Under analysis, writing genres can be broken down into composite parts. Take a news article for example. Not only could we distinguish hard news, soft news, and fake news – which, for the sake of our class, I tell students to envision as separate genres – but we could also break down an article into its title, lede paragraph, photo caption, and so forth. Moreover, one could treat these as more than separate conventions that comprise the news article (macro-)genre, but (micro-)genres unto themselves, with their own specific purposes and intended audiences. This type of analysis helps students understand how genres are descriptive and analytical tools, not hard-and-fast prescriptive categories. In the end, genre theory helps give us an analytical leverage that can make our writing more effective.
I put this type of micro-analysis into practice when we first start to address scholarly writing in class. Students will often know the conventions of an academic paper, generally comprising an introduction, body, and conclusion. But do students realize these phases of a scholarly work each have their own functions and characteristics and, moreover, coordinate with one another to synergistically produce a more powerful rhetorical effect? In order to help suss out these distinctions, I’ve used the following activities to help students analyze and identify effective academic writing.
The Genre Scramble
Borrowing a practice from a colleague (Brian, Jackson, or someone else?!), I take an scholarly article or book chapter, print it out and cut it up into much smaller sections (maybe 20-30 sections depending on the selection). I then have students work in groups to piece the paper back together, using whatever clues they can find in the writing. In addition to subheadings, I try to find works that incorporate sequential language (first, second, third, on one hand, on the other hand, etc.), causal language (as a result, consequently, etc.) or self-referential language (as noted above, we will return to this point, etc.) to help in this process.
At one level, this helps students realize they already know a lot about the structure of scholarly writing. At another level, this helps train students to observe the usage – and practical utility – of transitional devices, or the numerous other linguistic cues that situate a phase of writing into an overall composition. This game, which I actively make competitive, is used as an opening activity for a class, getting students thinking and moving since most will clear out desks and arrange the slips of paper on the floor. (I typically allow 15 minutes for this activity, including a quick class discussion about what cues each group used to help them out. Depending on time, I will sometimes skip this activity and jump to the Genre Jigsaw.)
The Genre Jigsaw
This works in the broadest strokes by dividing up a selected scholarly work into smaller (micro-)genres and having students work in small groups to perform genre analysis on their segments. The divisions could include the abstract, introduction, two or three argument subsections (such as methods, results, discussion), and conclusion. For each sections students have to discuss the rhetorical purpose, the intended audience, and any identifying linguistic characteristics (the Genre Scramble help with this aspect).
To help model this kind of analysis, I first talk about the title as a (micro-)genre, an often overlooked rhetorical aspect of first year writing. As a class, we first brainstorm the potential purposes of an academic title (to summarize, to entice, to establish tone, to establish ethos?) and compare these titles to titles of other kinds of writing (how is it different from a news article or novel?).
Next, in a move that is sometimes confusing, we try to discuss audience and how it changes throughout an article. Since most folks intuitively think of audience demographically (age, gender, race, education level, etc.) it is hard to see how the audience may change in the process of reading. To start this discussion I have the class think about where they may just encounter a title of a work (bibliography, table of contents, in-text reference, etc.) and ask them to brainstorm about the mindset of a reader. For example, why would someone be looking through a bibliography? Maybe because they are looking for works relevant to their interests, thus the audience may be someone who is doing research and looking for key words or phrases. This gives us some information about the types of things we may want to include in our titles. Moreover, I guide conversation to how that audience may change when they shift to various phases of the essay (when are readers the most engaged, when are they most likely to read over sentences or passages, when are they the most critical or skeptical, when are they hoping for a summary of ideas?) This points to how the audience expectations change and how writing can accommodate that change.[1] They return to this point during their group discussions.
Lastly, we turn to a discussion about the language conventions of a title. Given what we analyzed about purpose and audience, what language could be included into a title? What can we notice about the language of the title of the work we are analyzing? I often end by noting how it’s pretty common in the humanities to structure a title with a colon in the center (the “colon construction”), looking something like this “Generality/Catchy Phrase: Specificity/Descriptive Statement.”
Using the analysis of the title as a model and applying the Jigsaw Method (I originally called this “Divide and Conquer” before learning of the Jigsaw) students then break up into Jigsaw groups, with one student taking responsibility for each phase of the scholarly work. I usually give an overview of the argument of the selected essay, since each student will only be reading a portion of the work (its possible to assign the essay as homework, too). Then students responsible for each phase meet with one another in Expert Groups to identify and discuss the audience, purpose, and specific linguistic cues. Armed with their insights for each phase, they then reconvene with their original groups and discuss the whole essay, trying to map out how the purpose and audience changes at the micro-level throughout the essay and attempt to create a bank of transitional words that appear in each phase. During class discussion, groups share their insights with one another.
While I’ve always enjoyed the analysis of my students, this can be a challenging exercise, especially if the scholar’s argument is complex or otherwise difficult. I’ve come to provide a decent summary of the article first so student can focus on genre analysis, not just comprehension. During class discussion I’ll have groups try to identify the thesis, or areas of strong or weak evidence. Overall, the purpose of this exercise is to have students work together to analyze different phases (or micro-genres) of scholarly writing and try to adopt certain strategies into their writing.
Notes:
[1] One example I like to give regards the use of personal anecdotes in writing. Scholarly readers are more likely to allow anecdotes in the introduction of the essay, since they know there may be an attempt to catch the reader’s attention. On the other hand, scholarly readers tend to not expect anecdotes in the body of an essay, especially when they hope to see formal argumentation regarding the main claims of the essay. In this case we can say reader are more critical and expect to see argumentation.
[This is an early draft of ideas for an upcoming paper – email pmr01[at]ucsb[dot]edu if you have any comments or questions.]
The past few years have seen a surge in literature promoting the use of contemplative practices in higher education. The suggestions offered by these advocates can appear bewildering, ranging from slightly modified classroom activities to more obscure Asian-inspired meditative techniques. In a seminal volume on contemplative pedagogy, Judith Simmer-Brown admits that “there is no single contemplative pedagogy and no single prototype of the contemplative professor.”[1] Anyone exploring contemplative pedagogy through published literature or online resources will quickly confirm this observation.
The nomenclature “contemplative pedagogy” (CP) functions as a broad and malleable umbrella for a wide range of teaching and learning strategies. This diversity is a result of CP’s origins in several educational trends that began as early as the 1960s, or depending on how one defines “origins,” extending back much further.[2] As an initial step to understanding CP, I try to distinguish between two main strains or camps which remained entangled in practice in complex ways.[3] Specifically, through examining both published and online resources, we will find divergent methods, goals, and institutional supports for the advocates of CP. Thus, in order to see an overarching picture of this experimental educational movement and its internal complexities, it will help to start by making generalizations.[4]
Critiques of CP often reduce the diversity of its practices to a select few – often Asian (or Asian inspired) meditation or mindfulness techniques – without realizing the overlap with more established educational practices. Additionally, some of the more vocal advocates of CP, in order to carve out a unique niche, also overlook the important intersections with critical pedagogical theory. This is often found in the rhetoric of advocates who disparage the impersonal modern educational system, but remain unaware of the sizable scholarship placing students at the center of the classroom experience.[5] The most charitable (though admittedly incomplete) analysis of CP would highlight the alignment with some of the most important advances in the scholarship on teaching and learning in the past few decades. In fact, it is impossible to untether CP from the larger trends in education, regardless of what advocates or critics claim. This essay is an attempt to analyze CP critically and to highlight some connections to contemporary non-CP practices.
The “Transformative” Camp
Arguably, one strain of CP more consciously foregrounds the importance of the introduction of Asian religious traditions into the US in the mid-twentieth century and the mainstreaming of meditation practice. These practices, especially the ones derived from Buddhism, are more commonly championed in their modernist, (pseudo-)secularized forms of “mindfulness.”
Among the long list of individuals and institutions who advocate the use of contemplative practices in educational contexts, the Center for the Contemplative Mind in Society (CMind) and its academic arm known as the Association for Contemplative Mind in Higher Education (ACMHE), are perhaps the most well-known and influential.[6] CMind promotes an array of retreats, workshops, and annual conferences on contemplative practices and the development of curricula for university settings. Since 2014, CMind has also published The Journal of Contemplative Inquiry and between 1997 and 2009 granted fellowships to 158 faculty to develop contemplative pedagogical approaches.[7] CMind, ACMHE, and other organizations, while diverse in their missions, value the personal and societal transformative potential of contemplative practices.[8]
Several figures whose scholarship has formed the early direction of the CP movement have notably helmed CMind, including Mirabai Bush, Daniel Barbezat, and Arthur Zajonc. Their approaches, unsurprisingly, reflect a socially engaged and personally transformative perspective and either draw from, or have an elective affinity with, a variety of other educational movements such as integrative education (of Ken Wilbur and Sri Aurobindo)[9], transformative education (of Jack Mezirow)[10], spirituality in education[11], and mindfulness in education.[12] Additionally, there are resonances with service learning[13] and the recently conceptualized compassionate pedagogy and the pedagogy of kindness.
The contemplative methods promoted by this strain of CP are diverse and not easy to characterize. Descriptive language tends to gravitate towards ideas of interiority, personal reflection, silence, presence, and transformation. As is noted by Patricia Owen-Smith, these practices are “solidly anchored in mindful attention, the sine qua non of all contemplative practices.”[14] Exercises such as deep listening or deep reading, also referred to as lectio devina from traditional Catholic monastic practice, embrace a slow, reflective pace that enables students to establish more meaningful connections with the material.[15] Furthermore, as noted in Barbezat and Bush’s introductory book on contemplative practices, the activities of introspection and awareness also “yield increased empathy for others and a deeper sense of connection to the world.”[16]
A diagram called the Tree of Contemplative Practices is used to represent the range of contemplative activities organized into several clusters: activist, creative, generative, movement, relational, ritual or cyclical, and stillness [Fig. 1]. A quick glance reveals that the specific practices outlined are far more diverse, and far more interdisciplinary than one would typically see in traditional university classroom settings.[17] They are rooted, literally in the case of this diagram, in communion, connection, and awareness. This is just one example of how CP is believed to impact both the personal and social domains.
Carrie Bergman (illustrator) and Maia Duerr (designer), Center for Contemplative Mind in Society.
An interesting comparison can be made to the taxonomy of student learning goals popularized by Benjamin Bloom and colleagues in 1956. While numerous modifications and re-conceptualizations of Bloom’s Taxonomy have been offered over the years, it remains arguably the most popular tool among instructional development (or teaching commons) departments across university campuses.[18] The version of CP stressed by CMind extends well beyond the cognitive skills expressed by Bloom, integrating both affective and psychomotor aspects. If Bloom’s Taxonomy can be seen to represent a traditional or normative educational approach, it is apparent how significantly CP recasts the mission of education and the techniques of pedagogy. In their totality, CP practices represent a wide spectrum of activities that address the personal transformative potential of contemplation in the broadest sense.
The “Critical” Camp
One might draw a comparison here to what might be characterized as a more critical approach to CP. Harold Roth is often cited as the main contributor to the first conceptualization and development of an interdisciplinary contemplative studies field in higher education, of which CP might be considered an expression.[19] Whereas advocates like Zajonc would frequently use terms like “interiority” to characterize contemplative practice, Roth, borrowing from Dutch psychologist Han de Wit, has popularized the concept of a “first-person discourse” that describes and explains the aims of a contemplative approach.[20] A subject first-person approach is held in contrast to a putatively objective third-person approach, which is often cast as the perspective par excellence into which students are intellectually socialized.
