BEAUTIFUL LITTLE MOMENTS
A principally ethnographic study
of eight East Anglian artists’ pedagogies
Tyler Denmead
Queens’ College
Submitted 25 October 2011
Presented in fulfilment of the requirements
for the Doctor of Philosophy (Ph.D.) degree
Faculty of Education . University of Cambridge
Declaration
I hereby declare that my dissertation entitled: Beautiful little moments: A princi-
pally ethnographic study of eight East Anglian artists’ pedagogies :
• Is the result of my own work and includes nothing that is the outcome of
work done done in collaboration except where specifically indicated in the
text.
• Is not substantially the same as any that I have submitted or will be sub-
mitting for a degree or diploma or other qualification at this or any other
University, except as declared in the Preface and specified in the text.
• Does not exceed the prescribed word limit.
I have also:
• resided in Cambridge for at least three terms.
• undertaken the minimum requirement of research terms.
• submitted this thesis by my submission date.
• formally applied for examiners to be appointed.
I will keep my contact details up to date using my self-service pages throughout
the examination process.
Date:
Signature:
Print Name: TYLER DENMEAD
This dissertation has 76,172 words; excluding the front matter, figures, footnotes,
and back matter.
i
Summary
This research investigates artists’ pedagogies to address the limited understanding
in the education field of how artists enact their pedagogies, why they value them,
and how they describe them. I purposively selected eight people from a UK-based
charitable organisation that offers creative projects for children and adults in and
beyond schools. I used a principally ethnographic multiphased research design and
adopted methods of data collection and analysis from grounded theory to progres-
sively focus on artists’ interests that have been overlooked by education research.
In the exploratory phase of research, I conducted 13 participant-led, unstructured
interviews with eight artists from the organisation. I progressively focused on
salient concepts that emerged from this phase through participant observation and
further interviews in subsequent phases. I observed six of the eight artists from
the exploratory phase as they facilitated 20 workshops in total across five sites.
Each workshop averaged approximately two hours in length. I observed three or-
ganisational retreats when these eight artists collectively planned, described and
discussed workshops. I attended a daylong conference hosted by the organisation
on outdoor learning, which included presentations by two artists I observed. I
participated in two artist-led reflective conversations when five artists and three
site partners discussed workshops I observed. I conducted seven semi-structured
interviews with three partners and three workshop participants.
To represent their pedagogies, I selected three of the five sites for descriptive cases
studies that featured four of the eight artists working in outdoor settings. These
workshops served, for the most part, nursery and primary school children along-
side nursery nurses, teachers, and members of their families such as parents and
ii
grandparents. These four artists member checked these descriptive case studies
through additional interviews. I presented a separate framework that interprets
themes that emerged in these three descriptive cases. Using a nested case study
approach, I included the perspectives of the eight artists who participated in the
study to interpret these themes: space, time, material, body, and language. I used
a focus group with six of the eight artists, as well as separate interviews with the
founder and director, to examine similarities and differences in interpretation and
strengthen the trustworthiness of my account.
This research found that these artists attempt to create conditions for open-ended
enquiry across five dimensions—space, time, material, body, and language—so that
participants experience immersive and pleasurable “beautiful little moments” when
they extend possibilities for being in ways that could not have been prescribed or
judged. The artists positioned their pedagogies as a critique of a market-driven
ethos pervading institutions, particularly schools, that have narrowed opportuni-
ties for being.
iii
Acknowledgements
Doing a Ph.D. is humbling. One’s foundations for relating to the world are torn
down and then rebuilt, albeit much more contingently. Ph.D. research is cast as
an exercise in developing expertise but becomes an exercise in understanding the
scope of what is not known. Later on and with greater distance from this research,
I hope to have greater appreciation for how this is two ways of saying the same
thing. Today, I am indebted to those who facilitated this process and supported
me through it.
I am thankful to the Antonio M. Cirino Memorial Scholarship Fund at the Rhode
Island Foundation, the Cambridge Overseas Bursary Trust, and the Board of Di-
rectors of New Urban Arts who provided financial support and resources for my
graduate studies. Thank you to the Providence Youth Arts Collaborative and
Community MusicWorks for the invitation to participate in the Imagining Art
and Social Change conference in 2008 where I clarified ideas for this research. I
am grateful for the financial support of the Faculty of Education, University of
Cambridge, and Queens’ College, which allowed for my participation in that con-
ference.
I am grateful to Peter Hocking, whose inspiration and mentorship drew me to
an interest in artist pedagogy. I am thankful for his 2009 invitation to serve as
a Public Engagement Associate in the Office of Public Engagement at the Rhode
Island School of Design. This visit led to fruitful conversations that deepened my
understanding of this research.
iv
Special thanks are reserved for arts mentoring fellows, artist mentors, and students
at New Urban Arts for their endless inspiration. I often wrote this dissertation
with this audience in mind.
Jennie Lovell has been an invaluable editor and proofreader. Any errors that
remain are my own.
I am indebted to the critical insights, trustworthy guidance, and emotional sup-
port of my supervisors: Dr. Mandy Maddock and Dr. Richard Hickman. Thank
you for making my time in Cambridge transformational.
The most gratitude is reserved for my family and closest loved ones—particularly
Kate, Virginia, and Elliott—for their love, support, confidence, and concern (when
needed). I have always felt believed in, and this research is as much yours as it is
mine.
Finally, I would like to the thank the artists who participated in this research.
They committed time and accepted the inconvenience of my participation in their
workshops. They never made me feel like this research was a burden and instead
participated eagerly. In return, I hope this account of their pedagogies is generative
for them.
v
In memory of my mother:
Thank you for letting me
go naked to Montessori.
vi
Contents
Declaration . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . i
Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ii
Acknowledgements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . iv
Dedication . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vi
Contents . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vii
List of Figures . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xi
Epigraph . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xiii
1 Introduction 1
2 Background 14
2.1 A creative and cultural education . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15
2.2 Developing a 21st century workforce . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
2.2.1 Remaining competitive through creativity . . . . . . . . . . 19
2.2.2 The need for a creative workforce . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
2.2.3 Reskilling the workforce for the future . . . . . . . . . . . . 23
2.2.4 Are artists fit for this purpose? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
2.3 Promoting wellbeing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30
2.3.1 UK children and their wellbeing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31
2.3.2 Expanding and extending schooling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32
2.3.3 The focus on happiness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35
2.3.4 Artists enhancing moods and promoting flow . . . . . . . . . 38
2.4 Artists placed in a muddle? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40
3 Pedagogy 44
3.1 Strategy for literature review . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45
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CONTENTS
3.2 Invigorating pedagogic discourse in the UK . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49
3.3 The relationship between action and values . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51
3.4 Review of research on artist pedagogy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56
3.5 Pedagogic models and definitions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61
3.5.1 Sociocultural models and definitions . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61
3.5.2 Phenomenological models and definitions . . . . . . . . . . . 65
3.5.3 Pragmatist models and definitions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68
3.6 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72
4 Research design 75
4.1 Pragmatism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78
4.2 A principally ethnographic study . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83
4.3 Ethnographic methods . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87
4.3.1 Phase one: Sampling and accessing artists . . . . . . . . . . 88
4.3.1.1 Purposive sampling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88
4.3.1.2 Access . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90
4.3.1.3 Final preparations for fieldwork . . . . . . . . . . . 95
4.3.2 Phase two: Towards ethnographic exploratory cases . . . . . 96
4.3.2.1 Unstructured, artist-led interviews . . . . . . . . . 98
4.3.2.2 Grounded data analysis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102
4.3.2.3 Changing course . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107
4.3.2.4 Ethical considerations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 110
4.3.3 Phase three: Towards descriptive cases . . . . . . . . . . . . 113
4.3.3.1 Participant observation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115
4.3.3.2 Triangulating data . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119
4.3.3.3 Grounded data analysis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121
4.3.3.4 Reflexivity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 124
4.3.3.5 Member checking interviews . . . . . . . . . . . . . 126
4.3.4 Phase four: Towards an interpretive framework . . . . . . . 128
4.3.4.1 Building theory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129
4.3.4.2 Further interviewing the founder and director . . . 133
4.3.4.3 Focus group . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 133
4.3.5 Phase five: Writing up and dissemination . . . . . . . . . . . 135
4.4 Methodological challenges and limitations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 136
viii
CONTENTS
4.5 Summary of research design . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137
5 Description 139
5.1 Beautiful little moments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 139
5.2 Chalk in the mud . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 160
5.3 Letting ladybirds run . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 182
6 Interpretation 202
6.1 Space . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 204
6.1.1 Clearing and decluttering spaces . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 205
6.1.2 Establishing boundaries . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 208
6.1.3 Creating focal points . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 209
6.1.4 Interpreting space: Softened and unprescribed spaces . . . . . 211
6.2 Time . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 217
6.2.1 Taking time . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 218
6.2.2 Untabling time . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 220
6.2.3 Slowing time . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 222
6.2.4 Interpreting time: Slowliness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 225
6.3 Material . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 229
6.3.1 Ordinary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 229
6.3.2 Low-tech . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 231
6.3.3 Slippage . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 233
6.3.4 Immediacy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 235
6.3.5 Sensory-rich . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 236
6.3.6 Ephemeral . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 239
6.3.7 Presenting abundant materials in a limited palette . . . . . . 240
6.3.8 Interpreting material: Simple materials . . . . . . . . . . . . 243
6.4 Body . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 249
6.4.1 Tonesetting . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 249
6.4.2 Gesturing and positioning . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 252
6.4.3 Working in pairs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 255
6.4.4 Interpreting body: Empathetic, uninhibited bodies . . . . . . 257
6.5 Language . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 262
6.5.1 Prompting . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 262
ix
CONTENTS
6.5.2 Narrating . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 265
6.5.3 Silence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 267
6.5.4 Describing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 269
6.5.5 Poeticising . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 271
6.5.6 Interpreting language: Playful, poetic language . . . . . . . . 274
7 Discussion 279
7.1 On the subject of the creative workforce . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 286
7.2 On the subject of wellbeing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 289
7.3 On the subject of pedagogy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 295
7.4 Summary of findings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 299
7.5 Plans for dissemination and future research . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 301
References 303
Author Index 328
Appendices 334
A The organisation and artists sampled 334
B Letter inviting participation 336
C Data storage, collection, and analysis tools 338
D Monthly summaries of data collection and analysis 344
E Template for interview transcripts 346
F Categories from first interviews 348
G Exploratory case study categories 350
H Ethics agreement 354
I Enhanced disclosure 356
J Member checking letter and questions 358
x
CONTENTS
K Summary table 362
L Focus group questions 367
M Bullet point summary of findings 369
N Visual map of findings 375
O Example of Bibdesk report 377
xi
List of Figures
2.1 Creative industries as defined by DCMS (2008) . . . . . . . . . . . 17
2.2 Economic figures of the creative industries (DCMS, 2009) . . . . . . 21
2.3 Five objectives of ECM (DfES, 2003) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
3.1 Map of reviewed pedagogic concepts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74
4.1 Research timeline . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77
4.2 Introductory email from administrative assistant . . . . . . . . . . . 92
4.3 Script I used to introduce my research to artists . . . . . . . . . . . 95
4.4 Screen shot of audit trail . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97
4.5 Example of transcript summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103
4.6 Example of coding . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 104
4.7 Example map developed whilst writing exploratory case . . . . . . . 106
4.8 Summary of five sites observed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114
4.9 Example observational categories and codes . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116
6.1 Concept map of pedagogies of space . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 213
6.2 Concept map of pedagogies of time . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 226
6.3 Concept map of pedagogies of material . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 244
6.4 Concept map of pedagogies of body . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 259
6.5 Concept map of pedagogies of language . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 276
7.1 Concept map that summarises the artists’ pedagogies . . . . . . . . 281
C.1 Bibdesk screenshot . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 340
C.2 TamsAnalyzer screenshot . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 342
xii
My grandmother lived on an acre
of untamed land, dense and
twisting and thrilling, where I
would explore as a child. I think
that I was an artist then.
