Constructivist

International Studies Quarterly (2011) 55, 647–668
Reclaiming the Vision Thing: Constructivists

as Students of the Future1
Felix Berenskoetter
University of London
Downloaded from https://academic.oup.com/isq/article/55/3/647/1827582 by guest on 09 February 2022

This article argues that constructivists committed to reflexivity should be
students of the future. It notes that both conventional and critical
approaches do not sufficiently engage with the problem of future uncer-
tainty in the process of identity formation and neglect its behavioural
implications. Against this backdrop, the article regrounds constructivism
in a temporal ontology and the argument that humans, in the face of
contingency, seek to establish visions of a meaningful future. It discusses
how visions, as utopias and ⁄ or dystopias, define possibilities of being and
thereby provide actors with a sense of direction, and it differentiates
between ‘‘robust’’ and ‘‘creative’’ visions to highlight two ways in which
such possibilities are manifested. In doing so, the article encourages con-
structivists to become more attentive in identifying the visions which
enable and bind creative agents in the process of realization.
‘‘It’s time to … get back to what we are best at: the business of the future’’.2
In one way or another, studying international politics has always been about
the future. As every textbook tell us, the discipline of International Relations
(IR) was founded on a future-oriented premise. Borne out of the motivation to
understand the causes of war and to prevent it from happening again, IR
scholars were to lay out the conditions for peace so policymakers could create
and sustain this condition. The focus may have broadened since, but scholars
continue to offer scenarios and formulate recommendations about which paths
are wise to travel and which should be avoided. Some present explicit ideas
about how things ought to be, and others remain committed to value-free anal-
ysis and offer predictions, convinced that solid assumptions, coherent theories,
and rigorous research designs enable us to identify historical patterns which
can be projected into the future. And yet, we keep being reminded of the
impossibility to truly know what lies ahead. The ‘‘surprising’’ end of the Cold
War not only famously damaged the faith of IR scholars in the predictive
potential of their theories, it also opened the door to constructivist approaches
which, inspired by the postmodern Zeitgeist and its antifoundationalist
stance, maintain that the future is a more open terrain than mainstream
1
Previous versions of this article were presented at the 2009 ISA annual convention, New York, and at the 2009
ECPR general conference, Potsdam. The author wishes to thank participants for questions and comments received
on these occasions. Particular thanks for insightful conversations and queries go to Benjamin Herborth, Kimberly
Hutchings, David Karp, Oliver Kessler, Ned Lebow, Ed Lock, Christoph Meyer, Antje Wiener, and two anonymous
reviewers.
2
Former British Prime Minister Gordon Brown to delegates at the Labour party conference on the occasion of
the election of a new party leader, The Guardian, September 25, 2010.
doi: 10.1111/j.1468-2478.2011.00669.x
2011 International Studies Association
648 Reclaiming the Vision Thing
(mainly realist) approaches suggest. This stance has epistemological and norma-
tive roots. For one, constructivists note that reality is a product of social inter-
action too complex to be pressed into rigid scientific models and that
historical dynamics cannot simply be read off the world. Related, they hold
that academics are not detached observers but producers of knowledge who
create the very patterns projected into the future, and they are concerned that
by feeding this knowledge into public discourse, academics become accom-
plices in the agenda of politicians. Thus, constructivists hesitate to claim the
future.3
This stance has its merits, yet it also houses a paradox. It rests on the aware-

ness that the future plays a central role in political life yet, at the same time, it
shies away from analysing and understanding this role. More specifically, con-
structivists have failed to engage the insight appropriated by realists that uncer-
tainty is a core feature of the human condition. As a consequence, they have
bypassed the subsequent question how political actors deal with uncertainty, that
is, how they try to claim (to know) the future and how this affects their behav-
iour. That omission is most unfortunate because the constructivist approach is
well equipped to engage this question. To substantiate this claim, the article tries
to do two things. First, it reminds that a constructivist approach is uniquely sui-
ted to understand why, in the face of uncertainty, humans entertain visions of
the future. It highlights that the constructivist commitment to reflexivity and the
study of identity formation provide fruitful entry points for grasping the function
of visions in the human attempt to establish a sense of Self in time. As such, sec-
ond, the article suggests that the purpose of visions, in the form of both utopias
and dystopias, is to make the future meaningful and to lay out possibilities of
being in the world. It offers a typology of visions by differentiating between the
‘‘robust’’ and the ‘‘creative’’ character which, hopefully, will allow more nuanced
and systematic analyses of how visions work and improve our understanding of
the relationship between an actor’s vision and its behavior.
With this objective, the article is part of a recent move in the humanities
bringing renewed attention to the relevance of utopias in social life (Ruesen,
Fehr, and Rieger 2005; Jameson 2007; Claeys 2010a; Coverly 2010; Gordin, Tilley,
and Prakash 2010). Over the past decade, the field of IR has seen valuable stud-
ies on world political conceptions of time (Hutchings 2008), calls to revive the
normative potential of utopian thinking (Booth 1991; Crawford 2003; Brincat
2009), and empirical analyses of how visions and future scenarios affect policy-
making (Boyle 2004; Neumann and Overland 2004; Callahan 2008; Houghton
2009). This article intends to complement such work by offering a theoretically
deep and systematic discussion of why and how visions matter, grounded in an
account of human motivation and the process of identity formation. This analyti-
cal aim is embedded in the broader message that constructivists can and, indeed,
should be students of the future and enhance our understanding why and how
visions motivate actors to realize, or prevent, possibilities of being in the world.
As such, the following discussion seeks to contribute not only to the study of the
politics of the future but also to the development of constructivist theory.
The discussion proceeds as follows. The first section suggests that substantial
analytical engagement with the future has thus far been missing from both con-
ventional and critical constructivist approaches. The subsequent section takes up
the emphasis on contingency through the philosophy of Heidegger to substanti-
ate the assumption that a core driver for humans is to control anxiety and make
the future meaningful. Building on this insight, the third section lays out the
typology of robust and creative visions, and the final section concludes with some
thoughts on the power of visions.
3
For an exception, see Meyer (2011) in this issue.
Felix Berenskoetter 649
Constructivism and the Missing Future

Constructivism is an umbrella term for scholarship sharing the objective to
inquire how ‘‘we construct worlds we know in a world we do not’’ (Onuf
1989:38). Given that, one might expect scholars adopting this agenda to be well
versed in exploring how humans deal with future uncertainty. After all, if there
is one thing in ‘‘the world’’ we do not know, it is the future, a seemingly trivial
insight which also plays a central role in the realist argument about the perils of
anarchy against which (most) constructivists position themselves. And yet, serious
engagement with the future, more precisely the political process of construct-
ing and pursuing future worlds, is by and large missing from constructivist

