The genealogy of the zoo: Collection, park and carnival

The zoo, like all organizations, is constituted by processes of collection and separation. This article provides a genealogical account of the conditions of possibility of the modern zoological gardens, beginning with the cabinet of curiosities, then the landscape park and the menagerie, and finally the carnival and fair. This leads to a discussion of the foundation of the bourgeois zoo in the 19th century, and its mutation into its contemporary combination of spectacle and civilizing institution. I conclude with some reflections on the dialectic between order and disorder that the zoo exemplifies, an organization which is constructed to civilize and contain, but which is always haunted by the financial need for spectacle and the production of the wild non-human.


Introduction
Classification and organization are co-produced. 1 The beginnings of classification are the beginnings of organization, and when we attend to organization, we are in the presence of systems of classification. That is to say, organizing is a process that can be recognized by its attention to collection and distribution; to claims about similarities and differences; to the boundaries that keep some elements together and other elements apart. The map of a zoo that you are given on entering is a representation of this sort of classification, one in which the separations between (mostly) humans and (mostly) nonhumans are constitutive of the organization. The bars, palisades, glass and moats which separate the paths and cafes for the visitors from the cages of the visited define the zoo, because the zoo is brought into being by bringing things together and then keeping them just slightly apart.
Such matters might seem too obvious to remark, but for those interested in organizing, it is worth considering how a contemporary institution such as a zoo emerges from a series of antecedent institutions with slightly different forms of classification, both for people and animals (Ritvo, 1997). It did not spring into being as it is, fully formed, but is the result of a series of mutations which result in the zoo we experience today. My approach in this article is hence historical, being influenced by the early Foucault, and requires that I explore how the zoo came to be possible, placing it within the genealogical context of other forms of collecting and ordering, particularly with reference to non-human animals, but also other non-human materials (Foucault, 1989a(Foucault, , 1991. By genealogy, Foucault intends us to investigate the 'the history of the present', that is to say, to provide an account of how we have come to be what we are. In this particular case, I want to try and understand how a particular form of organizing has emerged and congealed, using the zoo to help me think about the relation between organization and disorganization (Burrell and Parker, 2016;Cooper, 1986), between order and disorder (Foucault, 1989b), the production of ideas about civilization and the wild. This article is part of a larger project which is an attempt to think about different forms of organizing and draw out their implications for organization studies which understands organizing as a cultural matter, and attends to unusual or understudied examples (for example, Parker, 2009Parker, , 2011Parker, , 2017.
So how did the modern zoo come into existence, and what other institutions does it presuppose and incorporate? What forms of classification did it rest upon, incorporate, or leave behind? In what follows, I will provide a chronological account of what seem to me to be the conditions of possibility of the modern zoo, beginning with the collection, then discussing the landscape park and the menagerie, and finally the carnival and fair. This leads to a discussion of the foundation of the modern zoo in the 19th century, its engagements with capitalism and spectacle, and some limited comments about the problems it faces in the 21st century. Throughout, I consider the Foucauldian question of how this particular institution grows from prior understandings of the classification of people and non-humans. I conclude with some reflections on the strange dialectic between order and disorder that the zoo exemplifies, an organization which is constructed to civilize and contain, but which is always haunted by the financial need for spectacle and the production of the idea of the absolute other of the wild non-human.
Before I begin, one caveat. This is not really an article about animals. There is increasing interest, in organization studies and elsewhere, in the ways in which the human makes the non-human and vice versa. Whether this grows from an interest in the bio-political, the embodied, or ways of displacing the centrality of the human, this work is certainly relevant to a paper on the zoo (Labatut et al., 2016;Lennerfors and Sköld, 2018). But here I am primarily interested in something else, in the histories and connections between different sorts of organizations, and the fact that many contain animals (dead or alive) is one of those similarities, but not the only one. I am interested in the wild animal only insofar as it is produced by the zoo, as an effect of a particular form of organization.

The cabinet of curiosities
Keeping animals in predictable places is common to all pastoral societies, but the keeping of nonnative or spectacular animals for pleasure is something that, until the 19th century, was only practised by the wealthy, and usually in private parks or palaces (Baratay and Hardouin-Fugier, 2004: 17;Foucault, 1986: 25). Persian paradeisos were wooded gardens populated with animals. Sometimes, the animals would be made to fight each other, or with humans. Ancient Romans would often parade wild beasts along with conquered people, and then use both in entertainments. This celebration of excess continues into the early modern period. In Italian, from the 14th century, a seraglio was a place for the exhibition of animals. In French, and then English, the word commonly used was menagerie. These were spectacular displays of wealth and power, showing off the conquests of the hunt, gifts from supplicants, or the loot from places that had been plundered. By the 16th and 17th centuries in North Western Europe, such collections were quite common among Popes, monarchs and members of the landed gentry. Often these animals were assembled for staged fights in which the generosity of the host would be measured by the amount of blood that was spilt. However, despite similarities, I do not think that this is the best place to look for a genealogy of the zoological garden as a collection of animals which emerges in the early 19th century. The seraglio of kings is a form of display designed to symbolize power and excess, not a systematic collection which is open to some kind of public.
A common reference point to begin to understand the idea of the collection in the early modern period is what is commonly called the 'Cabinet of Curiosities' or Wunderkammer (Bowry, 2014;Mauriès, 2002;Shelton, 1994). This assemblage brought together selected objects in a particular space, both natural wonders and curios made by people. By the 16th century, it appears that the very idea of curiosity is becoming possible for the emergent bourgeoisie in a way that it was not in Mediaeval times. Clerics such as St Augustine, St Bernhard, Pope Innocent III and many others had been keen to stress that idle questioning was a distraction from God's law and it was the Devil who incited prying (Blom, 2004: 19;Dillon, 2013: 214). The only collections that had been common were conspicuous displays of wealth, or religious reliquaries and representations of sacred and instructive scenes. The renaissance inaugurates a context in which explorers' tales, new plants and animals and even different kinds of people were becoming permissible objects of interest. The accumulation of things without clear utility from other places can perhaps be understood as a way of claiming a particular kind of identity, a way for men (usually) to discuss and demonstrate taste and knowledge, to compare and contrast.