Clark (2010)
A sense of human history as the
history of successive metaphors
would let us see the poet, in the
generic sense of the maker of new
words, the shaper of new
languages, as the vanguard of the
species.
Rorty (1989, p. 20)
That is what love is for. To feel
out of place.
Tweedy (2007)
xiii
Chapter 1
Introduction
This educational research examines artist pedagogy. More specifically, this princi-
pally ethnographic study makes a contribution to the education field by describing
and interpreting the pedagogic vocabularies, values, and methods of eight East An-
glian artists in England. At the time of the research, these artists were members of
an organisation described as a group of innovative and experienced artists offering
creative projects for populations ranging from children to adults in and beyond
schools. A description of this organisation’s history and the artists included in
the study can be found in Appendix A. This research contributes to the education
field because the pedagogies of artists have largely been overlooked by education
research.
Part of this ethnographic journey towards understanding artist pedagogy included
interrogating my personal interest in this field. My pathway towards this research
unexpectedly began through an apprenticeship to a chef in France in the late
nineties. At the time, I had little cooking experience other than preparing myself
frozen dinners, and I could hardly string together a few words in French. But a
1
CHAPTER 1. INTRODUCTION
young chef-owner of a seafood restaurant in Brittany agreed to apprentice me in
exchange for his opportunity to practise English. The chef taught fundamentals
such as knife handling and classic sauce foundations, but he was more interested in
how I tasted and ate, my willingness to experiment, and the reasons why I wanted
to cook for others. I relished the opportunity to engage in this conversation even
though I had few culinary skills and little knowledge of French cuisine.
The chef’s unconditional interest in how I approached food provided a sense of se-
curity and belonging as I faced the uncertainty and possibility of failure that comes
with trying to create dishes. Working alongside this chef altered my sensibility.
My sensory perception of my surroundings felt unusually heightened, providing an
unfamiliar taste of aesthetic experience as Dewey (1934/2005) describes it. I felt
part of a creative community for the first time. But this altered sensibility was
somewhat painful, raising some problematic questions. Why did I never see myself
as someone who might be creative? Why was I so terrified walking into school arts
classrooms as a kid? And, why did I consider the arts taught in school, such as
drama and painting, the only legitimate opportunities for aesthetic experience?
To answer these questions, I focused partially on my schooling, first considering
the American Montessori school I attended as a toddler. Montessori schools are
oriented towards following the interests of the child, providing materials and sup-
port to facilitate their sensory and tactile exploration (Montessori, 1917). In the
visual arts, children are provided with one brush and a pot of one paint colour to
adorn large pieces of paper in a self-directed fashion. This approach arguably did
not help me learn how to mix colours or prudently use paint—skills valued at the
traditional primary school I attended later.
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CHAPTER 1. INTRODUCTION
A memory in the art classroom of that primary school remains unequivocally clear.
My third grade class [the equivalent of Year 4 in United Kingdom (UK) schools],
had been tasked by the art teacher to paint in tropical colours two paper cutouts,
each shaped like a fish, and then to staple and stuff them with crumpled tissue. I
was unaware that the teacher planned to refashion her classroom into a tropical
aquarium for a parent-teacher conference that evening. She turned each fish into
a mobile and hung them, I would later find out, from a delicate string for judging
the worth of each child’s contribution. Perhaps in light of my Montessori train-
ing, my fish mobile suffered from globs of poorly mixed and muddy brown paint.
Needless to say, it did not appear to come from the tropics. Pointing to it during
the conference, the teacher told my parents, who later relayed the message to me,
that a few special people are born with artistic talent and the rest of us, including
me, had little reason to try.
Through that debilitating experience, I unsurprisingly began to see myself as I
had been described by my teacher. I believed I was incapable of becoming an
artist, and practising conventions associated with being one would be a waste of
effort. This misgiving began to extend further, as I doubted whether I was an
originator or inventor of any sort. It was not until my culinary apprenticeship
in France as a young adult that I developed an alternate view to what Dweck
(2006) describes as this fixed mindset towards ability. Working incredibly hard in
the kitchen, finding ways to overcome challenges, and seeing the rewards, I began
to reconsider how Sunday School virtues such as effort and commitment, char-
acteristics of what Dweck (2006) associates with a growth mindset, apply to any
endeavour.
3
CHAPTER 1. INTRODUCTION
For me, this implied a radical shift. I reconsidered what had always felt outside the
realm of my own possibility, such as making art, awakening my body to its senses,
and more broadly, attempting to make a more distinctive mark on the world. As
I reflected on my schooling that sorted out the perceived creative from the uncre-
ative at an early age, I became more interested in education. Specifically, I began
to consider how I might create conditions in which others might have the chance
to make their distinctive mark on the world. Because of my personal experience,
I was particularly motivated to work with others described with crippling terms
such as low ability, disadvantaged, or at risk. After my apprenticeship, I returned
to Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island, United States (USA) and quit
the undergraduate premedicine program in which I was enrolled. Through the
Swearer Center for Public Service at Brown, I initiated with others a learning
community for teenagers and young artists to explore these emerging questions
and concerns.
This community, New Urban Arts, began in 1997 in a storefront studio and has
since provided arts mentoring to thousands of young people in its first decade.1
As a complex and nurturing learning community, young artists and educators have
delighted in joining teenagers in building relationships of significance whilst engag-
ing in diverse activities ranging from building bikes to baking bread, and making
poems to printing posters. Together, they have made messes, explored the un-
familiar, and considered how to play a reparative role in their city and beyond
(Hocking, 2011).
Through New Urban Arts, I unexpectedly became involved in a burgeoning in-
ternational movement of artists turning towards pedagogy. Like-minded artists
1For more information, visit www.newurbanarts.org.
4
CHAPTER 1. INTRODUCTION
from around the USA discovered New Urban Arts, and we similarly searched for
affinities through online forums such as the now defunct Community Arts Net-
work.2 Throughout my involvement at New Urban Arts, I often confronted the
assumption and sometimes made it myself that artists, whomever that ambiguous
term might describe, are inherently transformative educators. It may be somewhat
surprising for me to sometimes have taken a contrary point of view. Indeed dozens
of artists have played a critical role in what I consider to be nothing less than a
dramatic transformation in my own life.
Yet I also have been reminded on enough occasions that artists engaged in this
work need to critically attend to how and why they attempt particular pedago-
gies. Despite this need, many of us at New Urban Arts discovered there were few
institutionally-provided pathways for artists to consider how to deepen their public
engagement from political, ethical, relational, and artistic points of view. There-
fore, one of our emerging priorities at New Urban Arts became developing ways for
artists to do so. To begin to offer these developmental opportunities, I considered
how to describe the pedagogies emerging in the studio and how to provide points
of connection and departure for artists as they reflected on their own pedagogies.
This effort first culminated in a white paper on aspects of a sustainable creative
practice (Denmead, 2006). To interpret what I observed and helped to create
at New Urban Arts, I argued that trusting and lasting relationships sustain the
capacity to engage with the unfamiliar (and vice verse); and, engaging with the un-
familiar is necessary to imagine and create a more equitable and empathetic future.
Peter Hocking, New Urban Arts’ founding chair of its board of directors, noted
he found my interest in describing artist pedagogy somewhat ironic. He observed
2See www.communityarts.net.
5
CHAPTER 1. INTRODUCTION
how I had previously attempted to obfuscate ways of describing artist pedagogy in
the studio, perhaps attempting to prevent artist vocabularies from prescribing new
orthodoxies. This interpretation resonated with me because I had been delighted
by the varied and unfamiliar approaches that new cohorts of artists and young
people introduced each year. As a result, I feared how entrenched vocabularies
could breed conformity and reduce this variation and experimentation. Approach-
ing ten years as its founding director, I even felt the need to leave New Urban Arts
so that I did not have a predetermining or overbearing effect on what artists and
teenagers opted to do there. In hindsight, I perhaps felt competing interests to
describe artist pedagogy and yet also reject those descriptions.
In addition to these competing interests, I also struggled to find vocabularies that
seemed fit for the purpose of describing what I observed. Discourses of schooling,
with terms such as curriculum and lesson plan, seemed contrived and shallow to
me, placing subject matter and short-term interests ahead of building sustained
relationships of significance and engaging with the ineffable. In addition, common
terms from art theory and criticism such as relational aesthetics (Bourriaud, 2002)
and collective artistic praxis (Kwon, 2002) felt as unpalatable. They seemed to
lack the humility, and perhaps even the humanity, to describe the people and ped-
agogies in the studio that felt so meaningful to me.
Without words that felt right and some hesitancy towards finding them, I stepped
down as the director of New Urban Arts in 2007. I was interested in talking to
and observing other artists engaged in similar work, and indeed, in discovering
unfamiliar ways of making sense of it. Sarah Meyer, New Urban Arts’ Program
Director (2005-), noted an apparent spurt in interest in artist pedagogy in the UK
and encouraged me to consider going abroad to do this research.
6
CHAPTER 1. INTRODUCTION
In taking note of this upsurge in the UK, Sarah was observing renewed oppor-
tunities for the expanded involvement of artists in education as a result of policies
during the New Labour Government (1997-2010). These opportunities included
the flagship initiative, Creative Partnerships (CP) administered by Creativity,
Culture and Education (CCE), which invested heavily in building relationships
between creative practitioners and schools located in “areas with significant chal-
lenges” in England (CCE, n.d.).
Although noteworthy, the New Labour government’s engagement of artists in ed-
ucation was not historically unprecedented in the UK. In 1835, for example, a
grant from the British Parliament founded the Normal School of Design, using the
model of continental European arts academies, to address the perceived economic
threat of French textile design to UK industry. To develop designers more able to
compete internationally, apprenticeships to academy artists were viewed as an ef-
fective economic strategy (Ashwin, 1975). Fewer than twenty years later, Richard
Redgrave, the art-superintendent of the newly formed Department of Science and
Art, described the arts as “a refiner and purifier of mankind” that “should be
disseminated through all ranks, and taught to all classes of the people” (Ashwin,
1975, p. 43). Following these assumptions, “drawing masters” were introduced
into schools to teach “elementary drawing” and to cultivate particular sensibilities
among the working classes. In other words, observational drawing, perhaps a habit
associated with being bourgeois, was perceived as instrumental in facilitating the
working classes’ social mobility and integration.
These nineteenth century assumptions and policies prefigure those during the New
Labour government at the turn of the twenty-first century. The economic and so-
7
CHAPTER 1. INTRODUCTION
cial relevance of artists and the arts appear each to have played a role in expand-
ing support and involvement of artists in education during that time. Specifically,
fears about the UK’s economic competitiveness internationally and the need for
new sources of economic growth in light of its declining manufacturing base, as
well as a related social interest in promoting wellbeing, have been central. This
repeating historical record illustrates the cyclical nature of policy driving the en-
gagement of artists in education.
