Diana Laurillard, Teaching as a Design Science (Routledge, 2012)

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…

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Personal learning environments: what are they, and what should they do?

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)

References

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.

Big cities, early adulthood, friends, cinema, and Frances Ha

Every once in a while there comes along an enchanted occasion where one’s experience of a film dovetails so serendipitously with the circumstances of seeing it (where one is and how one is feeling at that precise time) that not only are receptiveness and susceptibility heightened, but it becomes difficult to do justice to that experience without also talking about those personal circumstances.

This weekend, I saw the beautiful Frances Ha (Noah Baumbach, 2012) whilst down in London visiting friends whom I no longer see as much as I would like, and (for the most part) as much as I saw them when I was working towards a PhD in film studies five to eight years ago.  So I came to the film after a day spent taking tube journeys across London to meet people (people who sparkle!), chat to them, wander around with them, have drinks with them, and exchange or share pieces of culture (I have returned home with a bag full of books and DVDs, and a notebook full of things to explore).  My day was like stepping into that part of my past where I was surrounded by a wealth of friends with a huge thirst for culture and a desire to talk about it that was as constant and as natural as breathing.  So when the evening came, although I didn’t yet know it, I had been primed for Frances Ha.

Frances, played by Greta Gerwig, is a single white female in her mid to late twenties, living in New York and insecurely employed as a dancer.  She splits up with her boyfriend near the start of the film (at the point where he has laid down a deposit on a pair of cats and is asking her to move in with him).  She lives in three different apartments over the film’s duration: first with her friend Sophie, then with two guys she meets at a party who happen to have a room going spare, and finally, alone.  She also takes flights to visit her parents in Sacramento and to go to Paris for the weekend, and spends time in the dormitory of her old school while she works there for a brief spell.

When reviewers (or one’s friends!) try to give a sense of Frances Ha to those who haven’t seen it, Lena Dunham’s excellent television series Girls (HBO, 2012-) will often come up.  The two projects have overlapping personnel and ostensibly similar subject matter.  But in terms of sensibility, they are very different.  Girls is a lot about sex, and is brilliantly raw, with a great deal of palpable pain and anxiety.  Frances Ha has a very different orientation towards sex (we get the sense that it happens, but we don’t see much of it, and sexual tension neither drives the narrative nor is it a strong presence in many of the scenes), and a different pervading tone.  Perhaps surprisingly, given Baumbach’s earlier work (of the films he directed I have only seen The Squid and The Whale, but Greenberg is now on its way…), no character is persistently satirised.  We are also not given characters who keenly feel that the world is not recognising their worth.  Frances does suffer repeated professional rejections across the course of the film, and we see and share her pain, but it is not the pain of a person who sees themself as an undiscovered genius.

The film is not edgy, but it is precise.  An illuminating and in-depth profile of Baumbach and Gerwig in The New Yorker (one of those pieces of culture shared with me by a friend) reveals Baumbach as a writer-director who ‘expects actors to say the lines he wrote for them, and to say them again and again’.  (A little later in the same piece: ‘Gerwig now finds it unnerving to do just five or so takes for another director: “I don’t know that we’ve actually thought about it enough.”‘)  It is also revealed that a lot of post-production work was undertaken on the film’s black and white digital cinematography (with the help of Pascal Dangin, ‘a retoucher known as the “photo whisperer”‘).  Apparently, an early draft of the film split it into five largely autonomous episodes in Frances’s life.  To an extent, that structure remains, but the film is also given a thread, if not exactly a plot, by Frances’s relationship with Sophie.

The first phase of the film shows Frances and Sophie sharing their secret world.  They rent an apartment together; they fall asleep on each other’s beds; they share jokes, language and rituals.  Then (after Frances has refused to move in with her boyfriend because she wants to see out – and probably renew – her lease with Sophie), Sophie moves in with her boyfriend, gets engaged to him, and even moves to Japan.  This gives us the fall-out phase of the film and the relationship.  Frances gets angry with Sophie for failing to honour their former intimacy (in a brilliant phrase I can’t quite remember, she accuses her of acting like the two of them just got bagels together for lunch one time), gets sad when she hears from others about what Sophie is up to with others (this is presented less as possessiveness and more as the sense of missing out on moment of time that ought to have been shared), and embarrasses herself (or at least, makes us feel embarrassed), by trying to recreate that intimacy with an unwilling other (she tries to initiate her new friend in the ways of playfighting, and pushes her in the face; it does not go down well).

