The UK higher education sector employs a range of mechanisms intended to assure or enhance the quality of its teaching and, more broadly, its degree programmes. These mechanisms can often be seen to rest on assumptions, tacit or otherwise, about what kind of an activity teaching is. When considering the fitness for its intended purpose of this or that ‘QA’ or ‘QE’ mechanism, then, it can be useful to consider whether its assumptions about what teaching is are sound ones.
If teachers were to live in constant full cognizance of the full weight of responsibility that they have, the result might well be blind panic, or paralysis. I’m not referring to the quantity of work that many teachers experience, but rather to the fact that teachers take on the awesome responsibility of being the guides to particular fields of knowledge, and to the broader experience of learning as a whole. As a result of one’s teaching, a student might be inspired to devote a lifetime to a subject, or equally might swear off it forever. Few people emerge from their educations completely unscathed. In my experience, teaching is second only to parenting as an activity which almost every day leaves you feeling that you failed in some small or large way, that you didn’t manage to provide what was needed in that particular situation, and that with more time, and patience, you could have done better.
Since this blog began earlier in the year I’ve been a pretty enthusiastic proselytiser of various pieces of education theory/scholarship. And a lot of that theory itself radiates enthusiasm, if not zeal. The parts of it that I have encountered are often very ‘up’. In particular, books about teaching in higher education which are at once research-based and designed to offer guidance to teachers will be quick to point out where we have been going wrong up to now, but will also offer clear advice about how we can make things better, perhaps by moving towards a student-centred mode of teaching, and/or ensuring constructive alignment between learning outcomes, learning activities and assessment tasks, and/or ensuring that we create feedback-rich learning environments. I have no doubt that thinking through all of these ideas and applying them to my own teaching has been hugely beneficial. But I also have no doubt that in teaching there are no magic bullets. Nothing I have learned or tried has stopped me feeling ‘down’ rather than ‘up’ about teaching a fair proportion of the time, and as I look back on my year of teaching there’s one thing in particular that I keep returning to.
I feel like I’ve gotten a lot better at getting students to participate in classroom activities, and at designing those activities themselves (the two things are of course related). Reading Diana Laurillard’s Teaching as a Design Science was something of a ‘lightbulb’ moment for me in this respect; that book gave me a name for and a way of thinking about things I had been trying to achieve for a few years. If something is well-designed, be it a public space or a domestic appliance, then one’s engagement with it will be smooth, natural, intuitive. Few of us need to be told how to find a cash machine or a place to sit in an urban area, nor how to operate a microwave (some people reading may also detect the influence of Heidegger via Paddy Scannell here – another set of ideas I’ve been absorbing for the past two years). In my classrooms, I consciously design things in order to encourage students to act in particular ways, to engage in particular activities. Sometimes it will be a spatial matter: I will make students sit in a horseshoe around a screen so that the audio-visual sequence we are analysing is there before us, everyone can see and respond to everyone else, and so on. Sometimes I will issue a set of instructions that create a series of steps for the students. Sometimes, taking control of the learning environment will also involve, quite simply, holding one’s nerve in the face of initial reluctance to talk. Teaching/learning is too inherently ‘sticky’ and ‘subversive’ to be as smooth as the other kinds of design alluded to above, but there are similar motivations at work.
‘So what?’ might be the response so far. All teaching activities are planned and therefore by logical extension ‘designed’. What gives me pause for thought is the element of coercion that goes along with certain kinds of learning environment design. A big part of the job of all but the most fortunate teachers is getting students to speak more than they are naturally inclined to. We smile while we do it (well, most of us, most of the time), of course, but we are applying pressure. A lot of this can be justified in the name of getting the best out of students (notice the language of extraction), and again, it could not really be any other way.