scholarship.
This neglect is astonishing given that central to the constructivist agenda is
a commitment to reflexivity (Guzzini 2000; Adler 2002:95). Upon closer look,
this commitment has two faces. The first face focuses on the reflexivity of the
research object, or rather subject, and directs analytical attention to the pro-
cess of identity formation, or what Rodney Hall (1999) calls ‘‘the will to man-
ifest identity.’’ It emphasizes that humans are capable of self-reflection to ask
how they, as individuals and collectives, come to establish a sense of Self and
what consequences this has for their behaviour. To understand this process,
the study of identity formation and its impact on international politics is cen-
tral to constructivist work.4 The second face stresses the commitment to
reflexivity on the part of the researcher and highlights that scholars are not
detached observers recording objective facts, but agents partaking in the crea-
tion of knowledge and, hence, in what we take for reality. It commits
researchers to be aware of their biases and their position in the field of
knowledge production, both for ethical reasons and for ensuring sensitivity to
the difficult task of interpreting an interpreted world. As such, it asks schol-
ars to pursue research from a position of double hermeneutics (Guzzini
2000:150).
Constructivist work differs with regard to how much attention is given to each
face, which affects where and how the future is situated in the argument. This
can be illustrated by reviewing the main lines of reasoning in the conventional
and the critical strand of constructivism.5 Crudely put, conventional constructiv-
ists tend to put more emphasis on the first face of reflexivity, and those closer to
the critical end of the spectrum stress the second face. While both disagree with
realists that the only certainty about the future is the recurrence of war, the two
strands differ in their own handling of the future, with the conventional angle
focusing on the possibility of (creating) a peaceful future and the critical angle
emphasizing its radical openness. And yet, as outlined below, both sides bypass
the crucial question of what role the future plays in the process of identity
formation and how it affects behaviour.
Conventional Paths
The conventional (or thin) constructivist approach seeks to find common
ground with positivist-minded scholars by building a ‘‘bridge’’ (Adler 1997) or
‘‘via media’’ (Wendt 1999) between reflexivist and rationalist positions (also
Hopf 1998; Pouliot 2007). Its most prominent aim is to explore how concerns
over identity affect behavior. Unfortunately, this process remains poorly concep-
tualized. The notion of identity often is reduced to a mere word in the logical
chain of an argument which does not offer substantial insight as to what identity
4
For an overview of the use of identity in IR scholarship, see Berenskoetter (2010).
5
For this distinction see Hopf (1998); Price and Reus-Smit (1998); Wendt (1999). For a more nuanced discus-
sion, see Adler (2002).
is and how it forms, let alone how it informs action (Brubaker and Cooper
2000).6 Instead, the focus often is on culture, specifically on norms as markers of
(in)appropriate behavior which are inscribed in routine practices, formally or
informally embedded in institutions located on the domestic or the international
level. Borrowing insights from historical and sociological institutionalism, the
argument is that through constant interaction, members become socialized into
their sociocultural environment by internalizing the norm(s) embodied within
shared institutions, rendering them part of their identity (Finnemore and
Sikkink 1998; Risse 2005). This overlaps with the claim that identities are
constructed intersubjectively, that is, in a social relationship with significant

others taking the form of enemies, rivals, or friends (Wendt 1999; Neumann
1999; Mitzen 2006; Bially Mattern 2005; Berenskoetter 2007).
The assumption that actors are keen to uphold certain identity-embedded socio-
historical structures enables conventional constructivists to make strong claims
about the future. It allows them to argue that states will continue to act according
to a certain norm, engage in certain practices, in certain institutions, with or
against certain Others, if these are salient to their identity. Thus, it invites argu-
ments stressing continuity and even progressive development in the sense of
strengthening a certain identity. Yet there is a big difference between assessing
how particular sociohistorical structures shape the future of IR and exploring the
place of the future in the process of identity formation. The neglect of the latter
has been noted by realists like Stephen Walt (1998) and Dale Copeland (2000),
who criticized that the argumentative logic underpinning conventional constructiv-
ist arguments does not take the future seriously enough. As Copeland notes, for
theorists like Wendt ‘‘actors see the future only through the strong filter of past
socialization,’’ that is, their past interaction with others. By doing so, constructivists
fail to take into account that uncertainty about the future is given by the human
condition and therefore have ‘‘trouble analyzing how … leaders deal with the per-
nicious problem of uncertainty’’ (Copeland 2000:206–210).
To be sure, conventional constructivists have a tacit answer to the question of
how humans deal with uncertainty. Borrowing insights from social psychology,
they hold that humans, as individuals or in collectives, seek cognitive stability
and consistency in their environment (Hopf 2002; Mitzen 2006). Yet as noted
above and indicated by the commonly used prefix social constructivism, when it
comes to specifying how this stability is achieved, scholars tend to emphasize his-
torically grown structures embedded in social relations. In so doing, constructiv-
ists continue a sloppy habit permeating much of IR, namely the tendency to
conflate the impossibility of knowing what others currently think, or social con-
tingency, and the impossibility of knowing the future as such, or temporal con-
tingency. Both kinds of uncertainty underpin John Herz’s famous discussion of
the security dilemma and have been central to many subsequent debates in IR
(Herz 1951; Booth and Wheeler 2008). Their tendency to reduce future uncer-
tainty to the unknowability of the intentions of others, and hence to a question
of (mis)trust, has been continued by constructivists. Even work acknowledging
that identity is constructed in the face of future uncertainty quickly moves on to
suggest that the Self seeks comfort in a social setting by stressing the stabilizing
effect of norms and habits within social relations (McSweeney 1999; Steele 2005;
Mitzen 2006). As with the theories of Haas, Bourdieu, or Giddens on which
many conventional constructivists draw, their work entertains a weak understand-
ing of agency with a ‘‘low level of reflexivity’’ (Emirbayer and Mische 1998:983).
The reflexivity attributed to actors operates primarily on a social plane and
focuses on the question of to what extent external norms fit with domestic ones,
bypassing the question of how agents reflect about temporal contingency and,
6
Notably, Wendt states that his theory is not concerned with identity formation (Wendt 1999:11).
specifically, what role the future plays in their quest to manifest a sense of Self.7
And work pointing to how identity is grounded in historical experience, memo-
ries, and ‘‘lessons learned’’ does so at the expense of examining the impact of
reflections about what is to come.8 In short, where reflexivity is part of the con-
ventional argument, it prioritizes social over temporal reflexivity, and where the
latter is acknowledged, it focuses on the past instead of the future.
Critical Sensitivities
Scholars within the strand of critical (or thick) constructivism tend to neglect

the future for different reasons. Sensitive to the second face of reflexivity out-
lined earlier, this approach remains faithful to the postmodern intervention of
emphasizing contingency and is committed to the critical agenda to reveal, resist,
and emancipate through the deconstruction of meta-narratives. Proponents aim
to expose and pierce through the ‘‘power ⁄ knowledge nexus’’ (Foucault) of the
‘‘mainstream’’ and also target constructivist work which fails to fully problema-
tize the political construction of identities (Zehfuss 2002). As indicated by the
preferred label ‘‘poststructuralism,’’ these scholars are critical of the conven-
tional emphasis on stable identities constituted by social structures. Instead, they
emphasize that socially produced understandings of what is ‘normal’ are malle-
able and used by practitioners of, for instance, foreign policy to reify particular
collective identities and justify certain practices (Weber 1995; Campbell 1998;
Weldes et al. 1996). By tracing manipulations of subjectivity, their works suggest
that we could be more than, or different from, what the order of things tells us
to be. In doing so, the critical approach challenges those who view the future as
more of the same and, instead, emphasizes that it is an open and contestable
and, as such, political space.
While this suggests that the future matters to critical constructivists, it gener-
ally does not translate into studying conceptions of the future as a central ele-
ment of identity politics. Strongly influenced by Foucault’s genealogical
approach, most efforts of exposing the bias of dominant knowledge structures
look to history as the epistemological terrain responsible for the way ‘‘things’’
are. In part this may be due to the widely held view that identities are products
of the past. But for poststructuralists, there is a deeper normative and methodo-
logical reason for looking back. Feminist and postcolonial work likes to chal-
lenge conventional understandings of who ‘‘we’’ are and can be by shining light
on forgotten or marginalized (his)stories. This technique of foregrounding
diverse experiences and alternative trajectories allows criticizing abstract and
seemingly fixed ⁄ universal modes of being, instead highlighting contingency and
the possibility of radical change. Yet the future does not hold a record of lived
experience which can be retrieved and made to speak for itself, which means
scholars would have to fill in by using their own voices (and, possibly, imagina-
tions). This raises not merely a methodological but a normative problem: it
stands in tension with the commitment to the second face of reflexivity and risks
advocating a certain future and contributing to the closure the critical approach
seeks to contest. It also poses the risk of claiming a higher access to truth,
thereby stepping into the enlightenment trap.. To avoid this, poststructuralists
are hesitant to go beyond the claim that the future is indeterminate and feel
compelled to stress the need to recognize and, indeed, embrace the ‘‘reality’’ of
contingency and the human ability to think the ‘‘unthinkable.’’9
7
For the limited role reflexivity plays in Wendt’s theorizing, see Drulak (2006). See also Sending’s (2002) cri-
tique of the lack of agency in arguments stressing the ‘logic of appropriateness.’
8
See Katzenstein (1996); Duffield (1998); Bell (2003).
9
For a recent call to bring the future back into critical ⁄ normative theorizing, see Brincat (2009).
That said, recent critical literature on the (international) politics of ‘‘risk man-
agement’’ shows that the emancipatory stance does allow for analysing the poli-
tics of the future. In the current of Ulrich Beck’s notion of ‘‘risk society’’ (Beck
1992), this literature acknowledges that temporal reflexivity influences social life
and analyzes the performative effects of visual and discursive methods of imagin-
ing the future, for instance by looking at how catastrophic scenarios of terrorist
attacks were integrated in Western techniques of security governance after 9 ⁄ 11
(Aradau and van Munster 2007; Best 2008; De Goede 2008). These studies of
enabling or constraining effects of future scenarios offer important insights. Yet
the thrust of their analyses of the politics and the behavior surrounding the

