[I am very excited to be working with Alison Booth, Jenny Strauss Clay, and Amy Ogden to plan a digital humanities symposium this March. What follows is our general announcement of the event, cross-posted on the Scholars’ Lab blog.]
I am pleased to announce that ”Moving People, Linking Lives: An Interdisciplinary Symposium” will take place March 20-21, 2015 at the University of Virginia. Presentations and workshops will open dialogue across different fields, periods, and methods, from textual interpretation to digital research. Invited participants include specialists on narrative theory and life writing, prosopography or comparative studies of life narratives in groups, and the diverse field of digital humanities or computer-assisted research on cultural materials, from ancient texts to Colonial archives, from printed books to social media.
Invited participants include: Elton Barker, Jason Boyd, James Phelan, Susan Brown, Margaret Cormack, Courtney Evans, Will Hanley, Ben Jasnow, Ruth Page, Sue Perdue, Sidonie Smith. We hope to have lots of locals involved with digital work participate as well, and we particularly encourage graduate students to join in for the weekend!
Our symposium will bridge the gaps among our fields; share the innovations of several digital projects; and welcome the skeptical or the uninitiated, whether in our historical fields or in the applications of technology in the humanities. Booth, Clay, and Ogden have each led digital projects with some common themes and aims: locating, identifying, and interpreting the narratives—or very often, the lack of discursive records—about individuals in groups or documents, in Homer or other ancient text, Medieval French hagiography, and nineteenth-century printed collections of biographies in English. We want to open discussion of many potential methods including our own—data mining and digital editions of texts; relational databases and historical timelines and maps—for research on groups of interlinked persons, narratives or data about their lives, and documents or other records, and synthesizing and visualizing this research in accessible ways that reach students and the public. Digital innovation, however, should be informed by traditions of scholarly interpretation and advanced theoretical insights and commitments. Narrative theory and Theory generally, ideological critique including studies of gender and race, textual and book history studies, transnational and social historiography, philology and language studies, archeology, cultural geography and critical cartography, are all gaining influence on digital projects.
Invited participants will be posting about their research to our blog in the weeks leading up to the symposium, anyone is free to comment on the posts. In addition, our participants will be building a Zotero-powered bibliography in the weeks leading up to the symposium full of rich materials related to the event’s discussion.
Organized and hosted by Alison Booth, Jenny Strauss Clay, and Amy Odgen and sponsored by the Page Barbour Committee, the departments of English, French, and Art, the Institute for Humanities and Global Cultures, the Scholars’ Lab and Institute for Advanced Technology in the Humanities, and other entities at UVa, all events are free and open to the public. More information can be found on the blog as planning progresses, and you can follow us on twitter at @livesdh.
[The following is the talk that I gave at the 2015 MLA Conference on a panel on “Pedagogy and Digital Editions.” The Google Docs section is a slight reworking and recontextualization of a previous post on the subject.]
Collation and Writing Pedagogy with Juxta Commons and Google Docs
We typically think about using digital collation to compare those documents that already exist. The usual model gathers multiple copies, multiple witnesses, of the same text, and juxtaposes them to gather a sense of the very small, micro changes that have been made to a document. We use these changes to deconstruct our sense of a complete and unified final whole. Instead, we get a sense of a series of related texts, of a work manifesting in different forms, and of stages of a revision process for which we were not present. I am especially interested in the last of these categories: collation tools allow us to uncover revision histories that might be otherwise obscured. They help us to uncover past stages of the writing process, breaking apart a text that might seem concrete and fixed and make it appear fluid and subject to change.
The illusion of a final unified text is a problem for textual editing, and collation tools have helped us to solve it for decades. This same problem, the tendency to think of texts as final objects with no prior histories, is at its core one of the key difficulties facing student writers. There is a danger for students to think of writing as crafting a marble structure – you chip away at it piece by piece until it forms a perfect, fixed form – the form it was meant to possess all along. Instead, I want to argue that collation tools can be used by teachers to help students conceive of writing as a kind of assemblage, a piecing together that instantiates one possible combination among many of a set of textual components. This mode of writing is, by contrast, characterized by play, transformation, and fluidity.
I will talk about two tools today in this context - Juxta Commons and Google Docs – and the exercises I use with each. The former is a collation tool proper, and, while the latter is more typically used for collaborative writing, it lends itself quite readily to the practice. So my focus here is on the practical – how to think about and use these tools for to teach writing and revision. I hope to tease out more of their implications in the discussion.
Juxta Commons, probably familiar to many, is the latest iteration of Juxta, a piece of software that allows a user to upload multiple textual witnesses and, at a glance, discern the differences. The tool’s digital nature means that the process is quantified and streamlined – no laboring over the collator. It also has the benefit of offering a number of visualizations for graphically understanding the differences between two witnesses, a fact that I find helpful for talking about student writing.