A critical contemplative practice would employ both perspectives, sometimes in conjunction with a more recently fleshed out inter-subjective second-person approach.[21] This particular language and framing is common to many CP advocates in both camps,[22] but because a point-of-view pedagogy is not the language traditionally used within educational psychology, instructional development, or the Scholarship on Teaching and Learning (SoTL) it is worth examining in more depth.
Roth has proposed the disciplined use of first-person perspectives to investigate subjective experience. This held in contrast to normative Western epistemological biases that privilege “veridical cognition,” or the perspective proclaimed by a putatively disinterested and objective observer.[23] Bracketing the question if this reflects how most university instructors teach, the point that Roth raises is salient – should we not increase the value of our student’s own subjective experience and make that experience an object of critical inquiry?
This leads to interesting questions about what type of “experience” advocates of CP would like to investigate. Roth’s views sometimes clash with other figures who take this critical point-of-view approach. At times, Roth seems to advocate for the cultivation of a noetic, “pure experience,” in line with the insights proposed by religious mystics.[24] It is worth quoting Roth in his own words:
“By turning our backs on the systematic exploration of religious subjectivity from the inside out, so to speak, we have also cut ourselves off from a valuable approach to the many problems of human existence. We have ignored a valuable source of empirical knowledge that has been well developed in the contemplative traditions of Asia, and we deny ourselves a potentially valuable method for studying these traditions.”[25]
In making such assertions, Roth highlights a specific “contemplative experience” of which students attempt to cultivate a first-person knowledge. Roth ultimately hopes to incorporate these contemplative experiences into formal academic analyses that take a third-person perspective, most directly, into the fields of religious studies or contemplative studies.[26] Additionally, Roth envisions the critical combination of the first-person and third-person approaches in other fields as well, most notably the creative arts such as the visual and fine arts, creative writing, and the performance arts, although he does not discuss specifically how contemplative practices could be utilized in the classroom.[27]
Other scholars are not as ready to embrace Roth’s contemplative experience. Louis Komjathy also promotes a critical first-person method, but instead envisions the experience primarily as metacognition, requiring reflection on personally held assumptions, ingrained opinions, and unrecognized biases. These first-hand student experiences are all historically and socially constructed, as are the contemplative experiences of religious practitioners who are studied.[28] This critical first-person method challenges egotistical or culturally decontextualized perspectives and ultimately functions as a “complex negotiation between personal interiority, interpersonal engagement, and transpersonal concerns.”[29]
Komjathy’s vision of a CP point-of-view pedagogy is among the most encompassing and readily transferrable to disciplines outside of religious studies or contemplative studies because it appears to highlight the critical practice of metacognition – but, problematically from the perspective of comparison with more established pedagogical methods, Komjathy does not use this term.[30] Furthermore, Komjathy’s CP does not exclude the implementation of meditation-inspired or mindfulness practices, but if they are incorporated into a course they become an object of inquiry that are measured against primary textual sources, the insights of practicing religious communities, the arguments of trained scholars, and the ideas presented in conversations with student-peers. Consequently, contemplative practice is less focused on the “therapeutic” or “hygienic” aspects of mindfulness, e.g. stress reduction or enhanced focus, which tend to be more of a concern for CP advocates in the transformative camp. Yet, the transformative potential of critical meta-reflection must also be acknowledged, thus the difference between these camps is not necessarily expressed through their overarching goals (indeed, most would say that education should be transformative), but the privileging of certain methods towards certain ends.[31]
A Variety of Contemplative Methods
There is a variety of discipline-specific, course-specific, or even exercise-specific approaches to the implementation of CP in a class setting. As with any pedagogy, attention must be given to how the course is designed, desired learning goals, student interest, the instructor’s personal values, and the institutional profile, among other concerns. Nevertheless, given the sheer variety of these experiential practices, it would be helpful to see how those practices might also be sorted or categorized. There has been no commonly accepted approach to this division among CP advocates, although several suggestions have been offered, which I collect and summarize below.
For example, one cluster of practices has been termed “hygienic” or “Jamesian” (from William James). This largely concerns the implementation of mindfulness techniques to cultivate focused attention and alleviate anxiety.[32] Defenders of these practices will often note the growing body of scientific literature that points to their efficacy and arguably these remain the most popular expressions of secularized meditation among the general population of students and teachers. The purpose of these techniques is to enhance overall student learning, and thus these are promoted by instructors from all disciplines and fields. Some university instructors, however, do not feel academic course work should involve what they see as therapeutic practice (or pastoral care) and consequently eschew this contemplative approach.[33] Notably, recent contraindications in meditation research have also caused some pause in the implementation of similar secular-oriented mindfulness practices.
The second cluster of practices has been termed “modes of inquiry” which includes the widest assortment of classroom practices, many having barely discernable relationships to traditional meditation techniques. This could be exercises such as freewriting, reflective journaling, deep listening, deep reading (lectio devina), “big questions” inquiry, and so forth.[34] It is possible to consider metacognition here as well, where students reflect on their “interpretive tendencies, theoretical (theological?) commitments, unquestioned assumptions, and…ingrained opinions.”[35]
Lastly, in what Anita Houck has termed the “contextualized’ approach, this involves the teaching of fairly straightforward religious practices, like traditional Buddhist forms of meditation. Not surprisingly, this is mostly limited to the fields of religious studies, contemplative studies, or theology. Recently, however, Candy Gunther Brown has questioned if there are legal hurdles for teaching these practices within a public school setting, a topic that will surely be revisited in the future as contemplative practices gain more mainstream attention.
Contemplative studies and its expression as CP in higher education has become strongly associated with several figures, groups, and institutions as discussed above. Notably, this includes the Center for the Contemplative Mind in Society, the Mind & Life Institute, the Contemplative Studies Group at the American Academy of Religion, and several university programs, including the Contemplative Studies Initiative at Brown University, started by Harold Roth. (Other important university programs are noted below.) Regardless of the diversity within CP, I believe the pedagogical focus on “interiority” and a “critical first-person approach” further reflects educational trends emerging in the 1990s which highlighted a move towards a student-centered classroom experience, of which reflection and metacognition played an integral role. The nuanced connection and different expressions of contemplative reflection remain an area deserving of more research.
[2] While many will trace the origins of CP to contemplative practices introduced to the United States by advocates of Asian religious contemplative practice, educational movements also played an important role. Some proponents of CP will incorporate figures like William James into their lineage of formative pedagogues, among others. Of course, one could be inclined to trace the origins of CP back to contemplative practices of Asian antiquity, but I think this would unnecessarily characterize, as some advocates of CP do, modern educational paradigms as devoid of contemplative, or meta-cognitive aspects.
[3] The metaphor of a spectrum may provide more clarity here as these two camps are positioned at the two furthest ends of this spectrum. It may be that these camps are more ideal types than actually represented by an individual or group of CP scholars.
[4] One can see that both critics and advocates of CP will sometimes reduce the complexity of the field down to more generalized identities. See, for example, the nature of Kathleen Fisher’s (2017) criticism of CP, as well as Louis Komjathy’s (Fort & Komjathy 2017) reply.
[5] Advocates of CP will sometimes trace intellectual lineages to iconic pedagogues like Maria Montessori, Horace Mann, John Dewey, or Paulo Frier, but gloss over the significance of the constructivist “student-centered” movement in pedagogy in the 1990s – of which I would place the modern origins of the CP movement.
[6] Other important non-academic organizations include the Mind & Life Institute, the Garrison Institute, the Fetzer Institute, and the Santa Barbara Institute for Consciousness Studies. One could include Naropa University here as well. For a history of CMind and contemplative education in higher education see Bush 2011 and Owen-Smith 2018.
[7] The Contemplative Practice Fellowship Program (CPFP) was funded by the Fetzer Institute and run through CMind in association with the American Council of Learned Societies (ALCS).
[11] See Fort & Komjathy 2017: 25 and esp. Sherman 2014.
[12] This may be just a transformation of Spirituality in Education, see Komjathy 2018: 162. It seems the widespread popularity of mindfulness as a mental health treatment has spurred a conception among some that CP is simply teaching mindfulness techniques in a classroom setting, see Bonnardel et. al. 2018.
[16] Barbezat & Bush 2014: 5. A focus on interiority and attention is also noted in Owen-Smith 2018: 26-7. Barbezat also acknowledges the importance of “a type of intra- and interpersonal awareness, compassion, focus and discernment” (quoted in Owen-Smith 2018: 23). On the other hand, Kathleen Fisher remains skeptical that self-knowledge can lead to empathy, see Fisher 2017.
[17] It is worth noting that CP advocates from the other camp also perceive interdisciplinary benefits, see e.g. Roth 2007: 20-22.
[18] This is not necessarily because it is the best or the most complete, but because it is the simplest and easiest to use for conceptualizing and crafting learning objectives. There are many limitations of Bloom’s Taxonomy.
[20] Komjathy 2018. The phrase, “taboo of subjectivity” coined by Alan Wallace in 2000, is also another source of inspiration for Roth. See also Komjathy 2015: 10-11 for further comments.
[21] See especially Gunnalson 2009. Also see Komjathy 2018. The Contemplative Studies concentration at Brown University, started by Roth, formalizes the conjoined methodology of a third-person and first-person approach, see here. [https://www.brown.edu/undergraduateconcentrations/contemplative-studies-ab]
[22] See for example Owen-Smith 2018: 27 and Barbezat & Bush 2015: 105-6.
[23] Roth seems to suggest the origin of this epistemic stance stems from a religious, all-knowing, God-perspective, see Roth 2007: 2. I would suggest that Roth “strawmans” the study of religion by contemporary scholars; there is plenty of research which is self-reflective and avoids overly-broad, eminently stable claims of objectivity. I am not sure the commitment to a veridical cognition is due to a unrecognized assent to a Christian God-perspective, but to a methodology where scholars can analyze and critique the claims of another scholar. This is different from taking the perspectives of a religious practitioner seriously, see Komjathy 2015:11.
[24] Roth 2008: 5-6. After intoning William James, Roth characterizes the rejection of inner experience, the “very essence of religion,” as historical reductionism, see Roth 2008: 10. It remains unclear, at times, if Roth intends to equate inner religious experience with an unmediated mystical experience or merely the emic perspective of religious practitioners, or a mixture of both. Komjathy appears to interpret Roth as inferring a combination of both. Fran Grace prefers to use a guidebook metaphor, where the practitioner represents a person who has actually experienced the given contemplative terrain, see Coburn, et. al. 2011: 173.
[26] Roth 2008: 19-22. Specifically, Roth criticizes the rejection of religious practitioners’ views in the study of religion, see Roth 2008: 10. This reflects the scholarly debates around emic-etic perspectives. Komjathy also notes Roth’s focus on cultivating individual contemplative experiences, see Komjathy 2015: 11. Roth further comments that human subjectivity is the source for all cognitive models of the world, and goes on to quote Zhuangzi to support his views, see Roth 2008: 11-14.
[27] Roth 2008: 19-20. Roth unfortunately does not discuss at length how the personal “contemplative experience,” say, of a dancer, would be utilized in an educational context.