The film first demonstrates dramatically, and then articulates through dialogue, the way in which the friendships between people who possess independence but not yet responsibilities or security are sustained by deep, near-continuous rituals of intimacy, and that when these rituals come to an end, this can be difficult to deal with, at least at first.  Towards the end of a dinner party scene in which Frances’s estrangement from Sophie and gloomy work prospects have caused her to act foolishly (but also, if the film has had its desired effect by this point, endearingly), there is a luminous long take in which Frances talks about the nature of such relationships.  The moment she chooses as indicative is when two people are at a party, talking to other people, but then look across the room at one another, and share an understanding that does not require and in fact surpasses language.

Ian Parker, in his New Yorker profile, gets it right when he observes:

That late-twenties moment is still vivid to Baumbach, and part of the charm of “Frances Ha” has to do with the way it combines, in one character, a partial self-portrait of two writers [Baumbach and Gerwig], from two generations. If “Girls” describes the life of a certain kind of mid-twenties New Yorker, “Frances Ha” overlays that experience with memory, and the result is as romantic as a forgotten pop song that, years later, revives a place and a mood.

One pop song that the film uses repeatedly, and especially brilliantly, is Bowie’s ‘Modern Love’.  (When I sat down to write this blog, I thought of opening it with a couple of lines from Springsteen’s ‘Bobby Jean’: ‘Now we went walking in the rain talking about the pain that from the world we hid/Now there ain’t nobody nowhere nohow gonna ever understand me the way you did.)  Another source of the film’s music is Les 400 Coups (François Truffaut, 1959).  Even before part of that score kicks in, brilliantly, as Frances is running through New York in search of an ATM, I was thinking that the French New Wave felt like a truer tonal point of reference for the film than either Mumblecore or Woody Allen (comparisons have been drawn with Manhattan, a film I probably ought to revisit).  The New Wave in general, and Truffaut in particular.  There is a similar romance, nostalgia, eye for the poetic and/in the everyday, retrospect, combination of looseness and precision, at work.  (It would be interesting to sustainedly ‘compare and contrast’ Les 400 Coups and Frances Ha; two things that might be especially interesting to think through would be the mobility and the ages of each protagonist.)

Wittgenstein once said,

In teaching you philosophy I’m like a guide showing you how to find your way round London.  I have to take you through the city from north to south, from east to west, from Euston to the embankment and from Piccadilly to the Marble Arch.  After I have taken you many journeys through the city [sic], in all sorts of directions, we shall have passed through any given street a number of times – each time traversing the street as part of a different journey.  At the end of this you will know London; you will be able to find your way about like a born Londoner.

It’s a quote I never tire of returning to, and I sometimes put it before students as a way of thinking about approaching criticism.  You have to go on many ‘journeys’ through a film, and ideally not all of those journeys will be signposted by other people’s interpretations or by a given theoretical position.  The thing that strikes me about the quote as I write now is the act of embarking on journeys in company; the relationship between journeys and friendship.  The things that people do together are part of what friendship is, and memories of visiting a city will often be memories of doing certain things at certain times with certain people.  Likewise with films.  Of course, Frances Ha unfolded before me, in a ‘linear’ way, one might say, but my ways into, ways around, and subsequent journeys back through it are shaped by where I was in my life and who was with me (in person, or in memory) when I saw it.

Curriculum design

Today I attended the University of Hull’s summer University Learning and Teaching symposium on ‘The Lost Art of Curriculum Design’.  Symposia and conferences often leave me feeling tired and cynical, so I’m delighted to report that this one has left me brimming with enthusiasm and a desire to implement and share ideas.

