status.
Shearer’s position to his subjects is now largely that of an outsider.
Growing up within the heavy metal community, he shares an empathy
with the people he portrays. However, due to the passage of time he
is also able to step back from this. His presentation is not sentimen-
tal, and with the distance he manages to maintain, he can be critical as
well as empathic. To Shearer, the heavy metal fans he portrays are in a
sense, aspects of himself, and an attempt to reconnect to his own past.
In a work that Shearer presented in his solo exhibition at the Vancouver
Contemporary Art Gallery, we are provided with a clear insight into
how he positions himself and his relationship to the metal fans he
depicts. Contained within a plastic frame, a handwritten note reads,
‘Sorry Steve, when we talk about celebrating cultural diversity we don’t
mean yours…’. Shearer is fully aware of how little his subjects are of
interest to society or the art world in which he works. Also, he expects
that his metal fans will not visit art galleries or view his work. His work
holds very little cultural currency within the subculture it depicts. The
33
aforementioned work, ‘Sorry Steve… ’, is irreverent and flippant and sug-

gests a depreciative humour at the heart of Shearer’s work that for all
his international success, he still remains an outsider from both the art
world and the subcultures he depicts.
Artists Exploring Cosplay

This section focuses more specifically upon artists who have explored
the cosplay subculture within their work. Most of these artists represent
outsiders documenting this subculture, with the exception of Ulrika
Wärmling; however, Wärmling is a little different, as the focus of her
attention is the connected, but still significantly different, subculture of
lolita.
In particular, here we consider how four artists, Cao Fei, Tobias
Bernstrup, Elena Dorfman, and Ulrika Wärmling, use a variety of
media and platforms to explore and interpret cosplay (or in the case of
Wärmling, lolita) culture. The importance of these four artists is two-
fold: firstly, as with the discussions set out above of artists as subcultural
definers or documenters, this discussion helps us understand how artists
have previously engaged with subcultures and in doing so helps us con-
textualise our own work, but secondly, and more specifically, it helps
contextualises the Cosplay project of David Hancock as an artist. All art-
ists and their artwork are produced and read in the context of what has
previously been produced, and how this has been, and continues to be,
read. Hence, this section (as does the encompassing chapter) helps con-
textualises both ‘our work’ in the form of this book and also ‘the work’
of David Hancock as an artist, and the latter we explore more fully in
the following chapter.
Cao Fei is a multimedia artist working across video, theatre, perfor-
mance, photography, and digital media, who ‘successfully blends vari-
ous cultural and artistic references and everyday experiences together’
(Hanru 2008, online). Cao Fei was born in Guangzhou in China in
1978, but now resides in Beijing, and rose to prominence while still a
student in her twenties. Cao Fei’s work is inspired by the popular cul-
ture of the Cantonese region of China, which encompasses the major
34
cities of Guangzhou and Hong Kong, and is an area of cultural hybrid-

ism. This region is culturally and geographically distant from China’s
central governmental region and is, in contrast, ‘the most open and
dynamic zone in permanent contact with the outside world’ (Hanru
2008, online). Cao Fei’s work is described as revealing a kind of schizo-
phrenia that is faced by the new generation of Chinese as they navigate
‘the contradictory conditions of globalisation and their search for iden-
tity’ (Hanru 2008, online). Her work, therefore, attempts to discuss the
issues that many young people of her generation have had to face. In
particular, one example of this is her work on cosplay, which she talks of
as a ‘relationship between reality and imagination’ (Obrist and Cao Fei
2008, p. 66). This, for Cao Fei, presents a parallel universe ‘that takes
place in reality’ (Obrist and Cao Fei 2008, p. 66).
Cao Fei’s COSplayers (2004) consists of a film and an a ccompanying
series of photographs based around cosplayers in Guangzhou, China.
In the words of the artists herself, in COSplayers a group of elabo-
rately dressed individuals ‘traverse the city at will, and engage in com-
bat within their imaginary world. They expect their costumes will
grant them true magical power, enabling the wearer to transcend reality
and put themselves above all worldly and mundane concerns’
(Luminocity 2004, online). These cosplayers, like Cao Fei, were based
in Guangzhou. The city is the manufacturing hub of Pearl River Delta
region, which has become central in China’s recent economic boom.
The burgeoning youth cultures of Hong Kong began to seep across the
border, influencing the young people of Guangzhou and keeping them
abreast of the latest, and in particular international, fashions. Cao Fei
views her cosplayers as a culture ‘lively and full of the power to arouse
passion’ (Hanru 2008, online). In her film, the cosplayers roam a vast,
but largely empty, cityscape during daylight hours. The city’s other
inhabitants are presumably at their place of work, while the teenage cos-
players make full use of their leisure time exploring this vacant land-
scape. In this, then the cosplayers seem marginalised from the rest of
society; they are left behind on the streets, as the majority undertake
the usual daily routines of work in the surrounding office blocks. This
ultra-modern, but simultaneously blank, environment then resembles a
ghost town or, more interestingly, possibly a location within a virtual
35
world. In many respects, the cosplayers appear to navigate the city as if

they are participating in a video game, seemingly recreating their char-
acter’s ‘in-game’ movements in a ‘real world’ setting. Poised atop the
slick skyscrapers or careering through the vast wastelands between these,
teenagers, in their elaborate dress, are at play.
Cao Fei’s work presents a romanticised view of these young people,
describing them ‘with dreams in their heads, spending all their wak-
ing hours in the virtual world of video games from a very early age’
(Rewired 2009, p. 7). As the film progresses, the camera pans across the
posed cosplayers in their death throes. We view the aftermath of their
battles, offering a youthful vision of death in all its beauty. The tableau
mimics Henry Wallis’s tragic The Death of Chatterton (1856) with all
its Pre-Raphaelite hyper-real Romanticism, and the fairy-tale magic of
Sleeping Beauty. Then, as evening descends, the city comes to life with
the post-work rush; the fantasy is over and the spell is broken.
The film is imbued with the symbols of Romanticism, from lone
figures poised above sweeping urban vistas, to the dark foreboding
soundtrack of digital noise. Their playfulness in the urban setting for
Cao Fei brings them ‘out of the cyber community and into everyday life
in the real world. As they emerge from their digital, cyber communities,
they begin to appear in public’ (Rewired 2009, p. 7). In doing so, they
change the way the landscape is experienced by all who view them, pre-
senting a new engagement with the environment. They are incongru-
ous, ‘using the surrealistic fantasy image of their game characters they
provoke a new aesthetic sense for the public’ (Rewired 2009, p. 7).
The film closes with the cosplayers returning home. Here, they are
forced to re-engage with the mundane world of commuters on subway
trains and in the throngs of traffic they pass through. At home, they
return to ordinary life, but still in costume, their outfits seem awkward
in these surroundings; further highlighting the dislocation between
generations that their participation into cosplay extenuates. As Cao
Fei argues, ‘With no channels open to express their feeling and aspira-
tions they resort to escapism and, becoming alienated and out of touch,
they turn into ever more unbecoming characters’ (Rewired 2009, p. 7).
However, in their cosplaying of fantasy characters, ‘they are turned
into genies, chivalrous knights, fairy princesses, or geeks, the pains of
36
reality are assuaged, even if the “real” world they are standing on has not
changed to the slightest’ (Rewired 2009, p. 7).
Cao Fei sees the culture of youth as ‘almost theatrically materialis-
tic, drunk on and dazed by their possessions’ (Harvey 2009, online).
There is a dramatic dislocation between the cosplayers and their parent’s
generation who were immersed in the political ideology of the Cultural
Revolution. To the older generation, they only see ‘the youth escaping
into a fantasy, disconnected from their community and family network’
(Harvey 2009, online). At home, they share a meal with their parents. It
is a silent meal as though there is an impenetrable gap between the gen-
erations, accentuated and brought into clear view by the act of cosplay.
In the work of Cao Fei, there is a desire to explore the lifestyles and
escapism of her generation, who are dealing with a rapidly changing
social and cultural context. By rebelling against a governmental system
and a culture of unquestioning conformity, China’s new generation are
seeking out and creating spaces for leisure and play, to escape the pres-
sures of daily life and the expectations of their parent’s generation. In
doing so, they look to a space and culture where they can be amongst
others who share their views and interests. These immersive spaces,
either inside an imagined fantasy construct or in an interactive video
game, offer an opportunity for indulgence. They create an alternative
space that goes beyond cultural and geographic boundaries and allows
participants to play with ideas of identity and explore new possibilities.
Similar themes are also explored in the work of Tobias Bernstrup in
his Shanghai Cosplay, which was presented at the opening of his solo
exhibition, Mantis City, at Shanghai Duolun MoMA in 2006. In this,
Swedish artist Tobias Bernstrup created a live performance using cos-
players from a local cosplay group, SkyWaterTown. A two-tier dais was
erected within the gallery and emerging in pairs from the wings the cos-
players took their places on the platform. Once a dozen cosplayers were
assembled, Bernstrup emerged onto the stage to a loud backing track of
dark electronic music. Dressed as a rubber-clad praying mantis, a char-
acter created by Bernstrup himself, he commenced singing the track The
Sniper (2006). For Bernstrup, the mantis was inspired by the architec-
ture of Shanghai, and particularly the newly constructed Pudong dis-
trict in the east of the city, the skyline of which Bernstrup describes as
37
looking ‘like a scene from an early sci-fi movie’ (Bittanti and Quaranta
2006, p. 76). Bernstrup’s response was to create the video Mantis City
(2006) in which insects take over a miniature recreation of Shanghai.
Filmed using a macro lens, the insects in Mantis City appear as giant
monsters, drawing obvious parallels with the 1960s Japanese B-movies
like Godzilla. In particular, in an interview with the exhibition curator,
Biljana Ciric, Bernstrup discusses the influence of video games on the
creation of the highly sexualised mantis character, ‘many of my charac-
ters are inspired by video games — characters that often represent a ste-
reotype of a sexual fantasy. But at the same time the interactive nature
of a video game allows the player to assume any sexual identity and gen-
der when choosing an avatar’ (Bernstrup 2006, online).
The cosplayers in Bernstrup’s performance serve to contextualise his
work within the framework of video games. The cosplayers themselves
are from an assortment of texts. There is no combined narrative. They
merely present themselves as props within Bernstrup’s overriding fan-
tasy. The cosplayers in their outfits, with weapons, make-up, and wigs,
look other-worldly. They serve merely as silent, malleable mannequins
in the background. They do not move or interact, just stare out at the
audience. In this context, Bernstrup’s mantis performs amongst them.
For Bernstrup, the cosplayers are symbolic. They are a representation
of the digital world of video games from which Bernstrup takes inspi-
ration. They are also representative of our immersion in virtual spaces.
Their characterisations are irrelevant, as they are the different narratives
of the individual texts, a seemingly randomly selected assortment that
only inhabit their persona physically. Hence, as with Cao Fei’s work,
Bernstrup’s cosplayers can be seen to depict an alienation and disloca-
tion from society.
For Bernstrup, and the body of work he produces, gender is of par-
ticular significance. The freedom to play with gender is something that
comes up often in discussions of cosplay, and this is explored further in
Chapter 5. In particular, this is something Bernstrup has continuously
returned to in his portrayal of transsexual forms. Bernstrup declares
himself ‘a digital lesbian. But I don’t know my sex’. He believes ‘the dig-
ital medium can give a possibility to explore or express desires. But it
38
also gives us a possibility to explore and break borders concerning our

identity or gender’ (Bernstrup 2003, online).
In discussing Lara Croft, the titular character from the video game
series Tomb Raider, Bernstrup acknowledges that though she is created
by men for voyeuristic purposes, this also suggests a deeper desire that
many men hold to play with gender roles (Bernstrup 2003, online).
Bernstrup then explores this desire by acting out fetishistic fantasies in
live and video performances, where, O’Reilly (2005, p. 76) suggests,
his ‘performances hint at immaterial worlds brought momentarily into
actuality’. In particular, in his work Re-Animate (2004), Bernstrup cre-
ates a female version of himself, dressed in a red PVC swimsuit, thigh-
length red stiletto boots, and fake breasts. This fetishised feminised
Bernstrup then inhabits both a physical and a virtual space. Rendered
digitally within a gaming platform, ‘she’ is a malleable avatar, an exten-
sion of Bernstrup, while ‘he’, in drag, performs on stage a rendition of
Bernstrup’s electro-goth music. This performance then seeks to blur the
boundaries between the in- and out-of-game worlds and highlights how
the digital allows us to play with gender, a gender play that some seek to
carry over from the video game into cosplay.
Another artist who has explored cosplay is Elena Dorfman in her
book Fandomania (2007), which features a series of portrait photo-
graphs of isolated cosplayers. Dorfman is based in Los Angeles, and this
particular series follows on from her previous work Still Lovers (2005)
in which Dorfman explores ‘real dolls’, handcrafted and meticulously
detailed sex dolls that can be purchased online and designed to the buy-
er’s specific requirements. The choice to follow this series with an explo-
ration of cosplay came from, in Dorfman’s words, her desire to consider
the notion of ‘real dolls versus humans dressing up as dolls’ (Egan 2007,
online).
In Fandomania, the cosplayers are photographed isolated in front of
a black backdrop. They are posed, not as their character, but instead
stand in a reflective posture and, in many images, staring at the ground.
Dorfman suggests that it is her intention to depict the dichotomy
between the fantastic and the mundane. For Dorfman, ‘the theatre of
cosplay has no boundaries, is unpredictable, open-ended. It includes
both the fantastic and the mundane, the sexually aberrant and innocent’
39
(Dorfman, n.d.). In particular, in linking Fandomania to her earlier

series Still Lovers, Dorfman sets out a clear position of focusing on those
who she suggests ‘might be dismissed as aberrant and unseemly’, but for
her reveals ‘the interplay between fiction and fact and the thin line that
separates the two’ (Dorfman 2015). This is further reinforced by Carlo
McCormick in her short introductory essay to Fandomania (2007), in
which she asserts that Dorfman’s intention is to create a ‘metaphor for
the condition of escapism’ that she sees prevalent is both the cosplay
community and those who have constructed a fictional relationship to
an inanimate sex doll (McCormick 2007, p. 8).
There is a duality to Dorfman’s work, which appears to be both cel-
ebratory but at the same time mocking this subculture. In interview,
Dorfman has stated that when she set out to undertake this body of
work, she expected to encounter the stereotype that most have of sci-
ence fiction fans, as being overweight, unhygienic, socially inadequate
geeks, but instead ‘discovered a group of people who simply want go
to socialize and see like-minded Cosplayers’ (Egan 2007, online). This
duality can also be seen in McCormick’s introductory essay, where she
writes ‘sure, this has got to be one of the nerdiest collection of hopeless
geeks ever assembled, but come on, they’re also way cool’ (McCormick
2007, p. 4). McCormick continues by describing cosplay as ‘somewhere
between a healthy semi-sanctioned and controlled way of acting out
fantasies and the kind of red flag that’s thrown up when you see a kid
with a fascination for his parent’s knickers’ (McCormick 2007, p. 7).
Certainly, Dorfman’s work has had a mixed reception within the cos-
play community. For example, Nesic (2013, p. 4) in her discussion of
one of Dorfman’s portraits writes that:
Dorfman has positioned the subject in profile with her eyes averted from
the camera, her posture evoking submissive contemplation, even lone-
liness. One does not want to know more about her world. Rather, one
would safely pity her at a distance… Dorfman has photographed her
subjects utterly removed from the context of their presentation at a con-
vention, which generates a bare-minimum image of the “costume” half of
cosplay, while neglecting the “play.” This flawed approach presents, liter-
ally, an incomplete picture of cosplay.
40
Though Dorfman’s Fandomania only has a small number of reviews

on Amazon.com, a significant number of these are one- or two-star
reviews. As one review by P. Delanhanty wrote in 2007, ‘It comes off
looking more sad and depressing than dramatic’, or as D. Ward wrote
in 2017, ‘The photographs are deliberately meant to be depressing
and unflattering. The written words are also not the least bit insight-
ful and in fact just insult the Cosplay community and the subjects in
particular’ (Amazon, online). Certainly, the subjects in Dorfman’s
photographs seem to lack agency. They are isolated figures, in passive,
even submissive poses. In this context, then it is easy to see them as,
in McCormick’s words, ‘hopeless geeks’, but harder to see them as ‘way
cool’ (McCormick 2007, p. 4).
With most artists working with subcultures, even those who are not
active participants in that particular subculture themselves, there is
still typically a sense of the subjects’ agency in the artwork. They are
not merely the object of the artwork, but rather, their culture and lives
are drawn into the work as active participants, to give the artwork life
and meaning, beyond those of just the artist. This agency of the subjects
seems starkly absent in the work of Dorfman. Though there is the same
sense of interplay between the ‘real’ and the ‘fantasy’ found in the work
of Cao Fei and Tobias Bernstrup, these artists seek to explore the blur-
ring and playfulness of these boundaries, while this divide appears to
be much more clearly reinforced in the work of Dorfman. Her cosplay
figures are isolated and alone. They are not at play, but rather appear
lonely and sad; sentiments only reinforced further by the artist’s own
association of this project with her earlier work on men and their obses-
sion with sex dolls. Though here McCormick (2007, p. 9) suggests that
Dorfman is using a ‘documentary methodology’, it is important to rec-
ognise that Dorfman is not simply documenting this subculture, but
rather presenting a very particular reading of it.
The final body of work we wish to look at here is that of Ulrika
Wärmling. Born in Uppsala in Sweden in 1970, Wärmling graduated
from the Royal Academy of Art, Stockholm, in 2002. Her work cen-
tres on the theme of subculture, and throughout her career, she has
focused on several groups of young people with whom she has a strong
affinity. An earlier series, Riot Rose, Rosy Riot (2002), examines the
41
Anarkafeminister, a group of Swedish anarchist feminists, or what in the

UK might be considered Riot Grrrls—a heady subcultural mix of punk,
gender politics, and anarchy. Wärmling’s more recent work focuses on
the lolita subculture. However, in many ways her work here is a contin-
uation of the ideas that she also engaged with in her Riot Rose, Rosy Riot
series.
Lolita
Lolita is not cosplay; however, there are certain key similarities, which
means that these two subcultures are often associated and discussed
together (if not, often confused). In particular, lolita and often cosplayers
both draw heavily on Japanese pop culture for inspiration, both in their
styles of dress and in their social performances.
Lolita presents an aggressive femininity and ‘is meant to be confron-
tational, and is often a reaction to the overtly sexualised representation
of women in Japanese culture’ (V&A 2012, online). It is a fashion that
intentionally challenges ideas of sexuality and the sexualisation of youth
head-on. Lolita fashion usually precludes the revealing of any cleav-
age, and skirts are typically not worn above the knee length (Hello Lace,
online), for example, as can be seen in the painting Miriam as Lolita
(Fig. 2.1).
The reference to Vladimir Nabokov’s novel Lolita (1955) is not acciden-
tal. A man’s desire for young girls is often referred to as a ‘Lolita complex’
and sometimes shortened to ‘Loli-con’ (Kawamura 2012, p. 66). In linking
this fashion-based subculture to a book that chronicles a middle-aged
man’s desire and subsequent corruption of a child, this culture seeks to
ascertain that any objectification of the participants for sexual gratifi-
cation is morally corrupt. As a style that requires a strict dress code, the
participants are seeking to challenge the dominance of the male gaze. In
Japanese culture, women are still often expected to conform to quite tra-
ditional gender roles. Hence, it is suggested that women who wear lol-
ita are ‘rejecting the societal expectation of low-importance careers and
homemaking in favour of a fantasy in which they can fulfil their own
sense of princess-like aesthetic beauty and avoid growing up in a more
mundane world’ (Neko, n.d.). To some extent, therefore, lolita may appear
a reactionary style; their dress may suggest meekness on the outside, but
it is suggested that their aim is to challenge dominant gender and sexual
norms. It is a fashion and subculture that seeks to celebrate the creativity
of women, their style, and sexuality, but in a way that affronts and chal-
lenges the dominant male gaze.
The lolita subculture emerged most notably from the Harajuku area
of Tokyo in the late 1990s; however, it is a style and culture that can be
42
Fig. 2.1 Miriam as Lolita, pencil on paper, 76 × 56 cm, 2011

43
traced back to the early 1970s, and in particular, fashion boutique out-
lets in the Harajuku area, such as Milk (1970) and Pink House (1973). Milk
and Pink House designs were characteristically lolita: with frills, lace, rib-
bons, and layers of petticoats, suggesting a childlike, baby doll image
(Kawamura 2012, p. 67). With the closure of traffic in the main streets
of Harajuku on Sundays, this area became a focal point for young peo-
ple who would gather in Yoyogi Park and the surrounding streets to listen
and dance to pop music. Over time, their dress became more unconven-
tional and developed into recognisable styles of lolita, gyaru or kogal,
decora, and ganguro; these styles were then documented by street pho-
tographers and appeared in magazines such as STREET (1985) and FRUiTS2
(1997).
Lolita harks back to the past and particularly to that of Victorian
England or the Rococo period. According to Nessa Neko (online), many
participants suggest that lolita is a lifestyle, and they try to incorpo-
rate the ethos of lolita into their everyday lives. She goes onto say that
Momoko, a character from Novala Takemoto’s lolita novel (2002),
‘expresses the wish that she could live in the carefree, whimsical and
hedonistic Rococo era’ (Neko, online).
Cosplayers do sometimes dress as characters who wear a lolita style,
and for a person outside of these subcultures, distinguishing between a
lolita and a cosplayer in lolita-style dress can be extremely difficult, if not
impossible. Also, though lolitas do not embody a specific character, there
is a preordained set of behaviour that is specific to lolita and thus affects
the way they act towards others. Lolitas embody cuteness, elegance, and
modesty, they do not typically swear, and they are usually very polite; as
Neko suggests, ‘lolita generally emphasises childlike innocence and purity,
which tends to be expressed in “sweetness” and optimism’ (Neko, online).
There is also a great deal of crossover at events, particularly in the West,
with lolitas often attending the same Japanese-focused events as cosplay-
ers. However, unlike cosplay, lolita more clearly involves a more regular, if
not every day, wearing of a particular style of dress. For many lolita, this is
how they dress and not an isolated performance. As one lolita suggests,
‘cosplay is not a reflection of your inner self. You are playing a charac-
ter for a couple of hours. We are not like that at all. We live lolita. We
breathe lolita. Lolita is our authentic self’ (Kawamura 2012, p. 73).
Wärmling is herself a proponent of the lolita style she depicts and has
worked with lolitas as a subject of her work for over a decade now.
Wärmling argues that ‘we don’t appreciate the norms until somebody
breaks them’ and that ‘through a subculture individuals can be them-
selves’ (Verket 2011, online). She believes lolita allows the individual to
gain a sense of community; however, conversely this can also lead to a
44
sense of alienation from society as a whole. The subculture, Wärmling

suggests, ‘creates both solidarity — a feeling of belonging — and exclu-
sion’ (Verket 2011, online). She sees lolita as a form of self-expression
where the subcultural ephemera become tools to shape an individual’s
identity. Wärmling believes, ‘clothes and accessories are a manifestation
of a person’s soul’ (Verket 2011, online), which allow an individual to
create a sense of who they are. As she argues, ‘it’s all about creating a
personality where the subculture’s way of expressing itself and attributes
assist in shaping the ego and people literally clothe themselves in their
own image’ (Verket 2011, online). Throughout her paintings and draw-
ings, Wärmling presents her subjects with sensitivity as well as objec-
tivity. She is able to distance herself sufficiently to gain perspective and
consider the subculture from the outside; however, she is keen that the
audience understands the message she tries to convey that through their
use of clothing, lolitas seek to express the outward manifestation of
what they see as their inner selves. In particular, there is an active and
recurring interest in feminism in Wärmling’s work, even when she is
representing male subjects who are playing with modes of gender iden-
tity through cross-dressing and gender play (SvD 2009).
Wärmling’s paintings also portray gothic lolitas. Gothic lolita is a
style variation of lolita that explores the darker aspects of the subcul-
ture. Whereas ‘sweet’ lolitas outwardly present a ‘sugar and spice and
all things nice’ exterior, ‘gothic’ lolita mixes this childhood innocence
with a darker aspect. As Novala Takemoto (2009, p. 17) writes, ‘while
they may like cute kids’ things and old style classical music, they love
the grotesque, misshapen monsters, are devoted to George Bataille’s aca-
demicism, and are mad about violent rock’.
When presenting her work in a gallery setting, Wärmling attempts to
create an immersive space. For her exhibition Les Pièces Noires (2005),
Wärmling had the gallery walls painted black and heavy drapes lined
each doorway and sash window. The space was suggestive of a dark
English Victorian parlour, which was reflected in the backgrounds
of her paintings. The gallery could, therefore, be seen as a fantasy,
even playful space (see Chapter 7) transporting the visitor into the
gothic realm of Victoriana. The relationship with lolita to Victoriana
45
is embellished in these portraits, and the figures are removed from the
present and placed within a nineteenth-century fantasy. In particular,
Helen McCarthy, who has written extensively on anime and manga,
suggests that for many Japanese, England represents an almost fantasy-
like place:
Japan’s love of England was inspired by their first contact in Victorian

times. If you think about it, the British Empire was probably easier for
the Japanese to assimilate in cultural terms than the USA, France, or
Germany. These were part of big continents while Britain was a little
archipelago; it too had an Imperial monarchy of very ancient origins and
had a social culture that praised restraint, decorum and good manners.
Japanese readers devoured British novels, plays and films in translation
and in the original. (Helen McCarthy, personal correspondence, 2014)
This obsession with colonial British culture is further evidenced by the

amount of manga that is inspired by or reinterprets Lewis Carroll’s
classic work Alice in Wonderland (1865), such as Alice in the Country of
Hearts (2007–2010), Pandora Hearts (2009–), and American McGee’s
video games Alice (2000) and Alice: Madness Returns (2011), which are
all popular sources of inspiration for cosplayers. Many other manga
titles are set within an English-style environment, such as Vampire
Knights (see Chapter 5) and Black Butler, which again provide popular
source material for many cosplayers. For McCarthy, ‘the Japanese view
of Britain inspired lolita culture, rather than the other way around’
(Helen McCarthy, personal correspondence, 2014).
Ulrika Wärmling presents herself as an authority. She is involved in
the lolita scene and is informed by it. However, she does not let her own
participation detract from her representation of her subjects. These are
not trite portrayals perpetuating a fantastical world of myth and magic.
The world she creates in the gallery and within her portraits only allows
her subjects to drift so far into their immersive fantasy. She leaves suffi-
cient clues to draw them back to reality—a PlayStation game controller
or a paperback novel—fictional realities in themselves, but contempo-
rary. In doing this, her paintings are set in a space between the immer-
sive subculture and the realities of everyday existence.
46
Conclusions
An important aspect of this research is exploring and employing the
links between art and subculture; therefore, it is important that we seek
to understand the context and existing body of work on which this pro-
ject draws and builds. However, this context and body of work is not
limited here to just academic social scientific studies of subcultures, but
also necessarily draws and builds upon how subcultures have previously
been understood, interpreted, and represented in artwork.
Dick Hebdige (1979) in his seminal work Subculture: The Meaning
of Style chooses to open this book with a series of quotes by the French
novelist, playwright, and poet, Jean Genet. As Dick Hebdige (1979,
p. 2) writes, ‘I have chosen to begin with these extracts from Genet
because he more than most has explored in both his life and his art
the subversive implications of style’. In particular, in Genet, Hebdige
argues, we see ‘the elevation of crime into art (even though, in our case,
the “crimes” are only broken codes)’. For Hebdige, subcultures make
the breaking of social codes and conventions stylish, and they made
it art. It is, therefore, fitting that art is used as lens through which to
explore subculture.
Of course, the history and relationship between art and subculture
are extensive and complex. Many artists have been part of, or repre-
sented in their work, particular subcultures. Moreover, it could be
argued (and often is) that the art world itself represents an example of
a particular and specific subculture. As Howard Becker (1982, p. 163)
writes, ‘…one might speak of all the arts as comprising one big art
world. Insofar as members of specialized sub-worlds cooperate in some
activities related to their world…’. However, it is not the aim of this
chapter or book to provide a comprehensive history or overview of the
relationship between art and subculture or the art world more widely.
Hence, what this chapter does is seek to identify two categories of how
artists have typically interacted with subcultures, which we refer to as
‘definers’ and ‘documenters’, or put more bluntly, an ‘insider’ and ‘out-
sider’ position.
47
These categories allow us to understand how, working within a sub-

culture, artists like Jamie Reid, Anne Sudworth, and (to a lesser extent)
Banks Violette have had a direct influence in defining the nature, aes-
thetics, and motifs of a subculture, while other artists, such as Tom
Helyar-Cardwell, Iris Van Dongen, and Steven Shearer, have operated
as (largely) outsiders, looking in, to document a particular subculture.
Of course, these categories are largely analytical, and the relationship of
the artist as insider or outsider is always contingent. For example, Tom
Helyar-Cardwell’s work has started to receive some attention and place
within heavy metal culture. Similarly, though David Hancock’s work
was primarily as an artist-documenter, as we shall explore in the next
chapter, his ethnographic engagement with this community over an
extended period of time, inviting cosplayers to his exhibitions, and even
potentially the publication of this book, all blur the boundaries of what
is inside and outside of this culture.
In the final section of this chapter, we looked more specifically at
artists who have worked with, or represented, cosplayers or, in the case
of Ulrika Wärmling, lolita. As well as Wärmling, then we consider the
work of Cao Fei, Tobias Bernstrup, and Elena Dorfman. The work of
these four artists is important, as particularly in a still under-researched
area like cosplay, these artists provide new and novel documents and
insights into this subculture and its participants. These bodies of work
can then tell us a great deal about not only the subculture, but also how
others see, interpret, and seek to represent this. For example, Cao Fei
highlights the playful nature of cosplay and draws clear parallels with
video game play, Bernstrup highlights the gender fluidity evident in
many aspects of cosplay, and similarly Wärmling highlights how lol-
ita draws on motifs from fantasy and fiction to assert alternative ideas
of femininity, while Dorfman seeks to emphasise cosplayers as isolated
and lost in their own private fantasy worlds. These, at times contrast-
ing, interpretations of cosplay (and lolita) provide useful and legitimate
insights on which to build our own research and David Hancock’s artis-
tic representations of this subculture—a method we explore more fully
in the chapter that follows.
48
Notes
1. Sunn O))) is an experimental drone metal band from Seattle, North
American who formed in 1998. They are named after the Sunn amplifier
brand who use the O))) in their logo to represent sound waves emanat-
ing from their amplifiers.
2. FRUiTS, with its street photography by Shoichi Aoki, was compiled
and released internationally in 2001 through Phaidon. The book and
subsequent international touring exhibition of the photographs was an
immediate success and brought the extreme Japanese fashions to wider
international audience. Later books Fresh FRUiTS (2005), also by Aoki,
and Gothic & Lolita (2007) by Masayuki Yoshinaga, both published by
Phaidon, followed on the back of the success of FRUiTS.
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V&A. (2012). Lolita Fashion: Japanese Street Style. Victoria & Albert Museum.
http://www.vam.ac.uk/content/articles/j/japanese-street-style/. Accessed 28
July 2014, no longer available.
Verket. (2011). Ulrika Minami Wärmling. http://www.verket.se/index.
php?s=336&l=eng. Accessed 28 July 2014, no longer available.
3
Cosplay and Art as Research Method
Introduction
This chapter outlines how art-led research has been used in this project
but also reflects on and seeks to contribute to discussions around the
relationship between art-led and ethnographic research. As Khatchikian
(2018, p. 164) suggests, there are examples of artists using ethnographic
methods in gathering data to inform their artwork, but far fewer exam-
ples of ethnographers using art as a method. This project, however, seeks
to blur the boundaries between art and ethnographic research, as we
suggest that practices from both can play a significant role in informing
the other.
This book is the latest output in a project that continuously shifts and
blurs the boundaries between ethnographic and art-led research. In many
respects, as an isolated text this book reads more like, and probably could
be described as, an ethnography that employs artistic methods. It is then,
as Khatchikian argues, unusual in this respect. However, it is important
that this book is understood as one output from a wider (and to some
extent still ongoing) project and hence contextualised in relation to the
other outputs and processes this project has involved and produced.

52
In this chapter then, we begin with a discussion of art practice as

research and, in particular, suggest that utilising art as a method sig-
nificantly adds to the tools available to the ethnographer in a num-
ber of key ways. We next focus on the process and practice of art-led
research, before considering how this has been specifically employed
in this project. In particular, we argue that the method of painting is
particularly relevant to studying cosplay for a number of reasons. This
includes synergies that are produced by the links and fusions between
the two creative processes, but also how both can be contextualised in a
wider consideration of ‘slow’ processes. Finally, the chapter finishes with
a consideration of processes of curation, exhibiting, and engagement.
In this section, we consider how engaging with other artists and wider
audiences adds greater levels of understanding around the artwork and
provides new insights and opportunities for the production of further
work.
Art Practice as Research

In his book Art Practice as Research (2010), Graeme Sullivan discusses
curator, Robert Storr’s 52nd Venice Biennial in 2007. Sullivan suggests
that Storr, as a curator, ‘offers a structure that speaks to artists, critics,
historians, educators, cultural theorists, and the public’ (Sullivan 2010,
p. 224). He continues:
Storr’s central premise is that art making is a personal process and public
practice that is a primary source for creating and critiquing new knowl-
edge that has important individual and cultural value. This claim reso-
nates with those made by advocates of art practice as research (Sullivan
2010, p. 224).
In this chapter, we consider artistic practice as a method of research and

also as a form of data and in particular, focus on the use and role of
David Hancock’s artwork within this project. As Storr suggests, an art-
ist’s work is often undertaken in private in a studio, and the methods
they employ in making a piece of art are usually unseen. Nevertheless,
3 Cosplay and Art as Research Method
53
the finished outcome, whether that be painting, drawing, sculpture, or

video, is usually made public. At that moment, the private ideas and
processes behind a body of work are made public.
In many ways then, the working process of an artist has clear parallels
to that of (other) academics. For example, Judith Burton (2007) talks of
an artist’s work as a journey of idea making, which often begins with a
sense of wonder—a curiosity about the world (cited in Sullivan 2010,
p. 236). A curiosity that then leads to a means of exploring this and
problem-solving. Hence, the artist’s studio is not just a place of creativ-
ity, but also of research, experimentation, and exploration. As Sullivan
(2010, p. 236) argues, ‘the experience of making and reflecting is so
central to how we see and understand the world, it is logical that the
studio be a site for all kinds of inquiry, for there are few limits on what
the imaginative mind can take on’ (Sullivan 2010, p. 236).
Hence, Leavy (2015) suggests that, as with most academic research,
art-led research is primarily concerned with the generation of data, anal-
ysis, interpretation, and representation. She argues that both art and
science ‘attempt to illustrate aspects of the human condition’ (2015);
how they do that may differ, but neither should necessarily be seen as
more valid, or even objective, than the other, as even ‘hard science’ is
based upon human interpretation and representations of the physical
world. As Smith and Dean (2009, p. 3) argue, ‘research… needs to be
treated, not monolithically, but as an activity which can appear in a vari-
ety of guises across the spectrum of practice and research’.
In particular, what we argue here is that the use of visual art facili-
tates new forms of research engagement, data collection, analysis, and
the representation of data. However, it is not our intention to provide a
comprehensive overview of practice-led research, research-led practice,
or art as a research tool, as there are already a number of texts that do
this very well, including (but not limited to) McNiff (1998), Smith and
Dean (2009), Barrett and Bolt (2010), and Sullivan (2010).
However, before progressing it is necessary to clarify what we (and oth-
ers) mean by terms such as ‘practice-based’, ‘practice-led’, and ‘research-
led practice’. Firstly, though the terms ‘practice-based’ and ‘practice-led’
are often used interchangeably, Candy (2006) suggests that ‘prac-
tice-based’ more specifically refers to where the creative work is used as a
54
form of research, while ‘practice-led’ suggests that the art practice has led
to new research insights (cited in Smith and Dean 2009, p. 5). However,
as Smith and Dean (2009, p. 7) argue, ‘ideally we would expect a research
element to be present in both research and work creation’. The less com-
mon term of ‘research-led practice’ is similar to what Candy defines as
‘practice-based’; that is to say, the use of this term denotes that scholarly
research has informed and underpinned the production of the creative
work (Smith and Dean 2009, p. 7). The term we prefer and adopt here is
‘practice-led research’ (or at times, more specifically ‘art-led research’), but
in doing so, and following the desires of Smith and Dean (2009) set out
above, it is important to note that the ‘research’ and ‘practice’ elements of
this project are not mutually elusive, but rather are integral to each other.
Knowledge gathered by research underpins and informs the production
of artist work, and the artistic work in turn is an essential tool in the gen-
eration of knowledge.
Hence, what this chapter seeks to do is to map out the role of art-
work in this research project. In particular, there is a small but devel-
oping literature on the intersection of art and ethnography, which we
would suggest, this study contributes to. In doing so, we begin by sug-
gesting that art practice has enabled and enhanced the research under-
taken in this project in at least six key ways.
First, art practice can facilitate and shape new forms of ethno-
graphic engagement, and in particular, it can act as a useful means of
access. As a professional artist, David Hancock already had access to
what might be termed ‘alternative’ social networks. That is to say, his
‘subcultural capital’ (Thornton 1995) as an artist and part of a wider
‘art world’ (Becker 1982) meant that he already had an established
(and particular) status and contacts who knew cosplayers. Hence,
access to this community was initially facilitated through both friends
who cosplayed and other friends who knew cosplayers. Though
Hancock is not a cosplayer, being a member of a creative subculture
himself (as an artist) made him less removed, and less alien, to the
cosplayers, than say, a social researcher (like Crawford) may have
been.
Second, an understanding of artistic and creative processes allows
for greater empathetic insights into cosplay and its creative practices,
55
and in turn, we believe, greatly enriched the data gathered. In particu-

lar, we found that participants were more willing to discuss their prac-
tices and passions with someone who, they felt, similarly shared (and
exceeded) their own experiences and creativity. However, Hancock was,
and remains, largely an outsider to cosplay culture. As can be found in
many discussions of ethnography, there are advantages and disadvan-
tages to both being an insider or outsider to the culture under consid-
eration (see, e.g., Atkinson and Hammersley 2007). An insider already
has access and can bring a deeper understanding and familiarity that
an outsider can never achieve; however, a researcher being an outsider
allows for a greater objectivity, and even criticality, as they are able to
see as significant what an insider may simply take for granted (Atkinson
and Hammersley 2007).
This insider/outsider role, we would suggest, can raise further chal-
lenges and questions in relation to the production and authorship of
artwork. On the one hand, being too detached from the subculture one
is working with can mean that the work and artist lack empathy. For
example, as discussed in the previous chapter, the way Elena Dorfman
depicts cosplayers is problematic because it appears to deny their
agency. Dorfman’s photography purposefully offers very little context
and, in particular, edits out the playful and social nature of cosplay. In
her photographs, the cosplayers are alone, isolated, and even mournful.
They look sad, in both senses of the term. This is an artist then who has
consciously chosen not to engage with, or at least portray, the mean-
ings and subjectivities of her subjects. This is solely her interpretation of
them, made visible.
Similarly, actively involving subcultures in the production of art-
work can bring its own challenges, as can be illustrated with the case of
Jeremy Deller’s (1997) The Uses of Literacy. Jeremy Deller is a p roponent
of fan art and has produced several projects that re-contextualise a body
of fan art within his own practice. A key example of this is his work The
Uses of Literacy (1997). In The Uses of Literacy, Deller placed an advert
in the music magazine the NME asking for submissions for an exhibi-
tion on the rock-band Manic Street Preachers.1 For Deller, the choice of
selecting ‘the Manics’ was based around the fact that despite being a tra-
ditional guitar band, their music and particularly their lyrics are heavily
56
intellectualised. They have often stressed and laid bare the importance
of their cultural and artistic influences. For Deller, this project was then
about extending the notion of a fan, as not just a consumer, but also a
producer and a participant.
The Uses of Literacy is then a piece of work assembled and curated by
Jeremy Deller consisting of fans’ work. In the gallery setting and in the
publicity for this exhibition, it is clearly identified as the sole work of
Deller. However, inevitably the fans themselves were contributors and
authors of this piece. A point reinforced by the fact that when The Uses
of Literacy was sold to an American collector, each of the fan contribu-
tors received a payment of £100.
Fan art can challenge and question the boundaries of what legitimate
and accepted art is and what is not. As Schott and Burn (2007, p. 253)
in their essay on fan culture conclude, the ‘collective agency operating
within fan-culture contributes in practice to the continuous re-evalu-
ation of assumptions as to what art is, who produces it and by what
mean’. And within certain contexts, such as in the case of Deller’s The
Uses of Literacy, we see fans’ work used as the basis of legitimate, gal-
lery-worthy, art. However, there is of course still a clear, and in some
ways problematic, hierarchy at play here—a hierarchy that sees the gal-
lery identifying Deller, the artist, as the real and sole author of the work,
and not the fans.
Possibly, Ulrika Wärmling maintains a good balance in her work.
Wärmling portrays lolita from the point of view of an insider. She has
developed a close relationship with her subject and portrays them in a
sensitive manner. The disadvantage of this methodology may be that
she is unable to attain a clear critical distance and comment objectively
on the subculture; however, for Wärmling, this is not part of her con-
cept. She presents the subject as she perceives them, and also, how they
would wish to be perceived. This is very much a collaborative exchange.
However, unlike Jeremy Deller, for example, the final product is still
undoubtedly the work of Wärmling alone. The lolitas are not explicitly
involved in the staging of an event, but rather they and their agency are
captured in the paintings, which still remain the work of the artist.
It is then, this balance of both distance and sensitivity, that Hancock
has attempted to achieve in his own work. Being an outsider allows him
57
a greater objectivity, but over the course of this project Hancock also
spent a good deal of time with the cosplayers, attending various events,
and followed the subculture online, engaged in numerous informal con-
versations, and conducted formal interviews; all of which has enabled
him to achieve a fairly detailed understanding of this subculture, which
then informs the artwork—and this process is discussed in more detail
below.
Third, an artistic perspective inevitably shapes how the data gathered
are then analysed and interpreted. In many respects, the research under-
taken for this project does mirror traditional ethnographic research, in
that formal interviews were recorded and transcribed, a research diary
was kept to record observations, informal conversations, and encounters
during the fieldwork, and then all of these data were coded and themat-
ically analysed. However, as Leavy (2015, p. 3) argues, art-led research
is also about thinking through the shape of the data gathered and their
meanings. That is to say, the artist also has to think about the essence,
the underlining, deeper, and often unspoken, qualities, and nature of
the subject matter under consideration. This is because, art-led research-
ers have to think through how they are going to artistically (and in this
case, visually) represent this subject matter, in a way that captures and
illustrates what is important. Hence, art-led research adds new dimen-
sions of analysis, as the arts practitioner has to think through the mean-
ing, their interpretation, and the presentation of the data, in more ways
than a social scientist typically would.
Fourth, this leads to another important aspect of art-led research, in
that this offers new and alternative ways of (re)presenting the data gath-
ered. In that, aspects of the research and its findings can be expressed
through art. Hence, the options available to present the data gath-
ered, and knowledge generated, are much wider for the practice-led
researcher. This is particularly important, for as Khatchikian (2018,
p. 164) argues, with traditional ethnographic research it can at times
prove difficult to find ‘proper methods to grasp and translate experience
and bodily perception into written language’. Experience is embodied,
and translating this into written words is not always easy, and at times,
meaning can be lost in translation. Art practice then adds further meth-
ods through which this can be translated and expressed, such as visual
58
art or performance. Of course, this is not to say that artistic practice is

invariably a ‘better’ means through which to translate and understand
experience than the written word. The written word is a very powerful
and useful tool; however, art practice makes a wider range of method-
ological tools available to the researcher. As Stuart Hall argues, ‘in the
arts things get said in ways in which they can’t get said in any other
domain’ (Hall and Schwarz 2007, p. 153).
This leads to our fifth argument, that this creates a much more engag-
ing process and outcome for not only the researcher, but also the par-
ticipants involved in the research, and also, potentially, a much wider
audience. This is because, during the artistic/research process, participants
can see the artistic work in progress, which can add to new discussions
and further data gathering, and unlike the usual academic outputs of
papers and books, the finished artwork can then be shown to the partici-
pants and also shared publicly, such as through exhibitions—and we con-
sider the role of exhibitions in research in more detail below. This makes
research outputs much more accessible, which allows participants and a
wider audience to more easily and critically engage with how the art rep-
resents its subjects, which in turn can lead to further data gathering.
This then leads onto our sixth and final point. The subjectivity asso-
ciated with art-led research and even the language used to describe it,
as opposed to more traditional ‘scientific’ research, is quite telling of a
significant difference between the two. For example, when discussing
traditional data, be that quantitative or qualitative, researchers most
typically use the verb ‘presenting’, in contrast, art is more typically
referred to as ‘representing’ its subject. This is a small but significant
difference. As phenomenology teaches us, all knowledge is subjective.
However, the subjectivity of most forms of data tends to get lost, or at
least overlooked, in displaying research findings. Research data often
get reified; the data gathered from experiments, surveys, interviews, and
even photographs tend to be seen and accepted as unbiased depictions
of ‘reality’. Even where researchers and audiences recognise the inevi-
table subjectivity of research ‘findings’, this is typically acknowledged,
accepted as part of all research processes, and then almost forgotten, as
the data become a legitimated artefact.
59
However, in contrast (and as we shall discuss further below) ‘truth’

in art is much more readily open to question. Moreover, as the jour-
nalist and art critic Jonathan Jones (2017) argues, art should be criti-
cised, questioned, and argued over. And this we would suggest is one
of the greatest advantages of art-led research, as it much more overtly
invites critical engagement. Art asks its audience to question its ‘truth’;
it reveals its subjectivity, and in doing so does not cut out debate, but
helps further this. Of course, traditional academic data are often criti-
cally engaged with and its validity can at times be called into question.
However, not in the same way, or to the same extent art is. Moreover,
traditional academic data are only usually read by, an often very small
and select, academic audience, and only critically engaged with by an
even smaller, very specialised and elite(ist), audience. Art by contrast,
particularly that which seeks to represent the everyday and the know-
able, is much more open to public scrutiny and debate. Even for those
lacking specific knowledge about a particular work of art, and not
schooled in the academic traditions of art criticism and art history, art
still allows a much wider audience to ask if they feel this represents the
world as they see it?
Doing Art-Led Research