Unlike large collections of art which required a large house and a great deal of money, the cabinet was something that could be assembled by someone with more modest means. Sometimes they were housed in pieces of furniture, sometimes rooms (as in the Italian studiolo), but always an arrangement of that which was defined as unusual and rare. If rooms, then images of them suggest that every surface -even the ceiling -was filled and covered with objects. There are differences between the cabinets found in different parts of Europe, particularly in terms of whether they contained artificialia (man-made objects) or naturalia, or some combination of those two categories. Typically, naturalia might include interesting rocks or stones, stuffed birds or pickled embryos, shells, skeletons, unusual plants and so on, while artificialia might be medals, exotic objects from other places, medicines, paintings and whatever. There were helpful texts that assisted with classification, suggesting certain orders of objects, and the taste of a gentleman was displayed in his cabinet, made material in assumptions about what was interesting and what was common, about what should be adjacent to what (Blom, 2004: 239;Bowry, 2014;Shelton, 1994;Zytaruk, 2011). Mauriès (2002) describes the cabinet of curiosities as a 'carefully arranged profusion' (p. 10), an artful chaos of things which employs the room, niche, frame, box and drawer to separate and conjoin. It is an assemblage which requires something 'other' in order that it can then be captured within the confines of a collection. It is parasitic on travel, trade and all the unknowns and unfamiliarities which that brings. The idea of the cabinet of curiosities is a helpful place to begin thinking about the emergence of many different institutions but is particularly relevant to the zoo because of the way it establishes the possibility of collecting being a bourgeois practice, undertaken for its instructive and social functions: A display of fearsome Turkish weapons; certain monsters or sports of nature, both human and animal, as, for instance, a doe with antlers or a dessicated Cyclops; a stuffed armadillo from Brazil; a stone carved with a hundred facets; an Italian spinet that played three tunes of its own accord by a secret automatic mechanism; divers automata; a collection of polyhedral crystals; Roman medals lately dug out of the earth; a small picture made of the root of an olive tree upon which nature had wrought a human figure; a mummified monkey's claw . . . (Dillon, 2013: 18) As Dillon suggests, the collection is an invitation to a list, an inventory which is both its means and end. If it is to be understood, a more than just a pile of matter out of place, a hoard of random junk, then its logic must be explicated in some sort of taxonomy. Jorge Luis Borges, in his 1942 essay 'The Analytical Language of John Wilkins', nicely illustrates the arbitrariness and cultural specificity of any attempt to categorize the world. Borges writes of a classification supposedly taken from an ancient Chinese encyclopaedia -the 'Celestial Emporium of Benevolent Knowledge'. It divides all animals into 14 categories: Those that belong to the emperor; Embalmed ones; Those that are trained; Suckling pigs; Mermaids (or Sirens); Fabulous ones; Stray dogs; Those that are included in this classification; Those that tremble as if they were mad; Innumerable ones; Those drawn with a very fine camel hair brush; Et cetera; Those that have just broken the flower vase; Those that, at a distance, resemble flies.
It is a marvellous list, and one that Foucault (1989b) uses to begin his classification of classifications in The Order of Things: This book first arose out of a passage in Borges, out of the laughter that shattered, as I read the passage, all the familiar landmarks of thought -our thought, the thought that bears the stamp of our age and our geography -breaking up all the ordered surfaces and all the planes with which we are accustomed to tame the wild profusion of existing things and continuing long afterwards to disturb and threaten with collapse our age-old definitions between the Same and the Other. (p. xvi) The process of organizing makes things the same and different. As Robert Cooper explored in a series of essays (Burrell and Parker, 2016;Cooper, 2006), this means paying particular attention to the 'labour of division', to the boundaries and bars that produce difference by constituting insides and outsides, us and them, organization and disorganization. Such organization demands the classification of people, methods and objects of enquiry, and (when successful) produces systematic distinctions and unities, theories about why particular boundaries and genealogies matter, and the keeping of records which assist the reproduction of the practice through time. There are two important moves here. One is the legitimacy of the very idea of collecting for reasons of curiosity, and the second is reflection on the system which organizes the collection.
Within this period, there does appear to be a move from the idea of collecting many particular and wonderful items, to the collection of a series of items which could be compared for their forms and functions. Kaulingfreks et al. (2011) suggest that this is an example of the decline of wonder, and the move towards the production of institutions that address 'a hidden correspondence, an underlying classification, a secret relationship'. (p. 322). For them, the Wunderkammer is the origin of a process which disenchants the world, and which results in the museum and gallery, both primarily based on the dull principal of compare and contrast. For example, the foundation of botanical gardens or herbariums began from the late 1500s onwards, laid out with care to ensure the separation between different forms and functions and often being established within universities. As the legitimacy of academic enquiry becomes more established, so does the idea that scholars should have access to, or even management of, menageries and botanical gardens. In his utopia, New Atlantis of 1627, Francis Bacon describes Saloman's House -a massive scientific institution -with 'parks and enclosures of all sorts of beasts and birds which we use not only for view or rareness, but likewise for dissections and trials' (in Blom, 2004: 183). This was a collection for empirical purposes, and an implicit critique of past ignorance. A few years later, chapter 3 of Thomas Browne's Pseudodoxia Epidemica of 1646 bemoans the vulgar errors which have allowed people to believe in griffins, unicorns, the phoenix and so on, as well as correcting fallacies, such that elephants have no joints, or that salamanders can live in fire. If nature is to be properly understood, it must be subject to the tests of experience, and that means collecting things in order to understand them, to place them in a series, in a classification (Ritvo, 1997).