And yet. There are times, over the past eighteen months or so especially, when I have felt that my role as teacher was shading into something more like that of a ‘gamemaker’. I think that, along with carefully-structured activities which assign students roles which are difficult to escape, things like provocation, persistent questioning, playing the fool, and even plain old goading all have their place in teaching and learning. But so too do things like prolonged solitary reflection, letting a question or a piece of reading stew in the back of one’s mind for weeks (months, years), and the right to say ‘I do not feel ready to talk about this yet’. If learning environments should be designed to cultivate in students the kinds of habits of mind they will require for ‘deep’, ‘life-long’ learning, then those environments should not just be about cut and thrust, wall-to-wall talking, and rapid cycles of feedback. One of my teachers once told me, as I was about to embark upon my own teaching, ‘Don’t be afraid of silence.’ More and more, I see the value of such advice (especially when I consider that the filling of silence can often be as much about the alleviation of anxiety as it is about the contribution of something worthwhile).
It is good to feel permanently dissatisfied. It is a sign that one is still learning, and still alive. When my teaching resumes in the New Year, one thing I will try to do is let my teaching pendulum swing back (or is it rather a deepening spiral? – that’s the metaphor that most closely fits my pattern of thinking on the topic) a little towards a set-up that allows students more space and time to reflect, and to involve themselves in ways that may be less audible and visible to others, but may also be ultimately more beneficial to them, which is, after all, what it’s all about.
I’ve been feeling increasingly bad about neglecting this blog of late. My excuse is that I’ve had various other small writing projects on the go: 1. After seeing and enjoying What Maisie Knew at the cinema (thank you, Hull Screen!), I wrote two pieces about it for Alternate Takes, the first of which is up, the second of which is coming soon. 2. I’ve been trying to get a healthy amount of initial content onto another blog, the one I’ve launched for the Film Studies subject team at Hull, Thoughts on the Screen (complete with awesome Saul Bass-inspired design, courtesy of WordPress). 3. I’ve just finished a double book review that will (fingers crossed) appear in the next issue of Critical Studies in Television. 4. I’ve started work on a co-authored article about how time works in The Simpsons. So far my grappling with the fiendish time scheme of the programme has given me a deepened appreciation for what Fernand Braudel said about being an historian: ‘My great problem, the only problem I had to resolve, was to show that time moves at different speeds.’ 5. In my quest to revive for myself the lost art of letter-writing, I have marked sheets of paper with ink and sent them in stamped envelopes to members of my family!
Another thing that has disrupted my usual routine is that last week I attended the ‘Spaces of Television’ conference at the University of Reading. The event was chock-full both of great presentations and of lovely friendly people, some of whom I already knew and some I’m delighted to have met. I won’t attempt to summarise the things I heard, partly because there is already a great summary of much of what went on at the event on this discussion forum. I did want to write a few paragraphs about what was for me the most exciting and inspiring session.
The session was presented by Dr Andew Ireland of the University of Central Lancashire. Andrew was telling us about – and then showing us – what he did for his PhD research. He set himself the challenge of taking the script of a recent episode of Doctor Who, and then re-shooting the script under the conditions that would have existed had the episode been filmed at the BBC in 1963! This implies some significant restrictions with respect to both space and time. Andrew was able to use some footage shot on location – but that footage did not have any synchronised sound. Being able to cut away to this footage occasionally bought precious seconds, but for the most part, the action had to unfold so that it could be captured by the continually-rolling cameras within a relatively small studio space. This calls for huge amounts of ingenuity when moving from one scene to another (how do you make sure your actors are ready?), and also when lighting sets that, because of the small overall space available to work in, are often very close together (your ‘night-time alleyway’ might well need to be very close to your ‘daytime living room’: how are you going to manage that?!). And if you make mistakes, you had better recover from them fast and carry on, because recording won’t stop! When we were then shown the final product that Andrew and his collaborators had produced, I was amazed by how close to a 1960s product it looked (to my admittedly not optimally trained eye; I have seen a fair bit of television from these period, but not masses). The working practices implied, almost entailed, certain ways of doing things (for example, having lots of frontal staging, with characters huddled around and all facing the camera), and just like that, a past style was resurrected.
