Buxton’s discussion of sketching as a tool for designers is essentially a recommendation that we pour ideas out of our brains so that they can be applied to an ongoing “conversation” about our work. The role of a sketch is to be a physical representation of the thought process—their designs are rough, ambiguous and flexible, making them ideal for visualizing a product that is in development. I have occasionally used sketches when I want to represent something visually for myself, but more often I use outlines for basically the same purpose—to put my thoughts “out there” where they can be spatially organized according to a logic that supports the task at hand. Buxton emphasizes that sketches can be readily edited or easily discarded; with the technology of word processing for my outlines, both are easily accomplished (with a minimum of waste!). I certainly understand what he means by sketching as a “conversation,” because in creating outlines I often feel like I am engaged in a dialogue with myself—headings are added and rearranged, useful quotes are nested under appropriate sections, and the language used is that which comes directly out of my head-- whatever it takes for me to understand and get a handle on the thing I am working on.
When he starts writing about storytelling, Buxton begins to sound much like Kolko—using language, designers can model the user experiences they are attempting to achieve. In many ways my outlines are sketches that attempt to tell a story. These methodologies are useful and should be common practices for anyone who is designing anything; while reading I felt frequently felt myself thinking, “well yeah, obviously,” but ultimately I think Buxton makes an important point about the way that humans tend to work through problems: we need that element of tangibility because such things serve as “anchors” for our thoughts, allowing our brains to make new connections that improve upon what already exists.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Response to Kaplan and Sullivan readings
This semester I have found myself immersed in discussions of writing pedagogy as a result of my job tutoring in the Writing Center; these readings provide useful insights into the role of composition educators in a technological landscape which is repositioning writers in the publishing process.
One issue addressed by Kaplan which resonates with my experiences in the Writing Center is that of the “proliferation of freshman English as the most inevitable part of a college education.” I would say that 70% of our clientele come to us for help in one of these intro-to-composition courses; this is because, as Molly Wingate suggests in her essay “What Line?”, freshman English serves as a “gatekeeper” to American academics. This term brings the importance of writing teachers into focus; Paulo Firere is quoted stating “It is impossible to think of education as an autonomous or neutral practice.” We (as teachers of writing) must, therefore, be aware of how the hegemonic negotiations occurring in emerging communication technologies will be conveyed through our instruction. Since writing can no longer concern itself only with print media, we must address the ideological connotations of digital media like blogs, hypertexts, and even tweets. In this way I see “rhetoric” as a powerful pedagogical tool for bridging the gap, so to speak, between the methods we use and our goals as writers.
Although the Sullivan article reads as very dated, she presents some relevant points. In particular, she suggests that accepting the computer as a tool for writing means embracing the rhetoric of the “page.” I have witnessed this pedagogical strategy being applied in ENGL 103 here at Clemson—the first project students were assigned was a “Visual Rhetoric Analysis” in which they had to choose an image (usually an advertisement or political cartoon with some overt motivation) and use language to describe how that image was being used. This necessitated that the students incorporate multimodal layouts for their papers, and the emphasis placed on examining the visual design of images lent further awareness to the students’ own design choices. I worked with many students over the course of this assignment; they frequently brought in saved drafts on their laptops (which brings to mind Sullivan’s distinction between paper-drafts and digital ones as an important facet of the role computers play in the writing process) and desired feedback on not only their prose, but also on their layout/formatting decisions. My job became more than what is implied by “writing tutor”; I would show them how to wrap text around images, format their paragraphs, arrange captions and annotations, and finally how to deliver these carefully developed pages to their instructor with methods ranging from print (discussing the benefits/drawbacks of double-sided pages) to publishing on class blogs or uploading Google dox.
In conclusion, there is no doubt in my mind that Sullivan’s prescribed “new pedagogy of writing” has begun to emerge in the two decades since she wrote her article. As Kaplan suggests, the “computer revolution” is above all else a “writing revolution,” and this is clearly reflected in the writing classroom of the 2010s (or whatever we call where we are now).
One issue addressed by Kaplan which resonates with my experiences in the Writing Center is that of the “proliferation of freshman English as the most inevitable part of a college education.” I would say that 70% of our clientele come to us for help in one of these intro-to-composition courses; this is because, as Molly Wingate suggests in her essay “What Line?”, freshman English serves as a “gatekeeper” to American academics. This term brings the importance of writing teachers into focus; Paulo Firere is quoted stating “It is impossible to think of education as an autonomous or neutral practice.” We (as teachers of writing) must, therefore, be aware of how the hegemonic negotiations occurring in emerging communication technologies will be conveyed through our instruction. Since writing can no longer concern itself only with print media, we must address the ideological connotations of digital media like blogs, hypertexts, and even tweets. In this way I see “rhetoric” as a powerful pedagogical tool for bridging the gap, so to speak, between the methods we use and our goals as writers.
