Emotion, Space and Society 5 (2012) 113e121

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Emotion, Space and Society

journal homepage: www.elsevier.com/locate/emospa

Dissonant emotions, divergent outcomes: Constructing space for emotional

methodologies in development
Kate Hardy
CIGS, School of Sociology and Social Policy, University of Leeds, Leeds LS2 9JT, United Kingdom

a r t i c l e i n f o a b s t r a c t

Article history: Movimento para a liberdade das mulheres na prostituição (Movimento) and União para a protecção dos
Received 6 November 2009 direitos dos trabalhadores (União) are mobilising for human rights around sex work and prostitution in
Received in revised form Latin America. After a year of working with both groups, my relationship with Movimento broke down;
6 October 2011
meanwhile the relationship with União flourished and from it emerged intensive and productive
Accepted 17 October 2011
ethnographic experiences and a large and rich dataset. The paper asks why this happened and why the
two groups responded so differently to the same research proposal. The paper contributes to under-
Keywords:
standings of emotional methodologies in three related ways. Firstly, it emphasises the importance of
Emotion
Methodology
considering collective emotion, emotional hues and identities at the organisational scale when designing
Sex work and implementing research projects. Secondly, it demonstrates how affective ties based on these
Prostitution emotional hues produce space. Thirdly, it argues that incorporating emotions into both our analyses and
Emotional geographies methodologies can challenge orthodox constructions of subjects in development as rationalistic and
Latin America atomistic actors.
Development Ó 2011 Elsevier Ltd. All rights reserved.

1. Introduction movements. In the second section, I introduce the two organisa-

In 2007, I began research with two organisations of street sex
workers, Movimento para a liberdade das mulheres na prostituição
(Movimento) and União para a protecção dos direitos dos trabalha-
dores (União)1 who are mobilising for their human rights in Latin
America.2 A year later the relationship with Movimento broke down
and they withdrew from the project. Meanwhile, the relationship
with União flourished and from it emerged intensive ethnographic
experiences and a rich dataset. The question as to why the two
groups responded so differently is the subject of this paper. In
seeking to answer these methodological questions, I draw on
concrete experiences with the groups to explore the ways in which
emotions produce space, with which researchers must contend
when working in development e and other e contexts.
To explore the divergent responses of the groups, the paper is
divided into four main sections. The first part discusses the absence
of accounts of emotion in development studies and, in contrast, the
renaissance of emotion in theories of activism and social
tions, provide some background on their politics, structures and
histories and draw on ethnographic notes to explore the chro-
nology of events during fieldwork. In the third part, I examine why
the divergence between the two organisations occurred, drawing
on theories of collective identity and collective emotion to
demonstrate how these produced affective ties which in turn
produced the spaces in which the two organisations acted. In the
fourth part, I argue that collective emotions in organisations
express themselves spatially, shaping both access and ethical
practice and it is with these co-constitutive productions of space
and emotion that researchers must contend when generating
emotional methodologies in development contexts. I also make
some suggestions about the wider relevance for emotions in
development for transforming our understandings of agents in
development from rationalistic actors to emotional subjects, which
has implications for designing development policies and practices.
2. Emotions, activism and methodologies

2.1. Emotions and development

E-mail address: k.r.hardy@leeds.ac.uk.
1
Names and places have been changed in order to protect anonymity. From the teleology of modernisation approaches (Parsons, 1966;
2
Contrary to scholarly orthodoxy, where appropriate this paper uses first person
expression in order to emphasise the subjective nature of emotions and to locate
Rostow, 1960) to the structuralism of dependency theory (Frank,
both the ‘researcher’ and ‘researched’ firmly within the research relationship as 1967; Thomas, 1974; Wallerstein, 1979) and the market fetishism
emotional subjects. of neo-liberalism, development theory has been characterised by

1755-4586/$ e see front matter Ó 2011 Elsevier Ltd. All rights reserved.
doi:10.1016/j.emospa.2011.10.001
114 K. Hardy / Emotion, Space and Society 5 (2012) 113e121
a focus on meta-structures including institutional politics, tech-
nology and most of all, macroeconomics. Indeed, development
theory has frequently been synonymous with development
economics. Notwithstanding post-development theory and its
emphasis on localism, diversity, context and alternative forms of
knowledge, the economism of both mainstream and radical
approaches to development has tended towards a focus on struc-
tural and rational economic ‘laws’ (Potter et al., 2008) as explana-
tions and programmes for ‘progress’. As Schuurman (2009: 831)
has argued, particularly under the dominant framework of neo-
liberalism, with few exceptions development research has been
‘characterised by an emphasis on empiricism, quantitative meth-
odologies and policy orientated project evaluations’, under girded
by the dedication to economic growth.
