Edinburgh, Now in Technicolor
Edinburgh is the "grey metropolis in the North." It has been for centuries, and thanks to Unesco, the capital of Scotland will keep its dour exterior for the foreseeable future. But couleur locale is all in the mind. This map, by Scottish artist Claire Murray, adds the joyful hues of personal experience to the city.
Everyone who's ever visited the city will agree that Edinburgh is a spectacular city, or even, in the words of Benjamin Disraeli: "The most beautiful city in the world." Well, almost everyone. Thomas Carlyle called it: "This accursed, stinking, reeky mass of stones and lime and dung."
One of the city's nicknames, Auld Reekie, derives from the peculiar attachment of the vapors emitted by Edinburgh's forest of chimneys to the undulating surface of the city: "The houses stand so one above another that none of the smoke wastes itself upon the desert air before the inhabitants have derived all the advantages of its odour and its smuts. You might smoke bacon by hanging it out of the window," suggested Robert Southey in 1819.
Two decades earlier, Sydney Smith had written: "No smells were ever equal to Scotch smells. It is the School of Physic; walk the streets and you would imagine that every medical man had been administering cathartics to every man, woman and child in town. Yet the place is uncommonly beautiful and I am in constant balance between admiration and trepidation."
In today's parlance: it's a love-hate thing. Although most observers err on the side of the former. Daniel Defoe, in A Tour Through the Whole Island of Great Britain, finds Edinburgh's Royal Mile "perhaps the largest, longest, and finest street for buildings and number of inhabitants not in Britain only, but in the World". John Betjeman, in First and Last Loves, called it "the most beautiful of all the capitals of Europe", while Peter Ustinov suggested that "Edinburgh seems like a Scandinavian capital. It's very different from England and very refreshing."
Perhaps this is because Edinburgh, ever since the Scottish Enlightenment in the 18th century, has presumed to Hellenic standards of importance, fancying itself an "Athens of the North." Hence the abundance of classicist architecture, sprouting up in the century roughly from 1750 to 1850.
"Travellers have generally agreed that Edinburgh has a strong resemblance to Athens", wrote James Bone in The Perambulator in Edinburgh (1926), "and the inhabitants have apparently been willing to humour them by planting happy adaptations and variations of Athenian buildings on prominent places."
Edinburgh's greys, translated into Technicolor.
H.R. Hitchcock called Edinburgh "the most extensive example of a Romantic Classical city in the world", and that charm certainly did not miss its mark with Charlotte Brontë. In a letter dated 1850, she wrote: "My dear Sir, do not think that I blaspheme when I tell you that your great London, as compared to Dun-Edin, 'mine own romantic town', is as prose compared to poetry, or as a great rumbling, rambling, heavy Epic compared to a Lyric, brief, bright, clear, and vital as a flash of lightning."
Rather more chilling praise came from Joseph Goebbels, Hitler's propaganda minister, who in 1938 thought that Edinburgh "will make a delightful summer capital when we invade Britain."
Both its lovers and haters agree on one thing, though: Edinburgh's dominant color. "It is a fine place," Karel Capek admitted in his Letters from England (sic): "Stonily grey and strange of aspect". Less charitably, Alfred Noyes thought is a "[c]ity of mist and rain and blown grey places."
"Scotland's history is in her every grey stone," said E. Sillar, while Tennyson called Edinburgh "[the] grey metropolis of the North."
Going around the city, grey is indeed the ubiquitous, inescapable color, lending Edinburgh, when daylight and bright weather are in short supply, a gloomy atmosphere, or to use the appropriately Scots term, a certain dourness.
Grassmarket and environs.
Edinburgh is built on ancient rock - the Early Carboniferous volcano of Arthur's Seat sits under the city. Edinburgh Castle is built on top of Castle Rock, a hard, volcanic basalt plug. Edinburgh is also built of ancient rock. Within the Castle walls is St. Margaret's Chapel, the oldest surviving building in town. The grey aspect of this 12th-century stone pile set the standard for centuries of buildings, especially after 1425, when the Scottish Parliament mandated that all new houses be built in stone to reduce the risk of city-wide fires.
Stones for new buildings were sometimes quarried within the city itself, with the result varying from pink coarse-grained Devonian sandstones to Carboniferous blonde sandstones. In the 18th century, when Edinburgh burst out of its medieval core, the New Town was filled with houses built from locally mined sandstone. That local stone remained the most prominent building material all through the 19th century, when Edinburgh more than doubled in size. Building Edinburgh in the same stone on which it stood gave the city a very 'organic' look. Robert Louis Stevenson called it "a dream in masonry and living rock."
