Upon Completion: An Inappropriate view of Higher Education

I recently submitted my Ph.D thesis for review, I defend in a few months.  It is a particular and unique place to be, one that I had assumed would be full of relief, accomplishment, and joy.  It is, in fact, a bit more confusing than that.  I feel 'done', exhausted, and largely ambivalent...

...that being said, I'm apparently not alone in this state of post-thesis 'weirdness' and having colleagues who understand and have experienced this before me is extremely helpful.  I recently caught the train with one such colleague and stumbled upon an analogy that merited exploring.

I warn you, the analogy rests within somewhat of a sexual nature so if you are of the kind inclined to 'clutch your pearls' perhaps this is not for you. Also, let me be clear that I write from the perspective of studies in the arts, humanities, and social sciences... I cannot guarantee that the analogy holds with respect to studies in science, engineering, medicine, or commerce... And, finally, I am by no means attempting to reduce the experience of parenting, in all of its capacities, in any way.  It is a metaphorical as opposed to a 'pure' analogy.

I said to my colleague, jokingly, that one can compare higher education degrees to particular kinds of physical/sexual experiences.  Allow me to elaborate:

Undergraduate Studies or The Slightly Drunken Make Out

     In your 20s, or so I'm told, there are several opportunities to attend parties and 'hook up' with a range of attractive partners.  These make outs are largely non-committal, inconsequential, and just 'fun'.  Similarly, an undergraduate degree is mostly about exploring vague interpretations of larger fields of study couched within the broader experience of pushing and setting individual boundaries as an 'adult', for the first time.  It is more a right of passage than a qualification and the correlation between undergraduate major and career is similar to the correlation between slightly drunken make out buddy and spouse... largely subject to chance.

The Masters Degree or Intercourse 

    By the time you decide to pursue a masters degree you're pretty clear about two things: 1- you really want to learn 2- you have a field of study to which you belong (or wish to belong to).  A masters degree is a magical place of equally committed peers, insightful and illuminating readings, and enlivening discussions that change the way you conceive of, perceive, and live in the world.  In the end, you put all of this magic, reading, and mind-stretching into writing a thesis that is very personal and meaningful to you.  In short, you relish each thrust of growth and learning until at last you pour out, in ecstasy, your little contribution to the whole exercise.  Sure it can be hard work, but in the end it feels great!

The Ph.D or Pregnancy/Labour/and Birth 

       So you did a masters, the charming and handsome degree loured you into a cuckold where you thought: I am singularly brilliant, I should do a doctorate!  You start with all the best intentions and, regardless of what others who have gone before you say, you think "I know it will be hard work, but I can do it!".  What it is impossible to know until you're strapped in to the roller coaster climbing steeply up toward the drop, is that a Ph.D is going to change your life.  It is going to change the way people relate to you, it will affect all of your interpersonal relationships and, ultimately, leaves you with a very small and specialized group of people who understand what you're talking about when you're not 'translating' your experiences to them.  It begins with strange alienation that you can't quite place, morning sickness, strange cravings, mood swings, and a fear of talking about it because you get all superstitious about whether people should know or not.      
      Gradually it progresses into a divide where you're always feeding yourself and your thesis, your mind is always divided and you struggle with being fully present for anything.  This is around the time you start 'showing': grey hairs, weight gain, wrinkles, and everyone starts to feel as though they can share their opinions about how you should be looking after yourself as well as ask invasive questions about the 'nature' of your research and whether or not it is 'viable'.  Finally, you get through all the milestone hurdles, the upgrade/oral exam, the lit review, the approvals, and you are given the go-ahead to write-up.  Cue contractions!
      Life becomes about the few minutes of breath you get in between paroxysmal self-doubt and the sudden realization that your thesis is 'trite rubbish' and you 'can't do this'! You begin to curse that rat-bastard masters degree for all the sweet nothings whispered in your academic ear and for that one night you got carried away and wrote a thesis proposal, and sent it! But it's too late now... The last bit of it is a blur, you're sleep deprived, incapable of normal speech, and so tired of filling out submission forms that you don't want to see a pen ever again.  The thesis-binder smiles knowingly as he pries the hot, printed pages from your shaking, overly caffeinated hands and urges that you 'breathe'.  You hand it in and collapse, emotionally exhausted and confused.    
       In the days that follow, everyone holds your copy and says things like "wow, its so substantial!" and "you wrote a book!" and "you must be thrilled", but you just stare in awe at this two hundred some odd page document that somehow came out of you.  A simultaneous moment of love, revulsion, and fear: "Now what? how am I going to live up to the promise this thesis holds?"...

