As Some of the Legacy Media have Dumbed Down, The New Yorker has Dumbed Up

Newspaper headlines when Trump wins the Presidency, as read on the subway, created by Barry Blitt and published in the New Yorker, November 14, 2016.

By Matthew Ricketson, Deakin University

Like many, I entered The New Yorker through the cartoon door. The first cartoon I loved, and remember to this day, featured a New Yorker staple – two guys sitting in a bar – with one saying to the other: “I wish just once someone would say to me, ‘I read your latest ad, and I loved it’.”

For someone whose first job after university was an unhappy stint in an advertising agency, the cartoon was a tonic. They are still the first thing I look at when the magazine arrives by mail or the daily newsletter by email, and the first thing shared with my family. There have been around 80,000 published since the magazine’s first issue on February 25 1925.

I had discovered The New Yorker while studying literature at Monash University and writing an honours thesis on the playwright Tom Stoppard. The English drama critic Kenneth Tynan had written a long profile of Stoppard for the magazine in 1977, combining sharp insights into the plays, behind-the-curtains material from Tynan’s time as literary manager at the National Theatre (he bought the rights to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead in 1966) and slices of Stoppard’s life.

The most enticing of these was Tynan’s account of a Saturday afternoon cricket match between a team from The Guardian, comprising several no-nonsense typesetters and the paper’s industrial correspondent, and Harold Pinter’s XI, which was actually a IX owing to two late withdrawals, including the captain himself.

Stoppard arrived in dazzlingly white whites but didn’t seem to take the game seriously, inadvertently dropping a smouldering cigarette butt between kneepad and trousers as he took the field. “Playwright Bursts into Flames at Wicket,” he called back to Tynan standing on the boundary.

A younger Tom Stoppard. Wikimedia Commons, CC BY

Once the game began, though, Stoppard was a revelation, first as wicket-keeper where his “elastic leaps and hair-trigger reflexes” saw him dismiss four players, and then as a batsman, when he smoothly drove and cut his way to the winning score.

I had never read anything like this. It wasn’t academic literary criticism, which tended to assault the English language on a polysyllabic basis. It wasn’t the daily newspaper, which as Stoppard himself mocked, was terse, formal and leaned to the formulaic. It wasn’t a biography of someone long dead, but a “profile”, whatever that was, of a living, breathing person.

I wanted more and so began looking out for the magazine but read it only intermittently. Released from advertising, I began working in journalism in 1981. The 1980s coincided with the final years of William Shawn’s 35-year editorship when The New Yorker almost collapsed under the weight of very long articles about very slight subjects and Shawn’s legendary prudishness. (Tynan once referred to a “pissoir”, which Shawn changed to “circular curbside construction”.)

Shawn began working at The New Yorker as a fact-checker eight years after its founding in 1925 by Harold Ross, a former newspaperman, and his wife, reporter Jane Grant. Shawn took over as editor after Ross’s death in 1951, and was brilliant, encouraging writers such as Rachel Carson, James Baldwin, Hannah Arendt and Truman Capote to do work better than even they expected.

Truman Capote in 1959. Wikimedia Commons, CC BY

More than 60 writers have dedicated books to Shawn that grew out of New Yorker articles, according to Ben Yagoda’s excellent 2000 history of the magazine.

In Shawn’s later years, though, the weaknesses of his approach became dominant, and he could not bear to let go of the editorship. As John Bennet, a staff member trying to decipher Shawn’s gnomic utterances, said:

Shawn ran the magazine the way Algerian terrorist cells were organised in the battle of Algiers – no one knew who anybody else was or what anybody else was doing.

Yagoda writes the cornerstones of the magazine were:

A belief in civility, a respect for privacy, a striving for clear and accurate prose, a determination to publish what one believes in, irrespective of public opinion and commercial concerns, and a sense that The New Yorker was something special, something other and somehow more important than just another magazine. These admirable values all had their origin in the Ross years. But under Shawn, such emotional energy was invested in each of them that they became obsessive and sometimes distorted and perverted, in the sense of being turned completely inward.

The 1980s may have been a difficult period for the magazine, but it still produced some outstanding journalism, and it was the journalism I increasingly turned to, particularly that of Janet Malcolm. Today, readers know of her work through books such as In the Freud Archives, The Journalist and the Murderer and The Silent Woman, but all three, like most of her writing, originally appeared as long articles in the magazine.

I can still recall the jolt I felt reading the famous opening paragraph of The Journalist and the Murderer (published in the magazine in 1989):

Every journalist who is not too stupid or too full of himself to notice what is going on knows that what he does is morally indefensible. He is a kind of confidence man, preying on people’s vanity, ignorance, or loneliness, gaining their trust and betraying them without remorse.

Malcolm’s dissection of the relationship between Jeffrey MacDonald, a convicted murderer, and Joe McGinniss, a journalist convicted by her ice-cold, surgically precise prose, is by turns brilliant, thought-provoking, infuriating and incomplete. Well over three decades later, Malcolm’s book is one all journalists should read.

To Malcolm, the relationship between journalists and their subjects was the “canker that lies at the heart of the rose of journalism”, which could not be rooted out. Hers was a long overdue wake-up call for an industry allergic to reflection and self-criticism. But in the end, for all the brilliance with which she opened up a difficult topic, Malcolm packed the journalist–subject relationship in too small a box.

