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So I presented a prototype of my mapping project yesterday at Publishing Makerspace, a project supported by the Scholarly Communications Institute and housed here in FHI. Using “backcasting,” a technique much like Grant Wiggins’s “backward design,” after I presented, participants were invited to brainstorm about potential final outcomes for the project. Then, we worked backwards from final goal to intermediary steps. If you zoom in to the images, you’ll find some sample recommendations. They were split into five categories: “Publishing Format,” “New Uses of Data,” “Data Collection,” Outcomes–Pedagogical,” and ever-popular “other.” But what great recommendations! I thought was a great approach to the genre of the works-in-progress presentation.
As I’m starting to develop my spatial map of The Age of Innocence, I’ve been thinking not only about ambiguous spatial and temporal data but about a few narrative conventions and how they might be visualized. First, flashbacks: at the end of the novel, 25 years after the main action, Newland Archer briefly surveys the past two decades, reflecting on the birth of his children, the death of his wife, and his enduring passion for Ellen Olenska. I’m wondering how the flashback, this signal technique of film and literary narrative, can be visualized, if the word “timeline” implies a linear medium. Secondly, flash forwards: Newland spends much of his time imagining the future, whether gloomily pondering his years of impending marriage or eagerly anticipating the arrival of Ellen Olenska from the train (here’s a clip from the Scorsese adapation ). Finally, much of Newland’s musings are spatial in nature–when visiting May at the Spanish Mission in St. Augustine he thinks of Grenada and the Alhambra, at his in-laws’ house, he imagines Ellen’s home on W 23rd Street, and realizing that Ellen is present in Newport without his knowledge, he flashes suddenly to
a story he had read, of some peasant children in Tuscany lighting a bunch of straw in a wayside cavern, and revealing old silent images in their painted tomb …
This beautiful, proto-filmic image, tells us much about Archer’s imagination. To go deeply inside a character’s interior life, as Wharton’s rich narrative allows us to do, will necessarily challenge linearity. As Archer roams between past and present, between home and world, between reality and imagination, I’m curious about how the map I’m starting to create will be able represent his own internal geography.
Plateaus v Quagmires: Quick Notes on Surface Learning, Deep Learning, and the Power of a Good Night’s Sleep
Last night I was about ready to throw laptop, Mac, and all against the wall…and today I was able to continue mapping, slowly but surely! Yesterday’s frustration made me think about plateaus in learning. Just as we all know the joy of accomplishment, we all know what it’s like to reach a plateau–to look around and experience the feeling that we’ve come just as far as we’ve can, and don’t feel able to go further. But that’s different from being stuck: instead, I decided to spend my plateau time enjoying the view and thinking about what I’ve learned so far.
This also recalls Ken Bain’s What the Best College Teachers Do. Bain distinguishes between the strategic learning many of our students, and all of us have engaged in at some point–learning for the test, learning proficiently, yet not going deeper. (So your Italian disappears after your trip; you can’t stick a handstand anymore after yoga teacher training; and OMG, what happened to your math–sound familiar?). In contrast, deep learning is lasting, interrogative, and exploratory–it takes longer. The benefit is depth, the trade-off is time. I’ve learned so much so quickly in the past two months and have been exposed to so many new things (I use the passive deliberately here) that I want to guard against the superficiality that can accompany strategic learning.
“A little learning is a dangerous thing,
Drink deeply, or taste not the Pierian spring.”
Wharton’s fidelity to detail is especially pertinent in The Age of Innocence, in which she attempted to reproduce a New York that many of her readers never would have known. She described her own habits of fact-checking as a “measuring-worm exactitude” that drove her to verify details that most readers might find minor. As many readers know, Wharton did not suffer errors gladly; like a good social scientist or cultural historian, she did her homework! I’ve been thinking about the tension between Wharton’s specificity and ambiguity, perhaps one of the operating principles of humanities data. Miriam Posner’s recent blog post about this is illuminating. Describing humanists’ resistance to characterizing evidence as “data,” she writes:
“When you call something data, you imply that it exists in discrete, fungible units; that it is computationally tractable; that its meaningful qualities can be enumerated in a finite list; that someone else performing the same operations on the same data will come up with the same results. This is not how humanists think of the material they work with.”
Although Posner doesn’t use this language, she raises the question of ambiguity. Reproducible results sit uncomfortably with the idea of ambiguity, which is fundamental to humanist–or perhaps especially literary–scholarship.
These two issues come together for me because despite Wharton’s penchant for accuracy, this novel–like any imaginative work–is filled with unverifiable detail. My endeavors to chart the temporal progression of the novel proved challenging (a polite way of saying that I think Wharton is fudging the dates). Primed to expect verisimilitude, 1920s readers of the novel delighted in bringing small errors they found (in my view, deliberate anachronisms) to light. If novels or other imaginative works are sources of humanities data, we should expect humanities data to confound our expectations, especially when technologies increase our desire to drill down to “facts.” Despite the “measuring-worm exactness” of a historical novelist or novel, a computer, or an application, it seems to me that ambiguity forms a necessary layer to the process of visualizing the past.