Although material poverty is generally e and perhaps correctly e
seen as the ‘central problem of development today’ (Biel, 2000: 6),
recognition of the multidimensional nature of poverty (Chant and
McIlwaine, 2009) and broader conceptualisations of well-being
(Nussbaum, 2000; Sen, 1985) have enriched understandings of the
social nature of development. Some authors have referred to the
‘social and psychological effects of deprivation’ (Enríquez Rosas,
2002; Gonzalez de la Rocha, 1994; Moser, 1996: 23) and subjective
processes and experiences such as pleasure, care and love have
begun to be considered by development theorists (Esplen, 2010;
Gosine, 1998; Lefebvre, 1991). Yet even in emphasising theories of
development with a ‘human face’ (Cornia et al., 1987) or a ‘body’
(Cornwall et al., 2008; Eyerman, 2005), emotions have remained
conspicuously absent. Subjective, experiential and emotional
elements of development have generally been treated as after-
thoughts, rather than central analytical tools or empirical foci and
have rarely been foregrounded alongside material and economic
considerations.
2.2. Emotions and methodology
Where emotions have appeared in research on development,
they have featured as side acts within methodological discussions,
referring, for example, to researchers’ experiences, often in fleeting
references to the emotional impact of fear during fieldwork (Bell
et al., 1993; Bradburd, 1998; Chacko, 2004; Wheeler, 2009). Yet
beyond the development canon, drawing in part on feminist
contributions to epistemological thought (Dubois, 1983; Hartstock,
1999; hooks, 1989; Smith, 1987; Stanley and Wise, 1993), authors
have sought to challenge the Weberian rationality/emotion
dichotomy by writing emotion back into research accounts and
methodological approaches (Askins, 2009; Gibson-Graham, 1994).
The most common exploration of emotions in the research
process has focused on ‘researching the researcher’, examining the
emotional reactions of people undertaking research projects
(see Campbell, 2007; Dickson-Swift and James, 2007; Johnson and
Clarke, 2003). This is born firstly out of concern for welfare
(Dickson-Swift and James, 2007) and secondly, to pay attention to
the role of researchers’ emotions in shaping practice and analysis.
Despite these valuable contributions, discussions of the relation-
ship between emotions and research remain rare and are
frequently encouraged out by writing up processes and academic
norms and standards.
Aside from the hegemonic dominance of reason over emotion,
another more prosaic explanation for the relative absence of
emotions is the difficulty researchers may face in accounting for
them as ‘scientific’ (Cole et al., 2004; Scherer, 2005). The task of
accounting emotions ‘scientifically’ is infamously complex (Scherer,
2005) and, as some have argued, perhaps impossible. This
complexity is due not least to conceptual debates over what even
constitutes an emotion (Frijda, 2007; Neidenthel, 2005). In addition
to quantitative and qualitative methods in other parts of the
project, throughout the research I was reliant on participant
observation, drawing data from the ways in which the women
recounted their experiences and spoke to me directly about their
feelings, not only in their responses to me. The intersubjective
nature of these interactions make it exceedingly difficult to sepa-
rate this analysis from my own subjective interpretation. However,
in addition to my own experiences, I talked with members of each
group about the other groups and also discussed both groups with
social workers, researchers, members of various civil society groups
and other actors who had worked with both organisations. In
addition, I also performed discourse analysis on the language and
images used in their leaflets, websites and other organisational
literature to ensure that my own personal experiences and feelings
did not overly influence the emergent analysis. That said, recog-
nising, labelling and analysing emotions depends on their refrac-
tion through one’s own emotional subjectivity, as ‘the object is
always constructed by the one who observes it’ (Rist, 2002: 5).
2.3. Emotions and social movements
In contrast to the neglect of emotions in development studies,
theoretical attention to the relationship between emotions and
social life has been undergoing a renaissance. From organisational
theory in the workplace to contentious politics and the academy,
emotions are re-emerging as an important category to contend
with in exploring and explaining social behaviour (Askins, 2009;
Bosco, 2007; Coupland et al., 2008; Hercus, 1999; Schrock et al.,
2004; Sturdy, 2003).
One area in particular that has seen particularly significant
renewed interest is in the study of social movements. Despite
initially being a central feature of theories of collective behaviour in
accounting for behaviour of ‘the crowd’, it became decreasingly
customary to consider the role of emotion in contentious political
action (c.f. Gamson, 1975; McAdam, 1982; McCarthy and Zald, 1977).
Until recently, rationality was presented in contradistinction to
emotionality (Goodwin et al., 2001) and movement actors were
represented as ‘Spock-like beings, devoid of passion and other
human emotions’ (Benford, 1997 cited in Goodwin et al., 2001).3
As authors have begun to integrate emotionality back in to their
theories of social movements, a significant body of work has
emerged examining the central role that emotions play in the
dynamics of protest and politics. Much of this work has focused on
the ways in which emotion is key for recruitment, motivation and
sustainability in movements (Flam, 1994; Flam and King, 2005;
Goodwin et al., 2007; Jasper, 1997). Beyond individual motiva-
tions for participation, many researchers have drawn heavily on
Arlie Hochschild’s (1983) seminal work, exploring the ways in
which emotion and feeling are constructed, disciplined, performed
and felt at the collective level (Bosco, 2006; Goodwin et al., 2001;
Hughes, 2005; Oliver and Roos, 2007; Reger, 2004).