The main period of data gathering and engagement with the cosplayers
who were to be the key participants in this research process began in
2011 and ran, primarily, until 2014. We say ‘primarily’, as the research-
ers have remained in contact with some of the participants, and an
important aspect of art-led research is that this continues to live on in
a public domain. As we shall discuss later in this chapter, the artwork
has been displayed in a number of galleries and exists online in a num-
ber of forms. The artwork then acts as a continued link between the
artist and the participants, but also the cosplay community and a wider
public. Though, as highlighted in the previous chapter, the artwork was
not produced to directly contribute artefacts to cosplay subculture, but
rather document it, it inevitably and often in unforeseen ways continues
60
to engage with, and contribute to, this culture. In terms of social

research, Anthony Giddens (1987) referred to this as ‘double hermeneu-
tic’; how there is a two-way process of exchange and engagement in the
social sciences between the researcher and the researched. However, in
terms of art, this can often be even stronger and certainly much more
visible, as art ‘about’ a culture can become ‘part’ of that culture, as can
be seen in the work of Anne Sudworth where her gothic imagery has
become cultural currency within the goth subculture (see Chapter 2).
As with most (other) ethnographic research, it is difficult to place an
exact figure on the number of individuals who participated in, and con-
tributed to, this research. Over the main research period, both Crawford
and Hancock, but most specifically Hancock, began to follow and
engage with cosplay subculture. Initially, and throughout the research
period, both Crawford and Hancock began to more closely follow
cosplay subculture online—following and observing this community
in numerous online forums and spaces. Both Crawford and Hancock
already knew some individuals who regularly cosplayed, but through
friends, and friends-of-friends, Hancock began to establish more con-
tacts and to more fully engage with this subculture and its participants.
Hancock started going to cosplay meet-ups and conventions, mostly in
Manchester, but also several across the UK, and began speaking to and
photographing cosplayers in situ at the events or locations they were at,
as well as keeping a detailed research diary of thoughts, observations,
sketches, and informal conversations.
In order to gain a more detailed understanding of this subculture,
Hancock also conducted thirty-six semi-structured interviews with cos-
players as part of the overall project. Some of these were undertaken
face-to-face and one-to-one, in public locations around Manchester,
such as bars and cafes. Some interviews were conducted in small
groups, and a small number (five), via Skype or online. The majority
who were interviewed were white, middle class, and in their late teens
or early twenties, with a high proportion of female cosplayers—which
would appear to reflect the typical make-up of cosplayers in the UK (see
Chapter 4). All participants were interviewed by David Hancock, and
all have been given pseudonyms. The pseudonyms of the interviewee are
listed in Table 3.1 including the dates they were interviewed, and where
61
Table 3.1 The interviewees
Madeline, female, interview conducted online 22/2/11, cosplays as David

Bowie’s character Jared (from Labyrinth ), Orochimaru from Naruto, and a
lolita. Madeline was around 21 when interviewed
Sarah, female, interviewed online 4/8/11, Sarah cosplays as Vocaloids, Miku
Hatsune, and Magnet Luka. Sarah was 20 when interviewed in 2011
Matt, male, interviewed online 16/8/11, cosplays as Link (Legend of Zelda ),
Cloud (FFVII ), Shiki Senri (Vampire Knights). Mikey was 23 when interviewed
in 2011
Jess, female, interviewed online, 5/11/11
Kim, female, interviewed online, 22/4/12
Amanda, female, interviewed in Bolton 2011. Amanda cosplays as Loki, Ichigo
(Bleach), and The Crow. Amanda was 18
Sophie, female, interviewed in Manchester in 2011, aged 20. Sophie cosplays
as Boris from In the Country of Hearts, Sonic the Hedgehog, Sora and Demyx
from Kingdom Hearts, Aeron from Pandora’s Tower
Lei, female, interviewed in Salford in 2014, cosplays as Mikasa Ackerman from
Attack on Titan, aged 24
Phoebe, female, interviewed in Oldham, 18/3/14. Cosplays as Raiden from
Metal Gear Rising, Nelliel (Bleach), Link (The Legend of Zelda), Lilith from
Borderlands, Naga, Ciri, and Ves from The Witcher
Chris, male, interviewed in Manchester, 29/3/14. Chris cosplays as a
Stormtrooper, X-Pilot, Luke Skywalker. Chris was 20
Interview with Diane (female), Hannah (female), Esther (female), Nathan
(male), and Pru (female) was conducted together in Halifax on 23/2/14. The
group was cosplaying as characters from FFVII. The cosplayers were aged
18–21
Daniel, male, interviewed via Skype in 2014. Cosplays as Judge Dredd, and an
OC Judge. Daniel was 43
Sienna and Deana interviewed together in Manchester, 22/4/14. Sienna and
Deana cosplay as Sailor Neptune and Sailor Uranus from Sailor Moon. They
were around 18
Dawn (female), Katie (female), and AJ (male) interviewed together in
Manchester, 26/4/14. They were all cosplaying Hetalia
Elizabeth, Erika, Emily, Eve, Frida, and Michelle, all female interviewed
together in Manchester 26/4/14. They were all cosplaying Hetalia
Grace, Kristen, and Rachel, all female interviewed together in Manchester.
They were all cosplaying Hetalia
Aka, Erin, Sally (all female), and Tony (male) interviewed together in
Manchester 26/4/14. They were all cosplaying Hetalia
Darren, Mallory, and Stephen, all male interviewed together in Manchester.
They were all cosplaying Hetalia
(The ages of the Hetalia cosplayers interviewed April 2014 was approximately
from the ages 16 to 24)
62
available, other information, such as their age, gender, and what charac-
ters they typically cosplayed.
In some respects, what is set out here might look very much like a
traditional ethnographic engagement with a community under research,
with some art added on. And certainly, this project did involve clear
ethnographic elements, such as an extended period in ‘the field’ with a
culture and community under research, observations, the use of infor-
mal and semi-structured interviews, the keeping of extensive research
notes and a research diary, and the gathering of visual data. However,
it is important to reiterate that this project was not simply ethnography
with art added on. Not that there is anything wrong with ethnographic
research, as this project certainly borrows heavily from ethnography.
This project is undoubtedly and undeniably ethnographic. But what
makes this project different to most ethnographies is that throughout
the project, art has always been central to this.
Hence, when Hancock met or engaged with any cosplayers, this was
primarily as an artist. Of course, it was always made clear that the art-
work was being produced as part of a project, which was the basis of a
doctoral thesis, and that their contributions would also be written up as
part of this research, and possibly then as academic outputs (such as this
book). But Hancock’s engagement with this subculture clearly differs to
that of most social researchers; in that, the purpose of this was primarily
to make art. Hence, engagement with this subculture was primarily to
better understand their motives and practices so that the artwork would
better reflect, include, and represent them, which in turn generates new
forms of inclusive data that add to our understanding of cosplay. But
the use of practice-led research makes this not a simple and linear pro-
cess of data gathering, analysis, and output. To borrow from the lan-
guage of actor–network theory (ANT) (see Latour 2007), the artwork
becomes a much clearer and more powerful ‘actant’ than data gathered
and presented in most traditional forms of social research (see Chapter
5 for further discussion of ANT). In that, the artwork is present (even
if not as an object, but certainly as a subject) throughout the entire pro-
cess and forms a basis of discussion and engagement that runs through-
out the research process and beyond.
63
This book is both one output from and also an evolution of the ini-
tial art-led research project. In particular, in this book, we more spe-
cifically develop some of the theoretical and sociological ideas initially
set running in Hancock’s (2015) original thesis. In Hancock’s original
project, data were gathered from interviews, conversations, and obser-
vations primarily in order to better inform the creation of artwork—as
is the basic requirement of an art-led Ph.D. To a certain extent, it was a
means to a specific end. However, in this book, what you could call ‘tra-
ditional’ data, such as in the form of excerpts from interviews, are given
more prominence alongside the artwork.
This book is then a development of the original project, which
inevitably given the inclusion of a sociologist, originally as a supervi-
sor and now as a co-author, has purposefully evolved into a more soci-
ologically informed discussion. However, this is still one part and one
output of a wider project, which also includes other publications, the
artwork itself (some of which we include here), and a series of events
and exhibitions based around this work—the latter of which will be
discussed further, later in this chapter. Khatchikian (2018, p. 164)
suggests that ‘whilst artistic practice has stepped into the anthropolog-
ical field and appropriated some of its lexicon and features’, there are
much few examples of the opposite occurring, and of ethnographers
employing ‘artistic methodology’. Nevertheless, in this project, even
from the outset, the lines between artistic and ethnographic methods
have been purposefully blurred, and this book seeks to blur them even
further.
David Hancock’s Cosplay

David Hancock’s Cosplay series employs art, and primarily watercol-
our painting, as a means to provide new insights into a specific subcul-
ture: cosplay. Throughout the project, Hancock has utilised a variety
of media and artistic forms, such as sculpture, photography, pencil
and ink drawings, video, and immersive online environments, such as
SecondLife. However, it is primarily watercolour painting that has con-
stituted the main form of artwork undertaken in the project, and over
64
its course, has involved the production of well over a hundred paintings,
varying in size from the miniature to larger than life representations of
cosplayers.
In many respects, Hancock’s Cosplay project represents a contin-
uation of his artistic work and research over the past two decades.
In particular, it draws and builds upon the recurrent themes of fan-
dom, subculture, the digital, and place. In earlier projects, Hancock
explored the role and meaning of fandom and subcultural identity and
belonging in projects such as Princess Leia Was My First Kiss (1997)
and his series of paintings The Beautiful People focusing on goth sub-
culture, which was displayed in numerous solo exhibitions between
1998 and 2005 in galleries ranging from Whitby (1998) to Shanghai
(2002) and New York (2003). The intersection of the digital and
everyday life is also explored in some of Hancock’s other work, such as
Game (2010), which focused on how young people engage with video
games.
Hancock’s interest in the links and intersections between places, and
how people negotiate these, fit in, and move between them, is another
theme evident in much of his work, such as in The Beautiful People. In
this project, his subjects were mostly painted in their bedrooms, as he
asked them to ‘select the environment in which they were to be painted,
which they felt said something about their personality’ (Hancock, cited
in Mullins 2003, online).
For Hancock, Cosplay was the first time he could bring together
these recurrent themes, all in one place and one project—a project
that explores how a subculture brings digital fantasies into the physi-
cal world. His solo exhibition of Cosplay at Wolverhampton Art Gallery
in 2013 was described as exploring the links between the ‘real and
imagined worlds as experienced by the young people who engage in this
form of escapism. By taking their characters into the urban environ-
ments they transfer the ordinary into a world of imagination and fan-
tasy’ (Wolverhampton Art Gallery 2013, online). This blurring of the
meanings of space very much resonates with cosplay. As Susan Napier
(2007, p. 53) describes, for a cosplayer at a fan convention this is expe-
rienced as ‘a fantasy world [where] for a few days, fans throw off the
65
burdens, responsibilities, and roles of ordinary life to take part in a lim-

inal world that, while it intersects with reality at certain moments, in
other ways subsumes reality to create a densely textured utopian envi-
ronment’—and how cosplayers utilise and help define a place, both for
themselves and for others, is explored in more detail in Chapter 7.
The Continued Importance of Painting

We would like to suggest that there are particular parallels between
cosplay and watercolour painting that make this an apt method and
medium for representing and engaging with this subculture. Both
watercolour and cosplay are relatively ‘lo-fi’ and slow processes; some
may question the continued relevance of both in a contemporary and
digitally dominated world. Why take the time and effort to carefully
paint, when digital technology allows art to be produced (and repro-
duced) more quickly and efficiently; as elements can be imported from
other sources, mistakes can much more easily be removed, images
refined, and the finished product much more readily distributed and
repurposed? Similarly, why do cosplayers spend so much time and effort
painstakingly constructing costumes; when ‘fancy dress’ costumes can
easily be purchased from stores or online shops, or better still, video
games and virtual worlds allow gamers to inhabit and play out multiple
new personas, and quickly and easily switch between them? Both water-
colour painting and cosplay seem unnecessary in our advanced digital
world, with their lo-fi, slowness; but both persist. Possibly, it could be
argued, as the ceramists Jonathan Anderson does, that ‘craft is an anti-
dote to digital media’ (Craven 2018, p. 38). Certainly, the argument
could be made that both painting and cosplay involve an underlying
desire to make physical, to make ‘real’, the ephemeral. In many ways,
both can be understood as the antithesis to the adage that increasingly
characterises the modern digital age of ‘move fast and break things’
(Taplin 2017). Here, both artist and cosplayers are instead moving
slowly and making things—and this is explored further in Chapters 6
and 8.
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An aim of the wider project then was also an exploration of the

medium of painting and in particular the use of watercolours. Though,
of course, the primary focus of this project is the subject matter rep-
resented in the artwork, it is also important and necessary to under-
stand the medium in which a particular artist works. For, as Marshall
McLuhan famously asserted, ‘the medium is the message’ (McLuhan
1964, p. 1). In particular, this project then also explores the appropri-
ateness and value of an ancient and analogue art form (painting) in rep-
resenting the contemporary, and often digital, world.
The London-based painter, Simon Willems, views the activity of
painting as:
An anachronism in the twenty-first century. Yet it’s important to recog-

nise that anachronism is not synonymous with defunction. Painting is
not mutually exclusive from that which followed it historically, and in our
age of endless images, painting can, amongst other things, be an image
too. However unlike other contemporary methods of image production,
painting is achieved through slowness, what some have termed belated-
ness. Image as an object and as a representation of compressed time in
this sense is painting’s key difference and its opportunity. (cited in Valli
and Dessanay 2014, p. 315)
Though a painting may represent an image, the painting itself is also

an object. It has a physicality. Whether flat or textured, the application
of paint leaves a physical presence on the surface that is entirely differ-
ent from any other medium. A painting is best experienced in the flesh,
face-to-face. Only then can the viewer experience all the subtleties that
the work has to offer. A photograph or digital image does not work
in this way. The work is the image, and though it can be experienced
in numerous ways, such as on a screen or printed onto photographic
paper, it loses almost nothing in the translation. Texas-based painter,
Kent Dorn, alludes to this when he states that, ‘I don’t know if material-
ity is painting’s principle area of innovation but I do think it’s the thing
that sets paintings apart from other types of images and why painting
continues to be a viable and perplexing medium’. He continues, ‘paint-
ings are physical things – objects’, and that, ‘making a painting is an
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attempt to take something fleeting and make it eternal…paintings strive

to become monuments’ (cited in Valli and Dessanay 2014, p. 279).
Paintings present a dichotomy between two places, but in doing
so, they represent a blurring of the boundaries between that which is
depicted and the physical nature of the painting as an object in itself.
Of course, we are not suggesting that there is a universal truth in paint-
ing (Derrida 1987), rather (as highlighted above) it is painting’s sub-
jectivity that makes it all the more relevant and useful to us. Painting,
unlike photography or film, cannot make bold truth claims. Painting
represents a truth; but we much more readily see painting as an inter-
pretation and representation of the world. Unlike film and photogra-
phy, which audiences often unquestioning accept as the truth, as a
direct reproduction of the world as it happened at that moment in time,
paintings much more clearly reveal their subjectivity.
Of course, this is not to say that paintings are devoid of authorial intent,
as of course they are not. As Khatchikian (2018) highlights, a great deal
of art was, and often still is, produced with little or no consideration of
how an audience will interpret this. As Khatchikian (2018, p. 172) writes,
‘the artist preserves her authority’ to dictate how a piece of work should be
interpreted. However, even though an artist may attempt to convey their
intentions behind a piece of artwork as the dominant, or possibly only
legitimate, reading, this fails to take into consideration ‘the importance
of individual, sovereign decisions and actions taking place in private, het-
erotopic spaces’ (Groys 2010, p. 68, cited in Khatchikian 2018, p. 168).
In other words, no matter what the intentions of an artist, this cannot
account for how this will be interpreted by a diverse audience. Of course,
the same could be said for a photograph or piece of text, but we would
argue with a painting ‘truth’ claims are very different. In the majority of
cases, most audiences will be unaware of an artist’s intentions, and even if
they are well informed in this respect, the viewer of a piece of art has much
more front-and-centre in their consciousness that what they are viewing
(or at times hearing, feeling, or experiencing) is an artistic representation.
No one ever views a painting of a pipe, to use the example Magritte’s
famous La Trahison des Images (1928–1929), and thinks they are seeing a
‘real’ pipe, in the same way an audience would view a photograph of a pipe
or even reading an account describing a pipe typically does.
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Lanterns and the Meeting of Worlds

The acknowledged difference between image and object creates a con-
stant tension between the surface paint and the world represented within
the painting. This tension is at the heart of Hancock’s paintings of cos-
players. In particular, the white space around the cosplayers is not there
to frame them; it is not a passé-partout (Derrida 1987), but rather the
untouched sections of the paper, as well as the drips and loosely painted
areas, mark a blurring of worlds between the object and subject. These
areas of the paper represent a space of transition—a space between the
fantasy world that exists within the cosplayer’s imagination, and the phys-
ical place in which they are located (and painted), such as a park or at a
convention centre.
Hence, for Hancock, the white space around the cosplayers marks
a transitional place on the cusp of two worlds. They are neither wholly
enveloped in the fantasy world the cosplayers create through their imag-
ination, narratives, and interactions with others, nor are they wholly part
of the physical world. They are alien here; comic book, video game, or
similar fantasy characters lifted off the screen or page into everyday life.
Fig. 3.1 Lanterns, watercolour on paper, 15 cm × 21 cm, 2014

69
This can be seen, for example, in the watercolour painting Lanterns

(Fig. 3.1) by David Hancock, which features six cosplayers dressed as char-
acters from the DC Green Lantern comic-book universe, including Hal
Jordan and Star Sapphire. The cosplayers are all dressed in full, colour-
ful, and elaborate costumes and captured in poses that suggest they are
poised to leap into action. All six appear to be looking towards the same
thing, but what they are looking at remains unknown to the viewer. As
too does the shared narrative and fantasy that the cosplayers are actively
creating through their actions, costumes, and imaginations. The cosplay-
ers are physically located in one world, but through their shared role-play
create another, which we as bystanders are not fully granted access to.
Hence, the white area of the page is used by the artist to represent this
transitional space—a space between the physical and the imagined, which
we the viewer are not privy to (Fig. 3.1).
The painting does not fully reveal, as it can never do so, what is in the
cosplayer’s imagination or where they were physically located; but instead
invites the audience to think about this relationship of how the cosplayers
(re)imagines the world, and also how we subjectively see the world?
It is our argument that the medium of paint and painting opens up new
opportunities for exploring subcultures, but moreover, we suggest that
it is the history and revitalisation of this medium in recent years, which
makes it a particular useful tool for us in this project.
The Death of Painting?

The death of painting has been foretold, even proclaimed, for a consid-
erable period of time. Particularly, with the advent of new information
technologies many have questioned the continued relevance or even
need for painting. John Tozer (1999, p. 60), in his essay, From Today
Painting Is Dead, claims that ‘painting has relinquished its status because
it has been superseded by technologies, media and methodologies that,
being of their time, speak more eloquently of the human condition as
it exists in all the heterogeneities and pluralities that are proper to cul-
ture today’. In particular, Suzanne Hudson (2015) suggests that paint-
ing has suffered two key historical near-fatal blows. The first was in the
1830s with the advent of photography. Photography was able to depict
the world much more quickly, accurately, and cheaply, making almost
70
instantly defunct the need for the use of painting and drawing in many
areas of life such as the military, medicine, planning, and huge areas of
academia. Ever since, Hudson suggests, painting has always been in dia-
logue with the photograph, either mimicking it to produce a photore-
alistic image or seeking to clearly distance itself from the technology by
playing with more impressionistic or more radical uses of colours and
shapes, such as through styles such as postimpressionism, surrealism, or
cubism. The second major blow to painting, Hudson (2015) suggests,
came in the 1910s when Marcel Duchamp displayed a bicycle wheel
on a stool, a bottle rack, and an upturned urinal and declared them as
works of art. This, Hudson argues, more than photography had done
before it, removed the hand of the artist, and foregrounded the impor-
tance of ideas over technical skill.
Of course, the advent of photography, then later film, and the revolu-
tion began by the work of Duchamp and others, significantly reframed
what is seen as art, but by no means have they killed off painting
completely. In fact, some have argued that in the twentieth-first century,
we have seen a revival and reinvigoration of painting. In many ways,
changes in both technology and the nature of artwork have had a pos-
itive impact on the form and meaning of painting today. As Walter
Benjamin (1931) argued, mechanical reproduction, such as photogra-
phy and the printing press, helped remove some of the ‘aura’ of art.
That is to say, they helped make it more democratic. With the advent
of these new technologies, art was no longer only the preserve of those
who could own it or visit it in art galleries; art became more accessi-
ble through photographs, film, and books and, in doing so, made it
less privileged. Also, the work of contemporary artists, and particularly
those working with installations, such as Tracey Emin’s famous ‘My
Bed’ (1998), and those collectively labelled Young British Artists, such
as Damien Hirst and Sarah Lucas, make audiences, critics, and other
artists, reassess what it is to make art, and what its cultural and social
functions are?
Painting today is not what it once was. Technology and changes in
art practice and critique mean it has to be viewed in a new, and con-
stantly changing, context. But these changes have also made painting
much more ‘niche’, which some have suggested now allows the artists
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working in this medium a great deal of room for manoeuvre. Peter Doig
makes this very point in an interview with critic Adrian Searle, when
he argues that, ‘one of the most exciting things about painting was that
it was a niche area. It felt like a special place to be making paintings’
(Doig and Searle 2008, online). Seeing new potentials in the medium,
artists are now using painting to create challenging discourses on art. As
Mark Sladen points out in his essay, Painting Lab (1999), ‘painting is
once again a space in which there is some elbow room, some freshness
and possibility’ (Sladen 1999, p. 33). Consequently, painting remains
‘the great undead… We have all witnessed painting die time and time
again…and it resurfaces, unstoppable and renewed. Painting…becomes
a kind of monster. Contemporary painters seem to sense…this indebt-
edness to painting’s history, and pay the debt by spilling more paint,
like blood’ (Williams 2009, p. 10). This is particularly the case for
watercolour painting. As Dorment (2011) argues, watercolour has this
‘great tradition that began in the 18th century died out at the begin-
ning of the 20th. Few major artists painted in watercolour and those
that did used it only occasionally’. However, it is a medium and form
that has never truly gone away and, in particular, has seen its value and
relevance reassessed in recent years. One example of this is the major
Watercolour2 exhibition at Tate Britain in 2011, where curator Katherine
Stout highlights ‘the myriad ways in which artists today are using water
based paint’ (Stout 2011).
Hancock’s choice of watercolour represents both a conceptual and
practical choice. It was a practical choice for, as discussed above, large
white spaces that were to be left blank were important for the artists
and the artwork. Hence, a large blank white sheet of paper was a nec-
essary and important starting point. Having previously worked with
pencil and pencil crayon, these did not offer Hancock the means to exe-
cute the large-scale works he wanted to produce for this project. Large-
scale works would show the colour and detail of the craft of cosplayers,
aspects of their environment, and the large white space the artist wanted
to leave around each image. The decision to use watercolour came after
a period of experimentation, of trying different methods and mediums,
before finally deciding that watercolour would be the most appropriate
medium for this series. However, the choice of this medium was also
72
conceptual. Hancock’s work follows in a tradition of watercolour being

used to represent the landscape of rural settings, but here Hancock
seeks to represent aspects of modern urban, as well as imagined fantasy,
landscapes.
It is thus painting’s status, as a once-hegemonic medium that has
now been sidelined by advances in both technology and art practice,
which in many ways makes it now an interesting space to experiment.
As Keith Patrick believes, ‘painting’s seemingly simple yet ultimately
complex and enduring materiality continues to lend itself to greater
possibilities than any other single medium’ (Patrick 1997, p. 13).
Cosplay and Painting
Cosplay is, in many ways, similar to painting. At its most obvious level,
both are creative processes, but both are also performative and slow
processes; developed overtime, usually by a solitary individual, but
ultimately designed to be consumed by an audience. Cosplay involves
craft and skill, both in order to not only create the costume, but also
in developing and playing out of the character. Cosplay is also indica-
tive of slowness, of stepping outside of the normal confines of time and
space. In many ways, both painting and cosplay constitute what could
be seen as part of a wider emergent ‘slow movement’ that can be seen
in many areas of social and cultural life, such as food and film. The
slow movement is a reaction to the speed and insecurity of contempo-
rary living. In particular, the Slow Food organisation advocates itself as
promoting minority cultures and cuisines and linking people together
in ethical modes of global exchange. It is about sharing experiences
and knowledge and ‘defending oneself against the speed of moder-
nity’ (Leitch 2012, p. 409). Slow food is against the homogenisation of
food, and by extension, the loss of history and culture. Like painting,
it is about looking back, but in doing so, using historical practices to
offer an alternative to the uniformity and speed of contemporary life.
Similarly, slowness in cinema focuses on a renewed attention to image
and the experience of time (Lim 2014). However, as with slow food
there are also anti-corporate politics to this movement. Slowness in
73
cinema is about ‘a commitment to the use of non-professional actors,

location shooting, natural light and the long take’ (Lim 2016, p. 87).
Like slow food, the slowness movement in film can be seen as part of a
wider social reaction ‘reflected in slogans such as “Think Globally, Act
Locally” and in the popularity of books such as Naomi Klein’s No Logo
(2000) and Eric Schlosser’s Fast Food Nation (2002)’ (Lim 2016, p. 89).
Similarly, cosplay could be aligned with grass-roots movements, and a
desire to reappropriate and individualise mainstream capitalist popular
culture and make it their own—what Henry Jenkins refers to as ‘par-
ticipatory culture’ (see Chapter 6). Cosplayers do not choose the quick
and easy option of buying a costume (and identity) off the shelf. They
choose to sidestep the convenience and speed of contemporary life and
instead embrace the slowness of crafting an individual costume and
performance. In doing so, they are appropriating and ‘poaching’ from
mainstream popular culture, but making it their own. As de Certeau
(1984, p. 29) would argue, they are ‘making do’.
Similarly, appropriation is also a fundamental component of contem-
porary art. As Verwoert (2010, p. 127) states:
Artists appropriate when they adopt imagery, concepts and ways of mak-
ing art other artists have used at other times to adapt these artistic means
to their own interests, or when they take objects, images or practices from
popular (or foreign) cultures and restage them within the context of their
work to either enrich or erode conventional definitions of what an art-
work can be.
Furthermore, as Beatrix Ruf suggests in her essay Revised Narrations

(2006, p. 11), ‘in current art production there is a distinct tendency
towards the reusing or recasting of cultural materials… Artists today
are forging new ways of making sense of reality, reworking ideas of
authenticity, directness and social relevance’. In a constantly and quickly
changing contemporary cultural landscape, appropriation offers famili-
arity and security. As can also be seen in movements such as slow food,
appropriation creates a sense of cultural belonging, which links gener-
ations through a shared practice and aesthetic, as the popular culture
of the past is reappraised and reconfigured by contemporary artists.
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Though an artist’s work is inextricably linked to the period it was made,

often it also reflects a history on which it draws and builds. Moreover, as
with slow food, slow cinema, and cosplay, it could be argued that there
is potentially a politics to this appropriation, through its non-compli-
ance and subversion of popular culture.
As de Certeau and his colleagues teach us, everyday life is a com-
plex and contradictory place. For them, life takes place within the con-
straints of daily routines and structures; life is ordered. However, it is
everyday practices, such as cooking, that reveal the gaps within that
order. For de Certeau et al. (1998) cooking was a popular art, where the
latest cook adds their own take on old recipes and makes it their own.
In this then, ‘order is tricked by art’ (de Certeau et al. 1998, p. xxiii).
Curation, Exhibiting, and Engagement

In this final section, we briefly focus on the role of curation, exhibiting,
and engaging with audiences; not just as ends in themselves, but also
as useful tools for better contextualising, analysing, and engaging with
art-led research. A full consideration of these activities and events is
beyond the scope of this book; hence, for a more detailed discussion, see
Hancock (2015). However, before moving on, it is necessary to at least
briefly highlight the role of curating, exhibiting, and audience engage-
ment within this project, as these have played a key role in shaping the
nature and form of this work.
Curating and exhibiting work is put forward by Graeme Sullivan
(2010) as a valid and useful form of art-led research method. In particu-
lar, he argues that public exhibitions are ‘not only a site for display and
discourse about cultural production, but also as a visual place for radical
debate and change’ and that they also ‘assist with the descriptive, inter-
pretive and explanatory tasks often undertaken that cannot be captured
in traditional research languages’ (Sullivan 2010, p. 216). In particular,
Tate curator Nicolas Bourriaud suggests that curation is an invaluable
way of inspiring creativity and gathering knowledge. As he argues:
75
When I do have answers about something I can write a book. When I

do have questions, I’m curating a show. An art exhibition is the moment
where you are really asking any artist participating to provide you feed-
back on this idea. So it’s not about my ideas anymore, it’s about the way
we can share this theoretical and artistic moment together. What are the
artist’s answers? That is the main question actually (Bourriaud 2009,
online).
Hence, at the start of this project, Hancock used an invite to curate an

exhibition at Dean Clough Galleries in Halifax, West Yorkshire, in 2012,
as an opportunity to collect together and examine more closely the work
and practices of a small number of his peers working at the interactions
of art and the digital, under the exhibition title Digital Romantics.
The Digital Romantics exhibition featured the work of a small num-
ber of internationally recognised artists. This included Ian Kirkpatrick
and Julien Masson’s collaborative sculptural work; the monochrome
Biro drawings of Simon Woolham; Kari Stewart and James Moore, who
both present the viewer with digital environments that have been trans-
formed into paint and graphite; Andrew Brooks who takes numerous
images and develops these into large-scale immersive photographs;
Clare Booker’s immersive architectural spaces using painted webcam
footage; Tom Ormond’s paintings that contrast a utopian vision of
technology with the grime of the everyday; and Helen Knowles’ large-
scale screen prints of women giving birth.
To create a more informed basis for the production of Hancock’s
Cosplay series, Hancock interviewed all of the artists whose work was
shown during the Digital Romantics exhibition. In particular, Hancock
was interested in exploring if we were entering a new period of
Romanticism. Romanticism can be defined by its ‘melancholy wistful-
ness, an undefined longing, an alienation from reality, sentimentality,
a tendency to introversion, an unpolitical attitude, an immersion of
the self…and finally, a pervasive pessimism and obsession with death’
(Wolf 2007, p. 8). This, melancholic, alienated immersion of the self,
Hancock (2015) suggests, is evident in many digital artefacts, such as
video games and social media sites, and how audiences engage with
them. Therefore, by bringing together the work of artists exploring the
76
intersections of the digital and the every day, Hancock was able to draw
on their experiences, research, and work, in building his own strategy
and vision going forward.
As well as curating this initial exhibition, throughout the project
Hancock has presented work from his Cosplay series at a number of
solo and group exhibitions. In particular, this work has been shown
as solo exhibitions in public art galleries in Manchester (2011),
Wolverhampton (2013), Rochdale (2013), Scunthorpe (2014),
Livingston (2015), and Cambridge (2015), and as part of group exhibi-
tions in London (2010, 2011, 2012, 2014), Milan (2010), Manchester
(2010, 2012, 2013, 2015), Coventry (2011), Cardiff (2011), California
(2011), York (2011, 2014), Halifax (2012), Scunthorpe (2013),
Ormskirk (2014), Barton-Upon-Humber (2014), New York (2014),
Perth (2014), Wakefield (2014), Sheffield (2014), Cologne (2015),
Tokyo (2017), Kyoto (2017), and Aarhaus (2018) (to date).
The exhibitions Hancock has undertaken as part of his Cosplay series
have significantly expanded the discourse that has developed around his
practice. The group shows have been of significant benefit in helping
contextualise his work in relation to other artists. Showing alongside
a group of other artists allowed Hancock the opportunity to frame his
ideas within a much broader context. Though some issues within the
work may be specific to the themes of cosplay, placed within a broader
context, his work starts to create dialogue with other works that share
similarities. For example, Toni Ferrer’s exhibition iD raised some inter-
esting ideas around artists who adopt another persona for subversive
purposes. Hence, exhibiting alongside others allows artists to locate
their work within a wider artistic, but also social and cultural context.
That is to say, it allows artists to see that some of the ideas that they are
exploring may be similar to others, and that together, these may have
wider social and political links or implications.
The solo exhibitions provided Hancock an opportunity to bring
together a large body of work and present it as a single entity. In doing
this, audiences (and the artist for the first time) were able to see the
Cosplay series as a whole and see the relationships that were created
between pieces. Due to the size of some of the paintings, even for the art-
ist, seeing them together as a coherent body of work is only really possible
77
in a gallery setting. Once an artwork over the size of 75 cm is completed,

the work is rolled and stored, and so the exhibitions provide an opportu-
nity to (re)assess the development and emerging themes in the work.
Cosplay at Wolverhampton Art Gallery and Touchstones Rochdale

The first major solo exhibition of David Hancock’s Cosplay series was held
at Wolverhampton Art Gallery between February 2013 and June 2013,
where the gallery received approximately 60,000 visitors over this four-
month period. Wolverhampton Art Gallery is busy city centre municipal
gallery, with a large collection of old masters, modern, and contemporary
works, and is renowned for its Pop Art collection and has a gallery dedi-
cated to this work. Wolverhampton Art Gallery was refurbished in 2007
with a new wing added with rooms for special exhibitions. The contempo-
rary gallery, which is in this new section, housed Hancock’s exhibition and
is one of four temporary exhibition spaces.
When hanging the work, Hancock had to make a choice between rep-
resenting the cosplay subculture as he had recorded it up to that point
and presenting an exhibition that best fitted into the space available.
Curating an exhibition is more than simply hanging paintings onto blank
walls, and working with the gallery’s curator Marguerite Nugent, Hancock
sought to present a broad and encompassing representation of cosplay
within the limitations of the space available. The Wolverhampton exhibi-
tion hence was an attempt to highlight the breadth and diversity of this
subculture, as well as provide insights into its depth.
Inevitably, there had to be compromised, as the size of some of the
painting, the amount of work Hancock had produced, and the variety of
cosplayers he wanted to represent would have required a significantly
larger space. Hence, the decision was taken to select and arrange the exhi-
bition around cosplayers all interpreting and playing out a specific set of
characters. Also, in an attempt to be inclusive, Hancock tried to feature
portraits of as many of the individual cosplayers he had met and painted
as possible.
Also, at Wolverhampton Art Gallery, cosplayers directly contributed to
the work on display. Before the exhibition was set out, Hancock provided
cosplayers with materials to make figures, each around 15 cm high, of
themselves as their character. These models were then exhibited alongside
Hancock’s paintings. Similarly, at the exhibition there was modelling clay
available so that members of the public could create models of their own
fantasy characters.
Each exhibition has to speak to different audiences, and who those
audiences are can vary significantly. For example, where galleries were
local to cosplayers who Hancock had worked with and painted, they were
invited to the openings of the exhibitions. Also, in both Wolverhampton
78
Fig. 3.2 Installation views I at Touchstones Rochdale, 2013. Image use cour-

tesy of Touchstones Rochdale Art Gallery
Fig. 3.3 Installation views II at Touchstones Rochdale, 2013. Image use cour-

tesy of Touchstones Rochdale Art Gallery
79
and Rochdale notices were posted on social media informing other local
cosplayers of the exhibitions (Figs. 3.2 and 3.3).
The exhibition at Touchstones in Rochdale in 2013 was also for Hancock
a return to the town where he first studied art, and with this also being
so close to Manchester, it was an opportunity to (re)connect with many
other local artists, curators, academics, and other arts professionals in the
region, and for them to see and critically engage with his new work. And
of course, there is also the diverse, and largely unknown, wider gallery
audiences. For these more general viewers, the themes of the artworks
were introduced and explained via text panels, which sought to aid the
accessibility of the work and also represent the cosplay community.
For an artist, this engagement with a wider public can be very reward-
ing. Not only in seeing others appreciate your work, but more than this,
it allows an opportunity to see how others interpret and understand the
work. This is particularly relevant to painting. The application of paint
leaves a physical presence on the surface that is entirely different from
any other medium. A painting is best experienced in the flesh, face-
to-face. Only then can the viewer experience all the subtleties that the
work has to offer.
All the individual and group discussions and audience participation
Hancock has had around the production and presentation of the work
have fed into the subsequent development and understanding of the
work. These exchanges involve the opinions of both other artists and
non-artists, curators, gallery visitors, collectors, arts professionals, galler-
ists, and of course cosplayers, which have taken place either at the art-
ist’s studio, on the Internet, during one-to-one discussions, or at public
exhibitions. The significance of these discussions cannot be underesti-
mated, and though it might seem like artists often make their work in
isolation, for many artists the creative process is continually informed
by interactions with others. Candy and Edmonds (2011, p. 1) describe
how audiences can become active within the development of the work,
‘the active audience is one that may play no part in the initial concep-
tion of the artwork but which, nevertheless, by its actions, movements,
speech, or mere presence, affects the “performance” or “expression” of
the work. In a sense, audience members complete the creative process’.
Additionally, Margot Lovejoy (1997, p. 162) describes this process of
how audiences shape an artwork through their interaction:
80
With interactivity, readers, viewers, listeners can pass through the bound-
aries of the work to enter it. This puts them in a position to gain direct
access to an aspect of authoring and shaping the final outcome of the
work… The artist gives up total control in favour of a new kind of viewer
communication and experience, one which offers a less passive position for
the viewer, one which celebrates the inherent creative capacities of all indi-
viduals. Interactivity offers important new avenues for cognition to take
place, where works can begin to flow with the more psychological internal
associations of the individual viewer’s make-up and identity in mind.
Finally, these exhibitions also offered Hancock the opportunity to cre-

ate new works in response to a specific environment in which his work
would be placed. The gallery provides the context for the commission-
ing of new works, which artists often respond to. Without these oppor-
tunities, key works and relationships would not have been created or
formed. Hence, exhibitions, even solo ones, highlight the collaborative
nature of art production and the importance of exposing artistic prac-
tice to external dialogue and scrutiny.
Conclusions
This chapter reflects upon the relationship between art-led and ethno
graphic research and suggests that both approaches have tools and
benefits that can significantly enhance the other. As set out in the intro-
duction, Khatchikian (2018) suggests that there are some examples of
artists using ethnographic methods, but far fewer of the other ways
around—of ethnographers employing artistic approaches. We would
suggest that this project, however, blurs the boundaries between art-led
and ethnographic research and, in particular, shifts along a continuum
between them. At the outset, this project was more clearly art-led, uti-
lising ethnographic methods to gather data to inform the production
of artwork, but this book (certainly in isolation) would probably be
seen by most readers more as ethnography, employing art as one of its
methodological tools. However, it is important that this book is placed
within the wider context of the overarching project and seen as one out-
put of what is, to a certain degree, still an ongoing project and process.
81
This project has involved the production of over one hundred pieces
of artwork, numerous exhibitions (both solo and group), conference
papers, and journal articles. In some cases, the artwork has been at the
fore, while with others (such as this book) the theoretical and ethno-
graphic aspects of the project are more visible; but all outputs from the
project need to be understood as resulting from the combination of
both ethnographically informed research and art practice.
In particular, we argue here that this approach, of utilising both
ethnographic and art-led methodological tools, brings significant
benefits to the research process and proved extremely beneficial in
researching cosplay subculture. We argue that being an artist and pos-
sessing subcultural capital can aid access to certain subcultures, and
specifically, one formed around a creative community, such as cosplay.
This also enables a greater empathy between both the researcher and
the project’s participants, as the researcher has a greater understand-
ing of the creative community they are engaging with, and in turn,
the cosplayers were better attuned to the creative process than many
others might have been. Furthermore, we suggest that art prac-
tice provides a wealth of additional ways data can be represented. As
Khatchikian (2018) suggests, the written word is not always the most
useful way of conveying meanings, and arts practice can therefore offer
more ways of conveying meaning, as well as being a much more acces-
sible way of engaging diverse audiences—which can then lead to the
creation of further data, insights, and understandings. This is because
art is much more openly subjective and can invite discussion and cri-
tique from a much wider audience than traditional academic outputs
typically do.
The chapter then focuses more specifically on David Hancock’s
Cosplay series of watercolour paintings. This project builds upon themes
evident in Hancock’s previous work on youth, subculture, and the dig-
ital. It is also the result of an initial period of experimentation, where
the artist tried out different styles and media, before deciding on water-
colour paintings as the main medium for this project. Watercolour
on paper was chosen as this medium allows the artist to portray large,
detailed, and colourful images of the cosplayers against a white back-
ground, which can be left blank or used to include certain aspects of
82
their urban landscape. This also then builds upon a tradition of using
watercolour for landscape painting, but here, the focus was urban and
imagined landscapes rather than a rural idyll. This project and chapter
then also focuses on the continued relevance of watercolour and paint-
ing more generally and suggests that this once hegemonic but now mar-
ginalised art form has become a useful means for experimentation and
subversion.
We also argue that there are parallels between watercolour painting
and cosplay, which make this medium particularly apt for representing
this subculture. Specifically, we suggest that both painting and cosplay
could be seen in a wider context of a ‘slowness’ culture. That is to say,
how in a highly advanced capitalist and digital-dominated world, many
are turning to older and slower processes and activities to attempt to (at
least temporarily) escape corporate capitalism and, in the words of the
artist Jonathan Anderson (cited earlier), as ‘an antidote to digital media’
(Craven 2018, p. 38).
Finally, the chapter finishes with a brief consideration of the role of
curation, exhibiting, and engagement as (art-led) methodological tools.
Here, we argue that contextualising one’s work with other artists, as well
as opening this up to public engagement, can bring new perspectives on
the work, new insights, and even new data, which in turn can lead to
further work. It is by understanding how an artist’s work fits with others
working in related areas and how others see and understand their work
that allows an artist to understand this in a wider context and with fresh
eyes. This again highlights two of the key advantages of art-led research,
that this method and medium is often much more accessible to a wider
audience, and it is also a much more iterate process, where displaying
outputs of the project can, and often do, lead to new insights, new
ideas, and new work.
Notes
1. The Manic Street Preachers, or Manics as they are known to their fans,
are a rock band from Wales. They formed in 1986 and released their
first single in 1990. They then went on to have significant national and
83
international success and still release music to both popular and criti-
cal acclaim. In 1995, their guitarist, Richey James, went missing and
has never been heard from since then. He was presumed dead as his car
was found close to the Severn Bridge, a notorious suicide spot. The band
continued as a three-piece.
2. The exhibition Watercolour at Tate Britain opened on 16 February and
ran until 21 August 2011. Spanning 800 years of work, the exhibi-
tion proposed to challenge preconceptions of the medium. Details can
be found at http://www.tate.org.uk/whats-on/tate-britain/exhibition/
watercolour.
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4
Cosplay as Subculture
Introduction
For many of the cosplayers we spoke to, a key part of cosplaying for
them was being part of a community based around shared interests and
practices. For example, Esther saw it as an opportunity to make new
friends ‘because you instantly know you have something in common’,
while Dawn stated ‘you meet some amazing people whilst you do it,
and the community itself is really good’. This community of cosplayers
is referred to as a ‘subculture’ by several authors, such as Chen (2007),
Lamerichs (2011), and Peirson-Smith (2013) (to name but a few); how-
ever, few have sought to fully explore the value of subculture as a theo-
retical tool, or in turn, what cosplay adds to our understanding of the
contemporary nature of subcultures.
To this end, this chapter explores the extent and ways in which
we can categorise and understand cosplay as a form of subculture.
However, this is not simply an exercise in classification, but our cen-
tral argument here that a reassessment and application of subculture
as a theoretical tool allows us to explore various important aspects of
cosplay. In addition to drawing parallels and comparisons to other

88
subcultures and how they have similarly been considered by other writ-
ers and artists, cosplay also offers us an opportunity to explore and
expand our understanding of contemporary subcultures.
The chapter begins with a consideration of who are the cosplayers?
This section draws on interviews and observations conducted for this
research, as well as the existing literature on cosplayers, to try and
establish any key demographic trends and the profile of the ‘typical’
cosplayer. Here, we suggest that though the cosplay community seems
fairly diverse, it is still possible to identify a predominance of cosplayers
who are young, middle class, white, and female, with a notable minority
of these young women who identify as Gay or bisexual.
The chapter then moves on to consider definitions and the applicabil-
ity of the concept of subculture to cosplay. It does this first by consider-
ing the origins of this term, and in particular its development by, first,
scholars working at the University of Chicago, and then later, those
at the University of Birmingham. These theorisations see subcultures
as primarily the outcome of the class-based marginalisation of young
working-class men. These links to gender, social class, and class-based
resistance have led many to reject subculture as an out-dated concept,
and some have sought to replace it with new terms, such as ‘neo-tribes’,
while others have attempted to redefine and salvage its meaning and
application. Here, we side with those who wish to hold onto the con-
cept of subcultures, particularly, since we suggest we are starting to see
signs of ageing and loss of validity in many newer ideas, such as neo-
tribes. Also, of significant importance to us here, subculture is still the
term primarily used by artists and in the art world; hence, our adoption
of this concept allows clear and conscious parallels to be drawn with
other key artists, as well as other bodies of works on subcultures.
Next, we consider cosplay as a subculture. Following Birmingham
School writers, such as Hebdige (1979), what is often taken as primary
indicators of subcultures is their outward appearance, or style, and their
resistance to mainstream culture. However, our central argument here
is that though some subcultures may be very publicly visible, at certain
times, many subcultural participants are not always necessarily eas-
ily identifiable—certainly not all of the time. Subcultural belonging is
not necessarily, and probably never has been, full time. However, this
4 Cosplay as Subculture
89
does not necessarily mean that its importance diminishes for its partic-
ipants, but rather that it takes on greater or lesser meaning at different
times and in different locations. Following Hodkinson (2002), we argue
for a redefinition of subculture, which removes the necessity to see these
as invariably resistant, and instead, here we adopt Hodkinson’s four
indicators of subcultural substance of consistent distinctiveness, iden-
tity, commitment, and autonomy.
Dealing with each of these indicators in turn, we suggest that cosplay
has consistent distinctiveness, not only in how cosplayers dress at con-
ventions and meet-ups, but also in their cultural norms and practices,
which carry on into their everyday lives, such as in online discussions
and posts. Cosplay also provides participants with a shared sense of
identity and belonging, and they show a commitment to this by attend-
ing events in costume, but more than this, by researching and creating
costumes, rehearsing roles, and interacting with others, such as online,
in their everyday lives. Finally, we suggest that cosplay has autonomy, as
though it has a complex relationship with mainstream culture, it utilises
alternative networks and creative processes and makes use of popular
cultural texts in ways that go far beyond mainstream consumption.
Who Are the Cosplayers?