Among her colleagues at the magazine were many who carefully and ethically navigated the challenges of gaining a subject’s trust, then writing about them honestly, as I learnt when researching a PhD which became a book, Telling True Stories.

One example is Lawrence Wright’s work for the magazine on the rise of Al-Qaeda, and the subsequent book The Loooming Tower. In a note on sources, Wright reflects on the questions of trust and friendship that haunt the journalist–subject relationship.

Knowledge is seductive; the reporter wants to know, and the more he knows, the more interesting he becomes to the source. There are few forces in human nature more powerful than the desire to be understood; journalism couldn’t exist without it.

By conspicuously placing a tape recorder between him and his interviewee, Wright tries to remind both parties “that there is a third party in the room, the eventual reader”.

Outstanding journalists

When I began teaching journalism, especially feature writing, at RMIT in the 1990s, I found myself drawn more and more to The New Yorker and to its history. The “comic paper” Ross originally envisaged had travelled a long way since 1925. The second world war impelled Ross and Shawn, then his deputy, to broaden and deepen the scope of their reporting.

Most famously, after the dropping of two atomic bombs at Hiroshima and Nagasaki, forcing the Japanese to surrender in 1945, they commissioned John Hersey to return to Japan, interview survivors and, as Hersey later put it, write about “what happened not to buildings but to human beings”. Ross set aside the cartoons and devoted the entire issue of August 31 1946 to Hersey’s 31,000-word article simply headlined “Hiroshima”.

I still remember being deeply moved by “Hiroshima”, which I first read half a century after publication and half a world away while on a summer holiday in the bush. The backstory behind the article (ranked number one on the Best American Journalism of the 20th Century list), and its impact on journalism and the world, is well told in Lesley Blume’s 2020 book, Fallout.

By the 1990s, when Tina Brown became the first woman to edit The New Yorker, it definitely needed a makeover. It still did not have a table of contents, nor run photographs. And, beyond a headline, it gave readers little idea what a story was about! She eased up on the copy editors’ notorious fussiness. As E.B. White, a longtime contributor, once said: “Commas in The New Yorker fall with the precision of knives in a circus act, outlining the victim.”

Brown lasted only marginally longer than her predecessor, Robert Gottlieb. Her editorship has been given a bad rap by New Yorker traditionalists, but she gave the magazine a much-needed electric shock, injecting fresh blood.

A list of outstanding journalists she hired who remain at the magazine three decades later is illuminating: David Remnick (who followed her as editor, in 1998), Malcolm Gladwell, Jane Mayer, Lawrence Wright, Anthony Lane and John Lahr, among others.

There’s going to be a lot of celebrating of the magazine’s 100th anniversary, including a Netflix documentary scheduled for release later in the year.

Not many magazines reach such a milestone. One of The New Yorker’s early competitors, Time, which began two years before, was for many years one of the most widely read and respected magazines in the world. It continues today but has a thinner print product and a barely noticed online presence. (I say that as someone who once worked for three years in Time’s Australian office.)

Time is far from alone in this. Magazines, like newspapers, have struggled to adapt to the digital world as the advertising revenue that once afforded them plump profits was funnelled into the big online technology companies, Google and Facebook.

Yet The New Yorker has not only adapted to the digital age but thrived in it. It is one of few legacy media outlets whose prestige and influence have actually grown in the past two decades.

As the internet arrived, the New Yorker’s paid circulation was 900,000. It exceeded a million, for the first time in the magazine’s history, in 2004. As of October last year it was 1,161,064 (for both the print and electronic edition). Subscribers to the magazine’s electronic edition have increased five-fold since it began in 2016 and now stand at 534,287. Yes, advertising revenue remains challenged, recently forcing some redundancies at the magazine, but nothing compared to other parts of the media industry.

Apart from the weekly edition, a daily newsletter was introduced around 2015. The magazine has also expanded into audio, podcasting and documentary film, runs a well-attended annual festival, invites readers to try their hand at devising captions for cartoons and does a line of merchandising. All the astute branding on the part of the magazine and its owners, Condé Nast, would have Shawn rolling in his grave, but the core of the magazine’s editorial mission remains true.

Why it succeeds

The key reasons behind The New Yorker’s current success, in my view, are twofold. First, as the internet made a cornucopia of information available instantly anywhere, the magazine continued to produce material, especially journalism, that was distinctive and different.

Journalist Jane Mayer. goodreads

Think, for example, of the extraordinary disclosures made by Seymour Hersh and Jane Mayer during George W. Bush’s administration (2001–2009) about the torture by American soldiers of Iraqi prisoners in Baghdad’s Abu Ghraib prison and how rules about what constituted torture were changed to make almost anything short of death permissible.

Both journalists later published their work in books: Hersh’s Chain of Command: the road from 9/11 to Abu Ghraib (2004) and Mayer’s The Dark Side: the inside story on how the war on terror turned into a war on American ideals (2008).

Alongside the investigative journalism have been many examples of deep, productive dives into seemingly unpromising topics such as the packaged ice cube business (Peter Boyer, The Emperor of Ice, February 12 2001) and a movie dog (Susan Orlean, The Dog Star: the life and times of Rin Tin Tin, August 29 2011).