Although the Sullivan article reads as very dated, she presents some relevant points. In particular, she suggests that accepting the computer as a tool for writing means embracing the rhetoric of the “page.” I have witnessed this pedagogical strategy being applied in ENGL 103 here at Clemson—the first project students were assigned was a “Visual Rhetoric Analysis” in which they had to choose an image (usually an advertisement or political cartoon with some overt motivation) and use language to describe how that image was being used. This necessitated that the students incorporate multimodal layouts for their papers, and the emphasis placed on examining the visual design of images lent further awareness to the students’ own design choices. I worked with many students over the course of this assignment; they frequently brought in saved drafts on their laptops (which brings to mind Sullivan’s distinction between paper-drafts and digital ones as an important facet of the role computers play in the writing process) and desired feedback on not only their prose, but also on their layout/formatting decisions. My job became more than what is implied by “writing tutor”; I would show them how to wrap text around images, format their paragraphs, arrange captions and annotations, and finally how to deliver these carefully developed pages to their instructor with methods ranging from print (discussing the benefits/drawbacks of double-sided pages) to publishing on class blogs or uploading Google dox.
In conclusion, there is no doubt in my mind that Sullivan’s prescribed “new pedagogy of writing” has begun to emerge in the two decades since she wrote her article. As Kaplan suggests, the “computer revolution” is above all else a “writing revolution,” and this is clearly reflected in the writing classroom of the 2010s (or whatever we call where we are now).
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Response to Sketching User Experiences (27-63) and Remediation (Ch. 1-2)
It seems like ever since I took my first undergraduate Rhetoric class that word has infiltrated every aspect of humanity—my professor in that class proposed that fundamental distinction of being human comes from communication, discourses framed within much broader narratives through which we arrive at understanding. To me, these readings reassert that notion by describing remediation, which is perception that emerging media technologies are engaged in a constant dialogue with past ones. Bolter and Grusin’s example of the Wire and how it is “not like TV only better” encapsulates this dialogue, and as usual I used my own personal experiences growing up with video games to understand how truly applicable remediation is. Is there any other medium (assuming for a moment that we can separate any of today’s media, since B&G suggest that “no media can function independently anymore”) that has such a short but rapid evolutionary timeline as that of video games ? Its history fits so neatly within the span of just a few decades, quite a few of which happen to be my own developmental years, making it easy to chart its evolution and for a single individual to actually remember experiencing every step of that process (which becomes more difficult for that of television, quite difficult for cinema, increasingly unlikely for photography and certainly impossible for music). New gaming technologies are constantly described in terms of old ones—new consoles have “better graphics,” sleeker designs and superior functionality; they spur their own development forward by engaging in remediation.
It is interesting that, although media attempt to make themselves invisible by achieving immediacy through interfaces, we often develop a connection to the interfaces themselves so that they become the very thing by which we remember our experiences. The example given by Buxton in Sketching User Experiences involves Steve Jobs and the Apple brand; the iPod timeline in particular pays careful attention to the subject of interfaces. Looking at the device’s design progression (54-63) I experienced distinct sensations of interfacing with each phase; I remember the first time I experienced the non-moving scroll wheel and how I had to get used to the various button placements, and I think this is because the interface becomes integrated with the user—its purpose is, after all, to offer humans access to an extension of themselves. When we get used to the motions and rituals of interfacing they become as much a part of our reflex system as walking. Perhaps that is why the sight of an interface seems to evoke sensations resembling the experiences they help facilitate; its also why, for me, the below chart functions as a sort of interface experience histogram and reminds me of the many devices through which I have channeled my willpower over the years.