Artists have also been cyclically drawn to “making work” that has a more peda-
gogic hue. For example, beginning in the late 1960s, an emerging international arts
movement turned away from the lone studio production of objects. Artists from a
variety of disciplinary backgrounds moved towards collaborative and site-specific
pedagogies with those who may or may not have viewed themselves as members of
the art world (Becker, 1984).3 Artists associated with this participatory movement
have been described as engaging in dematerialised and less commodifiable artistic
pedagogies evident, for example, in performance art (Lippard, 1997). Such efforts
might be construed as efforts to escape the market grip of the art world.
Blurring the boundaries between artist and audience, these artists have also at-
tempted to address the perceived exclusiveness of the art world by engaging un-
derrepresented audiences traditionally relegated to more passive forms of partic-
ipation. Alternatively, these artists have engaged audience members in the co-
construction of situated artistic events. Described as stagnating in the 1980s in
the USA and the UK, this movement resurged in the 1990s (Goldbard, 2006).
Reflecting different points of emphasis, this most recent movement has been de-
scribed in a multitude of ways, such as: dialogic art (Kester, 2004); new genre
3Becker (1984) uses art world to describe the network of museums, galleries, critics, and artists
among others who determine what constitutes art and who has made it.
8
CHAPTER 1. INTRODUCTION
public art (Lacy, 1995); littoral art (Ross, 2006); a/r/t/ography (Springgay et al.,
2008); relational aesthetics (Bourriaud, 2002); collective artistic praxis (Kwon,
2002); and more generally, socially engaged arts practice, community arts, or par-
ticipatory arts. In this resurgence, the basis for what constitutes a situated and
decommodified artistic event continues to be expanded, including, for example,
mundane possibilities such as conversations about daily life over a cup of coffee
and/or during a walk (Bishop, 2006).
The cyclical emergence of these artistic movements has occurred concurrently with
changes in formal schooling in the UK. For example, The Plowden Report in 1967
proposed expanding the primary school curriculum beyond its traditional focus on
numeracy and literacy (CACE, 1967). This perhaps opened a pathway for visual
artists, poets, musicians, actors, and dancers among others to participate in edu-
cation during and beyond the traditional school day. However, this child-centred
tradition with its affinity towards self-expression has faced withering criticism from
opposing perspectives. On one hand, it has been critiqued for failing to equip
young people to contend with unjust material conditions that limit opportunity
(Brehoney, 1992). On the other, it has been admonished for failing to instil and
build upon the understanding and appreciation of pre-existing knowledge and her-
itage (Abbs, 2003). Perhaps in light of these criticisms, the New Labour policy
that emerged at the turn of the 21st century introduced new and arguably more
ambiguous rhetoric to justify the engagement of artists in education.
To illustrate, a highly influential report by the National Advisory Committee on
a Creative and Cultural Education (NACCCE) arguably kicked off the apparent
spurt of artists’ engagement in education that Sarah noted in the UK. The report
advocates for a renewed focus on a creative and cultural education (NACCCE,
9
CHAPTER 1. INTRODUCTION
1999, p. 36, 43). It advocates for a vision of education that allows students to
experience more than “discharging feelings”, which is an obvious rebuke of the
child-centred tradition of the 1960s (NACCCE, 1999, p. 36). Alternatively, a cre-
ative and cultural education, the report argues, also gives students “form and
meaning” that requires learning from “creative achievements” (NACCCE, 1999,
p. 43). In other words, the NACCCE report attempts to distance itself from the
rationale for engaging artists in the 1960s and turns partly towards transmitting
skills within creative and cultural disciplines. And, it repositions these skills as
both socially and economically significant in light of what it perceives as contem-
porary trends such as globalisation and post-industrialisation (NACCCE, 1999).
This report illustrates that although these policies and their justifications repeat
themselves to an extent, there are subtle shifts reflecting the issues and concerns
of the time. Moreover, the report itself is perhaps reactionary to the perceived
failings of related policies from the past. Therefore, whilst this noted spurt in
the UK has historical precedent, the era of the creative practitioner in the early
twenty-first century possesses a distinct quality.
When I began this research in 2007, the interest among policymakers in artists’
engagement in education appeared to be peaking. However I was surprised by
the limited attention education research had devoted to artist pedagogy. Alterna-
tively, I found researchers paying much more attention to creativity as a theoretical
concept and navigating the tricky terrain of creative partnerships among artists,
teachers, and schools. This focus perhaps reflects the extent to which policymakers
were driving the research agenda, and perhaps also the school-centric and theoret-
ical biases of educational research.
10
CHAPTER 1. INTRODUCTION
Yet education researchers were giving scant attention to what artists were doing
and why in ways that might be independent of the interests of creative partner-
ships. Given my observation that there were few pathways available for artists to
consider their pedagogies, this absence illustrated to me that it was a critical mo-
ment to research artist pedagogy. Having a background working with artists in the
USA, I also felt I had a unique perspective to make this important contribution to
artist pedagogy research. I believed this project would be more meaningful to me
if I distanced myself from what was already familiar to me in the USA. Therefore,
I heeded Sarah’s advice and headed to the UK where the engagement of artists in
education was thriving to do postgraduate research.
To attempt to make this contribution, I first conducted a quasi-pilot project for
my Master of Philosophy degree (M.Phil.) that involved six artist-led interviews
with three artists who were members of a local arts organisation. For the doctoral
research discussed herein, I returned to this organisation to purposefully sample
eight artists who participated in this principally ethnographic research. For my
research design, I selected a more descriptive and naturalistic approach. I did so
because there was little research evidence to substantiate a theoretical framework
from which artist pedagogy might have been deduced and measured. Along these
lines, I opted against a more experimental or quantitative approach. I wanted to
distinguish this research by focusing on what artists did and why, in their own
terms to the extent possible, rather than, for example, examining the meaning of
creativity or the qualities of creative partnerships. I aimed to ground this research,
as much as possible, in the perspectives of artists working because their pedagogies
appear to have been overlooked.
11
CHAPTER 1. INTRODUCTION
Moreover, I wanted the focus of this study to arise to the extent possible through
a flexible, co-constructive research design with artists that drew me towards their
interests rather than predetermining them through a theoretical perspective per-
haps only tangentially related. My hope was that these findings would provide
points of connection and departure for artists considering their pedagogies, as
well as support subsequent research that utilised these descriptions, artists’ inter-
pretations, and potentially my own theorisation. Within the limits of time and
financial resources, I needed to research a small group of artists to meet these aims.
I now want to provide a brief guide to reading this study. This dissertation has
seven chapters, including this first introductory one. In the next chapter, I turn
to more deeply investigate the contemporary economic and social justifications for
the engagement of artists in the UK. Following this background, I review in the
third chapter extant empirical research of artist pedagogy, as well as some political
and theoretical considerations of pedagogy as a concept. I describe how I turned
to different perspectives on pedagogy throughout this research in order to extend
my theoretical sensitivity and support principally ethnographic methods of data
collection and analysis.
Following this discussion of pedagogy, I then turn to my flexible and inductive
research design in the fourth chapter. I discuss how this multiphased research de-
sign was undeniably rooted in interpretivist assumptions. I turn largely to Amer-
ican pragmatist thinkers to explicate them. I also discuss drawing throughout
this research on overlapping theoretical and methodological interests shared by
hermeneutic, phenomenological, and pragmatist thinkers in and across the disci-
plines of psychology, philosophy, and aesthetics.
12
CHAPTER 1. INTRODUCTION
The remaining three chapters focus on and discuss my findings. In the fifth chap-
ter, I present three descriptive case studies of four artists working in pairs as they
offered workshops for mainly parents, teachers, and children at three different out-
door settings. In the sixth chapter, I thematically present an interpretive frame-
work that presents how eight artists, including the four featured in the descriptive
cases, interpreted pedagogies put forward during their organisation’s workshops.
In addition, I turn to theoretical perspectives cited above to separately add my
interpretation within and across each theme. In the seventh and final chapter, I
discuss how these findings relate to extant research on artist pedagogy and to the
economic and social justifications discussed earlier. I also propose possible path-
ways for new research based on these findings.
To begin, I now turn to discuss in greater detail the background for this research,
namely this distinctive time in which creative practitioners have been increasingly
engaged pedagogically in and beyond UK schools.
13
Chapter 2
Background
In the previous chapter, I described how the expanded engagement of artists in
education drew me to the UK to do postgraduate research on artist pedagogy.
I introduced how this engagement of artists was not historically unprecedented
and yet also reflected particular issues and concerns of its time. In this chapter,
I investigate more deeply UK policies beginning in the late 1990s that justified
engaging artists in education. I begin with briefly reviewing the seminal All Our
Futures report, often credited with renewing the allure of creativity and culture
in UK education (NACCCE, 1999). Through a review of the concepts underlying
subsequent policies and initiatives, I then suggest artists have been primarily en-
gaged to train a creative workforce and promote wellbeing. I conclude by arguing
that artists have been placed in somewhat ambiguous economic and social agendas
at odds with one another.
14
CHAPTER 2. BACKGROUND
2.1 A creative and cultural education
Artists often become key protagonists in educational strategies intended to move
beyond a limited focus on literacy and numeracy. Developing such an expanded
strategy was the charge of the NACCCE when it was commissioned in 1999. The
aim of this commission was to develop models of formal and informal education
that promoted economic prosperity and social cohesion in the UK, much like the
noted 19th and 20th century arts education policies that preceded it. To meet this
aim, the committee produced an All Our Futures report that proposed a creative
and cultural education that partly relied on engaging artists, among others, in and
beyond schools (NACCCE, 1999).
The report’s proposed engagement of artists broadened their remit beyond de-
veloping students’ skills within artistic disciplines per se and focused alternatively
on a transdisciplinary interest in creative development. All Our Futures suggests
the aim of a creative education is “to develop young people’s capacities for original
ideas and action” (NACCCE, 1999, p. 5). More recently, creative education has
been referred to as creative learning, which more broadly describes artists’ contri-
butions to school change and classroom pedagogy (Sefton-Green, 2008, p. 8).
As a part of transforming schools to prepare young people for life and work in
the 21st century, Sefton-Green (2008) argues that creative learning stands “for a
set of values focused around developing individual potential . . . with an emphasis
on authentic ‘deep’ educational experiences” (p. 12). This concept is longstanding
in education and is similar to engagement (Hart, 1998; Bennett et al., 1984) and
absorption (Armstrong, 1980). These concepts describe moments in the classroom
when students are emotionally invested in directing tasks. These moments con-
15
CHAPTER 2. BACKGROUND
trast with disinterested busywork or students passively bending to the external
demands of the teacher or curriculum.
In addition to developing capacities for original ideas and action through absorbed
activities, expanding the educational remit beyond literacy and numeracy histori-
cally has included social and cultural aims. These aims have been used to justify
the engagement of artists. A cultural education proposed in All Our Futures reflects
an interest in multiculturalism to contend with a “cultural profile” that “widened
enormously” over the previous three decades in the UK (NACCCE, 1999, p. 23). A
cultural education was proposed to balance interests in celebrating a nation’s cul-
tural achievements whilst preparing young people for participating in the “growing
interaction between world cultures” (NACCCE, 1999, p. 24). Like the rhetorical
shift from creative education to creative learning, the Culture and Learning Con-
sortium (CLC) has proposed a similar shift from cultural education to cultural
learning (CLC, 2008). Cultural learning places more emphasis on widespread en-
gagement with artworks representing cultural achievement and heritage than it
does on multiculturalism (CLC, 2008). As the NACCCE report was written be-
fore the 9/11 and 7/7 terrorist events, the emphasis on cultural achievement and
heritage may reflect the declining political appetite for multiculturalism due to
fears about homegrown terrorism and ethnically-motivated isolationism emerging
with the 2008 global recession (Message, 2009).