My university is planning a far-reaching process of curriculum overhaul.  One of the pieces of educational theory that figures in the process is that of ‘threshold concepts’.  It was good, then, to have Professor Ray Land – who, along with his colleague Jan Meyer, came up with the notion – present at the first speaker.  Land, with the help of a series of lovely images and metaphors, gave a vivid exposition and defense of threshold concepts and their potential power.  Such concepts are fundamental and transformative ideas which alter the perspective of those who obtain them, allowing them to think like, say, an historian, an economist, a literary scholar, and so on.  It has been suggested, for example, that ‘opportunity cost’ is a threshold concept within economics, and ‘signification’ is one for literary studies.

To make threshold concepts a key part of curriculum reform is a canny move in the respect that it appeals (in both senses) to the discipline-specific expertise of the teaching staff whose job it will be to teach the revised curricula.  They are the people best-placed to thrash out, as a subject team, what the fundamental and transformative concepts of their discipline are – what it means to think (in my case) like a film and television studies academic. (And a media and cultural studies academic… – threshold concepts, although they emphasise ‘disciplinarity’, are not an enemy to interdisciplinarity; Land has suggested that interdisciplinarity may be a threshold concept, and perhaps interdisciplinarity is a threshold concept within film studies.)  The process of thinking and discussion that this will entail will be positive in itself, as most reflection is, and is likely to have two salutary effects on the curriculum: it will probably become more focused on concepts rather than coverage, thus promoting deep learning and thinking, and it will become more joined-up, with individual module tutors having a heightened awareness of the programme as a whole.

Threshold concepts are powerful, but they are not everything.  To know that you want your students to attain these concepts is one thing.  Coming up with the learning activities, the broader learning environment and the modes of assessment that best facilitate the acquisition and the demonstration of the possession of such concepts is the real challenge.  Here, the work of scholars such as John Biggs, Noel Entwistle and Paul Ramsden, with their focus on ‘what the student does’ (the subtitle of Biggs and Tang’s seminal work), is absolutely essential.

A little coda: It is said time and again, and it is true, that teaching is not sufficiently recognised or incentivised in higher education.  Research, so the logic goes, is the key to career advancement.  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: this is a real shame.  However, in my three years of being at Hull, I’ve found it to be a great place to teach, and to pursue professional development in teaching.  And although I recognise the following feeling as partly a function of my own particular personality, I nevertheless find it hard to understand how someone can start to reflect authentically on teaching and learning and not be seriously bitten by the bug.  Teaching is a large part of most of our professional lives.  Why would we not want to be as good at it as possible, and to approach it with the same thirst for knowledge, interest in what others are saying about it, and passionate enthusiasm as we do our research?  This (as Glenn Burgess, our PVC for learning and teaching, was kind of saying in his closing remarks) is surely the real meaning of that idea that is often paid lip service to: an integration of research and teaching (which can be ‘teaching what you research’, but should be so much more besides).  One of my colleagues (@DrAmyMDavis) is a Disney scholar, and she once told me that Walt Disney used to say that he was more interested in his theme parks than his films, because the former were always changing, whereas the latter, once completed, were relatively fixed.  If our books are our films (and our articles our shorts), then our modules and programmes are our theme parks: structured experiences which we offer to our students, and try to improve upon and update year after year.

I’ll end with a quote which Ray Land included in his presentation as a poetic way of thinking about threshold concepts (and really, the whole of learning, and of life):

I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
(Tennyson, Ulysses. Full text available here.)

Much Ado About Nothing

My review of Whedon’s Much Ado About Nothing is now available on alternatetakes.co.uk.  The editors trimmed it down a bit in line with their word count policies.  What follows is the slightly lengthier version I submitted, with more of the clauses that I have a(n over-?)fondness for.

Watching and trying to get to grips with Joss Whedon’s adaptation of Much Ado About Nothing, one is presented with an interesting dilemma.  Either this film is set in the present day – as its clothes, haircuts, cars, guns and occasional pieces of communication technology would suggest – yet peopled with characters who speak and think as though they were living about 400 years ago, or it is set about 400 years ago, yet with the visual trappings just mentioned.

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