[28] See especially the comments in Komjathy 2015: 17. Of course, this does not mean that the perspectives of religious practitioners are disregarded, but neither are they privileged, see Komjathy 2015: 11.
[29] Komjathy 2018: 172. In his chapter on CP, Komjathy notes the challenges to both students and teachers in facilitating this critical perspective, see especially the box on Komjathy 2018: 169-10.
[30] Komjathy himself notes that his vision of CP is already in widespread use in education, Komjathy 2018: 170.
[31] Komjathy, too, acknowledges the benefits of methods such as relaxation techniques, but these do not appear to be a particular focus in his teaching, Komjathy 2018: 173.
In 1913, Thomas Edison proudly proclaimed, “Books will soon be obsolete in the schools…It is possible to teach every branch of human knowledge with the motion picture. Our school system will be completely changed in the next ten years.”[1]
Perhaps we should all be reminded that Edison was not an educator. He was an inventor…and a shrewd, litigious businessman. In 1897, Edison was granted a patent for the Kinetograph, which eventually became the Kinetoscope, a device for showing early motion pictures. He also owned a majority of the other patents related to motion picture cameras. In 1909, Edison formed a group with other American film companies to create the Motion Pictures Patents Company (MPPC), which protected their patent interests and severely limited new competition. In 1917, however, the Supreme Court found the MPPC in violation of the Sherman Antitrust Act and dissolved the trust. The following year, Edison left the film industry altogether. I wouldn’t be surprised if his interest in education and motion pictures also ended at the same time.
Edison’s comments about the educational possibilities of film in 1913 should be read through his financial interests, not his pedagogical concerns. He was trying to make money in a field that is – understandably – interested in improving its methodology and overall efficacy. Moreover, Edison was part of an era where new visual media, such as glass lantern slides, stereoviews, even school museums, were championed as important advancements in education.[2] It must be added that these products were pushed by businesses equally shrewd as Edison’s company, such as the Keystone View Company which published a teacher’s guide to using lantern slides and stereoviews in the classroom, entitled Visual Education.
This trend has continued into the twenty-first century. In her review of the worst of education technology in the past decade, Audrey Watters highlights the lingering presence of commercial interests in education, placing “venture capitalism” and “(venture) philanthropy” third and second, respectively, on her list of 100 worst debacles from the 2010s (only to be surpassed by anti-school shooter software for number one). Unsurprisingly, Watters notes venture capitalists and venture philanthropists are responsible for many of the other entries on her list of the worst.
It is not uncommon when I talk to my colleagues in higher education for them to ask if the insights that I’ve gleaned from instructional development represent trends or fads. I always respond first by trying to make a fine distinction between instructional development and instructional technology, although they are inextricably intertwined. Instructional technology, by its nature, is trendy because so much money (and cultural capital) is invested in advancing technology generally. The first real wave of calls for instructional change (and arguably the origins of instructional development) came on the heels of new technological advancements in visual media in the early twentieth century. Unsurprisingly, the continued advancement of technology, with computers, cell phones, and the internet as the most recent and significant, has also led to calls for educational change, reflected in the new initiatives around the expanded use of MOOCs, phone apps, or online videos, to just name a few.
Instructional development does not tend to be as fickle, but it is also not immune to fad chasing. Nevertheless, there has been slow and steady amount of research developing a repertoire of strategies to increase teaching efficacy over the past few decades. Now-standard aspects of university education, such as formulating clear learning objectives, derived from earlier theories about criteria-referenced measures first postulated by Robert Glaser and others in the 1960s.[3] Even the more recently contentious arguments over the move away from strict lecturing (not the abolishment of all lecturing!), has roots in insights about constructivism and active learning in the 1990s. One could argue there has been a slow building of knowledge about pedagogy over the past few decades, not a flip-flopping between mutually exclusive teaching methods. I’ve discussed the history and goals of instructional development elsewhere and will refer the reader to that post [here: Instructional Design in Higher Education: What is It?].
Though anecdotal, the advice I’ve gotten from most folks in instructional development has always been strategic and specific, not global. Group activities work in some scenarios, while in other scenarios a lecture will be better. I’ve always seen instructional development about building a toolbox of teaching skills that can be deployed when rhetorically and pedagogically appropriate. Even when I’ve talked about educational technology, I’ve always seen it as a tool that needs to be appropriate to your pedagogical purpose. The hanging question should not be how do we integrate technology into our classrooms, but whether technology can sustain or even advance our educational aims. We should not adapt our teaching just to incorporate technology, to me that is pedagogically unsound.
Reiser, Robert A. 2001a. “A History of Instructional Design and Technology: Part I: A History of Instructional Media,” Educational Technology Research and Development, Vol. 49, No. 1, pp. 53-64.
Reiser, Robert A. 2001b. “A History of Instructional Design and Technology: Part II: A History of Instructional Media,” Educational Technology Research and Development, Vol. 49, No. 2, pp. 57-67.
Capturing light on a photosensitive medium to make a photograph was a monumental technological achievement. Arguably more influential, however, was the ability to mechanically reproduce those images in ink and expose them to wider audiences. In the latter half of the nineteenth century, chemically processing individual photographs was technically difficult, time-consuming, and expensive. Newspaper, magazine, and book publishers needed a less labor-intensive method to produce the thousands of images needed for mass commercial printing.
Consequently, translating the tonality of a photograph mechanically into black ink marks was developed not long after the discovery of photography. The collotype process, a planographic printing method using reticulated gelatin, produced a beautiful tonality with fine detail, but the process proved difficult and costly. On the other hand, the letterpress halftone process proved to a better investment for the inexpensive mass printing of images, especially for newspapers and magazines. This process is easily identified through its distinctive dot pattern creating the illusion of tonality [Fig. 1].
Figure 1
The tonality of the halftone print on the left, comprised of dots of differing size and spacing, is of lesser quality than the collotype print on the right. The wormy reticulation of a collotype print under high magnification can be seen here.
Ogawa Kazumasa小川 一眞 (1860-1929) was a pioneer in the photomechanical reproduction of images in Meiji Japan. After a period of apprenticeship in the United States, Ogawa opened the first collotype (korotaipu コロタイプ) business for reproducing photographs in 1889, eventually introducing the halftone process to his Japanese customers. Having attended the Congress of Photographers at the Chicago World’s Fair in 1893, Ogawa learned about the halftone process and the following year procured the necessary equipment and had delivered to Tokyo.[1] As Kelly McCormick notes, under the guidance of Ogawa the Japanese newspaper, the Asahi Shimbun朝日新聞, published its first photographs on June 16, 1894. Moreover, the halftone process allowed Japanese newspapers to fill their editions with multiple, full-page photographic images as well as incorporate text on the same plate. Additionally, to help expose his colleagues to the history of photography and modern photographic methods, Ogawa had Hermann Vogel’sThe Chemistry of Light and Photography (1875, revised 1889) translated into Japanese (as Kōsen nami shashin kagaku 光線並写真化学); it remained in print for nearly 30 years.
The tonality of the halftone print was not as rich as the collotype (see above) and thus the collotype print remained preferential when image quality was more important.[2] This included the manufacturing of Japanese picture postcards (ehagaki 絵葉書), especially when changes in the postal code in 1900 allowed private publishers to issue their own cards. Collotype remained the main method of printing postcards through the first two decades of the twentieth century.
Figure 2
Title/Caption: DAIBUTSU, KAMAKURA 鎌倉大仏
Year: 1897 (postally used)
Publisher: Printing Bureau, Ministry of Finance 大蔵省印刷局
Medium: halftone print on paper
Dimensions: 5.5 in X 3.5 in
Reverse Imprint: 大日本郵便, JAPANESE POST, 郵便はがき+
The government-issued postal card here, however, offers a rare glimpse at using the halftone process for mechanically reproducing a photograph previous to postal code changes [Fig. 2]. Sent in 1897 (Meiji 30[3]), this card reflects a rather early example of the halftone process, introduced by Ogawa only three years earlier. As noted by the caption, it depicts the Kamakura Daibutsu, a site that had developed into a popular international tourist destination by the 1890s. Interestingly, the image shows the site devoid of tourists, a rare depiction since people were often included to provide a sense of scale – the statue is over 40 feet in height. This photograph focuses the viewer’s attention to the craftsmanship of the work and the serenity of the image, thus creating a silent and contemplative portrait of the bronze colossus. The elements in the photograph suggest it was taken in the first half of the 1890s.
It is tantalizing to think that the Printing Bureau in the Ministry of Finance[4], the agency responsible for issuing postal cards, consulted Ogawa for this project.[5] It is also possible that the original photograph of the Daibutsu was taken by Ogawa or an associate of his studio.[6]
Figure 3
Figure 4
The reverse bears a simple filigree border and 1 sen oval-shaped frank printed in light blue [Fig. 3]. The pre-paid 1 sen rate covered domestic postage until 1899 when the rate was increased. The franking design incorporated the three-leafed paulownia seal (kirimon 桐紋), the official insignia of the Japanese government, in its center [Fig. 4]. Examining the border design (bottom) we can also find the government agency responsible for printing the card, namely the Printing Bureau in the Ministry of Finance. Instructions in Japanese (lower left) explain this side is reserved for the name and address of the recipient only. The paper is thinner than the card stock used by private publishers a few years later.
The cancellation stamp over the pre-paid postage reveals the card was sent on August 11, 1897 from the former Musashi Province 武蔵, an area that covered a location close to the Kamakura Daibutsu. The second cancellation stamp shows it was received the following day, August 12, at the post office in Kobe before it was sent out to the recipient.
Notes:
*This post is dedicated to my mother, who introduced me to the beauty of printmaking.
[1] For more information, see McCormick 2017. For a full biography of Ogawa in English, see Bennett 2006: 210-16. [For a quick chronology of his life, in Japanese, see here.]
[2] Perhaps most notably, the influential Japanese art magazine, Kokka 国華, employed collotypes and woodblock prints. Ogawa and his studio supervised the printing of the magazine until 1907. The magazine’s full title in English was Kokka, An Illustrated Monthly Journal of the Fine and Applied Arts of Japan and Other Eastern Countries. For more on this publication, see Hanley & Watanabe 2019. Ogawa also used collotypes in the Shashin Shinpō写真新報 (Photography Journal), in which he was the editor, see Bennett 2006: 212. In the 1910s, Japanese postcard publishers switched to offset printing because this method produced images at a much faster rate.
[3] The cancellation stamp is not clear, but Meiji 30 seems appropriate. The bisected cancellation date stamp (maruichi-gata hiduke-in 丸一型日付印) was adopted in 1888 and the date reads year-month-day from right to left (this stamp was retired in 1909). Sanjū nen 三十年 (“year 30”) is barely legible and is equivalent to 1897. This dating also aligns with other evidence placing the cancellation between 1888 (signaling by the inclusion of the Printing Bureau 印刷局 instead of the Bureau of Paper Currency 紙幣寮 on the border inscription) and 1899, when the 1 sen oval frank was replaced by the 1½ sen chrysanthemum frank. These details are noted below.
[4] The full inscription reads, “issued by the Printing Bureau in the Ministry of Finance of the Empire of Japan” (Dainipponteikoku seifu Ōkurashō insatsu-kyoku seizō 大日本帝国政府大蔵省印刷局製造). The Ministry of Finance was also responsible for printing paper currency.