... and that is what is key. The promise.  The Ph.D, at the end of the day, is not about you.  It is not the fulfilment of a credential, or an opportunity to revel in books and thoughts, it is a promise to contribute to how the world creates, stores, and uses knowledge.  It is a promise to be part of the discussion and to lead and nurture those who wish 'speak' after you.  It is a contribution to the future.

I'm not sure what the next steps look like and, frankly, that is what is exciting about right now.  I will keep you posted, as you know.  What I will say is if you are close to someone who is doing a Ph.D, be kind, their mind is a tempest that feeds into everything that they consider foundational-- and they are ALWAYS thinking about it.  They love you, and they need you, they will come around in time and be better people for it.  They are having such a hard time being patient with themselves that your patience is key.  For everyone who was that for me, who was part of my Ph.D journey, I thank you immensely!

But now I have to consider how I'm going to raise this baby, how I can help it be a good and useful part of the future...

Remember when being called a 'philistine' was not a compliment?

My apple dictionary on my computer defines 'philistine' as: "a person who is hostile or indifferent to culture and the arts, or who has no understanding of them." And, when typed into the thesaurus, my computer provides the hilariously poignant example sentence: "My only mistake was thinking I could share something culturally uplifting with you philistines!" 

More and more I find myself surrounded by peers, persons, and policy-makers who not only refuse to engage with arts, culture, and intellectual pursuits, but actively deplore them! I'm constantly berated with statements like: "Could you say that in plain English please?" or "I can never understand your high-foluted concepts" or better yet "You're an artist? Man, I wish I could make a job out of my hobby!"/ "When are you planning to get a real job?"

Now, don't get me wrong, I am inclined to agree with George Orwell when he suggests that if something can be said simply, than it should. However, we have access to a multitude of words precisely because they all have subtly different meanings and connotations. 

For example, if one of my earlier sentence with more rudimentary words, it might read as follows: 

'More and more I find myself surrounded by people who don't want to take part in arts, culture, and learning. In fact, they don't even like those things!'  

Sure, it works, but it lacks the elegance and acerbic sting of the cadence in 'deplore', to point out but one example. 

And yes, it is true, I love my job. But being an artist and a scholar does not mean I should be living in a museum basement quarantined amongst oil paintings and sculptures and all the other things our institutions don't understand or know how to engage with.  

More importantly, the hubris that comes with ignorance is not to be taken lightly. It can be dangerous, especially when it seeps in to politics and gets hidden behind phrases like 'just a regular joe' and 'one of the people'. I don't want 'regular joe' running a country! I want the most intelligent, most well-travelled and well-read, sensitive person that has the courage to take on the job and the willingness and capacity to consider multiple perspectives! The world is not divided between 'smart' people and 'regular' people. It is divided between those who engage and those who insulate. 

This is a long rant and an even longer debate, I know, and so I pause here. I'm sure I will return to this topic in future posts, but, for now, this will have to do. 

xx

The Lost Art of Correspondence

It's been so long since my last post that, in sitting to compose, my mind has been sifting through what best to pin down in this one. I wrestled with many a 'timely' and/or political topic until I rested, rather accidentally, upon one that is close to my heart: correspondence.

I use the word 'correspondence' specifically and by choice.

Many of us live far away from some of the people we care about. The reality of this world, and an exciting one at that, is that our networks, communities, and families now cross national and international borders! Without delving into a lecture on the effects of globalization, it is also understood that there are now a variety of ways in which we can stay in touch with one another. However, with the speed at which these options become available, a corresponding 'etiquette of communication' seems slower-made.

I thought I would take this opportunity to outline, here, what I feel are the categories of communication and how they are best used for personal correspondence.