A potential writing exercise for use with Juxta is simple: a student writes a paragraph, and they then rewrite that paragraph several times. Finally, the student uploads each version to Juxta before writing a brief reflection on the differences between the drafts. What remains constant? Where do changes cluster? Do these edits indicate any special anxiety or concern with any one particular element of the writing process – transitional sentences, thematic chaining, logic, etc.? Do the ideas themselves stay the same? Fixating on these details can allow students to conceive of writing as an assemblage of various components that result in the illusion of a coherent whole.
In the example above, the student is writing a grant proposal for his tennis team. In an early draft, the class noted that the writing held the team at too much of a remove when the author wanted to stress its importance to him as a second family. Such a charge can seem like a big task, but processing the paragraph through the Juxta assignment throws into sharp relief the minute edits created in a revision to create such systemic change. Comparing the two revisions in Juxta, we can see that, by and large, the student revised the subjects of this first paragraph. “I” becomes “we,” and “friends” will become a “family.” He works to increase the sense of unity among the group of people he describes, a unity that will later become essential in his argument that the organization provides more to the community than just a place to play sports. The Juxta assignment allows a student better insight into how each of these component pieces can easily be sent into motion and radically change the character of the whole document. A large, sweeping suggestion like “adjust your tone” becomes revision by way of a thousand moving pieces. Much more doable.
Juxta Commons has the added bonus of being envisioned as a commons - an online community of textual scholars. It is quite easy to share sets with others, and it would take little effort to set up a repository of shared collation sets among a classroom. To encourage objective reflection as a component of writing, I would ask each student to write a short reflection on a different student’s collation set, observing the differences and reflecting on the minute changes that got them there.
Juxta’s strength as a collation tool is also its limitation for the sort of teaching exercise that I am describing. Juxta has the benefit of being quantitative: its visualizations can offer users quick and accurate depictions of things that might otherwise go unrecognized – a missing comma, or a single different word. Juxta works best with large documents that are largely the same. But if the corresponding passages become too different Juxta will be thrown into disarray.
While it is very good at processing texts to find small differences, the software does not quite work if the documents are too different from one another. Its system allows for either exact similarity or difference at the level of character. It cannot tell, for example, if you have reworded a particular phrase or removed it entirely. The paragraph in this example was heavily rewritten, with only a few words in common between the two drafts. While this sort of at a glance collation could be useful to identify revised sections in longer documents, it does little to unsettle the idea of writing as a search for a fully realized whole. Juxta Commons works best for helping students to see the massive change that can be wrought by a collection of small changes.
One of the difficulties with using Juxta to collate is that it relies on a student’s already extant drafts – revision must already have taken place, which seems to defeat the whole purpose of an exercise designed to unsettle the writing process. Google Docs is not a tool made for collation, but I do think that it can helpfully generate just those many witnesses that could be collated. By using Google Docs as a collaborative writing space, classmates can help another generate different textual possibilities for a single sentence. My use of Google Docs in conjunction with a discussion of writing first came about in an advanced course on Academic and Professional Writing. We talked a lot about editing in the class, and many of the conversations about style took this shape:
Student A: “Something about this word feels strange, but I don’t know what it is.”
Student B: “What if we moved the phrase to the beginning of the sentence?”
Student C: “We could get rid of that word and use this phrase instead.”
Those statements are hard to wrap your head around. Just imagine if those conversations were spoken. Talking about writing can only get you so far: writing is graphic, after all. As I write and edit, I try out different options on the page. I model possibilities, but I do so in writing. Discussing the editing process without visual representations of suggested changes can make things too abstract to be meaningful for students. They need to see the different possibilities, the different potential witnesses. I developed an exercise that I call “Writing Out Loud” that more closely mirrors my actual editing process. Using a Google Doc as a collaborative writing space, students are able to model alternate revisions visually and in real time for discussion.
The setup requires a projector-equipped classroom and that students bring their laptops to class. Circulate the link to the Google Doc ahead of time, taking care that anyone with the link can edit the document. The template of the Google Doc consists of a blank space at the top for displaying the sentence under question and a series of workspaces for each student consisting of their name and a few blank lines. Separate workspaces prevent overlapping revisions, and they also minimize the disorienting effects of having multiple people writing on the same document.
We usually turn to the exercise when a student feels a particular sentence is not working but cannot articulate why. When this happens, I put the Writing Out Loud template on the projector with the original version of the sentence at the top. Using their own laptops, students sign onto the Doc and type out alternative versions of the sentence, and the multiple possible revisions show up on the overhead for everyone to see and discuss. After each student rewrites the sentence to be something that they feel works better, ask for volunteers to explain how the changes affect meaning. The whole process only takes a few minutes, and it allows you to abstract writing principles from the actual process of revision rather that the other way around. How does the structure of a sentence matter? How can word choice change everything? What pieces of a sentence are repetitive?