It is interesting that, although media attempt to make themselves invisible by achieving immediacy through interfaces, we often develop a connection to the interfaces themselves so that they become the very thing by which we remember our experiences. The example given by Buxton in Sketching User Experiences involves Steve Jobs and the Apple brand; the iPod timeline in particular pays careful attention to the subject of interfaces. Looking at the device’s design progression (54-63) I experienced distinct sensations of interfacing with each phase; I remember the first time I experienced the non-moving scroll wheel and how I had to get used to the various button placements, and I think this is because the interface becomes integrated with the user—its purpose is, after all, to offer humans access to an extension of themselves. When we get used to the motions and rituals of interfacing they become as much a part of our reflex system as walking. Perhaps that is why the sight of an interface seems to evoke sensations resembling the experiences they help facilitate; its also why, for me, the below chart functions as a sort of interface experience histogram and reminds me of the many devices through which I have channeled my willpower over the years.
 |
| Video Game Interfaces, credit to Damien Lopez |
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Response to Convergence Culture (Ch 2-3)
The story of American Idol introduced in chapter two of Henry Jenkins’s Convergence Culture illustrates the increasing importance of “expression” in media theory. I understand what Jenkins means about a consumer’s “investment” in a brand as it relates to his notion of “mass customization and personalization”—with more media being produced than a single person can possibly consume, the choices we make about what to pay attention to has important implications not only for the markets, but for our social self-image as participants in American culture. I see the places where these public and private interests converge as the origins of the highly ethical nature of the discussions they produce—If a company succeeds in establishing an emotional investment with me, I have an expectation that the interactions produced from their end have a high fidelity, otherwise these aspects of my social self-image are disrupted and revealed to be shallow constructions unworthy of being associated with my valuable attention.
The Idol example of fans’ outcry against unfair voting practices and deliberately fabricated results designed to increase dramatic tension resembles some of my recent experiences with reality programming. The show Master Chef has a similar structure and appeal as Idol, narrowing a huge number of amateur contestants down to a small group of the most talented individuals, yet due to the fact that advancement in the competition depends not on votes from viewers but judgments from the expert panelists one is forced to suspect the “reality” of the scenarios we are trying to invest in. Feedback from judge Gordon Ramsey often seems designed to evoke the most passionate responses from the contestants, enflaming rivalries and leading to increased dramatic tension. One can’t help but focus on the apparent arbitrariness of this tactic and then begins to wonder whether they should even bother watching.
Chapter three seemed to be speaking directly to me—having grown up a fan of The Matrix, Pokemon, and Star Wars, Jenkins’s examples truly resonated with my own experiences. The concept of “transmedia storytelling” is extremely appealing to me because it has the potential to expand and capitalize on the power of narratives, which Jenkins suggests guides and supports all of human understanding. One reason for its appeal may be that it puts the fan, or “loyal,” at the center of attention—attempts to shovel out bland, easy-to-produce tie-ins across media platforms have proven to be misguided, with the majority of the recent superhero movies trying and failing to do justice to the beloved intellectual properties they represent. I love that Jenkins feels that successful transmedia storytelling relies on designers’ passion for the brand; a strong emotional connection to the material leads to a higher fidelity product that is rich and satisfying to the loyals, who are themselves responsible for the existence of cult culture.
The Idol example of fans’ outcry against unfair voting practices and deliberately fabricated results designed to increase dramatic tension resembles some of my recent experiences with reality programming. The show Master Chef has a similar structure and appeal as Idol, narrowing a huge number of amateur contestants down to a small group of the most talented individuals, yet due to the fact that advancement in the competition depends not on votes from viewers but judgments from the expert panelists one is forced to suspect the “reality” of the scenarios we are trying to invest in. Feedback from judge Gordon Ramsey often seems designed to evoke the most passionate responses from the contestants, enflaming rivalries and leading to increased dramatic tension. One can’t help but focus on the apparent arbitrariness of this tactic and then begins to wonder whether they should even bother watching.
Chapter three seemed to be speaking directly to me—having grown up a fan of The Matrix, Pokemon, and Star Wars, Jenkins’s examples truly resonated with my own experiences. The concept of “transmedia storytelling” is extremely appealing to me because it has the potential to expand and capitalize on the power of narratives, which Jenkins suggests guides and supports all of human understanding. One reason for its appeal may be that it puts the fan, or “loyal,” at the center of attention—attempts to shovel out bland, easy-to-produce tie-ins across media platforms have proven to be misguided, with the majority of the recent superhero movies trying and failing to do justice to the beloved intellectual properties they represent. I love that Jenkins feels that successful transmedia storytelling relies on designers’ passion for the brand; a strong emotional connection to the material leads to a higher fidelity product that is rich and satisfying to the loyals, who are themselves responsible for the existence of cult culture.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Response to Here Comes Everybody (Chapters 3-6) and Design to Thrive (Chapter 8)
Clay Shirky’s perspective on the evolving landscape of communication technology approaches the phenomena of the Internet explosion in the past few decades from an angle I had never considered. His definitions revolve around a notion of the “professional”; traditionally, these people were empowered by their specialized training, making it necessary for nonprofessionals to interact with them—in this way they served as “gatekeepers” to their industries. Shirky especially focuses on the publisher, a profession which is becoming increasingly marginalized because they no longer possess all the means of production. He states that “an individual with a camera or a keyboard is now a non-profit of one,” and this ability for the layperson to self-publish circumvents the professionals which previously controlled the flow of information (77). This concept is compelling because it illustrates the extreme importance of professionals throughout history: since the invention of writing they have owned and understood the technology of communication. The Internet revolution has changed this dynamic in an extremely short period of time—what are the implications? I find myself fascinated by the potential of a globally connected society to solve problems without their ideas being mediated through professionals whose interests are often suspect.