3. Setting the scene: sex work, development and research
3.1. Locating sex work in d/Development
Gillian Hart (2001: 650) has distinguished “Development” as the
active neo-colonial intervention by the ‘Global North’ in countries
considered to be in the ‘Global South’, from “development” as
‘a geographically uneven, profoundly contradictory set of historical
3
This refers to a fictional half-human, half-vulcan character ‘Spock’ from the Star
Trek film and television series. Vulcans are noted for their attempts to live by reason
and logic alone, without any reliance on emotion.
 K. Hardy / Emotion, Space and Society 5 (2012) 113e121
processes’. Bearing this distinction in mind, important research,
largely undertaken by feminist scholars, has begun to consider the
relationships between sex work and d/Development, exploring its
political economies of sex work and examining global inequalities
of wealth with the structures of commercial sex. Sassen (2002) has
emphasised the social costs of export orientated industry and debt
in terms of feminising survival and in the creation of ‘alternative
circuits of survival’ in which sex work and emigrant domestic
labour are identified as key responses. Others have also linked sex
tourism and sex work more generally as being responses to ‘the
painful consequences of global capitalism’ (Cabezas, 1998: 85; see
also Rivers-Moore, 2009). There is consensus that sex work appears
to have grown a strategy for dealing with the ramifications and
consequences of mainstream approaches to d/Development
premised on free market economics.
These analyses have been critical in challenging representations
of post-colonial women, and particularly sex workers, as victims
(Doezema, 2001; Mohanty, 1991, 2003) and instead asserting their
agency, albeit within constraints. Yet at the same time, sex work is
rising up the agenda of the Development industry, often with sex
workers framed as the victimised receivers of help and support.
Both groups in this study were in receipt of funds from major
international donors and non-governmental organisations,
including the UK Department for International Development
(DfID), The Global Fund to fight AIDS, Tuberculosis and Malaria and
the Global Fund for Women. Furthermore, if Development claims to
be fundamentally about promoting well-being and challenging
injustice (Esplen, 2010), the sex workers in this study can be
understood as being directly engaged in it. As Lund (2010) argues,
social change set in motion by social or political movements have at
least as much transformative potential as any exogenous Devel-
opment intervention in processes of development. The organisa-
tions’ efforts on changing state practices through legal reform and
redistribution of resources are important examples of their
participation in d/Development processes as active agents strug-
gling for economic, political and social change.
3.2. Designing the proposal
A widely held consensus in d/Development research is that
researchers from the Global North undertaking research in the
Global South should be cognisant of the interplay of potentially
unequal power relations between themselves and participants of
study (Bosco, 2007; Gluck and Patai, 1991; hooks, 1989; Jenkins,
2007; Mohanty, 1991; Scheyvens and Leslie, 2000; Staeheli and
Lawson, 1997; Staeheli and Nagar, 2002). Working with stigma-
tised and marginalised populations requires similar, but particular,
standards and practices of sensitivity. This is particularly true for
sex workers who often have an antagonistic relationship with
research and researchers, in part as academics are frequently
interpreted as building their careers ‘on the backs’ of sex workers,
obscuring their voices and failing to represent their realities
(Colimoro, 1998; Metzenrath, 1998; Wahab, 2003). Both União and
Movimento had experienced betrayal by researchers to whom they
had committed time and resources and whom had promised to
return results, only to disappear, taking the findings with them
(see also Boynton, 2002).
In response to these charges, the intention of my project was to
produce research that was both useful and relevant to the partici-
pants themselves (see also O’Neill, 2001; Sanders, 2006). I sought to
encourage the organisations and activists to shape the methods and
questions of the investigation and to include the women as
participants, researchers and knowledge-producing subjects
(Agustín, 2001; Pyett, 1998). Specifically in relation to sex worker
research, Pyett (1998: no page; see also Metzenrath, 1998; Wahab,
115
2003; Wolffers 2004) has called for the development of ‘collabo-
rative working relationships with sex workers, so that we can both
train sex workers as researchers and learn from sex workers how to
do research in a sensitive and useful way’. In these ways, I devel-
oped collaborative methods in order to emphasise the value of the
women’s local, situated knowledge and to include and engage
research subjects as participants in the research process (Benson
and Nagar, 2006).
With these considerations of power relations, unequal access to
resources and the histories of the relationship between sex workers
and the academy, as well as specific information from União and
Movimento in mind, I boldly (and naively) went forward into the
field with a participatory and collaborative proposal, believing it to
be the fairest, most ethical and democratic way of undertaking the
research project. It was, then, to my horror that one of the orga-
nisations with whom I believed I had established firm bonds of
partnership and friendship not only rejected the proposal, but also
expelled and excommunicated me from their circle.
3.3. The Proposal: divergent organisations
União was formed in 1994, when women working on the corners
of a working class district of the capital began to meet in bars and
cafés, to discuss the ways in which they could resist police
harassment and abuse. Police repression against them intensified
and they began to do HIV prevention work instead, getting dona-
tions from the condom factory and handing them out. Local public
sector trade union representatives began to support the women,
offering them a small office and political knowledge. Their primary
focus was decriminalization, which they won in one metropolitan
area in 1998 in alliance with local human rights groups, trade
unions and youth groups. Following a long battle, União won legal
recognition as a non-governmental organisation in 2006, but they
still lack the status of a union, despite their demands and their
affiliation to a larger national umbrella trade union organisation.