This section primarily draws on data gathered from interviews con-
ducted with cosplayers for this research, and also observations of this
community both online and offline, and at conventions and gatherings
in the UK, over a period in excess of five years. This is then compared
with existing research, in order to get some sense of the nature and
composition of the cosplay community, certainly in the UK, but also
(where possible) beyond. Of course, we can make no claims of statistical
representativeness here, but by drawing on various forms of data and
existing research, it is possible to gather a general sense of the nature of
this community.
Susan J. Napier (2007, p. 142) in her study of the influence of
Japanese culture in the West suggests that maybe ten years ago, she
might have been able to identify the typical anime fan, but ‘with the
90
explosion in fandom and the evolution of age and sex, such typecasting
would be [now] impossible. Anime fans come in all shapes and sizes,
from all walks of life and with a wide range of approaches to both fan-
dom and life in general’. As with anime fans, identifying the typical
cosplayers is becoming increasingly difficult; as the popularity of this
activity expands, it is evident, so does the range of individuals partici-
pating in it.
The cosplay community today does appear to be (in some respects)
moderately diverse, probably more so than many other elective belong-
ings (Savage et al. 2005) and subcultures. However, it is still possible
to identify certain patterns and trends that incorporate the majority of
participants. Certainly, in terms of age, the majority of cosplayers in our
research, and those we observed at conventions and meet-ups, were gen-
erally fairly young and most typically between the ages of about sixteen
and twenty-five. Our impression of this community as primarily quite
young is supported by other cosplayers we interviewed, such as Lei, who
was twenty-four at the time, stated that, ‘all the other people [she has
encountered at meet-ups and conventions], when I asked how old they
were said they were sixteen, seventeen, or eighteen’. In our interviews,
the youngest person we encountered was fourteen years old, and the
oldest was forty-three. Of the thirty-six cosplayers interviewed for this
research, around half were teenagers. We only interviewed three cos-
players aged over twenty-five, and this, we would suggest, does tend to
reflect the relatively small number of cosplayers in their late twenties or
over thirty. Certainly, we have observed very few individuals who would
appear to be over forty at conventions and meet-ups in the UK.
However, given that, as most writers would seem to agree, most cos-
players tend to be quite young, gaining accurate data on their typical
age range is difficult, as for ethical reasons, research is often not under-
taken on those under the age of eighteen. For example, Lotecki’s (2012)
survey of over 500 cosplayers only captures data from those aged eight-
een and over. Hence, data on the full age range of cosplayers is hard to
find, but certainly observational and anecdotal evidence would seem to
suggest that this does appear to be predominantly quite a young group.
Galbraith (2009) suggests that cosplay is also predominantly female.
Galbraith (2009, p. 52) estimates that in Japan in 2007 there were
91
approximately 200,000 cosplayers, ninety per cent of whom were

female. From our own observations, we would suggest that it also seems
to be the case that the majority of cosplayers at most science fiction and
fantasy conventions and meet-ups in the UK are female. Lamerichs
(2013) suggests that cosplayers at conventions in Japan tend to be
predominantly female, similarly, for della Valle et al. (2015) women
made up over sixty-seven per cent of the respondents to their survey of
nearly 300 cosplayers at three conventions in Italy. In Lotecki’s (2012)
online survey of over 500 (mostly American) cosplayers over seventy-six
per cent of respondents were women, and similarly, Rosenberg and
Letamendi’s (2013) online survey, of again primarily American cosplay-
ers, had sixty-five per cent female respondents.
This is quite remarkable when one considers that many publicly vis-
ible subcultures have traditionally tended to be very male dominated
(see McRobbie 1978). In particular, it would seem that even many of
the male cosplayers at conventions attend with female friends or part-
ners, and some we interviewed even claimed to have been ‘coerced’ by
female friends into cosplaying in the first place. Of course, this might
simply be male cosplayers wanting to downplay their participation in
what appears to be a female-dominated activity, but there is some evi-
dence from our interviews to back this up, such as the comments by Lei
who stated that, ‘I got my boyfriend to do it once, and he said I’m never
doing it again’.
Social class is notoriously difficult to define and ascertain without a
fairly detailed analysis of multiple sources of quantitative and qualitative
data, and even then, there is a great deal of disagreement over how we
define and measure class (Savage 2015). Certainly, given the young age
of most cosplayers this kind of information cannot be ascertained by
occupation or profession, for as Lotecki (2012) highlights, almost half
of her respondents were students. However, from observations, inter-
views, and interactions with cosplayers in the UK over several years,
the impression that one gets of this community is that it is primarily
quite middle class. And Lotecki’s (2012) research does suggest that the
cosplayers she surveyed had ‘above-average education’, with over seven-
ty-one per cent with some form of post-secondary education.
92
This is not particularly surprising, as there is a long history of associ-

ating, more generally, science fiction and ‘geek’ culture, with the middle
classes (see, e.g., Kelty 2005). Furthermore, cosplay, in terms of the con-
struction of the costumes and buying the required parts and material for
this, can be fairly expensive. Also, it is a very time-consuming activity,
which requires individuals to have considerable leisure time. Travelling
to and paying for entrance to science fiction and fantasy conventions is
also prohibitively expensive for many, all of which would suggest that
individuals generally do need to be fairly affluent and time-rich to fully
participate in this activity and its community.
In terms of ethnicity, our observations of cosplayers in the UK would
seem to suggest that the majority of cosplayers are white, though also
with a large number of East Asian participants. From our attendance
and observations at science fiction and fantasy conventions and cosplay
meet-ups, there were few cosplayers at these events who appeared to
be ethnically South Asian or Black. Again, this is not wholly surpris-
ing; ‘geek’ and science fiction subcultures have tended in the West to be
typically associated with whiteness (see, e.g., Kendall 2011) and given
cosplays strong association with East Asia (and in particular Japan) the
high proportion of ethnically East Asian participants at meet-ups and
conventions, is again, unsurprising. What other demographic data exists
on the ethnicity of cosplayers would seem to confirm our observations.
For example, Rosenberg and Letamendi’s (2013) online survey had six-
ty-eight per cent ‘Caucasian’ and twelve per cent ‘Asian’, and Lotecki’s
(2012) survey similarly suggests over seventy-two per cent of the cos-
players she surveyed were ‘White’.
In terms of sexuality, around a half of the women interviewed sug-
gested they were in same-sex relationships. Conversely, all of the male
cosplayers interviewed suggested that they were heterosexual. Again,
these observations seem to be supported by existing research on cos-
players. For example, the survey by della Valle et al. (2015) suggests
that though the majority of both the cosplayers and non-cosplayers they
surveyed identified as ‘heterosexual’, there was a higher proportion of
cosplayers who identified as ‘homosexual’ or ‘bisexual’—six per cent
and twelve per cent, respectively, for the cosplayers, compared to zero
and two per cent for non-cosplayers. Similarly, Lotecki’s (2012) online
93
survey found that over eighteen per cent of all respondents identified
as ‘bisexual’, and seven per cent of male cosplayers identified as ‘Gay’—
though she suggests that this challenges the stereotype that all male cos-
players are homosexual.
Subculture
The term ‘subculture’ is often used to refer to any loosely identifiable,
most often youth, group that appears to share some kind of common
culture, such as music or pop cultural tastes or fashion choices, which
is in some way different to what would commonly be deemed ‘main-
stream’ culture. However, its use in academic theory has more specific
origins.
Subcultures are largely the product of modernity, and some would
argue, died with it. Early Sociologists, such as Ferdinand Tönnies (2001
[1887]) and Émile Durkheim (2013 [1893]), discussed the shift from
premodern communities characterised by similar social roles and tight-
knit ties, to modern societies defined by a growing diversity of social
roles and groups, which later sociologists would see as including
subcultures.
Possibly the earliest study of subcultures was Henry Mayhew’s (1985
[1861]) research into poverty in London in the nineteenth century
(Bennett and Kahn-Harris 2004). However, it is the work of two spe-
cific groups of scholars (or ‘Schools’) that have most notably shaped our
understanding of subcultures: the Chicago and Birmingham schools.
The first of these is the ‘Chicago School’, which consisted of a long
tradition of scholars at the University of Chicago who, from the 1920s
onwards, began studying, amongst other areas, urban, institutional,
interactional, and deviant patterns. Here, the work of, for example,
Howard S. Becker (1963), on marihuana users and dance musicians,
and Albert Cohen’s (1955) book Delinquent Boys provide a foundation
for understanding how deviant groups can hold and express different
norms and values to wider society. In particular, Cohen (1955) suggests
working-class boys, deprived of social status and opportunities, would
commit ‘deviant’ acts, which contrasted with middle-class dominant
94
values. This then results in ‘pressure’ and the formation of ‘subcultures’,

with their own value systems, in which members can find in-group sta-
tus and rewards.
However, subcultural theory was developed most notably by a group
of academics working at the University of Birmingham’s Centre for
Contemporary Cultural Studies (CCCS or the ‘Birmingham School’)
from the late 1960s onwards. In particular, the Birmingham School
was responsible for associating the idea of subculture with particular
style groups, such as mods, punks, skinheads, and teddy-boys. Of most
note here is the work of Dick Hebdige (1979) who suggests that subcul-
tures engage in a process of ‘bricolage’, whereby groups draw on exist-
ing consumer goods (such as Vespa and Lambretta scooters, and smart
tailored suits, in the case of mods), but redefine and combine these to
develop a distinct style of their own, which marks them out from the
general public and acts as both a means and identifier of social subver-
sion and resistance.
The concept of subculture has proved a useful tool for understanding
and theorising the cultural practices of a wide variety of social groups,
but it is important to note that for both the Chicago and Birmingham
School scholars, subcultures were first and foremost working-class, and
primarily youth, reactions to their disempowerment. Though their
work emphasised style, fashion, and the ‘look’ which has continued to
define subcultural theory, Shaw (2010, p. 410) argues that Birmingham
School scholars, such as Dick Hebdige, moved beyond simply identi-
fying patterns of musical and fashion taste, to locate this within, and
as an expression of, class identities and tensions. In particular, the
work of the Birmingham School focused on ideas of a subculture win-
ning space and the place of young working-class men in urban spaces.
Subcultures, therefore, challenge authority by negotiating a collective
space where they can engage in their subcultural identities (Bennett and
Kahn-Harris 2004, p. 6).
Subcultural theories have been criticised for their failure to consider
the internal diversity, overlap, and movement between subcultures, the
instability of these groups, and their often permeable and ill-defined
boundaries (Blackshaw and Crawford 2009). Moreover, the theorisation
of subcultures as a class-based response minimises the role of agency and
95
individual choice in forming and maintaining subcultures. Also, cer-

tainly in its original theorisation by the Birmingham School, the mass
media was understood as a tool of the State and primarily a vehicle for
dominant ideology; hence, its role in influencing and shaping subcul-
tures was also often downplayed.
It is suggested that by the end of the millennium clearly defined links
between style, musical taste, and identity had eroded, and that conse-
quently there was a need to re-evaluate subcultural theory. For many,
even subcultural writers like Dick Hebdige, there is a belief that sub-
cultures were tied to a particular era and are less applicable to under-
standing contemporary forms of youth culture or social groupings. As
Hebdige (1988, p. 8) wrote:
Theoretical models are as tied to their own times as the human bodies
that produce them. The idea of subculture-as-negation grew up alongside
punk, remained inextricably linked to it, and died when it did. (cited in
Hodkinson 2002, p. 13)
Writers such as Zygmunt Bauman (1992) argue that many of the cer-
titudes of social life, such as social class, occupation, and location,
have become less significant in an increasingly unstable and liquid
world. Hence, our identities and social belongings necessarily become
more diverse and fluid, as individuals seek to move and adapt to their
ever-changing world—and these ideas we explore further in Chapter 5.
Hence, many contemporary cultural theorists and sociologists have
suggested at least adapting, if not outright rejecting, the concept of sub-
culture. In particular, there has been suggested a number of alternative
terms and theorisations to replace subcultures, such as most notably,
‘neo-tribes’ (e.g., Maffesoli 1996), ‘scenes’ (e.g., Longhurst 2007), and
‘lifestyles’ (e.g., Chaney 1996). These alternatives, such as neo-tribes, tend
to emphasise the loose, fluid, and multiple nature of contemporary elec-
tive belongings (as Savage et al. 2005 refer to them), which individuals
participate in, and can move in and out of several times a day. Neo-tribes,
or to use the original French term proposed by Maffesoli tribus, typically
include ‘interest-based collectives: hobbyists; sport enthusiasts; and many
96
more—environmental movements, user-groups of state services and

consumer lobbies’ (Maffesoli 1996, p. xi).
There have been, however, others who have attempted to redefine and
salvage the concept of subculture, and most notable here is the work
of Paul Hodkinson (2002) on goths. Hodkinson rightly points out that
academics are often far too keen to throw out existing theories in an
ever-spiralling attempt to justify their subject areas and work as ‘new’
and invent concepts to explain this.
Hodkinson (2002) recognises that subcultural theory does need some
adaption, in that it needs unpacking from ideas of gender, social class,
resistance, and youth. Hodkinson argues that goths, as well as members
of other subcultures, can come from different social class backgrounds,
can be of different ages, can be both male or female (or sometimes
non-binary), and are not necessarily resistant to dominant social values.
Hodkinson recognises that there do exist some fluid and temporal com-
munities that can be defined as ‘ephemeral’, but others, he argues, can
still be defined by their ‘substance’, and relative stability and coherence.
In particular, Hodkinson suggests goths constitute a group character-
ised by substance, in that they have a strong sense of shared identity,
an adherence to an identifiable range of shared tastes, and a level of
practical involvement through friendships, event attendance, consump-
tion practices, and Internet use (Hodkinson 2002, p. 7). Hence, for
Hodkinson, goths have specific, identifiable, and coherent characteris-
tics and culture, which allows them to be understood as a subculture.
Alternatively, others, such as Steve Redhead (1997), David
Muggleton (1997), and Andy Bennett (1999), have proposed the use
of the term ‘post-subculture’. In particular, in the 1990s post-sub-
cultural theory was advocated and advanced most notably by a group
of scholars working at the Manchester Institute for Popular Culture
(MIPC) at Manchester Metropolitan University under the directorship
of Steve Redhead. Using the emerging British rave culture as a model,
researchers at MIPC suggested that post-industrialisation and increas-
ing amounts of unstructured leisure had given rise to a club culture that
dissolved traditional structural divisions of social class, race, and gender
(Bennett and Kahn-Harris 2004, p. 11). These divisions were further
eroded through retro culture, where elements of past subcultures were
97
re-appropriated by a new generation. This can be seen in the re-emer-

gence of new forms of, for example, goth, mod, and punk, towards the
end of the millennium.
Post-subcultural theory suggests an increased diversity and fluidity
in subcultures, largely due to a rise in consumerism, which allows indi-
viduals more readily to buy into and move around within and between
cultural groupings. But suggests that it is still possible to identify some
cultural groups that have distinct styles and practices. For example,
Bennett and Robards (2011) in their study of Facebook user accounts
and interactions suggest that though there are many diverse and eclec-
tic identities here, there is still evidence of some semi-permanent social
groupings, which could be understood as subcultures.
Reassessing Subculture
This is then the theoretical landscape on which we build our consider-
ation of cosplay. Traditional theorisations of subculture, such as those
offered by writers from the Chicago and Birmingham schools, see sub-
culture as fairly static and coherent groups formed primarily by young
urban working-class men as a reaction to their marginalised social
position. Then from the 1990s onwards, we see a shift in social and cul-
tural theory away from the use of the term subculture towards other
concepts, such as most notably neo-tribes. Terms such as neo-tribe, life-
style, scene, and post-subculture, which can be collectively understood
as what Savage et al. (2005) refer to as elective belongings, emphasise
the multiple and fluid groups individuals choose to belong to and can
usually move in and out of fairly easily.
However, this idea of youth groups as once static and coherent, and
now fluid and diverse seems somewhat simplistic. As highlighted above,
the work of scholars such as Hebdige has been criticised for overem-
phasising the coherence and stability of subcultures and not acknowl-
edging the internal diversity and crossover between groups (Blackshaw
and Crawford 2009). And just as the concept of subculture appears
strongly tied to the 1970s and 1980s, we would argue that terms such
as neo-tribes are also starting to feel very dated, and in particular, very
98
1990s. Ideas of individuals moving in and out of groups and shift-

ing roles and identities are linked to early utopian (or at times dysto-
pian) considerations of new digital technologies, more specifically, the
Internet. For example, the early work of Sherry Turkle, such as her
book Life on the Screen (1995), emphasised the opportunities afforded
by computers as ‘identity-transforming’, which offer ‘a new medium on
which to project our ideas and fantasies’ and that ‘in cyberspace we can
talk, exchange ideas and assume personae of our own creation’ (Turkle
1995, p. 9)—and the role of digital media in identity formation is dis-
cussed further in Chapter 5. In those early days of the Internet, the
opportunities for reinvention and easy movement between social groups
and personas seemed not just a possibility, but a new reality. However,
the new millennium has brought a more cautionary reading of our
enthusiasm for new digital technologies. In particular, Turkle shifts
from her initial position to one that emphasises the dangers of becom-
ing too wrapped up in an online world. For Turkle (2011), we are alone
together, surrounded by people, but lost in our own worlds, staring at
computer and mobile device screens. This is part of a wider shift in dis-
cussions around the use of new digital technologies, and the increased
importance of social theory and sociology in these debates, which rec-
ognises the embodied nature and social location of users of technology.
That is to say, users of the Internet are better understood, not as disem-
bodied online personas surfing cyberspace, but rather as flesh-and-blood
and socially imbedded entities sitting in a room, on a bus, or wherever
they may be, staring at and clicking on a screen.
Hence, Hodkinson’s (2002) argument that theorists are often far too
eager to throw out existing and well-established concepts is beginning
to feel even more pertinent today. If, as Hodkinson suggests, we seek
to re-evaluate and refine the concept of subculture, then its replace-
ment with (now already quickly dating) new terms seems unnecessary.
Hodkinson allows us to recognise that while some social groups may be
more fluid and temporarily, which could be understood as post-subcul-
tures, some others are still relatively stable and coherent and do have a
recognisable identity that would allow us to see them as a subculture.
Moreover, subculture is still probably the most widely accepted and
recognised term used to describe identifiable social groups. It is a term
99
still widely used by the general public, as well as academics and artists
alike—and this last group is particularly important for us. As set out
in Chapter 2, many artists have created work as part of their subcul-
tural belonging or study of a particular subculture, and the term almost
exclusively used by these (and other) artists is subculture. For exam-
ple, Tom Helyar-Cardwell (2015, online) writes of his work as focus-
ing on the garments worn in ‘heavy metal subculture’, Iris Van Dongen
highlights the affinity her and her work has ‘with many subcultures’
(Gavin 2008, p. 156), while Ulrika Wärmling discusses how lolita illus-
trates how ‘through a subculture individuals can be themselves’ (Verket
2011, online). Also, as we shall explore in Chapter 7, Laura Oldfield
Ford’s work on London’s counter-cultural spaces is described as located
within ‘the subcultural undergrowths of the UK’s fast disappearing sites
of counter-cultural refuge and activism’ (Good Trouble 2017, online).
For these, and many other artists, what shapes and defines their work is
subculture.
Hence, for us, subculture proves an important and useful term, as
it not only locates this work as academically following in the legacy
of authors such as Paul Hodkinson, but it also places our work in the
context other artists, such as Tobias Bernstrup, Tom Helyar-Cardwell,
Jeremy Deller, Cao Fei, Laura Oldfield Ford, Iris Van Dongen, and
Ulrika Wärmling (see Chapters 2 and 7). In particular, it is within the
context of subcultures that David Hancock locates his work, such as his
previous work on goths and other alternative youth groups, in his The
Beautiful People (see below) series, and his more recent work on ball-
jointed dolls.
In many respects, Hancock’s Cosplay directly follows on from The
Beautiful People, which focused on goths and other ‘alternative’ youths.
The Beautiful People is described as ‘a series of spectacular panoramas
depicting the bedrooms of several real-life “alternative” young people.
Sprawling with colour and vivid detail, each piece shows the subject
going about their everyday lives in their cluttered bedrooms’ (Breese
2005, online). In particular, Hancock suggested in interview in 2003
that ‘there have always been elements of the “Gothic” in everything I
have ever done, even when I have purposefully tried to move away from
it’ (Mullins 2003, online).
100
In his Cosplay series, he is again seeking to make direct links to the

gothic. This is done implicitly in the style of work that Hancock pro-
duces, utilising watercolours and consciously painting in a style evoca-
tive of Romanticism. But also, quite explicitly, Hancock (2015, p. 79)
sets out what he sees as the parallels between goth and cosplay, in that
both are subcultures that have ‘a high degree of tolerance and accept-
ance of different lifestyles’, they provide identity and belonging, and
that both encapsulate aspects of escapism and fantasy.
The Beautiful People

As he similarly would later do in his Cosplay series, with The Beautiful
People (1998–2002), Hancock was keen to look beyond the outwardly
visible and surface layer of those he worked with, and instead focus on
something that was more intimate and personal. Here, he was interested
in exploring goths and other alternative youth subcultures beyond stereo-
typical representations and clichés (Fig. 4.1).
As with Hancock’s later paintings of cosplayers, there are elements of
romanticism and a gothic style to these paintings. These portraits subvert
Fig. 4.1 U.R.V.1, acrylic on canvas, 122 × 244 cm, 2000

101
traditional ideas of goth culture. The paintings are saturated with colour
and attempt to provide a more natural, less posed and performed, image.
The portraits are painted from photographs taken of the subjects as they
hang out in places where they feel most at ease, usually their bedrooms,
surrounded by their personal possessions. Hence, unlike artists such as
Laura Oldfield Ford, whose work focuses on subcultural spaces in the city,
Hancock, in his work here, portrays individuals in more intimate places
and moments.
These portraits then play with ideas of subcultural belonging. Though
these individuals may outwardly and publicly appear to be members of
particular alternative subcultures, these paintings show a more relaxed,
intimate, and individual side to them.
Over the period of producing The Beautiful People, it became apparent
that many of those Hancock met and painted suffered from insecurity and
felt disconnected from a wider society that they saw as condescending
and unsympathetic. Each portrait then contains specific individuals with
their own story, who through music and subculture have not only found
an escape from the pressures of contemporary expectation, but also a
space to create their identity.
Surrounded by their possessions in a space where normally only a select
few would have access, Hancock’s aim was to capture moments of vul-
nerability. This intimate moment is then enhanced by splitting the image
and displaying the paintings in a corner. This creates an almost three-di-
mensional image, which invites the viewer into the room in front of them,
encouraging a connection with the individual in the painting in their pri-
vate spaces, individuals who due to their subcultural identities might nor-
mally appear detached and distant to outsiders. They are the strange, and
strangers, who become intimate and knowable.
Cosplay as Subculture
Our decision to theorise cosplay as a subculture may at first appear odd.
Unlike traditional subcultures, like goths, punks, and mods, cosplayers
are not a social group we regularly see in public places. Well they are,
but not in a way that they would typically be noticed, as cosplayers are
rarely in their cosplay (or ‘cos’) outfits. However, we would suggest, this
does not necessarily prohibit them from being understood and theorised
as a subculture. As Bennett and Kahn-Harris argue in their book After
Subculture (2004), ‘media fans and their informal groups are often invis-
ible’ (Bennett and Kahn-Harris 2004, p. 150). Though, for example, a
102
group of goths in a city centre on a Saturday afternoon might be quite

visible, these individuals may be less identifiable as subcultural mem-
bers if observed, for instance, at their place of employment during a
weekday. Also, fans of indie music, or science fiction, or collectors of
stamps, might not be easily identified at all, but this does not necessarily
mean that these groups do not have subcultural qualities. Similarly, as
Kawamura (2012, p. 76) writes ‘anime and manga fans are not imme-
diately recognisable’. Moreover, it is important to highlight that we are
not the first, and far from the only writers to define cosplayers as a sub-
culture; for example, as Lamerichs (2011, 2.1) writes ‘cosplay is…a fan-
nish subculture’.
Hodkinson (2002, pp. 28–29) highlights four indicators of subcul-
tural substance that he suggests provides a more ‘relevant, workable and
up-to-date conception of subculture’. These four indicators are: consist-
ent distinctiveness, identity, commitment, and autonomy. Hodkinson
suggests that each of the four criteria ‘should be regarded as a contrib-
utory feature which, taken cumulatively with the others, increases the
appropriateness of the term subculture’ (Hodkinson 2002, p. 29). Put
simply then, for Hodkinson, these four indicators can be used as criteria
for categorising a social group as a subculture or not.
The first indicator of subculture substance identified by Hodkinson is
‘consistent distinctiveness’. As Hodkinson (2002, p. 30) writes:
While accepting the inevitable ability of a degree of internal difference

and change over time…the first indicator of subcultural substance com-
prises the existence of a set of shared tastes and values which is distinctive
from those of other groups and reasonably consistent, from one partici-
pant to the next, one place to the next and one year to the next.
That is to say, while there may be some variation in how, for example,
goths dress, behave, and what they consume, there is still a distinctive-
ness to this group and its participants, which allows both those within
this subculture and those external to it, to identify an individual as a
goth. Ludwig Wittgenstein’s idea of ‘family resemblance’ may be of use
to us here. Wittgenstein (2009), in his articulation of the complexities
of language, argues that, for example, the diverse activities we typically
103
categorise under the term ‘game’ do not necessarily share any univer-
sal features that we could use to provide an all-inclusive definition of
games. The best, we can do, is recognise that there is a ‘family resem-
blance’ between the activities typically categorised as games. That is
to say, there may not be a universal definition of what a game is that
applies to all instances, but we can still most of the time identify what a
game is, and what it is not. The same could be said to be true for many
subcultures. Setting out a clear definition of what a goth is and what a
goth does, or as we have seen in Chapter 1 defining what cosplay is, are
difficult tasks, but still, when confronted by a goth, or punk, or mod,
or even a cosplayer (in costume) most of us, most of the time, could
identify them as a member of a particular subculture; even if we do not
know the correct term to define that particular subculture (as may well
be the case with cosplay). Certainly, with many subcultures, there is also
a dominant demographic profile, which makes these groups more eas-
ily identifiable. For example, as set out above, a sizable proportion of
cosplayers are female, young, white, or East Asian. Though Lei objects
to her boyfriend’s categorisation of all cosplayers as ‘kids who are hyper
on energy drinks, and are obsessed with anime, and only watch anime,
and act like anime characters’, she suggests that his stereotype does have
some basis, and the work of Law (2016) on the associated subculture of
LAN gamers would suggest that here too there is a prosperity for pre-
dominantly young, though in this case largely male, gamers, to drink a
lot of energy drinks.
However, ‘consistent distinctiveness’ is for Hodkinson about more
than simply being visibly identifiable as a subcultural participant. As he
writes:
The relatively consistency of the goth style was enforced by means of

equally consistent systems of subcultural rewards and penalties. Namely,
gaining acceptance popularity and status was often dependent upon mak-
ing oneself sufficiently compatible with the distinctive tastes of the sub-
culture. (Hodkinson 2002, p. 30)
In other words, acceptance and belonging within a subculture are also

dependent upon possessing the right subcultural capital (Thornton
104
1995) and adhering to subcultural norms and values, and this is some-
thing we will explore further in Chapter 6.
The topic of identity is covered in more detail in the following
chapter; however, it is evident that of those we interviewed, spoke to
at conventions, meet-ups, and online, the vast majority were willing to
identify themselves as cosplayers and felt a sense of belonging to this as
a community. Kawamura (2012, p. 78) suggest that ‘subcultural mem-
bership gives a sense of belonging and the affirmation that there are oth-
ers who share the same interests and values’, and from our research, it is
evident that cosplay provides this for many who participate in it.
Hodkinson (2002 p. 31) defines a subculture as a group who ‘share
feelings of identity with one another’, and this would appear to be the
case with cosplayers. Interestingly, however, there was disagreement in
those we interviewed as to whether they felt cosplay constituted a sub-
culture. For example, in interview Sarah suggested that she believed that
‘a subculture is something you partake in almost daily, it’s something
you identify with and follow daily. I don’t know anyone that wears
cosplay daily, or even that regularly’. Similar views were also expressed
by Madeline who stated that ‘my personal view is that it is not [a sub-
culture]. But there are some cosplayers that think it is. As I am only
acting out the character for the joy, I don’t want to be the character full-
time in real life’. However, conversely, some interviewees did feel that
cosplay constituted a subculture, such as Phoebe who said, ‘I’ve been
through lots of cultures in my few years on this planet, scene, emo, the
whole lot. Yes, it [cosplay] does, because they try to dress in a certain
way to portray something’. Chris also saw cosplay as similar to other
subcultures, in that, ‘you stand out as a goth or mosher, and it’s a way
of expressing yourself and in a weird way, cosplay does that as well’.
Similarly, in Peirson-Smith’s (2013, p. 92) research she identified one of
her respondents who considered cosplay to be ‘a total way of life’, simi-
lar to ‘the Western subcultural practices of punks and goths’.
Because most cosplayers only dress in cos for specific events for rela-
tively short periods of time, it appears that some of those we interviewed
did not feel this community could be characterised as a subculture.
This we would suggest could be explained by the general perception by
many that members of a subcultures remain visibly part of that group
105
for most of their everyday lives, and this may apply to some of the most
obvious and identifiable subcultures, like goths. As Brill (2008, p. 1)
suggests, though most goths ‘make a special effort with their style when
going out, they also wear a toned-down version of this style in their
everyday life as far as social pressures permit’. However, as Bennett and
Kahn-Harris (2004) cited above argue, this is not necessarily the case
for all subcultures, and many subcultural participants are in their every-
day lives indistinguishable from everyone else—and this would include
some goths. Moreover, this is something that was also recognised by
Dick Hebdige. Hebdige (1979, p. 122) argues that subculture ‘can rep-
resent a major dimension in people’s lives – an axis erected in the face of
the family around which a secret and immaculate identity can be made
to cohere… It can be used as a means of escape…’. Hence, Hebdige
acknowledges that subculture was a ‘dimension in people’s lives’ and an
‘escape’, and not the entirety of their lives.
Returning to the example of goths, Hodkinson (2002, p. 72) inter-
viewed several older goths, who, though they still considered being a
goth ‘as of considerable importance to their sense of self ’, due to work,
family, or other commitments participated less frequently, and less vis-
ibly, in this subculture. This was something also recognised by Dunja
Brill in his book Goth Culture (2008), who suggests that for many older
goths there is ‘an increasing separation between subcultural and every-
day life is practised’ (Brill 2008, p. 10). Hence, inclusion in a subculture
is something that is not always externally visible, even for some mem-
bers of typically very identifiable subcultures, like goths.
Furthermore, cosplay also blurs with many other associated popu-
lar culture practices and communities, such as buying and consuming
memorabilia, watching and reading anime and manga, and playing
video games. Each of these activities will have their own communi-
ties, cultures, and networks, both online and offline, and knowledge
and capital gained from consuming these artefacts and participating in
these cultures enables and facilitates participation in cosplay. Hence, as
we shall explore further in Chapter 5, cosplay identity, as with all sub-
cultural identities, is not just one thing; it is not universal, coherent,
or tightly bounded, but rather cross-cuts with other subcultures and
106
fan groups, and undoubtedly has a good deal of internal diversity and
fluidity.
This discussion then directly relates to Hodkinson’s third indicator of
subcultural substance, that of ‘commitment’. One common misconcep-
tion concerning cosplay is that this involves primarily, if not solely, the
act of dressing up in costumes and acting out a particular role. This is,
after all, as we saw in Chapter 1, how most people would define cosplay.
However, cosplay is also much more than this. To reiterate our central
argument, as set out in the Introduction to this book, cosplay involves
creative processes associated with crafting, social performance and iden-
tity, community, and that these practices, performances, and commu-
nities have significant relationships to specific places (both online and
offline). That is to say, cosplay is not simply the act of dressing up in
costumes, but it involves processes, performances, identities, communi-
ties, and places that are lived, engaged with, and experienced in many
cosplayers’ everyday lives.
In particular, as will be explored in more detail in Chapter 6, cos-
players will often spend many months researching, designing, and con-
structing cosplay costumes, and rehearsing the characters they will play.
Moreover, it is also evident that most cosplayers do not do this alone;
this is a shared and participatory culture. Cosplayers may design and
construct costumes with others’ direct involvement, or more likely,
they will gather tips and information that others have posted online
or engage in online conversations with other cosplayers who may offer
help and guidance. For example, as Phoebe stated, ‘on the blog, some-
one said, “How can I get this better?” and we all said, “Pose… Go
online look at the poses, replay the character, research your actual char-
acter and just actually be them”’.
Though many cosplayers will articulate their participation in this cul-
ture and practice as having two states, either in cos or not, the reality is
that though they may easily step in and out of costume (though, put-
ting some of these costumes on can take a lot of time and effort), to
create a convincing costume and performance requires a (often every-
day) commitment to research, engage with the community online or
in person, and to design, construct, and rehearse the character. To be
a competent cosplayer involves a great deal of commitment. As Phoebe
107
continues, ‘you know the character. You’re the one who made it, you’re
the one who researched it’. Furthermore, YsabelGo (2015), on the web-
site The Artifice, suggests that in some Japanese districts, the wearing
of cos has become a much more accepted and everyday activity. As she
writes ‘cosplayers in these areas dress up on a daily basis, so it is not odd
to see someone stand out amongst all the civilians’ (YsabelGo 2015,
online).
In many respects, the concept of scene may be useful here. Scene
is a term that is most typically used to describe music-based cultures.
Hesmondhalgh (2005) suggests that the concept has been primar-
ily applied in one of two ways. First, it is used by writers like Shank
(1994) to describe place-specific music cultures, such as Manchester’s
Madchester scene of the late 1980s and early 1990s, or Seattle’s grunge
scene from the late-1980s, or second, as employed by authors like Straw
(1991), to describe non-place-specific music affiliations, such as goths.
Though Hesmondhalgh highlights the two separate usages as incom-
patible, and therefore, questions the validity of scene as a concept,
Longhurst (2007) suggests that these two definitions are not necessarily
conflictual, and may, in fact, highlight the usefulness of this concept.
In particular, Longhurst suggests that scene allows us to understand
how elective belongings are lived out and experienced in our ‘ordinary’
lives, but also, how these may take on ‘extraordinary’ meaning at cer-
tain times and in specific locations. Hence, scene usefully combines an
understanding of the importance of place, with a consideration of the
everyday and ordinary.
Scene, as employed by Longhurst (2007), is then a concept we could
see as applicable to cosplay. Cosplay clearly takes on significant mean-
ing at certain times and location, such as at a convention or meet-ups,
but also continues to have meaning and importance in cosplayers’ every-
day lives, such as in researching and constructing costumes and engag-
ing with this community online. As stated above, scene is a term most
commonly used to describe music-based cultures, but it is a term that
Crawford has used elsewhere to help understand video game cultures
(such as Gosling and Crawford 2011), as have others, such as Rambusch
et al. (2007), and Peirson-Smith (2013) theorises cosplay as a scene (and
also as a subculture and neo-tribe). However, scene is not a concept that
108
has been used as widely and applied to as many social groups and cul-
tures as subculture has. Its use has been fairly limited and is still most
commonly used to describe music-associated affiliations. Therefore,
using scene in place of subculture in many ways limits the links, paral-
lels, and comparisons, we can make with other cultures and practices.
Certainly others, such as Hodkinson (2002) and Peirson-Smith (2013),
as do many others, use the terms subculture and scene interchangeably.
Hence, we would not advocate using scene as a substitute for subcul-
ture, but rather, we would like to argue that scene is a useful way of
helping us understand certain aspects of subcultures. In particular, scene
allows us to understand that subcultural participation can at certain
times and locations be extraordinary, such as cosplayers attending a con-
vention or meet-up, but away from these places, for most, most of the
time, subcultural participation is an everyday and at times, quite mun-
dane, activity, such as reading a Attack on Titan manga comic on a train
journey or wearing a Dragon Ball T-shirt. It is the extraordinary that
may make a subculture visible to the wider public, but it is the everyday,
much less visible participation in a subculture, which often gives it its
substance and defines its participants’ commitment.
The fourth and final indicator of subcultural substance identified by
Hodkinson (2002) is autonomy. Here, Hodkinson writes that:
…the grouping concerned, while inevitably connected to the society and

socio-political system of which it is part, retains a relatively high level of
autonomy. Most notably, a good proportion of the productive or organi-
sational activities which underpin it are liable to be undertaken by and for
enthusiasts. (Hodkinson 2002, p. 32)
It is evident that cosplay does have a network and community that

exists primarily outside of the mainstream, and that the day-to-day
practice of cosplay can largely be found on specialist websites and online
discussion groups. As Amanda stated:
I’m constantly talking to people [online]. We’ll chat about anime, films
that we like, comics, nerdy things [laughs]. We are all similar, but we also
109
get each other into different things, so that’s always a good thing about
being in the [cosplay] culture. It offers a chance to get to know new peo-
ple and get to learn different things that you didn’t know already.
Amanda highlights the importance of the Internet in maintaining and

fostering these autonomous networks, but also the rising popularity of
science fiction and fantasy conventions and organised meet-ups allow
further opportunities for cosplayers to participate in these alternative
networks.
It is evident that cosplay is closely associated with popular culture. In
some cases, it may be that cosplayers are engaging with forms of popular
culture that are still quite niche and marginal in their particular cultural
setting; for example, Western cosplayers making costumes and playing
out characters from Japanese manga and anime. As Kawamura (2012,
p. 78) argues ‘although not all anime and manga fans are cosplayers,
cosplayers are almost always anime and manga fans’. However, in many
other cases, cosplayers may well draw on source material and characters
from very much mainstream popular cultural texts, such as Disney prin-
cesses or Star Wars. As Phoebe stated ‘with the boom of video games,
geek culture is quite a large culture now. A lot more people are quite
comfortable being called a geek’.
This is where cosplay differs from an activity and subculture like
goth. For most other subcultures, they are generally consuming and
engaging with cultural texts and products that are not mainstream.
However, it is important to note that this is not necessarily always the
case with all subcultures. For example, punk is typically seen as a prime
example of a subculture, but bands such as the Sex Pistols and The
Clash in the late 1970s enjoyed a great deal of commercial success in
the UK, USA, and globally. And, moreover, punk has continued to be a
very successful and profitable genre of popular music. But, what charac-
terises punk, as with many other subcultures, is that they tend to be in
some way subversive. However, Hodkinson (2002) quite clearly sought
to decouple the concept of subculture from the idea that all subcultures
are necessarily subversive. Certainly, cosplay is not necessarily, or even
typically, very subversive. As Susan J. Napier (2007, p. 167) suggests,
110
‘the very plethora of identities one can assume in anime or manga cos-
tumes may mitigate against making any particular social or ideological
statement’, and as Sarah stated in interview:
I don’t think there is any deeper meaning to cosplay than to be a bit of

fun. I would say though it is usually people who fit into the more ‘geeky’
genre of people, and it’s nice to be able to come together as a group with
like-minded people, and it’s nice to have some sort of escape from a world
that can judge you negatively for being that way.
However, this does not necessarily mean that cosplay is never, and in no
way, disruptive. For example, as discussed in more detail in the follow-
ing chapter, cosplayers can play with and disrupt gender identity, such
as in crossplay, where cosplayers dress as a character of a different gender
to their own ascribed gender (Lamerichs 2011). And dressing up in cos-
play is, as Amon (2014) argues, a deviant act.
For Hodkinson, a subculture’s autonomy is not necessarily related
to this being subversive, and as the example of punk shows us, nor is
it necessarily about engaging with a non-mainstream genre of popular
culture. What we would suggest, and cosplay helps us articulate this,
is that what matters is not necessarily what a subculture consumes, but
how they consume it. This clearly relates to the early work of Henry
Jenkins and in particular his book Textual Poachers (1992). In this influ-
ential text, Jenkins argues that what makes fans distinct from ordinary
audiences is that they are participatory. As we shall explore further in
Chapter 6, we do have some issues with Jenkins’ argument, in that
by defining any audience segment as ‘participatory’, there is a danger
of seeing all others (the majority) as ‘passive’, which of course they are
not. However, there is still great value in Jenkins’ work, as it allows us
to understand that a distinct and autonomous culture can still develop
around the consumption of mainstream media texts. Hence, what is of
particular interest to us is not necessarily the specific texts cosplayers
draw on as their source material, but what they do with them in cre-
ating costumes, performances, communities, and places. As Lamerichs
(2011, 3.1) argues, cosplay serves ‘as a great example as to how fans
actualize fiction in daily life and identify with it’.
111
Of course, something that Hodkinson (2002, p. 33) himself recog-

nises is that clear distinctions between mainstream and subcultural
networks, texts, and media are problematic, and ‘there will always be
considerable grey areas between the two and a diversity within each’.
This (often blurred) distinction between the mainstream and subcul-
tural production and consumption is explored in relation to cosplay by
Norris and Bainbridge (2009). Norris and Bainbridge argue that cos-
players have a complex relationship with mainstream media and con-
sumption. As with many fan cultures (as Norris and Bainbridge see
cosplay as a form of fandom—a categorisation we explore more in
Chapter 6), they suggest that cosplayers seek to maintain the authen-
ticity of their subculture by consuming niche media, such as Japanese
manga and anime, or that made and sold by amateur producers and
fellow fans and cosplayers, which Norris and Bainbridge refer to as a
‘cottage industry’. However, they suggest that it is far too simplistic to
suggest that cosplayers only purchase goods from niche and cottage
industry producers, as many once niche interests have now become
incorporated into and sold by mainstream outlets. In particular, Norris
and Bainbridge (2009, p. 4) seek to move away from what they see as
the ‘narrow definition of subcultures…as resistance ’ and instead explore
‘the increasing convergence of audiences, industry and culture’ (empha-
sis in original). As they conclude ‘cosplayers are active and creative par-
ticipants in building anime fan culture, but myriad industries are also
involved’. In particular, Booth (2015, p. 1) argues that ‘both media fans
and media industries…must continually negotiate, navigate, and adjust
to the presence of each other’. Booth (2015, p. 16) argues that fans and
media industries both ‘(role-)play in the spaces and sites of the other’.
In particular, fans engage in a pastiche by imitating the practices of
media industries, while the media offers a parody, which imitates, but
distorts, the practices of fans.
What cosplay does share with other subcultures is that it offers an
escape or at least sense of escape. It is a break from the ordinary and
the mundane. Even if the participant is drawing on mainstream pop-
ular culture, what they do with it by creating cosplay costumes and
performances is far removed from the mainstream. The Beijing-based
artist Cao Fei claims in her artist’s statement for her COSPlayers series
112
‘the satisfaction they gain from their contrived fantasy world counter-
balances their despair and despondency in the real world’ (Cao 2009,
p. 7). Cao Fei writes of individuals blooming fully to life in their cos-
play fantasy, while inhabiting the real world as an empty shell. For her,
cosplay offers an escape from the mundanity and loneliness of modern
urban life, as cosplayers can together live out a shared fantasy. However,
as writers such as Napier (2007) and Leng (2016) argue, cosplay is not
political. Though it may offer an escape from the norm, and at times
play with certain dominate ideas, such as gender identity, it rarely
challenges these—and this we discuss in more detail in the following
chapter.
Conclusion
Though subculture is a term that some suggest is invariably tied to
modernity and has less applicability in more contemporary times, we
still see continued value in this concept.
Traditionally subculture has been defined in quite narrow, and
arguably out-dated terms, in relation to young working-classes men’s
response to their social marginalisation, which led to many at the end
of the millennium to look towards new concepts, such as most nota-
bly, neo-tribes. However, following Hodkinson (2002), we argue for
the continued applicability and relevance of subculture, which we see as
particularly useful in helping us understand cosplay.
By applying Hodkinson’s four indicators of subcultural substance to
cosplay, we argue that cosplay is a subculture. There is a clear consist-
ent distinctiveness to cosplay. Though increasingly diverse, a sizable pro-
portion of cosplayers do conform to a specific demographic. Cosplayers
outward appearance while in costume is also quite clearly distinctive,
but more than this, there is also a distinctiveness and autonomy to this
culture that carries on in their everyday lives in the form of subcultural
networks, consumption, norms, and values. It is this continued and
everyday participation in cosplay culture, creative, and consumer pro-
cesses, which helps give cosplayers their shared identity, sense of belong-
ing, and commitment to this (relatively) autonomous subculture.
113
As set out in Chapter 1, we see cosplay as a creative and participa-

tory process of crafting, a social performance and identity, and a com-
munity, which takes on specific meanings in various key social locations.
These aspects we see clearly mapping onto, as well as carrying forward,
Hodkinson’s indicators of subcultural substance. It is through creative
processes and performances that cosplayers express and display their
distinctiveness as well as play with identities. It is also these creative
processes and performances that require a prolonged commitment, as
cosplayers need to research, rehearse, and construct costume and perfor-
mances, often with the help of a wider community, either in person or
online. These communities of practice then rely on subcultural (relatively)
autonomous and alternative networks, which are accessed in everyday life
through face-to-face social interactions and online, but take on greater
significance in certain location such as conventions and meet-ups.
In many respects, cosplay could be seen as post-subculture, as an
elective and short-term ephemeral community, one that individuals
move in and out of in our increasingly fast moving and liquid lives. But
rather, we would like to suggest that cosplay more reflects the chang-
ing nature of subculture, or possibly, even reveals what they have always
been. Subcultures are no longer, if they ever were, full time. Levels of
activity and engagement in these communities can vary greatly, not only
between participants, but also on a daily basis. As with all subcultures,
their meaning and belonging will take on greater significance at certain
points in time and in certain places, but often subcultural participants
will continue to maintain some contact and involvement in this com-
munity in their everyday lives, such as contributing to or reading a blog,
but sometimes in much more mundane ways, such as carrying a Tokyo
Ghoul backpack. Crucially, however, being a cosplayer remains part of
who they are and their identity, and it is to this that we now turn.
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5
Identity and Performance
Introduction
In the YouTube video ‘costuming, cosplay and identity’ (2018), which
is part of a series entitled The Squee Project: Exploring the Fangrrl
Experience, the cosplayer Jackson Juniper states that ‘cosplay, is at its
core, putting on a costume to express yourself ’. This statement high-
lights one of the core issues frequently discussed in both the academic
literature and also often by cosplayers themselves, that is, to what extent
cosplay is about playing out another character, or is it more a means
by which cosplayers express or explore aspects of their own (existing)
identity?
This chapter therefore explores the complex and often thorny issue
of identity and cosplay, and in particular, considers cosplay as a perfor-
mance of identity. The chapter begins with a consideration of identity as
a (largely) modern concept and also reflects on the importance of iden-
tity in art. The idea of identity as a key component of modernity is then
explored more specifically in relation to the idea of identity as a reflexive
project. We then move on to discuss the role and importance of perfor-
mance and identity in cosplay.