1. The telephone call- We all have them: mobiles, smartphones, archaic 'land-line's. This nifty connecting device is best used when one needs to convey information and needs to be clear, not only of its arrival, but that it has been understood. In business, the call is established for immediate decision making or to be sure that information passed between two sources is mutually acknowledged. In personal relationships, the phone call is how we 'reach out'. It is how you can be sure that the person you are attempting to connect with knows you want to reach them and 'speak' with them. The phone call is as much about the aesthetics and intimacy of speaking with a particular person as it is about the information of or 'reason' for the call. We all know that telephone calls can be costly when dealing with long-distance charges. In response to this financial irritation, there is a nifty little thing called 'Skype'.
2. Skype- the free online video-chat system! Very useful for remembering what people who live far away look like, although (surprisingly) still not as intimate as a phone call. I'm not knocking it, though. It's a necessary tool, and is still communication in somewhat 'real-time'. 
3. The email- The email is how we provide large chunks of information to people all in one go. The email has replaced the office 'memo'. In personal correspondence the email has evolved in the last 12 years. What began as a way of sending digital notes or letters is now, mostly, a system for sending documents and for providing the same information to multiple people at the same time: We all receive those 'wonderful' group holiday-updates or 'life-updates' from people who think the best way to stay connected is to write a simultaneously personal (all about them) and impersonal (not addressed to anyone specific) compendium of events. And sometimes we write them too, let's be honest...
4. The text msg- The text msg. This one is probably the most used and yet most complicated method of correspondence. It is extremely difficult to read tone in largely unedited, text-based short-hand. Texts should be used as a way to convey specific information that does not require a phone call such as address details, or a msg to check if the person you wish to speak to or see is available at a particular time. Text msg conversations DO NOT constitute 'actual conversations', that is to say they are about the passing back and forth of pertinent information and not about the 'connection' that is desired of an actual conversations. Consider, if you text with someone every day, you're not likely to tell someone else "Oh yeah, 'so and so' and I talk everyday", because you're not 'talking' you're texting. Even less personal then the text msg is BBM, WhatsAPP, and iMessage. These fast text-based mediums are used, again, for short bits of information and work similar to Skype by allowing international messaging without the added cost. 
5. Facebook Message/Twitter private msg- These are ways to get ahold of someone when you wish to write them a note, see how they're doing, and don't have access to the means or practicality of a phone call, email, or text message. Facebook messages are a bit like letters in that they are private and less about immediate response then about presenting information to someone and awaiting their reply. Twitter private msg is something I haven't used much, although I assume it's similar in function. 
6. The letter, hand-written card, & Post-card- These are largely lost and romantic methods of corresponding. The letter requires actual (legible) penmanship, time, thought, and patience. These are all things that are apparently a luxury in contemporary communication. However, there is something delightfully intimate about handling the same paper or card as the person who sent it to you and seeing their writing as the remnants of the movement of someone's hands. Time-consuming, impractical for immediate conveyance of information, but lovely for those who have the patience. 

The above list is what I would label 'direct' methods of correspondence.  There are, then, the 'indirect' methods:

1. Mobile two-player games: Words with Friends, Draw it, etc...- This is not communication. It is, perhaps, in its best manifestation, a way to stay connected with someone as you play with them. However, these games are not a substitute for actual communication and their private msg options are for comments like 'great play' and 'is that even a word?', not inquiries into the other player's health and well-being. Similar to the text message, these games can not be construed as actual conversation. 
2. Facebook Walls/Status & Twitter- can be used as references to a particular person. This can be a good way to gauge where in the world someone is, or find out what they are up to. Again, it is about mining for information, not connecting. If you post something as a facebook status hoping that a particular person will respond to it in a particular way, you're missing the point. That information goes out to your entire list, if you want a specific person to have specific information then send it directly to them. Example: A's FB Status, " I'm getting married!", B: "like", subsequent phone conversation between A & B, A: "Did you see my FB Status?", B: "Yes I did! Congratulations!", A: "I can't believe you saw my status and didn't call me!". Not fair. FB is like posting a notice to your community wall and then getting mad at your neighbour for not acknowledging it by coming over. If you want your neighbour to respond in a personal and familiar way then tell them in a personal and familiar way!
3. Third party notification- If you are B and A tells you what C wanted you to know, you have not had a conversation with C. This seems extremely obvious and yet I feel compelled to put it here. 