União is part of a regional network of sex work trade unions, all of
which are united by their emphasis on sex work as labour and
therefore their statuses as labour organisations. União has around
four thousand affiliates across the ten provincial branches, making
it one of the largest sex worker trade unions in the world. União has
a formal leadership structure and regular elections to elect regional
and national representatives.
Movimento was formed as an offshoot of União when a number
of women broke away from the original organisation following the
repeal of the repressive laws in the capital. After their victory,
a discussion emerged within the group over how to conceptualise
the sale of sex. Some women disagreed that prostitution consti-
tuted labour and instead believed it to be violence against women.
Beginning from the radical feminist standpoint that prostitution is
violence against women (see also Barry, 1995; Jeffreys, 1999),
Members of Movimento argue that they are unemployed women
who sell their labour in prostitution because no other options are
available in order for them to survive. They reject the discourse of
sex work, arguing that organising in a trade union legitimises and
normalises prostitution as work. They state instead that they are
victims of male and patriarchal violence, referring to themselves as
‘women in the situation of prostitution’. Instead of organising for
labour rights, they seek alternative economic choices for women in
the sex industry, campaign against trafficking and the trade in
women and offer consciousness-raising. They support the
decriminalisation of women in prostitution, but adopt an aboli-
tionist position arguing for the end of prostitution rather than the
amelioration of its worst excesses. In contrast to União, Movimento
has a non-hierarchical structure, as aside from a president, there
are no ascribed roles in the organisation.
116 K. Hardy / Emotion, Space and Society 5 (2012) 113e121
The research proposal developed for my collaboration with
Movimento and União was identical, though language was amended
in accordance with the ideological commitments and identities of
the two organisations. The language of ‘women in the situation of
prostitution’ was used in the proposal for Movimento, while the
language for União referred to ‘sex workers’. The proposal
emphasised collaboration, explaining that the aims, objectives and
selection of methods had been left open in order to be decided on
mutually. Options for methods included focus groups, private
interviews, participant observation and questionnaires. The ques-
tions asked would be generated communally in meetings. I sug-
gested that we could share the skills I had from my research
training, combining them with their specialised knowledge, in
order to generate information they could utilise. The proposal
stated the findings would be returned to the organisations upon
completion in an accessible format as well as translated copies of
any articles, reports and papers published elsewhere.
A draft research proposal was offered to demonstrate a sug-
gested format which the groups could use as a base. This included
anonymous questionnaires and individual or group interviews. The
proposal offered a small amount of expenses for interviewees’
time.4 This was in order ‘to recognise the value of participants’ time,
who have multiple demands on their time including work, family
and organisational commitments’ (Proposal, March 2008). All of
the suggestions were tentative, open to suggestion and amendment
and it was emphasised that the proposal was designed as an
example, and that the women should lead on the formation of the
project.
3.3.1. Movimento
Meeting in a small office in the heart of the capital, conferred to
them by the women’s agency of central government, Movimento
meet each Tuesday to undertake courses in understanding gender
violence and empowerment and to discuss and share their expe-
riences. They offer training and micro-enterprise to create alter-
native options in the labour market, psychological support on
personal and family issues, assistance in interactions with
governmental and non-governmental organisations and training
forwomen as health advisors. At times the issues they touch on are
inherently political, though in general the focus is on building self-
esteem, expressing feelings of pain and hurt, sharing experiences
and building close ties and support networks between them.
Outside the office, they regularly distribute condoms around
working areas and produce literature on sexual health within
a gender and human rights framework. They work alongside other
feminist groups and there are three social workers who are
assigned to the group, who are fully integrated into it and play
somewhat of a leadership role within it.
During a pilot study in 2007 I met a number of times with
Movimento both in formal meetings and during activities. On
Women’s Day, amid pouring March rain, I joined them in a suburb
on the edge of the city to distribute condoms and information on
sexual health to passers by. Standing in the rain, with inappropriate
shoes, wet feet and soaked through, we laughed, joked and
returned to the office to eat pizza, bonding with each other through
our suffering in the rain. I returned to the office often to pass the
time with the women and promised to return the following year.
During the next year, we stayed in contact through email through
one of the social workers and I sent Christmas items and other
supplies for the office and workshops.
4
This was set as an amount roughly equivalent to earnings from one client to
reimburse women for the time lost in partaking in the interview.
Upon my return, on the entreaty of the social worker, I went
straight into their new office. Following numerous interactions and
having discussed the basic details of the research project with the
social workers and some main gatekeepers of Movimento, they
suggested that I come to a workshop and present the proposal to
the group. We arrived on a baking hot day, the office was sweltering
and chatting ensued about the oppressive heat. We sat in a circle
and myself and a research assistant, who was a native speaker and
able to help me with some of the more idiosyncratic vocabulary of
the group, distributed the research proposal. We read through the
proposal so that those without strong reading skills were also able
to participate and offered the proposal up for discussion. After
a number of questions, the group, led by social workers, said that
they would discuss the proposal in private and would get back to us
later the next week.