New policies, strategies, and organisations have been established to promote cre-
ative and cultural learning no matter its multiple meanings. With significant gov-
ernment investment, Creativity, Culture and Education (CCE) was formed to “gen-
erate transformational cultural and creative programmes for children and young
people across England” (CCE, n.d.). CCE’s flagship initiative, Creative Partner-
16
CHAPTER 2. BACKGROUND
ships, invested in relationships between creative practitioners and schools located
in “areas with significant challenges” in England (CCE, n.d.).
The term creative practitioner is ambiguous much like creative and cultural learn-
ing. It appears intended to be more inclusive than artist, referring more broadly
to those who work in sectors within the creative industries outlined in Figure 2.1.
To illustrate the importance of these workers, the Department of Culture, Media,
and Sport put forward a plan to create 5,000 apprenticeships with creative practi-
tioners (DCMS, 2008), although this initiative stalled due to the global recession
(Bewick, 2009).
• Advertising
• Architecture
• Art and antiques
• Crafts
• Design
• Designer Fashion
• Film and Video
• Music
• Performing Arts
• Publishing
• Software (including computer 
games and electronic publishing)
• Television and Radio
Figure 2.1: Creative industries as defined by DCMS (2008)
Several other strategies have been developed to promote creative and cultural
learning. Another CCE initiative, Find Your Talent, was launched to ensure that
children, no matter their background, accessed at least five hours per week of “high
quality culture” in and out of school (CCE, n.d.). To further support efforts inside
schools, the Qualifications and Curriculum Authority (QCA) developed Creativ-
ity: Find it, promote it to share curriculum development materials and teaching
methods across the curriculum (QCA, 2004). Creative development was also intro-
duced as one of six Early Learning Goals for the Foundation Stage (DCSF, 2008).
17
CHAPTER 2. BACKGROUND
The Office for Standards in Education also began to examine the promotion of
creative learning in schools in its report, Expecting the unexpected (Ofsted, 2003).
The House of Commons Committee on Skills and Education called CP to develop
training that further professionalised creative practitioners partnering with teach-
ers in schools (HCESC, 2007). The committee made this call despite little extant
research into what creative practitioners do or why. This lack of understanding
provides one justification for this research. Namely, research on artist pedagogy
might contribute to a needed debate regarding what it means for artists to engage
others professionally or even if professionalism is a suitable term.
Even without this understanding of the pedagogies of creative practitioners, the
Arts Council England (ACE, 2007) argues that creative practitioners:
bring a new approach. They have different expectations of young peo-
ple and when these are set high, the children rise to the challenge,
frequently to the astonishment of their teachers. They bring a differ-
ent language and a different practice, which stretches and challenges
the teaching staff and young people. (p. 2)
I argue that creative practitioners are admired for these so-called new approaches
because they are perceived to:
1. Develop a creative rather than industrial workforce which is no longer needed;
and,
2. Contribute to the emotional, physical, and social wellbeing of children and
young people.
To examine these two justifications, I first turn to the economic agenda and then
the social one.
18
CHAPTER 2. BACKGROUND
2.2 Developing a 21st century workforce
In the previous section, I noted that policymakers’ interest in creative practitioners
developing young people’s capacity for original ideas and action and contributing to
school change has renewed the engagement of UK artists in schools. In this section,
I explore the underlying economic rationale for this interest and its relationship
to artist pedagogy. To begin, I discuss in greater detail the conceptualisation and
influence of the creative industries.
2.2.1 Remaining competitive through creativity
Upon unseating the Tory government in 1997, the New Labour government (1997—
2010) proposed an economic development strategy partly centred on creativity.
This strategy is evident in a seminal document produced by DCMS (1998) that
conceptualised multiple sectors within one umbrella industry called the creative
industries. DCMS (2001) described these sectors as having:
their origin in individual creativity, skill and talent. They also have a
potential to create wealth and jobs through developing and exploiting
intellectual property. (p. 4)
The notion that the creative industries sector can stir wealth and job creation has
arisen out of postindustrial economic theories (e.g. Bell, 1973). These theories
confront how so-called advanced economies must confront their declining manu-
facturing bases to generate economic growth and to address the competitiveness of
so-called developing economies including China and India. The Work Foundation
(TWF) proposes one strategy whereby the UK exploits its presumed competitive
advantage of human capital to generate new intellectual property and deliver it to
the marketplace in unprecedented ways (TWF, 2007).
19
CHAPTER 2. BACKGROUND
By conjoining these multiple sectors under one umbrella, the creative industries
sector became the largest economic sector in relation to the UK’s overall gross do-
mestic product (GDP) in 2006 (TWF, 2007). However, economic data to support
this claim, provided in Figure 2.2, have been critiqued. Software, television, and
radio have accounted for two-thirds of the creative industries’ annual economic
output (TWF, 2007, p. 32). In the USA, Howkins (2002) estimates that the tra-
ditionally defined arts sector (i.e. art, music, performing arts) only comprises two
per cent of its economic output. Hesmondhalgh (2007) therefore argues that cou-
pling these sectors has overshadowed the disproportionate economic role played
by a few and has falsely inflated the economic significance of others, particularly
the arts. On conceptual grounds, others argue that creative activity is present in
any industry, therefore all industries might be considered creative (Galloway &
Dunlop, 2007; Pratt, 2004; Bilton & Leary, 2002).
Nonetheless, the logic of the creative industries argues that the growth of ad-
vanced economies relies on further developing human capital to create jobs and
wealth through intellectual property. To explain this logic and its implications
for education, in the next section I review characteristics ascribed to the creative
workforce.
2.2.2 The need for a creative workforce
In the previous section, I introduced the perceived—and perhaps manufactured—
economic significance of the creative industries. To work within the creative in-
dustries, a creative workforce has been conceived. It is needed to provide the
original ideas and actions that contribute to economic growth. Below I examine
20
CHAPTER 2. BACKGROUND
The creative industries:
! •! Accounted for 6.4 per cent of national gross value added (GVA) in 2006, 
contributing £57.3 billion to the British economy, excluding craft and design
! •! Grew by an average of four per cent a year between 1997 and 2006, compared to an 
average of three per cent for the whole of the economy over the same period
! •! Exported an estimated £14.6 billion in goods and services in 2005, accounting for 4.5 
per cent of all exports
! •! Increased in employment from 1.6 million in 1997 to 2 million in 2007, twice the 
average growth rate in employment over the same period
! •! Generated over £40 billion in salaries and wages in 2006, with support staff in 
creative industries earning an extra £16.8 billion.  Overall, this accounted for 9.6 per 
cent of all UK earnings.
Figure 2.2: Economic figures of the creative industries (DCMS, 2009)
more deeply the characteristics of this newly described workforce before turning
to its implications for engaging artists in education.
To spur economic growth, TWF argues that this creative workforce is necessary
to meet the changing structure of demand in consumer-driven economies (TWF,
2007). Shifts in consumption have been driven by relatively wealthier and more
educated consumers aspiring to meet “complex psychological and emotional needs”
now that their material needs have been met (TWF, 2007, p. 17). This consump-
tion is evident in the fact that UK households spent more on leisure than on food
for the first time in 1997 (ACE, 2007, p. 72).
21
CHAPTER 2. BACKGROUND
New patterns of consumption also feature consumers drawn to the symbolic mean-
ing of goods and experiences rather than simply their material properties. Con-
sumers increasingly buy shoes for what their appearance signifies about them as
individuals rather than simply how they fit or function. As a result, the produc-
tion of symbolic meaning is considered to have greater economic significance. This
significance expands the perceived economic role of workers who produce symbolic
meaning—workers including those found within the creative industries.
The changing structure of demand also refers to ways in which consumers use
different technologies “to bring the flow of media more fully under their control
and to interact with other users” (Jenkins, 2004, p. 37). The once traditional roles
of the producer and the consumer, Deuze (2007) argues, are becoming “(to some
extent) interchangeable and (at the very least) interdependent” (p. 250). Em-
powered by social networking technologies, prosumers are envisaged as those who,
particularly among the younger set, “increasingly understand culture as something
they make, or something they remake and remix and remake” (Lessig, 2004, p. 7).
In other words, consumers are not passively bending to the external demands of
those selling goods to them, but are adapting, modifying, and inventing these tools.
Based on these assumptions about shifts in demand and the newly empowered
prosumer, historically top-down corporate-driven processes become outdated. In-
stead, more immediate and responsive ways of working become necessary to more
efficiently allow for and capitalise on ways consumers generate meaning. There-
fore, a workforce trained to participate in the pyramidical structure of manage-
ment and vocational labour found in traditional corporations, factories, and armies
also is less necessary (Deuze, 2007). This updated workforce emphasises “indi-
vidual and small scale, project-based or collaborative notions of commercial and
22
CHAPTER 2. BACKGROUND
non-commercial media production” (Deuze, 2007, p. 249). To allow for divergent
thinking that leads to new intellectual property, creative workers must also share
knowledge in networks across disciplines (Hartley & Cunningham, 2001).
Given the need for a different type of workforce, TWF (2007) argues that edu-
cation policy and pedagogy must be updated. In the next section, I discuss how
this argument justifies engaging artists in education.
2.2.3 Reskilling the workforce for the future
In the last section, I argued that described shifts in production and consumption
have increased the perceived demand for workers capable of producing symbolic
meaning and of working within interdisciplinary, small-scale, and nonhierarchical
organisations. The perceived economic significance of this creative workforce has
led the UK, China, Singapore, and Australia to reconsider educational policy at
the dawn of the 21st century (Qidi, 2006; Flew, 2002; Tan & Gopinathan, 2000).
This reconsideration has presupposed a “renewed interventionist role for the state
in setting 21st-century industry policies”, including an “intensive reskilling and
education of the population” (Cunningham, 2004, p. 108).
When framing new policies such as the launch of CP, one popular argument is
that schools were conceived in the 19th century based on the economic signifi-
cance of the factory. Modelling the factory itself, state schooling was designed
to churn out a workforce to labour in pyramidical organisations doing repetitive,
mindless, and physical tasks (NACCCE, 1999, p. 16). The argument then is that
formal and informal education must be updated for work in the 21st century, re-
designing its structure and delivery to train people for shifting labour practices.
23
CHAPTER 2. BACKGROUND
Sawyer (2006) argues that the development of a creative workforce requires an
education that provides “students with opportunities to engage in collaborative
knowledge-building activities, through disciplined improvisations” (p. 46). These
improvisations might be considered further characteristics of creative learning as
noted earlier (Sefton-Green et al., 2008). In other words, students must move
beyond passive, disinterested busywork for emotionally-invested and self-directed
activities in any discipline.
To reskill future workers, Simonton (2000) argues that creative learning can take
place through a wide range of activities across academic disciplines. Creative
learning is not seen as the sole purview of the arts, though perhaps it is essen-
tial to them. ACE also makes the case that creative practitioners working in and
across multiple sectors within the creative industries might effectively facilitate
creative learning across disciplines. Their argument may be underpinned by two
beliefs:
1. Creative practitioners possess the described transdisciplinary skills of the
creative workforce and are well suited to model them for learners through
apprenticeship (ACE, 2007, p. 4).
2. Transdisciplinary skills make creative practitioners effective educators, bring-
ing new pedagogies to school classrooms and beyond (ACE, 2007, p. 2).
In the next section, I investigate some possible inconsistencies between these as-
sumptions and how creative practitioners have been engaged in UK schools through
CP and supported by ACE. Then I discuss how these potential differences justify
research on artist pedagogy.