It was a great research project, but what it got me thinking about were pedagogical possibilities. Throughout his presentation, Andrew kept on emphasising that the important thing for him was not the product but the process, and he kept coming back to the idea of ‘embodiment’. I think he was absolutely on the money on both counts. If one asks students to reflect upon why certain stylistic elements are present in a television programme, or a film, the first kinds of answers one is likely to get, in my experience, are answers which think exclusively in terms of the experience of a viewer – and often, answers which treat style as a symbol-system (there are shadows on the character’s face to show that he is not to be trusted). Such observations can be valuable, and they certainly have their place. However, finding ways of getting students to think like practitioners, and thus to think in terms of restrictions, and problems and solutions (to invoke one of David Bordwell’s very productive schemas for approaching style, and stylistic change), and so on, greatly expands their perspective. Not only this: it helps them to move beyond seeing style as a punctuation marks or flourishes that occasionally rise to the surface, and to appreciate that style is a system, that nothing appears on screen without being put there, that every shot involves a huge range of choices, and that those choices are confined by the prevailing mode of production, which comprises technology, working practices, and much much more. That is, practical, studio-based work can help students to pull things together, and to become better and more reflexive theorists (and historians) of style.
When I first started teaching at Hull, a colleague and I experimented, in a final year television module, with getting students to try to recreate in our studio facilities a short passage from a particular episode. Whilst the process was interesting, I don’t feel that the students got as much out of it as they might have done. I now think that adding the ingredient of giving them a brief that tells them that they need to abide by a particular set of production conditions could provide exactly what is needed. That way, it will be clear to the students that they are not being asked to replicate but to adapt. The result (one would hope!) would perhaps be that instead of feeling disappointed about failing to measure up to the original, the students would instead be encouraged to think through (both in the sense of considering in a sustained fashion, and letting a system become one’s lens of the world, to use an appropriate metaphor), to internalise, one might almost say, different styles and modes of production, the different aesthetic effects they achieve, and the different but not necessarily unequal merits of these.
To the drawing board…!
I’m categorising this post as a review, but in what follows, rather than trying to summarise Laurillard’s wide-ranging achievements, I try to distil the heart of the book – the underlying principles upon which its vision of and suggestions for pedagogy rest.
Diana Laurillard, in describing teaching as a design science (as well as, not instead of, an art, as she is careful to note on page 1), wants us to see the similarities between teaching and pursuits ‘like engineering, or computer science, or architecture, whose imperative it is to make the world a better place’ (p. 1).
A design science uses and contributes to theoretical science, but it builds design principles rather than theories, and the heuristics of practice rather than explanations, although like both the sciences and the arts, it uses what has gone before as a platform or inspiration for what it creates. Teaching is more like a design science because it uses what is known about teaching to attain the goal of student learning, and uses the implementation of its designs to keep improving them. (p. 1)
Paul Ramsden, in his excellent Learning to Teach in Higher Education (Taylor & Francis, 2003), sees moving away from a view of teaching as ‘transmitting knowledge’ and towards a view of teaching as ‘making it possible for students to learn subject matter’ as a prerequisite for improving one’s practice: ‘Success in learning how to improve your own teaching is related to the extent to which you are prepared to conceptualise your teaching as a process of helping students to change their understanding of the subject matter you teach them’ (p.17/8). The focus, we might say, slightly crudely, is on getting students to do things. However, as teachers, we have to do things to try to get our students to do things. We have to create powerful learning environments, and we do this by designing our courses effectively.