For over a month, each week we arrived at the same time at the
beginning of the weekly meeting, discussed ideas for the project
and left for the group to undertake their workshops. Some weeks
later, having communicated with both the social workers, another
member of the group and the President we were informed that we
should arrive at 2 pm. Arriving with a box of snacks, we chatted to
those we knew and were introduced to those we didn’t. As more
and more members arrived it finally felt as if we were beginning to
be accepted. People recognised us, greeted us warmly and called us
by names. When the time came to begin the meeting, some of the
women left the room, came back in and formed the usual circle for
the workshop. Suddenly the atmosphere shifted. One of the
younger social workers stood up and asked what exactly it was that
we were doing there. We responded that we had come with
a proposal for a workshop, as discussed the week before. Renata,
a woman I had been close to, explained aggressively that the
workshops were private and that we could not stay. Responding
that we absolutely understood that, that it was fine and that we
could return another time, they said they had not decided yet
whether they would accept the research project. The atmosphere
was intensely frosty and we packed up our things and left under
a cloud of hostility.
In the following weeks I tried to communicate with the group in
a number of ways, but received no reply. I realised that despite
approaching them tentatively and slowly, we had transgressed
a boundary. We had encroached on their space and that had been
unforgivable. Having negotiated in advance with the social workers
and two members of the group, I felt upset at the thought of being
misunderstood and, worse still, that they thought I may have had
malign intentions. I remained in personal contact with a number of
individuals and also tried to contact the organisation to explain that
there may have been some miscommunication and to attempt to
lay to rest some of the anxieties, even if it meant abandoning the
project. I did not receive a reply.
3.3.2. União
My interaction with the União began over email and then during
the pilot study in 2007 which involved meeting with the General
Secretary, as well as visiting a number of provincial branches. Upon
arriving at União for the second time in 2008, the General Secretary
did not recall me from the year before, despite having spent a long
time with her and remaining in contact throughout the course of
the year. My intention to discuss the proposal in some detail with
her, as the main gatekeeper, was quickly dampened as she simply
glanced at the sheet and took it away to discuss with her colleagues.
Calling again a week later, expecting to have to explain myself
again, considering the dismissive interaction a week previously, I
was surprised when the staff in the office immediately recognised
my name and had messages to relay. After a further two meetings
with the General Secretary and her Deputy to confirm their areas of
 K. Hardy / Emotion, Space and Society 5 (2012) 113e121
interest and to develop the questionnaire collaboratively, we were
ready to start. The main stipulations were that that we were not to
ask any personal questions and that the research could go ahead
only on the absolute condition that we shared and returned the
data once we had collected it.
Four months later, in a union chalet in a small tourist town in the
middle of the country, União held an away weekend. Sponsored by
a large European trade union confederation, thirty women from
provincial branches around the country converged to do media
training. Although excluded from the daytime activities, we were
invited to join them for a party in the evening. Riotous singing,
dancing and eating were accompanied by tears of joy and sadness,
as women were presented with prizes for their accomplishments
over the weekend and as they professed, in turn, to the value of the
organisation and each other in their lives. Many testified to the
difficulties they had faced in their lives and the ways in which the
organisation had offered them hope, companionship and unity in
struggle. I felt privileged to have been welcomed into such a scene
and not only to share the wine, beer and rich foods but to be let in to
such an intimate, close and private event.
Some weeks later, in another small conservative provincial
town, the organisation held a press conference that we were
invited to attend. We sat together, taking photos when the press
and television cameras arrived, to document the event on behalf of
the organisation. Afterwards, as people seeped out of the room,
buzzing from the debate and greeting old friends, I began to help
taking down posters, removing drawing pins, helping in any task I
was directed towards. Then the room turn very quiet. I turned
around and saw that everyone had left, except for the group
leaders, who were now seated in a circle. All of a sudden it was clear
that I was trespassing on private space and stepping into private
time. Excusing myself, the group watched as I walked out, the
atmosphere felt tense and I wondered whether I had inadvertently
committed ethnographic suicide (again) in being present in places
in which I was not welcome. To my relief, as the women spilled out
and jumped into taxis they swept me along with them, taking me
along to one of their houses for a barbeque.
4. Account for divergence: collective identity, emotional hues
and organisational spatialities
The divergent experiences of working (or not) with Movimento
and União make it perhaps easy to overstate the differences
between them. Even União themselves argue that the division
between them is based on a false dichotomy between the two
discursive positions on prostitution/sex work. It is easy to imagine
that there would be space for both within a single organisation
fighting for rights for women in the sex industry. Both locate the
reasons for entry into selling sex in the economic realm and are
founded on feminist critique, though the role of women’s oppres-
sion adopts a stronger role in the analysis of Movimento, while it sits
at an intersection of class struggle and other social inequalities in
the analysis of União. The activities in which the two organisations
engage are also not wholly distinct. The difference is a more
a matter of balance and emphasis than extremely diverging posi-
tions or orientations. Finally, the demographics of both organisa-
tions are almost identical. The women in União and Movimento are
drawn from the same working class strata, many of them have
worked together on the same corners of the city for decades and
experienced the same police brutality, exploitation by third parties
and stigma, social exclusion and marginalisation.