In a world of information abundance, what remained scarce was the ability to make sense of chaotic events, knotty issues and complicated people, in prose that is almost always clear, alive to irony, elegant and sometimes profound. In other words, while most of the legacy media was dumbing down, The New Yorker was dumbing up.

The second reason for the magazine’s continued success is that even as the internet’s information abundance has curdled into the chaos and cruelty of social media’s algorithm-driven world, The New Yorker has not wavered in its editorial mission.

Just as Donald Trump doubled down on the Big Lie surrounding the 2020 election result and the January 6 2021 riots at the Capitol, so the magazine doubled down on reporting his actions since then and into his second presidency.

Other media outlets, even The Washington Post, which did so much excellent reporting during the first Trump presidency, have kowtowed to Trump, or at least its proprietor appears to have. Jeff Bezos decided the newspaper should not run a pre-election endorsement editorial last year. The Amazon owner was placed front and centre with other heads of the big tech companies at Trump’s inauguration on January 20.

By contrast, The New Yorker has published a steady stream of reporting and commentary about the outrageous and shocking actions of the Trump administration in its first month.

The new administration has moved so quickly and on so many fronts that the import of its actions have overwhelmed the media, making it hard to keep up with reporting every development in the detail it might deserve.

To take one example, The Washington Post reported that candidates for senior posts in intelligence and law enforcement were being asked so-called loyalty questions about whether the 2020 presidential election was “stolen” and the January 6 Capitol riots an “inside job”.

Two individuals being considered for positions in intelligence “who did not give the desired straight "yes” answers, were not selected. It is not clear whether other factors contributed to the decision".

The report prompted media commentary, but not enough of it recognised the gravity of an attempt to rewrite history every bit as egregious as Stalinist Russia.

The New Yorker has made its own statement, in response, by reprinting Luke Mogelson’s remarkable reporting from January 6 2021, with photography by Balasz Gardi and alarming footage from inside the capitol with the rioters.

David Remnick, now in his 27th year as editor, was among ten media figures asked recently by The Washington Post how the second Trump administration should be reported. He said:

To some degree, we should be self-critical, but we should stop apologizing for everything we do. I think that journalism during the first Trump administration achieved an enormous amount in terms of its investigative reporting. And if we’re going to go into a mode where we’re doing nothing but apologizing and falling into a faint and accepting a false picture of reality because we think that’s what fairness demands, then I think we’re making an enormous mistake. I just don’t think we should throw up our hands and accede to reality as it is seen through the lens of Donald Trump.

Remnick’s argument is clear-eyed and courageous. You would hope it is heard by other parts of the news media that have long ceded editorial leadership to what was for many years categorised simply as a “general interest magazine”.

Failing that, they could look at the cartoons. On February 14, the magazine published one by Brendan Loper featuring a drawing of Sesame Street’s Cookie Monster standing outside the Cookie Company factory where a spokesman said,

Let me assure you that as an unpaid “special factory employee” Mr. Monster stands to personally gain nothing from this work.

Here’s looking at you, Elon.

Matthew Ricketson, Professor of Communication, Deakin University

Medieval Venice Shows Us the Good Art Can Do in Times of Crisis

Miracle of the Cross at the Bridge of S. Lorenzo, by Gentile Bellini, c.1496-1501. Gallerie dell'Accademia, Venice.

By Stefania Gerevini, Bocconi University

In an increasingly polarised world, the arts and humanities play a key role in sustaining democracy. They foster critical thinking, open dialogue, emotional intelligence and understanding across different perspectives, all of which are essential for a healthy democratic society. Also, people who participate in cultural activities are much more likely to engage in civic and democratic life.

The Pala d'Oro, the gold Byzantine altarpiece

in St Mark’s basilica. Steve Tulley/Alamy

Yet the way the arts are funded differs widely from country to country, especially in times of economic hardship or significant change. During and after the pandemic, for instance, some EU countries increased public spending on culture, while others made significant cuts.

The reasons for these contrasting attitudes are many, from local cultural values, to shifting economic priorities and politics. But at their core, different funding strategies express different attitudes towards two questions: what contribution does art make in times of crisis? And how do communities express their experiences of uncertainty?

As I argue in my recent book Facing Crisis: Art as Politics in Fourteenth Century Venice, the medieval city of Venice provides a remarkable historical example for addressing these questions.

Between the sixth and 12th centuries, Venice grew into an independent city-state ruled by an elected council and an elected head of state, called the doge.

Set on an island, the city lacked some of the resources necessary to its survival, so it quickly established strong maritime trade networks across the Mediterranean. It gradually developed into an international merchant empire, acquiring strategic territories along the eastern Adriatic Coast, Greece and the Aegean Sea.

By the mid-14th century, Venice was a leading global power. Yet, between 1340 and 1355, the city also faced famine, plague, a violent earthquake and fierce military conflicts with Genoa and the Ottomans.

Internally, Venice tackled dramatic political tensions (including a coup and the public execution of a doge in 1355), as non-noble citizens were gradually excluded from public office. Strikingly, it was during this period of acute crisis that the government initiated a series of ambitious artistic projects in the state church of San Marco.