[5] Ogawa did have a close relationship with the Japanese government, and was appointed as the chief photography instructor for the Japanese army, see McCormick 2017. Furthermore, McCormick notes, “Ogawa skillfully aligned his name with the halftone process to the extent that if it was a halftone, it was likely that Ogawa was behind it.”
[6] In 1894, Ogawa published the Illustrated Companion to Murray’s Japan Guide-Book, the most popular tourist book for international travel in Japan. I have not seen a copy of this work, but the second image in the book is listed as the Kamakura Daibutsu.
Hanley, Keith & Watanabe, Aiko. 2019. “Kokka, Okakura Kakuzō, and the Aesthetic Construction of Late Meiji Cultural Nationalism.” Unpublished paper. [here]
McCormick, Kelly M. 2017. “Ogawa Kazumasa and the Halftone Photograph: Japanese War Albums at the Turn of the Twentieth Century,” Technologies, Vol. 7, No. 2. [here]
The Japanese word for postcard, hagaki はがき, was derived from hashigaki はしがき (or 端書き), or “forward,” referencing the writing at the beginning of a document. Hagaki came to denote a short piece of writing or a note that was sent through the mail. The first postal card in Japan was issued in December 1873, but until the start of the twentieth century all cards were government-issued (kansei 官製). These are readily identifiable through pre-paid franking printed on the address side of the card. Changes in postal codes on October 1, 1900 afforded private companies the opportunity to publish picture postcards (ehagaki 絵葉書) where an illustration or design could be included on the obverse. These changes altered the landscape of the postcard market and starting a new cultural phenomenon.
Figure 1
Title/Caption: DAIBUTSU, KAMAKURA
Year: 1897 (postally used)
Publisher: Printing Bureau, Ministry of Finance
Medium: woodblock print on paper
Dimensions: 5.5 in X 3.5 in
Reverse Imprint: 大日本郵便, JAPANESE POST, 郵便はがき
The government-issued postal card here, postally canceled in 1897 (Meiji 30[1]), bears a four-color woodblock print of the Kamakura Daibutsu on the obverse [Fig. 1].[2] More commonly, this side was left blank so a message could be written; the reverse was saved for the name and address of the recipient. Illustrated picture postcards (sashie ehagaki 挿絵絵はがき) from this period, however, are far less common and show that the government was playing with designs before the postal code changes in 1900. The image of the Daibutsu is reminiscent of similar period photographs taken of the bronze statue head-on. Furthermore, the print is cropped where the card was cut from its sheet.
The unknown artist depicted a realistic scene with two Japanese travelers gazing upward, in awe, of the colossal image. It casts a gentle sign of reverence towards the Buddhist image without overt signs of deep religious piety. The overall scene is calm and peaceful, reflecting the beneficent gaze of the Daibutsu. With the exception of the steeply banking hillside and tall flight of steps leading to the top landing, the illustration depicts the location faithfully circa the 1880s, inclusive of the step ladder to sit atop the statue for photographs. The only curious element in the depiction of the statue is the inclusion of earrings, a detail often reserved for other Buddhist deities, but not for buddhas. In contrast, the original bronze work has long, pierced ear-lobes which one might easily confuse for earrings, especially from frontal photographs.[3]
Figure 2
The reverse bears a simple filigree border and 1 sen oval-shaped frank printed in light blue [Fig. 2]. The pre-paid 1 sen rate covered domestic postage until 1899 when the rate was increased. The franking design incorporated the three-leafed paulownia seal (kirimon 桐紋), the official insignia of the Japanese government, in its center. Examining the border design we can also find the government agency responsible for printing the card, namely the Printing Bureau in the Ministry of Finance.[4] Instructions in Japanese explain this side is reserved for the name and address of the recipient only. The paper is thinner than the card stock used by private publishers a few years later.
[1] The cancellation stamp is not clear, but Meiji 30 seems appropriate. The bisected cancellation date stamp (maruichi-gata hiduke in 丸一型日付印) was adopted in 1888 and the date reads year-month-day from right to left. Sanjū nen 三十年 (“year 30”) is barely legible and is equivalent to 1897. This dating also aligns with other evidence placing the cancellation between 1888 (signaling by the inclusion of the Printing Bureau 印刷局 instead of the Bureau of Paper Currency 紙幣寮 on the border inscription) and 1899, when the 1 sen oval frank was replaced by the 1½ sen chrysanthemum frank. These details are noted below.
[2] The colors are black, grey, green, and a brownish-yellow.
[3] According to Buddhist lore, as a sign of his renunciation of princely life, the Buddha removed his earrings, thus leaving his pierced earlobes empty.
[4] The full inscription reads, “issued by the Printing Bureau in the Ministry of Finance of the Empire of Japan” (Dainipponteikoku seifu Ōkurashō insatsu-kyoku seizō 大日本帝国政府大蔵省印刷局製造). The Ministry of Finance was also responsible for printing paper currency.
While doing research on graphic organizers, I was quickly enraptured by the idea of concept mapping. Concept maps are a means of spatially representing the relationships between ideas and showing how they can form complex networks of knowledge. These types of maps can help both instructors and students more firmly grasp the connections between apparently disparate ideas and help to form a more integrated understanding of a topic or a whole course.
Our university courses are taught in a linear fashion. Ideally we try to scaffold or build towards more complex ideas and skills as the term advances. But the ideas of our courses are not necessarily related to one another in such a simple linear fashion, they often connect to and reflect one another at multiple junctures. In fact, being able to conceptually grasp these multiple juncture points, or how ideas are related on multiple fronts, can be an important step towards real mastery of a subject. Visual resources such as concept maps have been shown to be potent pedagogical tools that aid in building this type of holistic perspective.
In terms of construction, concept maps can show relationships between ideas through spatial placement or proximity (or hierarchy, though that is more usually reserved for tree-diagrams). These maps may be centered around a central idea, although this is not necessary. Importantly, connecting lines (or arrows to show direction) are added to clarify relationships between ideas, and in more detailed maps those lines can be labelled, thus adding even more clarity and precision.
Inspired by its conceptual utility and using these basic principles I’ve just outlined, I set out to create a concept map for my writing course. I wrestled with having my students do their own in groups as an in-class activity (this is often recommended in the literature I consulted), but I decided I needed to struggle with it first to see how reasonable the task would be and how long it would take. Brainstorming the individual components (the ideas/skills I considered most critical) was not difficult, nor was connecting some of the ideas. The biggest challenge was trying to limit the different ways I could connect ideas. In fact, if I was to recreate my concept map from scratch, it almost certainly would look a little different. I tinkered with it a bunch, mostly playing with the labels on the connecting lines. I decided to give it to my students near the end of the term, using it as a cover to a stack of (digital) documents I provide each student (this includes some of their own reflective pieces and copies of handouts we’ve used in class that I think will serve them after our course). Nevertheless, below is my concept map for my writing course.
Concept Map Cover for my writing course.
I first showed the students the concept map as projected onto a screen in our classroom. I didn’t tell them what it was and allowed them a few minutes to discuss its meaning and purpose in small groups before having a short class discussion. Since I only learned about creating concept map towards the end of my course, I would likely do this at the beginning of the course next time.
It’s worth, first, marveling at the relative newness of grading. In fact, the now-standard letter-grading system only gained widespread popularity in US schools in the 1940s. This was partly a response to a decades-long concern over creating a standard of uniformity across institutions, thus standardized grading emerged as an administrative tool for interinstitutional coordination. Today, however, grading (or “evaluative feedback”) is mostly conceived as a pedagogical tool that operates as a source of communication to students and as a hotly debated source of student motivation.[1]
Over time, several different grading systems have developed, including non-grading (or un-grading) systems that see evaluative feedback as a detriment to student learning. Scholarly research on educational assessment is bewilderingly extensive, nevertheless here is a relatively short, curated list of several non-traditional methods of grading employed in higher education.
What is “Traditional Grading”?
We should note at the outset that there is no traditional “traditional grading” system, it’s an amorphous and ultimately abstract entity. Many instructors have vastly different grading policies and practices suited to their personal educational interests or tailored to their student needs. Yet, working from within a criteria-referenced paradigm, traditional grading could be characterized by its attempts to evaluate student work fairly, accurately, and uniformly across a class (and perhaps between classes or across time). Additionally, students earn points as assignments, projects, exams, and so forth, are completed to a certain level of quantified competency throughout the term. Lastly, a final grade is assigned based on these points values (often averaged) and a variety of other factors (like attendance, participation, extra credit, etc.).
Several concerns raised about this system include the perception that instructors are forced to inhabit the role of a grade “gate-keeper,” consequently engendering the distrust of their students. Some complain that the system encourages student grade performance over their learning mastery, a finding backed by research. Moreover, some question the ability for grades to be assignedfairly and uniformly across a class. Others will point to the potential waste of time for instructors who are forced to teach students who are satisfied with only the most minimal competency in a topic. Lastly, some would like to see a meaningful way to incorporate student effort in addition to student competency in any grading system.
Because of concerns like these, alternative grading systems have been proposed. While non-traditional systems are often promoted as better for learning and teaching, there is no value-neutral grading system. The mechanisms of the system will direct or encourage certain types of learning (and teaching) behaviors over others. Furthermore, certain grading systems may be more (or less) time-intensive for instructors or students, or cause efforts to be front-loaded or back-loaded in comparison to traditional systems. Because of this, it is worth making an informed decision on which grading system we employ, whether it’s a traditional or a non-traditional variety.
Wait…Aren’t these “Non-Traditional” Grading Systems Just Fads?
This is a fair question. Radical departures from norms may only seem “better” because they are new. One of the following examples, contract grading, has been widely studied since the 1970s and has been regularly found to have beneficial impacts on student learning and motivation. Additionally, both specifications grading and levels grading are built upon elements that have sound research behind them, even though, as entities, they have not yet been the focus of empirical research.
Specifically, and this applies to all three systems, a focus is placed on evaluation transparency, where the purpose of the exercise or assessment is clearly explained, the task is clearly described, and the evaluation criteria is clearly delineated (perhaps think of a grading rubric) and provided in advance so as to help students with self-evaluation. In some ways, these three alternative grading systems are designed to fully operationalize the principle of transparency, a relatively simple teaching intervention that has been shown to demonstrably enhance student success, including academic performance, student mastery of skills, student confidence, a sense of belonging leading to better retention. This does not represent the totality of these grading systems, but helps to explain their particular design. Non-grading (which could also incorporate transparency) has long been shown to be a better motivator of student effort and allows instructors to put their time and energy into areas that have a more appreciable impact on learning. Overall, these are not transitory fads, but systems built on the best available research in educational psychology and instructional design. With that being said, the individual implementation of these systems can be quite varied (any investigation into the literature on these will quickly reveal this fact) and as such rely heavily on the specific interests, purposes, and needs of the instructor.