24
CHAPTER 2. BACKGROUND
2.2.4 Are artists fit for this purpose?
To this point, I have argued that the perceived economic significance of the cre-
ative industries has justified enlisting creative practitioners in education to model
skills of the creative workforce and to introduce new pedagogies in and beyond
schools. In addition, I noted how coupling together multiple sectors within the
creative industries overshadows the disproportionate economic role played by soft-
ware, radio, and television, whilst inflating the economic significance of the arts
sector.
In this section, I point out a need for artist pedagogy research by illustrating
that those engaged through CP have largely come from the less economically sig-
nificant arts sector. This potential inconsistency raises questions about whether
artists are fit for the purpose of developing a creative workforce and whether they
would subscribe to that aim.
A review of individuals engaged by CP points to some potential discrepancies
between the policy rhetoric and its implementation. Between 2002 and 2006, CP
worked with over 2,500 schools and directly employed 3,500 creative practitioners
according to a report by the Burns Owens Partnership (BOP, 2006). In its survey
of 300 creative practitioners, 70 per cent worked in the visual arts, performance
and music sectors. Only “around ten per cent” of partnerships included creative
practitioners from so-called commercial companies (BOP, 2006, p. 17). During
that period, the BOP report suggests CP primarily partnered those traditionally
described as artists, musicians, and performers to work with students, teachers,
and schools.
25
CHAPTER 2. BACKGROUND
The prevalence of artists, musicians, and performers in CP raises the question
whether they are fit to develop a workforce for careers in other sectors, such as
software and advertising, which are more likely to provide jobs and economic
growth. Given its emphasis on workforce development, policies that have spawned
creative and cultural learning initiatives seem to lack a critical answer. Although
artists, musicians and performers may be fit for such a purpose, existing research
has not established how or why, which suggests the need for research.
The BOP report (2006) does acknowledge that CP has struggled to engage cre-
ative practitioners from those other sectors for several reasons. First, the report
illustrates how there is a larger pool available from the arts, music, and perfor-
mance sectors (244,000) than those in the film, video, television, and photography
sectors (164,000). This point seems to have overlooked the large pool of creative
practitioners in more economically significant sectors of the creative industries,
particularly the nearly 600,000 employed workers in the software sector and the
253,300 employed workers in the publishing sector as of 2005 (TWF, 2007). There-
fore, this argument seems insufficient in explaining why creative practitioners in
CP tend to come from the arts, music, and performance sectors.
A second reason the report offers for this imbalance is that CP tended to em-
ploy freelancers during that period. Because freelancers work flexibly in so-called
portfolio careers across a variety of settings, the BOP report (2006, p. 16) suggests
they were more able to work for CP. Their flexible work patterns are probably
suitable because CP contracts have tended to be part-time and short-term, and
therefore more suitable for freelance workers. So there is some indication why those
from the arts, music and performance sectors participated in CP from 2002–2006
more than other sectors. One must presume that artists, musicians, and perform-
26
CHAPTER 2. BACKGROUND
ers, which I will simply refer to as artists from this point forward, are more likely
to be freelancers and that these freelancers were in greater need of employment
than those working in the software industry.
A third explanation for the difficulty of engaging creative practitioners other than
artists, according to the BOP report (2006, p. 16), is that CP tended to “re-
commission” a particular group of creative practitioners rather than use a more
open tendering process. This reliance on previously engaged artists was “a natural
result of the need for a core of practitioners with strong, detailed understanding
of CP”, and ensured that CP consistently provided practitioners who were “fully
conversant with [its] aims, objectives, needs, and culture” (BOP, 2006, pp. 16–17).
The BOP report (2006, p. 18) notes that CP spent nearly half of its creative and
cultural spend from 2002 to 2006 on less than 10 per cent of the creative practi-
tioners contracted. Therefore, other creative practitioners would find it difficult
to contract with CP unless they had already done so or were affiliated with others
already in this close-knit network.
If CP is engaging artists more and providing them the responsibility of train-
ing the UK’s creative workforce, then I argue it is imperative to understand their
pedagogies. In particular, I stress the need for independent research that considers
their pedagogies irrespective of CP’s aims. Although artists may be fit for devel-
oping a creative workforce, there is little independent research that substantiates
this claim. Therefore, independent research is needed to contribute to debates
about whether artists’ pedagogies are consistent with this economic strategy by
offering artists’ perspectives of what they do and why they do it. Independent
research might also invite consideration of aspirations—irrespective of CP’s—that
artists’ pedagogies might support.
27
CHAPTER 2. BACKGROUND
There are good reasons to suspect some tension between this creative workforce
development strategy and artists’ pedagogic interests. O’Connor (2007) argues
that although those with fine arts backgrounds have a long history of partici-
pating in economic markets, it does not necessarily follow that they assent to
the values underpinning the creative industries. I illustrated how the creative in-
dustries sector has been conceived to further expand a consumer-driven economy
through the commodification of symbolic meaning and producing technologies to
empower prosumers. I have also noted in my introduction how artists have turned
towards pedagogy as a way to elude the commodifying grasp of the art market.
The difference between the creative industries strategy, which hinges upon growth
in consumption, and the artists’ interests, which involves eluding economic mar-
kets that commodify art objects for consumption, suggests tension between artists
engaging in education and this creative workforce development aim.
Whilst O’Connor (2007) acknowledges Hartley’s (2001) criticism that we must
move away from the “elite / mass, art / entertainment, sponsored / commer-
cial, high / trivial distinctions that bedevil thinking about creativity. . . ” (p. 17),
O’Connor (2007) argues that these distinctions have arisen out of a tradition of
Western artists critiquing capitalist interests in accumulation over and above all
other values. Yet I argue that CP rhetoric has not more carefully distinguished
between artists’ and policymakers’ possible interests. Garnham (2005) argues that
this ambiguity is a feature of broader creative industries policy and therefore the
creative industries:
serves a specific rhetorical purpose within policy discourse. It serves as
a slogan, as a shorthand reference to, and thus mobilises unreflectively,
a range of supporting theoretical and political positions. This lack of
28
CHAPTER 2. BACKGROUND
reflexivity is essential to its ideological power. It disguises the very real
contradictions and empirical weaknesses of the theoretical analyses it
mobilises, and by so doing helps to mobilise a very disparate and of-
ten potentially antagonistic coalition of interests around a given policy
thrust. (pp. 15–16)
Indeed, the ambiguity of the term creative practitioner may be one way of mobil-
ising this potentially disparate and antagonistic coalition. In other words, creative
industries rhetoric encompasses those traditionally identified as artists, craftspeo-
ple, designers, scientists, software engineers, tech entrepreneurs, and media moguls
who possess a wide spectrum of potentially conflicting values and unrelated skills.
By referring to those CP actually tends to engage as creative practitioners rather
than artists, it conflates them, for example, with software engineers.
As a result, CP rhetoric sidesteps having to make the case that may be averse
to artists’ interests in education: that artists are key protagonists in expanding
a consumer-driven economy through developing the creative workforce and the
creative industries. The use of ambiguous rhetoric might mitigate resistance put
forward by artists, assuming they would not enlist in this economic agenda if it
was presented more transparently. It is my belief that it is not enough to know if
or how their pedagogies are fit for developing a creative workforce.
It is also important to know why artists engage in this work, and to what extent
their values are or are not consistent with this strategy. And since artists have
been engaged in CP, it is imperative to understand if what they do is consistent
with creative workforce aims. This knowledge can contribute to other research
that might address whether workers in other sectors of the creative industries,
such as software engineers, are fit for the task of developing a creative workforce.
29
CHAPTER 2. BACKGROUND
In the next section, I turn to discuss a similar lack of knowledge in regards to
the second justification used to engage artists in education, namely promoting
wellbeing.
2.3 Promoting wellbeing
In the previous section, I argued that new policies and initiatives have engaged
artists to promote creative and cultural learning. The purpose of this learning
is to partly transform formal and informal education in order to prepare young
people for work in a globally competitive marketplace. In addition to this eco-
nomic aim, creative and cultural learning policies and initiatives have engaged
artists for social purposes. The All Our Futures report argues that creative and
cultural learning can develop young people’s capacity to negotiate the complexities
of the rapid cultural change they will produce as creative workers and experience
in an increasingly globalised society (NACCCE, 1999). The report goes on to ar-
gue that its renewed vision for education is necessary to promote social cohesion
(NACCCE, 1999). From this perspective, creative and cultural learning encour-
ages respect for individuals with different ethnic backgrounds, which is necessary
given young people are living in and creating “rapid times of cultural change and
of increasing cultural diversity” (NACCCE, 1999, p. 6).
This emphasis on social cohesion, which arguably arises to an extent out of multi-
culturalism, has morphed into a broader debate concerning the wellbeing of chil-
dren in the UK. A shifting political landscape has likely contributed to this debate,
which undoubtedly has been shaped by major terrorist events and the xenophobia
stemming from a transnational, migratory workforce (Message, 2009). In addi-
tion, several publicly scrutinised events involving the abuse and neglect of children
30
CHAPTER 2. BACKGROUND
in the UK occurred against a backdrop of increasing anxiety concerning a “toxic
childhood” (Palmer, 2007). Fears among adults concerning children’s emotional
and physical health, sexuality, socialisation, and their increased exposure to tech-
nology and consumerism have perhaps been on the rise as noted by Alexander
(2007). Therefore, initial concerns about negotiating cultural shifts and diversity
have transitioned to include addressing children who are perceived to be increas-
ingly depressed, disaffected, and disengaged in school, at home, and on the streets.
During the New Labour government era (1997–2010), addressing these concerns
was described in the UK as the wellbeing agenda.
In this section, I discuss how this wellbeing agenda has justified the engagement
of artists in education. I first describe in greater detail the mounting perception
that young people in the UK have increasingly suffered from psychological disor-
ders and have been the offenders and/or victims of so-called antisocial behaviour.
After discussing the educational policy responses, I then review some justifications
for engaging artists to support these wellbeing aims.
2.3.1 UK children and their wellbeing
A troubling portrait of the psychological aspects of young people’s wellbeing
emerged in the 1990s. In 1999, the UK Office for National Statistics conducted
a survey of psychological disorders in children and young people, aged 5 and 16.
The survey suggested that approximately 10 per cent possessed a mental health
problem (Meltzer et al., 2003). For those who care deeply about the suffering of
children, the data is difficult to bear. In 2003, suicide, viewed by the World Health
Organisation (WHO) as a preventable health problem, accounted for 20 per cent
of deaths among UK young people (DfES, 2003). In addition, a study of offending
31
CHAPTER 2. BACKGROUND
and victimisation amongst children in mainstream secondary schools found that 46
per cent reported being the victim of some kind of offence in the prior 12 months
(DfES, 2003).
A well-cited UNICEF report (2007) also established an international league ta-
ble of children and young people’s wellbeing that reflected poorly on the UK. In
this report, UNICEF conceives children’s wellbeing in broad terms as (UNICEF,
2007):
their health and safety, their material security, their education and
socialisation, and their sense of being loved, valued, and included in
the families and societies into which they are born. (p. 1)
The report ranked UK children last among advanced economies in areas of the qual-
ity of family and peer relationships and exposure to behaviours and risks (UNICEF,
2007). The release of the UNICEF report and other related events received media
scrutiny and public attention in the UK. In reaction to this attention, policymak-
ers initiated responses to address this potentially alarming situation. Discussed
in the next section, these responses included broadening the remit of schools and
extending their services through, in part, partnerships with artists.