The Palo Feriale, the ‘weekday’ altarpiece

 in St Mark’s basilica, painted on wood 

panels, completed in 1345. Artgen /Alamy

A new baptistery and a chapel dedicated to Saint Isidore of Chios were lavishly decorated with mosaics. In addition, the high altar, which provided religious focus for the faithful, was revamped. This included turning its uniquely precious golden altarpiece into spectacular moving machinery that would open and close to reveal different images daily, and on feast days.

These projects, which required substantial public spending at a time of financial strain, hardly represented business as usual for Venetian policymakers. Instead, they were a central part of the government’s wider response to crisis.

On one level, these new projects revealed the range of pressing concerns that engulfed the Venetian government and people at the time. The painted altarpiece displayed on the altar of San Marco on non-festive days exhibits an emphasis on human suffering, miracles and saintly interventions that may relate the need for reassurance in uncertain times.

The bloody conflict against Genoa likely influenced the dedication of a chapel to St Isidore. The saint’s body was transported to Venice from the Greek island of Chios, a vital Genoese stronghold in the 14th century. To the people of Venice, the physical presence of St Isidore’s relics in San Marco provided reassurance and the promise of protection and victory as their state engaged in a risky conflict.

Finally, uncertainty about the nature and boundaries of citizenship and political authority – which the expansion of Venice’s overseas territories transformed into an ever more urgent problem – offer a valuable way to interpret the imagery in the baptistery. Here the apostles are rendered in mosaic as they baptise the “nations of the earth”, offering an idealised image of union in diversity.

Yet, on another level, the projects sponsored by the Venetian government during this period represented the active exercising of the political imagination. In ways that some of us may find alarmingly familiar, Venice’s ongoing instability made traditional approaches to decision-making, communication and control ineffective in dealing with the challenges it faced.

Venice’s governors responded to the crisis which threatened the very survival and stability of the city and its political foundations with a wide-ranging strategy of legal, institutional and historical revision, aimed at clarifying the nature and functions of the Venetian state.

The government reaffirmed Venice’s civic laws and reorganised its international treaties. The authority of the doge was progressively restricted, and over time, the government clarified the rules for holding public office. The first official history of Venice was completed in 1352.

In this context, the San Marco projects did not merely express the anxiety of the Venetian people, or their hopes for renewed stability. They represented the establishing of a new political landscape, which was envisioned most clearly on the east wall of the baptistery.

The 14th-century mosaic in the baptistery of Venice’s 

San Marco Basilica showing the crucifixion

scene with the Venetian doge and two officers

of the city beneath. University of Bologna

Three secular figures – a doge and two officers – are depicted as kneeling supplicants within a monumental mosaic of the crucifixion (see image at left). Blending the sacred with the secular, this image offered an abstract “state portrait” that simultaneously expressed a political reality and suggested a new political ideal.

The mosaic now rendered Venice’s doge as a humble ruler, and it represented the business of government as a collective enterprise. In so doing, this image articulated a new vision of government as public service and shared responsibility. This idea, which developed through political reforms in Venice and from broader debates in other medieval Italian city states, has went on to influence western approaches to government and public life to this day.

Venice’s state-sponsored artistic commissions were not propaganda in the modern sense. Instead, they offered a compelling visual reflection on the nature of leadership and the necessary limits of authority. They kindled a new vision of government that enabled Venice to navigate one of the most turbulent phases of its history – reminding us, too, of the power of the arts to inspire and imagine new futures in difficult times.

By Stefania Gerevini, Associate Professor of Medieval Art History, Bocconi University

Donald Trump’s ‘Chilling Effect’ on Free Speech and Dissent is Threatening US Democracy

In the United States, the greatest concerns are about the Trump administration's actions that suggest a deliberate destruction of American democracy.

By Dafydd Townley, University of Portsmouth

The second Donald Trump administration has already sent shockwaves through the political establishment on both sides of the Atlantic. Overseas, the focus has been on the administration’s apparent dismantling of the post-war international order and Trump’s apparent pivot away from America’s traditional allies towards a warmer relationship with Russia and Vladimir Putin. But within the United States itself, the greatest concerns are associated with administration actions that, for many, suggest a deliberate destruction of American democracy.

Such fears in the US are not isolated to the political elites but are shared by citizens across the entire nation. But what is also emerging is a concerted assault on people’s ability to push back – or even complain – about some of the measures being introduced by Trump 2.0. This will inevitably result in what is often called a “chilling effect”, where it becomes too hard – or too dangerous – to voice dissent.

Many of Trump’s policies – the mass deportations, the wholesale sacking of public servants by Elon Musk and his Department of Government Efficiency (Doge), the decision to revoke birthright citizenship for the children of undocumented immigrants – have been challenged in the courts. The Trump administration is now embroiled in a range of legal challenges. It is here that Trump’s disdain for a legal system that has temporarily blocked the wishes of the president has emerged.

Chilling effect

Judicial decisions calling for the administration to reverse or pause some of these policies have been greeted by Trump and some of his senior colleagues (including Musk and the vice-president J.D.Vance), with noisy complaints at judicial interference in government. Even, in some cases, calls for the impeachment of judges who rule against the government.

Not only did the administration ignore the court’s ruling that suspended the forced expulsion of Venezuelans to El Salvador, some of whom were in the US legally, but Trump attacked the judge on social media calling him a corrupt “radical left lunatic” and called for his impeachment.