Contract Grading
With its origins in the early 1970s, this form of grading has been championed by Peter Elbow, whose work has left a lasting mark in the field of composition studies. Due in part to Elbow, contract grading is most commonly used in composition and rhetoric courses, although it has wide application across disciplines. In an attempt to move student interest away from the commodity of the grade and towards nurturing more essential learning skills and behaviors, contract grading is based on establishing an agreement with students regarding the quantity and quality of work they need to complete, among other criteria, which is correlated to a particular grade. These agreements can be negotiated with individual students as they propose activities and projects, which, when completed, receive the agreed-upon grade. Contract grading can also be non-negotiable, or applied equally to the whole class with instructors providing the specified criteria and the related grading output.[2]Jane Danielewicz and Peter Elbow have outlined the latter method by establishing a B-grade set of criteria (attending class regularly, participating in all in-class activities, providing thoughtful peer-feedback, etc.) for students to work on for most of the semester (see resource below). Only with the submission of a final portfolio would a final grade higher than a B be considered for students who fulfilled the contract. Grades lower than a B are possible, but as the authors note, “we are frankly trying to badger and cajole every student into getting a B.” Some recent research by Dana Lindemann and Colin Harbke suggests this grading system succeeds in discouraging students from failing a course and also provides students with higher competency in the desired skills and topics. Of the non-traditional systems noted here, contract grading has received by far the most research.
Resources:
Danielewicz, Jane & Elbow, Peter. 2009. “A Unilateral Grading Contract to Improve Learning and Teaching,” College Composition and Communication, Vol. 61, No. 2, pp. 244-268. [here]
Inoue, Asao B. 2014. “A Grade-less Writing Course that Focuses on Labor and Assessing.” In Teague, D. & Lunsford, R. (Eds.), First-Year Composition: From Theory to Practice. West Lafayette: Parlor Press, pp. 71-110. [despite the title, the focus is on implementing contract grading][here]
Lindemann, D. F., & Harbke, C. R. 2011. “Use of Contract Grading to Improve Grades Among College Freshmen in Introductory Psychology.” SAGE Open. [here]
This is a more recent grading system – not entirely unrelated to contract grading – proposed by Linda Nilson and most robustly discussed in her 2015 work Specifications Grading: Restoring Rigor, Motivating Students, and Saving Faculty Time. At its core, “spec grading” relies on the establishment of clear and detailed specifications for what constitutes a passing piece of work (for Nilson, typically, B-level work or better). This is not unlike creating a grading rubric, but one only needs to detail a “satisfactory” set of criteria, not a full range of grading possibilities. Assignments are bundled, and the more advanced bundles represent more complex skills and/or content. Students are graded only pass/fail for individual assignments or tests and progress as they receive passing grades. Bundles, however, are tied to overall course grades, thus spec grading allows students to determine which grade/bundle they want to compete. Also incorporated is the rather interesting idea of tokens. These are allotted at the beginning of the term to each student and can be redeemed to revise an unsatisfactory assignment, hand in work 24-hours late, take a make-up exam, and so forth. Given the limited number of tokens, students need to think about how to use tokens strategically.
Adkison, Stephen & Tchudi, Stephen. 1997. “Grading on Merit and Achievement: Where Quality Meets Quantity”in Alternatives to Grading Student Writing, Stephen Tchudi, ed., National Council of Teachers of English, pp. 192-208. [not spec grading specifically, but discusses the importance of establishing clear criteria and using a credit/no credit grading scale]
Modeled on video game mechanics, Dustin Locke has recently developed a grading system similar to specification grading, but with different nuances. There are a total of three levels, each of which consists of a larger, more complex project, and which are each evaluated on a four-tier system: complete, almost, good effort, and not much progress. A student progresses to the next project/level only when they have received a “complete” on the previous project/level. Like the spec system by Nilson, a student needs to gain a certain competency or mastery of a skill or content before moving on to the next project. Importantly, there are specific windows when students can attempt to complete levels, thus the project/level any given student needs to be adaptable to the content that is being covered at that time in the course. The final evaluation a student receives on a level is correlated to a final course grade. This system is currently growing among philosophy instructors.
Not necessarily a fully reconceived grading system (eg. it is used as part of Peter Elbow’s contract grading system), portfolio assessment grew in popularity in the 1990s as interest gathered around alternative assessment techniques. In its simplest form, a portfolio is a collection of student work that exhibits their effort and progress in a course. It includes student-selected documents, learning products, or artifacts that they feel represent their best work, and as such, it usually represents work they have revised, sometimes significantly, and reflects their learning processes. Often students will be asked to include reflective documents, such as cover letters describing the selection process and the pieces the choose to include. Oftentimes perceived as an “authentic assessment” tool, this is very common in composition courses.
There have been many calls for the abolishment of grades, and there’s good research to suggest this is a wise pedagogical decision. In the broadest strokes, evaluative feedback (grades) alone, where students are essentially ranked in accordance to one another, doesn’t provide any valuable information about how to improve their understanding or competency nor has it been shown to provide any positive motivation for students to truly master a topic or take intellectual chances. Alfie Kohn, one of the most vocal proponents for diluting and removing grading, has made a career on this topic.
One point of confusion, however, is that by removing grading one removes all evaluation. This is not true. Emphasis shifts to descriptive evaluation where pertinent information related to improving student competency is shared and discussed. And while evaluative feedback and descriptive feedback are often coupled in practice in traditional grading systems, research cited by Kimberly Tanner and Jeffrey Schinske in their provocative “Teaching More by Grading Less (or Differently)” suggests that students are less likely to read comments that are paired with grades. Providing only descriptive feedback had been shown to be the most efficient for student learning and is also preferential to some students.
One of the most characteristic aspects of non-grading or ungrading is metacognition and self-assessment. Jesse Stommel, who has reflected thoughtfully on his practice of ungrading, has his students regularly engage in self-reflection through “process letters,” which open up a space of dialogue “not just about the course, but about their learning and about how learning happens.” This allows both for the instructor to provide constructive feedback and encouragement and for the student to cultivate the skills of critical self-assessment and future planning. Of course, working in a traditional institution, he needs to assign final course grades so Stommel has students grade themselves. He reserves the right to alter any grades his student submit, but he claims the most common alteration he makes is from an A- to an A, for the students who are too modest in their self-assessment.
McDonnell, Charles. 1997. “Total Quality: A Farewell to Grades”, in Alternatives to Grading Student Writing, Stephen Tchudi, ed., National Council of Teachers of English, pp. 210-223.
These alternatives are all reactions to dissatisfaction with traditional grading systems. From a bird’s eye view, these all emphasize pedagogical approaches that we should all immediately appreciate, including careful and strategic scaffolding of lesson plans and assignments, creating transparent and detailed evaluation rubrics, encouraging students to engage in metacognitive activity, and giving students a sense of purpose and ownership over their own learning. Several systems (perhaps my selection bias) foreground student competency or mastery that happens in stages, which in turn can allow for the implementation of a simpler evaluative feedback consisting of a two-tier pass/no pass (or pass/revise). In almost all cases, some power and authority is wrestled away from the instructor and placed in the hands of the student.
Other Resources on Grading
Docan, Tony N. 2006. “Positive and Negative Incentives in the Classroom: An Analysis of Grading Systems and Student Motivation, Journal of Scholarship of Teaching and Learning, Vol. 6, No. 2, pp. 21-40. [here]
Elbow, Peter. 1994. “Ranking, Evaluating, Liking: Sorting Out Three Forms of Judgment.” College English, Vol. 55, No. 2, pp. 187–206. [here]
Kohn, Alfie. 1999. Punished by Rewards: The Trouble with Gold Stars, Incentive Plans, A’s, Praise, and Other Bribes. Rev. ed. Boston: Houghton Mifflin.
Tanner, Kimberly & Schinske,, 2014. “Teaching More by Grading Less (or Differently),” CBE Life Science Education, Vol. 13, No. 2, pp. 187-206. [here]
Tchudi, Stephen, ed. 1997 (2011). Alternatives to Grading Student Writing. National Council of Teachers of English [here][this has been a constant source of inspiration for me]
Winkelmes, Mary-Ann; Bernacki, Matthew; Butler, Jeffrey; Zochowski, Michelle; Golanics, Jennifer & Weavil, Kathryn Harriss. 2016. “A Teaching Intervention that Increases Underserved College Students’ Success,” in Peer Review, Vol. 18, No. 1/2. [here]
Notes:
[1] For a brief survey on the literature regarding the positive and negative motivating effect of grades, see Docan 2006. Evaluative feedback is often distinguished from descriptive feedback which provides specific information about how a student can become more competent. Often these are used in conjunction. Grades are also used in an organizational manner, such that they are used to partition lessons, units, or terms. In this context grades are seen as a “summative assessment,” in contrast to a “formative assessment” which places more focus on informal tests of students’ understanding before administering a summative assessment.
[2] These two broad forms of contract grading are described in the 1971 work, Wad-Ja-Get? The Grading Game in American Education, by Howard Kirschenbaum, Sidney B. Simon, and Rodney W. Napier. Incidentally, when contract grading was increasingly discussed as an alternative grading system in the early 1970s, the idea of instituting a two-tier pass/fail grading system in contrast to the A-to-F system was also discussed widely. We will see that the combination of elements from both contract grading and a two-tier grading system are found in some of the most common alternative systems circulating today.
The September 1, 1923 Great Kantō Earthquake changed Japan. Striking at just before noon, the 7.9 magnitude earthquake razed the capital of Tokyo and the port of Yokohama and caused severe destruction around the entire Kantō region. The resulting fire and tsunami triggered by the earthquake claimed many more casualties. The resulting reconstruction efforts, involving the rebuilding of homes, government buildings, factories, shops, roads, canals, and bridges was a monumental effort. After seven years of toil, the rebirth of the capital and the symbolic renewal of Japan was marked by a week-long series of celebratory events held in March 1930.
Among the many structures decimated by the disaster also included historic temples and shrines, several of which were in Kamakura, part of what is now considered the Greater Tokyo Area. The ancient capital of Kamakura, after which the Kamakura Period (1185-1333) is named, was the home to the shogunate (bakufu 幕府, “tent government”), a hereditary military dictatorship that ruled over Japan and which granted only nominal authority to the imperial court. While the institution of the shogunate persisted until 1867, the capital was moved at the end of the Kamakura period back to the cultural center of Kyoto. After centuries of gradual decline, significant domestic and international interest was thrust back on to Kamakura in the Meiji period (1868-1912), when its proximity to the newly created international port of Yokohama increased its exposure to travelers and businesses.
When the 1923 earthquake hit the region, one of the early storylines that spread through American newspapers concerned the survival of the Kamakura Daibutsu, a destination known worldwide among globetrotting tourists. While the 93 metric tonne bronze statue had shifted 30 centimeters forward, warping its back and neck, it survived relatively unharmed. Because of the shift in weight, a portion of the stone pedestal was pushed into the ground. The pedestal itself, however, received extensive structural damage requiring significant repair, which occurred early in 1925.
Sometime after the 1923 earthquake, an unknown publisher issued a set of eight postcards memorializing the scenic views of Kamakura. Thematic sets of postcards had long been manufactured by Japanese publishers, both by private printers and the government. When the government first printed its own picture postcards (ehagaki 絵葉書) in 1902 (private companies were allowed two years earlier), it issued a set of six cards commemorating the Japanese–Korea Treaty of Amity (Nitchō-shūkōjōki 日朝修好条規). Regardless of this precedent for publishing a set of six cards, issuing a set of eight cards soon became standard for postcard publishers.