To this end designers must work towards implementing the RIBS heuristic to maintain large-scale, productive communities and networks to reveal the aforementioned potential. Wikipedia is an ideal example and the reason that I am optimistic about the future of productive thought communities: it seems to defy the common understanding of how people work together. I remember being in high school as Wikipedia was gaining popular prominence; the faculty took a collective stance against the website, declaring it an unreliable source. Part of this response may be related to the “self-defense” aspect Shirky claims is part of being a professional (67)—they perceive Wikipedia as threatening their authority as givers (perhaps guardians) of knowledge. They argued that Wikipedia’s openly editable content was less accurate than other sources, alluding to famous instances of vandalism and malpractice, and insisted that we not cite its articles in our work. This type of understanding of Wikipedia seems not uncommon—people just don’t believe that such a project could succeed because it seems contrary to the “Tragedy of the Commons,” yet studies in prominent journals have concluded that its accuracy is quite close to that of Britannica (a publication not immune from serious errors).
There is something poetic and organic about Wikipedia that stems from the communal effort which sustains it: it is “self-healing,” simultaneously thwarting and discouraging attempts to harm its content (119); it evolves as a result of a collective desire to do a “good” thing, giving users a forum to make meaningful contributions, however small (133); and it is not “tied to extrinsic rewards”, decreasing the possibility of exploitation (134). Howard states that “any fundamental shift in the ways that human beings are able to share information has the potential for extraordinary sociopolitical impacts” (200); what, then, are the implications of instantly searchable archives of constantly updated, corrected and reviewed information becoming more and more widely available? And when, as Howard suggests it may be inevitable, it comes down to "Free Speech vs. Agents of the State" (209), will the agents be capable of containing the explosive potential unleashed? It is likely that projects resembling Wikipedia will play a significant role in the future of human development.
To this end designers must work towards implementing the RIBS heuristic to maintain large-scale, productive communities and networks to reveal the aforementioned potential. Wikipedia is an ideal example and the reason that I am optimistic about the future of productive thought communities: it seems to defy the common understanding of how people work together. I remember being in high school as Wikipedia was gaining popular prominence; the faculty took a collective stance against the website, declaring it an unreliable source. Part of this response may be related to the “self-defense” aspect Shirky claims is part of being a professional (67)—they perceive Wikipedia as threatening their authority as givers (perhaps guardians) of knowledge. They argued that Wikipedia’s openly editable content was less accurate than other sources, alluding to famous instances of vandalism and malpractice, and insisted that we not cite its articles in our work. This type of understanding of Wikipedia seems not uncommon—people just don’t believe that such a project could succeed because it seems contrary to the “Tragedy of the Commons,” yet studies in prominent journals have concluded that its accuracy is quite close to that of Britannica (a publication not immune from serious errors).
There is something poetic and organic about Wikipedia that stems from the communal effort which sustains it: it is “self-healing,” simultaneously thwarting and discouraging attempts to harm its content (119); it evolves as a result of a collective desire to do a “good” thing, giving users a forum to make meaningful contributions, however small (133); and it is not “tied to extrinsic rewards”, decreasing the possibility of exploitation (134). Howard states that “any fundamental shift in the ways that human beings are able to share information has the potential for extraordinary sociopolitical impacts” (200); what, then, are the implications of instantly searchable archives of constantly updated, corrected and reviewed information becoming more and more widely available? And when, as Howard suggests it may be inevitable, it comes down to "Free Speech vs. Agents of the State" (209), will the agents be capable of containing the explosive potential unleashed? It is likely that projects resembling Wikipedia will play a significant role in the future of human development.
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