The preference for sandstone declined after the First World War. Even so, stone-clad surfaces or, from the 1960s onwards, office blocks with concrete facades, kept Edinburgh's aspect largely intact, so much so that in 1995, the city's Old and New Towns were added to Unesco's list of World Heritage sites, in recognition of their outstanding architectural, historical and cultural importance. Meaning that Edinburgh's stony greyness is now "set in stone."
Fortunately, there are other ways to look at Edinburgh. Like Claire Murray's colorful map of Edinburgh. The splashes of Technicolor feel like an intentional antidote to the city's grey reputation, and perhaps also a reflection of the fact that a city is more than its buildings.
The map zooms in on the center of town, and although perhaps not as practical, precise and panoptical as your standard tourist map, it looks like a delightful companion on a dérive through the Scottish capital. The Royal Mile, Grassmarket and other well-known Edinburgh locales are indicated, but also stuff you won't see on Google Maps, like where you can get the bestest cheapest curry in town, or the location of the stairs o' death.
This highly personal piece of psychogeography  is reminiscent of some earlier maps featured on this blog, notably Russell Richards's Inaccurate Map of Charlottesville (#36), Elmer Simms Campbell's Night-club Map of Harlem (#476) and even This Isn't F***ing Dalston! (#551), Euan Mills's attempt to pinpoint the ephemeral London neighborhood.
Map reproduced with kind permission of Claire Murray. Unfortunately, the map is no longer available on her website.
Strange Maps #685
 The visualisation of psychological currents in relation to various social anchorages. Or: The practice of exploring the urban environment while being led by curiosity and a paused sense of time and place. But basically: Just about anything that takes pedestrians off their predictable paths and jolts them into a new awareness of the urban landscape.
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One victim can break our hearts. Remember the image of the young Syrian boy discovered dead on a beach in Turkey in 2015? Donations to relief agencies soared after that image went viral. However, we feel less compassion as the number of victims grows. Are we incapable of feeling compassion for large groups of people who suffer a tragedy, such as an earthquake or genocide? Of course not, but the truth is we aren't as compassionate as we'd like to believe, because of a paradox of large numbers. Why is this?
Compassion is a product of our sociality as primates. In his book, The Expanding Circle: Ethics, Evolution, and Moral Progress, Peter Singer states, "Human beings are social animals. We were social before we were human." Mr. Singer goes on to say, "We can be sure that we restrained our behavior toward our fellows before we were rational human beings. Social life requires some degree of restraint. A social grouping cannot stay together if its members make frequent and unrestrained attacks on one another."
Attacks on ingroups can come from forces of nature as well. In this light, compassion is a form of expressed empathy to demonstrate camaraderie.
Yet even after hundreds of centuries of evolution, when tragedy strikes beyond our community, our compassion wanes as the number of displaced, injured and dead mounts.
The drop-off in commiseration has been termed the collapse of compassion. The term has also been defined in The Oxford Handbook of Compassion Science: ". . . people tend to feel and act less compassionately for multiple suffering victims than for a single suffering victim."
That the drop-off happens has been widely documented, but at what point this phenomenon happens remains unclear. One paper, written by Paul Slovic and Daniel Västfjäll, sets out a simple formula, ". . . where the emotion or affective feeling is greatest at N =1 but begins to fade at N = 2 and collapses at some higher value of N that becomes simply 'a statistic.'"
The ambiguity of "some higher value" is curious. That value may relate to Dunbar's Number, a theory developed by British anthropologist, Robin Dunbar. His research centers on communal groups of primates that evolved to support and care for larger and larger groups as their brains (our brains) expanded in capacity. Dunbar's is the number of people with whom we can maintain a stable relationship — approximately 150.
Some back story
Professor Robin Dunbar of the University of Oxford has published considerable research on anthropology and evolutionary psychology. His work is informed by anthropology, sociology and psychology. Dunbar's Number is a cognitive boundary, one we are likely incapable of breaching. The number is based around two notions; that brain size in primates correlates with the size of the social groups they live among and that these groups in human primates are relative to communal numbers set deep in our evolutionary past. In simpler terms, 150 is about the maximum number of people with whom we can identify with, interact with, care about, and work to protect. Dunbar's Number falls along a logorithmic continuum, beginning with the smallest, most emotionally connected group of five, then expanding outward in multiples of three: 5, 15, 50, 150. The numbers in these concentric circles are affected by multiple variables, including the closeness and size of immediate and extended families, along with the greater cognitive capacity of some individuals to maintain stable relationships with larger than normal group sizes. In other words, folks with more cerebral candlepower can engage with larger groups. Those with lesser cognitive powers, smaller groups.