Considering these similarities and the identical methodology
that was offered to both groups, what then can account for the
difference in the research experience? I argue that this difference
can be best understood not only by the distinctive forms of
117
collective identity of the two organisations, but also by the
emotional hues produced by them. In turn, I suggest that these
emotional hues were shaped by the relationship between ‘injustice
frames’ (Gamson, 1982), movement formation and organisational
structure.
In order to understand better these differences, I draw on Jasper’s
(1997) distinction between ‘reciprocal emotions’ and ‘shared
emotions’. In Table 1 (see below) I suggest the shared and reciprocal
emotions that were dominant within Movimento and União. In
addition to ‘shared’ and ‘reciprocal’ emotions I have added ‘subjec-
tive’ emotions, to refer to emotions that predominated participants’
subjectivities. This is important, as groups not only produce emotion
regimes at collective level but also influence emotions at the indi-
vidual scale (Hochschild, 1983). The ‘emotional hues’ presented are
not exhaustive of the full range of emotions experienced, individu-
ally or collectively, in the organisations, as emotions are ‘neither as
disciplined nor as consensual as some movement members may
wish they were’ (Flam and King, 2005: 37). Instead, the notion of
emotional hue attests to a generalised culture of feeling at the
collective e in this case, organisational e scale. Goodwin et al. (2001)
distinguish between emotions that have specific objects and those
that are more general. Emotional hue refers to these more general-
ised feelings about the world that transcend specific objects, refer-
ring to a general tenor or orientation shaping affective ties to one
other and responses to outsiders.
4.1. Emotional hues, injustice frames and collective identity
The micro and macro preconditions of women’s participation in
both União and Movimento were broadly similar; a sense of injus-
tice, experiences of suffering and emotions relating to hurt, anger
and distress. However, the sources of their suffering were allocated
to diverging injustice frames. While there is not room here to
explore the processes by which women came to understand,
perform and reproduce these emotions, it is pertinent to examine
the different emotional hues that these framings produced.
União framed the injustice they have faced as a result of unequal
distributions of wealth under capitalism and the roles of patriarchy
and the state (ethnographic data and website). Their shared
emotions are shaped by this analysis, particularly by an emphasis
on labour and a discourse that demands recognition as workers and
equals. Considering themselves as protagonists, albeit limited by
systemic and structural constraints, sex workers were constructed
as capable and agential. Suffering for União was therefore located in
broader social injustices, recognising shared positionalities with
other subjects and groups including other workers, indigenous, gay
or transgender individuals. Their experiences of suffering were
converted into outrage and anger, levelled at the scale of the
economic and political system.
In contrast, defining themselves as women in the situation of
prostitution, Movimento framed the injustice they face at an alto-
gether different scale. It was instead conceptualised as individually
orientated and personal, played out directly on their terrain of their
bodies, rather than as part of a class or broader group and therefore
Table 1
Emotional hues.
Movimiento União
Shared (after Suspicion, fear, Defiance, injustice,
Jasper, 1997) defensiveness. outrage
Reciprocal (after Intimacy, trust, Warmth, solidarity,
Jasper, 1997) friendship. comradeship
Subjective Vulnerable, defensive, Capable, agential,
victimised. constructive.
118 K. Hardy / Emotion, Space and Society 5 (2012) 113e121
as part of a common experience. Blame was also located at a lower
scale, mainly focusing on individuals, primarily the male clients
who have exploited them or ‘the state’ for its inability to provide
jobs and employment and for being the main arbitrator of violence
(organisational leaflets). This individualisation contributed to the
production of shared emotions of suspicion, fear and resentment
orientated towards outsiders, who were constructed as either
subjects with whom they had no shared experience or worse, as the
perpetrators of the injustices they face.
The shared emotions of fear and defensiveness towards
outsiders limited Movimento’s interactions with non-group
members. The links and solidarities that the groups had made
also reflected my own experiences. While União worked closely
with a wide variety of actors, both within and outside the union
movement, Movimento had fewer contacts and ties, being more
selective about with whom they chose to work. Conversely,
however, Movimento were heavily invested in practices which
generated intimacy and trust between participants, aiding consol-
idation and a sense of belonging. These intensified the reciprocal
emotions of trust and intimacy, as participants came to depend on
each other and the group as a space of comfort, friendship and
safety. Identifying as victims of poverty and feeling that their bodily
integrity had been violated, Movimento felt that even their bodies,
the smallest spatial scale (see Harvey, 2000), had never been
private or sovereign to them and so sought to create spaces that
were protective, closed and safe. The intimacy constructed between
the women ameliorated, but also reinforced, feelings of vulnera-
bility, defensiveness and victimisation.