I especially like this exercise because it asks multiple students to engage in the revision process. It is always easier to revise when you have critical distance on a piece of writing, and outside editors with no attachment to a particular word or phrase can offer just that. In the above example, the sentence under discussion contained the colloquial phrase “get the word out.” The class offered a range of alternatives that range in their formality. Instead of receiving an edict to professionalize their tone, the student gets a glimpse of many possibilities from which he can choose. The exercise also allows the choices to exist side by side, making collation possible in a way that the usual revision process makes difficult. Most students, I would wager, work with one or, at most, two drafts open at a single time. Google Docs can allow a number of possibilities to emerge.
The Google Docs exercise works better on micro-edits, revisions at the level of the sentence. The standard process of the exercise—write, collate, and discuss—would take far too long with anything longer than a few lines. The exercise can be particularly useful for those sentences that carry a lot of importance for entire arguments: thesis statements, topic sentences, the first sentences of the document, etc. Where Juxta is entirely quantitative and offers hand graphic visualizations of textual difference, this Google Docs exercise relies on you and the students to collate the materials yourselves. You can recognize subtle differences – a reworded idea vs. a dropped idea, for example. It trains students to internalize the practice of collation and reflect on the interpretive possibilities offered by such differences.
I find that students often think of editing as an intense, sweeping process that involves wholesale transformation from the ground up. Modeling multiple, slightly different versions of the same sentence can allow for a more concrete discussion of the sweeping rhetorical changes that even the smallest edits can make. In this sense, I think using these tools in the classroom allows students to conceive of a single composition as one instantiation among many. Forcing them to compose several different models means that the writing process will be looser. Collation as composition offers students a subjunctive space wherein they dwell in possibilities. It is a vision of composition as de and reconstruction, as a process that is constantly unfolding.
Digital tools uncover how writing is really always already such a fluid process, and they can allow students to see their own composition process in this way while they are still in the thick of it. Digital collation can offer students the chance to think of their own works as messy, subjunctive spaces, as things in flux. By allowing multiple possible versions of the same text to exist alongside and in relation to one another, they can allow students to slip between different textual realities. Most importantly, the process severs the link between the quality of an idea and the manner of its presentation. Instead of one right answer, students can see that there are many possible solutions to any writing difficulty.
I have touched on how exercises like these can also encourage students to distill writing principles from the process rather than the other way around. They can also help students to discover editorial principals through their own writing. I am imagining here a praxis-oriented approach to teaching textual editing where practice leads to principal, one where scholarly readings might come after a student has written an essay, revised it, and, in effect, produced their own edition of their text. An exercise with Juxta might lead to a discussion of eclectic editions, while Google Docs could lead to a fruitful discussion of accidentals and substantives. I am not suggesting that these sorts of exercises replace the good work performed by studying classic editions, reading about editorial practices, or producing one’s own edition by carrying out the steps of the editorial process. But in a class that has an explicit focus on composition, exercises with tools like Juxta Commons and Google Docs can help connect textual criticism with writing pedagogy.
[The following is an only slightly modified version of the talk I gave at the ACH’s panel on “Digital Deformance and Scholarly Forms” at the 2015 MLA conference. For more details on how to reverse audio recordings, see my previous post on the subject.]
The Devil in the Recording: Deformative Listening and Sound Reproduction
It’s a well-known fact that you can find the devil in popular music. Simply take Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven,” play it backwards, and voila. You’ll get messages for, if not by, the Lord of the Flies. Obviously I’m being facetious. Few, if any, take this claim seriously, but it does offer serious ways to think about deformance in the context of sound recordings, particularly those with linguistic or literary content. The digital method of deformance I’ll speak about today, then, is a simple one. Using open source tools like Audacity, it’s easier than ever to play recordings backwards, to reverse a sound clip with the flip of a switch. I’ll touch just a bit on the history of such methods as they pertain to music and then speculate as to what they can tell us about approaches to thinking about literary sound recordings. I’m a modernist, and my examples will reflect this bias. My ultimate conclusions are as follows. First: reading backwards juxtaposed against audio reversal reveals the unique character of literary sound recordings to be simultaneously sounded and print, to be audiotextual objects as I call them. Second: deformance can offer us new modes for thinking about media failures and malfunctions that actually do exist constantly and all around us. In particular, audio deformance is something that the modernists were keenly interested in, and deformance as a practice can get us closer to the relationships they had with media.
So here is part of “Stairway to Heaven” backwards.
Can’t you hear the devil? The “Stairway to Satan,” as I will call it, suggests that we can find new linguistic content in an already extant sound message. Detractors of the “Stairway to Satan” narrative (numerous on Youtube if you care to check them out) suggest that this is just a function of our minds wanting to make sense of chaos. Is this gibberish? Or is it a collection of scattered sound components that can be reconstituted into a whole? In Lisa Samuels and Jerome McGann’s essay on deformance from which this panel takes its cue, they discuss reading Emily Dickinson’s poetry backwards in a mode not too far removed from this discussion. Reading backwards can throw into sharp relief the linguistic components, the very pieces that make up a poem, and at the end of the day, you still have the lines, the words, or even the component letters. It’s possible to reassemble these into semantic meanings.