120
Though identity and performance have been somewhat underthe-

orised in the existing academic literature on cosplay, the most widely
referenced works here are those of Erving Goffman, and most notably,
Judith Butler on performance and performativity. We therefore consider
the relevant ideas of these two key authors in relation to cosplay, before
moving on to discuss more contemporary theorisations that consider
the changing nature of identity, and in particular the individualisation
of the self, and how this has been further driven by the rising social
importance of digital media and new technologies. Finally, this leads to
a consideration of the death of identity and asks if we are moving into a
post-identity era?
Identity
Questions concerning identity appear to be a recurrent and central
theme for both cosplayers and the academic literature on cosplay. It is,
therefore, somewhat surprising that very few studies explore the con-
cept of identity, and the various ways it has been theorised, in any great
depth. To this end, this chapter locates cosplay within a wider consid-
eration of the contemporary and changing nature of identity and ideas
of the self. Moreover, we suggest that cosplay provides a useful case for
exploring and shedding new light on the ideas of identity.
Identity is not a universal given, but rather a culture-specific con-
struction (Hall 1996). Though discussions of identity can be traced
back to ancient times, here they were primarily related to the ‘sameness’
of objects; however, Gerald Izenberg (2016, p. 1) suggests that it was
the English philosopher John Locke who first raised the idea of personal
identity. Izenberg (2016, p. 3) suggests throughout the eighteen and
nineteen hundreds we start to see more frequent use of the term, most
commonly to refer to set ‘objective markers’, such as sex, age, and occu-
pation. Less commonly the term was also used to refer to group iden-
tities, such as political parties or nationalities. However, it is from the
post-war period onwards that we start to see identity more commonly
being discussed, not as something that is set, but rather something that
is developed and achieved. As Izenberg (2016, p. 4) writes: ‘…with
5 Identity and Performance
121
increasing frequency after 1960, identity appeared with a new meaning

which soon almost completely usurped the old…Often the reference
was to the idea of a “quest for identity”’.
In many ways, this increased interest in questions relating to identity
can be linked to the social developments and rapid changes that were
occurring in the post-war period. The atrocities of Nazi Germany, as
well as the growth of civil rights movements and demands for greater
rights for previously marginalised groups, such as women, all raised
questions concerning what it means to be human, and who we are as
people(s)? (Izenberg 2016).
Identity is a central art. Throughout all of human history, art has
been used to depict images of people, dating back to the earliest cave
paintings. However, much of ancient and medieval art, such as that
found in ancient Egyptian tombs and monuments, was not primarily
concerned with ‘the subject’, but rather the artwork was more ‘impor-
tant as an instrument of magic’ and protection (Hoffman 1966, p.
15). Ancient Greek and Roman art often focused on heroes, gods, and
everyday life, while similarly, early Christian art revolved around the
representations of saints, miracles, and the holy trinity. Art, as with
architecture, in the ancient world was therefore often used as markers of
belonging, civic identity, and power (Tuck 2015).
Individual portraiture died out in medieval times, as artists and illus-
trators tended to depict types, rather than individuals. As Hoffman
(1966, p. 21) argues, in societies that were so rigidly set and inflexible,
‘the individual identity crises that has beset modern culture simply did
not exist’. It is with the Renaissance that the portrait starts to take on
greater social significance, as the focus of art shifts to ‘man — not God’
(Hoffman 1966, p. 25). As Bayer et al. (2011, p. viii) write ‘Portraits.
Today we take them for granted, but from the fifth to fifteenth century
— for much of the medieval period — discreet portraits of individu-
als were a rarity …Only in the fifteenth century did European artists…
once again begin producing independent portraits of men and women’.
In Renaissance paintings, objects or references were often consciously
introduced to signify aspects of identity or status, such as the self-por-
trait from 1780 of Sir Joshua Reynolds, the first President of the Royal
Academy of Art, which sees him in his doctoral robes from Cambridge
122
University, next to a bust of Michelangelo, but his pose is also a ref-

erence to Van Dyck and the lighting to Rembrandt, all proclaiming
Reynolds status as the heir to the old masters (The Royal Collection,
online). Renaissance portraiture was typically for commemoration, such
as marriage, and or again, as markers of prestige. Bayer et al. (2011, p.
ix) suggest that Renaissance portraits were less concerned with resem-
blance, ‘at least in a straightforward sense’, and more about conveying
cultural identity and status. There are continuities from the Renaissance
to the Romanticism of the early nineteenth century, but also notable
difference, as the portraits of Romanticism brought more life, emotion,
and passion into the artwork.
There are then continuities from Romanticism to many contempo-
rary artists, such as most notably for us, David Hancock’s work on cos-
play and Ulrika Wärmling’s lolitas (see Chapter 2). However, as with
wider society, it is in modernity that identity and the self have become
central to artwork. Artwork becomes another means of exploring who
we, and others, are. Contemporary portraiture, as with several other
art forms, like photography, is often judged on its ability to capture the
essence of the subject. Moreover, identity has taken on a much greater
meaning in art with the rise of identity politics and the civil rights
movements of the 1960s onwards, with art now being often used as
an important and powerful way of expressing, for example, ethnicity,
gender, and other marginalised identities and histories.
However, the importance of identity is not only restricted to the
subject matter, but with the increasing politicisation and commodifica-
tion of art, the identity of the artist becomes ever more important. Of
course, the identity of the artist has always been present in any piece of
work. But in an era where the importance of a piece of artwork is often
judged on its price tag, the identity of the artist becomes even more
central to the meaning of a piece.
As with subculture (considered in the previous chapter), it could be
argued that identity is a concept born with modernity, and some have
argued, one that has died with it. Premodern societies were largely
defined by similarity. Those living and working in pre-industrial, pre-
modern, rural communities largely all fulfilled similar everyday roles—
similar to those living around them, and similar to what others had
123
done for centuries. These were communities defined by commonality

and continuity. These were communities that Tönnies (2001) defined
as Gemeinschaft and Durkheim (2013) saw as governed by a ‘mechanical
solidarity’, where the meaning of social life was taken for granted. In
such times and communities, the idea of identity had little meaning.
As Bauman (2004, p. 19) argues, ‘who you are’ only makes sense if ‘you
believe that you can be someone other than who you are’. In the pre-
modern world, ‘who you are’ was determined at birth, and there were
very few opportunities when this might change. Social roles and loca-
tions were solid, unquestioned, and largely taken for granted.
Identity, as a socially significant idea, only really emerges with the
birth of modernity. With the key drivers and consequences of moder-
nity, such as most notably, industrialisation, urbanisation, and increased
migration, we start to see increased and rapid levels of role differenti-
ation. A shift towards what Durkheim refers to as ‘organic solidarity’,
or what Weber (1968) sees as the process of rationalisation in Western
societies that led to a growing bureaucratisation and individualisation of
society.
It is then, with this rapid social change at the onset of modernity
that social scientists first begin to try to understand the impact of these
developments on the structures of society and the nature of people’s
lived experiences. It is in the context of rapid social upheaval, where
peoples’ lives, belonging, and futures become uncertain, that discussions
of identity first start to emerge. It is only at times of crisis that what
was previously taken for granted becomes starkly apparent. However,
interest in identity for most social commentators was at best secondary
to broader concerns for the changing structures and mechanism of the
social order. For most writers, such as Tönnies, Durkheim, and Weber,
their primary concern was the evolving nature of society, its new struc-
tures and divisions, and with them, the greater role differentiation of
those living within these changing times. As Izenberg (2016) suggests,
encyclopaedias and disciplinary manuals are often useful documents for
telling the story and history of academic subjects and their primary con-
cerns. In particular, he highlights that the first Encyclopedia of the Social
Sciences published in 1936 had no entry on identity. Moran (2015) sug-
gests that it is not really until the 1950s, or even the 1960s or 1970s,
124
that academics, and also the wider public, start to become specifically
concerned with ideas of identity and the self.
Identity then is a fairly recent construct. This, as Moran (2015)
argues, is both a controversial and counter-intuitive idea. Identity seems
to be a given, something that everyone has and always did. It is, after
all, who we are. However, as Moran (2015, p. 11) continues, recognis-
ing the historical specificity of the concept is epistemically very fruitful.
This, she suggests, is because it helps us recognise that identity is not a
constant, and that our fairly recent concern for identity tells us a great
deal about the changing times in which we now live.
Of course, at one level, this is most probably an oversimplification,
which Moran herself recognises. For example, writers such as Richard
Jenkins (2008) have argued that it would be foolish to assume that
throughout history no one ever questioned the world around them
and their place in it—and the history of art would certainly provide
evidence to support Jenkins’ argument here. But it is certainly evident
that in recent decades social scientists and the wider public have become
increasingly concerned, possibly even obsessed with questions concern-
ing identity. We live in a world today of best-selling self-help books,
make-over shows, and life-coaching—all designed to explore our sense
of self, to help find ourselves, and who we really are. And it is therefore
important that we locate cosplay within this context, as an expression
and exploration of self (or various selves), within a society where ideas
of the self and identity have become increasingly central.
Modern Identity
There is then a conflict, but not an irreparable one, at the centre of
modern concerns about identity. On the one hand, most of us like to
hold onto the idea that there is a real and true us, which is fairly con-
stant and consistent. When we do something that we feel is out of char-
acter, we often apologise and say that it was not like us, or not who we
really are. Similarly, often we can accuse others of not being themselves,
or putting on a front or an act, which deceives and hides who they really
are. On the other hand, contemporary society has multiple large and
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profitable industries based around helping us improve or change who

we are. So, the assumption is that there is a real us, but this real us can
be improved; there can be a better version of us we can all work towards.
Hence, in modernity, identities are both a constant presence and a
project, something that is given and also needs to be worked on. It is
then in modernity that identity acquires its full meaning and became
‘tasks which individuals had to perform’ through their ‘biographies’
(Bauman 2004, p. 49). It is, according to Giddens (1990, p. 121), the
‘quest of self-identity’, or ‘construction of the self as a reflexive pro-
ject’, where individuals must find their ‘identity amid the strategies and
options provided by abstract systems’ (Giddens 1990, p. 124).
Anthony Giddens argues that in modernity identity becomes a nev-
er-ending project, concerned with reflecting on our past, and map-
ping out our future. At the core of Giddens’ theorisation of identity
is the idea of ‘reflexivity’. Reflexivity can be understood as the process
of reflecting on and monitoring life choices and outcomes, and con-
sidering possible life trajectories. For Giddens (1990, p. 38), reflex-
ivity ‘consists of the fact that social practices are constantly examined
and reformed in the light of incoming information about those prac-
tices, thus constitutively altering their character’. However, crucially for
Giddens, reflexivity is not an individualistic project. Rather, it is the
consequence of a rapidly changing, unstable, and globalised world. It is
an attempt to find security in an unstable world. Bauman (2004) argues
that identity has never been fixed or solid, but rather it is simply that we
no longer believe the hoax. The receding importance of nation states,
the rise of globalisation, increasing mobility, and the decline of many
of life’s certitudes, such as occupation or marriage for life, have made
the instability of identity apparent. It is then in the modern, primarily
post-war, context that identity comes most clearly into focus, not only
for social scientists, but also a wider public, dealing with rapid social
change.
It is then, upon this historical and theoretical context that we wish
to build our discussion of cosplay, which understands identity as a rel-
atively contemporary concept linked to the emergence of modernity,
and more recently, our increasingly unstable times. There are of course
many, sometimes conflictual, philosophical, psychological, sociological,
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and even biological and religious, theories of identity and the self. It is
not the purpose of this book to set out a comprehensive overview of
theories on identity and the self, but rather, here we wish to focus on
a number of key perspectives, and in particular, those we feel can best
help us understand cosplay. We therefore now turn to a consideration of
the central role of performance in cosplay, before moving on to discuss
theorisations of performance and performativity, ideas of the individu-
alised self, identities and performance in a digital age, and finally, we
reflect on the idea of the end of identity.
Performing Cosplay
Lamerichs (2011, 0.1) suggests that ‘cosplay is understood as a perfor-
mance activity’, both Gn (2011, p. 583) and Lotecki (2012, p. 1) define
cosplay as ‘performance art’, and Norris and Bainbridge (2009, p. 4) refer
to the cosplayer as a ‘textual performer’. However, as Lamerichs (2011,
1.5) argues, ‘“performance” is a rather broad concept’. In particular, even
though performance is a term employed by almost every writer on cos-
play, very few have attempted to theorise, or even necessarily define, what
they mean by this. Lamerichs (2011) is one of the few notable exceptions
here, where she utilises Bail’s (2004, p. 57) definition of performance as ‘a
tangible, bounded event that involves the presentation of rehearsed artis-
tic actions…We can extend this idea of performance to other events that
involve a performer (someone doing something) and a spectator (some-
one observing something)’ (cited in Lamerichs 2011, 1.5). It is also quite
fitting for us that Lamerichs draws this definition from performance stud-
ies. Though performance studies is a diverse and multidisciplinary subject
area, it has its basis and foundations in the aesthetic and art. Moreover,
Khatchikian (2018, p. 164) suggests that performance is not only a sub-
ject of study, but can also be used as a form of artistic method, particu-
larly where traditional research methods fail to ‘grasp and translate’ bodily
experiences. Though the form of artistic method that we utilise here is
not performance art, we argue that similarly painting provides an impor-
tant and useful method for exploring certain aspects of culture, which tra-
ditional research methods may not fully capture—see Chapter 3.
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The widespread use of the term ‘performance’ in the literature on cos-

play is not particularly surprising, given that the act of dressing up and
playing out roles, characteristics, and narratives of a pre-existing char-
acter would (quite rightly) to most observers seem very similar to the
performance of an actor on a stage or screen. Cosplay is, as Gn (2011,
p. 583) puts it, ‘a performance art in which the individual imitates a
character from a film, comic book, or video game’. Certainly, this is
probably how many would see cosplay, and this is how some of those
we interviewed defined cosplay. As Dawn suggested, cosplay for her was
‘really good… You get to dress up and be someone else’.
Gn (2011) chooses to use an important, and potentially contentious
term here, by suggesting that cosplay is ‘imitation’, and similarly, Dawn
(cited above) defines cosplay as being someone else. However, several
authors (including Gn) question to what extent cosplayers are simply
seeking to imitate and produce an accurate-as-possible recreation, of
the characters they are cosplaying. As will be considered in more detail
in the following chapter, authors such as Lotecki (2012, p. 56) argue
that the creation of cosplay costumes should not be seen as an attempt
to produce ‘a carbon copy of the original artist’s concept or character’.
And similarly, it is suggested by Kirkpatrick (2015, 6.4) that the per-
formances of cosplayers need to be understood as an ‘embodied trans-
lation’ of the original character into physical form. Kirkpatrick (2015,
4.5) argues that cosplay involves the ‘transformation’ of a character from
the screen or pages, into physical form. As one of the cosplayers who we
interviewed, Chris, stated, ‘seeing something on the screen, and then I
get to wear it, and I get to pretend. That’s really cool’.
However, by doing so, the cosplayers can never be ‘first language
speakers’ (Kirkpatrick 2015, 4.7), but rather are always ‘translators’,
who must engage in (the active) processes of representation and reinter-
pretation. A useful distinction here might be that offered by Nightingale
(1994) in her discussion of media audiences, when she highlights the
difference between ‘impersonation’ and ‘improvisation’. The first of
these, Nightingale sees as lacking in individual creativity and as a ‘slav-
ish citation of consumer goods’ (1994, p. 15), while ‘improvisation’, she
suggests, demonstrates individual expression and agency. However, as
Hills (2002, p. 161) argues, though impersonation and improvisation
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may appear contradictory, they can (and often do) coexist together. For
instance, Hills uses Henderson’s (1997) discussion of the Japanese Elvis
impersonator, Mori Yasumasa, to explore the fluid boundaries between
impersonation and improvisation.
Henderson (1997, pp. 51–252) suggests that Mori Yasumasa and
other impersonators are not simply trying to be, or even replicate, Elvis,
but rather they are using ‘Elvis as a platform for their own personal-
ity’ (cited in Hills 2002, p. 165). Hence, Hills (2002, pp. 164–165)
suggests:
The Elvis impersonator’s remaking of the flesh is…not a denial of the

body, but exactly part of that process which Baudrillard (1993, p. 23)
believes we no longer have time for: ‘to search for an identity for our-
selves in the archives, in a memory, in a project or a future’. The fan’s
writing of Elvis upon his or her (see Henderson 1997, p. 125) body is
that search, not for a ‘look’ or visuality (an ‘I want to look like Elvis’)
which Baudrillard (1993, p. 23) diagnoses as the condition of contem-
porary consumer culture, but for a being (and ‘I want to be (like) Elvis’).
Elvis impersonation is a project; it represents recourse to an archive (the
precise catalogue set of jumpsuits and outfits worn on stage by Elvis;
images of Elvis; set-lists and conventionalised details of his stage show),
and recourse to a powerful set of memories; those of the fan’s lived experi-
ence as a fan. (emphasis in original)
This forms part of Hills’ (2002) wider discussion of his idea of ‘perform-
ative consumption’. This suggests that objects and resources are actively
drawn on by fans, along with their own lived experiences, and other
influences, in the construction of social performance, which form part
of a wider ‘project’ in the construction of individual identities.
Lines can then clearly be drawn from Hills’ (2002) work to discus-
sions of cosplay. While cosplayers must ‘inhabit’ a role and a costume
(Kirkpatrick 2015, 4.4), equally through the making of the costume
and role-playing of the character, they (to some extent) make it their
own. Similarly, important parallels can also be drawn here with the
work of Newman (2008) on video game culture. Newman argues for
a move away from an academic obsession with the act of playing video
129
games, to a wider consideration of how people play with video games;

that is to say, what they do, and how they reinterpret and reuse the
resources they are given (or more accurately, sold) to them—and this
includes (but is not restricted to) cosplaying video game characters.
Vampire Knights and Final Fantasy

The Vampire Knights series of work was David Hancock’s first grouping of
works, within the wider Cosplay project, to focus upon a single text. In
particular, in these paintings Hancock sought to explicitly explore the com-
plex relationship between the various identities, or layers of identity, at
play here.
Vampire Knights is a manga and anime series set inside the Cross
Academy, a boarding school run by the retired vampire hunter, Cross. The
school has two separate student bodies, the Day Class and the Night Class.
Yuki Cross and Zero Kiryu are the school guardians, employed to protect
the dark secret of the Night Class and keep the Day Class safe from them.
The secret is that the Night Class are all Vampires and at twilight, when
the paths of the two classes cross, Yuki and Zero are engaged to protect
and ensure the safe running of the school. With its focus on a core group
of characters and the popularity of the text amongst cosplayers at this
time, Hancock was able to explore how different cosplayers interpret the
same characters.
In the final body of work, there are several different interpretations of
the two main characters from Vampire Knights, Yuki and Zero. Zero is a
character typically played by both male and female cosplayers, but Yuki is
usually cosplayed primarily by women, though their ages and appearance
differ dramatically. Each cosplayer brings their own personality and par-
ticular style of dress to the cosplay. For example, some explore Yuki’s sexu-
ality, some her innocence, and some her transformation into a Vampire. As
Nicolle Lamerichs (2011, 4.5) writes, ‘the goal of most cosplayers is not to
create a look-a-like, but to express one’s own identity through a costume’
(Figs. 5.1 and 5.2).
Following on from the Vampire Knights paintings, Hancock embarked
on a series of work based upon Final Fantasy cosplayers.
Final Fantasy was initially a video game created in 1987 by Hironobu
Sakaguchi and published by Square Soft, now Square Enix. The main series
of games are currently (at the time of writing) on their fifteenth instal-
ment, but there have also been numerous spin-off games, as well as tele-
visions series, several films, and numerous manga comic books and novels.
As Morris and Hartas (2004, p. 64) write, ‘Final Fantasy creates a world
unlike anything else – steampunk crossed with space opera and high
130
Fig. 5.1 Jo as Yuki Cross, watercolour on paper, 150 × 100 cm, 2011

131
Fig. 5.2 Sam as Zero, pencil crayon on paper, 76 × 56 cm, 2011

132
fantasy’. Each Final Fantasy game stands alone, with a new game world
created for each instalment and a new cast of distinctive playable charac-
ters. It is, accordingly, a popular choice for cosplay.
The Final Fantasy games are RPGs (role-playing games) that allow play-
ers to spend a large number of hours immersed in the game world, form-
ing a well-developed relationship between the character and gamer. In
particular, and certainly in the later games, players are able to customise
their characters. Accordingly, a character like Cloud, the main protagonist
from FFVII, may be played in many different ways. As Benjamin Chandler
states (2009, p. 7), ‘I can take the preset Cloud I start off with and make
him into my Cloud, who will be different from anyone else’s Cloud’.
Each Cloud is developed by the player throughout the game and
made their’s by the decisions the gamer makes in playing the game.
Drawing links to Roland Barthes, Chandler (2009, p. 7) suggests ‘this pro-
cess requires the player to produce the text for themselves, making Final
Fantasy VII a writerly text’. The player is active in creating their own nar-
rative through the gaming experience (Chandler 2009, p. 6). It is this cus-
tomisation, which may be one reason why Final Fantasy is such a popular
source for cosplayers. In an RPG, like Final Fantasy, the gamer’s participa-
tion is essential to their progression. Starting with a uniform character,
they invest time and effort to create a more powerful character, who can
progress through the game and its narrative. Final Fantasy is therefore a
game world in which gamers actively create a personalised avatar, similar
to how cosplayers create their own unique version of a character (Fig. 5.3).
As with the Final Fantasy games, there is a malleability to the charac-
ters that cosplayers play out. Similar to the limitations placed upon char-
acter customisation in a video game by the game’s designers, the excepted
canon and the expectations of other cosplayers can shape how a character
is cosplayed, or certainly how others perceive an individual’s cosplaying of
a character. However, within these limitations of authenticity, cosplayers
will make a character their own or may even seek to deviate and push at
the boundaries of accepted character traits. As Matt Hills (2002, p. 166)
argues in relation to cult media fans, it is by appropriating a text the self
is ‘realised through this process of appropriation’. Here, Hills cites Paul
Ricoeur (1981, p. 113):
To understand oneself is to understand oneself in front of the text…

To appropriate is to make what was alien become one’s own. What
is appropriated is indeed the matter of the text. But the matter of
the text becomes my own if I disappropriate myself, in order to
let the matter of the text be. So I exchange the me, master of itself,
for the self, disciple of the text. (in Hills 2002, p. 66, emphasis in
original)
133
Fig. 5.3 Advent Children I, watercolour on paper, 120 × 240 cm, 2012
For Hills, following Ricoeur, it is this mimetic loss of self that ‘can actually
facilitate an expansion of self’ (Hills 2002, p. 166).
David Hancock’s Cosplay paintings and drawings attempt to highlight
this relationship between the cosplayers and the character they represent.
It could be seen that the artwork is representing two personalities simul-
taneously, creating a double portrait. The paintings are of, for example,
Cloud or Tifa from the Final Fantasy games, but they are not only these
characters, but also the individuals who are cosplaying them. They are
simultaneously the character and the cosplayer, but there is no distinction
between them. The self is not replaced by a character, but, as Hills argues,
it is expanded.
For example, Nathan spoke of his own relationship with Cloud, whom
he regularly cosplays. Amongst the tight-knit cosplay community, Nathan
has become so well known in this role that both he and the other cosplay-
ers often find it hard to see him outside of his characterisation; Nathan
and his persona as Cloud have become one for both him and his friends.
As Nathan stated, ‘That’s like the real me. I’m not Nathan, I’m Cloud’. Just
as putting on a favourite item of clothing can make us feel more comfort-
able or confident, but we still remain the same person, the playing out of
a particular version of a character by cosplayer is another aspect of their
self.
134
Certainly, it is evident that cosplayers can sometimes playfully subvert

and expand the possibilities of character through both costume con-
struction and role-play. For example, Lotecki (2012, p. 57) provides the
example of (particularly female) cosplayers who dress as the TARDIS
from the television series Doctor Who. The TARDIS is, in the television
series (in its outward appearance), a 1960s-era British police telephone
box; hence, dressing up as this would be extremely difficult. Instead, the
TARDIS cosplayers often wear costumes inspired by the look and feel
of the TARDIS and the wider Doctor Who series and multiverse. Other
examples can be found on the popular comic book website CBR.com,
which in 2017 featured an article highlighting numerous examples of
cosplayers portraying popular characters in ways they suggested Disney
would ‘not want you to see’, which included examples of both Moulin
Rouge-style and gun-toting Disney princesses, a Nazi Rocketeer, and a
zombie Ariel (Dean 2017).
A similar example is discussed by Amon (2014, 2.2) in relation to
Disney cosplayers. Amon suggests that Disney cosplayers can sometimes
depart from the accepted Disney canon; however, crucially this is typi-
cally done in a ‘playful’ way rather than as ‘overt challenges to canon’.
For example, some cosplayers will choose to play a character of a dif-
ferent gender as ‘crossplay’—and this is discussed further below—but
as Amon (2014, 4.4) argues, ‘the cosplayers do not perform the charac-
ters any differently’, and still tend to stick quite closely to the generally
accepted traits and personality of the character. The exception to this
would be when characters are portrayed in a hyper-sexualised way, such
as ‘sexy’ Disney princesses (Amon 2014). However, again, this is not a
necessarily subversive act; for as Leng (2016, p. 90) argues, though this
form of cosplay may reveal the ‘socially constructed nature of gender’, it
is also ‘concomitantly reinforcing them’.
In many respects, cosplay appears similar to the subcultural activ-
ities of goths, as discussed by Hodkinson (2002)—and the parallels
between these two subcultures are considered in more detail in Chapter
4. Hodkinson argues that subcultures, such as goth, involve aspects of
both belonging and individuality, and this is also clearly apparent with
cosplay. For example, as Peirson-Smith (2013, p. 85) writes ‘costume is
seemingly being used by the cosplayers…to communicate and perform
135
their spectacular individual selves, whilst simultaneously signalling some

form of group identity’. This communication of individuality takes two
forms. First, it is about signalling oneself as different from the norms/
mainstream, as Peirson-Smith (2013, p. 81) writes ‘expressing a vis-
ibly communicated difference from other non-cosplayers’. Second,
Hodkinson (2002) argues that within a subculture, individuals will
often seek to express their individual identity and difference from oth-
ers within the group. This can sometimes be done in ways that push
the boundaries of accepted subcultural styles and norms, but not in
a way that significantly challenges or subverts the core of the subcul-
tural values and practices, or pushes its boundaries too far—as to do so
would open the individual up to ridicule and possibly exclusion from
the group. Such as, with the example of Disney cosplayers discussed by
Amon (2014) above, who seek to playfully subvert the accepted canon,
but not in a way that overtly challenges this.
Many writers are keen to emphasise that though cosplay may appear
to be primarily about escapism—such as in terms of escaping oneself
and becoming someone else—on closer inspection it would appear to
be much more complex than this. For example, della Valle et al. (2015,
p. 15) suggest that cosplay is not simply about choosing an identity
to replace your own, but rather ‘cosplay represents a search of the self
and a way to define their [the cosplayers’] own identity’. Hence, like
Henderson’s (1997) Japanese Elvis impersonators, it is suggested that
cosplayers are not simply trying to be the character they dress as, but
rather they are using this to create and play with different identities—
some new, some pre-existing. This is certainly how many of those we
spoke to saw cosplay—not necessarily as a mechanism for playing out
another character, or imitation, but rather, as a way of exploring aspects
of what they saw as their existing identity. As Eve stated ‘cosplay is a
wonderful and fun way to freely express yourself about a character from a
loved film or anime’ (emphasis added). As Lamerichs (2011, 6.1) writes
‘the essence of the activity [cosplay] lies in showing appreciation of a
character and a text, as well as expressing one’s self…these two aspects
are at the heart of cosplay’. Similarly, Kirkpatrick (2015, 0.1) sees cos-
play as a ‘simultaneous performance’, which involves both the ‘source
character’ and a ‘member of the cosplay community’.
136
Hence, Lamerichs (2011) and Kirkpatrick (2015), as with several

other authors, highlight what they perceive to be, the complex and
blurred relationship between ‘the character’ (the performance) and ‘one’s
self ’ (the performer). As Amon (2014, 3.1) writes ‘performers embody-
ing a character take on the not me of the character yet simultaneously
retain me-ness even though the not me has become me, instilling in the
performer a new not-not-me identity’. That is to say, even though the
cosplayer may be playing a character that is not them, it is still them,
they are still there, behind the mask, figuratively, and often, literally.
However, such discussions start to raise wider questions about the con-
temporary nature of identity. To address these questions, the key theo-
rists that several writers on cosplay turn to are Judith Butler, and to a
lesser extent, Erving Goffman.
Performance and Performativity
Probably the most obvious, and most widely used, theorisation of iden-
tity in the existing academic literature on cosplay is the idea of identity
as social performance or performativity,1 with the two key theorists here
being Judith Butler and Erving Goffman.
The work of Erving Goffman, and most notably his highly influ-
ential book The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life (1969), is utilised,
or at least referenced, by several writers on cosplay, such as Gunnels
(2009), Rahman et al. (2012), and Peirson-Smith (2013). For Goffman,
identity consists of, and is constructed through, repeated and numer-
ous social roles performed in a variety of social contexts. In particular,
what Goffman was interested in was how individuals use social perfor-
mance to interact with each other and maintain what he referred to as
the ‘interaction order’. Goffman saw interaction as a ritual, which has
rules and meaning beyond the individual. Of importance here is the
1Performativity is a concept most commonly associated with Butler, but it is worth noting that
she uses the terms performance and performativity interchangeably.

137
social context in which social interactions and performances take place,

this Goffman (1974) referred to as the ‘frame’. Put simply, a frame is
what allows the participants, or social ‘actors’, in any particular situation
to understand ‘what is going on here?’; it is the rules, the norms, the
expectations, the possible roles, and so forth, which are available to the
actors to make sense of any given situation or encounter. Though one
may assume that anything is possible within a given social encounter,
Goffman argues that this is not the case. Social interaction works on the
basis of shared expectations, accepted roles, patterns of behaviour, codes
of interaction, and so forth; they are quite structured. Social actors, to
use one of Goffman’s own metaphors, are like players of a card game,
drawing from an already set and ordered deck (Goffman 1961, p. 25).
Even by actively choosing not to follow expected social conventions,
individuals are simply choosing a different course of action, a differ-
ent card from the deck (to continue the metaphor), and observers may
well react to this in ways that seek to diminish its impact and maintain
the social order. For example, as Lawler (2014, p. 126) writes ‘if some-
one acts completely out of an acceptable frame — if, for example, they
shout when silence is expected…others may try to make a joke, or pre-
tend that nothing untoward is happening’.
In particular, Goffman places a great deal of emphasis on how social
actors, and those around them, work together to maintain the inter-
action order and fit in. This is highlighted by Rahman et al. (2012, p.
326) in relation to cosplay, where they (drawing on both Goffman and
Butler) argue that:
[In] the performative act, most people are concerned about how others
or significant others perceive them. The degree to which cosplayers see
themselves as connected with or separated from others is important. With
this perspective, it is not difficult to understand why cosplayers…would
want to be accepted and recognized by their friends or fellow members.
However, Lawler (2014) suggests that the word performance is proba-

bly poorly suited to describe the work of Goffman, and as we shall dis-
cuss in a moment, also Butler, as performance seems to suggest that an
138
individual is putting on an act or a front, acting in a way that is not

their true self. Certainly, many pick up on the key ideas of ‘front stage’
and ‘backstage’ in Goffman’s work. For some, such as Doniger (2005),
the front stage is read to be where the social performance takes place, it
is the front, the mask that we wear in different social situations, while
the backstage is the self unmasked, the true self. As Elliot (2014, p. 43)
writes ‘Goffman, to be sure, maintained that there is a self standing
behind the multitude of roles that any individual performs in daily
social interaction’. However, Lawler (2014) disagrees with this assess-
ment, for two key reasons. First, she suggests that for Goffman, rather
than the various social roles we play hiding our true self, it is these
roles that make us who we are. As Lawler argues (2014, p. 121) ‘we
are constantly playing various parts, but what those parts add up to is
ourselves ’ (emphasis in the original). That is to say, there is no real or
true self behind the social performance, but rather, who we are is the
construct of the various roles we play. Hence, following the likes of
Mead (1974) and Blumer (1962), we can see our sense of self as cre-
ated and maintained through the roles we play and how others see us
in the roles we play, or more precisely, how we think others see us in
those roles. This leads to Lawler’s second argument that Goffman main-
tained that we should not seek to distinguish between true and false
performances, but rather between convincing and unconvincing perfor-
mances. Key concepts here for Goffman (1961) are the ideas of ‘role
embracement’ and ‘role distance’. Role embracement is where ‘an indi-
vidual is attached to the role and spontaneously involved in it’. That is
to say, they embrace it and accept it as their role (Smith 2006, p. 105).
Role distance constitutes a ‘wedge between the individual and his [sic.]
role, between doing and being’ (Goffman 1961, p. 97, cited in Smith
2006, p. 105). With role distance, the performer attempts to create a
distance (a ‘wedge’) between themselves and the role. This is not to say
they are denying the existence of the role, but rather ‘the self it implies’
(Smith 2006, p. 106). They are not who or what the role would appear
to suggest they are.
An example of both role distancing and role embracing in the con-
text of cosplay can be seen in The Squee Project video ‘costuming,
139
cosplay and identity’ (2018). In this, the cosplayer Kimberly