This stirred the chief justice of the Supreme Court, John Glover Roberts Jr., to intervene. He reminded the president that America doesn’t settle its disputes, saying that the “normal appellate review process exists for that purpose”. Later, Tom Homan, Trump’s chief adviser on immigration issues, told ABC News that the administration would abide by court rulings on the matter.

The pressure being brought to bear on America’s legal system has not stopped at the judiciary. Trump has recently targeted some of America’s biggest and most powerful law firms, seemingly for no other reason than their acting for clients who have opposed his administration.

On March 25, Trump signed an executive order targeting Jenner & Block, one of whose partners, Andrew Weissmann, worked with special prosecutor Robert Mueller on the investigation into Russian meddling in the 2016 presidential election. The executive order calls for the firms to be blacklisted from government work and for their employees to have any security clearances removed, for them to be barred from any federal government contracts and refused access to federal government buildings. A death warrant for the firm in other words.

This follows the news that the head of the prestigious law firm Paul Weiss, Brad Karp, had signed a deal with the White House committing to providing millions of dollars worth of pro-bono legal work for causes nominated by the president. He’s also agreed to stop using diversity, equity and inclusion (DEI) policies, which had been faced with a similar fate.

Silencing dissent

This administration’s chilling effect has also extended to an attack on press freedom. Trump has expelled established news organisations from the Pentagon, curtailed access to press events for the esteemed Associated Press, and taken control of the White House press pool, sidelining major media outlets.

These actions mark a significant downgrading of press freedom in America. They are undermining the role of independent journalism in their key function of holding power to account. By restricting access and silencing critical voices, his administration has raised concerns over transparency and the free flow of information in the domestic media landscapes.

Universities have traditionally been bastions of independent thought. We saw that with the massive protests against US policy towards Israel and Palestine which have roiled campuses during the conflict in Gaza. But universities are also seen by many in the administration as a hotbed of “woke” activism. Accordingly Trump 2.0 has fixed its sights on one of the most prominent US universities: Columbia.

Citing what it says is a repeated failure to protect students from antisemitic harassment, the administration cancelled US$400m (£310 million) of federal contracts with the university. Columbia caved in to the pressure moments before the administration’s deadline passed. It agreed to overhaul its disciplinary procedures and “review” its regional studies programmes, starting with those covering the Middle East.

Columbia’s academic staff are horrified. They are launching legal action against the government, alleging that “the Trump administration is coercing Columbia University to do its bidding and regulate speech and expression on campus”.

Democracy in peril

Why is this all so worrying? The legal system, the media and universities are the pillars of US democratic freedoms. The Trump administration’s undermining of these institutions is a blatant attempt to impose an authoritarian rule by bypassing any counterbalance to executive power. And the US Supreme Court has ruled that he is almost entirely immune from prosecution while doing it.

The checks and balances system of government in the US was designed to ensure that no single branch could dominate the political process. But partisan loyalty, and loyalty to Trump over the party, now outweighs constitutional responsibility for the majority of those within the Republican Party.

American democracy is under threat. Not from the external existential threats it faced over the past century such as communism and Islamic fundamentalism, but from within its own system. Those Americans who are terrified about this threat are trying to fight back, but Trump’s assault on dissent is so chilling that this is becoming increasingly dangerous.

Dafydd Townley, Teaching Fellow in US politics and international security, University of Portsmouth

Trouble at Tesla and Protests Against Trump’s Tariffs Suggest Consumer Boycotts are Starting to Bite

Demonstrations against Elon Musk and boycotts of his Tesla electric cars are growing worldwide. Cover picture of the new Pucci Marmo SS25 collection by Camille Maceli, photographed by Drew Vickers.

By Erin O'Brien, Griffith University and Justine Coneybeer, Griffith University

When the United States starts a trade war with your country, how do you fight back? For individuals, one option is to wage a personal trade war and boycott products from the US.

President Donald Trump has said no nation will be exempt from his tariffs, and this includes both Australia and New Zealand. His tariffs on all steel and aluminium imports, in particular, could hurt the sector in Australia, while New Zealand’s meat and wine exports to the US could also feel the effect.

So far, political leaders have responded differently. Canada, Mexico and the European Union have imposed reciprocal tariffs on the US, while Australia has indicated it will not retaliate.

But whether governments choose to push back or not, citizens in those and other countries are making their own stands. This includes artists such as renowned pianist András Schiff, who has cancelled his upcoming US tour.

Most notably, collective outrage at the US president has led to a growing global boycott of Elon Musk’s Tesla due to his role in the Trump administration. Sales of new Tesla vehicles are down 72% in Australia and 76% in Germany. The share price has dropped by more than 50% since December 2024, with calls for Musk to step down as chief executive.

Some governments are even encouraging consumer boycotts. The Canadian government, for example, has urged citizens to “fight back against the unjustified US tariffs” by purchasing Canadian products and holidaying in Canada.

Canadians are clearly embracing this advice. Road trips to the US have dropped by more than 20% in the past month and US liquor brands have been removed from some Canadian stores altogether.

This rise in calls for boycotts of American brands and companies is unsurprising in the Trump 2.0 era, where the lines between government and corporate America have become increasingly blurred.