The London doctor Hans Sloane (1660-1753) collected over 70,000 objects which eventually became the foundation bequest of the British Museum, opened in 1759. He was a collector of other people's collections, and also kept a menagerie and herbarium next to his house in Chelsea (Blom, 2004: 77 passim;Grigson, 2016: 60). As Walter Benjamin suggested in his essay on books, a collector 'has taken up arms against dispersal. The great collector is touched to the core by the confusion and the dispersal in which the things are found in this world' (in Blom, 2004: 208). So, what are the principles that organized the collection of living animals for reasons of curiosity, and what system could hold confusion at bay?

Management and the menagerie
While Western European menageries had existed for some time, such as the collection in the Tower of London established in 1204, the creation of the landscaped park in the 17th century announces a different way of thinking about space and the control of animals. The idea of a view, a perspective, as well as attempts to prevent the escape of livestock or poaching, means that the involuted woodland of the hunting forest becomes increasingly bisected by avenues, observed by towers and enclosed by walls and ditches. A garden was a contrived work which combined paths, views, sculptures, grottos and water features -organizing space according to a plan and demonstrating wealth and taste. Foucault (1986: 25) suggests that it was heterotopic in its ambition, an attempt to make many places occupy one space. A common feature was a square (parquet) often with criss-cross paths making stars or an octagon and centred on some sort of pavilion or tower which would allow the owner and his friends to observe the land around, including the animals, whether grazing or intended as objects for hunting.
Jeremy Bentham, in the late 18th century, proposed a design for a building -the Panopticonwhich most historians have accepted as radical, though acknowledging the influence of his brother Samuel, an engineer who had suggested a circular building in the centre of a compound to observe the workforce. However, the Bentham brothers' radial plan, with a central tower for observation and walls to detain animals, had actually been common in the design of parks for well over a century (Baratay and Hardouin-Fugier, 2004: 27). It was also given architectural form in the most common structure for a menagerie. Louis XIV had one built at Vincennes around 1661 which had a two-storey rectangular building in the centre of a courtyard with radial cells for the animals. A few years later, with the development of Versailles, the architect Louis le Vau refines this structure even more clearly (see the plan in Robbins, 2002: 42): An interior staircase led to the first floor [. . .] Seven of the eight sides of its sole room, called the 'salon de la ménagerie', had windows that that opened onto a balcony that looked out onto an octagonal courtyard surrounding the pavilion on seven sides, around which, in turn, seven animal enclosures were arranged.
[. . .] The animal yards -equipped with huts, ponds and fountains, and planted with turf -were separated from each other by walls and enclosed by iron railings to allow visitors to see into them . . . (Baratay and Hardouin-Fugier, 2004: 48) The animals, previously distributed around the park, are now collected together to maximize visibility but species are (mostly) separated from each other. We can see the same sort of design in the 18th century menageries of London's Kew Gardens, the Tower of London, Coombe Abbey in Warwickshire, Schönnbrunn near Vienna, Buen Retiro near Madrid, Holland's Het Loo and many others (Grigson, 2016: 169). 2 Prince Eugene of Savoy's Schloss Belvedere menagerie, for example, was built in the 1720s, and was arranged as a series of views into animal pens from a first-floor balcony in the palace (Rothfels, 2002: 29). It can also be seen in the architect Charles Percier's drawing 'Plan for a Menagerie', probably published in 1783. 3 Foucault (1991), in Discipline and Punish, does briefly note that Bentham could have been influenced by Le Vau's work at Versailles, suggesting that By Bentham's time, this menagerie had disappeared. But one finds in the programme of the Panopticon a similar concern with individualizing observation, with characterization and classification, with the analytical arrangement of space. The Panopticon is a royal menagerie; the animal is replaced by man, individual distribution by specific grouping and the king by the machinery of a furtive power. (p. 203) More likely, Bentham was influenced by other English menageries, particularly Lord and Lady Shelburne's menagerie in Bowood, Wiltshire which he visited very regularly (Bowring, 1843). He was recorded as donating a white fox to the menagerie and stroking a 'tiger' (probably a leopard) on a visit there in 1781 (Grigson, 2016: 134). In a 1790 letter to one of the ladies of Bowood -Caroline Fox -he playfully suggests that she find a spare 'den' in a menagerie for him 'because he is growing more and more savage every day' (Milne, 2017: 120). 4 Of course, the word management comes from the same etymology as menagerie. The common Latin root for hand (mano) leads to the French manier (to handle), mener (to lead) and ménager (to economize). The 14th century French ménages, or housekeeping, moves from the verb to the noun, and by the 17th century, it meant a site near a country house for the feeding of cattle and poultry. The word does some different work in other places. In Italy, it is maneggiarre, the activity of handling and training a horse carried out in a maneggio -a riding school. In English, it became a skillmanagement or managery 5 -and then (in the same movement to the noun), a class of people who organize matters, initially in a theatre. So from this sense of manual control, the word has expanded into a general activity of training and handling people. It is a word that originates with ideas of control, of a docile or wilful creature that must be subordinated to the instructions of the master (Parker, 2018: 99 passim). The panoptic structure of the 17th century menagerie makes this clear -a material technology for the observation and management of wild beasts that could then be applied with little alteration to prisons, factories, schools and hospitals. This is a structuralist account of power, of the ways in which space and epistemology, Foucault's power/knowledge, produce forms of domination, but in the next section, I will let the wildness back in to disturb this rather neat account.