In Teaching as a Design Science, Laurillard makes extensive use of the ‘Conversational Framework’ model which she developed in an earlier book, Rethinking university teaching: A conversational framework for the effective use of learning technologies (RoutledgeFalmer, 2nd edition 2002). The Conversational Framework presents a model which separates out a student’s conceptual understanding and their practice. In the case of dentistry, the practice would include giving a patient a filling; in the case of English literature, the practice would involve writing an essay. Laurillard suggests there is an iterative cycle between concepts and practice. Dissatisfaction with one’s outputs (conclusions, perhaps) can cause one to reflect upon and modulate one’s conceptual understanding.
Sometimes an activity will produce what Laurillard terms ‘intrinsic feedback’. Examples are most easily found when we look at babies, children, and other young animals. When a baby tries, and fails, to get some food into her or his mouth, then s/he becomes immediately aware that s/he has not succeeded (because s/he not eating), so s/he perseveres, practicing the motion until it is perfected (as my seven month old son is reminding me, this is a lengthy process, and there is a lot of crying – and mess – along the way). However, not all activities are as rich in intrinsic feedback as trying to eat. This is one of the differences between informal and formal learning which Laurillard usefully spells out, and spells out some of the implications of:
Our brains have evolved to develop our first-order knowledge of the world from the earliest stages of infancy. […] While the psychologist will investigate and celebrate the power of every human brain to learn how to apply the correct force to the muscles of the arm and hand to pick up a cup, the educationist has to grapple with the problem that very few human minds ever grasp the proper Newtonian concept of force. This fundamental scientific idea cannot be accessed in the same way as the everyday concept of force, and our brains have not evolved to cope. Informal, spontaneous, developmental learning is immensely successful. Formal, scientific, educational learning is at best only moderately successful. (p. 41)
Laurillard points out that an experienced formal learner will be adept at driving their own cycle of modulation and practice through research, discussion, and so forth. What teaching as a design science aims to do is to generate varied, rich and iterative feedback loops to motivate and drive these cycles for less experienced learners. The teacher can provide this her/himself. Laurillard conceives of this in two main ways: the teacher can share conceptual understanding, or s/he can model instances of practice. A lecture by itself, by the way, will not create a loop if there is no way for students to try to formulate their own understandings which the teacher can then help them to refine. There has to be some kind of communicative loop, otherwise there is just one-way transmission.
It does not always have to be the teacher who provides the communication/modelling cycle. It can also be provided in a peer group setting. This still involves the teacher in the respects that an environment that facilitates effective dialogue or other collaboration has to be created (a massive and tricky topic, which I am looking into in detail before making collaborative learning a larger part of my modules), and the teacher will probably have to intervene if and when misconceptions are taking hold amongst students. However, the process of having to articulate one’s ideas or demonstrate one’s practice to one’s peers is intrinsically valuable – it forces one to formulate – and will probably generate valuable feedback too.
The power of Laurillard’s model (which is probably best grasped in its graphic form, and at the time of writing an image is available here) really shines through in the chapters where different types of learning are examined (learning through acquisition, through inquiry, through discussion, through practice, and through collaboration), and it is shown which cycles within the Conversational Framework they will typically activate. I had fancied my seminar discussion techniques to be a powerful learning environment, but thinking of them in relation to Laurillard’s model makes me see how much more varied and iterative I could make my feedback loops with some redesigning.
In higher education it is easy to often think of ‘feedback’ as the sheets of paper you give to students after you’ve marked their essays. But if that were the only source of feedback they received, that would be an emaciated learning environment indeed. Formal learning should be brought closer to informal learning in the richness and frequency of the feedback it provides in order to motivate learners and develop their abilities. As Laurillard puts it, ‘The teacher’s design task is to create the practice/modeling environment that provides the feedback the learner needs’ (p. 170). Discussion, practice, ideas, sharing, back-and-forth: these are the things I want to design more of into my modules. The work starts here…
Good learners […] know how to ask meaningful questions; they are persistent in examining their own assumptions; they use definitions and metaphors as instruments for their thinking and are rarely trapped by their own language; they are apt to be cautious and precise in making generalizations, and they engage continually in verifying what they believe.