Brightheart suggests that in cosplay ‘there can be a lot of erasure of
the identity I hold in everyday life’. Kimberly continues, ‘because
people look at me and they want to gender me, and say “oh you’re a
girl”, but that’s not me’. This cosplayer suggests that therefore cosplay
allows them to distance themselves from certain societal labels, such
as gender, and to ‘embrace those pieces that are not accepted in day to
day life’.
Lawler (2014, p. 118) refers to our creation of identity through social
performance as ‘self-impersonation’. Social actors play out roles that
they think reflect themselves, or similarly, try to distance themselves
from other roles that they do not want to be associated with—and by
doing so, actively creating a sense of self. Hence, for both Goffman and
as we shall now see, Butler, identity is not about being but rather about
doing (Lawler 2014, p. 116).
Pandora’s Tower
Pandora’s Tower (Nintendo, 2012) (Fig. 5.4) is a video game developed
exclusively for the Nintendo Wii. In the game, you play Aeron, a soldier
who volunteers to undertake a dangerous and emotional mission to
save his beloved friend, Elena. Elena has been cursed and mutates into a
demonic abomination. Aeron must kill and remove the hearts of thirteen
demons in Pandora’s Tower and return with them to Elena for her to feast
on in order to break the curse before her mutation becomes permanent.
The role-playing aspects of Pandora’s Tower allow the gamer to decide
whether to develop a romantic relationship with Elena or not, which
then proves pivotal to the game’s multiple endings. In between levels,
Aeron is able to return to Elena to inform her of his progress, present her
with gifts, and seek her assistance in solving puzzles. These actions assist
in strengthening the bond between the two characters and ultimately
impact on how the game ends. Hence, each player makes choices as to
how they wish to develop the character of Aeron; for example, a player
who is merely interested in completing the thirteen levels of the game
may not develop a romantic relationship with Elena.
During a science fiction and fantasy convention in Birmingham in
2013, David Hancock filmed and photographed the (female) cosplayers
Stephanie and her partner Tanya dressed as (the male character) Aeron
and (the female character) Elena, as they acted out their roles on a small
green area by an ornamental fountain outside the main exhibition centre.
Later, to add to the filmed footage’s narrative, Hancock inserted various
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Fig. 5.4 Pandora’s Tower II, watercolour on paper, 56 × 76 cm, 2013
cut scenes from the original video game. The inclusion of sections from
the game draws attention to how Stephanie has developed the character
Aeron both in the game and in her cosplaying of him in a particular direc-
tion, which emphasises his romantic relationship with Elena.
Stephanie and Tanya were already in a relationship, and their cosplay-
ing of these characters emphasises the romantic relationship between the
characters, but also themselves. We, therefore, see here a complex web of
identities, performances, and relationships laid on top of each other and
intersecting. Here, a same-sex couple, who are in a pre-existing romantic
relationship, use cosplay to act out and expand a male–female romantic
relationship that they have also chosen to develop in a video game. Their
cosplay is, thus, an amalgamation of their own relationship and a video
game relationship, but also more than the sum of these individual parts. It
is a performance, built upon existing performances, but one that takes on
a life and narrative of its own in this moment and space (see Chapter 7).
These relationships, performances, and narratives, are expanded by Hancock
through his use of both film and watercolour paintings. Hence, the artist
himself (his identity, his narratives, and his performances) are further added
into this mix. Combined, these bring to bear and make visible the complex-
ities of identities at play. There are many players and characters here, all of
which highlight the complex and shifting nature of identity.
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Undoubtedly, the theorisation of social performance drawn on most

frequently in the existing literature on cosplay is the work of Judith
Butler, and in particular her highly influential book, Gender Trouble
(1990). The key term typically associated with the work of Judith Butler
is that of performativity. Sometimes a rather clumsy distinction is made
between Goffman and Butler, which casts Goffman as a structural-
ist writer, who sees a true self behind the performance, and Butler as
a post-structuralist, who sees the idea of the self as a (fluid) fabrication
of repeated social performances. However, as we have already argued,
this probably unfairly suggests a false rigidity in Goffman’s work, and as
we shall see, also possibly reads more fluidity into Butler’s work than is
originally present.
Though there are many similarities between the work of Goffman
and Butler, Butler does not directly draw on or reference the work of
Goffman. In particular, Butler in her book Gender Trouble has, as the
title suggests, a specific focus on gender. Though Goffman does con-
sider gender, such as most notably in Gender Advertisements (1976), it
is apparent that gender is not his primary area of interest. One of the
most important contributions Butler makes is to question the asso-
ciation of gender labels with the idea of sex. While feminists have for
some time argued against the idea of gender as biologically determined,
Butler asserts that similarly we should see sex as a social construct. Why,
Butler asks, must we limit sex to male and female and divide the social
world down these limited and dichotomous lines? Following Foucault
(1978), Butler sees ideas of gender and sex as a ‘discursive effect’. That
is to say that both gender and sex are the product of and are continu-
ously remade through social performance, which adheres to dominant
discourses. As Elliot writes (2014, p. 126):
Rather than understand the self in terms of inner desires, psychological

capacities or emotional needs, Butler says that the self is produced in
the act of performing sexuality, doing gender and enacting desire. There
is for Butler ‘no doer behind the deed’; people only come to see them-
selves as possessing inner lives and psychological identities through a set
of repeated gender performances.
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Hence, similar to Goffman (or more precisely, similar to how some read
Goffman), for Butler there is no real self behind the performance, but
rather our sense of self becomes reified through repeated social perfor-
mances. For example, Lotecki (2012) argues that we should not see
cosplayers as seeking to escape their identity, but rather by drawing on
Butler, we can better understand this as playing out another performed
character.
For Lawler (2014), the key difference between Goffman and Butler
is that while Goffman focuses on the stability and maintenance of the
social (interactive) order, Butler is more interested in how this can be
disrupted, and in particular, how gender can be challenged and trans-
gressed. For example, Butler pays a good deal of attention to what she
sees as subcultural forms of gender resistance, such as ‘drag’ and ‘gen-
der blending’. For Butler, drag can be ‘a postmodern tool with which to
radically reassess universalized and reductionist feminist thought’ (Coles
2007, p. 9). As Butler (1990, pp. 137–138) writes:
In imitating gender, drag implicitly reveals the imitative structure of gender

itself — as well as its contingency. Indeed, part of the pleasure, the giddi-
ness of the performance is in the recognition of a radical contingency in
the relations between sex and gender in the face of cultural configurations
of causal unities that are regularly assumed to be natural and necessary.
In the place of the law of heterosexual coherence, we see sex and gender
denaturalized by means of a performance which avows their distinctness
and dramatizes the cultural mechanism of their fabrication. (emphasis in
original)
It is worth noting that Butler is referring to only certain forms of drag,

and she suggests that not all drag is inherently subversive, and some
may serve to reinforce heterosexual power structures. Moreover, as
Lamerichs (2018, p. 212) writes:
Rather than showing how cross-dressing can erase existing boundaries of

gender identity, Butler emphasizes how it reconfirms heteronormativity,
or the categories that define man, woman and heterosexuality as the norm
(Butler 1993). Drag exposes all of these notions as constructed, but it is
not subversive because it also reconfirms them.
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However, the question of what is subversive and what is simply gender

parody is left largely unanswered by Butler (Salih 2002).
Several authors, such as Norris and Bainbridge (2009), Lamerichs
(2011, 2018), and Lunning (2012), make direct comparisons between
cosplay and drag. Lunning (2012) suggests that both cosplay and drag
can be seen as mechanisms for creating and playing out identities that
‘secure for the cosplayer a temporary symbolic control and agency’
(cited in Bainbridge and Norris 2013, p. 18). Furthermore, Norris and
Bainbridge (2009, p. 9) argue that:
Unlike other fannish dressing-up, cosplay is closer to drag. We would

argue that it is not merely an act of becoming a particular character, or
marking out a particular alignment, but of disruption. This is the ‘play’ in
‘cosplay’, a play with identity and, more often, a play with gender identity.
(emphasis in original)
Of course, cosplay can literally be drag, in the form of crossplay, where

male cosplayers dress as female characters, or more commonly, women
dress as male characters, and could therefore provide a means of gender
disruption and gender play. Certainly, it is evident that some, possibly
many, see the cosplay community as a (relatively) friendly and safe envi-
ronment in which to more openly express, and play with, certain sexual
and gender identities. However, the degree to which cosplay and science
fiction and fantasy conventions might provide a liminoid space (Turner
1969) where traditional sexuality and gender roles might be subverted
and recede has, at times, been somewhat exaggerated.
Bainbridge and Norris (2013) are keen to point out a key distinction
between disruption and subversion. They argue that cosplay is not sub-
versive, as it is rarely political, but it can be disruptive, such as playing
with ideas of gender and gender roles.
Most cosplayers are women, and unsurprisingly then, most crossplay
tends to be female to male. The number of men doing crossplay is far
less than women playing male characters. Moreover, the majority of
female crossplayers usually take on characters that follow the Japanese
popularity for feminised ‘cute boys’ (shōnen ), such as those that appear
in the popular anime and manga series Hetalia. Hence, female-to-male
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crossplayers tend (most commonly) to play characters that already

express (certain) feminine characteristics. Then, when, on the rare occa-
sion that female cosplayers do play a more ‘masculine’ character, they
often portray them as a ‘feminised’ version. For example, a popular
female-to-male cosplay is for women to dress as Mario and Luigi from
the video game series Mario Bros; however, most typically here, female
cosplayers tend to adapt Mario and Luigi’s traditional outfits to make
them more feminine, such as by adding a skirt.
Most male cosplayers tend to portray male, and often hyper-mascu-
line, characters, such as superheroes. Male-to-female crossplay is rare,
and, as Leng (2016) suggests, male-to-female crossplayers do not typ-
ically seek to challenge accepted ideas of femininity and masculinity,
but rather tend to play out female characters as hyper-feminine parody,
which reinforces dominant ideas of acceptable femininity. For exam-
ple (as highlighted above), Amon (2014) discusses the example of male
cosplayers dressing as ‘sexy’ Disney princesses. Moreover, many of the
characters cosplayers play are already hyper-sexualised in their original
source material, such as ‘slave’ Princess Leia, or the majority of comic
book female superheroes.
Of course, parody can be a powerful subversive and political tool;
exaggerating and caricaturing the taken-for-granted can cast a new light
and questioning eye on accepted social conventions—but this is not
necessarily always the case. Certainly, decades of sociological and media
studies analysis have argued that the often exaggerated portrayal of fem-
ininity and masculinity in mainstream media has done very little to
challenge our socially accepted idea of sexuality and gender norms, but
rather, play a crucial role in creating and reinforcing social structures
and patterns, such as hegemonic masculinity (Connell 2005).
As Leng (2016) argues, most crossplay is not political; often this has
more to do with expressing a fan’s affiliation or interest in a particular
character or text, rather than seeking to subvert or play with gender or
sexual identities. Moreover, Lamerichs (2011) is clear about the limi-
tations of using Butler to theorise cosplay as a form of identity subver-
sion. As she writes ‘subversion becomes a slippery process because the
subject is always subjected to social forces’ (Lamerichs 2011, 5.5).
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Butler’s work is therefore advocating the transgressive, the disrup-

tive, and those acts that cause (as the title of her book suggests) gender
trouble. However, as Elliot (2014, p. 129) suggests, by setting out cer-
tain performances, such as drag as transgressive, this involves ‘the spec-
tre of normal or routine performances of sex in social setting’. That is
to say, Butler helps reinforce binary oppositions, such as normal/trans-
gressive, which she sets out to challenge. Moreover, it is important to
reemphasise that for Butler, our identities are not voluntary. For Butler,
identity is not as fluid as many read it to be. As Lawler (2014, p. 131)
writes:
As with Goffman’s work, then, it is important to think of Butler’s frame-

work for the performative doing of sex or gender as set within a wider
social world; it is not voluntary on the part of the subject, nor does it
start with the subject. The performativity of gender is compulsory and set
within the confines of what Butler, borrowing from the North American
Feminist Adrienne Rich (1980) calls ‘compulsory heterosexuality’.
As Lamerichs (2011, 3.3) adds, ‘performing one’s identity is not a vol-

untary act… but rather one that is always confined to discursive prac-
tices in a certain society’.
There are also others, such as Hood-Williams and Cealey Harrison
(1998), who question the compatibility of combining speech acts the-
ory with psychoanalytic theory, as Butler appears to attempt to do.
As, on the one hand, speech theory suggests, there is no ‘I’ behind the
discursive, while the ‘I’ is central to psychoanalysis. And Butler in her
preface to the 1999 edition of Gender Trouble admits that there are
omissions in her theorisation of performativity (Salih 2002); an issue
she attempts to address in her later work, such as Bodies that Matter
(1993). In particular, in Butler’s later work, such as Undoing Gender
(2004), the role of others in shaping (and challenging) our identities
becomes even more evident. As Lawler (2014, p. 185) writes ‘as well as
seeing our selves, our identities, as relationally produced — as produced
within matrices of social relations — Butler wants to consider the ways
in which they are also undone’. As we perform our identities, those we
are bound to, have the power to challenge and even undo this. As Butler
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(2004, p. 49) writes ‘I am nowhere without you’, and Lawler (2014,

p. 186) argues, this highlights how ‘“identity” is a profoundly social
entity’.
The work of both Butler and Goffman are important as they (even
taking into consideration their critics) allow us to move beyond simplis-
tic and common-sense ideas that there is one real, true, self. Cosplay is
not a performance of identity that sits on top of a deeper, more real
identity; these performances are part-and-parcel of who we are, and they
are part of our identity. This is not to deny that through cosplay the per-
former can become someone else; as through all performances our identity
and sense of self are always evolving and changing. Through every per-
formance, we become someone else, most often in very subtle ways.
Certainly, cosplay is useful in helping us understand the performative
and playful nature of contemporary identity. According to Hills (cited
earlier), a common criticism of fan-impersonators is that they lack
a ‘strong enough’ self-identity (Hills 2002, p. 171). However, cosplay
reveals the complex and multifaceted nature of identity performances.
For many cosplayers, their cosplay is not primarily (or at least not
wholly) about playing another character or identity, but rather (similar
to the arguments of Hills 2002, set out above) using cosplay as a mech-
anism to explore aspects of their existing identity/identities. Cosplayers
will often play a wider variety of, sometimes quite diverse, roles; and
often these characters are chosen as ways of living, exploring, and per-
forming identities. For example, one cosplayer we interviewed, Sophie,
discussed her portrayal of Boris, a variation on the Cheshire Cat from
Alice in Wonderland, who appears in the manga and video game In the
Country of Hearts (Quin Rose, 2007–2009). The character, Boris, is a
highly sexualised individual who attempts to molest Alice throughout
their meetings. But Sophie also cosplays Sonic the Hedgehog, Sora and
Demyx from the video game Kingdom Hearts2 (Square Enix, 2002), as
well as ‘around fifty’ other male and occasionally female manga char-
acters. In particular, Sophie found portraying male characters, ‘more
2Sora and Demyx are characters from Kingdom Hearts, a video game that incorporates Disney
characters with a specially created world by Square Enix, the designer of Final Fantasy. Originally
released in 2002, there have been several sequels and spin-offs.
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relaxed. I don’t have to be girlie because I’m not a very girlie person. I’m
more chilled out, can’t be bothered, male. It’s more natural for me to be
a boy than a girl. It feels like so much more effort to be a girl’.
We recognise that a sense of self, even the idea of a real, deeper,
self, is important to many, such as trans people. For Sophie, Kimberly
Brightheart interviewed in The Squee Project (2018) video (cited above),
and many others, cosplay, and in particular crossplay, provides an
important way of playing with, and maybe even, disrupting gender.
Hence, as with Butler’s and even Goffman’s theorisations, we are not
attempting to deny others’ subjectivity or agency, but rather, recognise
the multiplicity and compound nature of identity, and the role of social
performances and social expectations in shaping these. However, the
question to which we now want to turn is to ask if, in an increasingly
fluid social world, identity still matters?
The Individualised Self

Zygmunt Bauman (2008, p. 54) in his book The Art of Life writes that:
As Foucault suggested only one conclusion follows from the proposition

that ‘identity is not given’: our identities (that is, the answers to questions
like ‘Who am I?’, ‘What is my place in the world?’, ‘What am I here for?’)
need to be created, just as works of art are created. (emphasis in original)
For writers such as Zygmunt Bauman, Richard Sennett, Ulrich Beck,

and Anthony Giddens, in modernity, identity became a constantly
evolving project that needed to be worked on by the individual. This is
linked to not only ideas of self-improvement, but also the modern search
to find and become one’s true self. It is in modernity then that iden-
tity acquires its full meaning and becomes the ‘quest of self-identity’
(Giddens 1990, p. 121). However, these are identities that individuals
need to pursue. As Bauman (2004, p. 49) argues, their trajectories are
‘unambiguously laid out’. Hence, though identity becomes a project, it
is a project one has to pursue, to set ends; it is about becoming who we
were meant to be (Muriel and Crawford 2018).
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However, Sennett (1998) suggests that in late modernity, contempo-

rary global capitalism frustrates attempts to form a coherent and stable
identity. In a rapidly changing world, Bauman argues (2004, p. 53),
the idea of a ‘cohesive, firmly riveted and solidly constructed identity’
progressively a limitation on ‘the freedom to choose’. The certitudes of
social life and the foundations of modern identity such as social class,
occupation, family, and location start to not only erode, but become
obstacles. In an increasingly shifting and ever-changing world, set iden-
tities become redundant, worse still, impediments to survival, and iden-
tities similarly start to liquefy. For Bauman (2008, p. 125), we therefore
become artists of life. As he writes:
So we are all artists of our lives – knowingly or not, willingly or not, like
it or not. To be an artist means to give form and shape to what otherwise
would be shapeless or formless. To manipulate probabilities. To impose an
‘order’ on what other would be ‘chaos’: to ‘organize’ an otherwise chaotic
— random, haphazard and so unpredictable — collection of things and
events by making certain events more likely to happen than all the others.
Sennett (1998) argues that there is the potential of liberation in late

modernity, involving the opportunity to change, take risks, and reinvent
ourselves. Similarly, Beck (such as in Beck and Beck-Gernsheim 2002)
argues that where traditional societies gave people little scope for indi-
vidual autonomy, contemporary social life opens up the opportunities
for DIY identities and reinvention. In many ways, cosplay makes this
playing with identity conspicuous. Likewise, we see examples in con-
temporary art of playing with and subverting traditional ideas of iden-
tity. For example, the work of film-maker and mixed-media artist Isaac
Julien has often sought to subvert and deconstruct archetypical identity
structures, such as those revolving around race, gender, and sexuality
(Lindsay 2016). As discussed in Chapter 2, Tobias Bernstrup’s androg-
ynous performances seek to raise questions about the representation
of identity, the body, and physical space in both virtual and non-vir-
tual realities, and the exhibition Subversion held at the Cornerhouse
Manchester (now HOME) in 2012, curated by Omar Kholeif, brought
together artists ‘who wanted to dissent, poke fun, critique and re-define
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themselves as artists of the imagination, and not of any specific social or

political condition’ (HOME 2012, online). Furthermore, artists such as
Banksy have famously sought to remove the identity of the artist from
the work, seeking instead to remain anonymous, and let the work speak
for itself.
However, there is also a deeply unsettling insecurity at play here too.
According to Bauman (2000, p. 82), the ‘search for identity’ is a ‘strug-
gle to arrest or slow down the flow, to solidify the fluid, to give form
to the formless’. As with notions of community (see Bauman 2001),
identity constitutes a sense of security, a sense of stability, of knowing
who we are and where we are. Therefore, for many contemporary artists
considering ideas of identity, it is not necessarily its fluid and playful
nature they seek to explore, but often its loss and fracture. For example,
Minela Krupic is a mixed-media artist and former refugee from Bosnia
Herzegovina, who was exiled to Germany as a result of the Bosnian war,
before later settling in Australia. For Krupic, her work is an exploration
of overcoming language and cultural barriers, and of exploring cultural
loss and identity (Multicultural Arts Victoria, online).
It is also important to recognise that individualisation is not simply
about the changing nature of the self, but rather more a reflection of
the social world and times in which we live. It needs to be seen as a
response to post-modern, insecure, and globalised times, and under-
stood not as a wholly subjective process, but rather what Beck and
Beck-Gernsheim (2002) refer to as ‘institutional individualization’. That
is to say, the individual is not free to construct their identity as they see
fit, but rather does so within, often long-standing, social and cultural
external constraints (Elliott 2014).
Bauman argues that of course, it is overly simplistic to see identity
as evolving through premodern, modern, and now post-modern stages.
As ‘all three “worlds” are but abstract idealisations of mutually inco-
herent aspects of the single life-process which we try our best to make
as coherent as we can manage’ (Bauman 1992, p. 11). Identities, for
Bauman, are now a mixture of what could be seen as premodern, mod-
ern, and post-modern forms; which are better understood as simultane-
ously existing ways of living in our contemporary world (Elliott 2014,
p. 159). Though there is quite evidently a negativity and questioning
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of contemporary social life and consumer culture in Bauman’s work,

it is evident that he also sees opportunity in post-modern identity and
the ability to redefine the self and move away from traditional political
orthodoxies (Elliott 2014, p. 156).
Though the work of writers such as Bauman, Beck, and Giddens
have not been taken up by many writers on cosplay, there are some
who have utilised their work, and we would suggest there are more
opportunities here. For example, Bonnichsen (2011) employs
Giddens’ (1990) work on trust to argue that trust in fellow cosplay-
ers is important in establishing and maintaining cosplay communities,
and within this, forming one’s own identity as a cosplayer. In particu-
lar, the idea that our identities are increasingly complex, fluid, and
subject to reinvention (within certain social parameters), we would
suggest, has great value in helping us understand the social importance
of cosplay.
Hence, in our late modern world, identity becomes ironically both
irrelevant and also a central concern for many of us. As with ideas of
community, identity becomes fluid, even elusive, and this makes it even
more desirable. But unlike the set path of modernity towards our true
selves, in more liquid times, we are constantly trying on new selves. It
is then, in this context, that cosplay starts to take on particular signif-
icance. Lamerichs (2011, 6.1) (as cited above) argues the ‘the essence’
of cosplay lies in the ‘character’ and ‘expressing one’s self ’; ‘these two
aspects’, she suggests, ‘are at the heart of cosplay’. But in a post-modern
scenario, there is no ‘character’ and no ‘one’s self ’. It is not a ‘simulta-
neous performance’ (Kirkpatrick 2015, 0.1) of the cosplay character on
top of the cosplayer’s existing identity, but rather all part of the fluidity
of contemporary identity construction and play.
Identities and Performance in a Digital Age

Though cosplay has quite a long history (see Chapter 1), it is evi-
dent that contemporary cosplay culture has been profoundly shaped
by the Internet. Away from conventions and meet-ups, the Internet
is where most keep in touch with fellow cosplayers, discuss costumes
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and performances, offer advice, and display photographs and videos of

themselves and others in costume and performing roles. It is therefore
in an online environment that a great deal of the cosplayers’ communi-
ties and identities are performed and maintained.
In 1993, Howard Rheingold argued that ‘people in virtual com-
munities do just about everything that people do in real life, but leave
their bodies behind’ (Rheingold 1993, p. 3, cited in Cashmore et al.
2018, p. 137). Several authors, and most notably Sherry Turkle in her
much-cited book Life on the Screen (1995), explore the opportunities
that new technologies afford to live out alternative identities, often seen
as detached from our corporeal bodies. As highlighted in Chapter 4,
Turkle saw new digital technologies as ‘identity-transforming’. She
argues that in ‘cyberspace’ we can ‘assume personae of our own creation’
(Turkle 1995, p. 9). In this early work, Turkle saw new communication
technologies as ‘potentially liberating for the self ’ (Elliott 2014, p. 141).
For Turkle and others, we were entering an era that could be character-
ised in the film Catfish (Schulman and Joost 2010), where online we
can live out alternative identities and alternative lives. Hence, for writ-
ers such as Rheingold (1993), Turkle (1995), and Stone (1995), the
Internet allows us an opportunity to escape the confines of our bodies
and existing identities.
The Internet then enables new forms of publicness (Baym and boyd
2012), where individuals are able to build an online identity—even an
online following and ‘self-brand’ (Marwick 2012). Online, our identi-
ties can be ‘authentic, fanciful, or manipulative’ (Baym 2015, p. 123),
or possibly all of these at once. For, as Turkle (1995) argues, our online
lives are like having multiple windows open, sometimes literally. In dif-
ferent online spaces, we can present different versions of ourselves and
play out different identities.
However, as Baym (2015, p. 118) argues, ‘most people, most of the
time, use new media to act in ways mostly consistent with their embod-
ied selves’. Most Internet providers, web discussion groups, email
accounts, and social networking sites require the use of real names, at
least for registering, if not as an onscreen profile, and many are using
various, and more sophisticated, techniques to check and authenticate
identities, particularly in the wake of increased concerns in recent years
152
over ‘fake’ news and ‘fake’ online accounts. It is also often through pre-
determined and pre-existing categories that social networking sites and
online accounts ask us to define ourselves, such as age, sex, location,
and occupation. Often the information we share about ourselves is even
more detailed, such as our likes and dislikes, education and employ-
ment history, as well as often multiple photographs or even videos of
ourselves and our friends and families. Moreover, some studies, such
as Tosun (2012), suggest that online spaces can provide people with
opportunities to be and express what they see as their true selves.
Baym (2015) argues, though of course some people online can be
dishonest, the frequency and extent of this is often exaggerated. For
example, a study by Ellison et al. (2006) on online dating sites suggests
that people who lied about things such as their weight or not smoking
did so, not necessarily to deceive, but because they were hopeful that
this was the person that would soon be—slightly slimmer, or a non-
smoker, for example. As Baym (2015, p. 129) argues ‘sometimes being
deceptive is about presenting one’s ideal self more than a fictitious one’.
Also, returning to the work of Goffman (1969), it is evident that in our
social interactions with others, even online, we tend to inadvertently
‘give off’ certain things about ourselves (Bullingham and Vasconcelos
2013).
It is also important to recognise that our online identities and per-
sonas are not wholly within our control. Others may comment or
reply to posts we make, share pictures of us, or tag us in their posts,
and write or say things about us online—things we may or may not like
or agree with. Just as in the offline world, following the likes of Mead
and Blumer (cited earlier), it is important to recognise that online, our
sense of self is shaped by how others see us, and moreover, what hap-
pens online can have a significant impact on our sense of self and our
identities offline.
Of course, to a certain extent, all online personas are curated. For
some, for example, Instagram influencers or vloggers, this manipulation
of their image and identities can be carefully orchestrated, but these are
still images and identities inextricably linked to embodied individuals.
Even if using ‘fake’ photographs and ‘fake’ information to create online
identities, it is important to recognise that these are still created by ‘real’
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people, in the ‘real’ world, with ‘real’ motives. These are not free-floating
disembodied identities, but still identities created and played out by an
embodied person, and they are part of who that person is, if only tem-
porarily and in certain (online) places. It is, therefore, important that we
avoid the temptation to see a separation between our online and offline
lives and identities, as in an increasingly digitally mediated world, both
our analogue and digital interactions are part-and-parcel of our everyday
lives, who we are, and our sense of self. What we do is who we are.
The End of Identity?

There are those who argue that identity is a term, so inextricability
linked to the certitudes of modernity, such as gender, social class, and
ethnicity, that it no longer applies or makes sense in an increasingly
fluid and digitised word. One of the main advocates of what Elliott
(2014) describes as anti-identity theory is the French sociologist, Bruno
Latour, and in particular, his work on actor–network theory (ANT).
ANT advocates a way of understanding social connections and net-
works, which links together both humans and non-human actors, or as
Latour refers to them ‘actants’. For Latour, agency is not restricted to
humans. As he argues ‘even though the word ‘agency’ in English often
refers to persons… I take it, following the insights of semiotics, as a
concept that precedes the attributions of humanity and personhood’
(Latour 2017, p. 49n). In this sense, agency is not defined by identity or
motivation, but rather the ability to bring about change. Hence, ANT
is about understanding networks of actants (both people and objects)
and how they connect and interact with each other.
Drawing on the work of Latour, as well as others, Muriel and
Crawford (2018) advocate a post-identity perspective in their consid-
eration of video game culture. For Muriel and Crawford, identities are
replaced by temporary labels, or what they term, ‘short facts’. They
illustrate this with examples of the television series Big Brother and the
video game Watch Dogs (Ubisoft, 2014). In both this video game and in
Big Brother, individuals are introduced by a series of (often unrelated)
154
short facts about them, such as ‘“joined aerophobia group”, “Dyslexic”,

“Cited for animal cruelty”’ (2018, p. 169). However, Muriel and
Crawford suggest that this is not just apparent in the world of reality
television shows and video games. In an increasingly digitised world,
this reduction of our identities to short and temporal tags can also be
seen in other areas and examples, such as how we are is defined by the
information we share on social media. These posts are examples of the
multiple, often temporary, performances, we all inhabit. And it is easy
to see how cosplay could similarly fit here, as another temporary, super-
ficial (post)identity.
Hence, borrowing Beck’s (see Beck and Beck-Gernsheim 2002) term,
Muriel and Crawford (2018) see identity as a ‘zombie category’—an
idea kept alive, mostly by social scientists, to describe a social phenom-
enon that no longer exists, or certainly no longer carries the weight and
meaning that it once did. However, there is still a lingering problem:
zombies are not dead. They are the undead. They are the dead that will
not die; the dead that we cannot get rid of. As is the case with iden-
tity. No matter how much we would like to, we cannot kill off iden-
tity and simply move on. Muriel and Crawford (2018) see identity as
a ‘sociological buoy’. It is a concept that sociologists cling to, to pro-
vide stability in increasingly insecure waters. That is to say, it makes
studying the social easier if we can pretend that concepts like identity
still have meaning; that they are still viable tools for understanding the
social world we live in. Because, in a world where identity no longer
matters, then a fundamental part of sociology, and many other social
sciences, start to crumble. However, it is not just social scientists keep-
ing identity alive. As Izenberg (2016, p. 4) argues, in the latter parts of
the twentieth century, uses of the term identity quickly spread from aca-
demia and politics into both high and low culture, including art. Ideas
and discussions of identity proliferate in modern society, and they will
not easily go away. In particular, Izenberg (2016, p. 450) argues that
though our contemporary understanding of identity developed in a
particular historical period and under quite specific social conditions,
identity still remains ‘a valid, useful, and ultimately indispensable cat-
egory for understanding psychological, social, and historical reality’.
155
In many ways, this is why painting represents a particularly useful and

apt medium to explore the contemporary nature of identity. As Gilda
Williams (2009, p. 10) argues, painting is similarly ‘the great undead’.
It is a medium and art form that many have argued is no longer rele-
vant in today’s world. So here, we are aptly employing (amongst other
tools) an undead art form, to help us explore and understand an undead
concept.
Conclusion
On the one hand, it is important to recognise that identity is not one
thing. Questions concerning whether a cosplayer is using a charac-
ter as a mask to hide behind, to say something about themselves, or
to construct a new identity, or similar questions (at least at one level)
no longer make any sense; if they ever did? On the other hand, these
kinds of questions continue to matter to cosplayers, their audiences, and
the academics studying them. Cosplayers will often talk about becom-
ing someone else, or choosing a character that is like them, or sometimes
even, one that is not like them. Identity is still a tool we cannot assign
to the historical dustbin, as it is a term that most people still use to
understand and articulate their actions and those of others. However, as
Izenberg (2016, p. 457) recognises ‘identity must be disenchanted’. We
need to decentre identity and place it within a wider social and cultural
context, and in doing so, understand its contingency.
It is evident that identity matters for both the cosplay literature and
cosplay subculture. Playing with various identities is often how cosplay-
ers define cosplay and it is, therefore, central to academic considerations
of this activity, its participants, and their community. Nevertheless,
what is somewhat surprising is that so few authors seek to fully explore
or define what they, and others, mean in their use of concepts like iden-
tity and performance. It is evident that for writers on cosplay, the most
frequently referenced theories on identity are the work of Judith Butler,
and to a lesser extent, Erving Goffman. The work of these authors is
important, as both recognise that our sense of self is not pre-existing,
156
and does not stand behind the social performance, but rather our iden-
tity is constructed, maintained, and at times, disrupted, through the
roles we play in our everyday lives, which includes cosplay. The cosplay
character does not sit on top of ourselves, but rather our self is a con-
struct made up of the roles we play, which includes cosplay, and all that
we do.
Furthermore, writers, such as most notably Bauman and Beck,
highlight the instability of identities in an increasingly fluid world.
Here, our identities are not only unstable, but moreover, fixed iden-
tities become an obstacle to living (and surviving) in a rapidly chang-
ing world. Moreover, some, such as Latour, question the relevance of
identity in understanding how human and non-human actors (or act-
ant) interact across social networks. Hence, writers such as Muriel and
Crawford advocate a post-identity thesis, but even they recognise that
identity is a concept that will not go away or die. Identity remains a
central concept to sociology and other social sciences, but beyond this,
continues to significantly matter in other domains, such as (most nota-
bly for us) both cosplay and art.
Ideas of a post-modern identity, or even post-identity, then move
beyond the questions of whether cosplayers are imitating a character or
using a character to play out aspects of themselves? There is no distinc-
tion between the ‘character’ and ‘one’s self ’—only an embodied social
actor performing certain actions at a given time and place. However,
most of us cling to modernist ideas of identity, drawing imaginary
fences around areas we want to hold onto and believe to be our true
selves and reifying them as our identity.
Hence, cosplay could be seen as a post-identity, one of the many
fluid and blurring identities we shift between in our everyday lives.
Yet, identity is no more or no less real than it ever was. It has always
been contingent, but it is probably now more malleable than it ever
has been. This, we would suggest, is why cosplay is so relevant to
this discussion, as it helps to make visible the contemporary play
with identities, which happen in both online and offline spaces, but
are, to use Beck and Beck-Gernsheim’s term, part of an ‘institutional
individualization’.
157
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6
Crafting Cosplay
Introduction
This chapter focuses on the processes and interactions involved in
crafting cosplay costumes and performances, but in doing so, recognises
that cosplay is so much more than simply a costume and a performance.
Cosplay is a complex and dynamic culture made up of networks of
interconnected actors, practices, and knowledges.
We begin by contextualising and situating cosplay within a wider
consideration of the changing nature of audiences. Drawing on a model
of audience research proposed by Abercrombie and Longhurst (1998),
we suggest that it is possible to see an evolution in both audience behav-
iour and audience research, which recognises how media are used by
participatory audiences in their everyday lives, and in doing so, are
becoming more spectacular and performative. Following on from this,
we focus on the idea of participatory culture, and in particular the work
of Henry Jenkins, which specifically argues that participatory culture
has shifted from the sidelines into mainstream culture, and associated
with this, we see the growing influence of transmedia texts, where narra-
tives increasingly flow across multiple platforms.

164
Next, the chapter advocates the use of communities of practice as a

useful way of understanding cosplay as a crafting community. This we
find particularly useful, as it is a concept that has been applied to many
different groups and communities, including those that share similar-
ities with cosplay or crossover with it, such as crafters and video gam-
ers. Moreover, communities of practice is a concept that recognises the
importance of social norms, structures, and inequalities within commu-
nities, as well as situating these within a wider social and spatial context.
The chapter then briefly considers the history of crafting, its decline,
and then (we cautiously) considers its re-emergence from the 1960s and
1970s onwards as part of a new politicised counterculture.
The main focus and final three sections of the chapter then look more
specifically at crafting cosplay. First, we consider the making of cosplay
costumes and argue that this involves dynamic networks of multiple
actors and interactions, built around complex norms and accepted prac-
tices. In line with this, we next focus on the importance of authenticity
and the role of judgement in maintaining and enforcing the culture of
this community. Finally, following on from this, we consider inequal-
ity and hierarchies within cosplay cultures, and how this can, at times,
involve criticism and harassment.
Performing Audiences
Abercrombie and Longhurst (1998) suggest that research on audiences
(and within this they would include fan and various subcultures) has
progressed through three clear stages or paradigms. These they refer to
as the behavioural paradigm, the incorporation/resistance paradigm, and
the spectacle/performance paradigm. The behavioural paradigm covers
early sociological and cultural studies research and a good proportion
of psychological research into audiences. In this model, audiences are
largely seen as directly and passively responding to media, such as can
be seen in the ‘media effects’ literature. For example, in this paradigm,
violent images or messages are seen to have a direct and causal effect
on audiences, such as increasing levels of aggression. However, there are
clear and fundamental issues with this theorisation, such as it is evident
6 Crafting Cosplay
165
that audiences do not simply and directly passively absorb media mes-
sages and ideologies, and causal links attributing specific audience
behaviour to media influences are hard, if not impossible, to substan-
tiate. Though Abercrombie and Longhurst suggest that each paradigm
is subsequently followed by new perspectives on audience research,
crucially, each paradigm does not die, and in particular, media effects
debates have continued to thrive, often moving onto new media and
audiences, such as video games (Crawford 2012).
Moreover, the contradictions and limitations of this paradigm,
Abercrombie and Longhurst suggest, led to this model being super-
seded by a new paradigm. The incorporation/resistance paradigm rec-
ognises audiences as active in processing and interpreting the messages
and images conveyed to them through various media sources and forms.
For example, Stuart Hall’s (1980) work on encoding and decoding is an
important landmark here, in which Hall argues that media audiences
can interpret and decode ideology encoded into the mass media, and
take a number of stances towards this, which includes incorporating,
negotiating, or resisting these ideologies.
However, Abercrombie and Longhurst suggest that there are similarly
a number of key issues with this paradigm. First, this paradigm primar-
ily draws on a zero-sum, top-down theorisation of societal power. In
this model, power is owned and controlled by particular social groups,
to the determent of others. However, following more contemporary
post-structuralist theorisations of power, such as the work of Michel
Foucault (1979), they suggest that social power relations are not as
simple or linear as this model would seem to assume, but rather are far
more complex and in constant flux. Second, they suggest that audiences
are becoming more sophisticated and diverse in their use of media and
can no longer (if they ever could) simply be characterised by their incor-
poration, negotiation, or resistance to dominant ideologies.
Abercrombie and Longhurst (1998) argue that audience research has,
in recent years, shifted towards a new third paradigm, which demon-
strates a greater interest in how media is consumed and located within a
wider social context; and this they refer to as the spectacle/performance
paradigm. Research in this paradigm tends to see media audiences as
more participatory and active in their media consumption.
166
This paradigm Abercrombie and Longhurst link to the changing

nature of audiences, which again, they suggest a three-stage model for.
In particular, Abercrombie and Longhurst suggest that it is possible to
see a development in audience behaviour, from what they refer to as the
simple, to the mass, to the diffused audience. All three forms of audi-
ence have their origins in different historical periods but continue to
exist within contemporary society. The simple audience was the dom-
inant form in the premodern period and would, for example, include
a theatre or a sports audience. The mass audience has its origins in the
development of mass media in the early to mid-modern period, as it is
evident that watching television or listening to music at home is distinc-
tively different to attending a football match or going to the theatre.
They suggest that crucially, simple and mass audiences both depend
upon performance—a factor that becomes even more important in their
third form of audience, the diffused audience. Here, Abercrombie and
Longhurst argue that we live in an increasingly performative society,
where individuals draw on and utilise the mass media as a resource to
construct their identities and social performances.
Though all three forms of audience can be found in contempo-
rary society, the diffused audience is a particular phenomenon of our
media-saturated late modern period, which has come into existence
due to several key, interrelated, factors. First, people spend a lot of time
in the consumption of media, both privately and publicly. Second, the
mass media and everyday life have become so closely interwoven that
they are increasingly inseparable. Third, we are increasingly living in
a narcissistic society where everyday mundane events become increas-
ingly performative. Fourth, so ingrained are performances in everyday
life that they become almost invisible and the distance between per-
former and audience becomes almost entirely removed. Finally, they
argue that we also live in an increasingly spectacular society. Just as
Foucault (1979) argued that we live in a society of surveillance and
observation, where the few watch the many, Mathiesen (1997) suggests
society has equally become more spectacular, with the many watching
the few.
Abercrombie and Longhurst’s model, we would suggest, is particu-
larly relevant in understanding and theorising cosplay, as it allows us to
6 Crafting Cosplay
167
understand and contextualise the evolution of both audience research

and the changing nature of audiences. In particular, cosplay would
appear to be a prime example of how audiences and fan cultures, draw-
ing on media resources, are becoming more performative and spectac-
ular. However, what is particularly significant is that Abercrombie and
Longhurst’s book was published at a time when we were yet to release
the full impact of digital and new media technologies, such as most
notably the Internet, on our everyday lives and media consumption.
These, we would suggest, have not only increased the resources audi-
ences can draw on in fuelling their social performances and identity
constructions, but also provide new arenas in which to perform, such
as on social media, blogs, discussion boards, and various photo- and
video-sharing platforms.
Participatory Culture
Key examples of literature that would fall within what Abercrombie
and Longhurst refer to as the spectacle/performance paradigm would
include the work of authors such as Camille Bacon-Smith (1992) and
Henry Jenkins (1992) on the creativity and participatory culture of
fandom. In particular, Henry Jenkins describes cult media fans, such
as the followers of Doctor Who and Star Trek, as ‘textual poachers’—a
term he borrows from Michel de Certeau (1984). For Jenkins, these
fans are engaging in a process that de Certeau would refer to as ‘mak-
ing do’. That is to say, they are making the best of, and personalising,
the resources available to them. In particular, Jenkins was interested in
how fans draw on (or ‘poach’) characters and storylines from existing
commercially produced media texts and use these to create their own
stories, poems, art, and music. Jenkins (1992, p. 3) describes these cre-
ative fans as ‘a social group struggling to define its own culture and to
construct its own community within the context of what many observ-
ers have described as a postmodern era’ and as ‘a group insistent on
making meaning from materials others have characterised as trivial and
worthless’.
168
In Textual Poachers, Jenkins (1992, pp. 1–2) ‘identifies at least five

distinct (though often interconnected) dimensions of this culture: its
relationship to a particular mode of reception; its role in encouraging
viewer activism; its function as an interpretive community; its particu-
lar traditions of cultural production; its status as an alternative social
community’. These aspects of media fandom are what marks it as dis-
tinctive and sets it apart from wider culture, creating a participatory cul-
ture based around their fandom. These fans ‘construct their cultural and
social identity through borrowing and inflecting mass culture images,
articulating concerns which often go unvoiced within the dominant
media’ (Jenkins 1992, p. 23). This borrowing of media texts is unau-
thorised and as such, has potential to infringe copyright laws, essentially
meaning that the majority of the fans’ creative output can only ever
remain an amateur, and marginal, pursuit.
In many respects, cosplay could, and we would argue should, be seen
as a form of textual poaching, as cosplayers are similarly drawing on,
and making their own creations, from existing media texts. However,
as Lamerichs (2018, p. 1.99) argues, the material productivity and play
of fans have often been overlooked in much of emerging fan studies lit-
erature, in favour of discussions of textual productivity, such as most
notably, fan fiction. In particular, Lamerichs (2018) suggests that the
material and the textual should not be seen as separate, as both are ways
that audiences (re)interpret and extend that narrative of media prod-
ucts—and more on this in a moment.
In his later work, Henry Jenkins’ focus shifts to considering the
participatory and creative nature of wider audiences. Jenkins’ central
argument in Textual Poachers (1992) is that fans constitute a minor-
ity, who through their creativity and participatory culture can be seen
as distinctly different to ordinary, and largely passive, media audience.
However, in his later work, and as most notably set out in the books
Fans, Bloggers and Gamers (2006a) and Convergence Culture (2006b),
Jenkins argues that the nature of audiences, and how they interact with
media texts, has notably changed, and that now the majority (and not
just a minority) of audiences are participatory.
In particular, Jenkins argues that this rise in participatory culture
has developed due to three, interconnected, factors. First, there has
6 Crafting Cosplay
169
developed new tools and technologies, such as the Internet, which ‘ena-
ble consumers to archive, annotate, appropriate, and recirculate media
content’ (Jenkins 2006a, p. 135). Second, there has been the rise of a
number of subcultures that promote Do-it-Yourself (DIY) media pro-
duction, such as video game modders or Internet bloggers. Third, ‘hori-
zontally integrated media conglomerates encourage the flow of images,
ideas, and narratives across multiple media channels and demand more
active modes of spectatorship’ (Jenkins 2006a, p. 136). Here, Jenkins is
referring to the rise of ‘transmedia’, where media narratives increasingly
cross-cut, and sometimes require engagement with, different media
forms. For Jenkins, transmedia requires the existence of a more active
consumer, who will seek out and actively engage with narratives across a
variety of media texts and platforms.
However, as Lamerichs (2018) argues, Jenkins’ work here is still pri-
marily focused upon transmedia storytelling, and how fans and more
ordinary media audiences alike actively seek out and follow narratives
across cross-cutting and intersecting (transmedia) texts. This, Lamerichs
(2018, p. 27) argues, is problematic in two key ways: first, by primar-
ily focusing on the textual, Jenkins largely ignores material productiv-
ity, such as cosplay; and second, by focusing on audience’s engagement
with industry-driven texts, he ‘neglects the liminal examples of transme-
dia storytelling that stand between fandom and official production’. For
example, here, Lamerichs cites how it was Doctor Who fans who kept its
narrative alive while the show was off air (particular between the feature
film of 1996 and the reinstatement of the television series in 2005), and
some of these fan-produced stories were then subsequently incorporated
into the official canon of the show once it was reinstated. Hence, as
this and other examples show, the distinction between official and fan-
produced narratives is not always that clear.
Subsequently, Lamerichs (2018) argues that rather than a narrow
focus on transmedia storytelling, fan scholars should instead broaden
their scope to consider, what she refers to as, transmedia design. This,
she suggests, recognises the sometimes blurred boundaries between offi-
cial and fan-produced texts, and also, that fan activities are not solely
restricted to the textual, but can involve material production, perfor-
mances, and play. Consequently, this broadening out of transmediality
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from an attention to storytelling to a more inclusive focus on design,

as well as recognising the increasingly blurred boundaries between fan
and industry-driven production, Lamerichs argues, allows for cosplay to
not only be seen as a form of transmedia, but also presents a particularly
fruitful case to explore the complex relationship between fan and main-
stream media productivity.
Cosplay as Transmedia Design

Jenkins describes a transmedia story as unfolding ‘across multiple media
platforms, with each new text making a distinctive and valuable contri-
bution to the whole’ (Jenkins 2006a, pp. 97–98). Following the argu-
ments of Lamerichs (2018), we can also see cosplay as a transmedia
platform, which draws on and links to other transmedia texts, sources,
and performances.
Within the vast majority of media (and even transmedia) texts, char-
acters and stories are usually fairly loosely and superficially set out.
Even a character that appears at the centre of multiple texts, such as a
character like Harry Potter who appears in at least seven books by J.K
Rowling, over twenty hours of film, plus numerous video games, and
associated (para) texts, the audience only gets to know a fraction of that
character’s life, and in particular, the more mundane aspects of their
daily lives are largely left unexplored by most authors. Hence, even for
a very well-established character like Harry Potter, this still gives cos-
players extensive room to explore other aspects of their lives and per-
sonalities. And this is even more so for the vast majority of peripheral
characters or those who appear in texts that usually involve less charac-
ter development, like video games and comic books—media forms that
are particularly popular with cosplayers.
Media texts, therefore, provide cosplayers substantial room to develop
their own narratives, explore new aspects of a character, extend exist-
ing storylines, or simply take story elements and characters and place
them in new scenarios. As Deana and Sienna discussed in our interview
with them: ‘you’re making your own kind of thing up of what they’re
doing’, said Sienna. Deana added, ‘you’re adding an extra part to their
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lives’. Sienna continued, ‘you can act out what you want. You don’t have
to base it around what’s happening in the anime or manga’. Similarly,
Grace suggested, ‘I’m cosplaying a real minor character, so he doesn’t
have much of a story in the anime, so whatever I do and how I interact
with the other characters, I suppose… you could say that was extending
his story’.
It is then through cosplay that the cosplayers extend characters and
their narratives, and in doing so, help make the character their own and
create new personal meanings and memories associated with that char-
acter. Erika, one of the cosplayers interviewed as part of the research,
made this very point, ‘you do stuff in cosplay and then you attach those
memories to the character’. In the same interview, Elizabeth expanded:
You also put your own spin on the personalities or their relationships
because it isn’t fully explained [in the original text], or you like to put a
twist on something. I think you make the character your own when you
cosplay them. Sometimes they don’t have a set personality. That’s why you
can get multiple cosplays of one character. Each character is slightly dif-
ferent because of the way you perceive it.
Hence, there appears an awareness with cosplayers that they are not
simply acting out an existing character, but are actively extending this
and its associated narratives. In doing so, cosplayers create new trans-
media texts, which add to their understanding and engagement with a
character, as well as that of others. This then is one of the ways in which
official and fan texts blur. As it is evident that for cosplayers, their con-
nection with existing characters and narratives will not only be shaped
by existing texts, but will also incorporate and blur with their (and oth-
ers’) cosplaying.
For many, cosplay is a way of extending and further exploring their
existing fandom. For example, one of our interviewees, Chris, discussed
how he sees his cosplaying as fitting in with, and expanding, his existing
interest in Star Wars as a fan.
I follow the character’s backgrounds and what they do. Like the Rebel
pilots [from Star Wars], you first see them in the films. So, you follow
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them through the films, but when I started digging, I’d dig into the char-
acter’s backgrounds. Then I started playing Star Wars Rogue Squadron on
the N64 [Nintendo games console], and I fell in love with the pilots of
the X-Wings and Y-Wings. So, I followed the pilots’ storylines through
the graphic novels, and I really liked the Star Wars X-Wing series. So I
followed those characters through the different medias to the point where
they are now my favourites from the Star Wars universe. They have badass
uniforms, badass spaceships, and you can get to know them in all these
graphic novels and computer games.
Jenkins (2006a, p. 98) argues that in ‘transmedia storytelling, each

medium does what it does best — so that a story might be introduced
in a film, expanded through television, novels, and comics; its world
might be explored through gameplay or experienced as an amusement
park attraction’. He suggests, ‘each franchise entry needs to be self-con-
tained enough to enable autonomous consumption’ (Jenkins 2003,
online). This autonomous and self-contained element is an essential fea-
ture of transmedia storytelling, so that as Jenkins (2006a, p. 98) points
out, ‘you don’t need to have seen the film to enjoy the game, and vice
versa’. This, we would argue, is also true of cosplay. When witnessing
the spectacle of cosplay, a lack of familiarity with the source material on
which the cosplayer is drawing does not necessarily diminish an appreci-
ation of their performance of the text or their skill in creating their cos-
tume. Moreover, though many may assume that cosplay is based upon
a fan’s love of a particular text (and it certainly is with some, such as
Chris, cited above), this may not necessarily be the case for all cosplay-
ers. For example, Lamerichs (2018) argues that cosplayers of video game
characters may not have ever played the game, or at best, only played
part of it. This is an important point, as it is often assumed that cosplay-
ers are fans of the texts or characters they cosplay. However, this is not
necessarily the case. Cosplayers may choose to play a character for many
different reasons. As Lamerichs (2018) highlights, it may be a practi-
cal choice, such as a newbie picking a costume that is easy to make, or
a character they already resemble in some way, or they may choose a
character and costume to fit in with those being played by friends, or
the cosplayer may use this as a way of getting to know and understand
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a character better, or for any other number of reasons. Hence, as