4.2. Shaping emotional hue through movement formation
The processes of movement formation directly informed the
emergence of these distinctive emotional hues. A number of ‘crit-
ical emotional events’ (Yang, 2000) in each of the organisations had
been particularly influential. First, Movimento was born from
antagonism within União. Second, an original founder and leading
member of Movimento had recently left and released a book about
prostitution, with a final chapter dedicated to two groups of
‘prostituted women’, one of which was Movimento. It was widely
felt that this book had ‘stolen’ the story of the organisation and was
felt to have been a huge betrayal. Although the book reveals very
little about the organisation, less still anything negative or personal
about any of the individual women, there was a widely shared
feeling that it represented yet another theft. This sense of betrayal
and theft had fomented existing distrust amongst the women and
the group had taken a communal position to never again tell their
stories. As a result, the women distrusted my intentions and viewed
me as another person who wanted to steal their stories.
Engaging with concrete projects with organisations in the trade
union confederation and with other groups during the formation,
União created a number of affective ties with individuals outside
the union, diluting the affective ties within it. Although relations
inside União were valued, they were comradely and linked by
struggle rather than friendship. Members were less invested in
their affective relations with each other than in the broader issues
they struggled against. As Branca, an activist, forcefully reminded
me, ‘there are no friends here, only comrades’. Through these alli-
ances União participants experienced loyalty, solidarity and shared
experience with others outsid the organisation, colouring their
consolidation and therefore their emotional hue in the process.
4.3. Emotional hues and organisational structures
In addition, differing organisational structures also played an
important role in shaping emotional hues. At União, the explicitly
hierarchical nature of the union meant that one main gatekeeper
(the General Secretary) policed the boundaries of interaction,
managing, delimiting and clearly communicating the spatialities of
our access. Meanwhile, the absence of a main gatekeeper at Movi-
mento resulted in confusion, making it very difficult to know if our
presence was inappropriate, which eventually led to our complete
exclusion. Movimento’s amorphous ‘open’ structure and led to
a greater desire for security, resulting in a coterminous relationship
between physical and emotional space. The more structured nature
of União and its more confident emotional hue meant that they
reproduced space depending on their needs, producing flexibility,
and constructing space relationally and differentially over time in
order to include and exclude particular members, participants and
allies. In Movimento an almost classic ‘tyranny of structurelessness’
(Freeman, 1970) meant that members felt more vulnerable to the
reactions and feelings of others, while in União my presence could
be sanctioned and therefore validated by particular members. The
institutionalised nature of União, also embedded them e to
a degree e within institutionalised politics, offering more structure,
safety and confidence, shaping women’s feelings towards outsiders.
4.4. Emotional hues and organisational spatialities
During the first interviews with União, the leaders were
comfortable with tape recorders being used and with written
consent forms. Trust appeared to develop very quickly throughout
the interviews and I was frequently invited back. During the first
three interviews with Movimento participants I was not allowed to
use a tape recorder and the third time, when they had consented to
use of a tape recorder, the General Secretary arrived late and then
asked that it be switched off. Additionally, once trust had been
developed in both organisations, local União leaders would invite
me to work with them all day in the office and then to accompany
them to meetings and on rounds in the working districts, often
utilising my status as an English researcher to assert influence and
visibility. In contrast, when I asked whether I could accompany
women from Movimento while they did similar work in their office
my request was met with hushed conversations, refusals and
a series of (valid) questions about what I hoped to gain from so
doing.
The emotional hues of the two organisations produced the
‘absolute space’ (Lefebvre, 1991) of the offices in particular and
differing ways. For Movimento, the material walls of the office
offered them protection from the outside, corresponding directly
with the emotional boundaries of the organisation. The physical
space of the office was coterminous with emotional space and thus
the presence of non-group members represented an incursion and
a threat to the integrity and safety of the group. The dense and
intimate affective ties in Movimento constructed a private, safe,
autonomous space in which painful feelings were shared and thus
dissipated, leaving little space for those conceived as outsiders.
During the times that I did visit Movimento, there was rarely, if
ever, another person from outside the organisation present. Safety
could be secured only by strict spatial enclosures in which the rules
for entry and exit were a zero sum game e you were either in or
out.
In contrast, União’s affective ties were less dense and spatially
concentrated inside the union, spanning out instead to other
groups and broader political projects. There were frequently other
people present in their offices, including members from other
unions, social movements and other miscellaneous local contacts,
such as doctors or students from the local university. Physical space
was repeatedly coded and recoded by União depending on
contingencies of particular events. The borders of organisational
space, although equally well policed, were more porous and able to
 K. Hardy / Emotion, Space and Society 5 (2012) 113e121
shift, dependent on context to enable alliance-making and
connections and allow ‘outsiders’ (including researchers) to move
in and out.
5. Emotional methodologies in development
It is clear that collective emotions have implications for the
methodologies used by researchers. Beyond methodology however,
these experiences suggest that recognising the role that emotions
play has profound significance for d/Development research and for
the practice of Development itself.
Founded in positivism, Development policies have typically
been premised on appearing rational, professional, objective,
effective and functional, grounded in measurable and quantifiable
targets and outcomes, such as ‘growth’. Emotion therefore may be
considered too ‘soft’ for the bureaucratic world of Development
practice or the macro-analyses of development theory. Yet granting
emotions a causal weight can contribute to, rather than detract
from, the practicality of Development policies and practices.