‘‘commodification of the uncertain future’’ (De Goede 2008:164) remains criti-
cal and presentist. Despite their resonance with earlier work problematizing the
construction of threats as a matter of identity politics, this strand of constructivist
scholarship does not offer an argument of how the performative effects of future
scenarios are tied to the process of identity formation. Indeed, the crucial ques-
tion of why such images (might) matter in the first place tends to be bypassed.
Instead, the focus is on how future scenarios are used to legitimize instruments
of governance and social control ‘‘here and now,’’ which shows the same ten-
dency to foreground the social dimension at the expense of the temporal one
and suggests that scenarios are ‘‘not about the future at all’’ (De Goede
2008:159).
Reclaiming the Vision Thing

To reground the relevance of the future for constructivist study, it is necessary to
pay closer attention to the role future uncertainty plays in the process of identity
formation. Without disputing the role past experiences or social ties play in this
process, the claim here is that humans are primarily driven by an attempt to
make the future meaningful and themselves within it. Surely, the reading of
humans as temporal beings whose sense of Self is constructed in the face of
future uncertainty is not novel. The insight that future uncertainty, or contin-
gency, is a fundamental feature of the human condition underpins philosophical
works from Hobbes to Heidegger. Whereas Hobbes has become a primary refer-
ence for realist conceptions of the world, Heidegger’s status as one of the key
figures in hermeneutic philosophy is a more useful source for constructivist rea-
soning. His major phenomenological investigation of the temporal dimension of
‘‘being’’ is perfectly suited to substantiate the point that identity is manifested
through the future. Specifically, I draw on two insights, often noted by construc-
tivists in passing, namely that the future is a source of anxiety and that it renders
being incomplete.
In Being and Time, Heidegger offers a conceptualization of being as being-in-
the-world, where a sense of Self unfolds in and with a ‘‘world’’ disclosed through
experience. While this world also has socio-spatial dimension, Heidegger empha-
sizes the temporal dimension by reminding that the basic feature of the human
condition is that we are ‘‘thrown’’ into the world and toward death. As such, an
important feature of Heidegger’s existential phenomenology is to recognize that
our sense of Self is formed in the face of something we cannot experience,
namely death. In other words, while death is the unsurpassable possibility of
being, it is logically impossible to have an experience of what it means to die,
and this knowledge of inescapable finitude and the simultaneous inability to
comprehend ‘‘it’’ in the sense of grasping it as a meaningful thing fundamen-
tally affects ‘‘being’’ (Heidegger [1927] 1953:246). What is more, we cannot
really locate that which brings death about as these forces are potentially every-
where and may, at anytime, appear out of nowhere (Heidegger [1927]
1953:186). Thus, Heidegger argues that it is not fear through which we have to
comprehend the ontological structure of being-in-the-world but anxiety [Sorge]

(Heidegger [1927] 1953:191ff). It is this anxiety, coming out of the unknowabil-
ity of the future, which is the foundational sentiment or mood [Befindlichkeit] of
the human condition. As Louiza Odysseos points out, this leaves open how anxi-
ety affects social relations and thus contrasts nicely with the Hobbesian baseline
that uncertainty necessarily leads to fear of others (Odysseos 2007).
By highlighting the temporal dimension, Heidegger also makes clear that
‘‘being’’ is dynamic and thus more adequately captured by an ontology of becom-
ing, or coming-into-being. This insight rests on the simple point that until it is
dead there is always something the Self is not yet and, hence, ‘‘being’’ is always

incomplete. In other words, ‘‘permanent incompleteness’’ is a central feature in
the configuration of being (Heidegger [1927] 1953:233, 236, 242f). This incom-
pleteness lends the Self an evolutionary character in which a sense of Self cannot
ever be solidified; instead, it highlights that becoming is a forward movement
and that the formation of a sense of Self is to a significant degree future ori-
ented. Combined with the argument that anxiety derives from an unknowable
future, the orientation toward the future and its desire to understand or give
meaning to it thus renders the future the most significant parameter of
being ⁄ becoming (Heidegger [1927] 1953:§65, 327ff). In its future orientation,
the Self is constituted through its understanding of that (what) it can-be; being
is not a present thing [ein Vorhandenes] but is ‘‘primarily possible-being [Mo¨glich-
sein]. Being is always that which it can be and how it is its possibility [wie es seine
Mo¨glichkeit ist].’’ Importantly, this possibility is not a free-floating or ‘‘empty, logi-
cal possibility’’; it is not contingent in that one is not randomly expecting that
this or that may happen (Heidegger [1927] 1953:143). Rather, the possible-being
Heidegger speaks about is that which has understood that it could become one
way or another and thus, in a sense, makes the future Self ‘‘knowable.’’
The understanding of this possibility of being takes the form of what he calls
Entwurf, which delineates ‘‘the room of manoeuvre [Spielraum]’’ of what the Self
can become. For Heidegger, the Entwurf is not a carefully thought-through plan
which the Self follows; it is not a fixed end-state of being, reflected in the various
ways this term can be translated into English, namely sketch, scheme, outline,
draft, or preliminary design. In line with an evolutionary ontology of permanent
incompleteness, the Entwurf is something the Self is continuously re-instating
and unfolding toward, captured in the notion of the entwerfende Self. The Entwurf
delineates not a single future but allows envisioning various places the Self can
unfold toward and drawing horizon of expectations around them. Recognizing
the possibilities of the future implies not only that the future is understood to
be ‘‘open’’ (although not open-ended), it also makes the future a space which
provides its own source of energy. While past experience serves as an important
source for constructing meaning, the Entwurf gives the future a ‘‘pull factor’’
providing the Self with an opportunity to move on, or ahead, on a certain
course. It lends not only orientation but also what Heidegger calls Entschlossen-
heit, the resolve and determination to realize a vision of a possibility of being
which, by doing so, it is becoming. Indeed, one could argue that by understand-
ing and pursuing its possibilities, the Self already is these possibilities (Heidegger
[1927] 1953:145). As Jeff Malpas in his discussion of Heidegger’s topology notes,
being is ‘‘always ‘on the way’ … but that which it is on the way toward is the
place in which it already begins’’ (Malpas 2006:17).
Constructivists have yet to fully engage the insight that humans respond to
uncertainty with attempts to make the future meaningful by imagining (them-
selves in) possible worlds. While poststructuralists adopt Heidegger’s emphasis
on the indeterminacy of being, they neglect the fundamental insight underpin-
ning his discussion of the human temptation to Verfallen that humans seek to
reduce rather than embrace contingency. They attempt to put in place what
Giddens calls ‘‘anxiety controlling mechanisms’’ (Giddens 1984:50, 1991), that

is, mechanisms set up to create the illusion that the Self is part of something big-
ger, more meaningful than its singular existence, something that transcends
death. As noted earlier, the mechanisms commonly evaluated by constructiv-
ists—norms, discourses, and images of Others inscribed in institutions and ⁄ or
upheld by routine practices—are seen as operating primarily on a social plane.
They do not draw out a Gestalt of the future, that is, they are not linked to an
Entwurf of possible futures providing temporal orientation and a meaningful
direction. For that, we need to turn to literature on utopias, or visions of the
future more generally.