Neil Postman and Charles Weingartner. Teaching as a Subversive Activity. Penguin Education, 1969. Quoted in Diana Laurillard. Teaching as a Design Science. Routledge, 2012.
The below is an edited version of one of my PGCHE assignments. I’ve removed institution-specific data and some of the ‘answering-the-question’ signposting. I hope the joins don’t show too much!
The term ‘personal learning environment’ has been a significant presence in education theory for fewer than ten years (see Fiedler and Väljataga 2011 for a useful overview of the literature). If we ask what a personal learning environment is and seek to answer that question in terms of the ‘content’ of a PLE, then our answer will be outdated by the time what we have written is a few weeks old. An internet image search will reveal that the most popular (and the most elementary) way of visually conceptualising a PLE is as a thing that comprises a series of radial elements. Sometimes these elements are conceptual, but just as often they are web-hosted applications (Twitter, YouTube, Skype…). These observations might already begin to suggest a few important things about how the relationships between a student, the student’s personal learning environment, the student’s higher education institution, and the student’s module support might best be configured. Universities probably need to provide both less (at the institutional level, in terms of expensive infrastructure projects) and more (at the module level, in terms of support and ‘scaffolding’ – see below) in order to work towards optimising students’ uses of their personal learning environments.
What the University should provide
[At the Association of Learning Technology’s 2006 conference,] there was a buzz around the idea of Personal Learning Environments (PLEs). […] Yet for all the talk there was no consensus on what a [PLE] might be. The only thing most people seemed to agree on was that it was not a software application. (Attwell 2007: 1)
A powerful personal learning environment is not only driven by the innovativeness and quality of the software applications that help to constitute it. Its power can also be measured according to the degree to which it promotes ‘connectivism’ (Siemens 2004). As such, PLEs relate to the at least slightly longer history of ‘networked learning’ (see, for example, Steeples and Jones 2002, Siemens 2008, Drexler 2010).
In his discussion of ‘Learning networks in practice’, Stephen Downes (2007: 26-7) lists four factors that a good learning network ought to possess: diversity, autonomy, connectedness and openness. Downes notes that ‘openness is what makes interactivity possible; barriers that make it difficult or impossible to communicate within the network limit the network’s capacity to learn’ (ibid). Many university VLEs include significant barriers – most obviously, password-protected access, but equally importantly, barriers between module pages. If a university curriculum ought to be designed to encourage students to think deeply and broadly across and beyond their subject, not to think in terms of discrete modules offering chunks of knowledge, and if the university experience ought to foster authentic and lifelong learning, then students’ PLEs should also facilitate these things.
In the introduction to an article based on their involvement in e-learning policy and implementation at the University of Southampton, ‘Making it Rich and Personal: Crafting an Institutional Personal Learning Environment’, White and Davis (2011: 24) observe:
While individuals can be agile in their response to technology changes, organisations are typically more constrained by the heritage of past decisions and previous investment. […] In a time of rapid technological development and adoption the gap between everyday practice and organisational provision tends to increase.
One of the diagrams in White and Davis’s paper (ibid: 35) displays the components of a ‘rich learning environment’. The segment labelled ‘institutional space’ is conceptualised as providing ‘mainly admin and information’. The ‘personal space’, on the other hand, is tagged ‘I choose, I use it’.
Clearly, there are some online services that a university will have to continue to provide by and for itself. A secure database of students’ personal and registration data is perhaps the most obvious example. It also makes sense for there to be a secure repository for the digital learning resources which the tutor chooses to share with the students. However, this latter interface should not be confused or conflated with the VLE/PLE tout court, which, if it is to be rich and powerful, needs to be a much larger, diverse, open and connected entity. Another thing that a university must also provide is excellent infrastructure: reliable, fast, wireless connection to the internet via whichever devices students choose to employ. It is coming to look increasingly like a disastrous waste of resources, though, for universities to invest heavily in infrastructure projects designed to produce less good and more quickly outdated version of online learning environments than the ones that already exist ‘out there’ and which students actually use.