But sound recordings are something different. They are bound in time in a different way. Daniel Albright in Untwisting the Serpent describes music by way of “Lessing’s famous distinction between the spatially juxtapositive arts of nebeinander, such as painting, sculpture, and architecture, and the temporally progressive arts of nacheinander, such as poetry and music” (9). Our experience of music and poetry depend upon their ability to move forward in time. To put the distinction in the context of deformance: you can move around a sculpture and view it from different angles, but it remains the same sculpture. Deform a musical recording by reversing its waveform, however, and you end with a different musical artifact entirely, one with different component parts. Hence, it can sound like gibberish.
Here is the waveform for the Zeppelin clip. The waveform here is a charting of intensity over time, and the reversal literally changes the original artifact. It’s a mirror image, but our ears are hard-pressed to be able to reconnect the new object to its original. Many kinds of deformance you can do on an audio recording would work in the same way – alter the pitches, smash them tighter, stretch them out, etc. You alter that wave, and you get something else entirely. At what point does it become something new?
But some reversed audio still sounds like a recognizable tune. Behind the “Stairway to Satan” claim is a long history behind it of musical reversal and mirroring. Musicians and listeners have been fascinated with the vectored nature of sound for centuries, and composers have experimented with reversal as a spur to creativity for ages. Take this melody.
The melody of the first ten measures is followed by a retrograde repetition of itself, meaning that it is a musical palindrome. All of the intervals of this first section become reversed and, if you were to fold the melody in upon itself, it would perfectly line up. Playing backwards is itself built into the creative process. The playback reflects this as the bouncing ball literally moves backwards on the page, but, if you were to write it out, it would look quite different. The kind of deformance that I am describing, that Zeppelin conspiracy theorists lament, and that Samuels and McGann suggest – it’s built into the music itself.
The melodic reversal of music like this works because, as Walter Pater taught us, music can be thought of as a “perfect identification of matter and form.” Flip the melody and you do not lose information, you get a new melody. The new object is still discernible as music because it is new music. The addition of linguistic content complicates the question - phonemes when reversed do not necessarily and easily coordinate with other phonemes. A recorded object with linguistic content has two distinct characters, each of which overlap with the other. It’s an obvious point, but one that I think has profound implications.
In Langston Hughes’s 1958 recording of “Motto” in collaboration with Charles Mingus and Leonard Feather, we can start to approach some useful conclusions about what this might all mean. The excerpt starts with an instrumental section and then Hughes comes in. So keep in mind that, in the reversal, we’ll hear the poetry first and then the instrumental part.
The recording is a useful analogy for vocal sound recordings more generally in that it has two distinct pieces – a musical (non-verbal sound) component, and a recorded voice (with linguistic content). The two elements often intertwine and are not easily separated (this example not withstanding). You can hear, I think, the stark difference between the reversed poetic content by Hughes and the reversed instrumental content. Hughes reversed sounds like nonsense, while the saxophone in particular still sounds like something of a melody. The digital reversal of sound recordings treats them both as waveforms with no semantic content – it reverses them just as easily and happily as it would any other sound recording.
We might expect the practice of deformance to throw into sharp relief the status of these recordings as sound objects. The pops, silences, and phonetic meanings of a reading suddenly become especially salient, and we might expect this reversal to make us hyper-aware of their sounded nature. In theory the deformance of these recordings more easily allows us to practice what Charles Bernstein has called “close listening,” examining the sounded nature of these objects. But, as the sounds themselves become distorted almost beyond recognition, the method can only provide clues towards such a practice. We might gain general senses, as with the Hughes, of the general prominence of certain registers or frequencies, silences and gaps, or of sections that are particularly filled with sonic activity. All of these might provide hints of content that might bear out fruitful analysis when put forwards again.
Deformance of poetic recordings forces us to consider the nature of recorded literary recordings anew. We might extrapolate from the character of this recording that all recorded voices contain a linguistic element as well an audible one. Not fully audio nor fully textual artifacts, I want to say that they are, instead something we might call audiotextual, a term that Jason Camlot has recently used in relation to the classification of Victorian literary recordings as an expansion of McGann’s own historicist approach to textual criticism.
I want to use the term as a play on audiovisual to describe the state of such sound recordings. Like the Hughes recording, with both an instrumental, sound component as well as a linguistic one, audiotextual recordings exist in sound as well as in print. It’s a fairly simple idea, but I think it is one that often gets concerned as we discuss sound recordings. Literary sound recordings are not reducible to their relationship with a print text: they have both sounded and print components. Audiobooks, in particular, not being “poetic” often seem to get left out of close listenings and treated as mere reproductions of print texts. If you read the reviews of any Amazon audiobook or LibriVox recording, you will see hundreds of people who expect an audiobook to be an unmediated, honest representation of the print origin. Audiotextual might be used equally to describe both Hughes’s literary sound recordings as well as Hughes’s poetry itself, saturated as it is with traces of the live performance techniques of jazz and blues musicians.