Bringing Utopias Back In
The argument thus far suggests that our actions are tied to who and where we
want to be. The suggestion put forward here is that utopias fulfil the function of
the Entwurf by delineating the contours of the ‘‘good place’’ toward which
human activity can aspire. Said differently, visions depicting the Self in an imag-
ined future order serve as anxiety controlling mechanisms and, indeed, may be
the most important such mechanism. By delineating a credible possibility of what
one could become, utopias are made part of the Self and take on a quasi-onto-
logical character.
This is not exactly a novel insight. Whereas in conventional discourse utopias
are sometimes dismissed as irrelevant or irritating expressions of wishful think-
ing, scholars have long been aware of their importance. Lyman Tower Sargent
notes that ‘‘utopian thinking is essential for our social, political, and psychologi-
cal health’’ and quotes Oscar Wilde that ‘‘a map of the world that does not
include utopia is not worth even glancing at’’ (Sargent 2005:4; see also Booth
1991). As Krishan Kumar puts it, the function of utopias is ‘‘making us think
about possible worlds … It opens up our minds to the possibilities of the human
condition’’ (Kumar 1995:219), echoing Karl Mannheim’s comment that through
utopias ‘‘we arrive at our most crucial decisions and … seek to diagnose and
guide our political and social destiny’’ (Mannheim 1936:1f). In a similar vein, E.
H. Carr notes that ‘‘aspiration toward an end is an essential foundation of
human thinking’’ and that, therefore, humans will always ‘‘seek an escape … in
the vision of an international order’’ (Carr [1946], 2001:8, 87). Backing up these
claims is a notable historical record of prominent visions. Thomas Moore’s
famous book from 1516, which coined the term ‘‘utopia,’’ can be placed in the
line of political writings envisioning order beginning with Plato and includes
Hobbes’ formulation of the Leviathan, Kant’s idea of a perpetual peace, and
Marx’ promise of a classless society, all of which inspired political projects.10
One question for IR scholars is whether visions, as products of the mind, also
operate on the collective level. Or, to pose the deeper question, can we assume
feelings of anxiety and the desire for stabilizing mechanisms, of which utopias
are one, to exist among communities? Some suggest that communities indeed
possess features similar to those of individual human beings, including a ‘‘collec-
tive consciousness’’ as well as cognitive and emotional desires (Wendt 1999,
2003). Slightly differently, one could argue that while such desires are held by
individuals, they are to a significant degree expressed, and satisfied, collectively.
After all, scholars of nationalism have long shown that communities coalesce not
only around a shared understanding of history (a sense of ‘‘where we are coming
10
Sargent (1982); Gunnell (1987); Logan and Adams (1989); Ruesen et al. (2005); Conrad and Sachsenmaier
(2007); Claeys (2010a); Coverly (2010). Moore’s term combines the two Greek words outopia (no-place) and eutopia
(good-place), highlighting the imaginary yet desirable character of this place. For an excellent discussion of the
concept, see Vieira (2010).
from’’) but also around shared aspirations (a sense of ‘‘where we are going’’),
highlighting the constitutive force of both collective memories and collectively
held visions (Anderson 2006). Thus, one could go along with Ned Lebow to
hold that social units can be seen as enacting human motives, even though they
have no feelings, because they act on behalf of people who do (Lebow 2010:
114–117).
Societal demands for making the future meaningful find expression and satis-
faction in the arts, sciences, and popular culture (Sloterdijk 1990; Barr 2003;
Weldes 2003).11 Every society has its share of visionaries, that is, individuals feed-
ing fears and hopes of the broader public with compelling images of future

states of being, and the ability to offer and pursue an attractive vision is an
important skill for political leaders. Indeed, one could argue that public office
holders are elected largely on the basis of their promises and judged on their
ability to realize them. One close observer of President George H. W. Bush (Sr.),
often described as a pragmatic politician, notes that ‘‘political leaders are ani-
mated as much by their visions of the future—intellectual constructs about the
desired or assumed future state of affairs—as by dispassionate analysis of present
and likely future trends … visions matter’’ (Hutchings 1997:150). Neta Crawford
reminds that ‘‘all political projects … are about creating something their advo-
cates believe is better. Political rhetoric often appeals to utopian possibilities’’
(Crawford 2003:198). And Christopher Hill emphasizes the importance of pur-
pose and ethical goals in foreign policy, concluding his discussion by noting that
‘‘foreign policy serves our hopes, as well as our understandable insecurities’’
(Hill 2003:307). Ignoring this, that is, ignoring the utopian visions held and pro-
moted by actors, institutions, and networks as diverse as the World Trade Organi-
zation and Al Qaeda, is to miss a vast field of political activity.
And yet, while IR scholars have been busy making prophecies of their own,12
how visions of the future affect decision making and motivate action has not
received much analytical attention. To be sure, there are fruitful points of entry.
Literature drawing on psychology has shown the impact of cognitive frames and
biases on the perceptions and, by extensions, decisions of foreign policymakers.
It produced important insights on how established belief systems or mental sche-
mata affect the selection and procession of information and structure expecta-
tions about the behaviour of others. Yet when it comes to specifying the nature
of these beliefs or frames, the focus is primarily on images about the ‘‘other’’;
visions of the future are rarely, if ever, discussed (Jervis 1976; Stein 2003).13 The
ideational turn in the 1990s saw acknowledgments that ideas may serve as ‘‘road
maps’’ and ‘‘focal points’’ defining ‘‘the universe of possibilities’’ in the future
(Goldstein and Keohane 1993:8), and there were suggestions that state behav-
iour is guided by ‘‘strategic ideas’’ and ‘‘self-fulfilling prophecies’’ (Wendt
1999:184 note 138; Dueck 2004). Again, though, few scholars have discussed the
significance of visions in decision making and suggested ways to study them.14
There is a particular lack of attention regarding the role of utopias, which
goes in hand with the ‘‘unfashionableness of utopian thought in Western acade-
mia’’ (Gordin et al. 2010:3). The main reason is that the term carries a stigma: it
is seen as a code word for naı̈veté at best and a pathway to totalitarianism at
worst. In addition to the analytical difficulty involved with studying ideas of the
11
Entire professions are tasked with envisioning and organizing the future of social life, ranging from insur-
ance companies to urban planners. For the latter, see Hall (1988).
12
On the blurry line between hypotheses and prophecies, (see Hutchings 2008; see also Houghton 2009).
Prominent examples for utopias ⁄ dystopias are found in literature on global governance (Held 1995; Patomäki
2003) and conflict scenarios presented by realists (Mearsheimer 1990; Huntington 1993).
13
Robert Jervis’ influential study is exemplary in this regard. Despite mentioning at the outset that states hold
‘‘utopian intentions’’ (Jervis 1976:49), utopias receive no attention in the book. See also Hill (2003:108-118).
14
Nye (1994); Boyle (2004); Neumann and Overland (2004); Houghton (2009); De Goede (2008).
‘‘not yet,’’ it was largely ethical concerns which expunged utopias from the dic-
tionary of the social science. In IR, this stigmatisation has been promoted by
realists since the inception the discipline via their critique of ‘‘idealism’’ and it is
not difficult to see why. The two world wars shattered the faith in modern Euro-
pean conceptions of progress, captured in Carr’s critique of the utopia of a har-
mony of interests. At the same time, the totalizing visions employed by Fascist
regimes in Germany and Italy, and by Stalin in the Soviet Union, exemplified
not only the great impact of utopias on individual and collective action but also
their destructive, indeed murderous, consequences. Against this backdrop, the
first generation of IR scholars considered it one of their central tasks to warn