2.3.2 Expanding and extending schooling
In the last section, I presented alarming statistics of aspects of children’s wellbeing
in the UK. In this section, I describe how the New Labour government (1997–
2010) broadened the scope of education beyond a focus on literacy and numeracy
to address it. The expansion of education’s remit is evident in the New Labour
government’s approach to problems of children’s mental health, family breakdown,
32
CHAPTER 2. BACKGROUND
1. Being healthy: enjoying good physical and mental health and living a healthy lifestyle 
2. Staying safe: being protected from harm and neglect 
3. Enjoying and achieving: getting the most out of life and developing the skills for 
adulthood 
4. Making a positive contribution: being involved with the community and society and 
not engaging in anti-social or offending behaviour 
5. Economic wellbeing: not being prevented by economic disadvantage from achieving 
their full potential in life
Figure 2.3: Five objectives of ECM (DfES, 2003)
poor academic achievement, cultural fragmentation, antisocial behaviour, and fu-
ture unemployment. These different problems were viewed as linked and mutually
reinforcing.
Policy recommendations that were put forward in the Every Child Matters (ECM)
report (DfES, 2003) and that were supported legislatively by The Children Act
(2004) became highly influential in UK school policy in order to support wellbeing.
Through ECM, New Labour outlined five objectives of wellbeing for children to
achieve, which are presented in Figure 2.3. Similar to the UNICEF conception
of wellbeing, these objectives included physical and mental health, safety, enjoy-
ment, employability, and making a positive contribution to society (DfES, 2003).
In the context of schooling, QCA argued that the ECM objectives needed to be
reinforced through every aspect of children’s activity in and out of school (QCA,
2009). The broadening remit of education under New Labour is evident in this
policy’s push to consider related aims: improving mental health, protecting chil-
dren from physical harm in and outside school, encouraging enjoyment, mitigating
antisocial behaviour, and improving employability.
33
CHAPTER 2. BACKGROUND
One assumption underlying the promotion of the ECM objectives in schools was
that academic achievement and wellbeing are positively correlated (e.g. Acheson,
1998). Therefore, the focus on children and young people’s social and emotional
wellbeing also included raising academic achievement for all. Relatedly, varied
reasons were cited for poor academic attainment among students both in and out-
side the school. Examples include: neglect at home (Ofsted, 2008), school bullying
(Smith, 2000), being identified as having special educational needs (Clark et al.,
1999), and/or ineffective teaching (Ofsted, 2000). QCA (2007) argued that schools
needed “passionate and committed subject teaching” to address these challenges.
In particular, this teaching needed to offer opportunities for open-ended investiga-
tion, creativity, experimentation, teamwork and performance. These suggestions
for promoting wellbeing through teaching resonate with descriptions of creative
learning noted in the previous section. Therefore, artists might also be perceived
as good candidates for enacting passionate and committed teaching that supports
both creative workforce development and wellbeing.
In addition to passionate and committed teaching, DfES also introduced Full Ser-
vice Extended Schools (FSES) to lengthen the school day and expand school ser-
vices for those described as “socio-economically disadvantaged” (DfES, 2005b). As
a part of extending services, the Education and Inspection Act (2006) also artic-
ulated that Local Education Authorities (LEA) (National Archives, 2006):
must, so far as reasonably practicable . . . [provide] educational leisure
time activities for persons aged 13 to 19 . . . for the improvement of
their wellbeing.
The call to provide additional out-of-school opportunities potentially provided fur-
ther pathways for artists to promote wellbeing beyond the traditional school day.
34
CHAPTER 2. BACKGROUND
In addition to broadening the remit and lengthening the school day, the wellbeing
agenda featured the expansion of who was responsible for promoting children and
young people’s development. DfES introduced a broad children’s workforce, includ-
ing public safety workers, health care workers, teachers, and school partners who
needed a common core of skills and knowledge: effective communication skills, an
understanding of child development, multi-agency working, and information shar-
ing (DfES, 2005a). This new children’s workforce presumably also included artists.
Before investigating the envisaged role of artists in the wellbeing agenda, I want
to discuss how these social and emotional aspects of education have more recently
shifted towards an increased focus on happiness.
2.3.3 The focus on happiness
Psychology and economics have recently paid considerable attention to aspects of
wellbeing and in particular, happiness. The New Economics Foundation (NEF)
has developed indicators for an international table of wellbeing somewhat similar
to UNICEF’s (2007). The NEF theory of wellbeing focuses on happiness, health,
capabilities, and civic engagement (Shah & Marks, 2004). This new emphasis
on happiness became more prominent in education. The Social and Emotional
Aspects of Learning (SEAL) programme emerged as a national strategy for UK
primary and secondary schools. Positive psychology provides the theory for SEAL,
arguing that emotional literacy and learned optimism skills are good for academic
achievement and vice verse (DfES, 2005c).
35
CHAPTER 2. BACKGROUND
Positive psychology emerged in the USA in the late 1990s. It sprouted out of Selig-
man and Csikszentmihalyi’s (2000) call for psychology to move beyond a myopic
focus on pathology—analysing the “victim, the underdog, and the remedial”—
towards exploring human flourishing. Human flourishing is a conceptual attempt
to move happiness beyond hedonism. Seligman and Csikszentmihalyi (2000) at-
tempted to provide the theoretical basis for measuring broader life satisfaction
rather than an affect or mood at a particular moment. Viewing happiness as life
satisfaction then accounts for the extent to which people feel capable and purpose-
fully engaged in society (Huppert et al., 2005) and feel a sense of accomplishment
(Seligman, 2011).
Contributing to a dizzy array of ambiguous terms, positive psychology has put
forward influential concepts of emotional intelligence (Goleman, 2006), emotional
literacy (Weare, 2004), subjective wellbeing (Seligman et al., 2009), and flow (Csik-
szentmihalyi, 1991). These concepts appear to describe people’s awareness of emo-
tions, empathy towards others, a sense of optimism, and the temporary and plea-
surable loss of self-awareness when engaged in activities that stretch one’s mind
and body to the limits. These concepts, particularly flow, resonate with the earlier
discussed concepts of creative learning, engagement, and absorption. These con-
cepts illustrate how artists could be considered particularly effective in promoting
life satisfaction, because they have been described as offering activities that facil-
itate “deep” engagement (Sefton-Green et al., 2008).
Positive psychology proponents also have argued that greater emotional intelli-
gence is good for academic achievement and vice verse (Seligman et al., 2009).
Therefore, some schools have turned increasingly towards promoting positive psy-
chology. The private Wellington College in Surrey, England recently received
36
CHAPTER 2. BACKGROUND
widespread attention for its happiness classes. These classes encourage stillness
and living in the present as skills (Wellington College, 2007). Its curriculum also
provides classroom activities meant to draw young people’s attention to their emo-
tions and how they have coped with challenging situations (Wellington College,
2007).1
In state schools, SEAL offers another example. At this point in time, SEAL peda-
gogy remains somewhat unclear. Anecdotally, my daughter, a reception year pupil
at a Church of England, state-run primary school, recently completed a SEAL
exercise at home. The SEAL worksheet asked her to write or draw something she
has learned and what facilitated this learning. An accompanying pamphlet for
parents explained that SEAL helps children “focus on the good feelings and allows
them to think clearly about their learning.” It adds “when we feel good about
ourselves and things we can do well, we become better learners.” This exercise
illustrates how the correlation between happiness and academic achievement is in-
fluencing school pedagogy. With its allowance for writing or drawing, this exercise
also points to an interest in the arts as a potential tool for “feeling good about
ourselves.”
Despite emerging happiness pedagogies in schools, positive psychology and these
approaches have been critiqued from multiple perspectives. Philosophically, Miller
(2008) argues that positive psychology is theoretically incoherent, a popular self-
help movement wrapped up as reputable science and trapped in tautologies (i.e.
“If I were happy, I would be happy!”). Drawing on a critique of “therapy culture”
(see Fu¨redi, 2003), Craig (2007) argues such an inward focus on emotions is coun-
terproductive, exacerbating children and young people’s mental health problems
1See Waite (2007) and “Happiness” (2007) for news coverage.
37
CHAPTER 2. BACKGROUND
and overwhelming teachers undertrained to cope with them. Ecclestone & Hayes
(2009) lament how a focus on social and emotional aspects of wellbeing might take
the place of what they describe as the more important focus on subject knowledge.
In addition, McLaughlin (2008) cautions the extent to which the broader focus
on social and emotional aspects of learning take a deficit approach to young peo-
ple, assuming from the start they have poor mental health without resilience. By
contrast, McLaughlin (2008) argues that teacher-pupil relationships, too often ig-
nored in policy and pedagogy, are central to advancing wellbeing. The research
evidence offered in support of the SEAL initiative has been critiqued for being
taken largely from American contexts (Craig, 2007). This evidence, some argue, is
premature and inconsistent in its attempt to establish elusive causal relations be-
tween program interventions and changes in wellbeing (Miller, 2008; Craig, 2007).
Bearing in mind these criticisms, I now turn to discuss the possible role of artists
in promoting wellbeing, including happiness.
2.3.4 Artists enhancing moods and promoting flow
To this point, I have discussed how education policy and pedagogy has attempted
to stretch beyond the traditional focus of literacy and numeracy to include a focus
on social and emotional aspects of learning. In this section, I discuss how artists
have been perceived as partners in promoting wellbeing and the implications of
this perception for this research.
The initiatives discussed so far have often cited artists and the arts as central
to promoting happiness and wellbeing. The All Our Futures report argues that
artists and the arts can enable children and young people “to explore and express”
38
CHAPTER 2. BACKGROUND
emotions and feelings “in positive and constructive ways” (NACCCE, 1999, p. 24).
CP argued that part of its rationale has been to form partnerships between artists
and schools to support ECM objectives (ACE, 2007, p. 6). Weare (2000, p. 125),
an architect of SEAL, argues that the expressive arts are critical to addressing
wellbeing by providing immediate experiences of different emotions. Weare (2000)
also argues that music is a mood enhancer, and dance might provide opportunities
to express feelings nonverbally and develop body awareness.
These expressionist theories have been used to justify arts education in the past
and were particularly popular in the UK during the post-war era (Efland, 1990).
At the same time, there is little evidence to suggest artists today are turning
towards pedagogy for expressionist purposes, and if so, how or if their interests
are consistent with the aims of CP and SEAL. Since it is known that artists are
being engaged to support the economic aims discussed previously and the social
and emotional aims discussed in this section, it is important to know how their
interests and approaches align (or not) with these aims.
Sefton-Green (2008, p. 12) theorises that artists are capable of meeting these social
and emotional aims because artists promote “authentic, ‘deep’ educational expe-
riences”. Sefton-Green (2008) appears to allude to the ways in which engagement
with the arts facilitates flow (Csikszentmihalyi, 1991). If artists are interested and
effective in promoting flow, then how they do so would be noteworthy for teach-
ers, researchers, policymakers, and artists alike. It would be significant because
there has been a longstanding interest in how pedagogy contributes to sustained,
emotionally-invested engagement rather than disinterested busywork (Hart, 1998).
Contributing some understanding of how artists’ pedagogies facilitate engagement
is another possible contribution of my research.
39
CHAPTER 2. BACKGROUND
As a part of this wellbeing agenda, artists also have been described as engag-
ing “individuals and communities who are hard to reach through formal education
and institutionalised culture” (CLC, 2008, p. 3). In particular, artists are seen
as being able to engage those considered to have different learning styles or those
identified as having special educational needs. Therefore, artists may be effective
partners in supporting social and emotional aspects of learning for all students,
particularly those perceived to be disaffected or disengaged from more traditional
schooling methods. Direct evidence of these claims is difficult to ascertain (Kinder
& Harland, 2004), though evidence of teachers working in the arts provides some
support (Finney et al., 2005). This research could contribute to debates concern-
ing how artists might engage students considered hard-to-reach.