More profoundly, I think sound recording during the modernist period is an especially good candidate for deformative acts of listening and interpretation. It is well-known and often-noted that modernist authors were obsessed with the gramophone, but consider the nature of such representations. The gramophones are most often marked by the materiality of their failures. In the “Hades” episode of Ulysses, the machine disintegrates into parody at the very moment at which it is meant to revive the voice of a dead relative: “After dinner on a Sunday. Put on poor old greatgrandfather Kraahraark! Hellohellohello amawfullyglad kraark awfullygladaseeagain hellohello amawf krpthsth” (114). Sound reproduction during the period was not marked by the high fidelity, by the ability to authentically reproduce a deceptively “real” recording of life. It is a flawed act marked, as in Joyce’s case, by skipping needles, locked grooves, and hissing machines. For Joyce, this means uncovering a renewed sense that sound recordings were imperfect things, themselves subject to deformation by their own young technology. Joyce thinks of the gramophone recording as an object that can reach back into the past. He does not play it backwards as such, but the very act of playing the voice reverses time itself. And it does so in a manner that deforms the recording, altering its shape and transmission as a natural and comical part of the playback process.
Woolf’s failing gramophone in Between the Acts draws the elements of my short talk together nicely and can act as a closing image. During the pageant play at the heart of the text, a malfunctioning gramophone provides musical and narrative accompaniment: “The gramophone gurgled Unity-Dispersity. It gurgled Un…dis…And ceased” (201). The words themselves break apart into component syllables; semantic meaning evaporates as the grain of language pushes to the surface, and the heard word gives way to the gurgling materiality of the record itself. Woolf makes us hear the sound of the words as bound with their meanings. Her gramophone falls into locked grooves throughout the novel, transfixing its listeners and forming a community out of the audience of listeners by expanding the time with which they engage with each other. Not reversing time, certainly, but she does meditate on the ability of a malfunctioning gramophone to create anew through performance and deformance.
For Joyce and Woolf, the machines fail as often as they succeed. Deformance is thoroughly entwined with such performances. We may even go so far as to say that sound reproduction of this sort is a always kind of deformance, that no media form provides a pure, unaltered transmission of its content. As a critical practice, deformance, a systematic and intentionally disruptive form of engagement with materials, actually gets us closer to the kinds of media relationships that these authors would have known. The practice can offer us new perspective on literary and sonic materials, sure, but it can also provide us with something older. Deformative listening then, might be a practice of recovery, of attempting to recreate the phenomenological experience of a 1920s gramophone listening. The devil in the recording proves to be not the sort that conspiracy theorists would have you believe. The darkness lurking beneath sound recordings, be they musical or literary in nature, is the shadow of the materials, their very real failures, and the deformance that has always been present anytime we put needle to disc.
Albright, Daniel. Untwisting the Serpent: Modernism in Music, Literature, and Other Arts. Chicago, Ill: University of Chicago Press, 2000. Print.
Bernstein, Charles, ed. Close Listening: Poetry and the Performed Word. Oxford University Press, USA, 1998. Print.
Hughes, Langston, Leonard Feather, and Charles Mingus. Weary Blues. MGM, 1959. CD.
[The following post is cross-listed on the ACH’s blog. The post details the methods used in putting together a talk for MLA 15 that takes place in 212 VCC West at 12:00 PM on Friday, January 9th.]
My talk for the ACH’s panel at MLA 15 is entitled “The Devil in the Recording: Deformative Listening and Poetry.” I will be talking about the problems and affordances for deformance in the context of audio recordings, specifically those that have literary content. The particular method I will focus on is the reversal of audio recordings, taking my cue from the infamous claim that you can hear Satanic lyrics in Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” if you play the recording backwards. In the example below I will show how to reverse an audio file, and I will be working with Langston Hughes’s reading of “Motto” with Charles Mingus and Leonard Feather on his 1958 recording Weary Blues.
Professional-grade sound-editing software like Pro Tools or Logic give you the capacity to do a lot in the way of sound mixing and work with music, but I often find myself drowning in their limitless options. They are also quite expensive. Audacity is my audio editing software of choice: the tool is open source and, most importantly, fairly intuitive and easy to use. Audacity is somewhat more limited than other options, but it does what it can cleanly and intuitively.
To reverse an audio file, begin by opening that clip in Audacity in the same way that you would open a file in any other piece of software. You will get something that looks like this:
What you see here is a waveform, a way of graphically representing the audio file in way that allows you to manipulate it. The y-axis of the waveform corresponds to volume – the taller the waveform, the louder the sound file’s contents are at that particular moment in time. This can be a quick and easy way to identify chunks of activity by looking for spikes in the volume.
The x-axis represents time – the Hughes file I have sliced out is 46” long, and the program gives you a timeline along the top of the segment to situate you in the file. Clicking anywhere on the waveform will set the file playback to begin at that point, and you can click and drag to highlight a selection of the clip for processing.