policymakers from adopting overly optimistic visions with missionary zeal in
denial of pluralism. Complemented by Karl Popper’s critique of utopias as unsci-
entific and dangerously blinding beliefs of a perfect society, realism became
infused with anti-utopianism and promoted an understanding of the term as
an imagined impossibility, as a distorted mental structure divorcing us from
‘‘reality.’’15 Consequently, the term was shunned by politicians and also disap-
peared from IR scholarship save a dutiful citation of the Twenty Years’ Crisis.16
Ironically, as a handful of scholars have noted, re-reading Carr’s book is a
good starting point for bringing utopias back into IR. Contrary to the commonly
held view of Carr as the don of anti-utopianism, he explicitly recognized that
utopias are a necessary ingredient of all political thinking (Booth 1991; Boyle
2004; Karp 2008; Brincat 2009). It is important here to note that envisioning the
good life does not necessarily mean envisioning a perfect world (Sargent 1982,
2005). Indeed, utopias rarely make promises of being in paradise but, rather, lay
out hopes of inhabiting a better world. Already in Moore’s novel, the main charac-
ter finds a society which he considers preferable to the one he lives, yet it is not
without flaws (Moore [1516], 1989:109–111). Similarly, for Fredric Jameson, uto-
pias do not envision perfect humans but convey images of order which deal
more successfully with human imperfection than do current arrangements,
thereby laying out the possibility for laws allowing ‘‘to arrive at some better and
more humane form of life’’ (Jameson 2004:36f). Following this reading, the
understanding of utopias adopted in this paper is not one of finished, polished,
and sterile designs, blueprints of perfect laws for perfect people. Rather, as dis-
cussed below, utopias are understood as simple and flexible visions of a better
world in which the Self can be situated, opening up a creative space considered
worthwhile investing in.
That said, visions of the future do not have to be positive, or optimistic, but
can also have a pessimistic character and take the form of a dystopia (the ‘‘bad
place’’). Rather than picturing the Self in a better world, embedded in a desir-
able order, visions may show unpleasant worlds dominated by catastrophic events
and ⁄ or an undesirable order (likely to be seen as disorder) (Wilke 2002).17 Like
utopias, dystopias envision a future that could happen. Yet whereas utopias
sketch a path toward a better world, dystopian visions suggest that the future
(may) turn out badly, and so their primary purpose is to inspire and mobilize
practices which prevent such a future from happening, or at least to avoid the
worst. Thus, dystopias are threat images which are not absolute in their depiction
of what can happen. As Fatima Vieira points out, ‘‘dystopias that leave no
room for hope … fail in their mission.’’ This reminds that dystopias also are
15
See also Herbert Marcuse’s famous call for the ‘‘end of utopia’’ (Marcuse 1970).
16
As Neumann and Overland (2004:264) point out, during the Cold War scholars were reluctant to engage
with ‘futurists’ like Herman Kahn who tried to turn ‘future studies’ into a science. Politicians also dislike to be seen
as ‘‘utopian,’’ leading George Bush, Sr. to denounce the ‘‘vision thing’’ and his son, George W. Bush, to claim that
‘‘America has no … utopia to establish’’ (Bush 2002).
17
Of course, A’s utopia can be B’s dystopia. It also is important not to confuse dystopia with anti-utopia, which
is about disbelief, ridicule and, critical dismissal of utopias (Vieira 2010:16).
possibilities, which makes them distinct from apocalyptic scenarios which con-
front us with the horror of the assured end of our world and humanity with(in)
it (Vieira 2010:17). Famous dystopias used by policymakers during the Cold War
were scenarios of a communist ⁄ capitalist invasion and of nuclear winter, which
have since been replaced by scenarios of global pandemics or natural disasters.
Literature and popular culture offers many examples of these and other dystopi-
as ranging from George Orwell’s famous depiction of a totalitarian society in
1984 to Roland Emmerich’s disaster movie envisioning global ecological collapse
in 2012.18
To allow the evaluative qualification of better or worse worlds, both utopias

and dystopias necessarily rest on a comparison. Thus, dystopias may be used to
reinforce the contours of the utopia by positing an alternative scenario of what
could happen without sufficient investment into the utopia, a prominent pairing
being that of heaven and hell framing the moral doctrine of Christianity. Yet
utopia and dystopia are not necessary twins; indeed, more often they use the
present as their point of comparison. As found already in Moore ([1516], 1989),
formulations of utopias tend to contain critical commentaries on the present
order to suggest that things could be better. Conversely, the message of dystopias
is that things could get worse and that something must be done to prevent a cer-
tain future from happening, which may be used to preserve the present order
and justify conservative policies. In either case, the visions call for agency to
reduce or enhance the distance between what is and what could be. While this
article highlights that visions matter because of their ‘‘pull factor’’ and, hence,
that they cannot be reduced to critical or conservative commentaries on the sta-
tus quo, the question arising here is how visions connect an understanding of
what could be with an understanding of what is. Engaging this question allows
analysts to gain insights into whether and how visions ‘‘work,’’ that is, what
makes them credible or persuasive and, hence, consequential.
Understanding the (Im)Possible Vision

In line with the Heideggerian notion of an Entwurf as the imagination of a possi-
ble Self, visions delineate possibilities of being. If utopian images are to represent
‘‘the best of all possible worlds’’ (Nozick 1974:298) rather than an unattainable
paradise, this poses the question how to conceive of the possible. The way one
approaches this question is crucial for understanding how visions are successfully
pursued and, hence, for identifying visions as a source of energy which motivates,
mobilizes, and moves the Self forward. It is useful to differentiate between two
ways of conceiving of visions. The first is prevalent in realist writings and focuses
on their probability of success by assessing whether they are embedded in
existing structures; these will be called robust visions (utopias ⁄ dystopias). The
second is prevalent in poststructuralist writings and focuses on expanding our
horizon of possibilities; these will be called creative visions (utopias ⁄ dystopias).
Visions work effectively in both dimensions; the distinction is merely a heuristic
device intended to help analysts highlight different functions and forces to better
understand how they are used.
Robust Visions
The notion of a robust vision is taken from work suggesting that some utopias
are more appropriate than others. It is marked by ambivalence between the
recognition that utopias matter and the conviction that they cannot, or should
not, be pursued if they are ‘‘divorced from reality.’’ Such a position underpins
18
On dystopian literature, see Booker (1994); Moylan and Baccolini (2003); Claeys (2010b)
perhaps most famously the writings of Marx (and Engels), whose influential cri-
tique of ideology as deceptive did not prevent him from advancing his own uto-
pia of a classless society. As is well known, this was justified with the argument
that ideologies ⁄ religious doctrines were shaping a false consciousness preventing
humans (mainly workers) from recognizing their position within historically
grown material conditions. The Marxist vision, in turn, was said to be grounded
in these conditions and their intrinsic, indeed inevitable, dynamic, famously cap-
tured in Marx’ dictum that ‘‘people make history, but not in conditions of their
own choosing,’’ with ‘‘history’’ replaceable by ‘‘future.’’
Ernst Bloch rescued the utopian label discredited by Marx by offering a differ-