In summary, artists have been part of a strategy to promote social and emotional
aspects of learning among all students. When discussing the economic justifica-
tion for engaging artists in the previous section, I argued there is little research
evidence to substantiate the claim that artists’ interests and methods are con-
sistent with those aspirations. The same can be said with respect to the social
and emotional goals. Thus, there seems to be a need for research that provides
artists’ perspectives towards debates concerning what role, if any, their pedagogies
play in meeting these social aims. I conclude this chapter by summarising and
comparing these economic and social aims and further examine the need for my
research.
2.4 Artists placed in a muddle?
In this chapter, I have discussed two prominent justifications for the recent en-
40
CHAPTER 2. BACKGROUND
gagement of UK artists in education. First, I described how their pedagogies have
been considered effective in changing state sponsored educational systems that
were conceived to develop a 19th century workforce once needed for an indus-
trial economy. Second, I suggested these new approaches have been perceived to
promote social and emotional aspects of learning through reaching students con-
sidered hard to reach through schooling by expressive means. The assumption
appears to be that artists can offer creative and cultural learning across a wide
range of disciplines that develops flourishing individuals more fully integrated into
society through their social and economic participation.
This assumption can be critiqued on multiple levels. The link between psycho-
logical aspects of wellbeing and academic achievement is debatable. The Higher
Education Research Institute (HERI) recently conducted a national survey of in-
coming American university students. The survey results suggest American uni-
versity students are reporting higher levels of poor mental health in comparison
to previous years, coupled with an increased sense of what they might achieve
academically (HERI, 2010). Pope (2001) also has found that students with higher
grades and test scores may be unhappier and lose interest in learning. These find-
ings counter a positive correlation between wellbeing and academic achievement.
However, a positive correlation possibly exists in Finland where students ranked
highly on the UNICEF’s 2007 international table of wellbeing and the 2009 Pro-
gramme for International Student Assessment (PISA). Therefore, the evidence is
inconclusive and perhaps reflects different interpretations of wellbeing within dif-
ferent national borders.
Inconsistencies also emerge when examining the creative workforce and wellbeing
agendas side-by-side. Evans & Shaw (2004) have critiqued the creative industries
41
CHAPTER 2. BACKGROUND
sector for gentrifying living and working space, further concentrating economic
activity in creative clusters and hubs at the expense, for example, of geographic
areas with manufacturing as its former economic engine. Oakley (2006, 2004) cri-
tiques the creative industries for offering more impermanent working conditions
and for underrepresenting minority ethnic groups. The sectors within the creative
industries, in short, do not seem to offer a pathway towards greater social cohesion
and mobility.
These sectors also do not seem to offer a pathway towards emotional security.
One might argue that the creative workforce meets consumers’ complex emotional
and psychological needs now that their material needs have been met (TWF, 2007,
p. 17). However, Debord (1977) takes another view that is relevant to this theory:
that the consumptive economy manufactures desire in order to expand consump-
tion. So, the creative workforce introduces the latest and greatest products, drip-
ping in powerful symbolic meaning, to create an ongoing and never quenchable
sense of emotional incompleteness, thus escalating unyielding consumption. TWF
describes the shift towards meeting these complex needs as economic and social
progress. Alternatively, Debord (1977) describes this shift as manipulative and
alienating: consumers did not know they possessed these needs until they were
made to feel incomplete without having met them. Consumption driven by the
creative industries, therefore, could be described as conflicting with notions of
emotional security as it is associated with wellbeing.
When comparing the economic and social justifications for engaging artists in
education side-by-side, it appears that artists are engaged to some extent in two
agendas that are at odds with one another. On the one hand, artists have been
charged with developing a creative workforce that expands economic growth by
42
CHAPTER 2. BACKGROUND
manufacturing unsatisfiable desire and unyielding consumption. On the other
hand, they have been charged with promoting wellbeing so that future workers are
more likely to feel like flourishing individuals with a strong sense of optimism and
empathy towards others. The inconsistency of these two agendas seems to place
artists in a muddle, relying on ambiguous rhetoric to mobilise them though their
interests may or may not align with these economic and social aims.
I do not believe it enough to claim that artists bring a new approach that may
promote creative and cultural learning towards these economic and social aims,
as the Arts Council of England argued. There is little independent research that
substantiates this claim. Moreover, it also matters why artists practice particular
approaches. Artists’ values matter for the same reason there has been sustained
educational interest in related concepts of absorption, engagement, and deep, au-
thentic creative learning. The assumption is that one teaches and learns more
meaningfully and effectively if one is emotionally invested in the activity at hand.
The notion that students are worse off when they are engaged in disinterested busy-
work imposed from without must extend to teachers and artists. Like students,
artists and teachers must find personal meaning and significance in their work. To
do so, they must attempt to shape what they are doing in a way that expresses
their personal values. Yet research has failed to illustrate whether artists’ values
are or are not consistent with social and economic aims imposed from without.
Therefore, it was critical for this research to examine how and why artists describe
their approaches to working in and beyond schools.
As I considered this need, I also believed a theoretical concept would sensitise
me towards these interests. I selected pedagogy as that theoretical concept and I
turn now to discuss how I extended my understanding of it.
43
Chapter 3
Pedagogy
In the previous chapter, I argued that there has been little research that consid-
ers artists’ perspectives on how or why they engage in education. Yet, influential
policies and initiatives have claimed that artists bring new approaches towards
creative and cultural learning that address social and economic aims. As some-
one immersed in this field since the late 1990s, I have found that few academic
accounts of artists’ engagement in education resonate with me. The narrow focus
on and theorisation of artists’ participation in schooling has been one reason. Jef-
fery’s (2005, p. 84) typology of artists in schools describes them as either masters,
provocateurs, residents, or professionals. Gradel (2001) provides a slightly dif-
ferent one: presenting, interacting, collaborating, and master instructional artists.
My experience is that artists resist using typologies that might clearly differen-
tiate or pigeonhole their approaches and that the interests of schooling narrow
and subordinate artists’ interests and approaches. Therefore, I wanted to deeply
describe and interpret the complexity of how and why artists engage others from
their perspectives.
44
CHAPTER 3. PEDAGOGY
I did not have a theory from which I could deduce what artists did and why be-
cause there was little research on these topics. Using a more phenomenological
approach, I focused on how artists described what they did and how these actions
were meaningful to them. I tried to refrain from predetermining what I researched
based on assumptions I held about what artists did and why. However, I recognised
I needed to make some theoretical assumptions to look for and make sense of what
was meaningful to artists. I needed a theoretical perspective that allowed me to
research artists’ perspectives on what they do and why they do it. I believed that
pedagogy allowed me to research how people’s values manifest in what they do.
Therefore, I selected pedagogy as a broad and flexible theoretical starting point
for this research. I engaged in a reflexive process whereby I attempted to become
aware of the pedagogic assumptions I was making whilst collecting and analysing
data (Hammersley & Atkinson, 2007). I extended my theoretical understanding
of pedagogy, thus opening myself up to the perspectives of artists who must have
held views different from my own.
In this chapter, I describe how I developed this broad and flexible approach to
pedagogy. In particular, I discuss reflections on my pedagogic past and on the
literature I reviewed. I now discuss the strategies I used to set the boundaries for
this review and then turn to this literature.
3.1 Strategy for literature review
To begin, I partly examined what theoretical concepts I did not want to use to ar-
rive at a broad, flexible theoretical starting point for this pedagogic research. For
example, I decided not to approach this research through the lens of creativity.
Policies discussed in the previous chapter did have creativity as one of its cen-
45
CHAPTER 3. PEDAGOGY
tral interests. But creativity had been examined extensively elsewhere (Chappell
et al., 2008; Burnard, 2007; Cremin et al., 2006; Burnard et al., 2006; Burnard,
2006; Craft, 2005). This focus on creativity likely reflects the extent to which
policies discussed in the previous chapter have driven research. After my M.Phil.
study, I suspected that the artists selected for this research were not going to lead
me towards creativity. Moreover, the nature of creativity was rarely a topic in the
studio at New Urban Arts. Therefore, I looked forward to artists’ interests driving
this independent research towards an alternative focus.
I decided not to conduct this research with a focus on artist-teacher partnership.
Artists partnering in schools has been thoroughly investigated (Hall et al., 2007;
Kind et al., 2007; Thomson et al., 2006; Upitis, 2006; Addison & Burgess, 2006;
Brice-Heath & Wolf, 2004; Mitchell, 2000). I wanted this independent research to
investigate what was most relevant to artists. I wanted to research moments when
artists were largely working apart from teachers, independently from the interests
and demands of schools. I suspected a strategy that focused on artists not involved
in schooling would allow me to focus on aspects of their engagement that other
research may have overlooked.
In comparison to creativity and artist-teacher partnership, a focus on artist ped-
agogy was less prevalent. I felt pedagogy provided a broad and flexible enough
concept to allow me to progressively focus on artists’ interests (Robson, 2002, p.
493). In addition, pedagogy was useful as a concept for me when I worked with
artists at New Urban Arts. I discussed in my introduction how I was interested
in providing pathways for artists to deepen and develop their engagement with
others. Pedagogy was useful because it allowed artists to consider how and why
they attempted to work with young people in the studio. Artists at New Ur-
46
CHAPTER 3. PEDAGOGY
ban Arts were always curious about other artists’ approaches. Documenting and
sharing artists’ different perspectives and approaches in the studio allowed the
artists to consider alternatives. In addition, sharing why artists’ approaches were
meaningful to them contributed to a sense of belonging in the studio. I think this
sharing created a sense of belonging by deepening artists’ understanding of why
other artists valued doing similar work. The artists could then also consider ways
in which their actions could be construed from different perspectives. This con-
sideration led to complex debates about why and how artists might engage others
differently. I believed this critical reflection was necessary to deepen the impact
of their pedagogies.
Consequently, I believed focusing this research on pedagogy could make similar
contributions. In particular, I was interested in how documenting and sharing
what artists did and what it meant to them could further coalesce a sense of be-
longing within a broader community, what might be described as a community of
practice (Lave & Wenger, 1991). I believed this knowledge could contribute to
artists developing a field shared around their interests, not those imposed upon
them. Moreover, I thought pedagogic research could contribute to artists overcom-
ing a somewhat parochial understanding of their pedagogies. This parochialism
was a particular concern given my impression that there have been few pathways
for artists to share and consider pedagogy.
I also recognised that my understanding of pedagogy was limited. Indeed, this
understanding emerged through personal experience at New Urban Arts. I never
participated in any formal teacher training program and therefore had little fa-
miliarity with pedagogic theory. My role as the director of New Urban Arts did
not afford opportunities to do much theoretical reflection. Therefore, I held a
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CHAPTER 3. PEDAGOGY
somewhat parochial understanding of pedagogy that I wanted to address. Better
understanding and extending the boundaries of my own understanding of peda-
gogy would open me to artists’ perspectives that were not my own.
One strategy I used to extend my understanding was to become more aware of the
theoretical assumptions perhaps embedded in my approach to New Urban Arts.
So I reflected upon how my approach to pedagogy at New Urban Arts emerged.
I reconsidered the apprenticeship to a chef, which drew my attention to sociocul-
tural perspectives towards pedagogy. I also reconsidered how the Swearer Center
for Public Service at Brown University, which supported me as I founded New
Urban Arts, influenced my approach. At the time, the Swearer Center relied on
theoretical perspectives such as New England transcendentalism and pragmatism
to make sense of how it engaged people in public life. Therefore, I considered
revisiting these perspectives as a starting point.