The fair
It seems to me that the zoological garden was the product of the idea of the collection combined with the panoptic park, but both of these were emplaced cultural forms which were only available to the elites and the emerging bourgeois. They were fenced off from the casual gaze. There is a much earlier institution which also shaped the early zoo. For most ordinary people, their only contact with extraordinary creatures would take place through the showman's animals that travelled around Europe, as well as exhibits in the fairs that took place regularly in every town. The fair or carnival was an important site for all sorts of novelties, entertainments and displays of human and animal freaks and curiosities. As Stallybrass and White (1986) characterize it, Carnival in its widest, most general sense embraced ritual spectacles such as fairs, popular feasts and wakes, processions and competitions [. . .], comic shows, mummery and dancing, open-air amusement with costumes and masks, giants, dwarfs, monsters, trained animals and so forth [. . .] in fact all the 'low' and 'dirty' sorts of folk humour. Carnival is presented by Bakhtin as a world of topsy-turvy, of heteroglot exuberance, of ceaseless overrunning and excess where all is mixed, hybrid, ritually degraded and defiled. (p. 8) From the early modern period, there is much evidence of people travelling with animals to fairs and charging for them to be seen, touched or ridden on. For centuries, elephants, bears, lions and tigers and monkeys were paraded for the financial benefit of their owners. Hyperbolic claims were made about these animals, and they were expected to do extraordinary things. It was common for monkeys to dress up and do tricks, for bears to fight or dance, hares to play drums and birds demonstrate their skills in counting (Baratay and Hardouin-Fugier, 2004: 60). This would be alongside strongmen, acrobats, conjurers, fire eaters, freaks and monsters (Ritvo, 1997: 134). A good show would involve an animal demonstrating the characteristics of a human being or mythological creature, or a human being demonstrating inhuman qualities, the world turned upside-down.
Importantly, these were mobile forms of organization. The journeys of a rhinoceros called Clara are a helpful example. Between 1741 and 1758, she was shown across Europe, moved in a specially built waggon pulled by eight horses. Her owner, a Dutch sea captain called Douwemout Van der Meer, distributed handbills and posters to advertise her visits to various fairs in Vienna, London, Naples and many other places. In France, she was popular enough to cause 'rhinomania'. Souvenir medals, prints, plates and clocks were commissioned, and fashionable women adopted a style of hair and clothing à la rhinocéros (Ridley, 2004;Robbins, 2002: 94-95). 6 In England, travelling menageries, such as Wombwell's Royal, had three shows permanently on the road, and would travel from fair to carnival to festival (Cowie, 2014: 61 passim). In 1858, the one that visited Windsor had 15 vans pulled by 45 horses and up to 40 keepers. The elephants did not travel in the vans but walked inside a bottomless structure which concealed them from public view so that only their feet were visible. As in the fair, the animals were presented in the context of a spectacular display, with extraordinary claims being made about their mythical origins, their capacities and propensities (Ito, 2014: 61).
Though the fairs continued, as did their travelling menageries, urban animal collections began to take root in the 18th century. In Amsterdam -an important port for the animal trade -'Blauuw Jan' was an inn which served drinks and displayed animals. An admission fee was paid, and the drinkers could then see the animals, many of them waiting to be sold to the seraglio of the wealthy. In London, above the shops on the Strand, the 'Exeter Change' established in 1765 displayed animals in small cages for the price of admission. In 1778, it was advertised as, A Grand Collection of living Beasts and Birds, selected from Asia, Africa, and America, and is allowed to be the finest assemblage offered to the inspection of the curious this twenty years [. . .] the creatures are well secured in iron dens -Ladies and children may see them with the greatest safety. (Grigson, 2016: 98) The proprietors of the Change were also buying and selling animals. The duration of an animal's stay depended on whether it died (and then its body would quite likely be sold on for taxidermy or dissection), or whether someone offered a good price for it, and finally whether the paying public wanted to see it. Visitors needed to be got through the doors by whatever means necessary, and if animals were not enough, then other displays would be employed. In 1793, the Change was also showing a model of 'the French beheading machine from Paris', organ performances and an optical machine with 'moving animations' (Grigson, 2016: 106-107).
At the same time, other settled entertainments which used animals were being established too. Philip Astley's Amphitheatre opened in London in 1773, and he developed 18 other permanent hippodromes in other European cities. These were largely displays of horse riding skills, of maneggiarre. So when the idea of the public urban zoological garden emerges in the late 18th century, it was into an institutional environment which non-native animals were already routinely understood to be objects of entertainment and spectacle by most ordinary people. So how could the zoo distinguish itself from the fair and the travelling menagerie?

The 'zoological' 'gardens'
It was founded in 1752, but from 1779, the menagerie at Schönnbrun palace in Vienna had been sporadically open to members of the public on certain days if they were dressed appropriately. However, the first institution that looks like a modern public zoo is the result of revolution. In 1793, the French Committee of Public Safety passed a decree which prevented any wild animal from being exhibited on public roads and mandated their transportation to the Jardin des Plantes in Paris. Under its previous name, the Jardin de Roi, this had been the King's Botanical Gardens since the 17th century. The remaining animals from the Versailles menagerie were transported there, as well as some from other clearances of aristocratic seraglio and foreign conquests. It was described as a new democratic institution for research, science for the people not spectacle for royalty (Robbins, 2002: 213 passim). Importantly, the evolving design of the Jardin over the following decades was picturesque and romantic, not regal. The grand perspectives and radial geometry of the neo-classical were replaced with a geography that was irregular and winding, not subduing nature into straight lines but enhancing its asymmetry and variety. This 'English style' had a further important consequence, which was the distribution of animals across the landscape, often with stylized pavilions which stressed the distinctiveness of each enclosure, lakes, waterfalls and irregular planting of trees. Panoptic principles of collection and display could not function if vision was no longer concentrated in one central point but instead was as multiple as the curving paths. The architecture of the menagerie was reversed, with the animal at the centre and the humans looking in from outside.
The London Zoological Society opened its doors in Regent's Park in 1828, directly influenced by a visit that its founder, Sir Stamford Raffles, made to the Jardin des Plantes. The spatial layout was also that of a picturesque garden with architecturally distinctive animal houses spread across the landscape. From its conception in 1825, it was initially called 'the Gardens', 'Gardens and Menagerie', or 'the Vivarium', and it was not until 1829 that the condensation 'Zoological Gardens' was used (Ito, 2014). The rapid diffusion of this institution -initially in port cities (Amsterdam 1838; Antwerp 1843; Bristol 1835; Dublin 1831; Liverpool 1833) effectively meant that the modern zoo had now congealed in terms of its spatial form. 7 It was an institution which was firmly attached to the urban bourgeoisie, which included the professional classes and business people, with capital coming from donations or subscriptions. Bristol's zoo, for example, was founded and managed by a joint stock company, a vehicle which allowed for the pooling of capital and the minimizing of risk (Flack, 2018). The development of a zoological park on the edge of a city was also a powerful incentive for nearby development, particularly housing aimed at the same social class that financed and used the park (Baratay and Hardouin-Fugier, 2004: 83, 101). Most of these early parks were only open to subscribers, though the lower classes were allowed in on specific days on payment of a charge.