entiated reading of utopia and putting forward the notion of a ‘‘concrete uto-
pia’’ (Bloch [1918], 2000). Bloch argued that utopias remained necessary parts
of human consciousness and, taking up Marx’ point on the need to ground
thinking in existing material conditions, advocated a mature optimism where the
hope to create a better world was anchored in experience and sober assessment
of the processes of realisation.19 This differentiation between ideas according to
their resonance with and effect on ‘‘reality’’ also appears in Karl Mannheim’s
discussion of ideologies and utopias. For Mannheim, both are psychological phe-
nomena transcending the historically formed order. Following Marx, he con-
ceives of ideology as a deceptive understanding of the world making people
unaware of (or removed from) ‘‘reality’’ and functioning as an artificial stabi-
lizer. In turn, utopias are states of mind aimed at transformation; wish-images
inspiring activities challenging and breaking with ‘‘the order of things prevailing
at the time,’’ giving them a revolutionary character (Mannheim 1936:40, 192f;.).
Mannheim disapproves of both and, echoing Bloch, mentions ‘‘appropriate’’
forward-looking ideas which neither ignore nor challenge the existing order but
remain ‘‘‘organically’ and harmoniously integrated into the world-view character-
istic of the period’’ (Mannheim 1936:193). Visions which transcend, in the sense
of going beyond, but do not break with reality are also approved of by Carr.
Influenced by both Marx and Mannheim,20 Carr recognizes utopias as necessary
elements of political life. He argues that utopia and material reality stand in a
dialectic movement in which an ideal undergoes a process of materialization and
becomes embedded in institutions, thereby loosing its utopian character and
turning into ‘‘reality’’ until challenged by a new utopia. In that sense, Carr
acknowledges that utopias can also produce reality.21 Thus, his famous attack on
the vision of a ‘‘harmony of interest’’ is an attack on certain kinds of visions,
namely those ignoring existing conditions which cannot be realized and which,
therefore, are dangerous.
The reading that visions of the future need to be integrated in historically
grown structures to be considered possible is echoed by scientific realists and his-
torical sociologists who call these ‘‘relative,’’ ‘‘limited,’’ ‘‘robust,’’ or ‘‘realistic’’
utopias (Alexander 2001; Patomäki 2003; Sargent 2005; Lawson 2008). Analysing
visions and their possibilities from the angle of ‘‘robustness’’ rests on the
acknowledgment that humans can escape neither their genes nor their environ-
ment and, consequently, that visions must integrate enduring traits and trends
into their designs. In that sense, it expects a conception of the future in which
some things remain more or less, but not quite, the same. While robust visions
may stipulate a cyclical view of history such as the one underlying the dystopia of
the eternal recurrence of war prominent among realists (Guzzini 1998), they
cannot promise continuity as this would strip utopias ⁄ dystopias of their
19
This perspective is further elaborated in his Principle of Hope Bloch ([1959], 1995).
20
See Cox (2001):xiv.
21
This has prompted some to label Carr’s analytical frame ‘‘utopian realism’’ (Booth 1991) and ‘‘peculiar real-
ism’’ (Wilson 2001).
transcending character and of possibility understood as something that is ‘‘not

yet.’’ Their promise of transcendence derives from a reading of existing struc-
tures as dynamic, for instance by describing a Hegelian dialectic movement
toward synthesis. Overly optimistic claims that the end state has been reached
can always be qualified by suggesting that a certain desirable order still needs to
continuously adapt to changing material circumstances (Fukuyama 1989; Iken-
berry 2009). Arguably, the most prominent vision in international politics sus-
taining actor’s identities and structuring their relations is the idea of sovereignty.
Understood to be historically grounded in the ‘‘myth of Westphalia,’’ the vision
developed into the contemporary institution, or norm, of sovereignty viewed by

many as a robust foundation of international order. Despite taking on many dif-
ferent meanings over time and space, and despite its demonstrated incomplete-
ness, the idea of sovereignty continues to function as a crucial normative
reference (Karp 2008). An evolutionary reading of historical trends underpin-
ning robust visions may also be innovative and focus on possibilities through
technological progress. Here, the picture may not be positive but envision
humans becoming (unintended) products of their own creation, as in the famil-
iar dystopias depicting humans enslaved by machines or, more recently, as vic-
tims of climate change brought about by their own lifestyle.
The claim that a certain vision is ‘‘robust’’ is a potent legitimating device for
policies pursued under its heading, so scholars analysing visions according to
their robustness must take care in understanding how this attribute is used. In
basic terms, it suggests that the vision is grounded in certain historical dynamics
or present conditions and agency is required to either enhance the desired path
(in the case of utopia) or close an undesirable one (in the case of dystopia). Yet
the criterion of robustness applies differently to utopias and dystopias, with the
latter requiring less evidence that supportive conditions are in place. Following
the maxim ‘‘better safe than sorry,’’ even if the likelihood of its occurrence is
considered small, the horror of a dystopia may be sufficiently strong to silence
sceptics and justify counter-measures ‘‘just in case.’’ An example is the dystopia
of a possible new terrorist attack formulated by the Bush administration follow-
ing the events of 9 ⁄ 11, justifying various extraordinary policies including the war
against Iraq. Even if there was no substantial evidence of cooperation between Al
Qaeda and the regime of Saddam Hussein or for the existence of nuclear weap-
ons in Iraq, Saddam Hussein’s past behaviour and his ‘‘pattern of deception’’
allowed for the dystopian vision of such an alliance carrying out an attack with a
nuclear ‘‘dirty bomb’’ against the United States. The ‘‘one percent’’ doctrine
was so strong that it mobilized significant resources and effectively silenced scep-
tics (Suskind 2006).22 At the same time, noting a lack of robustness in a vision
can be used to denounce those formulating and following it as being ‘‘out of
touch’’ with reality. In either case, the important question is who has the author-
ity to give or deny the ‘‘robust’’ stamp of approval.
In this context, analysts need to be aware of three pitfalls in studying the
robustness of visions. First, a particular vision may be downplayed because it is
considered impossible or because it is considered undesirable, which is not the
same. Value judgment must not be confused with an assessment of whether a
vision is believed to be robust and possesses mobilizing force. As Mannheim
points out, utopias are formulated and judged from a perspective; for some it
may appear unrealizable yet for others it may mean the reality of tomorrow
(Mannheim 1936:196, 203). Thus, analysts need to assess whether a vision is
22
See also the BBC series The Power of Nightmares from January 2005. Another example is the debate over the
reality and consequences of climate change. Notable here are not only the various scientific and artistic attempts to
establish robustness but also the desire for someone to provide certainty, illustrated by the exhibition ‘‘London
Futures,’’ Museum of London, October 2010–March 2011; and Preston (2010).
consequential, that is, whether it is considered possible by particular actors and

affects their activities, not whether the vision and its effects are desirable by any
standard. Second, the focus on robustness brings back the temptation of treating
the past as prologue and, in the extreme case, reduces the utopia to a window
into a given historical dynamic. This diminishes the room for agency and
reduces the transcendent character of visions to the formulation of neces-
sary ⁄ inevitably change in line with a given dynamic. It also allows actors to cloak
their normative (conservative or transformative) ambitions behind the authorita-
tive mantle of history and empowers certain individuals or groups which can
claim privileged insights into the direction of history (Hutchings 2008:82).