Kirkpatrick (2015) argues, cosplay needs to be understood as multidi-
mensional, and fandom may only be one small part of this, if at all. For,
it is important to note that not all cosplay is about playing an existing
character, as some cosplayers will create what are typically referred to as
‘OC’ or ‘original characters’.
For many cosplayers, creating original characters gives them much
more scope, as they are not restricted in any way by pre-existing nar-
ratives or others’ ideas of how a particular character should appear or
be played. For example, this was discussed in the group interview with
Katie and Dawn, who have both cosplayed original characters. ‘I find
when you create your own characters you can extend their story and
get more of a background for them’, said Katie. Dawn added, ‘it’s easier
with your own characters because you can develop them further. It’s like
when you design a costume it seems so easy but when you make it, you
realise that this doesn’t actually work. So you are able to work out flaws
with your actual design’.
Amanda also creates her own characters and uses cosplay to help her
develop the stories she then writes about these characters: ‘I have OCs,
which I’ve tended to start doing more now. I write now. Cosplay influ-
enced me to dress as the characters, which I created. So I dress and act
as them which helps me to create more for my own stories’. Amanda,
therefore, provides an insight into how transmedia storytelling can also
be part of amateur-produced texts. Amanda, an artist, writer, and cos-
player, uses all of these media forms to explore and develop the lives
of her creations. She designs and draws the characters, setting out how
they will look and what they will wear, as well as creating a world for
these characters, and placing them in a particular context. She next
makes a three-dimensional wearable costume of her designs, which
allows her to inhabit their identity and develop their personality. Then,
by cosplaying these characters and interacting with other cosplayers,
she develops a narrative that can then be used to inspire literary tales
and further develop a world for her characters to inhabit. Each of these
explorations into various media allows Amanda to creatively build and
develop transmedia texts, which expand and explore different aspects of
the characters. Though Amanda is creating her own, original characters,
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this example illustrates how it is the whole process of designing, then

wearing, and interacting with others, that enables her to develop her
understanding of the character she is cosplaying. This, we would sug-
gest, is also the case with cosplayers of pre-existing characters. As noth-
ing is a closed text. It is through the design, wearing and interaction
with a costume, as well as the cosplayer’s interactions with others, both
in the design and performance stages (and beyond), that their (and oth-
ers’) understanding of a character develops and evolves.
Advent Children: Expanding the Narrative

At a science fiction and fantasy convention in Manchester in 2013, David
Hancock photographed (and subsequently painted from those photo-
graphs) two female cosplayers who were dressed as the male charac-
ters, Sephiroth and Kadaj, from the video game Final Fantasy VII: Advent
Children (Square Enix, 2005) (Fig. 6.1). Through their cosplay, these two
women expanded and developed these characters in new ways, and in
particular, created and acted out a new narrative that made these char-
acters lovers. By doing so, they were not simply role-playing existing
Fig. 6.1 Advent Children III, watercolour on paper, 21 × 30 cm, 2014

6 Crafting Cosplay
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characters, but rather creating, and enacting, slash fiction. As Henry

Jenkins (1992, p. 191) writes of slash fiction, this ‘is a projection of female
sexual fantasies, desires, and experiences onto the male bodies of series
characters’; and here we see an example of slash fiction being brought to
life by these cosplayers.
As Jenkins (1992, p. 192) further writes, slash fiction offers ‘insights into
female sexual fantasy’. In taking on and expanding the roles of Sephiroth
and Kadaj, these cosplayers are, therefore, able to explore aspects of not
only the characters’, but also their own sexuality; playing out a relation-
ship in public that they may have felt less comfortable doing out of cos-
tume and character.
In slash fiction, Jenkins (1992) suggests, sex is most commonly rep-
resented within committed relationships and as part of a meaningful
exchange between equals. In slash fiction, relationships are developed
over time, such as through false starts and miscommunication, and
are, therefore, not anonymous or depersonalised as they might be in
male-centric erotica. Similarly, we would suggest that this can also be
found in cosplay. As in this case, the sexuality and sexual conduct of how
the cosplayers have chosen to cosplay these characters are not fetishised,
but rather cast as part of a meaningful and deep connection between
the characters in a loving relationship. The photo shoot resulted in two
watercolours, Advent Children III (shown above) and Advent Children IV,
in which David Hancock attempts to present the intimacy between the
two characters, focusing on their tenderness towards each other. In pro-
ducing these two paintings, Hancock wished to depict this expansion of
the authorised narrative and characters by the cosplayers, as they created
a new narrative and relationship, which took these into a new direction.
Hence, cosplay is not a simple and linear process, where a cosplayer

selects a pre-existing character from a text they are already a fan of,
then designs and constructs a costume that as closely as possible resem-
bles this, and then when wearing the costume attempts to mimic that
character. Rather, cosplay needs to be understood as a complex and
dynamic process of multiple actors and interactions, spread across com-
plex networks, which operate both online and offline. It is through
these processes and interactions that cosplayers produce and evolve their
understanding of a character and connection with it, which can involve
significant emotional meaning and investment.
Lamerichs has repeatedly argued (in 2013, 2014, 2015, 2018)
that cosplay needs to be understood as an affective process. Drawing
on Deleuze and Guattari (1988), Lamerichs (2018) sees affect as a
176
predecessor to emotions; ‘it is a bodily state or intensity in which we are

touched by an encounter with another — an artwork, a human being,
a place’. Moreover, though cosplayers may not necessarily start out as
fans of a particular text or character, by creating a costume and play-
ing a character, Lamerichs (2015) suggests, they pour themselves and
their emotions into this process. It becomes a labour of love. Therefore,
though a cosplayer may not originally be a fan of the text or character
they choose to cosplay, Lamerichs would argue, they do subsequently,
through creative and performative processes, develop fan-like feelings
for not only the characters but also the costumes they construct; and
this would also be the case for those cosplaying original characters too.
For some cosplayers, their love is derived from the creative process,
such as researching and making a costume. Of course, not all cosplay-
ers make their own costumes, but as Lamerichs (2015) suggests, seeking
out and finding the right costume can also involve emotional labour.
Then, once the costume is made (or bought) and worn, it still typically
retains long-term meanings for the cosplayers as it becomes an item of
memorabilia. It is preserved, to be worn on other occasions, displayed
in the cosplayer’s home (and sometimes online too), or carefully stored
away, but rarely are they ever simply discarded, as these are objects in
which the cosplayers often heavily invest emotionally. And part of the
emotions the cosplayer attaches to their costumes is not necessarily just
about their own individual connection to an object, but more than this,
this costume also represents their inclusion within a wider creative and
participatory community. As Lamerichs highlights, cosplay is an affec-
tive process, but a large part of that emotional connection is about the
cosplayers’ relationships with others.
Communities of Practice
Cosplay is an affective, creative, and performative process. Some of
which is often undertaken alone, as cosplayers research and craft cos-
tumes, and rehearse and hone their performances. However, as we shall
argue, even when sitting alone sowing or scouring the Internet for ideas,
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cosplayers are invariably linked to a wide culture and community of

practice, which is often supportive, but not always.
The concept of communities of practice is advanced by Etienne
Wenger (1998), based upon his earlier ethnographic work with Jean
Lave (Lave and Wenger 1991). In this earlier research, Lave and Wenger
(1991) considered how identities and communities developed around
the learning and undertaking of certain practices.
In particular, Wenger et al. (2002, p. 4) define a community of prac-
tice as ‘groups of people who share a concern, a set of problems, or a
passion about a topic, and who deepen their knowledge and expertise in
the area by interacting on an on-going basis’. Hence, for Wenger, cen-
tral to the idea of a community of practice is how groups and group
identities form around certain shared practices. Wenger (1998, p. 5)
argues that ‘we all belong to communities of practice. At home, at work,
at school, in our hobbies — we all belong to several communities of
practice at any given time’. He continues ‘communities of practice are
an integral part of our daily lives. They are so informal and so pervasive
that they rarely come into explicit focus, but for the same reason they
are also quite familiar’.
Wenger (1998) develops a model of social learning theory that
includes four key dimensions (set out on two axes), between which he
then adds another set of four intermediary factors (located on two fur-
ther axes). The first four key aspects of this model are: social structures,
situated experience, social practice, and identity. Then, between these he
locates: collectivity, subjectivity, power, and meaning.
Social structure recognises that practices are located within social
institutions, which have ‘norms and rules… structural systems, dis-
courses, and history’ (p. 12). Situated experiences highlight the ‘interac-
tive relations of people with their environment’ (p. 13). Social practice
addresses ‘the production and reproduction of specific ways of engaging
with the world’, and identity is ‘concerned with the social formation of
the person, the cultural interpretation of the body, the creation and use
of markers of membership’ (p. 13). Collectivity relates to the formation
of social configurations, and related to this, subjectivity refers to agency
and specifically ‘how subjectivity arises out of engagement in the social
world’ (p. 15). Meaning recognises the need to understand how people
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produce their ‘own’ meanings, but recognises this is shaped by social

participation, and crucially the last dimension Wenger highlights, social
power.
Communities of practice is an idea that has been applied widely in
many different disciplines and to various different communities, and we
would suggest that it appears a useful perspective from which to also
analyse cosplay. In particular, it is evident that the concept of commu-
nities of practice takes into consideration many of the issues we have
already explored (or will in this and the following chapters), such as
identity (Chapter 5), social structures, subjectivity, and collectivity
(Chapter 4), the importance of situated experiences (Chapter 7), and
also, in this chapter, we explore social practices and meaning. This is
also a theory which has been used to consider many communities that
cross over with, or share similarities to, cosplayers, such as video gam-
ers (e.g. Richard 2015) and various craft-based groups (e.g. Dunlap
2013).
Crafting
Crafting dates back well over two million years, if not before, when
the first humans began fashioning stone tools. Crafting has then
been an essential part of daily life until the advent of industriali-
sation, when machines and factories started to replace handmade
production. Of course, crafting did not completely die out, and the
Arts and Crafts movement and the work and designs of William
Morris (amongst numerous others) are examples of attempts to keep
traditional crafting techniques alive (Gauntlett 2018). But with
industrialisation, the crafting of objects shifted from an everyday
and mundane activity, to something much more niche, to be cele-
brated and admired, much like art. We say, ‘much like art’, for it is
evident that there still remains for many a clear distinction between
craft and art. For example, the work of Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi
(1997) highlights ‘creativity’ as involving innovation and novelty,
which he associates only with the work of Nobel Prize winners and
those of a similar standing. This, David Gauntlett (2018) challenges,
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179
argues that human creativity continues to be an everyday activ-

ity, and moreover, he disputes the hierarchy that exists between art
and craft. For Gauntlett, art and craft are both social processes that
involve feelings that we associate with objects, both in their con-
struction and consumption. Hence, for Gauntlett, the key distinc-
tion between art and craft is one of social structure and hierarchy,
which places art in a different category, and as generally superior, to
craft.
From industrialisation onwards then, craft has remained at the
margins of society, as somewhat of a novelty and anacronym. This,
Gauntlett (2018) suggests, changed to a certain degree, when par-
ticular subcultures began to force crafts back into the spotlight.
This began in the 1960s in the USA with the rise of certain coun-
tercultures, linked to beat poets like Allen Ginsberg and to the use
of LSD, which sought to challenge mainstream American culture
and consumerism. Furthermore, it is in the late 1970s that DIY cul-
ture really starts to take on greater social significance with the rise
of punk, initially in the UK, and then more globally, which encap-
sulated an ethic of just having a go—be that in forming band, start-
ing a fanzine, or making your own clothes. However, the example of
punk illustrates that the distinction between everyday craft and high
art is not as clear as maybe Gauntlett assumes here. For Gauntlett
(2018, p. 33) argues that ‘fine art’ is ‘dependent on hierarchies
and elites, upon which it depends to validate the work’, while he
sees craft as ‘more about creativity and the process of making at a
vibrant, grassroot level’. However, as discussed in Chapter 2, much
of the drive and aesthetic of punk, as it is the case with many coun-
tercultures, came from art schools, and the work of artists such as
Jamie Reid. Moreover, (certain) traditional crafts are increasingly
being recognised, lauded, and judged as artforms. For example, the
LOEWE Craft Prize was established in 2016 as an international
award, established by the charitable arm the luxury Spanish fash-
ion house Loewe, to recognise innovative ‘artisans’ with ‘talent and
vision’ (The Design Museum 2018).
180
It is then evident that from the 1960s and 1970s onwards we start
to see the development of a DIY counterculture. Moreover, this for
Henry Jenkins (2006b), coupled with changes in the nature of audi-
ences and technology, is what he sees as the origins of contempo-
rary participatory culture. In particular, both Gauntlett and Jenkins
highlight the important role new media technologies play in facili-
tating the rise and spread of DIY culture and contemporary forms of
crafting.
For Gauntlett (2018), new media technologies, and in particular
social media, are seen as platforms that enable and bring like-minded
people together and allow them to share their interests and knowl-
edge. Gauntlett appears fairly neutral in terms of a role of social media
in facilitating craft-based communities. On the one hand, he suggests
that social media platforms like YouTube could be seen to be exploit-
ative, as they profit from the ‘immaterial labour’ of those producing
content (Gauntlett 2018, p. 101). However, citing the work of Virginia
Nightingale (2007) he suggests that online platforms, such as YouTube
and Instagram, could be seen as ‘patrons’, welcoming and promoting
the creativity of their users (Gauntlett 2018, p. 101).
For Jenkins, technology plays a central role in driving the develop-
ment of DIY culture, and following this, participatory culture. Jenkins
(2006b, p. 3) sees this as part of a wider ‘convergence culture’, which
he defines as the convergence of ‘technological, industrial, cultural, and
social changes’. However, for Jenkins this convergence culture does not
exist primarily in ‘media appliances’, but rather ‘within the brains of
individual consumers’ (Jenkins 2006b, p. 3).
The relationship between new social media and crafting is complex,
as some have suggested that DIY culture can be seen as a direct reac-
tion to the growing importance of digital media in our everyday lives
and the speed of modern living. For example, Gauntlett (2018, p. 75)
cites an interview with the writer and knitter, Sabrina Gschwandtner,
who argues that the rising popularity of handcrafts is a direct ‘reaction
against a whole slew of things, including hyperfast culture, increas-
ing reliance on digital technology, [and] the proliferation of consumer
culture’ (interviewed in Levine and Heimerl 2008). Moreover, the
ceramicist, and 2018 LOEWE Prize winner, Jonathan Anderson, in an
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interview in The Observer newspaper, argues that ‘we are so dependent

on digital media that we need to counteract that with something more
human…We see so much online two-dimensional imagery, and craft is
a three-dimensional antidote to that’ (Craven 2018, p. 38). This we also
discuss in Chapter 3 in relation to ‘slow culture’. There we suggest, cos-
play, as with many other crafts and arts, could be seen as a form of slow
culture, which sidesteps the ease of contemporary living and instant
consumer culture, to instead focus on the process, craft, and slowness of
making something anew.
Crafting Cosplay
It is evident that cosplay is much more than just dressing up in a cos-
tume. As Kirkpatrick (2015, 3.3) argues, ‘cosplay culture refers to the
broader range of cultural activities performed by cosplayers’. Cosplay
is an everyday, lived culture. This often involves individuals extensively
researching the character that they are going to play, sourcing material,
practising and perfecting crafting skills, communicating with others
(often both online and offline), designing and constructing a costume,
rehearsing, and so much more. Unlike many science fiction and fan-
tasy fans who often buy their costumes off the self, for most, cosplay
involves the construction of (at least) some proportion of their costume.
Lamerichs (2015) argues the creation of the cosplay costume is an
important part of cosplay, and for some, possibly the most important
aspect. Certainly, this is often the most time-consuming aspect of cos-
play. Researching, designing, sourcing material, and then construct-
ing the costume will, for many cosplayers, take a considerable amount
of their time, as well as often a not-insignificant amount of money
(Lotecki 2012). For many, creating the costume is a very pleasura-
ble act. As Lamerichs (2015, p. 144) writes, ‘the creation of the out-
fit becomes a way of already enjoying the cosplay and the aesthetic
experience it fosters’. Making the costume is a hobby in itself, akin to
sewing, knitting, or model-making, and certainly can involve many of
these activities, skills, and more. It is a creative, affective, aesthetic, and
artistic activity. For one of our interviewees, Phoebe, who makes highly
182
elaborate costumes from scratch, this was certainly a very important

part of cosplaying for her. As she stated, ‘I love the art side of it. That’s
all there is to it really… so that’s what it is, making stuff and crafting
things and showing them off to people, so they go “Oh! My god, that’s
so amazing”’.
Bainbridge and Norris (2013, p. 25) argue that in the construction
of the cosplay costume, the unreal becomes real: ‘Through the use of
costumes, cosmetics, and other accessories, cosplayers are able to bring
to “life” a figure that was once considered artificial or “unreal” anime,
manga or gaming characters’. They continue, ‘cosplayers offer materi-
ality to what is essentially an unreal construction, they are the suture
between the unreal existence of the character (in game, on screen, in
the panel) and the real performance space in which they talk, move and
interact with others’ (Bainbridge and Norris 2013, p. 27). As one of the
cosplayers we interviewed, Sarah, stated, ‘cosplay is the emulation of
characters in costume form. These can come from various media forms,
such as anime, video games, movies, or television’. However, cosplay is
not about slavishly reproducing a perfect copy of the character’s cos-
tume and physical appearance, and cosplayers are not simply crafters,
or the ‘memetic fans’ that Hills (2014) discusses who focus on making
replicas of props from television, films, and pop music, such as Dalek
half balls, or Daft Punk helmets. Unlike hobby crafters or mimetic fans,
cosplayers do not just make an static object, but the costume is made to
be worn, and used in creating a performance.
Cosplayers poach from existing texts but create something new, and
in doing so are developing and constructing their own artistic interpre-
tation of the character through the costume. The cosplayer, engaged
in this pursuit, can feel a great deal of connection with the characters
they are making, but also gain a great deal of pride and self-confidence
through this. This can be achieved through their own artistic skill in
rendering an outfit that stands out amongst their peers or in convinc-
ingly performing as their chosen character, and a successful cosplayer
can at conventions and gatherings become the centre of attention,
if only for a moment, and attain status within their own community
of cosplayers and media fans. As Amanda simply put it, ‘it’s [cosplay]
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all about creativity! [But] It can be about making friends as well, and
being confident and having fun’.
Cosplay can be a very sociable act. Cosplayers will often create cos-
tumes together, or coordinate with others, such as what characters they
intend to play at a particular meeting, or else share information, advice
and support both online and offline with other cosplayers (Rosenberg
and Letamendi 2013). As Katie stated in interview, ‘it’s a nice hobby
to get into, and you meet loads of new people. You get friends, you get
tips, it’s great. It’s an amazing community’. Also, as another interviewee,
Jess, suggested, ‘what makes cosplay so special, is that it allows so many
different types of people to express their love for media in such a crea-
tive way. It’s great because there is so much to get out of it’.
Holmes et al. (2014) suggest that a key aspect and advantage of com-
munities of practice are how they work together to forward not only
individual knowledge, but also shared knowledge and practices, which
allows the community to develop organically. For, as Preece (2000)
argues, communities are not static, but rather a process (cited in
Holmes et al. 2014, p. 280). Also, the boundaries of this community
can be rather porous, as communities of practice can cross-cut with one
another, and also pull others into their orbit. For example, creating cos-
play costume can also involve, and draw in, many others who are not
themselves cosplayers. For example, Peirson-Smith (2013) discusses how
family members might help cosplayers source materials, or help them
with construction skills, such as sewing.
The role of tuition is central to communities of practice, for it is
through these processes that new members learning the norms and
practices of a community that they then become part of it, and in turn,
their presence and actions add to, and help evolve, the wider commu-
nity. In particular, Wenger et al. (2002) argue that for communities of
practice to survive and grow, they need to be nurtured by the active par-
ticipation and renewal of members.
Importantly, Paul Duguid (2005) highlights that not all practices can
be learnt from a book; otherwise, the university professor publishing
a textbook would instantly be made redundant. Some knowledge and
practices are tacit and have to be shown. Moreover, while some knowl-
edge is ‘leaky’, and can easily spread from one community to another,
184
certain other forms of knowledge are ‘sticky’, and largely remain within
the communities that practice them (Duguid 2005).
This is then where communities of practice come into their own,
for as Holmes et al. (2014, p. 279) write, ‘tacit knowledge is more eas-
ily shared visually and by “demonstration” or social interaction’. It is,
therefore, cosplayers working together that allows practical skills and
techniques to be passed from one practitioner to another, but also, it
is evident that social media platforms like YouTube have allowed the
demonstration of tacit knowledge and skills to be shared much more
readily and widely. As Holmes et al. (2014) argue, the Internet allows
communities of practice to become global. Certainly, YouTube has
thousands of cosplay-related videos, on topics such as how to craft foam
armour, the best tools or glue to use, how to role-play characters, and
much more. Then, in turn, each of these videos will have, at times, hun-
dreds of comments from other users, as well as the posters of the origi-
nal video themselves, engaging in conversations that further add to the
community’s shared practices and knowledge.
Duguid (2005) argues that the knowledge and practices of communi-
ties of practices do not simply exist within the heads of their individual
members but also reside within the community itself. Communities of
practice are more than the sum of their parts. But it is also important to
recognise, something that is often overlooked in much of the literature
on communities of practice is that they also typically involve a great
deal of emotional investment.
As highlighted above, Lamerichs (2013, p. 4) argues that the con-
struction of the cosplay costume is an ‘affective process’, which involves
‘a range of emotional experiences that can lead to investment in the
world which we constitute our identities’. However, as Lamerichs (2015)
also argues, it is important to note that the making of cosplay outfits is
not always a wholly pleasurable experience, or certainly not for everyone.
As Wenger (1998, p. 85) argues, communities of practice, being as they
are based around practices, involve both achievements and failures.
Creating a cosplay costume is often very labour-intensive, time-con-
suming, and can require a great deal of knowledge and skill, and sometimes
considerable amounts of money; and hence, for some, at least some of
the time, this can be a frustrating as well as pleasurable experience. As
6 Crafting Cosplay
185
Lamerichs writes (2015, p. 146), ‘creating the costume involves many

feelings. Sometimes, it can be quite bothersome’.
Authenticity and Judgement
Most cosplayers are very aware that they are going to be judged, by oth-
ers, on the quality and authenticity of their costume and role-playing.
This may sometimes be by choice, such as in competitions, but more
often this happens indirectly, through the (often) critical gaze of other
cosplayers. Though many writers on cosplay, and also those we inter-
viewed, are keen to emphasise the supportive nature of the cosplay com-
munity, it is evident, as Kawamura (2012, p. 78) argues, that the more
the costume and cosplayer mirrors the (accepted canonical) appearance
and behaviour of a character, ‘the higher the respect and status you earn
as a cosplayer’.
Being judged on your costume and role-playing of a character is, for
many, part of the appeal of cosplay. As Jess states, ‘some people cosplay
for the excitement and thrill of parading a costume they’ve spent pre-
cious hours working on’. This competitive aspect of cosplay is often
an organised and formal part of attending science fiction and fan-
tasy conventions. As Lamerichs (2018) highlights, many conventions
involve cosplay fashion shows, costume competitions, and short skits,
where cosplayers act out short scenes in costume and character, most
commonly on stage in front of panel of judges, and many cosplayers
will specifically go to conventions to enter these kinds of competitions.
However, more informally, as Jess highlights above, for many, one of the
key motivations of attending conventions is to parade costumes for the
appreciation of others and to pose for photographs.
Hence, cosplay does involve aspects of competitiveness as well as
cooperation—be that either in formally organised competitions, or
simply just in terms of judging the quality of the costumes and per-
formances put on by others at conventions and gatherings. Crawford
(2012, p. 37) argues that cosplayers can be at times ‘very critical, maybe
even exclusionary’, and this aspect of cosplay is certainly emphasised
in the reality television show Heroes of Cosplay, which purposefully
186
highlights ‘the cutthroat world of cosplay’ (Bertschy 2013). For exam-

ple, one of our interviewees, Phoebe, highlighted the pride she had in
creating a costume with an ‘incredible amount of detail and accuracy’,
but when she shared a picture of her in this on Facebook, she was sub-
jected to a ‘barrage of comments about how fat and unattractive’ she
was. One other interviewee, Dawn, stated that in cosplay ‘you get peo-
ple who will tear a cosplayer apart no matter how much work you put
into it’. Amanda also spoke of this aspect of cosplay:
There’s a harsh side to the cosplay community where some people ridicule
others if they are fat or whatever and so have a different body shape than
the actor, but they don’t understand that it’s more about having fun than
looking good. It’s not about looks. That’s something that really confuses
me that people think you have to be good looking in order to be a good
cosplayer. It’s not the case.
As Wenger highlights, communities of practices are not necessarily

always kind and supportive. In particular, he argues that communities
of practices are like (or can actually be) families, and ‘family members
hate each other and they love each other; they agree and they disagree’
(Wenger 1998, p. 6). But ‘even when families fall apart, members create
ways of dealing with each other’. This is an important point. Though
haters, trolls, and misogynists may be an unwelcome and negative part
of cosplay culture (as they are in many other cultures), they are still part
of that community, and in many ways, their presence makes the com-
munity what it is.
In particular, an important term frequently mentioned by many writ-
ers on cosplay is the importance of ‘authenticity’. As Kirkpatrick (2015,
5.1) writes, ‘matters of authenticity are important within fandoms and
their study, not only as a way of distinguishing between fans and non-
fans but also of regulating communities (i.e., determining who is a real
fan)’, and in this quote from Kirkpatrick, the word ‘fan’ could easily be
replaced with ‘cosplayer’.
Authenticity is played out in several different ways in relation to cos-
play. First, authenticity relates to the importance of the costume being
made by the cosplayer themselves. As Lamerichs (2011, 2.2) writes,
6 Crafting Cosplay
187
‘the process of sewing the costume and guaranteeing its authenticity is

therefore very important’. However, as Kirkpatrick (2015, 3.3) argues,
most costumes are created through a combination of ‘crafted and hand-
made, commissioned, or shop brought (mass produced)’. Second, is
the authenticity of how the outfit and cosplayer look in costume. This
is partially to do with how well the outfit has been constructed and
matches the accepted canonical version of the character, but also how
closely the cosplayer physically resembles the (generally accepted) per-
ception of the character. Third, is the authenticity of how the cosplayer
role-plays (performs) the character, and again, adheres to the cosplay
community’s generally accepted (canonical) view of how a particular
character acts, behaves, and speaks. Of course, as Kirkpatrick (2015,
2.2) argues, ‘authenticity is an unstable concept, one whose meaning is
hard to fix’, and, as with all communities of practice, the boundaries of
what is a normal or acceptable are often subtly shifting.
There is some disagreement amongst cosplayers as to whether cos-
players can or should play characters of a (for example) different gender,
ethnicity, or body type. As Lome (2016, 4.1) suggests, ‘“you can’t be
that character because you are black!”, “You are too fat to be x charac-
ter”, and “A dude can’t dress like a girl!” are still frequent complaints’.
Cosplay is undoubtedly an embodied act, but it is also a fantasy. It is
a shared fantasy (Fine 1983) in which cosplayers work together to create
and maintain scenarios and narratives, which immerse the participants
into an imagined world. In this sense then, as Napier (2007, p. 167)
suggests, ‘…costume play gives the fans the opportunity to transcend
the limitations of human bodies, to explore new frontiers where the
genetic inheritance with which one was born can be cast away’. In par-
ticular, and of relevance to our work and use of methods, Stuart Hall
argues that if we are to understand how humans create difference and
divisions, ‘you have to go to art, you have to go to culture - to where
people imagine, where they fantasise, where they symbolise. You have
to make the detour from the language of straight description to the lan-
guage of the imaginary’ (Hall and Schwarz 2007, p. 152). It is in art,
and we would argue also in craft, that we make and represent who we
are, and also who we can be.
188
Certainly, for many cosplayers, they may use their costumes to

become more than they were, and to draw attention away from their
existing physical form. However, no matter how much the cosplayer
may want to, it is impossible to fully escape their own bodies. The mak-
ing of the costume is a physical act, and by wearing it, the cosplayer
is extending their bodies, as well as drawing attention to themselves;
and sometimes this can be unwanted attention. For example, Phoebe
spoke of an incident where a candid photograph of her had been taken
without permission and shared on social media. She stated, ‘you feel like
your walls have been broken a little bit. You don’t feel like yourself… So
when my tummy is out and my legs are out, this is still my flesh that is
out, and it’s still me, even though I’m painted a different colour. This
is still covered, but I feel that you’re still taking a picture of me ’. She
continued, ‘when you hear “your costume is amazing”, that’s like “thank
you, I’ve put so much effort into this”. When you get people saying,
“wow, you’re boobs look amazing”, it’s like… “no!”, and then you start
feeling conscious’.
Rosenberg and Letamendi (2013) in their online survey of 198 cos-
players suggest that around nineteen per cent stated that their ‘top rea-
son’ for choice of costume was ‘physical characteristics’. Lamerichs (2011,
4.4) suggests that ‘cosplayers often become aware of their own body or
pick something that fits them in terms of posture, identity, or social roles’.
And she recounts that her first cosplaying experience involved choosing
a character she could relate to ‘because I had long brown hair just like
hers’ (Lamerichs 2011, 1.1). However, in Rosenberg and Letamendi’s
(2013) survey, physical characteristics score lower than some other fac-
tors such as, the character’s ‘psychological characteristics’ (seventy-seven
per cent), and ‘aspects of the character’s history’ (twenty-four per cent). As
Lamerichs (2015) argues, physical appearance, such as gender, does mat-
ter, but it is not totally prohibitive. As Lotecki (2012, p. 56) writes:
Cosplay is not about producing a carbon copy of the original artist’s con-
cept or character, which is technically impossible anyway. The majority
of cosplay is based on fictional characters with no real-life representation
and, in many cases, not even three-dimensional references. Cosplayers
negotiate between the source character and their own unique real-world
interpretation.
6 Crafting Cosplay
189
As with all communities of practice, what is acceptable, as well as what is

the norm, evolves over time, as various participants push at the bound-
aries, and in turn, new members join the community. However, it is
important to recognise the power that existing practices will have, and it
is through the repeating of core practices and the passing on of accepted
values and knowledges that communities of practice remain intact, sta-
ble, and exclude others.
Hierarchies and Harassment
The increasing number and importance of competitions, the profes-
sionalisation of cosplay, and the popularity of television shows such as
Heroes of Cosplay are certainly increasing the expected levels of complex-
ity and detail of costumes, and the required skills of cosplayers.
All communities of practice involve, and are shaped by, social power
relations, both externally and internally. And organised and formal
activities, such as competitions, add to the formation and structuring of
hierarchies within cosplay. However, as with all craft-based communities
of practice, cosplay involves a great deal of subjectivity in determining
how good someone is at their particular craft. Certainly, how cosplayers
are judged in competitions or become successful can be a bone of con-
tention for some. For example, as Katie stated, ‘they say you can cosplay
no matter what shape and size you are, but some of the models they
focus on are really tiny with big busts. It’s like “come on! There are bet-
ter idols than that!”’.
Furthermore, formal judging and competitions do help create hier-
archies, where those who are more successful in these are often seen
as ‘better’ at cosplaying. This can at times make other cosplayers feel
uncomfortable or even inferior. For example, Sophie recounted in inter-
view how she felt intimated, when during a photo shoot someone who
she felt was (in her words) ‘higher up in the cosplay world’ was look-
ing at her, and she felt negatively judging her, and made her think ‘you
don’t like me, go away’.
A cosplayer’s status can also be elevated by sharing knowledge, such
as on social media channels like YouTube. Duguid (2005) suggests
190
that traditional economics would dictate that people do not freely

share knowledge that might be valuable, but sharing knowledge for
free is often at the centre of many communities of practice. This, as
Pierre Bourdieu (1984) teaches us, is because rewards are not always
economic. As Gauntlett (2018, p. 104) argues, for example, those
who share knowledge on YouTube are part of a ‘gift economy’, and in
return for the gift of knowledge receive status, prestige, and esteem.
Certainly, some cosplayers can build up huge online followings, and
in turn community standing, esteem, and often monetary rewards as
well, such as by selling pictures, autographs, costumes, and being paid
to attend conventions or events. The cosplayer Ginny McQueen, like
many of the highest profile cosplayers, has her own website where users
can donate money, and a Patreon page, where by paying a fee, users
can become a patron and have access to exclusive items such as pho-
tographs. Probably, one of the most high-profile cosplayers is Jessica
Nigri, who has (at the time of writing) over 1.2 million subscribers to
her YouTube channel, and over 3.7 million followers on Instagram. Fox
News (though not always the most reliable of sources) cites ‘comic book
expert’ Christian Beranek, who suggests that cosplayers can earn up
to $200,000 a year (Falzone 2016). Though this figure may be some-
what of an exaggeration, it is undoubtedly the case that some high-pro-
file cosplay models do make a comfortable living from this. Cosplay
would then seem to conform to what Stebbins (1992) refers to as a
form of ‘serious leisure’, where this is a leisure activity that can generate
long-lasting benefits that go beyond individual personal self-enhance-
ment, such as providing material gain (Blackshaw and Crawford 2009).
However, there is probably only a very small number of individuals who
make a living from cosplay; moreover, what many of these individuals
are primarily making money from is what would best be described as
modelling and promotions work, and not specifically their cosplaying or
crafting skills. For the vast majority of cosplayers, this is a hobby with
no direct financial rewards. Furthermore, this is still one area where cos-
play does appear to differ from other crafts, or certainly how Gauntlett
(2018) characterises them. Gauntlett argues that crafting is of a ‘per-
sonal and intimate nature’, and unlike the art world, ‘fame and compar-
ative status amongst peers’ is of less importance (Gauntlett 2018, p. 77).
6 Crafting Cosplay
191
However, the rising importance of competitions, prizes, and photo

shoots in cosplay highlights that this is a culture where esteem and
external recognition does matters, at least for some participants.
However, hierarchies and peer critique are not unusual within many
subcultures. For example, this is discussed by Paul Hodkinson (2002,
p. 80) in relation to what he refers to in goth culture as ‘gother than
thou’. Here, Hodkinson makes use of Sarah Thornton’s (1995) con-
cept of ‘subcultural capital’, which appropriates Bourdieu’s (1984) ‘cul-
tural capital’. Hodkinson (2002, p. 81) states that ‘subcultural capital
should be taken to involve the degree of status-inducing properties one
holds in relation to the particular tastes and values of a given subcul-
tural grouping’. To a member of a subcultural community, this capi-
tal enables participants to gain status amongst their peers and reap the
rewards in terms of attention and friendships. Though in Hodkinson’s
research, goths tended to see their subculture as having a ‘complete free-
dom of expression’, with there being ‘no peer pressure’, it is evident that
they were dismissive of certain types of goths. In particular, Hodkinson
(2002, p. 81) suggests that ‘subcultural participants tend to classify and
judge others by a means of conscious and mutually agreed set of stand-
ards’. Similarly, these standards are also prevalent in cosplay, which can
lead to cosplayers being criticised for things, such as not conforming to
dominant perceptions of how a particular character should look or act.
As Holmes et al. (2014) argue, all communities of practice involve une-
qual power differentials, and this can lead to inequalities.
It is also important to recognise that the negative aspects of cos-
play can at times extend beyond simple criticism, and Lome (2016,
4.2) suggests that ‘more stories are beginning to surface about harass-
ment at conventions’, and this is often particularly targeted at women.
Campaigns such as Cosplay is NOT Consent and Geeks of CONsent,
as well as our interviews with cosplayers highlight that many female
cosplayers have been subjected to abuse, sexual objectification, and
misogynistic attitudes and behaviour, both online and at conventions.
Lauren Barbato in 2014 on the website Bustle reported how the Geeks
of CONsent was an anti-sexual harassment organisation, committed to
highlighting that just because some cosplayers may at times wear cloth-
ing that reveals parts of their bodies, does not mean that onlookers are
192
entitled to touch them or make sexual or derogatory comments towards

them. In particular, Barbato reports how Geeks of CONsent organised a
Change.org online petition for the San Diego Comic-Con to create a
formal sexual harassment policy. This petition stated that ‘going to cons
often includes sexual assault and harassment’ and gathered over 3000
signatures by its close.
Conclusion
It is, as we shall argue more fully in Chapter 8, important that we
consider and locate cosplay within a wider social context. Cosplay
needs to be understood as part of, and contributing to, the evolution
of numerous social processes. Following the work of authors, such as
Abercrombie and Longhurst (1998) and Henry Jenkins (2006a, b), it
is important to understand the changing nature of both audiences and
technology. These, and other authors, argue that audiences are becom-
ing increasingly participatory. Here, Abercrombie and Longhurst focus
on how audiences become more spectacular and performative in their
use of media, which can be understood as contributing to the rise of
an increasingly narcissistic society, where audiences become performers,
coveting the gaze and attention of others. Jenkins (2006a, b) under-
stands this as part of the emergence of a convergence culture, which
incorporates changes in technology and the media industries, which
presume and operate on the basis of a more active and participatory
audience.
In particular, there appears to be a complex relationship between the
rise of new media technologies and crafting. On the one hand, authors
like Gauntlett (2018) argue that the rise of crafting can be understood
as a DIY culture that sidesteps, if not directly challenges, consumer and
digital culture. Here, the rising popularity of crafting can be understood
in the context of other associated trends, such as the rise in slow cul-
tures, discussed more fully in Chapter 3. However, on the other hand,
Jenkins argues that new media technologies, such as social media plat-
forms like YouTube and blogging, have directly contributed to the rise
of participatory culture. For writers like Jenkins, new media allows
6 Crafting Cosplay
193
audiences to connect and share knowledge globally with others who

share their interests.
Hence, crafting, and with it cosplay, can be understood as a way of
(re)connecting with the three-dimensional and tactile, in a world where
so much of our interactions are two-dimensional and facilitated by dig-
ital media. However, equally, it is new media technologies, and most
notably the Internet and social media, that allow crafters and cosplayers
to connect into (often) dispersed communities and draw on and con-
tribute to their cultures and knowledge.
In particular, we use the concept of communities of practice within
this chapter to understand and contextualise cosplay. The theory of
communities of practice recognises the role of social norms, structures,
and inequalities within these communities, as well as placing them
within a wider social and spatial context. Using this concept, we can
understand cosplay as built around and upon the crafting of costumes
and performances, but involving a complex and diverse culture that is
so much more than simply the making of a costume and performance.
Rather, cosplay and its processes of crafting is a dynamic and complex
culture, involving various cross-cutting and intersecting networks of
actors, practices, and knowledges. Cosplay is not just one thing, but
an amalgam of people, processes, practices, and places, which come
together to make cosplay what it is, but equally radiate outwards, to
locate cosplay within a wider and changing cultural landscape. Cosplay
is, therefore, a useful lens for helping us understand contemporary digi-
tal and consumer culture.
Cosplayers are fans of, or at least with fan-like connections to, popular
culture. Cosplayers are often large-scale consumers of popular and digital
culture, and as we shall consider further in the next chapter (Chapter
7), they are rarely subversive. However, they are a clear and very visible
example of a participatory culture. They share knowledge, help others
(both online and offline), regularly meet up at conventions and gather-
ings, and take what consumer and digital culture sells to them and make
it their own. They make the ephemeral code of video games or the flat
images of film, solid and three-dimensional and make these part of their
social life and identity. They take ownership of what was not theirs.
This is also a community with norms and values concerning accepted
194
practices and accepted knowledge, governed by codes of what is deemed

authentic. It is a culture increasingly based upon critical judgement,
and one that at times can involve misogyny, bullying, and harassment.
Moreover, it is a culture located within a wider capitalist consumer soci-
ety, which will always seek to profit from both the immaterial and mate-
rial labour of its audiences—and this is a point we consider further in
Chapter 8.
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McGill-Queen’s University Press.
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Wenger, E. (1998). Communities of Practice: Learning, Meaning, and Identity.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Wenger, E., McDermott, R., & Synder, W. (2002). Cultivating Communities of
Practice: A Guide to Managing Knowledge. Boston: Harvard Business School.
7
Playful Cultures and the Appropriation
of Urban Space
Introduction
This chapter considers cosplayers’ use and transformation of urban
space. Cosplay provides a visible and important embodiment and
appropriation of contemporary popular culture. In particular, here we
seek to understand and theorise cosplay as a playful appropriation of
urban space.
The chapter begins with a discussion of the work of Thomas
S. Henricks (2014), which considers how the relationship between play
and culture has typically been theorised, most notably here seeing play
either as a form of socialisation, a source of resistance, or culture as
playful in itself. This, we suggest, offers a possible contradiction, which
we seek to address by applying the work of the French theorist, Michel
de Certeau (1984). Though de Certeau has been previously employed
in many considerations of both urban exploration and fan cultures, his
work is not typically used in considerations of play.
Next, the chapter presents an introduction to the work of specific
artists who provide important parallels, and points of convergence, to
the work and insights we are providing here. In particular, we consider

200
three artists who have made work depicting (other) urban subcul-
tures. This includes Layla Curtis’s work with freerunners in London,
Toby Patterson’s skateboarding-inspired architectural works, and Laura
Oldfield Ford’s contemporary dérives, recalling her memories of subcul-
tural participation in the squatter community in the 1990s.
We then consider how cosplayers similarly (re)use, (re)imagine, and
(re)appropriate certain urban spaces. Applying the work of de Certeau,
we consider how cosplayers employ the dual processes of ‘synecdoche’
and ‘asyndeton’ to link and erase part of the built environment to create
spatial stories and shared fantasies. This reappropriation of space could
be viewed as an act of social resistance; however, we suggest, it is more
in keeping with the idea of a community seeking their own safe space.
An act, which once underway, then transforms the meaning of an urban
space, both for those participants and other urban dwellers.
Understanding Playful Culture

A key component of the word cosplay is play. It is a playful act and cul-
ture, in which participants not only play out a role but also engage in a
wider act of communal play. Henricks in his book Play and the Human
Condition (2014) provides a useful categorisation of the relationship
between play and culture, under the headings of ‘playing in culture’,
‘playing at culture’, and ‘playing culture’. ‘Playing in culture’ relates
to the idea of play as a ‘culture-building enterprise’ (Henricks 2014,
p. 190). Examples here include the work of Schwartzman (1978) on
how play is an important form of socialisation for children, or Huizinga
(1949) on the important role of play in the development of civilisation.
Here, Henricks highlights how several writers have focused on the civ-
ilising and ordering nature of play, at least in more modern times. For
example, though Huizinga was rather celebratory of the playful spirit
of the pre-industrial period, he suggested, in modernity, play becomes
increasingly bureaucratic, focused on self-satisfaction, and the display of
expertise.
In contrast, Henricks considers under the heading of ‘playing at
culture’ ideas of play as an escape from the prevailing order, and even
7 Playful Cultures and the Appropriation of Urban Space
201
possibly, an act of resistance. Notable writers here include the work

of Mikhail Bakhtin (1984) on the ‘carnivalesque’ and Victor Turner
(1969) on the ‘liminal’ and ‘liminoid’. For Bakhtin, the idea of the
carnivalesque is derived from his work on European medieval carni-
vals, where he suggests there was a subversion of the normal social
order, hierarchies, conventional roles and identities, and a revelling in
the obscene, vulgar, and grotesque. Though Bakhtin suggests that this
type of ‘anarchic’ carnival died out in the Renaissance period, the carni-
valesque spirit continued in literature, and in particular, Bakhtin’s most
famous work Rabelais and His World (1984) is a consideration of the
sixteenth-century satirical and extravagant (carnivalesque) writings of
François Rabelais (Blackshaw and Crawford 2009). Turner’s work on
ritual draws heavily on the social anthropology of Arnold Van Gennep
(1960) and his work on status passage. Here, Turner suggests that in
premodern societies individuals passed through a number of transition-
ary rituals, such as those associated with progression into adulthood.
What interested Turner most here was the space between states, such
as, between childhood and adulthood, and similar transitionary phases,
which seem to create a social gap, a crack between the rules and norms
of one role and another. Turner also suggests that in modern societies
there are certain spaces and moments, or what he terms the ‘liminoid’,
such as play, sport, and drama, where similar opportunities to (momen-
tarily) escape social constraints still exist.
The final category is ‘playing culture’, where Henricks considers
ideas of culture itself as playful and, more specifically, points to the
work of postmodernists and poststructuralists, such as Derrida (1976).
Derrida suggests that society and culture are never set, but are navi-
gated through the use of language, which in itself is a constantly evolv-
ing system. For example, Derrida argues that meanings and texts can
never be pinned down. Instead of yielding meaning and knowledge,
they defer it. The task of students of culture is not, therefore, to look
for explanations, but to ‘deconstruct’ meaning in culture (Longhurst
et al. 2017).
Hendricks’ conceptualisation of various approaches to understand-
ing the relationship between play and culture is useful, as it allows
the reader to easily approach three key themes that appear recurrent
202
in many of the writings in this area. That is to say, put another way,
the idea of play as structuring, play as resistance, or culture as playful.
However, this does leave us with a bit of a quandary, if not contradic-
tion, as this illustrates that the relationship between play and culture has
often been understood in quite different ways. Hence, we would like to
suggest that a way forward might be found in the work of Michel de
Certeau and, in particular, his writings on The Practice of Everyday Life
(1984).
Play in Everyday Life