The explicit rationale for many of these zoos was a claim about education and science, not wonder or freakery, and hence they often claimed attachment to learned societies, museums and universities. As Sir Stamford Raffles put it in a letter of 1825: I am much interested at present in establishing a Grand Zoological collection in the Metropolis, with a Society for the introduction of living animals, bearing the same relations to Zoology as a science that the Horticultural Society does to Botany. [. . .] Sir Humphrey Davy and myself are the projectors, and while he looks more to the practical and immediate utility to the country gentlemen, my attention is more directed to the scientific department. (in Vevers, 1976: 14) The observation and detailed pictorial representation of animals and the dissection of their corpses, or the establishment of a library, laboratory or museum was a way of sustaining such a claim to scientific or educational aims. Effectively, it was also a claim that this institution was not a fair or menagerie, and hence, that its audience was not intended to come from among the sort of people that attended those other places. However, the evidence that early zoos were actually of any use for zoological research is limited. Attempts to deal with startlingly high mortality rates certainly led to developments in veterinary science, and their failure provided many specimens for dissection and taxidermy which allowed for developments in comparative anatomy (Woods, 2018). The common factor here is death, because the observation of animal behaviour in the field or of interactions with their native environments could not be performed on captive animals. The claim to be engaged in research was largely helpful in terms of legitimating the early zoo for the bourgeoisie.
Despite attempting to maintain a degree of exclusivity with regard to their visitors, zoos were (and have always been) primarily reliant on gate receipts. Given the expense of running a zoo, many were financially very fragile, some only lasting for a few years, and Brighton zoo for only 6 months (Cowie, 2014: 48). London was an institution that began by only allowing entrance to visitors who had been signed in by a member. It was aimed at polite society, a fashionable place to promenade (Ito, 2014: 81). There was also a policy of not selling food and drink within the grounds, which meant that various vendors set up on the pavements outside the main gates. However, by 1847, its finances were so poor that it had to open to the general public and start making money by selling refreshments. This reliance on visitor numbers also meant that decisions about how to display 'the attractions', were increasingly made with spectacle in mind. Cages were designed with thin bars and wire to maximize visibility and were often small and open on all sides. There was also an emphasis on ensuring that the animals were entertaining, so bears were fed buns, elephants gave rides and chimpanzees dressed in clothing and had tea parties: On a single day in Brussels in 1855, a bear was given five hundred bread rolls, and on 19 June 1959 in Antwerp, an elephant wolfed down 1,704 peanuts, 1,089 pieces of bread, 1,330 sweets, 811 biscuits, 198 orange segments, seventeen apples, seven ice creams and one hamburger! (Baratay and Hardouin-Fugier, 2004: 183) Most zoos could not afford to only be a zoo, so it was common to diversify into other leisure activities and services -concerts, meetings, restaurants, exhibitions and so on. Competition with other urban entertainments -winter gardens, pleasure parks, fairs, sporting events -meant that the public continually needed fresh reasons to visit. Two early English zoos, Liverpool and Belle Vue (Manchester), both had primitive roller coasters built by the late 1840s. Baratay and Hardouin-Fugier (2004) call this opening up a 'forced democratization' (p. 104), and the case of the Surrey Zoological Gardens is an instructive example. In 1831, the owner of the Exeter Change -Edward Cross -opened a new garden in south London, intending to compete directly with London Zoo. The Change was being demolished and Cross saw a market for a new attraction. At his new gardens, a domed glass conservatory was built to contain separate cages for the animals, as well as protecting them against the Northern European weather. The grounds were planted with native and exotic trees and plants and dotted with pavilions in the picturesque style. Though the Surrey Gardens began by providing entrance to visitors only if they were signed in by a subscriber, the revenues were insufficient to cover costs, and it rapidly became a pleasure garden providing spectacle for half the price of a visit to its competitor. In 1835, Jacopo, the monkey, was advertised as ascending in Mr Charles Green's balloon and then descending to earth on a parachute. By 1837, the gardens were being used for large public entertainments, such as dioramas simulating the eruption of Mount Vesuvius and the Great Fire of London, as well as firework displays and promenade concerts (Cowie, 2014: 28;Ito, 2014: 41). Following a particularly bad year in 1851, when the Great Exhibition at the Crystal Palace took all the visitors, the zoo closed in 1855 and the animals were sold. Without gate revenue, they could not be fed. The neatness of a genealogy of the zoo as an amalgam of collection and park aimed at the bourgeoisie, as a scientific institution with living exhibits, was continually disturbed by the commercial realities of the carnival and fair, places that demanded wonder and were aimed at the common people. These tensions were to continue through the following century, an era in which the zoo becomes shaped by capitalism.

Animal capitalism and the spectacle
The importation of animals was a corollary of the globalization of international trade. Though it was not until the 19th century that specialist animal merchants developed, the transportation of animals was common in early commerce. In mediaeval times, Asian animals were probably brought along spice routes, and conveyed into Europe by Venetian or Genoese merchants. African animals would have moved through North African ports, along with slaves, ivory and gold. From the Americas, the trade was controlled by the Spanish and the Portuguese, with Lisbon having several menageries in the royal parks (Grigson, 2016: 3, 5). The first main suppliers for north-western Europe was probably the Dutch East India Company, which by the 16th century had built animal pens alongside its quays in Amsterdam (Baratay and Hardouin-Fugier, 2004: 22), as well as the Antwerp branch of the Fugger Bank, which also kept cages adjacent to their offices. The trade in animals appears to have been one element in colonial commercial relationships, initially organized as part of a barter system with local elites, or later a tax system for extracting wealth from the colonized, and then gradually becoming arranged and financed on an industrial scale by merchants specializing in animals or animal products (particularly ivory and skins).