Third, and most importantly, assessing visions on the basis of their connected-
ness to existing sociohistorical structures risks falling for an unnecessarily narrow
reading of the horizon of possibilities contained in visions. It risks evaluating
visions on the basis of whether they are possible given historical conditions,
rather than assessing their potential in creating new possibilities. As such, it
prompts analyst to study trends rather than dreams and, hence, how the past is
pushing rather than how the future is pulling. Notably, this trap is recognized by
Carr in his discussion of The Conditions of Peace which he closes with the state-
ment that ‘‘the future lies with those who can resolutely turn their back on [the
old world] and face the new world with understanding, courage and imagina-
tion’’ (Carr 1942: 275). While ‘‘understanding’’ maintains the robust element,
courage and imagination point to the creative potential of visions.
Creative Visions
Rather than possible continuations of historical dynamics, a second perspective
understands visions as creative sources of inspiration and shifts attention to their
ability to open political spaces. This function is captured by reading utopias as
futures which explicitly seek to delineate new possibilities and create a sense of
becoming which leaves the existing order of things. The driver here is not history
but the hope that another world may be possible and that the Self may become
something else from what it is (or has been). This does not mean that those formu-
lating the vision are out of touch with ‘‘reality’’ or that the vision is ‘‘divorced’’
from existing conditions. Rather, it shifts attention to the effect utopias have on
the human imagination and highlights their importance as sources of productive
power, generating a new horizon whose primary function is to inspire and open up
new paths into the future which hitherto were considered impossible (Brincat
2009). The reading of utopias as creative is, thus, to highlight that they make things
possible; they are able to mobilize practices not embedded in a given historical
dynamic but suggest that if something can be imagined, it will inspire confidence
that it can be done. The ‘‘creative’’ qualifier puts greater emphasis on visions as
sources of energy stimulating forward movement in their own right and gives more
space to agency unconstrained from historically grown structures. It highlights the
creative capacity of humans of manifesting a sense of Self in time, or what Emirba-
yer and Mische call the ‘‘projective dimension of agency.’’ This kind of agency is
highly reflexive and stresses the ability to give shape and direction to possibilities
through imaginative engagement with the future, that is, by projecting an Entwurf
which distances the Self ‘‘in partial exploratory ways’’ from habits and traditions
(Emirbayer and Mische 1998:984).
By emphasizing the ability of humans to imagine the future anew and themselves
in it, this angle sees visions functioning as promises for an open future and, hence,
vehicles for self-determination and freedom (Sargent 1982). It is tied to an empha-
sis on the human capacity for new beginnings, as expressed in Hannah Arendt’s
notion of ‘‘natality’’ (Arendt 1958; Hutchings 2008:58–65). Tied to her critique of
a deterministic ⁄ teleological reading of history, Arendt in her discussion of The
Human Condition emphasizes that ‘‘Because he is a beginning, man can begin’’

(Arendt 1958:167). She grounds the human ability to start something new in the
ability to act in unexpected ways: ‘‘the new beginning inherent in birth can make
itself felt in the world only because the newcomer possesses the capacity of begin-
ning something anew, that is, of acting’’ (Arendt 1958:9). Arendt emphasizes that
‘‘the fact that man is capable of action means that the unexpected can be expected
from him, that he is able to perform what is infinitely improbable. And this again is
possible only because each man is unique, so that with each birth something
uniquely new comes into the world’’ (Arendt 1958:178). By combining the simple
fact that humans are being born with a theory of action and free will, Arendt makes

a fundamental point about power understood as ability to do something new and,
hence, to the capacity to be creative. This emphasis on the future as an open space
holding out new possibilities of being is prominent among feminist scholars who
advocate the necessity for there to be an outside to every ‘‘reality’’ (Grosz
2005:70ff; see also Crawford 2003).
Yet if we accept that visions function as anxiety controlling mechanism, then
their purpose cannot be to confirm radical contingency but to turn the future
into a domain of envisioned possibilities which, to be meaningful, must be
understood to be believed. Thus, the notion of a creative vision put forward here
does not sketch a randomly imagined future disconnected from ‘‘what is.’’ As in
Moore’s novel—his character discovers an island similar to the size of England
out in the Ocean just after the discovery of America—all utopias have a familiar
ring. For a vision to be considered possible and attractive, it must resonate with
something, and so the creative act of envisioning occurs through the presence
and the past (Koselleck 1985:270). Yet other than the ‘‘robustness’’ criterion,
the question of how creative visions of the new are linked to the familiar does
not revive the ‘‘past as prologue’’ fallacy, for at least four reasons.
First, creative visions often contrast with what is, and contrasts provide no
less a connection as do promises of continuity. A vision of a better world seek-
ing to leave the status quo behind still uses it as a reference and, thus, forms a
necessary link. Second, the formulation of visions is made possible by the crea-
tive exploitation of tension within the existing order of things. Scholars from
Arendt to contemporary feminists stress that no structure can contain the diver-
sity of social life and the fact that it is full of surprises, thus noting the ‘‘capac-
ity for transformation inherent in any ordered system, the system itself being
unable to contain its own becomings and thus open to potentially endless vari-
ation’’ (Grosz 2005:72). In the same vein, third, history does not issue clear
guidelines as experiences are ambiguous and indeterminate and so what we
take from them—those ominous lessons—is a creative act of interpretation. As
studies of policymakers’ use of history have shown, analogies are contested and
learning is an ambiguous process which does not lend itself to predictive logic
(May 1973; Jervis 1976; Khong 1992; Levy 1994). This is not surprising if we
take on board Bergson’s suggestion of time as ‘‘a vehicle of creation and of
choice’’ (cited in Grosz 2005:110) with experiences understood not as discrete
instances neatly lined up in successive moments, but impressions on the soul
where they merge and become a source of creativity. Exactly what is remem-
bered and which lessons are extracted from the past emerges in the process of
sorting future possibilities of being. Fourth, many prominent utopias energizing
projects in international politics are in fact ‘‘old’’ visions revived in regular
intervals. Visions of, for instance, European unity, a world government, or a
nuclear-free world have a long track record and dismissing them because they
purportedly failed before underestimates their continuing appeal and produc-
tive power. While they will never be fully realized, they provide a meaningful
goal enabling diverse actors to rally around a common purpose and giving
them a shared sense of direction.
To understand why utopias inspire and mobilize significant investments, it is

not sufficient to scan them for their robustness; instead, analysts need to pay
attention to their desirability (or undesirability, in the case of dystopias). Under-
standing what makes a certain future desirable, or attractive, will go a long way
toward understanding why the possibilities expressed in a certain vision are con-
sidered believable and worth investing in. It will explain what motivates humans
to ‘‘move forward,’’ a motivation intimately tied to hope, which according to
Bloch ([1959], 1995) is the principle energy residing within utopias. Where
attraction comes from and, hence, what provides the vision with a pull factor
which stirs something within humans and energizes them cannot be answered in

abstract terms. It points to the importance of emotional response, captured in
Gaston Bachelard’s ([1958] 1994) notion of the poetic image which reverberates
with the soul and brings with it ‘‘a veritable awakening.’’ The understanding of
utopia as a poetic image which takes emotional root in the soul also highlights
that a utopia is less a blueprint and more of a dream. In the words of Bertrand
de Jouvenel, ‘‘a blueprint does not give you the ‘feel’ of things, as if they existed
in fact; a dream does so’’ (quoted in Sargent 1982:568). Attractive visions gener-
ate a good feeling about the future, feed hope, and inspire others to follow, thus
also opening up a space for cooperation. A recent example is the vision of a
nuclear-free world revived by US President Obama in his 2009 Prague speech,
which became an important reference point in subsequent debates about arms
reduction (Traynor 2009). Yet the emotional pull factor also is found in dystopi-
as, such as the scenarios of possible terrorist attacks or effects of climate change,
which seek to mobilize support for certain policies through fear.23
Thus, the ability to offer a vision which stirs emotions is very different from
the ability to make a persuasive claim about its robustness, discussed earlier.
Rather than requiring a tedious explanation how it is embedded in existing con-
ditions or making detailed projections specifying its impact on all facets of social
life, creative visions understood as poetic images are characterized by their sim-
plicity. In the words of Bachelard, the poetic image is ‘‘the property of a naı̈ve
consciousness … in its expression it is youthful language’’ (Bachelard [1958],
1994: xix). Visions are simple or ‘‘sufficiently vague’’ because, as anxiety-control-
ling mechanisms, they need to absorb sudden events and gradual change. They
need to function as creative spaces and accommodate various forms of invest-
ments and changing ⁄ multiple interpretations, allowing a freedom for manoeuvre
which a blueprint cannot provide. Of course, simplicity which spurs productive
imagination also invites differing interpretations, as witnessed in recurring
debates among EU member states over the finalite´ of the project of European
integration and, hence, about the direction ‘‘Europe’’ ought to take. The very
reading of visions as creative spaces renders them open to debate and contesta-
tion, enriching our understanding of identity politics as a politics of the Self in
the future. It also hints at how the productive power of visions is tied to the pro-
cess of its realisation, rather than administration, a process that is marked by
contestation and compromise and, hence, is inherently political.
Conclusion
This article argued that IR scholars, and constructivists in particular, must pay
greater attention to the role visions play in processes of identity formation to
understand their behavioural and, by extension, political implications. Drawing
23
A classic example for the latter is Al Gore’s movie An Inconvenient Truth and the images presented by political
actors ahead of the 2009 UN Climate Summit in Copenhagen. See the collection at http://www.climatecrisis.net;
and ‘‘The UK Government Unveils a New Climate Change Map’’ in The Guardian, October 22, 2009, available at
http://www.guardian.co.uk/environment/video/2009/oct/22/climate-change-map-miliband.
on Heidegger, it highlighted that a constructivist framework stressing human