Political change by proxy

When people want to protest a government policy, but have no political leverage because they’re not citizens of that country, boycotting corporations or brands gives them a voice. These actions are sometimes called “surrogate” or “proxy” boycotts.

This form of “political consumerism”, where individuals align their consumption choices with their values, is now one of the most common forms of political participation in western liberal democracies.

When France opposed the war in Iraq in 2003, US supporters of the war aimed boycotts at French imports. Consumers in the US, United Kingdom and elsewhere have boycotted Russian goods over the invasion of Ukraine, and targeted Israel over its military action and policies in Gaza and the West Bank.

Most famously, protests against the apartheid regime in South Africa from the 1950s through to the 1990s helped isolate and eventually change its government.

The current boycotts are not just protesting Trump’s trade war, of course. They are also about the role of unelected leaders from the corporate world, such as Musk and the heads of the Big Tech and social media companies, and their perceived self-interest and influence.

Trump has responded angrily to consumer boycotts, calling the actions against Tesla “illegal”, which they are not. Indeed, political leaders like Trump often argue that consumer action, rather than government regulation, should be relied on to ensure corporations conform to social expectations.

Ukrainians demonstrate in front of the Lukoil headquarters in Belgium over European imports of Russian fossil fuels, 2022. Getty Images

How to wage a personal trade war

Consumer boycotts do create change under certain conditions – typically when there is a contained problem that the targeted corporation has the power to solve.

For example, consumer boycotts against Nestlé in the 1970s over false and dangerous marketing of powdered milk for infants led to changes in the firm’s marketing approaches. Boycotts of Nike products over sweatshop conditions for workers had a direct impact on the company’s bottom line and led to improvements.

Things may still need to improve at Nestlé and Nike, but these boycotts show consumer pressure can catalyse corporate action. However, it is much harder – though not impossible – for boycott campaigns to succeed when the target is a government.

Consumers boycotting American products can amplify the impact of their protest by also lobbying retailers. For example, if enough consumers stop buying a bottle of soft drink from the US, major supermarkets like Woolworths and Foodstuffs will stop buying thousands of bottles.

There are also other ways to “vote with your wallet”. People can engage in “political investorism” by using their power as a shareholder, bank customer or pension-fund member to express their political views.

After Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, for example, investors sought to divest from Russian companies, and superannuation funds were pressured by their members to do the same.

As consumers and investors, individuals can wage a personal trade war, sending a clear message. Trump may not be willing to listen to the leaders of allied nations, but if consumer and investor pressure is sustained and spreads globally, he may yet hear the voice of corporate America.

Erin O'Brien, Associate Professor, School of Government and International Relations, Griffith University and Justine Coneybeer, Postdoctoral Research Fellow, School of Government and International Relations, Griffith University

Fast Furniture is Terrible for the Environment: Here are Five Ways to Spot It

Most fast furniture cannot be recycled or reused with millions of pieces sent to landfill every year. 

By Katryn Furmston, Nottingham Trent University

The UK spent more than £20 million on furniture in 2024, predominantly for bedrooms and living rooms. Many of us are aware of the problems with fast fashion, including the problems caused by dumping this cheap, low-quality clothing in landfills. But there’s a similar issue with furniture, with more than 22 million pieces sent to landfill every year. Unfortunately, most of this will be fast furniture, as it can’t be recycled or reused.

Fast furniture is classed as being made, bought, consumed and disposed of quickly and cheaply. Its flimsiness is due to the materials used and how it is made. The companies making it are often chasing fast-changing trends in interior design.

Unlike fast fashion, though – which lasts up to a year, sometimes only being worn once – fast furniture will last a maximum of five to seven years, if you’re lucky. This makes it a burden on our waste systems, especially when furniture should ideally last ten to 20 years at least.

Of course, it can be enticing to kit out your house quickly and on the cheap, especially if you’re moving into somewhere unfurnished. But if you have the time and the money, you really should avoid fast furniture as much as possible.

So, if you want good furniture that lasts long, looks good and isn’t going clog up the planet, here are five simple ways to help you spot fast furniture.

Low cost furniture often means

poor materials and build quality 

1. If the price seems too good to be true …

The biggest giveaway of fast furniture is the price. It tends to be pretty inexpensive and very accessible. Unfortunately, the low cost is often thanks to poor materials or build quality, which means the piece is unlikely to last you very long.

For example, an £89 sofa from a fast furniture company might seem like a good deal when you consider that a good quality sofa will cost you in the region of £800 to £1,500. But while £89 might seem great now, it probably won’t last long and will end up costing the environment and you more as you’ll have to replace it sooner rather than later.

2 . Always check the materials

Companies are supposed to list all the materials in the furniture. If you see a mix of MDF (medium density fibreboard), plastic and chipboard, this is often a signifier that the piece is fast.

For cabinets, shelves, wardrobes and items with a backboard, a key signifier that it’s fast furniture will be that the backboard is made of taped-together sheets of hardboard that you have to nail in place. You will often find that this backboard starts to come away after a while and sometimes separates at the joins.

A mix of MDF, plastic and chipboard 

are signifiers of cheaply made pieces

3. Does it require an Allen key?

If the answer is yes, it’s probably fast. What are the fittings like when you put it together? Do they come in a little bag all jumbled together? If you are using standardised fittings like dowels and bolts with pre-cut holes, known as knockdown fittings, to put the piece together, it will likely be a fast furniture piece.