To process the file, highlight the section that you want reversed. In this case, since we are working with the entire file, we will just select everything. Under the “effect” menu, Audacity gives you a range of options for remixing your sound data, but we want the “reverse” function.
Now you have a reversed file at your disposal. Sound tends to work in attack and decay, and much of the strangeness of a reversed recording comes from sounds increasing rather than fading in intensity over time. And, as I will discuss in my talk, the process throws into sharp relief the distinct character of recorded linguistic content.
Audacity saves files in Audacity project formats by default, so you will need to export your file to a different file format if you want to play it in a media player. I tend to use both .ogg and .mp3 files for browser compatibility. Audacity will also give you the opportunity to input light metadata for your file before it exports in case you want to curate your file for inclusion in an archive or home-library.
Audacity gives many other options for experimenting with sound remixing, distortion, and deformance that I would encourage you to explore. The software also gives you many options for working with sound files more generally. I have written elsewhere about using Audacity to prepare sound files for research and presentation. Check out my other post if you want to learn more about how to slice out clips, mix together two sound files, or process DRM files.
On Friday, November 7th I will be giving a talk to the UVA English Department entitled “The Joycean Record: Listening Patterns and Sound Coteries.” The talk is a reworking of material from one of my dissertation chapters that I originally presented at last year’s MLA meeting in Chicago.
Modernist authors famously gathered in a series of small coteries, intellectual clusters centered on the production and reception of their creations. Modernists frequently took to the microphone to record readings of their works as well, and the lives of such sound objects can offer us both new networks of modernist reception and distribution as well as a new conception of modernism’s engagement with sound technology based on lived practices. This talk places James Joyce alongside sociologies of record collecting and reception as a means of rethinking Ulysses’s engagement with sound recording technology as an ongoing, lived, and social practice. Doing so uncovers a new history of Ulysses as both participant in and subject of sound communities emerging during the twentieth century, as an object that coordinates networked sound production and reception. From Joyce’s network of friends and collaborators to the coterie that gathers around the production of the 2007 LibriVox recording of Ulysses, I suggest that group listening enabled by sound recording has always been vital to the life of Joyce’s text.
I have been touting the use of Prism in the university classroom for some time now, but a recent exchange with Annie Swafford suggested to me that it might be worth explicitly outlining how I would go about doing so. With that in mind, I’ve composed the following set of questions for how I might frame discussion of Prism in the classroom. I’ve admittedly only had very brief chances to implement the tool in the classroom myself, so the thoughts come largely out of speculation and conversation. It should be noted as well that I assume below that you have already chosen a text and categories along which it should be marked (I may write on ways to approach such choices at a later date). In what follows, I move from general questions that I think would be helpful in framing any discussion of the tool to a particular use-case in James Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. The former questions inform and engage my latter use-case.
I prepare for class discussion by assembling a list of questions to be explored, and I would organize a Prism discussion around two lines of inquiry: tool-specific and visualization-specific. Some of these questions can be helpful for framing your own thoughts. Others could usefully be posed to the class as a whole as a means of framing discussion.
How do the tool and our framing of it affect how we read the text? How is Prism’s mode of reading different from what we normally do? Is it the same that we’ve always been doing – close reading in a different form? What are the problems with the form? Can we really boil interpretation down to a series of numbers, visualize it, and move forward? Or is there more to interpretation than that? How do individual interpretations join in with the group reading? How much is the interpretive process encapsulated in the marking of a text? The visualization? The conversation that follows? How do the terms you choose for highlighting (the facets) guide the experience of reading the text? How do the explanations you provide for those terms affect the marking experience? When do the terms break down? If the terms propose a binary, what happens to that opposition over the course of the experience?
Which passages were marked the least for a particular category? The most? Why in either case? Which passages were particularly contentious, marked in many different ways? Where do particular categories cluster? How does the visualization show a relationship between the categories? How does your own interpretation link up to the collected visualization produced by the tool? Do the two visualizations tell us anything meaningful? Would we be able to find these meanings on our own? How does the visualization reflect the interpretive process? Why might we care more about a particular visualization for a particular reading? How is the quantified version of interpretation that Prism generates distinct from what we might learn from a discussion on our own? Can we imagine limits to this approach?
The primary job of an instructor using Prism is to help the students connect the results of the tool to the larger discussions encapsulated by the marking categories. Look at the results with a skeptical eye and ask how they can be meaningfully related to the ideas and provocations of the marking categories. My favorite early use of Prism asked users to mark James Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man along the categories of “modernism” and “realism.” In a class, I would intersperse observations based on the visualizations with a discussion of the passage and the two marking categories. What do we mean by modernism? By realism? How is each expressed at the level of the text? What do we mean by literary experiment? By fragment? By realist details? What different genres does the text move through? Does the text construct a coherent narrative?