reflexivity must take into account the temporal incompleteness of being and,
specifically, its future-directedness. If this is done, analyzing visions held by politi-
cal actors in the form of utopias or dystopias and the direction for action they
lay out becomes central to constructivist inquiry. This does more than simply
add a new element to the constructivist toolkit. It effectively addresses the realist
critique that constructivism neglects how future uncertainty affects social life and
political decision making. What is more, improving the understanding of agency
in the face of uncertainty by discerning both the robust and creative character of
visions has significant implications for constructivist theory. It shifts understand-

ing of what drives human action beyond the familiar logic of appropriate-
ness ⁄ consequences duality toward a logic of meaningful possibilities which, with
its focus on the power of inspiration and the drive toward realization, also differs
from the logic of practicality (Pouliot 2008). There is not enough space to elabo-
rate on this here, except to offer some thoughts on the power of visions, which
is an important step on the way toward integrating the future into a constructiv-
ist theory of action.
The above discussion hinted at a number of ways in which visions exert power.
They are a constitutive force in the process of identity formation, projected into
the future as an anxiety-controlling mechanism which both enables and con-
strains possibilities of being. As such, visions are a source of energy which stimu-
lates action and pulls the actor toward the future. They provide orientation and
prompt investment in a certain course, that is, encourage particular activities
intended to realize the vision (in the case of utopias) or to prevent it from hap-
pening (in the case of dystopias). Said differently, by laying out an (un)desirable
path, a vision stimulates, mobilizes, and directs activities toward decreasing or
increasing the distance between what is and what could be. This makes it an
empowering and, possibly, transformative force. And yet, visions not only hold
productive power but can also entrap actors. The more an actor invests in a cer-
tain future and identifies with it, the more difficult it will be to conceive of and
justify a change of plan without loosing credibility and, ultimately, ontological
security. In that sense, a vision can hold power over an actor by limiting its room
for manoeuvre. Then again, the notion that visions capture an actor’s mind
stands in tension with the emphasis on creative agency, that is, the capacity of
humans to imagine and produce their future. If the future is the playground of
our imagination, an open space allowing us to imagine new possibilities of being,
challenge for analysts is to conceptually reconcile an understanding of a vision
pulling an actor with an understanding of the actor producing its vision. There
probably is no neat sequential causal logic at play. Unpacking how humans cre-
ate and become attached to a particular vision which then guides their practices
and shapes their respective sense of Self requires deeper understanding of the
constitutive relationship between imagination, action, and ontological security.
This includes tackling the pertinent question what makes a vision appealing
(or believable, attractive) and, as such, powerful. The above discussion of the
robust and the creative character of visions offers some answers, yet it leaves
open whether some visions are attractive per se or how visions can be made attrac-
tive.24 A constructivist approach is by definition uneasy with the notion of intrin-
sic, or natural attraction, so the short answer is that appeal varies with context.
So analysts have to ask who is able to generate compelling visions and who is
able to realize or prevent them from happening. In other words, attention must
be paid to those with the authority to formulate, disseminate, and represent
visions, and, furthermore, with the ability to motivate others to invest in them.
This directs attention to phenomena of inspiration and practices of persuasion,
24
Klotz and Lynch (2007); Hopf (2007); Pouliot (2007); Crawford (2000).
including the formation of epistemic communities around particular visions

(Deitelhoff 2009; Houghton 2009).
Carving out the utopias or dystopias particular actors identify with and show-
ing how they stimulate action, in other words assessing their power, is not easy.
In addition to dealing with the well-known problem of other minds, that is, the
difficulty of making mental frames visible, tracing the emotional attachment to
and effect of particular visions poses significant methodological challenges best
dealt with through an interpretivist approach.25 It suffices to say here that visions
are inscribed not only in legal–political documents and institutions but also in
the arts, architecture, and popular culture, including movies and literature.

Indeed, the symbols of a utopia may be so deeply embedded in the fabric of a
given society that they are taken for granted and become ‘‘invisible’’ (Boyle
2004:95). They may surface only during particular moments, such as perceived
crises, when policymakers are expected to clarify the direction they intend to
take society and the kind of world they want to live in. As scholars have shown,
such moments see an increase in the publication of utopian literature (Drass
and Kiser 1988) and create openings for ideational entrepreneurs to influence
the worldview of decision makers (Callahan 2004, 2008; Dueck 2004). The best
way to see visions at work is to look at the process of realization in which actors
try, in the case of utopias, to bring imagined possibilities into being. It requires
showing the forward movement generated by a particular vision and paying
attention to processes of planning and implementation, that is, the specific ways
in which visions set agendas, guide decisions, mobilize resources, and define
investment priorities (Picht 1968:74ff).
Plenty of work thus awaits IR scholars trying to understand how future uncer-
tainty shapes the process of identity formation and affects behaviour. Again, this
does not block out history but, rather, asks for a careful look at how representa-
tions of past and future are intertwined. This will improve our understanding of
which future(s) policymakers consider possible and thus allows assessing their
long-term goals, the thrust of their planning, and perceived rooms of manoeu-
vre. It might even allow constructivists to engage in ‘‘forward reasoning’’ and
‘‘scenario building’’ to discern the ‘‘cognitive pathways’’ which open thought
and direct practice toward some futures, foreclosing others (Neumann and
Overland 2004; Bernstein, Lebow, Stein, and Weber 2007; Lebow 2009: 214).
And, of course, the temporal perspective should be integrated in work examin-
ing the social dimension of identity formation to understand how actors negoti-
ate shared visions and ⁄ or fight over the future and themselves in it. This would
allow analysts to paint a picture of how different communities envision their
respective place in the world, chart overlaps, and assess the potential for conflict
and cooperation in the realization processes. To be sure, none of this will turn
constructivists into ‘‘predictioneers’’ (Bueno de Mesquita 2009). Yet shifting
attention to the politics of identity formation in time, with particular consider-
ation of the politics of the future, will open a new chapter in the success story
of constructivism: following the various critical, linguistic, sociological, and prac-
tical turns in IR scholarship, we now may be witnessing a temporal turn. What-
ever we call it, realists certainly had their shot at utopias. It is time for
constructivists to take over.
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International Studies Quarterly (2011) 55, 647–668

Reclaiming the Vision Thing: Constructivists

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Constructivism and the Missing Future

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Reclaiming the Vision Thing

comprehend the ontological structure of being-in-the-world but anxiety [Sorge]

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Giddens calls ‘‘anxiety controlling mechanisms’’ (Giddens 1984:50, 1991), that

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Understanding the (Im)Possible Vision

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transcending character and of possibility understood as something that is ‘‘not

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consequential, that is, whether it is considered possible by particular actors and

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Human Condition emphasizes that ‘‘Because he is a beginning, man can begin’’

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To understand why utopias inspire and mobilize significant investments, it is

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on Heidegger, it highlighted that a constructivist framework stressing human

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including the formation of epistemic communities around particular visions

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Adler, Emmanuel. (2002) Constructivism and International Relations. In Handbook of International

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Coverly, Merlin. (2010) Utopia. Pocket Essentials. Harpenden: Oldcastle Books.

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