These fittings are cheap and easy to use, plus companies can easily provide you with an Allen key or small screwdriver in the kit. Unfortunately, these fittings don’t last very long, either separating from the material they are fixed to or snapping from too much load.

4. There’s only one image online

Don’t you just hate it when a company only gives you one view of an item and no way to see any of the details? It’s often not available to view in real life, and the item is either set in a room and looks like a sticker, or is just on a white background.

Similarly, is the image a photograph or a 3D render? You will likely know because renders either look too perfect or just a bit strange.These things can mean that the company hasn’t had the time or money to do a proper photoshoot. It can also mean that the product you receive may not look exactly like the image, or that the parts might not fit together properly.

5. Look at the piece’s finish

If you don't want to contribute to fast

furniture, consider second-hand items

Does it have plastic edging strips? Are the finish choices white, black or wood effects? Is it easy to wipe clean? All of these are signifiers of a fast furniture item.

In short, go and look at the piece before purchase, and also look after whatever you choose as this will also make a big difference to how long it lasts.

With the rise of television programmes like BBC’s Repair Shop, we are seeing an increase in furniture repair and upcycling. However, this hasn’t stopped us Brits from continuing to buy new.

While these are a few ways to spot fast furniture, at the end of the day, the decision to buy is yours. Not everyone can spend a lot of money on new pieces but if your budget is smaller and you really don’t want to contribute to fast furniture, consider looking at second-hand items on Facebook Marketplace and in charity shops. Also see if you can repurpose something you already own. The planet will thank you and you will have pieces which will live with you for a long time.

Katryn Furmston, PhD candidate in sustainable furniture, Nottingham Trent University

AI Does Not Really 'Learn' ~ Knowing Why Will Help You Use It More Responsibly

AI systems that most people use like ChatGPT do not learn once they have been built.

By Kai Riemer, University of Sydney and Sandra Peter, University of Sydney

What if we told you that artificial intelligence (AI) systems such as ChatGPT don’t actually learn? Many people we talk to are genuinely surprised to hear this.

Even AI systems themselves will often tell you confidently that they are learning systems. Many reports and even academic papers say the same. But this is due to a misconception – or rather a loose understanding of what we mean by “learning” in AI.

Yet, understanding more precisely how and when AI systems learn (and when they don’t) will make you a more productive and more responsible user of AI.

AI does not learn – at least not like humans do

Many misconceptions around AI stem from using words that have a certain meaning when applied to humans, such as learning. We know how humans learn, because we do it all the time. We have experiences; we do something that fails; we encounter something new; we read something surprising; and thus we remember, we update or change the way we do things.

This is not how AI systems learn. There are two main differences.

Firstly, AI systems do not learn from any specific experiences, which would allow them to understand things the way we humans do. Rather they “learn” by encoding patterns from vast amounts data – using mathematics alone. This happens during the training process, when they are built.

Take large language models, such as GPT-4, the technology that powers ChatGPT. In a nutshell, it learns by encoding mathematical relationships between words (actually, tokens), with the aim to make predictions about what text goes with what other text. These relationships are extracted from vast amounts of data and encoded during a computationally intensive training phase.

This form of “learning” is obviously very different to how humans learn.

It has certain downsides in that AI often struggles with simple commonsense knowledge about the world that humans naturally learn by just living in the world.

But AI training is also incredibly powerful, because large language models have “seen” text at a scale far beyond what any human can comprehend. That’s why these systems are so useful with language-based tasks, such as writing, summarising, coding, or conversing. The fact these systems don’t learn like us, but at a vast scale, makes them all-rounders in the kinds of things they do excel at.

AI systems do not learn from any specific experiences, which would allow them to understand things the way we humans do. Rido/Shutterstock

Once trained, the learning stops

Most AI systems that most people use, such as ChatGPT, also do not learn once they are built. You could say AI systems don’t learn at all – training is just how they’re built, it’s not how they work. The “P” in GPT literally stands for “pre-trained”.

In technical terms, AI systems such as ChatGPT only engage in “training-time learning”, as part of their development, not in “run-time learning”. Systems that learn as they go do exist. But they are typically confined to a single task, for example your Netflix algorithm recommending what to watch. Once it’s done, it’s done, as the saying goes.

Being “pre-trained” means large language models are always stuck in time. Any updates to their training data require highly costly retraining, or at least so-called fine-tuning for smaller adjustments.

That means ChatGPT does not learn from your prompts on an ongoing basis. And out of the box, a large language model does not remember anything. It holds in its memory only whatever occurs in a single chat session. Close the window, or start a new session, and it’s a clean sheet every time.

There are ways around this, such as storing information about the user, but they are achieved at the application level; the AI model itself does not learn and remains unchanged until retrained (more on that in a moment).

Most AI systems that most people use, such as ChatGPT, also do not learn once they are built. Ascannio/Shutterstock

What does this mean for users?

First, be aware of what you get from your AI assistant.

Learning from text data means systems such as ChatGPT are language models, not knowledge models. While it is truly amazing how much knowledge gets encoded via the mathematical training process, these models are not always reliable when asked knowledge questions.