Why issue a set of eight cards? On theory traces the origin to the artistic preferences of Song Dynasty China. A set of eight scenic vistas has its historical origins in the brush paintings of Chinese artist and government bureaucrat Song Di 宋迪 (c. 1067 – c. 1080) who is attributed with created the visual genre of the Eight Views of the Xiao and Xiang Rivers (Xiāoxiāng Bājǐng瀟湘八景)[Song Di’s paintings are now lost]. The notion that a set of “eight scenic vistas” or “eight views” (hakkei 八景) constituted a complete and integrated set made its way into Japan by the fourteenth-century. This motivated Japanese artisans and poets to find their own groupings of “famous sites” (meisho 名所) and by the Edo period (1615-1868) each province claimed to have its own set of eight special vistas.[1] For example, Kanazawa 金沢 in Sagami Province, in which Kamakura also resides, became among the most famous sets of eight views in Japan, which was visually represented by woodblock artists such as Utagawa Hiroshige 歌川広重 (1797-1858). Perhaps surprisingly, given Kamakura’s historical importance as a national capital, a specific set of eight views was never expressed among pre-Meiji poets, artists, and woodblock printers.[2]
Given the precedence of the literary and artistic value of the eight scenic vistas genre, one could conclude postcard publishers were naturally filling in the gaps of history when they issued sets of eight postcards depicting famous locations around Kamakura. Kanji Satō suggests this would be premature, as it overlooks the particular means of postcard manufacturing. The photomechanical process of printing late Meiji postcards was dominated by the collotype press, which used relatively large sheets of paper that were later cut into individual cards. Each of these sheets accommodated eight individual postcards, thus sets were most efficiently designed in groupings of eight cards, totaling 8, 16, 24, or 32 cards per set. Thus the relationship to the historical groupings of eight scenic vistas portrayed as a “complete” set is most likely coincidental, although it dovetails nicely into traditional Japanese arts.
Figure 1 [Set 1] & Figure 2 [Set 2]
Sometime in the 1920s sets of picture postcards were more frequently issued in a paper sleeve or cover. These sleeves were initially imprinted with text or simple designs, but due to the highly competitive commercial market these utilitarian items became subject to the same visual expectations as the postcards themselves. The examples before us bear a hand-colored photographic image, which is given the same artistic care as the cards they hold [Fig. 1 & Fig. 2]. In addition to the minor and idiosyncratic coloring differences, each set uses a slightly different letterpress design. Set 2 also appears to be influenced by an Art Deco font style.
Figure 3 & Figure 4
The sleeve image of the Daibutsu matches the photograph of the Daibutsu on the interior postcard, save for the bokashi-style color wash of the sky. Both sleeves show a pink-hued twilight coloring of the sky while the cards are tinted with a daylight blue [Fig. 3 & Fig. 4]. The fact that these selves and cards are hand-colored is partly surprising. In the early part of the twentieth century many monochromatic photographic postcards were hand-tinted. In the early part of the Taishō period (1912-1926), however, a multi-color collotype printing process was developed, presenting a new option for publishers to speed up their production process. Some publishers took advantage of this technology and multi-color printed cards existed side-by-side with hand-tinted cards into the early 1920s. After the 1923 earthquake, however, almost all publishers adopted this new printing technology when they re-opened their businesses. Since these two sets of cards were issued post-1923 (see below), the fact that our unknown publisher was employing hand-coloring was an added selling point – justifiably noted on the sleeve.
Figure 5
Figure 6 [sleeve] & Figure 7 [postcard]
The photograph of the Daibutsu appears staged, as all of the onlookers face squarely towards the colossal statue with legs drawn together and arms at their sides. Upon close inspection, we also see very subtle signs of the 1923 earthquake that ravaged the Kantō region. The lanterns, for example, are shortened from their usual height, signs they needed to be pieced back together and re-erected. Additionally, the items normally arranged atop the offering table are now missing [Figs. 3 &4]. More significantly, the structure to the right of the Daibutsu appears slipshod, a significant difference from the ornate hipped roof building that stood in that same location for three decades [Fig. 5]. Moreover, in a detail that is only visible on the cover sleeves, wooden supports hold up the base of the pedestal, a clear indication of the damages rendered in 1923 [Fig. 6]. An artist carefully painted over the wooden supports for the postcard image, creating a new brick façade to complete the deception [Fig. 7]. The most evident sign of damage is the toppled tree that breaks into the foreground view from the left side [Figs. 3 &4].
Most likely, this photograph represents a period after the terrible destruction caused by the earthquake and after the initial clean-up of the temple grounds. Indeed, enough time has passed so the structure on the right could have been constructed. Yet, the ample work reported in refinishing the pedestal appears to have not yet been executed. Furthermore, in other photographs from April 1925 after the repairs, not only are the wooden supports removed, but the lanterns have been reconstructed fully and moved to the second landing. These details all suggest this photograph of the Daibutsu was taken after the Great Kantō earthquake on September 1, 1923, but before the repairs were finished in early 1925.
Figure 8 [Set 1] & Figure 9 [Set 2]
I suspect that Set 1 was printed in the mid-to-late 1920s. Regrettably, I have not yet been able to match the trademark of a drum (in the stamp box, see Fig. 8) to any known publisher. While Set 2 contains photographs of the same locations, only four of the eight photographs have been copied directly from Set 1. The other four cards offer different vantage points of those locations. Most importantly, the caption (in Japanese only) of the image of the bell tower at Kenchō-ji Temple in Set 2 distinguishes the bell as a National Treasure (kokuhō 國寶)[Fig. 23], a designation it received only on November 14, 1933, thus establishing a firm terminus post quem for this set. I would estimate that Set 2, also issued under an unknown publisher (although I’ve suspected Hoshinoya in the past), was printed in the mid-1930s. I remain uncertain if the same publisher issued both sets.
Below I offer brief historical commentary on the remaining seven views from both sets. The older set, i.e. Set 1, bears simpler captions that are set in blank spaces around the card. The newer set, i.e. Set 2, places the captions along the bottom edge of the cards, as is more traditional. The English in the bilingual caption is sometimes a loose translation of the Japanese, thus I provide a more literal rendering in square brackets.
Figure 10 & Figure 11
Set 1 caption: Hachiman Temple 鎌倉八幡宮 [Hachiman Shrine, Kamakura]
Set 2 caption: Hachiman Shrine Kamakura 鎌倉八幡宮 [Hachiman Shrine, Kamakura]
Residing at the geographical center of the city, the unusually long, nearly 2-kilometer long road leading to the Hachiman Shrine entrance traditionally doubled as the main thoroughfare of the city. Originally constructed in 1063, the founder of the Kamakura shogunate, Minamoto no Yoritomo 源頼朝 (1147-99), invited the tutelary kami of warriors, Hachiman 八幡, to reside in a new reconstruction of the shine in order to protect his fledgling government. Due to its relationship with the shogun and important political role, the Hachiman Shrine remains the most historically and culturally important site in Kamakura. Previous to 1868, this site was a shrine-temple complex (jingū-ji 神宮寺), meaning it was used as a place for Buddhist practice and the worship of kami.
Figure 12 & Figure 13
Set 1 caption: Tsuchiro Kamakura 鎌倉大塔宮土牢 [“The prison at Ōtōnomiya Shrine, Kamakura”]
Set 2 caption: Tsuchiro Kamakura 鎌倉大塔宮土牢 [“The prison at Ōtōnomiya Shrine, Kamakura”]
The Kamakura Shrine was erected by Emperor Meiji in 1869 to honor Prince Moriyoshi 護良親王 (also read Morinaga) (1308-1335) who was imprisoned and killed as an act of political retribution in 1335. Before he actively helped his father lead forces against the shogun, Moriyoshi was a Buddhist monk and previously held the position of head abbot of Enryaku-ji Temple 延暦寺, the prestigious seat of the Tendai school.[3] Moriyoshi’s life and unfortunate death captured the imagination of the Japanese and he was well known even before the creation of the shrine memorializing him. The postcard photograph depicts the cave behind the main shrine hall (haiden 拝殿), which according to tradition is where the prince was held captive for nine months. The alternate name of this site is Ōtōnomiya Shrine 大塔宮, for a pseudonym used by Moriyoshi.
Figure 14 & Figure 15
Set 1 caption: View of Yenoshima 七里ヶ濱ヨリ江ノ島ヲ望 [Distant View of Enoshima from Shichirigahama]
Set 2 caption: View of Enoshima (Island) near Kamakura 七里ヶ濱ヨリ江ノ島ヲ望ム [Distant View of Enoshima from Shichirigahama]
Figure 16 & Figure 17
Set 1: View of Yenoshima 江ノ島入口 [The Entrance to Enoshina]
Set 2: Entrance of Enoshima (Island) near Kamakura 江ノ島入口棧橋 [The Entrance Bridge to Enoshina]
The famed island of Enoshima is a center of worship to the goddess Benzaiten 弁財天, a figure with origins in India and who entered Japan in the 6th through 8th centuries. As one of her roles, Benzaiten was considered the protector of the nation and thus was favored by military leaders. The founder of the Kamakura shogunate, Minamoto no Yoritomo 源頼朝 (1147-99), took advantage of the proximity of Enoshima to his new capital and mandated the construction of a torii on the island to memorialize his devotion to the goddess. Taking advantage of visitors to the islands, entrepreneurs soon set up a variety of shops, consequently making the excursion even more attractive to travelers. For early Western tourists, the sandy beaches made the island a favorite resort area. Older woodblock prints show that the island was connected to the Shichirigahama beach by a shallow sandbar before the bridge was constructed.
Figure 18 & Figure 19
Set 1 caption: Hase Temple 鎌倉長谷寺 [Hasa-dera Temple, Kamakura]
Set 2 caption: Hase Temple Kamakura 鎌倉長谷寺 [Hasa-dera Temple, Kamakura]
With origins in the 8th century, this temple is best known for housing one of the largest wooden statues in Japan. It is a 9 meter (approx. 30 foot) tall statue of the Buddhist goddess Kannon 觀音. Its purported origins are rather interesting. It is believed an artist named Tokudo 徳道 made two large Kannon statues from a single fragrant camphor tree in 721. One was enshrined in Hase-dera Temple in Nara, while the second was set adrift into the sea. Fifteen years later the wooden statue washed ashore near Kamakura and a temple, also named Hase-dera, was constructed to honor it. Like many religious sites in Kamakura during the Kamakura period, this temple was restored and expanded. Several later postcard sets of Kamakura include a view of the Kannon statue.
Figure 20 & Figure 21
Set 1: Yengakuji Temple Kamakura 鎌倉円覚寺舍利殿 [Reliquary Hall of Engaku-ji Temple, Kamakura]
Set 2: Engaku-ji Temple Kamakura 鎌倉圓覺寺山門 [Front Entrance of Engaku-ji Temple, Kamakura]
Founded in 1282 during the Kamakura period, Engaku-ji Temple was included as one of the Kamakura’s “Five Mountains” (gozan 五山), a network of Zen Buddhist temples supervised by a state bureaucracy but that also received the state’s protection. In the Meiji period (1868-1912) it became the center for Zen study in the eastern part of Japan. Not coincidentally, the famed popularizer of Zen in America, D.T. Suzuki (1870-1966), trained there (though he remained a layperson until his death). Set 1 depicts the temple Reliquary Hall (noted in the Japanese caption) which houses a tooth of the Buddha. This building is registered as a National Treasure. Set 2 depicts the temple front gate (sanmon 山門, “mountain gate”), itself a prominent piece of architecture on the temple grounds.