Alright, so there are some rather basic and general divisions of the kinds of correspondence available today. Some things to consider when choosing your method:

• with whom are you connecting? Parent, partner, friend, colleague?
• what is the nature of what you wish to say? Urgent, personal/sentimental, work-related?
• would you like a response and, if so, how quickly and in what manner?

It's important to note, as I said at the start of this rant, that the etiquette of correspondence seem to vary from person to person. As such, it may be pertinent to voice one's desires for communication with the person/people one seeks to communicate with as you go along.

Also, I recognize my own somewhat antiquated leanings: This list is not meant to suggest that one kind of communication is 'better or worse' than another, rather that different modes mean different things to different people. This post is a call to conscious choice, it is a request for consideration in the means by which you maintain connection with someone, especially those closest to you, with full compassion for the complications of fees, time, and accessibility. There are a myriad of options out there, choose wisely :)


Just a thought. Happy corresponding!

The Return: a Review

  This past weekend I had the rare honour of watching the growth of a play.  Local British theatre company, Legal Aliens, presented the world premier of the English-Language version of Sergio Pierattini's The Return (il Ritorno) as part of the Camden Fringe Festival 2012. The Italian version won the Italian Critic's Award for Best Play in 2008. Ably and carefully translated by Matthew Morrison and Sabrina Cammarata, the English version maintains moments in Italian, when characters are off stage, creating the sense that the play is, in fact, in Italian but we as spectators have translated it in our minds while the actors are on stage.
       As for the ensemble, a compact and dynamic group of four actors carry the narrative of a young woman's return from prison.  Showcasing the often dysfunctional and deeply affected family dynamic, Jean Paul Dal Monte as father, Lara Parmiani as mother, Federico Zanni as the brother, and Anna Pepe as the young woman, develop a focused tension that can only result from the unwavering dedication and commitment that this ensemble clearly demonstrates on stage. Zanni's brother figure is at once confused and outraged and he traverses the line between questioning and condemnation almost as manically as his mother who, in her turn, oscillates between coddling her daughter and venting her frustrations on to the rest of her family.  Both Zanni and Parmiani carry the extremes of their roles with dynamism and finesse allowing for Dal Monte and Pepe's subtler and more quiet characters.  Pepe as the guilt ridden and worn-out daughter serves as the unifier of the play, allowing for five separate scenes that reveal how each of her family members has been coping with the fall-out of her choices, the nature of which are revealed slowly through the course of the play.  Pepe's woman is at once guilty and indignant, still able to judge those around her while being crushed under the weight of her choices.  The deepest cut is perhaps with Dal Monte's father who, aside from carrying guilt from his younger days, has embodied the guilt of his daughter's fate to such an extent that he begins to withdraw.  Dal Monte's character is delicate and complex, one feels inclined to lean in as he speaks so as not to miss a word. 

  It is deeply important for me to stress that, while comprised of individually talented and creative actors, it is the strength of the ensemble that is to be lauded here.  The ensemble has dedicated such time and care to the development of this family that they equally riff and bounce off one another creating a world that the spectator feels is truly in front of them.

  Director Becka McFadden has also included some subtle touches that provide cohesion and context.  Each of the five scenes is separated by a song and slideshow foreshadowing the character that is about to reveal themselves.  As the show touches on themes of communism, black market labour, racism, generational gaps, and gender divisions, the slides provide us with visual cues as to how these characters may exist outside of the stark environment in which we view them.  McFadden has understood the true magic of the theatre which is to provide a series of threads from which the spectators can weave their own material.  The set itself is stark, merely a collection of chairs on stage depending on the number of characters in the scene, and those who are not in the given scene remain on stage, seated on a bench to the side.  The sole set piece is a glow in the dark crucifix that hangs from the black curtain at the back of the stage and is illuminated as the slides run through.  
       The Return is simple, clean, and intense.  In the focus on this specific family, through their idiosyncrasies, one begins to recognize dynamics that exist in many families.  Without gimmicks, this show takes the spectator on an emotional journey of guilt, resilience, and the unforeseen consequences of life choices.  If you hear that this play is on, I highly recommend you go! You will not be disappointed.

A life captured or a life lived?