Henricks (2014) does not discuss the work of Michel de Certeau, which
is not surprising, as De Certeau is not typically seen as a writer on play.
However, as with the likes of Bakhtin and Turner, the opportunities
afforded by play are explored by de Certeau, though possibly in a less
direct and obvious way. In particular, we would like to suggest that de
Certeau offers a possible way of reconciling the idea of play as both
structuring and liberating and also points towards both the opportuni-
ties and limitations of a poststructuralist approach.
De Certeau (1984) suggests that social life can be, and often is,
constraining and oppressive, where individuals are largely ‘margin-
alized’ and have little say or no control over factors such as market
forces. However, he suggests that everyday life is extremely complex
and multifaceted, allowing room for manoeuvre and individuality. In
theorising everyday life, de Certeau draws on the concepts of ‘strate-
gies’ and ‘tactics’. Strategies for de Certeau are, in many respects, sim-
ilar to Goffman’s (1974) frames or Bourdieu’s (1984) habitus, in that
strategies are linked to places and the appropriate manners and actions
specific to that particular time and place. In contrast to Bourdieu and
Goffman, de Certeau sees no ‘single logic’ to the social practices within
these places, as there will always be room for multiple and individual
actions. These individual actions de Certeau refer to as ‘tactics’, which
involve the disguises, deceptions, bluffs, stubbornness, and personalisa-
tion of experiences that take place within sociocultural spaces. However,
de Certeau is not suggesting that tactics exist outside of strategies,
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tactics are not a ‘magic circle’ (Huizinga 1949), but rather tactics are a
constituent part of strategies, and the two may often be indistinguish-
able from each other. A good illustration of this is language. Though
language has a structuring logic, through, for example, the rules of
grammatology, the use of language is open to manipulation, individual-
isation, and even acts of subversion. Hence, it is the structures or strat-
egies of society that also open up the opportunities for subversion and
play. As de Certeau (1984, pp. 105–106) writes:
…the discourse that makes people believe is the one that takes away what
it urges them to believe in, or never delivers what it promises…It makes
room for a void. In that way, it opens up clearings: it “allows” a certain
play within a system of defined places. It ‘authorizes’ the production of an
area of free play…
De Certeau, therefore, stresses the fluid nature of culture, which has

also similarly been emphasised by poststructuralist writers like Foucault
(1979). However, though de Certeau may appear to share many sim-
ilarities to Foucault, de Certeau was critical of his compatriot’s work.
In particular, de Certeau was interested in freeing the individual from
the constraints of structuralism, but saw little opportunity for this in
the writings of poststructuralists such as Foucault. De Certeau’s reading
of Foucault is that the disciplinary role of the panopticon is all-power-
ful, leaving little room for individual manoeuvre, or oppositional prac-
tices. Of course, it could be argued that Foucault is not as deterministic
as de Certeau interprets him to be (see Ransom 1997); however, it is
certainly the case that Foucault and many other poststructuralist writ-
ers do not specifically consider micro- and everyday practices, which at
times might challenge or even subvert ‘the reach of panoptic power’ (de
Certeau 1984, p. 95).
De Certeau’s arguments here could be seen as akin to those of
Bakhtin’s (1984) ‘carnivalesque’, Turner’s (1969) ‘liminoid’, or
Huizinga’s (1949) ‘magic circle’. But while these, and other writers, are
keen to empathise these spaces as breaks from the wider social order,
de Certeau has more in common here with Lefebvre’s (1991, p. 383)
writings on leisure, where he sees this as a continuation of ‘the control
204
of the established order’. That is to say, play does not break from exist-
ing wider culture, discourse, and structures, but are moments or parts
within it, moments that offer a glimpse of individual expression and
the possibility of subversion. Significantly for us here, de Certeau also
has particular value as he explores how these moments of individualis-
ation and resistance can take place in specific social and urban spaces.
In particular, Lamerichs (2014) points to the work of de Certeau as
potentially useful in understanding how the personal histories and social
performances of cosplayers are played out as ‘spatial practices’ at con-
ventions. However, this was not the specific focus of Lamerichs’ work
here, and hence, she leaves a fuller application of de Certeau’s work
tantalisingly unexplored—but here, in this chapter, we take up this
invitation to explore de Certeau’s application to cosplayers’ use and
appropriation of urban spaces.
Exploring the City Through Art

There are of course many artists who have explored various aspects of
the city and urban life in their work, but here, we wish to highlight just
three who we feel have particular relevance and parallels to our pro-
ject. These are Laura Oldfield Ford’s contemporary dérives, recalling her
memories of subcultural participation in the squatter community in
the 1990s, Layla Curtis’s work with freerunners in London, and Toby
Paterson’s skateboarding-inspired architectural works.
Turning first to the work of the Halifax born, London based, artist
Laura Oldfield Ford, the dérive is an idea and practice taken from the
work of The Situationist and Guy Debord.
The Situationists were a group of intellectuals based in Paris in the
early 1950s who sought to reimagine their environment, which they
explored through the concept of psychogeography. Probably the leading
figure in this movement, Guy Debord (Debord 2010a, p. 59) describes
psychogeography as the study of the ‘precise laws and specific effects of
the geographic milieu, consciously planned or not, acting directly on
the affective comportment of individuals’. Debord drew heavily from
Paul-Henry Chombart De Lauwe (1952) when conceiving the theory
205
and practice of the dérive. In the dérive, ‘a technique of swift passage

through varied environments’ (Debord 2010b, p. 78), Debord was able
to align the notion of studying the geographical nature of a particular
location through play. Debord believes that the ‘dérive is indissolubly
linked with the recognition of the effects of psychogeographic nature,
and the assertion of a ludic-constructive comportment’ (McDonough
2010, p. 78). The dérive is essentially ludic, and Debord set aside rules
as to how this game might be played by more than one person. With
the dérive, Debord opens the city to the possibilities of ludic activity
and sees its potential as a space for play.
Debord and the dérive are employed by Laura Oldfield Ford in her
work on subcultural places in London. Ford, who during her youth led
a particularly nomadic existence, moving from squat to squat across
the many boroughs of London, uses the dérive to re-examine both her
personal history of a specific place and its own sociopolitical history.
In his introductory essay to Savage Messiah (2011), a compendium of
Ford’s London fanzines, Mark Fisher discusses ‘the perspective Ford
adopts, the voices she speaks in – and which speak through her – are
those of the officially defeated: the punks, squatters, ravers, football
hooligans and militants’ (Fisher 2011, p. 5). Ford will wander a bor-
ough, finding the lost, undiscovered, or forgotten places, dormant,
and derelict. In essence, Ford is recording these soon to be lost places,
places that mark ‘the aftermath of an era, where residues and traces
of euphoric moments haunt a melancholy landscape’ (Fisher 2011, p.
7). What Ford does is tie these lost subcultures to their place, mark-
ing them alongside her own history in her fanzine, Savage Messiah, and
placing it on record.
For Ford, the city is imbued with nostalgia. Quoting Jon Savage in
England’s Dreaming (1991), his seminal biography of punk, London is
described as a city still recovering from the Second World War in the
late 1970s. Fisher writes of a ‘bombed-out city, full of chasms, caverns,
spaces that could be temporarily occupied and squatted’ (Fisher 2011,
p. 8). This situation was clearly still in evidence in the early 1990s, as
Ford conjures ‘liminal zones where the free party rave scene once illu-
minated the bleak swathes of marshland and industrial estates’ (Fisher
2011, p. 15). There is a clear sense of nostalgia in Ford’s work, but not a
206
sentimentalised view. Ford looks to ‘Walter Benjamin’s thesis on history,

about shards of messianic time hidden in the built environment waiting
to be realised. Modernist architects were trying to build a better world,
the construction of these buildings was an oppositional act’ (Berry-
Slater and Iles 2009, online). In littering her work with these brutalist
structures of social housing, Ford hopes to reactivate modernism’s pro-
gressive nature of looking forward to an idealised utopia adhering to
the Corbusian theory of space, light, and order, which has become lost
in our present climate of mock housing design. The nostalgia in Ford’s
work is about creating historical documents, marking places, and their
people before they disappear. She returns to these sites haunted by their
subcultural history and records them for posterity.
Similarly, subculture and space feature heavily in the work of
Glasgow-based artist Toby Paterson. Paterson’s work over a period of
time has presented the urban space from the perspective of a skater,
with works made up of abstract floating forms, reminiscent of ledges,
ramps, or rails. As with Ford, Paterson explores the legacy of Modernist
architecture upon the leisure activities of urban youth. Paterson’s ‘predi-
lection for Modernist forms primarily grew, not of any developed uto-
pian vision, but of riding around concrete buildings on a skateboard’
(Heald 2006, p. 72). Paterson creates large-scale wall paintings com-
bining sculptural assemblages, made using wooden structures that cir-
cumnavigate an exhibition space. The work suggests how a skateboarder
might navigate the urban environment, moving between various build-
ings and locations, or as Borden (2001) might suggest, Paterson creates
a ‘discontinuous edit’ as his work moves through the space. Paterson’s
work essentially picks up on a utopia in decline. For all of Modernism’s
grand ambitions, we are a population living amongst its degeneration.
Another relevant body of work here is Layla Curtis’ Traceurs: To Trace,
to Draw, to Go Fast (2008). ‘Traceurs’ is one term for the practition-
ers of Parkour. Parkour, or Freerunning, originated in the Paris suburbs
during the 1980s with a group of men calling themselves Yamakasi. This
refined discipline, where practitioners sought to set themselves chal-
lenges to move freely through or over any urban terrain soon acquired
semi-mythical status, particularly by those seeking new extreme sports.
Parkour shares certain similarities to skateboarding in the way it seeks
207
to challenge the urban environment. However, its significant differ-

ence is traceurs ‘aim to leave no trace’ (Edwardes 2009, p. 24). Traceurs,
practitioners of Parkour, move with stealth through urban spaces and
respect the ‘environment and those who live there’ (Edwardes 2009,
p. 24). Skaters inscribe the city with the scuffs, marks, and tracks of
their boards across surfaces and street furniture, but for the traceurs,
the only trace on the city is their sweat and body heat. Curtis’ project
Traceurs (2008) was commissioned by Westminster Council to make a
work responding to the urban environment. Curtis worked to present
an alternative mapping of the city. Her intention was to slow down the
whole Parkour process, to allow the public to consider space in a dif-
ferent way. In particular, she uses a thermal imagining camera to show
the prints that the traceurs leave on the surfaces as residual body heat.
These marks form a luminescent signature on the objects that their
bodies come in contact with, forming sparks of white light against the
cold dark background. Curtis films the location until the freerunner’s
body heat fades from the surface, and their trace is no longer visible.
This reappropriation and reimagining of the city as an arena of play, we
would like to suggest, shares many similarities with cosplay.
Cosplayers (Re)Imaging Space

In writing about her work on cosplay, the Beijing-based artist, Cao
Fei sees the cosplayers’ fantasy as a clearly defined state, with the cos-
player fully immersed into the ‘contrived fantasy’ of their character
and unaware of the world around them. However, here, we question
this assertion that cosplayers draw such a clear divide between their
imagined fantasy play world and the wider physical and social world. In
particular, it is our argument that the wider social and physical context
is central to our understanding of how cosplayers and other subcultures
navigate, use, and reappropriate social spaces. To use the language of
de Certeau, we can only seek to understand subcultural tactics, by also
understanding the strategies in which they are located.
Bennett and Kahn-Harris (Bennett and Kahn-Harris 2004, p. 151)
suggest that participants in subcultures ‘symbolically appropriate public
208
space to maintain and affirm their shared cultural identity against out-
siders who do not share their lifestyle, enthusiasm or cultural interests’.
Similarly, what became clear from this research is how cosplayers (re)
image and transform their surrounding environment to construct a
(safe) space for their activities. Cosplayers, in acting out the roles of fan-
tasy characters in an urban environment, destabilise the space by met-
amorphosing it into a fantasy arena for the role they have taken on. In
this way, the cosplayers transform the built environment into something
new.
Of particular relevance here is de Certeau’s distinction between a
space and a place. ‘A place is the order’, he writes (1984, p. 117), it is
a physical location and the logic of that specific place. It is where every
object has a proper place, and where no two objects can occupy the
same place at the same time. In contrast, space ‘takes into consideration
vectors of direction…it is…actuated by the ensemble of movements
deployed with in’ (1984, p. 117). Space is how a place is experienced
and lived; it is the movements within and through it. As de Certeau
writes, ‘space is like the word once it is spoken’ (1984, p. 117). Space is
a practised place.1
Of course, as with de Certeau’s discussion of strategies and tac-
tics, places and spaces should not be seen as separate, as in effect, they
are both part of the same narratives, where place refers to (to use de
Certeau’s language) being-there and space to the operations within it
(1984, p. 118). And, it is these spatial stories, these narratives, which
transform places into spaces ‘and organize the play of changing relation-
ships between places and spaces [where] the forms of play are endless’
(1984, p. 118).
As one of the cosplayers we interviewed, Matt, suggests, cosplayers
see ‘the space as a stage’ and themselves as an ‘actor’ performing as their
chosen character. Through this process, cosplayers construct a fantasy
within their own imaginations, but in turn, the urban environment also
1It is worth noting that how de Certeau defines place and space is at odds, and in many ways
quite the reverse, to how most contemporary cultural geographers define these terms. For most
writers, space refers to physical location, while place is a space that is given meaning; it is how a
space is experienced and lived (Longhurst et al. 2017).
209
shapes the spatial stories and narratives that the cosplayer constructs. As
Madeline pointed out:
A lot of the scenes and environmental situations that the characters

appear in the anime would be hard to come across or find in an environ-
ment such as a local town. You have to adjust how the character would
think and be in that environment. Questioning yourself, if he was a real
life person, would he do that here? And would he say that? You would
think of similar situations from the anime and adjust certain aspects.
Lamerichs (2014) employs Sandvoss’ (2005, p. 64) discussion of fan-

dom as a metaphorical ‘home’. Sandvoss highlights how finding a com-
munity where they ‘fit in’ is like finding a home for many fans. Here,
Lamerichs applies Sandvoss’ metaphor, suggesting that for many cos-
players the convention becomes a happy and safe (home-like) place,
where they can collectively play out their shared fantasises. This, for
Lamerichs, is an ‘affective place’, in that conventions are where fans cre-
ate an imaginative space, which they emotionally engage with through
play, performance, and shared narratives. However, what is of particular
interest, and what has been significantly under researched here, is how
fans utilise (and erase) specific aspects of the environment.
Urban Poaching
De Certeau utilises the idea of ‘poaching’ in exploring the relationship
between strategies and tactics. Poaching is how audiences and consum-
ers draw on the resources available to them, to create new understand-
ings, interpretations, or outcomes. This Henry Jenkins (1992) employs
and develops in his consideration of media fans, who he suggests, draw-
ing on mainstream media, create new interpretations, narratives, and
cultural products, which may (to some degree) go against the domi-
nant narratives set out in mainstream media. Media fans, for Jenkins,
can, therefore, be understood as subversive ‘textual poachers’, poaching
from existing (‘official’) media texts, to create their own products, which
210
disrupt and challenge the traditional power relationship between con-

sumers and producers.
However, less explored in fan studies is de Certeau’s related discus-
sion of how individuals similarly draw on and employ urban space. In
particular, in understanding how individuals’ use, appropriate, and per-
sonalise the urban environment, de Certeau draws on the ‘stylistics fig-
ures’ of ‘synecdoche’ and ‘asyndeton’ (1984, p. 101). Synecdoche is the
linguistic act of using part of an object to represent the whole, such as
the example de Certeau gives of referring to ships as a ‘sail’, such as the
‘a fleet of fifty sails’ (1984, p. 101). Asyndeton is ‘the suspension of link-
ing words’, which are skipped over or omitted from a sentence (1984,
p. 101). For de Certeau, these two linguistic styles provide important
metaphors for understanding how urban dwellers use the built environ-
ment, and moreover, these are concepts notably taken up by Borden
(2001) in his application of de Certeau to skateboarders—which, we
would suggest, has clear parallels to cosplay.
The Cosplayers’ Eye

For de Certeau, synecdoche and asyndeton characterise how individu-
als appropriate certain objects or parts of the urban environment, while
simultaneously ignoring or omitting other parts or objects in their sur-
roundings. For Borden, this can clearly be seen in how skateboarders
appropriate and transform everyday architecture to create an imagined
skate park. To the skater, urban architecture is seen through the ‘skater’s
eye’ as a series of obstacles to negotiate. Skaters modify the purpose of
street furniture, subverting these objects’ use for their own recreational
activities. Borden suggests that skateboarders are constantly undergo-
ing these twin processes of asyndeton and synecdoche, utilising certain
objects and omitting others, as they skate the city. As Borden writes
‘cities are at once real and coded, imagined and mediated’ (Borden
2001, p. 219). As such, skaters view urban planning differently from
the rest of society. They are drawn to areas of the city that present an
ideal environment for the purpose of skateboarding. As Borden contin-
ues, ‘Skateboarders undertake a discontinuous edit of architecture and
211
urban space, recomposing their own city from different places, loca-
tions, urban elements, routes and times’ (Borden 2001, p. 219). This
editing and reimagining of the environment primarily exists within the
skater’s mind, but the work of Toby Paterson allows us to visualise this.
His painting, murals, constructions, and colourful additions to build-
ings provide the wider public with some insights into how skaters see
the world. Paterson’s understanding and reimagining of ‘architectural
structures is heightened by his interest in skateboarding, experiencing
cities and buildings as micro-spaces to navigate, viewed as a series of
surfaces to isolate and present in his paintings’ (The Glasgow School of
Art, n.d.).
Similarly, we suggest that cosplayers use their ‘cosplayer’s eye’ to
immerse themselves more thoroughly into the world of their charac-
ter, and likewise use asyndeton and synecdoche to alter the location
and objects, creating a place (or ‘space’ in the de Certeauian sense) that
spans both the imaginary and the actual. For example, as Sarah suggests,
‘when in cosplay you do often look for environments that suit your
character’. Furthermore, in an interview with a group of cosplayers in
(what we refer to here using the pseudonym) ‘Poplar Park’, Elizabeth
explained how she transformed a carved wooden statue: ‘we still joke
about occasionally, like I made that statue my husband. [Laughs] …
[…]…But when you see stuff around you play about with them’. For
the cosplayer, the environment can aid with their immersion into the
role. In undertaking their cosplay, they appropriate an area, transform-
ing it into a play-space. Here, imagination and play transform the mun-
dane into the sublime. However, unlike skateboarders who often leave
physical marks on the environment, cosplayers are more like Curtis’
(2008) traceurs, utilising physical spaces, but afterwards leaving no evi-
dence of their presence.
Another example of this can be found in an interview with Sienna
and Deana. Here, they spoke of a permanent ornamental feature within
Poplar Park, and how this was incorporated into their play. Sienna
recalled:
212
They have those triangle stones and we got all the Hetalians from Hetalia2
together. We said one of the stones is Sealand, and this is his land. Then
we were pulling all the other countries, such as Italy and Germany onto
Sealand to see how many we could fit on. We said this is Sealand because
he’s so small; he’s a micro-nation.
Similarly, Deana spoke of other cosplayers who were dressed as charac-

ters from Attack on Titan3 (2013); she recounted, ‘some of the cosplay-
ers will find a tree and stay up there all the time’. Sienna added to the
story, ‘I remember at one meet, someone had climbed up a tree and got
stuck, and they couldn’t get down. They were screaming as this char-
acter, ‘I’m stuck; Titan’s going to kill me. Get me out of this tree now.
Please do something!’.
These anecdotes provide an insight into how cosplayers interact with
space, and how it can be used to assist in their immersion. For the cos-
player, Chris dressed as a storm trooper for an event at Leicester Space
Centre, he found:
There was a whole floor of the building mapped out like a space station.
All right, it’s a real space station, but when you put storm troopers in the
middle of it, then everything becomes just a little bit too real. It just feels
amazing because you are going around in what is a space station, and
you’re a storm trooper, and kids are looking at you, and you think, “This
looks awesome”. It definitely adds to it.
For Chris, this site offered an opportunity to immerse himself deeper

in his playing of this character, playing out a situation that the
storm trooper would be familiar with. As Chris added, ‘once you’re in
2Hetalia is an extremely popular webcomic that was later made into a manga and anime. First
released online in 2009, it characterises each of the Axis and Allied nations during the First and
Second World Wars, giving them a human persona. The comic is light-hearted and satirises well-
known historical events.
3Attack on Titan is a Japanese manga published in 2009. It has since been made into a serialised
anime, which was released in 2013. The plot revolves around a teenage boy, Eren, and his foster
sister, Mikasa, who witness their mother being devoured by a Titan. Titans are huge beings that
almost exterminated the human race, and the remaining population reside within a huge walled
city.
213
certain places, certain environments play to aspects of what you’re

dressed up as, and can accentuate and make things better’. Similarly,
another interviewee, AJ, suggested that when he cosplays he looks to
‘find something in the space that helps you be that character. When
you’re looking in general for a space to cosplay, you are looking for good
photo opportunities, so if you can find a good photo opportunity that
links to that character that’s always a bonus’. Therefore, the environ-
ment can play a key role in the playing out of a character, and the cos-
player’s sense of immersion in that role.
Ian Borden (2001, p. 218) argues that ‘skateboarding is an aes-
thetic rather than ethical practice, using the ‘formants’ at its disposal
to create an alternative reality’. In both skateboarding and cosplay,
the participant’s perception of the architecture allows them to inter-
act with it. With skaters, their ‘skater’s eye’, is the ability to disengage
from the historical, symbolic, or authorial content of a space, and
simply consider it as a skateable surface. A cosplayer will also see a
building or feature through their ‘cosplayer’s eye’, drawing similarities
between the chosen building and a similar feature from their charac-
ter’s text. ‘The ‘building’ for a skater is only an extracted edit of its
total existence’ (Borden 2001, p. 214), and so in the reality of the
cosplayer, as with the skater, it is only the ludic aspect for which they
have any use.
Both cosplayers and skaters change the function of particular objects
or spaces, giving them an alternate use. Hence, the cosplayer’s ability to
transform objects to tie in with their fiction shares parallels with skate-
boarding, in that, in both cultures the ‘performative body has the ability
to deal with a given set of pre-determined circumstances and to extract
what you want and discard the rest’ (Borden 2001, p. 214). Simply put,
both cultures only make use of what is required for their activity at that
time.
Air Gear Ikki and Arkham Asylum

In 2012, David Hancock was commissioned by Wolverhampton Art Gallery
to make new work for his solo exhibition at the gallery. Here, he took the
opportunity to use this new work to explore how local cosplayers made
use of the city in their cosplay. Hence, in doing so, he was able to include
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in the exhibition local cosplayers, aspects of their city, and also, further
explore how environments are drawn on by cosplayers in playful ways.
Cosplayers were contacted online through a local cosplay group, and
arrangements were made to meet cosplayers at locations of their choos-
ing, which they felt were appropriate for their character. One such meet-
ing was with Thant who dressed as Ikki from Air Gear. Air Gear was
originally a manga series that ran from 2002 to 2012 and was written by
Oh! Great, published by Kodansha. An animated series was released in
2006 and ran for a single season. The character Ikki is a rollerblader in a
futuristic Tokyo, where the sport ‘Air Trek’—an extreme form of skating—
has enraptured Tokyo’s young street gangs. Thant chose an area of the
city close to where he lives, where there is a group of tower blocks, one
of which forms the backdrop for his painting, which Thant chose to repre-
sent Ikki’s Tokyo (Fig. 7.1).
This appropriation and reimagining of place by cosplayers are also illus-
trated in the painting below, Arkham Asylum (2013) (Fig. 7.2). Sophie,
the cosplayer depicted in this painting, regularly cosplays as Catwoman
from the Batman video game Batman: Arkham Asylum (Eidos Interactive,
2009). For her painting, she chose Wolverhampton Art Gallery, an impos-
ing building at the centre of the city, which she reimagined as located in
Gotham, the fictional home of the characters Batman and Catwoman.
In a city made up of eclectic architectural styles, certain elements can
distract the cosplayer from fully embodying their chosen role. It is, there-
fore, essential that the cosplayer is able to undertake the processes of
asyndeton and omit elements from the urban landscape that do not con-
form to their fantasy. Similarly, they also undertake the process of synec-
doche in transforming a building, such as transforming aspects of an art
gallery into a rampart from one of Gotham’s skyscrapers or an inner-city
tower block becomes part of dystopian Tokyo.
Hancock’s paintings, therefore, visually depict the processes of synec-
doche undertaken by the cosplayers, singling out and framing specific
aspects of the environment, which the cosplayers draw on in their playful
appropriation of the city. But as with processes of asyndeton, it omits all
other aspects of the city, leaving the background blank. This blank space
is the space filled in by the cosplayer in their imagination, which the audi-
ence is of course, not privileged to.
The presence and appropriation of objects in Hancock’s artwork in
many ways parallel the use of similar artefacts in the work of Iris Van
Dongen and Ulrika Wärmling. As discussed in Chapter 2, Van Dongen’s
work typically consists of portraits of young women that are subverted
through the addition of subcultural artefacts, such as a tattoo, wristband,
or football scarf. Wärmling paints lolitas, but often adds to the image
items such as a paperback novel or PlayStation games controller, which
points to links between the lolita and the sources of fiction and fantasy.
Hence, Hancock’s work, like that of Van Dongen and Wärmling, points to
layers, layers of different worlds intersecting with each other.
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Fig. 7.1 Air Gear Ikki, watercolour on paper, 150 × 110 cm, 2013

216
Fig. 7.2 Arkham Asylum, watercolour on paper, 150 × 170 cm, 2013
As with Toby Paterson’s visualisation of (what Borden terms) the ‘skat-

er’s eye’, the artwork in this project similarly brings into being aspects of
the ‘cosplayer’s eye’, but only what we see as the external audience. The
costume and the objects being played with and reimagined are present,
while the blank canvas represents the part of the city edited out and then
filled back in by the cosplayers’ imagination.
The paintings (Figs. 7.1 and 7.2), others in this series, and the shared
experiences of the cosplayers, provide insights into how cosplayers
reimagine space, and how this is playfully reappropriated. Cosplayers,
like skaters, see the city canonically. That is to say, certain objects are
arranged (certainly in their imaginations, if not physically), while others
are excluded, or at least ignored as much as possible, in aiding their play
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and spatial stories. Here, cosplayers extend their interactions into a(no-
ther) social setting, forming multiple narrative possibilities that build on
the source texts or weave a number of texts together. Therefore, a cos-
player might reimagine the urban environment as part of an existing or
inspired narrative, but in doing so, they are also simultaneously explor-
ing the possibilities and limitations of the existing built environment.
Acts of Resistance?
A now famous, and much cited application of de Certeau on the uses
and appropriation of urban space, is the work of John Fiske (2011).
In his book, Reading the Popular (2011), Fiske draws on the work of
de Certeau to examine, amongst other examples, shopping malls and
beaches as places where groups of people define their own spaces of
leisure. In the opening chapter, Shopping for Pleasure, Fiske (2011, p.
10) proposes that ‘shopping malls are cathedrals of consumption’, and
as places where people come to worship commodities. However, for
youths without an income to make purchases, they can take on a sub-
versive role. That is to say, rather than claiming the goods that they
cannot afford, these disenfranchised youths instead claim space within
the mall. Referring to this act as ‘proletarian shopping’, Fiske suggests
that these young people are window-shopping, but with no intention to
buy (Fiske 2011, p. 13). They consume the images and space instead of
the commodities that they cannot possibly afford to purchase. They are
drawn to these malls because of their status as places of desire, but they
find other activities to undertake rather than shopping. Their actions
are a ‘possession of space, or to be more precise the possession of con-
sumer space where their very presence challenges, offends and resists’
(Fiske 2011, p. 13). He goes on to describe groups of youths descend-
ing on these malls, parading, but significantly, not buying, ‘taking up
their natural public space that brings both life and yet confronts the
market place’ (Fiske 2011, p. 13). These youths are regularly stopped by
agitated and outnumbered security guards or the police and summar-
ily evicted from the mall, only to return to their claimed space the fol-
lowing week. Fiske describes these actions as the youths ‘asserting their
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difference within, and different use of, the cathedral of consumerism’

and so their actions become an ‘oppositional cultural practice’ (Fiske
2011, p. 13).
Here, Fiske attempts to understand how different groups utilise pub-
lic space. Quoting de Certeau, Fiske talks of their trickster behaviour,
where these youths exploit their understanding of the rules of the sys-
tem to turn it to their advantage. But Fiske also draws attention to other
tricksters, such the mothers who bring their children into the mall to
play while escaping the hot summer heat, or the lunchtime office work-
ers browsing shops to alleviate the monotony of their working day. All
these people have their own use of the mall and have designated areas
within the mall where they can undertake their acts of trickery.
In many respects, cosplayers also share certain similarities with Fiske’s
(2011) tricksters; in that, they are subverting and appropriating urban
space for alternative uses. However, it is evident from our research that
cosplayers often have a much more complex relationship with both con-
sumption and authority, and hence, we would suggest, cannot be seen
as ‘proletarian shoppers’. This is because, we argue that: first cosplayers
do not usually try and subvert mainstream culture, but rather they most
commonly actively embrace it, and second, we suggest that cosplayers
rarely seek to cause trouble or challenge authority.
Hence, firstly, though cosplay may be a creative and productive
process, as with many fan communities, such as football supporters
(Crawford 2004), cosplayers tend to be highly committed, even ‘ideal’
consumers, who are often very ‘brand loyal’, consuming large quanti-
ties of material and merchandise relating to their particular fandom.
Cosplay is primarily built around a love of mainstream sci-fi or fantasy
movies, video games, and pop music, though often of Japanese origin.
In many respects, cosplay could be seen as a form of textual poach-
ing, and to a large extent, it is. They are certainly poaching in the
sense that de Certeau discusses, in that they are ‘making do’ with the
resources that capitalism gives (or, more accurately, ‘sells’) to them
to create room for individualisation. But in our research, we saw few
similarities to the more subversive acts of, for example, the fan fiction
writers that Henry Jenkins (1992) discusses. Unlike Jenkins’ fans, cos-
players tend not to obviously or overtly seeking to challenge or subvert
219
dominant reading of characters. In fact, they often try (as much as is

possible) to remain faithful to the original characters as they are por-
trayed in the original source texts. Of course, by playing out the charac-
ters and placing them in new settings, they are adding to both; they are
bringing their imaginations and individualisation to the character and
the setting. However, this is still in the context of trying to stay loyal to
the original character. Contrary to many youth subcultures, cosplayers
do not usually try and subvert mainstream culture, but actively embrace
it.
This is where Fiske, and also Jenkins, diverges from de Certeau. It
is evident from both Fiske and Jenkins’ reading and application of de
Certeau that they take his ideas of everyday ‘resistance’ rather literal. For
them, textual poachers and proletarian shoppers are actively resisting
and pushing back against an identifiable source of power, be that the
creators of science fiction television shows, mall owners, or even wider
capitalism. This, however, is not necessarily how de Certeau conceptual-
ised resistance. Certainly, his discussions of power are not as straightfor-
ward, or zero-sum, as can be seen in the work of both Fiske and Jenkins.
The relationship between structure and agency is much greyer and com-
plex for de Certeau, and he is certainly more limited in his ambitions
for resistance than many who draw on his work.
De Certeau’s idea of ‘making do’ is a theme that has been used by
many writers as an example of social resistance. It is possible to see some
overt examples of resistance in the work of de Certeau. For instance, a
much citied example is that of ‘la perrugue’ (or ‘the wig’), which is ‘…
the worker’s own work disguised as work for his employer’ (de Certeau
1984, p. 25). This is the ways in which workers can use time and facili-
ties at work to their own advantage, such as producing objects for them-
selves. And it is apparent that these kinds of resistance have informed
the work of authors such as John Fiske (2011) and Henry Jenkins
(1992) in their application of de Certeau to contemporary forms of
consumption and the opportunities for resistance that they suggest
these can afford.
However, de Certeau is ‘not nearly so frivolous as some of his follow-
ers’ (Buchanan 2000, p. 87), and this also somewhat misses de Certeau’s
central argument. Focus upon obvious and visible forms of resistance
220
overlooks the importance of more common and mundane practices,

which are more prominent and significant in the work of de Certeau
(Highmore 2002)—such as the example of a worker at a machine
whose body sometimes involuntarily convulses. This is, by no means, of
an act of overt resistance, but a clear sign that the person is different to,
and not, a machine. This, we would suggest, is one reason why cosplay
is perhaps a better illustration and application of de Certeau’s argument,
than either Fiske’s proletarian shoppers or Jenkins’ textual poachers, as
for most cosplayers, most of the time, their playing out of a character
is not about challenging or subverting dominant readings. Often, quite
the opposite. Cosplayers often seek to remain as ‘true’ to the original
character and text source, as defined by canonical group lore, as pos-
sible. However, in doing so, they inevitably bring their own body and
individualisation to the character. By embodying the character, they
invariably make it their own.
Of course, cosplayers do overlap with other fan communities. Many
cosplayers may also be fan fiction writers, but each social space carries
with it, its own norms and culture, and certainly, in our research, we
did not see in cosplay the same kind of challenging of dominant textual
readings that Jenkins (1992) discusses in relation to fan fiction writers.
The second reason why we suggest that cosplayers differ (in certain
aspects) from Fiske’s proletarian shoppers and Jenkins’ textual poachers
is that cosplayers rarely seek to overtly challenge authority. Cosplayers
rarely cause trouble, with the worst of their offences possibly being
their over exuberance. Like Fiske’s mall youths, they are drawn to these
‘cathedrals of consumption’, such as malls and city centres; however,
for cosplayers, it is because these sites provide access to the purchasable
objects associated with their fandom, such as comic books and video
games.
For example, during the meets we attended in Poplar Park, the cos-
players socialised, chatted, played together, discussed their outfits, took,
and posed for photographs. People brought food and drinks and had
picnics. They also practised dance routines to J-pop (Japanese Pop
music). Dawn, the meet host, also organised several activities. She did
quizzes, and the cosplayers also played traditional yard games. The age
range of the cosplayers was usually from around fourteen to thirty, and
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many of the younger cosplayers would bring their parents along, who
sat off towards the edge of the park, keeping a watchful eye on what was
going on.
When their activities were interrupted by outsiders, cosplayers were
often very willing to turn to authority figures, such as the police, to
assist them. For example, as Sienna explained, ‘In Poplar Park we’ve
had a lot of incidents with drunks, especially near Christmas and on
St Patrick’s Day, a lot of them came in’. Sienna continued ‘we don’t
mind them [using the space] but when they are interrupting what we
are doing, and they are saying stuff to you, it’s not very nice’. On these
occasions, the cosplayers have asked the offending ‘drunks’ to leave, and
if that has failed, called the police. It is also evident that cosplayers will
‘police’ each other; for example, we witnessed a post on the webpage of
the North West Cosplay Facebook group where an older group mem-
ber was admonishing younger members for leaving litter at a meet loca-
tion—again, as with Curtis’ (2008) traceurs, cosplayers seek to leave no
signs of their presence.
On one occasion, Sienna and Deana arranged a large meet with over
fifty cosplayers in the foodcourt of a large city centre shopping mall.
Normally, the cosplayers avoid meeting in costume in large groups
away from conventions. Sienna claimed that this was the first time that
‘they’d ever sat together as a whole group’. This meeting en masse was
initially very tentative, sending one person up the escalator ahead of the
larger group to secure seats, before the others followed.
For the cosplayers to assemble in a large group in a foodcourt like
this, was for them, a rather subversive act. However, it is an act that
they carefully considered, weighing up the potential issues that con-
gregating as a large group might entail, and eventually, decided to take
the risk. But once there, the cosplayers largely kept to themselves. They
did not play out any individual or group scenarios in character, as they
would typically do at a convention or even in their regular gathering
place in the local park, nor did they directly interact with other diners;
they simply ate their lunch, in costume, as a group. This then was not a
dérive, an unplanned and revolutionary act, but a much more thought
through and cautionary venture into new spaces. This is not the sub-
cultural world which was the focus for Laura Oldfield Ford. Unlike the
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largely dark night-time world of most subcultures, like punks, or the

urban decay inhabited by squatters, cosplayers tend to occupy a bright,
daytime world of parks, foodcourts, and malls.
Hence, in many ways the behaviour of the cosplayers is more akin
to another example that Fiske gives, that of beach users in Perth,
Western Australia. Fiske’s (2011) study of Reading the Beach examines
how the beach is split into a variety of unofficial and undemarcated
areas, such as for nudist sunbathers, families, and dog walkers. As Fiske
observes, ‘the beach tends to be divided into significant zones… these
zones are vague, boundaries ill marked, if not unmarked, and conse-
quently the meanings, the categories, leak one into the other’ (2011,
p. 36). What Fiske suggests, therefore, are that groups of people are
drawn to areas where the activities they wish to undertake, or the facili-
ties they require, are present; hence, they select spaces of leisure that suit
their own personal or group needs. Moreover, Fiske clearly points to a
desire in individuals to find safe and communal spaces for leisure with
other like-minded individuals or groups who share their cultural values.
People are drawn to sites where they can congregate safely as a group.
These areas need to suit their predetermined requirements, but once an
appropriate safe location has been found, a group will often seek to take
ownership of it.
A Safe Space for [Cos]Play

Originally, the Manchester-based cosplayers would meet in (what we
will call) ‘City Park’, a large park located very close to the city centre.
This initial site was primarily chosen due to its large open space, its cen-
tral location (which was easy for all of the cosplayers to get to), and its
closeness to the main shopping area; however, over time this site became
problematic.
City Park is located in the very centre of the city and close to the
city’s central transport hub. This is a very busy, but for most people,
transitionary space, which they pass through quickly heading to other
sites. Few people stop to pause in this space, save for on uncommonly
warm days, or more normally, the odd homeless person or service sector
223
worker on their lunch break. But these are mostly the unseen, or cer-
tainly overlooked, of city life. In such a space, cosplayers become highly
visible, as not transitionary shoppers or commuters. Cosplayers here, by
undertaking an unusual and highly visible activity, are very much on
public display and appear to be almost inviting engagement with the
wider public. As Sienna stated, ‘when we are in City Park there is more
general public, and they tend to judge us’.
Sienna continued ‘[one of the] problems in City Park [is that]…some
of the cosplayers have weapons and people get threatened… Someone
had… a very big sword. And this old man said, “I think he’s going to
attack me”. He called the police up, and they had to check him out.
They had to make sure it wasn’t a real sword’. Amanda also pointed to
similar incidents of being moved on by the police, ‘When we were in
City Park, sometimes the police would come over and wonder what was
going on. They’d tell us to move because they said we were disrupting
people, even though we weren’t being loud or anything’. Though the
cosplayers were keen to call on the assistance of authority figures, such
as the police, when they or their activities were being threatened, it is
evident that they have also been subjected to its direct power when they
impinge on more central and populated locations.
Cosplay is a performance (see Chapter 5), and a performance usually
requires an audience, but this needs to be a receptive, non-challenging,
and certainly non-threatening audience, in a safe space. Hence, in most
instances, the main target audience is other cosplayers, who are part of
the group. As with Layla Curtis’ Traceurs, though the performers may
prepare and practise alone, this is all groundwork for the communal
act; the coming together to demonstrate their skills, and for others to
observe, and at times, record this in photographs and videos. It is then
both a private and a public performance. As we shall consider in the
next section, sometimes members of the public become additional audi-
ence members, or at times, are pulled into the performance as extras;
however, most of the time, the activities of the cosplayers, as with the
traceurs, mostly take place on the edges of ordinary urban life.
Hence, the cosplayers moved to the much smaller and out of the
way, Poplar Park. The park is lined by trees and hedges, and much
less open, and public than City Park and is generally quiet. Even on
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Saturday afternoons, there are very few people using the park, so for
the majority of the time, the cosplayers have the space to themselves.
Importantly, this is also a space adjacent to the City’s ‘Gay Village’, and
thereby, borders a space already associated with being more inclusive of
diversity. According to Kim, ‘the atmosphere seems friendlier [in Poplar
Park as opposed to City Park]’. And as Sienna adds, ‘they [the local Gay
community] don’t mind us being on there. They see us there regularly.
I think that’s why the cosplay group chooses to meet there’. Hence,
unlike Curtis’ Traceurs, the movement of cosplayers around the city is
much slower, more gradual, much more calculated, and cautionary.
As with Fiske’s (2011) discussion of the subversive use of beaches and
shopping malls, the cosplayers managed to secure a space for themselves
that contained their most basic requirements. In the case of cosplayers,
in finding this park (a large enclosed private space that is relatively cen-
trally located) they have begun to secure this site as (at least partially)
their own. As Sienna stated, ‘Deana and me [now] hang out there any-
way, even without our cosplays on’. As we can see in Fisher’s (2011,
p. 8) discussion of Ford’s Savage Messiah the city is ‘full of chasms, cav-
erns, spaces that can be temporarily occupied’, spaces that subcultures
can occupy and make their own.
Unlike the youths discussed by Fiske (2011), cosplayers tend not to
be subversive or confrontational and often look to authority figures,
such as the police, to help them maintain their safe space. When cos-
players do engage with the other urban dwellers, this is often done in a
friendly and playful way and as an extension of their performance.
Cosplayers, Performance, and Other Urban