The Hagenbeck family of Hamburg was the most influential trader of all, displaying seals (described as mermaids) on the quayside in Hamburg from 1848, and then becoming specialists in supplying zoos and circuses as they became the dominant customers for wild animals (Reichenbach, 1996;Rothfels, 2002: 44 passim). The trade was huge. Between 1866 and 1886, Carl Hagenbeck's firm sold around 700 leopards, 1000 lions and 400 tigers, 1000 bears, 800 hyenas, 300 elephants, 80 rhinos, 300 camels, 150 giraffes, 600 antelopes, tens of thousands of monkeys, thousands of crocodiles and large snakes and over 100,000 birds. But these are only the ones who survived to be sold, because the slaughter of animals to stock zoos was extraordinary. An entire family might be killed in order that a baby could be caught, and then at least half of the animals died while in transit. It has been estimated that this meant that an average of 10 creatures would have perished in order that one could be displayed (Baratay and Hardouin-Fugier, 2004: 118). If we add to that, the mortality rate of about one in three animals per year for early zoos (Woods, 2018), then the zoo can be understood to be a major cause of animal deaths. Indeed, the violence of the capture of the animal was celebrated in popular culture. The great white hunter, with his big guns and stories of cowardly natives and charging animals, would often be working to contract for a particular company. Their published accounts are extraordinary assertions of imperial power and righteousness, of the violent subjugation of wildlife and of inferior humans (Rothfels, 2002: 59 passim).
It was a complex business model, but the profits were substantial. In 1876, an elephant could be purchased in Kassala in the Sudan for between 80 and 400 German marks and then sold in Europe for between 3000 and 6000 marks (Rothfels, 2002: 57). There were two key problems: the logistics of long-distance travel and co-ordination; and attrition of the products due to disease or difficulties in transportation. A few specialist firms dominated the market, such as the Hagenbecks, the Jamrach family in London and Liverpool, and the 'Zoological Institute' and later the 'Flatfoots' in New York City from 1830s-1870s. The latter were effectively a cartel who were not above using violence to ensure that they continued to control the importation of animals into the growing zoos of the United States. Gradually, the increasing number of railway lines and more rapid sea transport produced lower attrition rates, and zoos got better at not killing their charges. There were now too many animals, and this resulted in a price deflation by the late 1870s. For Hagenbeck, the answer was a return to the travelling fair, showing extraordinary people and animals.
The first of these were a group of Sami with reindeer who he exhibited in Hamburg and then toured around Europe. The idea was so financially successful that it rapidly grew. Hagenbeck's 'Ceylon Caravans' of the 1880s had up to 200 people on show, including snake charmers, acrobats and dancers, as well as decorated elephants and a camp. The presentation of these 'people shows' was of simple exotics from the dawn of time, underdeveloped children who were grateful to travel. There was a great deal of interest from university anthropologists, who took photographs and studied language, artefacts and behaviour, and at the end of the show the travellers' artefacts often became part of ethnographic museum collections (Ritvo, 1997: 125 passim;Rothfels, 2002: 91 passim). Hagenbeck also invested in an ill-fated circus, various touring panoramas and a highly profitable touring lion exhibit which led into a Roman themed performing animal show at the 1893 Chicago Columbian Exposition. A contemporary visitor recounts bears walking the tightrope, camels on roller skates and tigers pulling crowned lions in chariots (Rothfels 2002: 151).
So when Hagenbeck opened the Stellingen Zoo outside Hamburg in 1907, it should be understood as a development which incorporated the spatial structure of the zoological garden with the spectacle of the travelling show and the panorama (Rothfels, 2002: 42). The Tierpark used a fake mountain made from concrete, as well as an arrangement of lakes and trenches disguised with artificial rocks, to present a view of animals apparently living together in harmony in naturalistic settings. The site was designed so that the visitors would see the various displays from vantage points. Rather than bars, the animals and people were provided with simulations of nature, a display of free enclosures, Freianlage (Baratay and Hardouin-Fugier, 2004: 244;Reichenbach, 1996). Hagenbeck cultivated the idea that his zoos were an ark, and zookeepers were Noah-like friends of animals. Indeed, it was often claimed that the animals were happier and healthier in captivity than they would be in the wild.
Hagenbeck's trained animal shows were supposedly achieved with kinder methods of management (zahme Dressur) than the violence of the club, and the moats at the Tierpark were designed using observational data about the jumping abilities of different species (Rothfels, 2002: 163). Of course, the changes that produced this new zoo were not simply driven by altruism because the park was also a showroom in which all the livestock was for sale. Indeed, by this point, Hagenbeck was marketing the sale of groups of animals, together with the cages and waggons needed to make them into components of a travelling menagerie, circus or show. The design of the displays at the new park was also meant to acclimatize the animals to Northern European weather, making them more saleable, as well as being cheaper on heating. There were sound business reasons for the new model zoo, as well as for the repeated attempt to sell an account of happy animals living in semiliberté (Rothfels, 2002). 8 Yet, in order for this account of the zoo as an asylum for animals to become credible, it was necessary to conceal the trade that made it possible. A 1902 letter from the Director of the Bronx Zoo, William Hornaday, to Hagenbeck, asks him to be quiet about the fact that 40 Indian rhinos had to be killed in order to get 3 young ones, 1 of which was to be brought by the Bronx Zoo: There are now a good many cranks who are so terribly sentimental that they affect to believe that it is wrong to capture wild creatures and exhibit them -even for the benefit of millions of people. For my part, I think that while the loss of the large Indian rhinoceroses is greatly to be deplored, yet, in my opinion, the three young ones that survive will be of more benefit to the world at large than would the forty rhinoceroses [. . .] seen only at rare intervals by a few ignorant natives. (Rothfels, 2002: 67) The zoo and the history of the present It is hard to imagine such colonial violence being expressed by anyone in a contemporary zoo, yet Hagenbeck's naturalistic display of animals, together with the idea of the immobile ark, was hugely influential in shaping the contemporary zoo. It underpins a progressive narrative in which the cruel travelling menagerie is replaced by the civilized zoological gardens, which is in turn replaced by the sensitive biopark or conservation centre (Garrett, 2014: 214 passim;Hosey et al., 2013: 14). Zoos have always been described by their supporters as places to cultivate a sensitivity to nature, and since the 1970s, this romantic sensibility has been augmented by an emphasis on sustainability and the environment, with displays aimed at demonstrating human entanglement in the web of life and performing the functions of an ark for endangered animals. The zoo continues to articulate itself as a site for civilizing human beings, using animals in order to do so, and stressing that 'science' is the justification (Braverman, 2012).