If the university’s facilitating role ended with the provision of technological infrastructure, then there would be little difference between an institute of higher education and an internet service provider. However, there is a difference, and it is to be found in support and pedagogy.
Facilitating networked learning: the role of the subject tutor
Web 2.0 and all that goes with it is a threat to higher education if higher education is conceptualised as the transmission of bodies of knowledge to students. If that is what education is, then it is just as effective, if not more so, to acquire the necessary information online as it is to attend lectures and so on. (Siemens (2004) takes this argument one step further, arguing that Web 2.0 can act as a virtual and prosthetic memory, thus making the personal storehouse of knowledge of the expert less valuable, if ‘static’ knowledge is all that is offered.) Even using this limited, ‘transmission’ conceptualisation, there would still probably be a role for the university. Of all the information out there, how would the student know which information was ‘necessary’? Some training in digital/information literacy would still be required. But what this immediately reveals is the broader point that learning is more than receiving information, and that students need to be helped to learn how to learn.
Before proceeding to the level of philosophies of pedagogy and the learning environments that best match them, it will be instructive to start at a smaller level, with a brief summary of an illuminating piece of research into the use of ‘wikis’ (websites or pages which can be easily edited by large numbers of people) in an undergraduate curriculum. Judd et al (2010) tracked the behaviour of students who were set a task involving a wiki. The intention was to develop skills of collaboration. However, the result was rather different:
The timing and distribution of students’ contributions […] revealed a great deal about their capacity and willingness to cooperate and collaborate with other members of their group. The two major findings from our analysis in this area were that (i) the majority of contributions were made late in the activity, which is not surprising given many students’ tendency toward last minute study […], and (ii) most students contributed to the wiki on a single day. Both findings suggest that students would have had limited opportunities to interact, via the wiki, with other members or [sic] their groups. (Ibid: 350)
Technology is not a magic bullet. Spector (2002: xiii), in the foreword to an anthology addressing networked learning, describes ‘the history of educational technology’ as one ‘filled with broken promises’. ‘Many have implicit faith that technology will make education better’, Spector writes (ibid: xiv): ‘Such faith is ill-founded.’ What he means here is technology alone. ‘While wikis include features that are designed to facilitate collaboration’, Judd et al (2010: 341) reflect in their abstract, ‘it does not necessarily follow that their use will ensure or even encourage collaborative learning behaviour.’ What is missing from the learning environment that might further encourage such behaviour?
In a subsequent piece of research addressing student use of wikis, Manion and Selfe (2012: 25) stress the importance of supplementing the technological with the disciplinary and the social. They stipulate that tasks using wikis need to be ‘grounded in habits of thought appropriate for the field’, and also that ‘assessment should be distributed among a range of stakeholders and should be contextualized to give value to students’ work beyond the classroom.’
Writing in more general terms about networked learning and PLEs, Drexler (2010: 369) speaks of the need to strike a balance between ‘teacher control and student autonomy’. She seeks to explain ‘how a teacher can scaffold a networked learning approach while providing a foundation on which students take more control of the learning process.’ By placing ‘the networked student’ at the centre of her approach, Drexler avoids the risk of abstracting or fetishising technology, of seeing it as an end rather than a means. Drexler’s (ibid: 372) model of ‘the networked student’ offers an image of a smiling student sitting at a desktop computer, but the nodes that radiate from this student are not exclusively pieces of software (although there are these: blogs, podcasts, wikis, etc), but also human contacts (running from friends and family to classmates, teachers and experts). As we have already seen Downes argue, a learning environment is powerful to the extent that it permits connections and communication – not only with static knowledge, but also with others one can enter into dialogue with. Indeed, such is the basis of ‘communities of practice’ (Wenger 1998).