Dwellers
Though a particular location might help cosplayers to immerse them-
selves more thoroughly into the world of their character, their appear-
ance in a public and urban location also changes that space for others
who happen to be there too. For example, one of the cosplayers inter-
viewed as part of this research, Chris, regularly dons his storm trooper
225
cosplay outfit for charity events in local shopping malls or town centres.
He described an event in a local town centre, where dressed as a storm
trooper, he was randomly approaching members of the public: ‘I started
going up to people going, “Halt! You there, Stop! I need to check your
authority for the Empire”. People were like, “Oh! OK”. So I got really
into it, frisking them and stuff like that’. After accosting them, Chris
would ‘start searching their bags, pulling out notepads and say, “Are
these Rebel plans?” People love it. They love to see that’. Though Chris
described a scene that was staged for a charity event, this scenario shows
how passers-by can get caught up in the cosplayer’s fantasy. In playing
along with the events unfolding before them, they can become part of
the cosplayer’s narrative, even allowing Chris’s storm trooper to embar-
rass them in public by going through their personal belongings. Nathan
also spoke of a similar incident when he was dressed as Zack from Crisis
Core, a prequel to Final Fantasy VII.
One time I got on the train after a cosplay meet up, and these two boys
were looking at me. I heard them saying, “Dare you to ask him about his
sword.” So they came over, and I decided it’s time to have some fun. They
are young and impressionable. So I said [adopting an American accent]
“Hey! I’m Zack”. I talked to them in character, and they believed that I
was Zack.
It is probable that the boys knew that Nathan was not actually Zack,
but for the period of the conversation, they assisted Nathan in main-
taining his fantasy and had a conversation with one of their fantasy
heroes.
Similarly, Nathan recalled a particular incident at a video game con-
vention, where he was cosplaying Batman:
This little kid and his dad come over to me, and the kid who has Batman
on his shirt excitedly shouts, “Batman, Batman!”. I had flashbacks to
when I was a kid, and you’d see someone dressed up, and you’d think it’s
that person. Like one time, I met the Turtles. I really did meet the Turtles!
So I was like “Wow! I’m in this role now”. So I was trying to keep in
character but be a more friendly Batman. [adopts Batman’s voice] “Are
you wearing me on your shirt? Gimme hi-five!’’.
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A number of other cosplayers recounted similar tales in interview where

they encountered children who were also fans of the texts that they were
dressed as. In taking on the role of a character in public, they then often
feel bound to maintain the character for the appreciation of members of
the public. When asked about the responsibility that a cosplayer takes
on in adopting a role, especially when interacting with children, Chris
believed:
It’s something that I do think is very important. Certainly when you are
cosplaying with kids, because like you say, they don’t know any better.
They don’t know you are just a lad from Manchester. To them you are
actually a storm trooper. So you might as well act like one and uphold the
dream. So if a kid comes up to you and goes, “Hey! Scoutrooper how are
you doing?” [Adopts American accent], “I’m doing alright sir”. I play up
to it and stay in character for as long as possible.
Again, here we see how cosplayers are not seeking to be threatening or

subversive, quite the opposite, through their performances and play
they are often trying to bring pleasure, and extend their fantasy, to oth-
ers. When cosplayers appear in public, they alter the public perception
of that site. The location is changed temporarily by their presence in
it. By filling the space with an assortment of fantasy characters, they
are, thus, able to create a safe place of play that often incorporates both
the environment and others into their fantasy worlds. As we cited in
Chapter 2, the artist Cao Fei writes ‘using the surrealistic fantasy image
of their game characters they [cosplayers] provoke a new aesthetic sense
for the public’ (Rewired 2009, p. 7). However, cosplayers have, thus
far, only achieved small successes in claiming a place for their own use.
As they cosplay intermittently, they do not have a regular presence in a
space to make it fully theirs.
Conclusion
This chapter considers how cosplayers use, reimagine, and transform
urban space. In particular, this chapter argues that a useful way of under-
standing cosplay is to consider the relationship between play and culture.
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In many ways, this chapter is at the heart of the project. Certainly,

this constitutes what has been the main focus of the artwork: the pres-
ence of cosplayers in the urban; the juxtaposition of the spectacular and
the mundane; the fantastical in the everyday; and how cosplayers turn
ordinary spaces into playful places. Like Toby Paterson’s murals, cos-
players are bright and colourful additions to the drab and grey modern
city.
The chapter began with a consideration of the work of Henricks
(2014). Henricks suggests that often play has commonly been theo-
rised as either a form of socialisation or resistance, and hence, we sug-
gest that de Certeau (though not typically employed in considerations
of play) offers a potential way forward, by recognising both the limit-
ing and enabling aspects of culture and play. Moreover, de Certeau also
allows us to consider the uses and appropriation of urban space. The
application of de Certeau provides a lens for considering how cosplayers
(re)imagine and transform social spaces, particularly through the use of
the dual process of ‘synecdoche’ and ‘asyndeton’, which links together
and edits out parts of the built environment to create spatial stories and
shared narratives.
Fiske (2011) clearly points to a desire in individuals to find safe and
communal sites for leisure with other like-minded individuals or groups
who share their cultural values. Various groups claim space within these
public areas through their acts of trickery. In the case of cosplay, their
trickery could be seen as their subversion of reality, as they act out the
narratives of fictional characters in public spaces. However, cosplayers
have, thus far, only achieved small successes in claiming a place for their
own use. As they cosplay intermittently, they do not have a regular pres-
ence in a space and so colonisation is not possible. They are temporary
residents who move through the city, but unlike skateboarders or tra-
ceurs, cosplayers move slowly and cautiously.
This chapter explores similarities and continuities with other users of
urban space, and in particular, skateboarders. Skateboarders appropriate
and transform the use of everyday architecture to create an imagined
skate park. They are drawn to areas of the city that present an ideal envi-
ronment for the purpose of skateboarding. To the skater, urban archi-
tecture is seen as a series of obstacles to negotiate. As such, skaters view
228
urban planning differently from the rest of society, something vividly

visualised in the work of Toby Paterson.
Similarly, cosplayers use their ‘cosplayer’s eye’ to immerse themselves
more thoroughly into the world of their character. They use asyndeton
and synecdoche to alter the appearance of the location and objects
within, creating a place that spans both the imaginary and the actual.
By meeting in a group, they bring the fantasy into the physical space
that opens up numerous narrative possibilities. Cosplayers appropriate
an urban location and transform it into a safe space for them to play.
Their (re)appropriation of urban space could be seen as a form of
social resistance, similar to the youths Fiske (2011) discusses who hang
around shopping malls causing trouble. However, cosplayers cannot
similarly be seen as ‘proletarian shoppers’, who challenge consumption
and popular culture, nor are they the subversive subcultures discussed
by Laura Oldfield Ford; rather, cosplayers tend to be very brand loyal
and committed consumers of mainstream popular culture. As cosplay
is a product of popular culture, cosplayers seek out spaces of consump-
tion; they embrace a bright and consumerist world. More fitting is
probably the comparison to Fiske’s beach users, who seek out safe and
communal sites for leisure with other like-minded individuals or groups
who share their cultural values. However, in doing so, they are not sim-
ply transforming the space for themselves, but similarly, others can get
drawn into the play spaces, spatial stories, and performances that the
cosplayers construct.
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8
Conclusion: Decentring Cosplay
Introduction
In 1995, the sociologist and leisure studies scholar Chris Rojek argued
for the importance of decentring leisure. His argument is that by focus-
ing our attention on one particular form of leisure, or even leisure more
generally, we miss the bigger picture and the wider social context. Or, as
Bruce Lee put it in Enter the Dragon (Robert Clouse, 1973), ‘It is like a
finger pointing away to the moon. Do not concentrate on the finger or
you will miss all of the heavenly glory’.
Looking at the Moon

In this book, we have tried to not stare at the finger pointing at the
moon and overlook what it is pointing at. We have attempted to instead
explore and understand different aspects of cosplay within a wider con-
text. However, before doing this, our first task was to define cosplay
and map out our way forward. To this end, in the book’s opening chap-
ter, we argue for considering cosplay as a subculture, performance and

232
identity, a craft, and also, we highlight the significance of place. Our

next task was then to contextualise David Hancock’s Cosplay project
in relation to other artists who have drawn on, or worked with, other
subcultures. In particular, here we categorise artists as either definers
or documenters. Though the boundaries between these two categories
are often blurred, we find this a useful way of understanding those who
work within subcultures and help define their aesthetic, and those who
work outside, looking in, to document a subculture, or draw on this as
an influence in creating artwork.
In the chapter that follows, we then set out a case for using art as
a method and as data and suggest that art practice has enabled and
enhanced the research undertaken in this project in several key ways.
In particular, we argue that being an artist and possessing subcultural
capital (Thornton 1995) significantly aided access to this subculture,
particularly, as this is a creative community. This we feel enabled a
greater empathy between the researcher and the project’s participants,
as the researcher and participants both had shared experiences of par-
ticipating and cooperating in creative practices. Furthermore, we sug-
gest that art practice provides a wealth of additional ways data can be
represented. Khatchikian (2018) suggests that experience is embodied,
and translating this into written words is not always easy, and at times,
meaning can be lost in translation. Art practice then adds further meth-
ods through which this experience can be translated and expressed.
Art is also a much more accessible way of engaging diverse audiences,
such as by displaying this at public exhibitions and in galleries, which
can then (and in our project did) in turn lead to the creation of fur-
ther data, insights, and understandings by engaging with the audience
at these events. Hence, painting and the process of making artwork has
enabled us to present ethnographical research in new and unique ways.
This then offers a distinct methodological approach that provides new
perspectives on cosplay.
Chapter 4 considers cosplayers as a subculture. Our argument here is
that though many would dismiss cosplay as not adhering to traditional
ideas of what a subculture is and looks like, by employing Hodkinson’s
(2002) four indicators (consistent distinctiveness, identity, commit-
ment, and autonomy) we can see cosplay as a subculture. Certainly,
8 Conclusion: Decentring Cosplay
233
there is a clear consistent distinctiveness to cosplay. Though cosplay is a

relatively diverse community, a good proportion do conform to a clear
demographic, and moreover, cosplayers’ outward appearance while in
costume makes them very distinctive. However, the culture and prac-
tice of cosplay extend far beyond wearing a costume into everyday life,
where cosplayers show great commitment to their craft and community,
by researching and creating their outfits and performances, and sharing
knowledge with others. This is then a culture and practice that con-
tributes to the cosplayer’s identity and creates a relatively autonomous
community.
It is ideas of identity that we then specifically consider in more detail
in Chapter 5. Identity is central to many discussions of cosplay, but it
remains an elusive and extremely complex idea. For many, a key ques-
tion is to what extent, and in what ways, cosplayers are taking on a new
identity, or using costume play to express or road test aspects of their
existing selves? However, we see such distinctions between a real and
surface self as problematic, and drawing on the work of authors such
as, most notably, Erving Goffman and Judith Butler, we instead theo-
rise identity as a social and cultural construct formed through repeated
performances. That is to say, it is through social performances that we
make, and remake, who we are, and these performances include both
the everyday us and also the cosplaying us. They are both, and all, us.
Chapter 6 focuses on the processes and interactions involved in craft-
ing cosplay costumes and performances. However, in doing so, we argue
that cosplay is much more than simply a costume and a performance.
In particular, we argue that cosplay can be best understood as a com-
munity of practice. A community of practice is a group of people who
share a common concern or interest, and who expand their knowledge,
and that of others, by regularly participating within the group. In par-
ticular, we argue that cosplay is a community and culture based around
the practice of crafting, crafting of not only costumes, but also social
performance, narratives, identities, knowledge, and emotions.
Chapter 7 seeks to (physically) locate cosplay and understand the sig-
nificance of place in cosplay culture. This chapter argues that place and
space are significant for many subcultures and for art and artists alike.
In particular, this chapter focuses on the playful use and appropriation
234
of urban spaces, and how various subcultures, including cosplayers, see

and utilise spaces and objects.
However, in this final chapter, we want to expand our focus even
further. Here, if only briefly, we want to locate cosplay in a much
wider discussion, and in particular consider what Andreas Reckwitz
(2017) and others refer to as the ‘creativity dispositif ’. Hence, for much
of this final chapter we are (temporarily) putting cosplay to one side,
decentring it, and focusing instead on some wider (but related) social
processes.
The Invention of Creativity

The argument of several authors, including Angela McRobbie (2016),
Andreas Reckwitz (2017), and Oli Mould (2018), is that creativity (or
certainly a version of this) has in recent decades become culturally dom-
inant. In particular, it is argued that where creativity was once desired, it
has increasingly becoming a requirement of participation in contempo-
rary capitalist consumer culture.
Reckwitz (2017) argues that early modernity was marked by a de-aes-
theticisation, where factories and machines began to churn out stand-
ardised products, disconnected from human hands and creativity.
However, this de-aestheticisation was never total or complete, and, what
he terms the ‘agents of aestheticisation’, never completely went away. In
particular, Reckwitz (2017) charts the return and rising importance of
the aesthetic and creativity in contemporary society.
For Reckwitz, aesthetics first enters philosophical discourse around
the mid-eighteenth century with the development of art as a social field.
It is in this period that we see the emergence of the artist as a counter
cultural bohemian figure, which went hand-in-hand with the develop-
ment of a bourgeois art audience. The rise of art culture at the birth of
modernity could be seen as contra to the rise of standardising processes
of industrialisation and mass urbanisation, but in many ways is also a
product of this. It was, through art, and its valorisation and institution-
alisation, that the bourgeoisie, and in particular the nouveau riche, were
able to distinguish themselves from the swelling ranks of the uncouth
235
masses. It is here that we begin to see the growing importance of not

just art as a social filed, but also other cultural institutions and practices,
such as fashion and the use of taste as a marker of social distinction (see
Veblen 1994).
Reckwitz suggests that art then remains, though not necessarily mar-
ginal, equally not at the centre of social and cultural life for most of the
twentieth century. However, this he sees as an incubation period, where
certain social processes and movements start to lay the foundations for
the emergence of what he, and also McRobbie (2016), see as the emer-
gence of a dominant creativity dispositif. In particular, we can identify
at least four key drivers in this period.
First, there is the revival and celebration of traditional arts and craft
designs and techniques. As highlighted by Gauntlett (2018) (and dis-
cussed here in Chapter 6) the late nineteenth into the early twentieth
century saw the emergence of the Arts and Crafts movement. Advanced
by key figures such as William Morris, Augustus Pugin, and John
Ruskin, this advocated the use of traditional crafts and designs that
referred back to medieval, folk, and romantic designs, which often took
their inspiration from nature.
Second, there is what Reckwitz (2017, p. 21) terms ‘the rise of the
subject’. This refers to the rise and focus on the ideas and sciences of
identity in modernity—this we address in more detail in Chapter 5. In
particular, it can be argued that ideas of identity and the self are specifi-
cally tied to modernity, where becoming one’s self (or better still, a better
version of one’s self ) becomes a project that we are all required to pursue
(Giddens 1990). Certainly, Reckwitz (2017, p. 22) argues that the crea-
tion and maintenance of the self has moralising and disciplinary effects;
however, he also suggests that ideas of the self are associated with desires
and emotions that ‘could then become a source of aesthetic experience’.
Third is the advent and increasing saturation of audio-visual and
digital media into everyday life. In particular, and as highlighted by
Walter Benjamin (1931), mechanical reproduction, such as photogra-
phy, sound recordings, and cinema, allowed art to escape the confines of
the exclusively bourgeois world of private collections, live performances,
and galleries. This, Reckwitz argues, sees an increase and spread of inter-
est in the work and stars of cinema, music, and art scenes.
236
Finally, but probably most importantly, is the continued rise and

eventual domination of capitalism in the late modern period. Though
capitalism in early modernity was seen as suppressing creativity, through
the pursuit of maximising profits by standardising products and their
manufacturing, soon the proliferation of mass-produced blandness
began to fail to meet the increasing demands of a rising consumer cul-
ture. This Reckwitz links to an aestheticisation of commodities, or what
Adorno (1991) refers to as a thin veneer of individuality, which enables
products to be sold as new and novel. This Reckwitz sees as the start
of what he terms ‘aesthetic capitalism’, characterised by a diversification
of products, which started to be increasingly sold on the basis of their
desirability rather than functionality.
These and other drivers, Reckwitz argues, led to a period of crisis
and rapid societal change in the last few decades of the twentieth cen-
tury. As highlighted by writers such as Gauntlett (2018) and Jenkins
(2006), the 1960s onwards sees the rise of specific countercultures
that emphasise a do-it-yourself attitude and attempt to step outside of
mainstream culture and production. This is coupled with the increas-
ing importance of the mass media, and the rise of popular culture, such
as popular music and cinema. Though mainstream mass media is often
cast as an instrument of the state and social cohesion, it is important to
recognise its role also in the formation of subcultures, who often draw
on media and consumer resources in creating alternative, and at times
subversive, cultures (see Chapter 4). Similarly, during this period we
see a revolution in art, in the form of the postmodern and avant-garde,
which starts to push at the boundaries of art as an institution and
what had previously been deemed legitimate art practice. As discussed
in Chapter 3, from the start of the twentieth century, artists such as
Marcel Duchamp began challenging the conventions of art, by dis-
playing (at least partially) pre-manufactured objects, such as a bicycle
wheel on a stool and a bottle rack. However, from the 1960s onwards,
artists, such as Jackson Pollock and Andy Warhol, and art movements
like minimalism and abstract expressionism, and conceptual, perfor-
mance, installation, and assemblage art, all began to further push at the
boundaries of what was previously accepted as legitimate art and art
practice.
237
It is, then during this late modern period, and in particular from the
1980s onwards, we start to see the increasing aestheticisation of every-
day life, and the rise of a dominant creativity dispositif.
The Creativity Dispositif

The idea of a dispositif (or apparatus, in the most common translation
into English) is primarily derived from the work of Michel Foucault.
Dispositifs shape and limit what happens inside of them; they are the
principal manifestations and enactors of the conditions of possibility,
for a specific society and time (Muriel and Crawford 2019). In conver-
sation, Foucault defined the concept as follows:
What I’m trying to pick out with this term is, firstly, a thoroughly het-
erogeneous ensemble consisting of discourses, institutions, architectural
forms, regulatory decisions, laws, administrative measures, scientific state-
ments, philosophical, moral and philanthropic propositions — in short,
the said as much as the unsaid. (Gordon 1980, p. 194)
For writers such as McRobbie (2016), Reckwitz (2017), and Mould

(2018), the dominant cultural form or dispositif, from the end of the
twentieth century onwards, is creativity. However, for these writers,
this dominant form of creativity is one driven by capitalism and con-
sumer culture. Reckwitz argues that contemporary capitalist culture
requires novelty, as, put simply, novelty sells. In a world of mass-pro-
duced objects, it is their uniqueness and individuality that provides nov-
elty, or aura to use Benjamin’s term, or what Marx would see as their
fetishisation. As Reckwitz argues, novelty generates affect; it stimulates
the same senses and feelings as art. Hence, what happens in contempo-
rary consumer capitalism is that the non-aesthetic gets made aesthetic.
Once simply functional objects become works of art, such as how Apple
turned the once functional boxy and beige personal computer into the
aesthetically pleasing and beautiful iMac, and in the process revolution-
ised home computing, and several other associated products and indus-
tries with it.
238
Where the rational and the aesthetic were once (possibly) oppo-
site, they are brought together in the manufacturing of contemporary
culture. Hence, as McRobbie (2016) argues, in the dominant creativ-
ity dispositif the logic of the art school gets replaced (or at least sup-
plemented) by that of the business school. What drives processes of
aestheticisation are not the creation of the once subversive and coun-
terculture of art, or even the impulse to make something beautiful, but
rather the desire to make something novel and appealing to consumers.
This Adorno (1991) foresaw, as he predicted that significant parts of
art culture would be colonised by capitalism. The once subversive and
counterculture of art then becomes nullified by capitalism and used
as a means to beautify and sell consumer products. As Gary Alan Fine
(2018, pp. 1–2) writes:
Not so long ago the arts were the font of civic pleasure. People visited
museums to admire objects of beauty: the splendour of the possible, the
grandeur of talent, the height of humanity. Artists embraced that goal.
The arts generated numinous and sensual delight. The “fine” arts were
close as mere mortals came to the divine… Viewers hoped for the thrill of
aesthetic rapture. While this is an overgeneralization — many artists over
the centuries have had subversive or rebellious agendas, sometimes rec-
ognized by their audiences — here even the political was addressed with
panache.
In recent decades, the art world has changed.
Novelty, so Reckwitz argues, needs to be new and unpredictable, but in

a world where everything is novel, the unpredictable becomes predicta-
ble. This is similar to Jean Baudrillard (1993) or Guy Debord’s (1984)
arguments concerning the dulling effect of the spectacle. The culture
industries, such as advertising, sport, popular music, and cinema, and
even art galleries and museums, become creators of novelty, in order
to attract new audiences or, at least, retain those they already have.
However, creativity is no longer restricted to the culture industries, but
increasingly the ideologies of creativity start to seep into all sectors of
work, as both employers and employees are asked to produce increas-
ingly creative environments, solutions, and products. This is linked to
239
B. Joseph Pine and James H. Gilmore’s (2011) work on the experience

economy.
Pine and Gilmore (2011) suggest that from the end of the twenti-
eth century, a new kind of economy started to emerge, one based on
the production of experience. This the authors call the ‘experience
economy’, which is based on offering staged experiences to customers
instead of goods (industrial economy) or services (service economy): ‘in
a world saturated with largely undifferentiated goods and services the
greatest opportunity for value creation resides in staging experience’
(Pine and Gilmore 2011, p. ix). Hence, increasingly, more and more
industries and sectors start to offer not just products but increasingly
engaging, and often participatory, experiences. It is then about creating
products and services that engage the audience.
The Creative Audience

Crucially, the creative dispositif assumes and requires an audience. As
Reckwitz (2017) argues, the aesthetic is based on the duality of the cre-
ative artist and their appreciative audience. However, in the creative dis-
positif the distinction between producer and consumer becomes more
flexible. Importantly, this distinction does not collapse altogether, but
the roles and positions of both ends of the scale start to significantly
blur. This is because, in the creative dispositif, the imperative of creativ-
ity is not limited to the culture industries, but increasingly audiences are
required to be participatory and creative.
This is an important distinction from the work of writers like David
Gauntlett and Henry Jenkins who see the rise of participatory culture
as a democratisation of popular culture. For writers such as McRobbie,
Reckwitz, and Mould, audience participation and creativity are no
longer a desire, but rather become a requirement of participation within
contemporary cultural life. Zygmunt Bauman (1998, p. 26) argues that
in ‘our’ consumer society, an individual ‘needs to be a consumer first,
before one can think of becoming anything in particular’. According to
Bauman, it is consumption that defines who we are and who we can
be. To not consume is to become a vagabond, an outcaste and outsider.
240
However, this consumption is increasingly not limited to the acquisi-

tion and display of items; it also extends to our audio-visual and digital
lives too. Audiences are no longer content or simply asked to watch or
read; now they are required to interact, play, share, and participate. It
does not necessarily matter what they are interacting with, long gone
are the days of the hegemony of broadcast media where we were all
required to consume and discuss the same thing. What we participant
in now is less important. It is just necessary that we find ‘our thing’, the
thing that defines us.
This creates immaterial (creative) labour, where, for example, our
posts, videos, and pictures create audiences and revenue for social media
providers, such as YouTube, Twitter, and Facebook. But this also adds
to the speed and instability of contemporary culture. Digital media
means nothing rests for too long. Jenkins (2006) highlights how the
rise of new media allows audiences to actively seek out niche media and
engage with others across the globe who share our interests. But what he
fails to fully appreciate is how this also individualises, and potentially,
disempowers.
Freedom and Risk
The creative industries have always been a precious sector. Though a
very small handful of artists can make a living from their creative out-
puts, most artists, poets, and even musicians and writers have very inse-
cure careers. However, the spread of creativity as a driving and defining
force into other areas of social life has brought with it a wider adapta-
tion of creative industry employment models. In particular, new digi-
tal industries, such as video games developers and tech companies, are
notorious for their poor working conditions and lack of job security.
Here, we see the blurring of work and play under the guise of creativity
and ideas such as gamification, where work and play are seen to blur in
the workplace. This, on the one hand, may make for more playful and
(supposedly) enjoyable work places, such as offices with indoor slides,
beanbags, and nap pods, but at the same time creates an ethos where
workers are expected to be grateful that they get to work in an industry
241
where their creativity (and hence productivity) becomes all consuming.

In return for, what for many are life-consuming working hours, the vast
majority of creative-focused industries offer little or no job security or
support mechanisms. As McRobbie argues (2016, p. 11):
Neoliberalism succeeds in its mission… If a now very swollen youth-

ful middle class bypasses mainstream employment with its trade unions
and tranches of welfare and protection in favour of the challenges and
excitement of being a creative entrepreneur. Concomitantly, when in a
post-industrial society there are fewer jobs offering permanent and secure
employment a risk-taking stance becomes a necessity rather than a choice.
Numerous sectors now operate on the basis of zero-hour contracts,

and the supposed flexibility and freedom that this brings for employ-
ees, such to name but a few, taxi and delivery drivers, and hospitality
and retail staff; however, what this also does is drive down wages and
means employers do not have to provide additional staff benefits, such
as health insurance, child-care provision, sickness or holiday pay, or
pensions. There is, therefore, a rising casualisation of staff in many sec-
tors. As Mould (2018, p. 190) argues ‘capitalism forces us all to be agile,
competitive, individual, flexible, and ultimately, creative. As a result, the
world of work has become more precarious, piece-meal, and unstable,
but at the same time all-consuming’. But as Mould (2018) continues,
the creative imperative infiltrates not only our working lives, but also
our life away from work.
Creative-focused industries expect, if not demand, their audiences
to be interactive and participatory. Moreover, audiences are expected to
contribute their labour to the creative process by, for example, playing
video games, or following transmedia texts across multiple media for-
mats. Of course, to some extent, audience participation has always been
required and assumed. For example, every book needs a reader, just as
every film and television show requires a viewer. However, the nature
and degree of participation required of audiences has significantly
increased over recent decades. In an era where industries are increas-
ingly focusing on offering interactive, participatory, experiences (Pine
and Gilmore 2011), audiences are expected to play their part in creating
242
and maintaining these experiences for themselves, and sometimes others

too.
It is this participation that not only sells an experience but also gives
it longevity. Highly relevant here is Henry Jenkins’ (2006, p. 252) dis-
cussion of the ‘long tail’, where ‘niche communities can use the Web
to mobilise around titles that satisfy their particular interests’. Jenkins
continues, ‘then the greatest profit will be made by those companies
that generate the most diverse content and keep it available’. Hence,
Jenkins argues that new media technologies, like the Internet, allow
media fans to follow their niche interests, such as television shows that
are no longer being broadcast on mainstream media outlets, and simi-
larly find other fans who share their passion. This then helps create and
maintain fan communities and loyalties, which keep alive, and create
revenue for, once dead media products. However, the creation of fan
communities is no longer left to chance, but rather fans are now actively
courted and nurtured through a plethora of transmedia and paratexts,
interactions, and events. For example, Harry Potter began life as a mere
character in a printed book, but now fans of his world and adventures
can experience these in a multitude of different ways, such as watching
the films, playing the video, card, and board games, visiting the theme
parks, watching the plays, viewing and contributing to official websites,
listening to the audio books, buying and wearing official merchandise,
and going to conventions to meet actors, to name but a few available
experiences. All of these create fan loyalties and generate direct revenue
for copyright owners. However, fans’ participation is not only limited to
official channels and products. The interaction of audiences with unoffi-
cial sources, such as by contributing to or consuming blogs, engaging in
online chats, creating fan fiction or fan films, making game mods, and
also cosplay (again, to name but a few), all help create and maintain fan
loyalties in those generating the content and also those consuming it,
which then indirectly feeds into the appeal, longevity, and hence reve-
nue of franchises like Harry Potter, Star Wars, Final Fantasy, and many
others. It is from this immaterial, and often material, labour that many
copyright owners greatly profit. But this also creates divisions and dis-
empowers audiences, as fans (and audiences more generally) become
only specifically interested in what directly impacts on their fandom.
243
Hence, fan protest and dissent only usually occur when, for example,
a fan’s favourite television show gets cancelled, or similar events that
impact directly on their specific niche interests.
The rise of the experience economy and the creativity dispositif
could, therefore, be seen as a force of neoliberalism that requires partic-
ipation, but in return increasingly individualises, and hence disempow-
ers, audiences. And, it is important to recognise the location of cosplay
within wider capitalist consumer culture. As we have argued, cosplay-
ers tend not to be subversive and are usually fairly loyal consumers of
large quantities of popular culture. Cosplay can, therefore, be seen and
understood as a key example of the experience economy and the cre-
ativity dispositifs. Media producers encourage fan loyalties and do so
through a myriad of transmedia techniques, products, and events, all
of which require the active participation of the audience, which many
(such as cosplayers) happily do. Moreover, participatory audiences, fans,
and cosplayers, all help create new transmedia designs (Lamerichs 2018)
that others consume, all of which help extend the reach, life, and profit-
ability, of media texts for copyright owners. However, this is not neces-
sarily the whole story.
Making Do
The French Marxist, Louis Althusser, argues there is no outside of cap-
italist ideology. As he writes ‘what thus seems to take place outside ide-
ology… in reality takes place in ideology. That is why those who are
in ideology believe themselves by definition outside ideology’ (Althusser
1976, p. 49). Karl Marx (1990) did a good job of highlighting the
exploitation of workers in the production process; however, as Henri
Lefebvre (1991, p. 383) argues, equally, our ‘leisure is as alienated and
alienating as labour’. Put simply, there is no escape, there is no outside
of capitalism, at least not currently. However, as Oli Mould (2018, p.
185) writes, ‘if creativity is about the power to create something from
nothing, then believing in impossible things is its most critical compo-
nent. We need to believe that impossible worlds can be reached’.
244
As we discussed in Chapter 7, Michel de Certeau (1984) in his theori-

sation of strategies and tactics, and also in his metaphorical use of maps
and tours, highlights both the limits and the opportunities afforded by
contemporary social power relations. De Certeau argues that social life
is like a map in that there are only certain avenues we can walk down,
as we are both physically and socially blocked by barriers, buildings, or
by being otherwise prohibited from simply walking anywhere we choose.
However, which path, or route, we choose to take is then largely up to
us. The map is then the strategies that shape and restrict what we can
do, or where we can go, but the tour we choose to take are our tactics.
They are what we do, how we choose to live, the paths we decide to take,
which are individual to us. For de Certeau, there may be no outside, but
there is enough room within, to play with, to make do.
In cosplay, then we see an example of this room for play. In a world
characterised by mass consumption, liquid identities, fluid commu-
nities, and speed, summed up by the mantra of move fast and break
things (Taplin 2017), cosplay, like art, offers some respite, and an
opportunity to move slow and make things.
Move Slow and Make Things

Collins (1995) suggests that every innovation is equally matched by its
absorption and domestication. In particular, Collins (1995, p. 6) points
to the role of ‘anachronistic low-tech arenas of cultural activity’ and
argues that for every new art form embracing technology, ‘there appears
to be a “neo-classical” low-tech form of expression which rejects that
excess in favour of a lost purity and authenticity’. This we see in certain
art forms, like watercolour painting, and also in aspects of other ‘lo-fi’
and slow processes, like slow food and slow cinema (see Chapter 3),
and, we would add, also cosplay.
Cosplay transposes media and technological cultures into the physi-
cal world and, in doing so, builds and maintains communities and con-
nections with others, which may be, for some, primarily maintained
online, but take on greater significance and meaning at meet-ups and at
conventions in physical spaces. Cosplay is a community of imagination
245
(Doubleday 2001); a community built around imagination, but also

participation, interaction, and a shared culture, which has real meaning
and significance for its participants.
For both painters and cosplayers, the physicality of the form is essen-
tial, and they employ a slowness that allows for a greater experience and
understanding of their subject matter. Both these mediums could be
seen as a reaction to the increasing digitalisation of everyday life, but
both art and cosplay are not necessarily a rejection of technology, but
rather both can (and often do) embrace the possibilities that new tech-
nologies afford and use these to explore, expand, and make physical
existing media forms.
Though in recent decades, creativity may have been co-opted as
a tool of capitalism, or as Mould (2018) argues, an ideological ‘strait-
jacket’ that restrains and divides us all, in creativity also lies the oppor-
tunities to escape from this, if only momentarily. As Mould (2018, p.
194) argues, ‘resisting this division, and empathising with each other
and diffabled people, negates this negative form of creativity and proves
that a new way is possible. Sharing experiences and stories, we can jour-
ney into unknown worlds…’.
Possibly the idea that we, or even art, can ‘negate’ (Mould 2018)
the way creativity has been both commodified and used as a means of
social control, is maybe, a little optimistic, but as De Certeau shows us,
everyday life is never just one thing. Life is complex and even contradic-
tory. Creativity, and with it both art and cosplay, can be both limiting
and liberating, often at the same time, and the two do not necessarily
cancel each other out. As Gauntlett (2018, p. 6) citing Matt Smith’s
Doctor Who (or as he highlights, more accurately, the episodes’ writer
Richard Curtis) argues, ‘The good things don’t always soften the bad
things, but vice versa, the bad things don’t necessarily spoil the good
things, or make them unimportant’. As we have illustrated in this book
(both figuratively and literally) cosplay is important. Cosplay might
exist within, and be part of, a capitalist economy based on selling things
and (increasingly) experiences to consumers, and moreover, it may well
add to the reach and effectiveness of this, but cosplay also affords its
participants the opportunity to actively participate in a largely sup-
portive community and culture. Cosplay can then be understood as a
246
tactic where individuals make do, make their own, and build and craft
objects, performances, and narratives, but more than this, it also creates
cultures, communities, emotions, friendships, identities, and memories.
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Index
A Audiences 52, 58, 67, 70, 74–77,

Actor network theory (ANT) 62, 79, 81, 110, 111, 127, 155,
153 163–169, 180, 192–194, 209,
Aestheticization 234, 236–238 232, 238–243
Aesthetics 21, 25–28, 30, 35, 41, 47, Authenticity 26, 27, 73, 111, 132,
73, 126, 179, 181, 213, 226, 164, 185–187, 244
232, 234, 235, 237–239
Affect 30, 43, 79, 175, 237
Air Gear 213–215 B
Akira 7 Batman 214, 225
Alice in the Country Of Hearts 45 Batman: Arkham Asylum 214
Alice In Wonderland 45, 146 Battle of The Planets. See Science
American McGee’s Alice 45 Ninja Team Gatchaman
American McGee’s Alice: Madness Bauman, Zygmunt 95, 123, 125,
Returns 45 147–150, 156, 239
Anderson, Jonathan 65, 82, 180 Beck, Ulrich 147–149, 154, 156
Art-led research 2, 17, 51–54, Bennett, Andy 93, 94, 96, 97, 101,
57–59, 63, 74, 82 105, 207
Astro Boy 7 Bernstrup, Tobias 23, 33, 36–38, 40,
Attack on Titan 61, 108, 212 47, 99, 148
Big Brother 153
© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s) 2019 253

Leisure Studies in a Global Era, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-15966-5
254
Index
Black Butler 45 De Certeau, Michel 73, 74, 167,

Bleach 61 199, 200, 202–204, 207–210,
Borden, Ian 206, 210, 211, 213, 216 217–220, 227, 244, 245
Butler, Judith 120, 136, 137, 139, Deller, Jeremy 55, 56, 99
141–146, 155, 233 Dérive 204, 205, 221
Disney 11, 12, 109, 134, 135, 144,
146
C Disneybounding 11, 15
Cao Fei 23, 33–37, 40, 47, 99, 111, Dispositif 18, 234, 235, 237–239,
112, 207, 226 243
Communities of Practice 113, 164, Doctor Who 134, 167, 169, 245
176–178, 183, 184, 186, 187, Dorfman, Elena 23, 33, 38–40, 47,
189–191, 193 55
Community 2, 6, 9, 11, 15–17, 32, Dorn, Kent 66
35, 36, 39, 40, 43, 47, 54, 59, Drag 38, 142, 143, 145
60, 62, 79, 81, 87–92, 104, Dragon Ball 7, 108
106–108, 113, 133, 135, 143, Duchamp, Marcel 70, 236
149, 150, 155, 164, 167, 168,
176, 177, 182–187, 189–191,
193, 200, 204, 209, 224, 232, E
233, 244, 245 Embodiment 199
Craft 1, 17, 30, 38, 65, 71–73, 106, Emin, Tracey 70
113, 163, 164, 176, 178–182, Enter The Dragon 231
184, 187, 189, 190, 192, 193, Exhibiting 52, 74, 76, 82
232, 233, 235, 246 Experience economy 239, 243
Creativity 1, 2, 18, 41, 53, 55, 74,
127, 167, 168, 178–180, 183,
234, 236–240, 243, 245 F
Crossplay 12, 110, 134, 143, 144, Fans 1, 6, 7, 9, 10, 15, 26–29, 32,
147 39, 56, 64, 82, 90, 101, 102,
Curation 52, 74, 82 109–111, 128, 132, 167–169,
Curtis, Layla 200, 204, 206, 207, 172, 176, 181, 182, 186, 187,
211, 221, 223, 224, 245 193, 209, 218, 226, 242, 243
Final Fantasy 129, 132, 133, 146,
174, 225, 242
D Fisher, Mark 205, 224
Debord, Guy 204, 205, 238 Fiske, John 217–220, 222, 224, 227,
228
Index
255
Foucault, Michel 203 Historical re-enactment 10, 15

Freerunning 206 Hodkinson, Paul 89, 95, 96, 98, 99,
Friedrich, David 3, 4, 18 102–106, 108–113, 134, 135,
Furries 6, 10 191, 232
Huizinga, Johan 200, 203
G
Gauntlett, David 178–180, 190, I
192, 235, 236, 239, 245 Identity 1, 2, 12, 15–17, 26, 28, 29,
Gears of War 3 34, 36–38, 44, 64, 73, 80, 89,
Geeks of CONsent 191, 192 95, 96, 98, 100–102, 104–
Gender 12, 31, 37, 38, 41, 44, 47, 106, 110, 112, 113, 119–126,
62, 88, 96, 110, 112, 122, 128, 129, 135, 136, 139, 140,
134, 139, 141–145, 147, 148, 142–151, 153–156, 167, 168,
153, 187, 188 173, 177, 178, 188, 193, 208,
Giddens, Anthony 60, 125, 147, 232, 233, 235
150, 235 Inception 4
Goffman, Erving 120, 136–139, In The Country Of Hearts 61, 146
141, 142, 145–147, 152, 155,
202, 233
Goth 25, 26, 29, 38, 60, 64, 96, 97, J
99–105, 107, 109, 134, 191 Jenkins, Henry 73, 110, 124, 163,
Green Lantern 69 167–170, 172, 175, 180, 192,
209, 218–220, 236, 239, 240,
242
H
Hall, Stuart 58, 120, 165, 187
Harassment 164, 189, 191, 192, 194 K
Harry Potter 170, 242 Kingdom Heart 61, 146
Hebdige, Dick 46, 88, 94, 95, 97, Krupic, Minela 149
105
Helyar-Cardwell, Tom 28, 29, 47, 99
Henricks, Thomas S. 199–202, 227 L
Heroes of Cosplay 185, 189 Lamerichs, Nicolle 5, 7, 8, 10, 16,
Hetalia 61, 143, 212 87, 91, 102, 110, 126, 129,
Hills, Matt 127, 128, 132, 133, 146, 135, 136, 142–145, 150,
182 168–170, 172, 175, 176, 181,
Hirst, Damien 70 184–186, 188, 204, 209, 243
256
Index
Lefebvre, Henri 203, 243 P

Leisure 1, 17, 34, 36, 92, 96, 190, Painting 2–4, 12, 15, 25, 26, 28–32,
203, 206, 217, 222, 227, 228, 41, 44, 45, 52, 53, 56, 63–72,
231 75–77, 79, 81, 82, 100, 101,
The Legend of Zelda 4, 18, 61 121, 126, 129, 133, 140, 155,
The Little Mermaid 11, 12 175, 206, 211, 214, 216, 232,
Live action roleplay (LARP) 6, 10, 244
11, 15 Pandora’s Tower 61, 139, 140
Lolita 41, 48 Paratext 242
Lucas, Sarah 70 Parkour. See Freerunning
Participatory culture 73, 106, 163,
167, 168, 180, 192, 193, 239
M Paterson, Toby 204, 206, 211, 216,
Manic Street Preachers 55, 82 227, 228
Mario Bros 144 Patreon 190
Max Payne 3 Peirson-Smith, Anne 87, 104, 107,
McCarthy, Helen 9, 15, 45 108, 134–136, 183
McQueen, Ginny 190 Performance 1, 2, 6, 15–17, 27, 33,
McRobbie, Angela 91, 234, 235, 36–38, 41, 43, 58, 73, 79,
237–239, 241 106, 110, 111, 113, 119, 120,
Mould, Oli 234, 237, 239, 241, 243, 126–128, 135–142, 145–148,
245 150, 151, 154, 155, 163,
165–167, 169, 170, 172, 174,
176, 182, 185, 193, 204, 209,
N 223, 224, 226, 228, 231, 233,
Napier, Susan 64, 89, 109, 112, 187 235, 236, 246
Neoliberalism 241, 243 Performativity. See Performance
Neo-tribes 88, 95, 97, 107, 112 Play 1, 4, 5, 10, 12, 15–17, 21,
Nightingale, Virginia 127, 180 35–38, 40, 44, 45, 51, 56, 79,
Nigri, Jessica 190 101, 106, 110, 112, 113, 129,
132, 134, 138–140, 143, 144,
146, 149–151, 156, 169, 172,
O 180, 181, 183, 187, 199–205,
Oldfield Ford, Laura 99, 101, 200, 207–209, 211, 213, 216, 218,
204, 205, 221, 228 221, 226–228, 233, 240–242,
Original characters (OC) 173, 176, 244
219 Pokémon 8
Otaku 7, 9
Index
257
Practice-led research. See Art-led Steampunk 6, 10, 11, 15, 129

research Subculture 1, 2, 16, 17, 21–23,
Punk 24, 25, 29, 41, 94, 95, 97, 25–30, 32, 33, 39–41, 43–47,
101, 103, 104, 109, 110, 179, 54–57, 59, 60, 62–65, 69,
182, 205, 222 77, 81, 82, 87–89, 91–105,
107–113, 122, 134, 155, 169,
179, 191, 200, 205–207, 219,
R 222, 224, 228, 231–234, 236
Reckwitz, Andreas 18, 234–239 Sudworth, Anne 25–27, 29, 47, 60
Redhead, Steve 96 Sunn O))) 27, 48
Reid, Jamie 23–25, 27, 47, 179
Resistance 88, 94, 96, 142, 165,
199–202, 204, 219, 227, 228 T
Rojek, Chris 231 Thornton, Sarah 54, 103, 191, 232
Tokyo Ghoul 113
Tomb Raider 3, 38
S Touchstone Rochdale 77
Said, Edward W. 8 Transmedia 163, 169–173, 241–243
Sailor Moon 61 Turkle, Sherry 98, 151
Scene 5, 24, 26, 29, 31, 37, 45, 95,
97, 104, 107, 108, 185, 205,
209, 225, 235 U
Science Ninja Team Gatchaman 7 Urban spaces 1, 18, 94, 200, 204,
SecondLife 63 207, 234
Sennett, Richard 147, 148
The Sex Pistols 24, 109
Sexuality 41, 92, 129, 141, 143, V
144, 148, 175 Vampire Knights 45, 61, 129
Shearer, Steven 28, 30–33, 47 Van Dongen, Iris 28–30, 47, 99, 214
Skateboarding 200, 204, 206, 210, V For Vendetta 4
211, 213, 227 Violette, Banks 26, 27, 47
Sleeping Beauty 11, 35
Slow culture 181, 192
Snow White and The Seven Dwarfs 11 W
Sonic The Hedgehog 61, 146 Wärmling, Ulrika 23, 33, 40, 41,
The Squee Project 119, 138, 147 43–45, 56, 99, 122, 214
Star Trek 6, 167 Watch Dogs 153
Star Wars 7, 171, 172, 242 Watchmen 4
258
Index
Watercolour. See Painting Y

Wenger, Etienne 177, 184 YouTube 119, 180, 184, 189, 190,
Willems, Simon 66 192, 240
Wolverhampton Art Gallery 64, 77,
213, 214
Z
Zombies 6, 10, 11, 15, 134, 154

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Leisure Studies in a Global Era

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© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s) 2019

This project began life as an art-led doctoral research project undertaken

His support in understanding cosplay and contextualising it has been

1 Introduction: What Is Cosplay? 1

2 Contextualising the Artwork 21

3 Cosplay and Art as Research Method 51

5 Identity and Performance 119

6 Crafting Cosplay 163

7 Playful Cultures and the Appropriation

8 Conclusion: Decentring Cosplay 231

Fig. 1.1 Link (The Wanderer), pencil crayon on paper, 2014 3

© The Author(s) 2019 1

Link (The Wanderer)

Fig. 1.1 Link (The Wanderer), pencil crayon on paper, 2014

absurd. However, after Manet, the work of Velázquez is seen in a new

The History of Cosplay

It has frequently been suggested that this (re)imported Japanese-

Having been both a convention costumer and a historical re-creation cos-

Here, McCarthy is expressing a typical and often cited assumption that

Part of the continued popularity of Disney films and in particular their

Fig. 1.2 Donald (Alex), watercolour on paper, 42 × 30 cm, 2012

Fig. 1.3 Goofy (Catherine), watercolour on paper, 42 × 30 cm, 2012

if not foremost, as cosplayers will often strive to play out (a convincing

The Characteristics of Cosplay

A review of the existing literature on cosplay would seem to point

see and draw on urban spaces and objects. Finally, in Chapter 8, we

Do Rozario, R. C. (2004). The Princess and the Magic Kingdom: Beyond

Lome, J. K. (2016). The Creative Empowerment of Body Positivity in the

© The Author(s) 2019 21

of wider contemporary society. Hence, they primarily use the signifiers

The chapter then moves on to consider in more detail artists who

Defining Subcultures Through Art

Reid is keen to downplay the uniqueness of punk, seeing it more as a

clearly inspired by her subcultural belonging. Sudworth’s artwork is

is continuously repeated by both the musicians and also their teenage

subculture. The production and reproduction of any culture is always

Documenting Subculture Through Art

into a specific piece of work. Based in Vancouver, Shearer’s focus is on

to art history in which to contextualise his work. In an interview with

Shearer continues this theme of representing masculinity in a series of

aforementioned work, ‘Sorry Steve… ’, is irreverent and flippant and sug-

Artists Exploring Cosplay

cities of Guangzhou and Hong Kong, and is an area of cultural hybrid-

world. In many respects, the cosplayers appear to navigate the city as if

also gives us a possibility to explore and break borders concerning our

(Dorfman, n.d.). In particular, in linking Fandomania to her earlier

Though Dorfman’s Fandomania only has a small number of reviews

Anarkafeminister, a group of Swedish anarchist feminists, or what in the

Fig. 2.1 Miriam as Lolita, pencil on paper, 76 × 56 cm, 2011

sense of alienation from society as a whole. The subculture, Wärmling

Japan’s love of England was inspired by their first contact in Victorian

This obsession with colonial British culture is further evidenced by the

Fig. 1.1 Link (The Wanderer), pencil crayon on paper, 2014 3

Fig. 1.1 Link (The Wanderer), pencil crayon on paper, 2014

The History of Cosplay

Fig. 1.2 Donald (Alex), watercolour on paper, 42 × 30 cm, 2012

Fig. 1.3 Goofy (Catherine), watercolour on paper, 42 × 30 cm, 2012

The Characteristics of Cosplay

Fig. 2.1 Miriam as Lolita, pencil on paper, 76 × 56 cm, 2011

Art Practice as Research

Table 3.1 The interviewees

The Continued Importance of Painting

Fig. 3.1 Lanterns, watercolour on paper, 15 cm × 21 cm, 2014

The Death of Painting?

Curation, Exhibiting, and Engagement

Fig. 3.2 Installation views I at Touchstones Rochdale, 2013. Image use cour-

Fig. 3.3 Installation views II at Touchstones Rochdale, 2013. Image use cour-

Fig. 4.1 U.R.V.1, acrylic on canvas, 122 × 244 cm, 2000