Putting realism and modernism alongside one another in Prism forces students to reconsider the binary, which quickly breaks down in practice. We can talk about whole novels or poems as belonging to one or another category, but can we do the same for individual sentences? For words? 80% of users at the time of this writing believe that the first word of the excerpt, “once,” is modernist. But why? If you look at the winning facet visualization, people seem primarily to be marking whole passages as one category – they are interpreting realism and modernism in chunks, not in terms of individual words. Readers tend to mark as modernist those generic changes where the excerpt suddenly adopts the form of nursery rhyme or of a fairy tale, suggesting that it is not any one genre but the shift between several in rapid succession that readers find to be modernist. The font size visualization suggests that those passages referencing physical actions by people are more likely to be associated with realist: “His father told him that story” and “When you wet the bed first it is warm then it gets cold” are marked as being especially realist. With this observation in hand, why these details? Why are the body and the bodily detail markers of a realism? Why might an association with the family suggest realism? How do they come under pressure in the face of aesthetic experiment?
Obviously these suggestions are just beginnings for how to approach Prism in the classroom. Many other fascinating examples have already surfaced, particularly those that use the tool to teach basic reading and foreign language skills. Get in touch if you have used the tool in your classroom! I would love to hear how you did so.
This past year the Scholars’ Lab has implemented many performance upgrades and bug fixes for Prism. The most recent upgrade is particularly exciting: users can now deploy their own personal Prism installations to Heroku with the click of a button. Well - it will take the click of a button and a few other commands. I’ve added a section detailing just how to do so under the ”Deploy to Heroku” section of the Prism Github readme.
It was already possible to implement private user communities by marking uploaded prism games as “unlisted” and then distributing the links to your group of participants. The Heroku deploy function makes this process a bit easier by allowing to users to host all of their games in one place. The process also sets you up well to tinker with the Prism codebase using a live app, as Heroku provides instructions for cloning the app to your desktop.
Last week Sarah and I drove to Washington and Lee University as part of a new collaboration enabled by a grant from the Associated Colleges of the South. As part of the endeavor, Scholars’ Lab fellows are guest teaching pieces of an Introduction to Digital Humanities course. Our task, in particular, was to co-teach for a day on the topics of project management and software development. While we each took part and taught in both conversations, Sarah took the lead on the former topic and I took the latter.
I can’t rave enough about the experience enough, so I’ve organized my thoughts into three sections below.
Undergraduates + Digital Humanities = Dynamite
I am endlessly delighted by the reactions of undergraduates when they get introduced to the digital humanities. In virtually every case, I have encountered students hungry to learn the material. The W&L students were no exceptions. We found students ready to learn, eager to participate, and wiling to ask hard questions about the affordances and limitations of the field. You can find reflections by the students on their course blog. What’s more, the Washington and Lee students stand poised to make real contributions to digital scholarship. They have worked up some really interesting projects on the history of coeducation at W&L and on the changing vision and reality for Robert E. Lee’s Chapel on the university grounds.
Sarah and I work well together, and we have presented together in the past. But we had not taught together before the Washington and Lee trip. Full disclosure: I adore everything about co-teaching. It immediately disrupts the one-way transmission of information from the instructors to the students and forces the conversation to be more collaborative; co-teaching allows you to occupy simultaneously and more obviously the dual roles of student and teacher. It takes the pressure off any one person to keep the ship sailing smoothly, which empowers and enlivens the conversation. Co-teaching seems especially well-suited to the digital humanities, which value collaboration and play. Seminar discussions and workshops are different from working on teams to build projects, but co-instructors can make the experience a bit more lab-like, a bit more collaborative.
It is one thing to learn and practice digital humanities. It is another thing entirely to turn around and help others do the same. I have only really been hacking away for two years now, so I felt a bit unqualified to talk down software development as an invited speaker. I tend to assume that the Scholars’ Lab has a better sense of my own abilities than I do in most cases, though, and the invitation to W&L was no exception. The practice of putting together presentations on project management and software development was incredibly empowering. It helped me to have more confidence in myself as a digital humanist. No longer does the prospect of teaching an introduction to digital humanities course appear to be a vague and nebulous question mark. I now know that I could do it, because I have already done so in part. I also have a better sense of my own developing pedagogy of digital humanities. Opportunities to teach digital humanities like this, to perform with no net, are rare.
You teach to learn, and this is as true in the digital humanities as it is anywhere else. I learned a great deal from the bright undergraduates at W&L.
It’s abstract time for next year’s big conference season. My two abstracts for MLA 2015 in Vancouver are below. This year I skewed digital humanities in a huge way: one paper would discuss digital collation and pedagogy, while the other would talk about listening practices and sound manipulation.
Collation and Writing Pedagogy with Juxta Commons and Google Docs
This talk argues for digital collation tools as means of modeling revision in writing instruction. While collation tools are more typically used to examine already extant textual variants, they can also be used to model rhetorical possibilities in writing that is still in process. I suggest that tools like Juxta Commons and Google Docs, the former explicitly designed for collation and the latter more typically used for collaborative writing, can model a subjunctive mode of composition when used in congress with student writing. By allowing multiple possible versions of the same text to exist alongside and in relation to one another, they allow students to conceive of multiple realities at once, unhooking the quality of an idea from the manner of its presentation and allowing a student to think critically about both. The process allows students to abstract writing principles from revision rather than the other way around. It also allows students to distill editorial concepts by creating real-life editorial scenarios with their own writing as the subject.