Drexler’s reference to ‘scaffolding’ points in the direction of ideas developed more thoroughly by Van B. Weigel. Weigel (2002: 9), adopting a constructivist perspective, argues that ‘cognitive apprenticeship is the learning methodology best suited to achieve the aims of deep learning’. He highlights ‘six teaching methods that facilitate cognitive apprenticeship: modeling, coaching, scaffolding [cf. Drexler], articulating, reflecting, and exploring’ (ibid: 10-11). These activities, which involve a constant stream of mutual feedback between tutor and student(s), cannot be delivered as effectively or as fully by any piece of software yet developed as they can be by a human (with the requisite expertise). (These reflections also chime with a fascinating article by Johnson and Liber (2008), who in support of their arguments about ‘The Personal Learning Environment and the human condition’ adduce philosophy running from ancient Greece (Socrates) through to the twentieth century (chiefly, phenomenology and existentialism), and demonstrate that alongside ‘technological interventions’ there will continue to be ‘a deep need for teaching and learning’ (ibid: 10) provided by humans.)
Weigel’s ideal of ‘cognitive apprenticeship’ leads him to propose that classrooms ought to be reconceptualised as ‘knowledge rooms’. He offers five models (2002: 18-23): ‘The Research Center’; ‘The Skill Workplace’; ‘The Conference Center’; ‘The Debate Hall’ and ‘The Portfolio Gallery’. There is not the space here to describe each set-up; the names are evocative enough for my purposes. What these names should make clear is that the environments Weigel envisages do not much resemble VLEs used as repositories for powerpoint presentations. Nor do they resemble a search engine, or a piece of software. (A contemporary parenthesis: It is worth pondering the extent to which the still-shifting idea of a ‘MOOC’ fits any of Weigel’s models.) What the names should also make clear is that is that in each case, what is being placed front and centre is the exchange of ideas (often, also, with a community of practice). This can take us back to Downes, and his prescriptions for powerful PLEs, whose words can serve as a fitting conclusion.
The knowledge produced by a network should be the product of an interaction between the members, not a mere aggregation of the members’ perspectives. A different type of knowledge is produced one way as opposed to the other. Comparing two points of view, for example, allows us to see what they have in common, while merely counting or aggregating views forces us to pick one or the other. Web 2.0 software is about much more than listing connections or tallying memberships. It is about the conversation that happens between individuals. And so, too, the personal learning environment supports not just content consumption but interaction and communication. (2007: 26, original emphasis)
Attwell, Graham (2007), ‘Personal Learning Environments – the future of eLearning?’, eLearning Papers 2: 1, pp. 1-8. Accessed 8 July 2013.
Downes, Stephen (2007), ‘Learning networks in practice’, Emerging Technologies for Learning 2. Accessed 8 July 2013.
Drexler, Wendy (2010), ‘The networked student model for construction of personal learning environments: Balancing teacher control and student autonomy’, Australasian Journal of Educational Technology 26: 3, pp. 369-85.
Fiedler, Sebastian H. D. and Terje Väljataga (2011), ‘Personal Learning Environments: Concept or Technology?’, International Journal of Virtual and Personal Learning Environments 2: 4, pp. 1-11.
Johnson, Mark and Oleg Liber (2008), ‘The Personal Learning Environment and the human condition: from theory to teaching practice’, Interactive Learning Environments 16: 1, pp. 3-15.
Judd, Terry, Gregor Kennedy and Simon Cropper (2010), ‘Using wikis for collaborative learning: Assessing collaboration through contribution’, Australasian Journal of Educational Technology 26: 3, pp. 341-54.
Manion, Christopher E. and Richard ‘Dickie’ Selfe (2012), ‘Sharing an Assessment Ecology: Digital Media, Wikis, and the Social Work of Knowledge’, Technical Communication Quarterly 21: pp. 25-45.
Siemens, George (2004), ‘Connectivism: A Learning Theory for the Digital Age’, elearnspace. Accessed 8 July 2013.