The problem for zoos is that there is not a great deal of evidence that they are very good for animals. The complaints go back a long way. For Victorian critics, the death rates in zoos showed a clear parallel with the people who lived in overcrowded dwellings, workhouses, barracks and asylums (Ito, 2014). The zoo was compared to a factory where the lack of light and air caused the concentration of miasmas. When a British Royal Commission sat in 1875 to consider the regulation of animal experiments, its members suggested that the zoo was a gigantic pathological experiment, of which death by tuberculosis was the result. Their incarceration in the zoo had transformed wild, foreign creatures into sickly slum dwellers (Uddin, 2015: 34;Woods, 2018: 54). While zoos are clearly very different now, their critics continue to accuse them of being primarily attractions not arks. The animals that live in zoos often undergo physiological changes due to lack of exercise or the impossibility of flight, and there are common changes in breeding patterns as well as welldocumented psychological problems. To make matters worse, the evidence for the success of reintroduction of endangered species into the wild is patchy, and there are continuing concerns concerning the sourcing and display of animals -particularly what are usually referred to as 'charismatic megafauna' -for captivity (Braverman, 2012). Yet, without the 'biocapital' of the big animals (Flack, 2018: 44), most zoos would be bankrupt. For critics of zoos, their exhibits are cruel simulations of something that has never existed, 'like dysfunctional theater productions in which the actors neither stir nor speak but pose mutely among inedible props' (Spotte, 2006: 100). Zoos do not present or protect the wild because they are not the wild, and never can be. 'A captive Alpine ibex by itself tells us as little about goats as the Mona Lisa reveals about women' (op cit: 45).
The contemporary response to these accusations is always to further enrich the cages with foliage and landscaping, and build more naturalistic enclosures, hiding the bars in order to produce 'island sanctuaries in a burgeoning sea of anthropogenic desolation' (Flack, 2018: 14). The explicit justification is to continue to move away from being merely an 'attraction' and towards becoming a conservation park (Beardsworth and Bryman, 2001: 43;Garrett, 2014: 114 passim), but spectres of other institutions continue to shape this development. The zoo has never really differentiated itself from the fair, the circus and the pleasure gardens, and contemporary zoos often have sea lion shows and fairground rides, cross-marketing or sponsorship with businesses and brands, as well as a great deal of emphasis on eating and shopping. In his earliest writing on Disneyization, Alan Bryman (1999) suggested that this sort of commercialization was an example of the 'dedifferentiation' of cultural forms. Dedifferentiation is an interesting concept because it contests the Durkheimian or Parsonian notion that modernization is always about the differentiation of social systems, producing an ever more elaborated division of labour within multiplying types of institution. The sociologist Edward Tiryakian (1992) proposed that this was an empirical question, since there was no necessary reason to assume that differentiation was always a one-way process. What Bryman saw as the contemporary merging of theme park, mall, zoo, circus and so on suggests exactly this sort of re-unification of what had, for a while, been distinct social forms.
However, I think the question is really whether the zoo has ever really escaped from the influence of the fair, and consequently, from all the popular social forms that owe more to carnival than museum. Could the zoo ever escape its genealogy? Was it ever differentiated? In 1870, the US showman, Phineas T. Barnum, advertised his 'Grand Travelling Museum, Menagerie, Caravan and Circus'. The following year, he expanded this to 'Museum, Menagerie and Circus, International Zoological Garden, Polytechnic Institute and Hippodrome'. Barnum was actively engaged in the marketing of dedifferentiation because he knew that the only thing that really mattered was getting the punters in and paying the bills. The more you offered, the more likely they were to come. The original 1825 prospectus for London Zoo claimed that the animals will be 'brought from every part of the world to be applied either to some useful purpose, or as objects of scientific research, not of vulgar admiration' (in Vevers, 1976: 15). At the present time, despite continued and insistent claims to the contrary, critics of zoos still suggest that they are 'simply places of public entertainment' (Lever, in McKenna et al., 1987: 12). The spectre of the carnival still haunts the cages, because the contemporary zoo cannot escape its history. The zoo, as Elizabeth Hanson (2004) puts it, is a '"hybrid" institution' somewhere between 'science and showmanship, high culture and low, remote forests and the cement cityscape, and wild animals and urban people' (p. 7).