Figure 22 & Figure 23
Set 1 caption: Kenchoji Temple Kamakura 鎌倉建長寺山門 [Front Entrance of Kenchō-ji Temple, Kamakura]
Set 2 caption: Tsurigane (Bell-Tower) Kencho-ji Temple Kamakura 鎌倉建長寺鐘樓(國寶) [Bell Tower at Kenchō-ji Temple, Kamakura (National Treasure)]
Founded in 1253 during the Kamakura period, Kenchō-ji is the oldest Zen training temple in Japan. Like Engaku-ji, it was also included among the “Five Mountains” network. Set 1 depicts the temple front gate. And while Set 2 depicts the bell tower, the significant historical entity is the temple bell (bonshō 梵鐘), itself designated as a National Treasure (kokuhō 國寶), the most precious of Japan’s historic and cultural properties. Cast in 1255 by Mononobe Shigemitsu 物部重光 it is the second largest in the Kantō region, only to one housed in Engaku-ji. It is believed that the goddess Benzaiten, who was thought to reside on the nearby island of Enoshima (see above), offered her divine protection to have it made. Some modern scholars have suggested Mononobe as the caster of the Kamakura Daibutsu since this bell was made around the same period, although this remains unlikely.
[2] Nenzi (2004) outlines the development of Kamakura and Sagami generally into a destination spot through the identification of “tourist packages.”
[3] Moriyoshi (his Buddhist name was Son’un 尊雲) had a complex relationship to his monastic vocation, since his vital role as abbot was to enlist the help of important temples and warrior monks to help his father, Emperor Go-Daigo 後醍醐天皇 (1288-1339), in his fight against the Kamakura shogunate.
For nearly three decades after the first Japanese postal cards were issued in 1873, printing and distribution were strictly controlled by the government. Only with changes in postal codes in 1900 could private publishers start printing and selling their own postcards. Importantly, and for the first time, these privately issued cards could bear images on the obverse, thus being termed “picture postcards” (ehagaki絵葉書). Previous government-issued specimens were printed blank to accommodate a sender’s written message. Moreover, the growing use among Japanese print shops of inexpensive collotype printing equipment meant photographs could be easily reproduced for this new medium. Many early photographic postcards are reproductions of images originally created and sold in Japanese photography studios, as is the case with the examples here.
Figure 1
Title/Caption: DAIBUTSU AT KAMAKURA
Year: 1900-1907 (postally unused)
Photographer: Esaki Reiji 江崎礼二 (1845-1910)[?]
Medium: collotype print on cardstock, hand-tinted
Dimensions: 5.5 in X 3.5 in
Reverse Imprint: Union Postale Universelle. CARTE POSTALE, 萬國郵便聯合端書
This postcard depicts the Kamakura Daibutsu, scaled to fit in the upper-left corner of the card [Fig. 1]. The blank space on the right side was reserved for a written message; Japanese postal code required the reverse side to be reserved solely for the name and address of the recipient. Once messages could be included on the reverse in 1907, postcard images were regularly scaled to fit the entirety of the obverse side.
For artistic flourish, the publisher of our card employed a subtle trompe-l’œil, making it appear as if the corner of the photographic image is curling off the paper. Visual illusions such as this would make the postcard stand out among a sea of similar imagery. Printed in large block lettering, the caption clearly denotes the subject of the photograph, the “Daibutsu at Kamakura.”
Figure 2
Title/Caption: 451 [or 461] DAIBUTSU AT KAMAKURA
Year: 1900-1907 (postally unused)
Photographer: Esaki Reiji 江崎礼二 (1845-1910)[?]
Medium: collotype print on cardstock, hand-tinted
Dimensions: 5.5 in X 3.5 in
Reverse Imprint: Union Postale Universelle. CARTE POSTALE, 萬國郵便聯合端書
Another postcard employs the same photograph. Here, the image covers a larger portion of the card, but lacks the trompe-l’œil effect [Fig. 2]. Additionally, the caption is much smaller and incorporates an identifying stock number, 451 (or possibly 461). It is of note that a caption which incorporates a stock number with a title is characteristic of prints made by Japanese photography studios of the 1880’s and 1890’s. By comparing this stock number to known lists gleaned from published Japanese studio albums, it appears likely the original photograph was taken by Esaki Reiji 江崎礼二 (1845-1910), a famed Tokyo-based photographer.[1]
Esaki apprenticed under the pioneering photographer Shimooka Renjō 下岡蓮杖 (1823-1914) in 1870 before opening his own studio in 1871 in Asakusa Park.[2] He soon established himself as a technical master, among the first of Japanese photographers to adopt the new gelatin dry-plate (zerachin kanpan ゼラチン乾板) technique in 1883 and executing technically difficult pictures of a naval mine detonating in the Sumida River (1883) and night-time exposures of a lunar eclipse (1884) and exploding fireworks (1885). The shorter exposure times of the dry-plate process also allowed Esaki to more easily photograph fidgeting children, an expertise he proudly displayed in a famous collage of more than 1700 young children and infants (1893).[3]
Figure 3
The photograph of the Daibutsu by Esaki (or one of his studio assistants) depicts the bronze statue from the southwest corner, an uncommon, but notunprecedented angle. More relevant to the site’s religious heritage, the photograph shows a line of Japanese pilgrims (jinreisha 巡礼者) in front of the Daibutsu, easily identified by their broad circular sedge hats and walking staffs carried over their shoulders [Fig. 3]. The mise-en-scène is more relaxed than reverent. The lead pilgrim, who holds his hat in his hand, appears to read the small rectangular sign perched on the pedestal (which, coincidentally, forbids climbing on the statue), while his fellow travelers casually stand conversing with one another. Only the temple priest by the offering table glances directly towards the camera.[4] This mundane expression of religious piety stands in contrast to the highly orchestrated images of devotion sometimes staged by Western photographers. Significantly, the distinction between Japanese pilgrim and tourist is often blurred, as both can engage in similar activities at a pilgrimage site, including visits to the temple souvenir shop.
Although faded, the hand-tinting is still visible in both cards, with the slate blue colossus overlooking his faithful visitors. The elements in the scene suggest this photograph was taken in the late 1890’s.[5]
Figure 4
The reverse of both cards is bordered by an ornamental filigree-like design in burgundy ink [Fig. 4]. These are examples of “undivided back” cards, since no line yet separates the areas on the back where the correspondence and address would later come to be written. This functions now as an easy identifier for dating old postcards, with these dating between 1900 and 1907. Since it was not yet common for publishers to imprint their names or trademarks on the back, it is difficult to tell who printed these beautifully rendered cards.
[1] Stock lists for Esaki’s studio do not include numbers 451 or 461, but numbers 452 to 460 are all images of Kamakura, specifically Hachiman Temple, the Daibutsu, and the lotus ponds in Kōtokuin (the temple that houses the Daibutsu). See Bennett 2006a: 129. Unfortunately, almost all attributions to Esaki and his studio remain tentative and more work desperately needs to be done on his photographic oeuvre.
[2] For Esaki’s biographical information, see Bennett 2006b: 165 and here and here. Several Japanese resources note his name as “Ezaki,” but I follow the standard English “Esaki,” which is also how he promoted his studio on photographic mounts and in other published materials (the older “Yesaki” can also be found).
[3] This image was also sold in the United States through Sears & Roebuck catalogues.
[4] Closer inspection reveals a young boy towards the far right of the photograph, holding his hat in his hand, also possibly peering towards the camera
.
[5] I have seen postcards of this image cancelled in January 1902, setting a firm terminus ante quem for the photograph. I have also seen a third postcard, oriented vertically, bearing this same photograph.
As a trained historian who has (rather belatedly) developed an interest in Instructional Design, I grew curious about its historical origins and development. Quite frankly, The more I learned about various teaching techniques the more I became interested in tracing the trajectories and relationships between specific theories and concepts. This is a cursory attempt to make sense of this field of study and place it in relation to the Scholarship of Teaching and Learning, the concept of Active Learning, and the advancements of Educational Technology.
Early Years
The origins of “Instructional Design” (ID) are often traced to the creation of training materials for the military during World War II. Yet, it was not until the 1960’s that a more systematic approach to effective teaching began to appear. This included combining aspects of task analysis, learning objective specification, and criterion testing – all hallmarks of modern higher education – into an overarching model for effective instruction. The elementary principles were derived from the works of psychologists such as B.F. Skinner, Benjamin Bloom, Robert Gagné, and Robert Mager.[1] At this stage, there was interest in creating an overarching “systems approach” to teaching and learning, thus creating what may be now considered a specialized field of study.
As a result of these advances, in the early 1970’s many universities started funding instructional improvement centers (with names such as the “Instructional Systems Development Center”) to help faculty improve the quality of their instruction. In 1977, the first peer-reviewed journal devoted to ID, the Journal of Instructional Development, was published.[2] Moreover, in the same year, the Association for Education Communication and Technology (AECT; originating as the Department of Visual Instruction in 1923) proposed a formal definition of ID centered on five core elements: analysis, design, development, implementation, and evaluation (ADDIE).[3] Thus, ID was founded on a specific methodology focused on improving teaching efficacy.
The interest in teaching instruction faltered in higher education, however, in the 1980s and many of the improvement centers were defunded or disbanded. Furthermore, the Journal of Instructional Development ceased publication in 1988 due to “fiscal austerity.”[4] The 1990s proved to be an important juncture for the study and practice of teaching in higher education.
Constructivism and “Active Learning”
One of the important shifts in the 1990s was the growing interest in constructivism as a learning theory. Constructivism, viewed most broadly, has roots in epistemology, psychology, and sociology, and attempts to explain how people come to know the world around them.[5] Constructionist perspectives on learning are oriented around several principles:
learning is an active, adaptive process
knowledge is idiosyncratically constructed through personal filters of experience, beliefs, or goals
knowledge is socially constructed
effective learning requires meaningful, authentic (“real world”), open-ended, and challenging problems for the learner to work through[6]
Overall, the constructivist theory of learning is commonly positioned in opposition to the older behaviorist model, where learning is characterized as a passive stimulus-response to highly controlled surroundings. Following this new theoretical approach, learners are no longer treated as inert, empty vessels to be filled with knowledge, but active participants who try to develop effective ways to solve novel problems. While some have criticized this simplistic characterization of behaviorism and the “traditional” views of learning, it cannot be denied that this new interest in constructivism in the 1990s spurred a novel wave of research into optimizing the learning environment for this new conception of the “engaged” learner.[7] Since knowledge (or, anything beyond low-order memorization) cannot be simply be transferred from one mind to another according to this new framework, this leads to an inconvenient reality, namely, “we can teach, even well, without having students learn.”[8] Consequently, developing a full repertoire of teaching strategies based on sound research became ever more important. This coincided with a broader interest in teaching-related scholarship (discussed below).
It should be remembered that constructivism is not an ID theory. Instructional Design attempts to adopt relevant learning theories and develop a systematic approach to effective teaching. It should also be noted that instructional design aims to develop a range of pedagogical techniques – a proverbial pedagogical toolbox – thus, constructivism is only one learning theory that has been adopted. Nevertheless, the 1990s saw a growth in literature speaking to constructivist-based “active learning” environments, so much so that many of the most common teaching best practices today reflect, or have been reinforced by, the so-called constructivist movement.