The number that triggers "compassion collapse" might be different for individuals, but I think it may begin to unravel along the continuum of Dunbar's relatable 150. We can commiserate with 5 to 15 to 150 people because upon those numbers, we can overlay names and faces of people we know: our families, friends and coworkers, the members of our clan. In addition, from an evolutionary perspective, that number is important. We needed to care if bands of our clan were being harmed by raids, disaster, or disease, because our survival depended on the group staying intact. Our brains developed the capacity to care for the entirety of the group but not beyond it. Beyond our ingroup was an outgroup that may have competed with us for food and safety and it served us no practical purpose to feel sad that something awful had happened to them, only to learn the lessons so as to apply them for our own survival, e.g., don't swim with hippos.
Imagine losing 10 family members in a house fire. Now instead, lose 10 neighbors, 10 from a nearby town, 10 from Belgium, 10 from Vietnam 10 years ago. One could almost feel the emotion ebbing as the sentence drew to a close.
There are two other important factors which contribute to the softening of our compassion: proximity and time. While enjoying lunch in Santa Fe, we can discuss the death toll in the French revolution with no emotional response but might be nauseated to discuss three children lost in a recent car crash around the corner. Conflict journalists attempt to bridge these geotemporal lapses but have long struggled to ignite compassion in their home audience for far-flung tragedies, Being a witness to carnage is an immense stressor, but the impact diminishes across the airwaves as the kilometers pile up.
A Dunbar Correlation
Where is the inflection point at which people become statistics? Can we find that number? In what way might that inflection point be influenced by the Dunbar 150?
"Yes, the Dunbar number seems relevant here," said Gad Saad, PhD., the evolutionary behavioral scientist from the John Molson School of Business at Concordia University, Montreal, in an email correspondence. Saad also recommended Singer's work.
I also went to the wellspring. I asked Professor Dunbar by email if he thought 150 was a reasonable inflection point for moving from compassion into statistics. He graciously responded, lightly edited for space.
Professor Dunbar's response:
"The short answer is that I have no idea, but what you suggest is perfect sense. . . . One-hundred and fifty is the inflection point between the individuals we can empathize with because we have personal relationships with them and those with whom we don't have personalized relationships. There is, however, also another inflection point at 1,500 (the typical size of tribes in hunter-gatherer societies) which defines the limit set by the number of faces we can put names to. After 1,500, they are all completely anonymous."
I asked Dunbar if he knows of or suspects a neurophysiological aspect to the point where we simply lose the capacity to manage our compassion:
"These limits are underpinned by the size of key bits of the brain (mainly the frontal lobes, but not wholly). There are a number of studies showing this, both across primate species and within humans."
In his literature, Professor Dunbar presents two reasons why his number stands at 150, despite the ubiquity of social networking: the first is time — investing our time in a relationship is limited by the number of hours we have available to us in a given week. The second is our brain capacity measured in primates by our brain volume.
Friendship, kinship and limitations
"We devote around 40 percent of our available social time to our 5 most intimate friends and relations," Dunbar has written, "(the subset of individuals on whom we rely the most) and the remaining 60 percent in progressively decreasing amounts to the other 145."
These brain functions are costly, in terms of time, energy and emotion. Dunbar states, "There is extensive evidence, for example, to suggest that network size has significant effects on health and well-being, including morbidity and mortality, recovery from illness, cognitive function, and even willingness to adopt healthy lifestyles." This suggests that we devote so much energy to our own network that caring about a larger number may be too demanding.
"These differences in functionality may well reflect the role of mentalizing competencies. The optimal group size for a task may depend on the extent to which the group members have to be able to empathize with the beliefs and intentions of other members so as to coordinate closely…" This neocortical-to-community model carries over to compassion for others, whether in or out of our social network. Time constrains all human activity, including time to feel.
As Dunbar writes in The Anatomy of Friendship, "Friendship is the single most important factor influencing our health, well-being, and happiness. Creating and maintaining friendships is, however, extremely costly, in terms of both the time that has to be invested and the cognitive mechanisms that underpin them. Nonetheless, personal social networks exhibit many constancies, notably in their size and their hierarchical structuring." Our mental capacity may be the primary reason we feel less empathy and compassion for larger groups; we simply don't have the cerebral apparatus to manage their plights. "Part of friendship is the act of mentalizing, or mentally envisioning the landscape of another's mind. Cognitively, this process is extraordinarily taxing, and as such, intimate conversations seem to be capped at about four people before they break down and form smaller conversational groups. If the conversation involves speculating about an absent person's mental state (e.g., gossiping), then the cap is three — which is also a number that Shakespeare's plays respect."