Conclusion: the great institutionalization
The collector, like the reader, seeks to convince himself that there is structure, that things can be ordered and understood, even if they seem to obey alien rules, or no rules at all. (Blom, 2004: 206) In Madness and Civilization, Foucault (1989a) writes of a 'great confinement' taking place from the 17th century onwards. Those who offended bourgeois reason and morality had special buildings constructed for them -prisons, hospitals, schools and so on. This has been an influential idea, but it seems to me that it was not only deficient humans who were collected during this period, but that it is a time of a wider 'great institutionalization' for collections of all kinds, in which various activities, people, animals and materials had special structures constructed for them -whether parks with pavilions, rusticated neo-classical buildings or a grand marquee. The architect of the menagerie at Versailles, Louis Le Vau, was also responsible for the design of the gigantic Hôpital de la Salpêtrière 9 20 years previously. In the decades around the founding of the London Zoo, the National Gallery, British Museum, Natural History Museum, Victoria and Albert Museum and many others were founded or moved to new grand buildings (Ito, 2014: 7). The centralization of the state and the urbanization of the population appears to have provided the finance and justification for collecting things together in grand places -whether they be animals, paintings or traders. This is what Tony Bennett (1995), extending Foucault's argument, calls the 'exhibitionary complex', a display of power/knowledge which is public, spectacular and emplaced. The zoo shares much with these other institutions -the archive, theatre, museum, gallery, opera, covered market, amusement park, stock exchange, public park, library, even the university campus. This genealogy of the zoo is partly an account of the way that a particular modern institution emerges from earlier cultural forms -the collection and parkland. But the neatness of this story is also disrupted by its debt to the travelling fair -episodic, nomadic and open to the common people. In Rabelais and his World, Mihail Bakhtin (1968) appeared to be suggesting 10 that the laughter and disruption of the carnival had disappeared with industrialism as a result of the strengthening of the power of the state. Stallybrass and White (1986) disagree, suggesting that the carnival is better thought of as a principle which continues to disrupt and upset established social relations. It is not in the past, but forms part of every present. To adapt their terms to the case at hand, the civilizing process of the zoo, its moral architecture, is continually troubled by the exotic beasts that it requires in order to get the punters through the gates. It seems that spectacle is required to pay the bills, and hence, the zoo can never really exorcize the ghost of the menagerie (Cowie, 2014: 205).
As I suggested at the start of this essay, zoos are exercises in classification. Like the cabinet of curiosity (Zytaruk, 2011), the zoo brings things together in a particular place and then keeps them slightly apart. The internal boundaries are supposed to ensure that animals do not fight or eat each other; zoo staff and visitors are clearly distinguished; backstage and frontstage paths, moats and fences ensure the orderly movement of creatures and materials. Just as the menagerie appears to have been part of the genealogy of the Panopticon, so does the architecture of collection and observation produce the similarities and differences, movements and impasses, which are constitutive of formal organization. As Foucault (1991) suggests 'the Panopticon also does the work of a naturalist' (p. 203), inspecting the creatures in the cells, observing behaviour and judging symptoms. For its exhibits, the zoo seeks to be a total institution (Beardsworth and Bryman, 2001: 88;Woods, 2018: 31), but perhaps it can be better understood as a complex of governance technologies which co-produce both non-human and human. As Irus Braverman expresses it, relying again on Foucault (2012), 'the naturalization, classification, naming, identification, recording, registration, legalization, and reproduction of zoo animals are also various technologies for disciplining humans into proper human-nature relations ' (p. 20).
But this structuralist account of the zoo as a form of thought made durable tends to overstate the stability of this, of perhaps, any institution. The mystery at the heart of the zoo is why we look at animals at all, and this is a question that connects to the wonders of the carnival. It is often suggested nowadays that the reason that we visit the zoo is because it connects us to nature, perhaps by cultivating an imaginative identification (McKenna et al., 1987). This is a nicely civilized account of something much stranger, of the presentation of something alien, even to the extent of their being a threat to our lives. Because identification must fail. As Peter Berger (2009) suggested in his essay 'Why Look at Animals?', the reality of the zoo is that the animals do not see us because we do not share the same life world. That is why they look through us, or eat us.
The ordered imaginary of the Zoo requires the existence of this alien, often regarded as the other of order and organization. The zoo, to balance the costs of animals and keepers against ticket prices and the sale of Hippoburgers, must produce and contain the idea of the exotic, of beauties and monsters, of a spectacle that is frightening and wonderful, and of a strangeness that allows spectators 'to travel by means of thought alone' (Baratay and Hardouin-Fugier, 2004: 151). This is why the zoo can never become fully insulated from carnival, why it has never achieved the sort of differentiation achieved by similar institutions such as the museum or gallery, because it requires the creation of this otherness to exist at its very heart. So when Beardsworth and Bryman (2001: 98), in their analysis of the 'Disneyization' of the zoo, point to the 'wild' as something which is now themed, they miss the extent to which a fundamental strangeness must always be at the heart of the zoo. As we have seen in this article, the history of the zoo is a history of attempts to tame the wild but it must always fail, otherwise there would be nothing to see. The tiger needs to stay dangerous, and the intelligence of dolphins must remain a mystery. Wonder, in the sense used by Kaulingfreks et al. (2011), must not be expunged or suppressed, but is actually required if the zoo is to provide a spectacle to justify the entrance price. This is not some metaphysical wildness, something pre-social, but something that must be conjured, produced by the institution in order that it can be recognized as distinctive as a structured encounter between humans and their others. Another way of putting this is to say that 'human exceptionalism' (Flack, 2018: 28) is required in order that the zoo has a reason to exist. If 'they' are too much like 'us', then why are we there at all?
The visitors to zoos are part of this dialectic of organization and disorganization too. Since the foundation of London, the zoo has been part of a civilizing mission, though one which had a complex relationship to the rowdy White working class and displayed some predictable racial prejudices towards non-White citizens (Uddin, 2015). Just as zoo managers try to contain, observe and diagnose those in their custody, so do they endlessly complain about visitors who feed or throw stones at animals, drop litter, drink alcohol or eat food they have not purchased, and climb across barriers. But when a human gets killed by an animal, the danger involved in bringing things together and keeping them slightly apart is displayed, and the imaginary of the zoo is re-affirmed.
The words 'menagerie' and 'circus' contain traces of alternate meanings, of chaos and disorganization, as does 'zoo' in certain sentences. When Dr Roderick McDonald, a former Harvard professor of zoology, resigned as Director of Philadelphia Zoo in 1935, he said 'I didn't come here to run a menagerie or a circus' (Baratay and Hardouin-Fugier, 2004: 215). The paradox is that the zoo needs the spectacle of the menagerie, not only to pay the bills, but also as the otherness at its heart. The history of the present of the zoo shows that it is a form of organization that explicitly seeks to tame, but actually requires the production of the wild, of the unpredictable other. It teaches us that the present is a particular arrangement of materials and assumptions that reassembles past arrangements in new ways. And it teaches us that organization and disorganization require each other, and are produced and classified through the bars, moats and glass of the zoological gardens.

Funding
The author(s) received no financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.