The Devil in the Recording: Deformative Listening and Poetry
Modernists at the turn of the twentieth century were enamored of sound recording technology for the new possibilities that it offered for preserving their work, but they also obsessed over the materiality of the new media: skipping needles, record grooves, and the hiss of the recording. This talk examines the possibilities for listening to sound recordings of modernist works in ways newly enabled by digital technologies so as to reflect back on modernist engagement with sound and media. Lisa Samuels and Jerome McGann invoke Emily Dickinson’s suggestion of reading backwards line-by-line as a model for deformative reading. Retrograde constructions have been part of music theory treatises for centuries, and my work works in dialogue with these modes of thought to take the backwards turn a step further by listening to poetry recordings in reverse. Listening to recordings backwards alienates us from the semantic meanings of a text, but the process offers us a new sense of the recordings as sound objects, allows us to reconceive sonic and interpretive enmeshings, and enables us to hear anew the relationship between verse and music in song settings. Ultimately, I suggest that deformative listening practices offer heightened forms of close listening. Digital tools used will likely include Audacity and Sound Arguments, and I will discuss recordings of works by T.S. Eliot and Langston Hughes.
This post is the second in a series reflecting on my experiments using Twitter in the classroom. Be sure to read the first post that began the discussion.
In my previous post, I described the process by which I went about integrating Twitter into my discussion section, but I offered few reasons for why instructors might want to do so. There are good pedagogical justifications for including social media, and it benefits interested instructors to give the move considered thought before integrating Twitter into course syllabi. I was prepared for students to push back against the idea of moving class conversation to Twitter, so I gave an opening pitch for the class activity containing several rationales for the experiment to my students. I encouraged students to think about Twitter as an exercise that would broaden their audience, allow them to practice digital professionalization, and challenge them to think small in their writing.
In a typical course, students take in a lot of information from a variety of sources, but the primary audience for their ideas is limited to their instructor and fellow students. This trajectory—all input and no output—can leave the activities of the classroom feeling disconnected from the broader scholarly discussion. With Twitter, a student’s audience expands beyond the people in the room to include potential readers around the world. Student comments can be circulated wildly, and I bring in examples of class Twitter activities managed by colleagues at other universities as a way of illustrating this fact. Retweeting student comments that prove particularly insightful can be a good way of underscoring your commitment to this circulation and the quality of their thinking.
The broad scholarly Twitter community is especially useful when discussing writing practices. Academics often tweet about writing, and a retweet towards your class of a professional writer discussing her own revision process can pay great dividends. Such self-reflective comments help students to see that writers of all stages struggle with the same problems, that writing is always a process - even for professionals. Outside tweets can also give your paper comments added traction by reinforcing them with the spontaneous thoughts of outside sources far removed from your own course.
Students are often familiar with anecdotal evidence that employers regularly examine the social media accounts of potential employees, and framing Twitter in terms of this anxiety can further connect the course to the professional world. Students can fear the importance of their digital actions, or they can start managing their digital footprints now in ways that will benefit them in the future. The benefits of creating a professional digital presence have also been well documented: new networks and opportunities can be easily cultivated on Twitter that might be unavailable in real life, and some careers in professional writing and media outreach virtually require strong digital presences. I first came to Twitter in the interests of developing a professional persona, so I used my own experiences as a model for the benefits that can come from doing so. Framed in these terms, the class activity becomes training in a form of professionalization that will become a major part of the rest of students’ lives. By demonstrating intelligent and measured contributions in public for the purposes of the course, students can begin to take control over their digital personae.
Twitter forces students to think small. The character limit on responses helps to moderate the size of student comments, keeping them to a relatively standardized length and preventing the sense that a longer response indicates a deeper engagement with the course materials. The format can also offer ongoing practice for students in developing concise, specific thoughts on objects of study. I encourage students to think about twitter comments as a challenge to write micro-essays. Entire, coherent arguments can be constructed in 140 characters, and they will often be clearer for the obscene demand for concision. 140 characters is a short length even for a thesis statement, and the exercise demands no space be wasted—every word must have its place. The genre of the micro-essay can allow conversations about writing into the course on a regular basis as students consistently produce a variety of these mini-thesis statements over the course of a statement. @twitterfiction can provide a good example of the power that can be achieved by such a small amount of writing.
Stating your pedagogical motives for students up front encourages students to engage with Twitter in terms that align with your objectives for including the activity in the course in the first place. For more advice on creating professional digital presences in the context of a scholarly community, see Ryan Cordell’s wonderful ProfHacker post on Creating and Maintaining a Professional Presence Online.