We cannot mentalize what is going on in the minds of people in our groups much beyond our inner circle, so it stands to reason we cannot do it for large groups separated from us by geotemporal lapses.
In a paper, C. Daryl Cameron and Keith B. Payne state, "Some researchers have suggested that [compassion collapse] happens because emotions are not triggered by aggregates. We provide evidence for an alternative account. People expect the needs of large groups to be potentially overwhelming, and, as a result, they engage in emotion regulation to prevent themselves from experiencing overwhelming levels of emotion. Because groups are more likely than individuals to elicit emotion regulation, people feel less for groups than for individuals."
This argument seems to imply that we have more control over diminishing compassion than not. To say, "people expect the needs of large groups to be potentially overwhelming" suggests we consciously consider what that caring could entail and back away from it, or that we become aware that we are reaching and an endpoint of compassion and begin to purposely shift the framing of the incident from one that is personal to one that is statistical. The authors offer an alternative hypothesis to the notion that emotions are not triggered by aggregates, by attempting to show that we regulate our emotional response as the number of victims becomes perceived to be overwhelming. However, in the real world, for example, large death tolls are not brought to us one victim at a time. We are told, about a devastating event, then react viscerally.
If we don't begin to express our emotions consciously, then the process must be subconscious, and that number could have evolved to where it is now innate.
Gray matter matters
One of Dunbar's most salient points is that brain capacity influences social networks. In his paper, The Social Brain, he writes: "Path analysis suggests that there is a specific causal relationship in which the volume of a key prefrontal cortex subregion (or subregions) determines an individual's mentalizing skills, and these skills in turn determine the size of his or her social network."
It's not only the size of the brain but in fact, mentalizing recruits different regions for ingroup empathy. The Stanford Center for Compassion and Altruism Research and Education published a study of the brain regions activated when showing empathy for strangers in which the authors stated, "Interestingly, in brain imaging studies of mentalizing, participants recruit more dorsal portions of the medial prefrontal cortex (dMPFC; BA 8/9) when mentalizing about strangers, whereas they recruit more ventral regions of the medial prefrontal cortex (BA 10), similar to the MPFC activation reported in the current study, when mentalizing about close others with whom participants experience self-other overlap."⁷
It's possible the region of the brain that activates to help an ingroup member evolved for good reason, survival of the group. Other regions may have begun to expand as those smaller tribal groups expanded into larger societies.
There is an eclectic list of reasons why compassion may collapse, irrespective of sheer numbers:
(1) Manner: How the news is presented affects viewer framing. In her book, European Foreign Conflict Reporting: A Comparative Analysis of Public News, Emma Heywood explores how tragedies and war are offered to the viewers, which can elicit greater or lesser compassionate responses. "Techniques, which could raise compassion amongst the viewers, and which prevail on New at Ten, are disregarded, allowing the victims to remain unfamiliar and dissociated from the viewer. This approach does not encourage viewers to engage with the sufferers, rather releases them from any responsibility to participate emotionally. Instead compassion values are sidelined and potential opportunities to dwell on victim coverage are replaced by images of fighting and violence."
(2) Ethnicity. How relatable are the victims? Although it can be argued that people in western countries would feel a lesser degree of compassion for victims of a bombing in Karachi, that doesn't mean people in countries near Pakistan wouldn't feel compassion for the Karachi victims at a level comparable to what westerners might feel about a bombing in Toronto. Distance has a role to play in this dynamic as much as in the sound evolutionary data that demonstrate a need for us to both recognize and empathize with people who look like our communal entity. It's not racism; it's tribalism. We are simply not evolved from massive heterogeneous cultures. As evolving humans, we're still working it all out. It's a survival mechanism that developed over millennia that we now struggle with as we fine tune our trust for others.
In the end
Think of compassion collapse on a grid, with compassion represented in the Y axis and the number of victims running along the X. As the number of victims increases beyond one, our level of compassion is expected to rise. Setting aside other variables that may raise compassion (proximity, familiarity etc.), the level continues to rise until, for some reason, it begins to fall precipitously.
Is it because we've become aware of being overwhelmed or because we have reached max-capacity neuron load? Dunbar's Number seems a reasonable place to look for a tipping point.
Professor Dunbar has referred to the limits of friendship as a "budgeting problem." We simply don't have the time to manage a bigger group of friends. Our compassion for the plight of strangers may drop of at a number equivalent to the number of people with who we can be friends, a number to which we unconsciously relate. Whether or not we solve this intellectual question, it remains a curious fact that the larger a tragedy is, the more likely human faces are to become faceless numbers.
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