It's been a while since my last post and much has occurred that might merit writing about.  However, I choose today to focus on something I have noticed increasingly creeping into several experiences that I enjoy...

With the advent of the smartphone--whereby everyone now has a voice recorder, video-camera, still camera, and access to social media, in their pocket-- there is a surprising increase in 'mediated experience'.  There is a dirth of academic writing to support this observation, however I'm more concerned with the practical applications.

As a performer, I am familiar with being recorded and having my photo taken. However, what I am finding more and more, is that audiences no longer engage in performances but, instead, wish to 'capture' them.  For example, two weeks ago I was performing in a lecture-demo format with a respected colleague of mine in a beautiful, intimate space.  We had roughly 20-30 spectators per session and were close enough not to need mics, nor were we separated by the traditional stage-seats division.  Here was the perfect opportunity for a few people to come together and be in the unique and ephemeral experience of that particular interaction, which was specifically for that group, at that time, in that space.  Instead, over half of the people 'watched' the performance through the narrow lens of their camera phones, attempting to 'steal' some part of the event, myself, and my colleague for themselves and their extended networks.

I find this shift incredibly sad.  There is something to be said for experiencing a moment, where a memory is created through the visceral combination of the senses in that particular and unique moment. A photograph is but a milliseconds' capture of an entirety that cannot be duplicated. As Roland Barthes writes, photography is like "the gesuture of a child pointing his finger at something and saying: that, there it is, lo! but says nothing else; a photograph cannot be transformed (spoken) philosophically, it is wholly ballasted by the contingency of which it is the weightless, transparent envelope." (Camera Lucida; 1980, p.5)

In short, once in a while put the phone away! Experience what is happening to you with your own body, experience some viscerality.  Your friends on Facebook and Twitter only cursorily care anyway!  Put some memories in your bodymind, let social media be a mere superficial scrape of the totalities that are your experiences.

It's worth it.

The Trouble of Authenticity or Why I Prefer Young Adult Fiction

It is a beautiful Sunday in London. I awoke at 7:00am of my own accord, well-rested and refreshed. After a quick tidy of my lovely studio flat, I grabbed my new book and trotted out to Starbucks for breakfast and a good read in the sunshine. Now, I have set a certain limit for myself that I will always give a book at least seven chapters to redeem itself before I make any decisions about whether or not to discard it. The book I began this morning is Fifty Shades of Grey by EL James– it's all anyone has been talking about these days. I thought it would make for some lovely, light recreational reading.

 I'm on Chapter 4 and don't worry, there is no need for a spoiler alert, I have no intention of unveiling plot points although I do discuss some elements of the book, so if you don't want to know anything about it beforehand, stop reading here.

In my attempt to avoid a critical reading of this novel, I'm able to allow myself to suspend disbelief enough to overlook the poor writing, both in style and grammar, including endless and often over-repeated adjectives; this is a feat for which I will provide two examples of what I mean:

1. "Saturday at the store is a nightmare. We are besieged by do-it-yourselfers wanting to spruce up their homes. Mr. and Mrs. Clayton and John and Patrick– the two other part timers– and I are besieged by customers." p. 24

2. "Drinking in the cool evening air in the parking lot makes me realize how drunk I am." p. 59

I can even force myself to swallow the pop culture references that will render this book outdated fairly shortly. What I can't seem to get past, however, is that I simply do not believe the characters!

There is a reason for this: I live in London, England and am, therefore, somewhat familiar with the local idiom although I grew up in the Pacific North West. The novel is set between Vancouver, Portland, and Seattle WA, with a main character who is only a bit younger than myself. However, this character seems to have a penchant for speaking like a middle-aged British woman. She refers to a green cross-walk signal as 'the green man', she drinks Twinings English Breakfast tea (not with lemon and honey as one is often offered in the States), and her friend threatens to send 'search and rescue' out to find her if she doesn't report home. Also, for a girl who is supposed to have grown up in Montesano, WA, she has a shocking understanding of the climate of Washington State and her step-father, who is also supposed to be from Montesano is a regular man's man who drinks beer, doesn't talk much, is a carpenter, and likes European soccer!?!?

It's simply too implausible! That, coupled with the fact that the love story is articulated with the worst trappings of romance-fiction (she seems to have a conniption every time the man's name is mentioned) makes me sad.