Incorporating emotions into both our analyses and methodologies
can challenge current orthodox constructions of subjects in
Development as rationalistic and atomistic actors. Instead, they can
be understood as acting in a complex web of human relations and
relationality, which are inevitably shaped by and which shape,
emotions. Doing so also allows us to move from ‘development with
a human face’ (Mehrota and Jolly, 1997) and ‘development with
a body’ (Cornwall et al., 2008) to ‘development with a soul’.
The instrumentalism and rationalism inherent in much d/
Development has served to hide contingency, specificity and
particularity. This is true not only between places, but also within
them. Emotional dynamics and cultures can differ significantly
even within a seemingly homogenised sector such as ‘sex workers’.
Too frequently Development projects seek to engage pre-
constituted groups of people, on the assumption that they are
organised around a particular goal or ideology and that their
structural position will elicit similar responses. Recognising
emotion can enable practices to recognise the contestation of
d/Development on the ground within places and particular sectors,
challenging the homogenisation of ‘the local’.
An approach which places emphasis on emotions is vulnerable
to the critique that such micro foci detract from more pressing
problems, such as challenging the larger structural causes of
oppression and inequality. It is indeed important not to lose sight of
traditional material concerns, such as access and distribution of
food, shelter, health care and jobs (Chant and McIlwaine, 2009).
However, deprioritising the ways in which people actually experi-
ence and feel about d/Development offers a shallow form of human
development. Further, widespread racism in Development
discourses have frequently viewed people in the Global South as
ignorant and in need of help, and as inferior to more developed
subjectivities of the Global North (Chant and McIlwaine, 2009;
Potter et al., 2008; Power, 2003, 2006). More complex emotional
subjectivities are attributed to those in the Global North, while
focusing only on rationalistic basic material needs in the South.
Incorporating emotion challenges the subject of d/Development
itself, reorientating constructions of Southern subjectivities
towards greater recognition of their full complexity. Linking
vulnerability, voicelessness, powerlessness, fear, as well as joy,
solidarity and strength to material resources, enables emotion to be
written into the ways in which Development is practiced and
indeed, allows space for questions to emerge as to whether it is
necessary or just to practice capitalist development at all.
Finally, although this paper advocates an emotional ‘turn’ in
‘development studies’, incorporating emotional methodologies
into d/Development practices faces a number of serious material
119
challenges. The nature of research funding in an increasingly
marketised university system, means that as the ‘neo-liberal
complex’ looms over the humanities and social sciences, frictions
arise over the politics of knowledge production (Hannerz, 2007: 2).
As the market e via the state e is increasingly allocated the
responsibility of attributing value to knowledge, marking it ‘useful’
or ‘useless’, non-traditional methods are likely to fall to the bottom
of the funding pile. Qualitative methods, which are necessary for
undertaking emotional methodologies, produce non-traditional
and non-measurable knowledge which can not be clearly har-
nessed to the economy to generate production or growth. Such
methods require time and are slow to produce results and when
they do they may be unquantifiable and without direct market
value. Thus, developing such emotional methodologies in devel-
opment studies e and elsewhere e is likely to be an increasingly
difficult and problematic path to take, but a gauntlet that is all the
same important to take up.
6. Conclusion
Emotions are increasingly recognised as an essential component
of social study, yet development studies has been slow to incor-
porate them into their theories. Expanding the ‘thematic territory’
(Flam and King, 2005) of Development theory through the inclu-
sion of emotions can offer more nuanced understandings of
‘development’, particularly to the ways in which researchers work
in the field. This paper contributes to understandings of emotional
methodologies in three related ways. Firstly, it has emphasised the
importance of considering collective emotion, emotional hues and
identities at the organisational scale when designing and imple-
menting research projects. Secondly, it has demonstrated how
affective ties based on these emotional hues produce space. Thirdly,
and relatedly, it has shown that these have implications for
emotional methodologies, as they present different opportunities
and obstacles for undertaking research, dependent on organisa-
tions’ emotional spatialities of inclusion and exclusion. It has also
suggested that considering emotion is key for developing just
approaches to social and economic change and human
development.
The emotional spaces of the organisations affected participants’
positionalities and therefore possibilities for methodological prac-
tice. In this case, while my presence threatened Movimento’s care-
fully woven intregrity, safety and protective space, União saw the
project as a potential alliance and the women were able to flexibly
define the spatial rules of my access, in order to make the rela-
tionship work to their advantage and on their terms. Beyond
fieldwork, this holds relevance for Development projects as well as
those seeking to engage in solidaristic practices with social move-
ments. The variability of human feeling makes research messy and
unpredictable e a fact often silenced in quests to convey a smooth
scientific process of investigation. The academic norms and stan-
dards which encourage the exclusion of emotions are likely to be
exacerbated by pressures on researchers, resulting from an
increasingly marketised university system. A challenge therefore
lies ahead for researchers; to assert the theoretical importance of
emotions in a context increasingly characterised by scarce
resources which values the ‘hard’ positivism of statistics and the
quantifiable.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank Katy Jenkins, Matt Baillie Smith and Liz
Bondi for their suggestions and patience, three anonymous
reviewers for their helpful comments and the ESRC, RGS and
Central Research Fund for funding the project.
120 K. Hardy / Emotion, Space and Society 5 (2012) 113e121

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