Their real strength is working with language. And don’t be surprised when responses contain outdated information given they are frozen in time, or that ChatGPT does not remember any facts you tell it.

The good news is AI developers have come up with some clever workarounds. For example, some versions of ChatGPT are now connected to the internet. To provide you with more timely information they might perform a web search and insert the result into your prompt before generating the response.

Another workaround is that AI systems can now remember things about you to personalise their responses. But this is done with a trick. It is not that the large language model itself learns or updates itself in real time. The information about you is stored in a separate database and is inserted into the prompt each time in ways that remain invisible.

But it still means that you can’t correct the model when it gets something wrong (or teach it a fact), which it would remember to correct its answers for other users. The model can be personalised to an extent, but it still does not learn on the fly.

Users who understand how exactly AI learns – or doesn’t – will invest more in developing effective prompting strategies, and treat the AI as an assistant – one that always needs checking.

Let the AI assist you. But make sure you do the learning, prompt by prompt.

Kai Riemer, Professor of Information Technology and Organisation, University of Sydney and Sandra Peter, Director of Sydney Executive Plus, University of Sydney

Five Tips to Find What Brings You Joy Outside of Work

"Joy exists in the present, so therefore we need to be 'there' to experience it." Cover picture by Andrea Heinsohn of Issey Miyake AW25 in Paris for DAM

By Alison Bishop, University of East London

Not long ago I attended a concert. It was a band that I had been waiting a while to see and so I was excited to be there in the crowd. Part way through, they played my favourite song and I noticed that I felt something different.

It felt like a pinnacle moment where the emotion of joy felt expansive and unstoppable. In that moment, I felt more alive with all my senses of my surroundings heightened and yet so much more connected to the core of who I know myself to be.

I first set out to write about finding joy, as if joy was out there in the world waiting for us to find it. However, the story of the concert shows us that this is not the case.

Not everyone likes the band that I saw and not everyone in the concert had the same experience as me. This tells us that joy is more personal, an inside job, rather than something to find outside ourselves.

The psychologist Chris Meadows suggests that joy is a feeling that comes from viewing an event in our lives as being meaningful to us or good for us.

Joy is not just a singular experience, there are different types of joy, according to Meadows. In his study of joy he writes about the muted experience of “serene joy”, which aims at restoring or maintaining equilibrium in the body. Then there is “excited joy”, which is linked to pursuing goals.

“Individuated joy” is felt while alone while “affiliative joy” is shared with others. Meadow’s study into the phenomenon of joy suggests that social experiences of joy occur more often than solo ones and result in what we know as bonding experiences.

“Anticipatory joy” occurs when the fulfilment of a goal is imminent and then “consummatory joy” happens when the goal has been achieved. There is also an element of feeling blessed or that what has been achieved has exceeded expectations.

In addition to the thought processes that lead to joy, there are many other elements that need to be in place. Safe, familiar surroundings are key in enabling us to be present in the moment to support relaxed equilibrium. When we feel safe and relaxed, we are more able to laugh and play and explore new ideas.

Playfulness that’s aimless but results in fairly predictable outcomes, allows us to switch off our inner critic and focus on the good feelings of being in the moment with joy. This brings a sense of ease in that whatever happens, requires very little effort on our part.

Here are five tips on how to find what brings you joy in its many forms:

1. Be present

“Be in the moment” is easy to say but harder to do.

Joy exists in the present, therefore, we need to be there to experience it. This might mean that sometimes we need to ditch the phone and not video something to post or watch later as doing that prevents us becoming immersed in the here and now. This is about making our own experience more important than the “likes” of others.

2. Listen to your inner voice

Next, turn up the volume on your inner voice.

As joy is unique to each of us, we need to hear our own voice to find out what will bring us joy. To do this, it helps to create specificity around the goals that we aspire to in the future so that we are clear about what we want to achieve.

Does your joy come from completing a goal? Being specific with that goal can help you finely tune your sense of joy. Like playing a piece all the way through without missing a note. GoodStudio/Shutterstock

I love the theme tune for The Pirates of the Caribbean and want to be able to play it on the piano. To make this goal specific, I need to decide what my success criteria is. It might be, I want to play to the end without stopping, or I want to get to the end without stopping and to play all of the notes on the sheet music without mistakes. Only I can know whether I would feel more joyful by achieving the second goal over the first.

Being specific means we will clearly know when that goal fulfilment is either imminent or achieved. So, the more specific we are the better. The same goes for looking at the experiences that have brought us joy in the past. By reflecting on these experiences, we can learn things about ourselves that lead to us being able to create more joy.

3. Don’t listen to your inner critic

It helps to switch off your inner critic, or at least turn the volume on this down.

It is not possible to be playful and feel safe and free, while we constantly are censoring ourselves. So, tell the inner critic that it is OK for you to be you.

4. Find your tribe

These are people who enjoy the same things as you. Being with other people who are like us enables us to feel freer to express ourselves in ways that are congruent with who we are.

5. Tune into the little things

Finally, pay attention to the little things, as they actually are the big things. Joy comes from the most unexpected places. By noticing when we feel joy we can create more of those experiences in our lives so that we can truly experience that joie de vivre (the joy of living).

Alison Bishop, Lecturer in Positive Psychology Coaching, University of East London