Siemens, George (2008), ‘A brief history of networked learning’, elearnspace. Accessed 8 July 2013.
Spector, J. Michael (2002), ‘Foreword’, in Steeples and Jones (2002), pp. xiii-xvii.
Steeples, Christine and Chris Jones (2002), eds., Networked Learning: Perspectives and Issues, London: Springer.
Weigel, Van B. (2002), Deep Learning for a Digital Age: Technology’s Untapped Potential to Enrich Higher Education, San Francisco, CA: Jossey-Bass.
Wenger, Etienne (1998), Communities of Practice: Learning, Meaning, and Identity, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
White, Su and Hugh Davis (2011), ‘Making it Rich and Personal: Crafting an Institutional Personal Learning Environment’, International Journal of Virtual and Personal Learning Environments 2: 4, pp. 23-39.
I have gotten out of the habit of annotating books. I started underlining and note-making in the margins when I studied GCSE English literature, and continued to do so during my A-level in the same subject, and in the books that related to my literature modules on my undergraduate degree. One strong motivation was that during this period I sat many open-book examinations, and my annotations helped me to locate quotations swiftly.
Re-reading (any version of) any text includes as part of the experience a re-visiting of one’s former reading self. With a well-annotated text, though, that aspect of the experience becomes both sharper and deeper. One can read a precise record of what one thought about a particular word or passage (or what other thing/s one was prompted to think about when reading it), and get a sense of what seemed worth commenting on during that earlier reading. (And what didn’t; I wanted to begin this entry with a quotation from a writer who noted that one of the things that most struck him upon re-reading a marked-up text of his own was that he had passed over in silence passages that now seemed wonderful to him. I’m fairly sure that Wayne Booth was the writer in question, but have been unable to locate the quotation. Perhaps if I annotated more thoroughly…)
In the case of famous intellectuals these matters can become ones of public interest. I remember reading in an article by Carlo Ginzburg on ‘Morelli, Freud and Sherlock Holmes’ a point which rests upon the author’s knowledge of things that Freud had in his library, and could therefore be taken to have read. (Not a watertight assumption! There are still more books than I would care to enumerate that remain unopened on my shelves. [Which makes me think in turn of Gatsby, and D’Angelo Barksdale’s reading of a particular detail of that character’s character.] A book cannot be annotated without having been read though…) Freud’s library is still preserved; I’m sure others’ are too. My point here is that for any dedicated reader there is surely at least personal value (and value for one’s interested descendants or other loved ones) in leaving material traces of the thoughts that accompanied one’s reading activities.
I say my habit of annotating books went away, and this is true; yet I am a rather prolific annotator of photocopied materials. (And though I do not use them that much, I am also glad of and sometimes avail myself of the note-making possibilities afforded by .pdf files and most e-readers.) So why not books too? I understand and sympathise with the fact that some students endeavour to keep the books they buy unblemished with a view of selling them on later. But I never really wanted to – want to – sell any of my books. (When I was particularly hard up I did part with a few books that earned a good price. [One of them, appropriately for the topic of this post, was Genette’s Palimpsests.] I’m glad I didn’t have to sell many though – and in fact, I could really use right now copies of two of them I let go: The Practice of Everyday Life and Being and Time.)
I confess I am slightly precious about the appearance of my books. When I transport them between work and home I will sometimes wrap them up, or more often sandwich them between two library books (!). A related bibliophilic instinct is a reluctance to alter even with a deliberate and careful act the appearance of a nicely-presented object (and most books are nicely-presented objects).
But I’m thinking that these are not good enough reasons to continue to abstain from entering into a pencilled dialogue with authors in the margins of my books (I’m not a monster: pencil is a better choice than pen, and I still would never countenance annotating a book that was not my own). I have known this in the past to be invaluable to the processes of both thinking and writing, and I intend to resume the habit in the hope that it will prove so again.
I’d love to hear from others about their annotating habits.