Why is it that current adult fiction seems to be as inane as it is escapist? I am by no means suggesting that there are not beautiful books out there that I am not currently reading and, of course, there are always the classics; but this is the third book I've picked up in so many months by a British author that has made me consider Sex and the City to be epically poetic writing! I will give the book it's due seven chapters, but it's not looking good...which leads me to the second part of my Sherlock Holmes-esque title: why I prefer young adult fiction.

It's just better! When I'm looking for something fun to read, I usually go to the Young Adult section. These books are written simply, yes, but elegantly, keeping in mind that teenagers and adolescents have many options for their time and will not suffer nonsense (unless it's fun). For example, The Hunger Games series, not amazing writing but a fantastic story, captivating characters, a very enjoyable read. I even love a series aimed at slightly younger readers called The Mysterious Benedict Society by Trenton Lee Stewart; it encourages creative thinking, adventure, friendship, and a value for the idiosyncrasies that makes each of us different and special. Notice I haven't yet mentioned the Harry Potter series or the work of Roald Dahl, CS Lewis, and the list goes on...

I recognize that not everyone is looking to be intellectually challenged while reading a beach-side novel, but a book should at the very least be absorbing, no? A book written by an adult for other adults should be written at an adult reading level, no? Am I expecting too much? Why are intellectual pursuits and relaxation diametrically opposed in our current society?

I've asked too many questions now. I will stop.

Let's be careful what we call a 'spade'!

It's been a while since my last post, I know. I began to feel that my blogging was heading into 'vent space' and that I should probably take some time to reconsider the direction I wanted this exercise to go in. However, the events of yesterday evening were such that I had to do something, anything, and so I write:

It all began while sitting in a lovely black cab with a dear friend. We were halted in traffic, waiting to get on to a busy bridge at rush hour. Another cab pulled up beside us and the driver leaned out to address ours: "Hey, I've got a great joke for you." Keep in mind, it's raining and we're in rush hour on a busy street so the driver has to strain to be heard. Our driver replies jovially, "is it about waiting to get onto Westminster bridge?" The other driver then tells the following 'joke':

"How do you get a spade out of a tree? Cut the rope!"

He then chuckles heartily and drives off. While our driver does not look amused, he doesn't look outraged either- outrage, the exact emotion building in my chest and egging on my heart rate. I pull out my phone to double check that I haven't misunderstood the meaning of 'spade', which is indeed a derogatory and extremely outdated slang term for black people. My friend appears not to have heard the deeply offensive joke and our driver is not acknowledging it so I keep quiet until we exit the cab. My friend and I have a frank discussion about how incredible it was and how it speaks to the way of the world blah, blah, blah...

We then go to the theatre to watch the play that was the purpose of our outing, a revival of She Stoops to Conquer at the National Theatre. The play had a wonderful (and colorblind I might add) cast who played their parts extremely well. It was a camp and lavish production that was highly enjoyable.

Within the span of half an hour, I was exposed to deeply ignorant racism as well as the increasing attempt in theatre to transcend reductive classifications, such as race, by foregrounding character/acting over appearances/convention.

What disturbs me though, and why you're reading about it, is that I didn't DO anything. I was there, I heard the joke, I felt the outrage, I had the distanced conversation, and was more aware of the appearance of the cast of a play based on these earlier experiences; but that cab driver drove away thinking that joke was funny!

I woke up this morning still upset by the blithe indifference of our cab driver, by the implication set forth by the 'joking cabbie' that we live in a world where people still hold such vicious and narrow minded opinions of others, and mostly that I could do nothing but be outraged!

So, here I am- inverting my helplessness. I am putting forward the above example, not in an attempt to rile anyone up or to send bad vibes to the offender from last night. I am, however, putting it forward to remind people that 'ignorance' when coupled with discrimination is not commensurate with naivety- although the cab driver may not have understood the impact of his actions, they were intended to be hurtful and at the expense of not only a group of people but, also, a deeply painful history. To put it mildly: It's not ok!

We are in the year 2012 people! Racism, Homophobia, Sexism...we're supposed to be evolving past these things!! Let us not regress, and more importantly, let's not become desensitized please.

In the end, I'm glad my internal reaction was outrage and not complacence.