One of the most well-known targets of active learning proponents is the classical lecture, now sometimes framed (unjustly) as an out-of-date modality of instruction. In 1991, Charles Bonwell and James Eison, authors of the seminal work Active Learning: Creating Excitement in the Classroom, proclaimed that “the exclusive use of the lecture in the classroom constrains student learning.” Instead, they promoted instructional activities “involving students in doing things and thinking about what they are doing.” Critics will often interpret this to mean that all lecturing activities need to be replaced by student-led learning initiatives. This is a misunderstanding of the application of active learning. The concern of Bronson and Eison was directed towards the exclusive use of lecturing, where students only take notes and follow directions. To enhance learning, they recommend routinely engaging in activities throughout the lecture where students can reflect upon, analyze, evaluate or synthesize the material that was presented.
These activities can vary greatly, but the general goal is to have students engage in higher-order thinking through reading, writing, and discussing. These can be very simple activities (such as employing think-pair-share) or more complex (such as providing a new reading where a recently learned theory needs to be applied). In practice, these activities are not significantly different from what Michael Scriven called “formative evaluation” (or formative assessment) in 1967. These are assessment procedures performed during the learning process, as opposed to “summative evaluation” (or summative assessment) which takes place at the completion of a learning activity (often measured by exams).[9] A wide range of these activities which provide crucial feedback to students are often placed under the category of Classroom Assessment Techniques (CATs), first coined by K. Patricia Cross and Thomas Angelo in 1988.[10]
The point is to puncture lectures with moments of student activity in order to break the line of one-way transmission in exchange for more interactive moments of cognitive processing. This can occur between instructor and student, between students, or function as an individual reflective exercise. While there is no pre-determined time frame to engage active learning activities, the common recommendation is to allow time for reflection and processing every 12-20 minutes of lecture. The timing depends on the complexity, density, and novelty of the information as well as the goals of the instructor. In practice, the instructor revolves between two roles in the active classroom setting, functioning first as the “sage on the stage” by providing important information or modeling procedural knowledge, then acting as a “guide on the side” by coaching and providing feedback to assist in the students’ development.
Teaching Informed by Scholarship
A second shift in the 1990s was the interest in developing scholarly literature that focused on teaching and learning in higher education. The theoretical underpinnings were outlined in Ernst Boyer’s Scholarship Reconsidered: Priorities of the Professorate in 1990. Boyer was the president of the Carnegie Foundation for the Advancement of Teaching and called for faculty to expand beyond their traditional roles as scholars and consider how to better serve college and university missions to educate an increasingly diverse student population. Boyer proposed reconceiving scholarship (“the work of the professoriate”) as four distinctive types: scholarship of discovery (e.g. traditional research in one’s discipline), scholarship of integration (e.g. composing introductory textbooks), scholarship of application (e.g. applied research), and scholarship of teaching.[11] It was this last category, scholarship of teaching, where Boyer argued that teaching should not merely be “tacked on” to the duties of faculty, but should be treated as an active area of intellectual exploration where instructors plan, evaluate, and revise their pedagogical approaches based on a rigorous understanding of relevant literature. In other words, teaching and research should not be seen as representing opposing scholarly interests because the research of teaching in higher education is a valuable contribution to scholarship in itself.
Soon after Boyer’s influential publication, other scholars such Robert B. Barr and John Tagg started to highlight the limitations of perceiving higher education as mere access to instruction and suggested examining the value of improving student learning. The suggestions of Barr and Tagg presumed a constructivist theory of education where the focus was centered on the learner.[12] Consequently, the following president of the Carnegie Foundation, Lee Schulman, formally incorporated “learning” into Boyer’s “scholarship of teaching,” thus creating the field of the Scholarship of Teaching and Learning (SoTL, often pronounced “sō-tul”) as it is known today.[13]
While there is no formal criteria for research to fall under the rubric of SoTL, one working definition has been suggested by Michael Potter and Erica Kustra: “the systematic study of teaching and learning, using established or validated criteria of scholarship, to understand how teaching (beliefs, behaviours [sic], attitudes, and values) can maximize learning, and/or develop a more accurate understanding of learning, resulting in products that are publicly shared for critique and use by an appropriate community.”[14] Generally, however, SoTL is rather broad and encompasses any approach to teaching and learning in higher education that mirrors traditional research, namely having defined goals, appropriate methods, significant results, and appropriate presentation.
I have seen no attempts to try and define the relationship between ID and SoTL. Even though they have disparate origins, they tend to share common methods and goals. In practice, because of the specific initiatives of the Carnegie Foundation, SoTL appears to represent the scholarly output of disciplinary specialists interested in researching teaching practices in higher education, while ID represents the pragmatic work done in departments found on campuses (e.g. holding workshops, publishing SoTL-oriented journals [see below], managing informative websites on pedagogy, etc.). These departments often appear under a wide range of names such as the Center for Teaching, Center for Excellence in Teaching and Learning, and Teaching Commons.[15] Perhaps the largest distinction is that historically ID has been interested in all levels of education (including training for business and the military), of which higher education was just one dimension. Additionally, ID has historically shown a closer affiliation with instructional media and technology (see below).
Ultimately, SoTL has become a recognized field of research both within individual disciplines and as a stand-alone discipline. Since 1990, there has been rapid growth in the publication of discipline-neutral journals exploring effective teaching. Below is an incomplete list of running publications falling under the SoTL rubric (including publications that existed previous to Boyer’s publication):
College Teaching (1953-, formerly Improving College & University Teaching)
Journal of Effective Teaching in Higher Education (1996-, formerly Journal of Effective Teaching, Center for Teaching Excellence and Center Faculty Leadership at the University of North Carolina Wilmington)
[*A much longer list of journals related to higher education can be found here*]
Numerous disciplines also have a history of studying how students learn within their fields, such as history (Teaching History, 1969-), sociology (Teaching Sociology, 1973-), or philosophy (Teaching Philosophy, 1975-), among many others. While SoTL research tends to be less tied to specific disciplinary domains, some will include these publications under the SoTL rubric. A helpful list of journal publications devoted to teaching and sorted by discipline is published digitally by the University of Saskatchewan Library (here).
Educational Technology and Instructional Media
A third shift in the 1990’s, which I will only discuss briefly here, was the growing interest in using computers and eventually the internet, for instructional purposes. Historically, we could trace the origins of ID to pre-World War II interests in technological advancements perceived as having an application for teaching. This would include early twentieth-century school museums and new visual media such as magic lantern slides and stereoview cards. In the coming decades, this interest would shift to the use of video and television.[16] This focus on researching (and adopting) the newest technology for the classroom is revealed in the name of one of the oldest professional groups dedicated to ID, the Association for Education Communication and Technology (AECT), which was started in 1923 as the Department of Visual Instruction. Additionally, many of the earliest journals dedicated to ID, published under the editorial supervision of the AECT, had titles such as A[udio] V[isual] Communication Review, Tech Trends, Media Management, and School Learning Resources. After World War II, Educational Technology (also known as Instructional Media, among other names) was increasingly seen as separate from the research interests of the newly developing field of ID. While these fields clearly overlap, they also covered specific, complementary niches.[17]
Some of the more recent interests of this field are the development and management of university Learning Management Systems (LMS) and the designing of online or blended classrooms, especially for long-distance courses. This has spawned a new major in several American colleges and universities called Learning Design and Technology (LDT).
TL;DR
Many Instructional Development departments in colleges and universities operate useful, information-rich websites. If I had to choose just one on the merits of providing ample, practical information about university pedagogy while also providing some historical context, it would be the Vanderbilt University Center for Teaching (if you navigate to the Center for Teaching home page, look for the Teaching Guides menu).
Notes:
[1] I am indebted to Reiser 2001a and Reiser 2001b for this synoptic history of Instructional Design.
[2] The use and study of various forms of instructional media, such as audio-visual materials, is often treated as a parallel area of study to instructional design, with the recent focus on the use of computers and long-distance education.
[3] For discussion on the various definitions of Instructional Design see Branch & Dousay 2015: 14-8, and Reiser 2001a: 53-4. Robert Reiser offers a more nuanced definition of Instructional Design: “The field of instructional design and technology encompasses the analysis of learning and performance problems, and the design, development, implementation, evaluation and management of instructional and noninstructional processes and resources intended to improve learning and performance in a variety of settings, particularly educational institutions and the workplace. Professionals in the field of instructional design and technology often use systematic instructional design procedures and employ a variety of instructional media to accomplish their goals. Moreover, in recent years, they have paid increasing attention to noninstructional solutions to some performance problems. Research and theory related to each of the aforementioned areas is also an important part of the field.” See Reiser 2001a and 2001b. Some have suggested that instructional development mirrors the scientific method, see Andrews & Goodson 1980.
[4] Higgins et. al. 1989: 8. Technically, the Journal of Instructional Development was combined with Educational Communication and Technology Journal (titled previous to 1978 as A[udio] V[isual] Communication Review) and consolidated as Educational Technology Research and Development. Additionally, the publications Tech Trends, Media Management, and School Learning Resources were also consolidated, see Higgins et. al. 1989, also see Dick & Dick 1989: 87.
[5] The figures most prominently associated with constructivism are Lev Vygotsky and Jean Piaget. See, e.g. Owen-Smith 2018: 17-8.
[6] There is no consensus definition of the constructivist theory of learning, but a survey of the literature suggests a polythetic dimension. For delineations of the elements of constructivism see, among others, Fox 2001: 24, Reiser 2001b: 63, and Karagiorgi & Symeou 2005: 18.
[7] For a summary overview of critiques against the novelty of constructivism, see Fox 2001. I agree with Fox that it is highly unlikely any “traditionalist” view of learning proposed the learning process to be entirely passive. For a list of scholarship exploring the relationship between constructivism and more “traditional approaches, see Reiser 2001b: 63. Furthermore, in the camp of constructivism, there are more radical and more conservative views regarding the relative importance the external environment and internal, individual frameworks; see the brief discussion in Karagiorgi & Symeou 2005: 19.
[12] Barr and Tagg differentiate between the Instruction Paradigm and the Learning Paradigm, see Barr & Tagg 1995.
[13] This is also reflected in the Carnegie Academy for the Scholarship of Teaching and Learning (CASTL) launched in 1998. For Shulman’s analysis of the importance of learning, see Shulman 1999. A brief history of SoTL can be found here (by Mary Huber) and here (by Nancy Chick).
Andrews, Dee H. & Goodson, Ludwika A. 1980. “A Comparative Analysis of Models of Instructional Design.” Journal of Instructional Development, pp. 161-82.
Barr, Robert B. & Tagg, John. 1995. “From Teaching to Learning: A New Paradigm for Undergraduate Education,” Change, Vol. 27, No. 6, pp. 13-25.
Bonwell, Charles & Eison, James. 1991. Active Learning: Creating Excitement in the Classroom. ASHE-ERIC Higher Education Reports.
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Sometime in the 1920s sets of picture postcards were more frequently issued in a paper sleeve or cover. These sleeves were initially imprinted with text or simple designs, but due to the highly competitive commercial market these utilitarian items became subject to the same visual expectations as the postcards themselves. The examples before us bear a hand-colored photographic image, which is given the same artistic care as the cards they hold [Fig. 1 & Fig. 2]. In addition to the minor and idiosyncratic coloring differences, each set uses a slightly different letterpress design. Set 2 also appears to be influenced by an Art Deco font style.
The photograph of the Daibutsu by Esaki (or one of his studio assistants) depicts the bronze statue from the southwest corner, an uncommon, but 
Personal Site of Peter Romaskiewicz 