I also wanted to become more aware of unfamiliar ways artists and I could theo-
rise their pedagogies. The literature on pedagogy, practically speaking, is endless.
As a result, I needed to set some boundaries for what to consider given the time
constraints of doctoral research. I prioritised investigating the use of pedagogy in
the UK, and I became more aware that pedagogy is a culturally specific concept
with varied meanings. I believed exploring the cultural specificity of pedagogy was
particularly important given my position as an American researching pedagogy in
the UK. I also wanted to investigate what the limited body of research on artist
pedagogy used from a theoretical perspective. From this review, I could then
select perspectives others found useful in their research. I revisited my M.Phil.
research, which served as a pilot for this study, and decided to further examine
phenomenological concepts and models of pedagogy based on this review.
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CHAPTER 3. PEDAGOGY
I decided what pedagogic literature not to examine to further delimit this lit-
erature review. I chose not to include reviews of the extensive literature on critical
pedagogy because there was little indication from my M.Phil. study or other stud-
ies that it would be useful here. In addition, I chose not to include reviews on
pedagogic literature more narrowly limited to teaching academic subjects in class-
rooms, such as Shulman’s oft-used theorisation of pedagogical content knowledge
(Shulman, 1987, 1986). Every indication from my M.Phil. study suggested that
the artists sampled for this study would not be concerned with teaching subjects.
Moreover, I assumed the sampled artists’ pedagogies would only sometimes oc-
cur in school classrooms based on my familiarity of the artists’ organisation from
which I planned to purposively sample. I was aware that pedagogy could lose its
relevance when dissociated from teaching academic subjects in classrooms. But I
believed otherwise when I began this research and was not sure why. Negotiat-
ing this uncertainty and adding to its complexity was part of the aim of this review.
To guide reading this review, I first examine one debate about the use of ped-
agogy in the UK. Then I review extant literature on artist pedagogy and include a
discussion of findings from my M.Phil. research. Finally, I conclude by examining
sociocultural, pragmatist, and phenomenological perspectives towards pedagogy.
These perspectives provide the broad and flexible starting point for my research
design discussed in the next chapter.
3.2 Invigorating pedagogic discourse in the UK
I believed it was important to familiarise myself with pedagogic discourse in the
UK because I was an American doing research here. I discovered the UK does not
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CHAPTER 3. PEDAGOGY
have a strong tradition of approaching education through a focus on pedagogy.
Simon (1981, p. 125) argues that the school tradition in England specifically has
failed to develop a comprehensive approach to pedagogy. He describes classroom
pedagogy as historically amateurish, anti-intellectual, and untheoretical. In this
critique, Simon (1981) conceives pedagogy as the procedural aspects of classroom
teaching, its subject matter, and the theories that guide classroom teaching. Ped-
agogy, as Simon (1981, p. 125) defines it, consists of curriculum and methodology.
More recently, Alexander (2008) has taken Simon’s baton and attempted to invig-
orate pedagogic discourse in the UK. Similar to Simon, Alexander (2008) describes
pedagogy as the act of classroom teaching coupled with its discourse. More specif-
ically, Alexander (2008) describes classroom teaching as “the immediate context
or frame within the act of teaching is set” and “the act itself and its form” (p.
181). Enacting pedagogy includes teachers designing lesson plans and interacting
with students. Alexander (2000, p. 551) also argues that ideas and rhetoric at the
classroom, policy, and cultural levels discursively shape classroom teaching. He
emphasises how discourse shapes particular approaches to and values of teaching.
Alexander (2004) argues that little progress has been made in claiming peda-
gogy as the starting point for schooling since Simon’s (1981) essay. Like Simon
(1981), Alexander (2004) suggests that the UK tradition has remained too nar-
rowly focused on procedural aspects of teaching rather than examining why these
particular approaches to teaching are valued. In continental Europe, Watkins &
Mortimore (1999) argue that the more narrow focus on procedural aspects of teach-
ing is referred to as didactics. By contrast, Simon (1981) and Alexander (2004)
appear to use pedagogy to theoretically draw attention to the relationship between
classroom didactics and discursively-shaped values.
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I became more aware that pedagogic research in the UK could be construed as an
investigation of subject-based classroom teaching through the review of pedagogic
concepts put forward by Alexander (2008). These concepts could be less relevant
for artists working in or outside schools who may or may not see themselves teach-
ing subjects such as visual or performing arts. Indeed, Campbell (2010) critiques
Alexander’s (2008) conception of pedagogy by arguing that it must be broadened
to account for “contemporary developments in learning outside the school” (p. 34).
This insight assured me that I was seeking broader pedagogic concepts. Consid-
ering Alexander’s (2008) conception of pedagogy also pushed me to more closely
examine the relationship between action and values, to which I turn next.
3.3 The relationship between action and values
In the previous section, I noted how both Simon (1981) and Alexander (2004) cri-
tique the English teaching tradition for failing to consider why education matters
and how these values are shaped discursively. At the same time, I argued earlier
that pedagogic discourse draws attention to values in ways that are critical to
deepening and extending artists’ engagement with others based on my experience
at New Urban Arts. Therefore, I wanted to interrogate more deeply the assump-
tions I was making when approaching the relationship between action and values.
Doddington & Hilton (2007, p. xiii) argue that values must be the starting point
for any consideration in education because teaching, broadly construed, expresses
different visions for what constitutes “the good”. Values, in other words, describe
what one believes matters. These beliefs inevitably manifest in teaching. Nod-
dings (1991) argues that values are inescapable from teaching, as school teachers
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teach and employ values either “thoughtfully and deliberately or mindlessly, by
default” (p. 321). Noddings (1991) therefore suggests that teachers and students
need opportunities to “analyse their own practices for the values underlying them”
(p. 322). As a result, teachers will be in a better position to “make genuine com-
mitments to deliberately chosen values” (Noddings, 1991, p. 322).
By suggesting the need for “genuine commitments”, Noddings appears to argue
that this process of clarifying values is a way for teachers and students to direct
how and why they teach and learn. In other words, teachers and students can
determine whether their actions and values express what they believe is good, not
what they have been “asked to follow” (Noddings, 1991, p. 321). The opportunity
for artists to express their values was my interest because research had not es-
tablished how artists’ values relate to the social and economic aspirations driving
their engagement in the UK.
The relationship between pedagogic authorship and values is also a particular
concern in the UK education context. Doddington & Hilton (2007, p. xiii) point
out that the National Curriculum, which both Simon (1981) and Alexander (2004)
consider an aspect of pedagogy, failed to mention any underlying values when it
was first published in 1988. Yet the National Curriculum arguably began to cen-
tralise values. The National Curriculum may have served to mark a moment when
teachers’ consideration of values began to feel less necessary or possible, thus re-
ducing teachers to value-less technicians (Hargreaves, 2000; Furlong et al., 2000;
Hoyle, 1995). The curriculum may undermine classroom teachers’ sense of profes-
sionalism by not asking them to consider why education matters and how their
values manifest through their didactics.
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CHAPTER 3. PEDAGOGY
The potential deprofessionalisation of teachers through the National Curriculum
led me to consider the important relationship between pedagogic reflection and
authorship. Pedagogic reflection was fundamental to the approach I encouraged
at New Urban Arts. Noddings (1991, p. 322) describes values as underlying action
and suggests that deliberative reflection can uncover values. Reflection becomes
a process of peeling away, unmasking, or scratching at the surface of actions that
manifest particular values. This perspective towards reflection intimates that val-
ues are somewhat buried and mysterious. Nonetheless, Noddings (1991) argues
that pedagogic reflection provides an opportunity for teachers to recalibrate their
actions based on their evolving understanding of what constitutes the good in the
specific situation they find themselves.
There are alternative perspectives. Henriksson (2007, p. 6) argues that pedagogies
reside more deeply in bodies than minds and are therefore somewhat difficult to
put into words. From this phenomenological perspective, Henriksson (2007) ar-
gues that greater attention must be paid to describing action. At the same time,
Bartolome´ (1994) critiques the focus on action as a “fetish”, particularly among
inexperienced teachers. The fetish involves teachers seeking out didactics consid-
ered universally effective. Indeed, teachers may feel a practical necessity to find
didactics that work given the the disorientation and near impossibility that comes
with how much must be managed in a classroom situation (McIntyre & Brown,
1993). Searching for why education matters to teachers and how these values man-
ifests in didactics adds complexity and further uncertainty to what may already
feel like an untenable situation. Pedagogic reflection, what McIntyre & Brown
(1993) call practical theorisation, could create this dissonance; it might highlight
the incompatibilities between the actions and values teachers describe (Wertsch,
1998). Doddington & Hilton (2007) add that didactics are “rarely made on the
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basis of a single value” (p. xii), which further adds to the complexity of pedagogic
reflection.
For my research, I was attuned to the notion that uncovering values and its re-
lationship to action is mysterious. I assumed moving forward that this mystery
partly stemmed from the role of values in pedagogy, which is inescapable and in-
herently complex. Therefore, I was mindful that pedagogic research should wrestle
with and present this complexity. An interest in complexity led me away from tax-
onomies of artist pedagogy, such as Jeffery’s (2005) or Gradel’s (2001) accounts.
It led me towards an interest in representing pedagogy poetically, allowing for
metaphor that attempts to grasp at its somewhat elusive characteristics (van Ma-
nen, 1990). Representing this complexity would reiterate that any represented
actions and values are not the final say that could be effective in any situation. I
was seeking to engage in pedagogic research that represented the complexity and
the specificity within particular situations that artists confront. I hoped this focus
on specificity would provoke others to consider and perhaps author pedagogies
most relevant for their values and situations.
The mystery of discovering underlying values might also emerge from the em-
bodied nature of pedagogy. The emerging portrait of pedagogy discussed so far
represents actions done with bodies, though these bodies are immersed in dis-
course, as Alexander (2000) argues, that shapes possibilities for action. Educators
such as teachers and artists are immersed in a particular time, place, and discourse
as they engage with others. Phenomenologists describe this methodological field as
the lifeworld (van Manen, 1990). Reflecting upon pedagogy is perhaps an attempt
to scratch at the surface of that immersion, thus uncovering how different values
manifest in situated action. James (1901) argues, through his immersive theory of
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CHAPTER 3. PEDAGOGY
time and continuity, that any effort to represent this situatedness is retrospective.
Reflection produces second-hand representations never fully up to the task of cap-
turing what occurred.
The values described through pedagogic research can not be interpreted as causes
of action. Therefore, I approached values as the fruit of constructing meaning ret-
rospectively. Attempting to discover why actions were meaningful to artists would
not be possible until the actions settled into what Dewey (1938/1998, 1934/2005)
describes as experiences, or situated events identifiable in the past. The process of
values clarification that Noddings (1991) describes, and that I facilitated at New
Urban Arts, can be part of preparing, or perhaps refashioning, the body to act in
the future in ways that attempt to author one’s interpretation of the good. Pro-
ducing pedagogic research in the UK that is generative for artists was important
to me because of the centralisation of pedagogy and the little concern given to
artists’ values when shaping initiatives to engage them. I wanted to represent the
complexity of artists’ pedagogies to provide points of connection and departure
that provoked artists engaged in similar work.
The way artists described values is also inevitably shaped by the discourses in
which they are immersed. The possibility for genuine commitments for which
Noddings (1991) advocates is therefore contested. Yet I believed there remained
some possibility for them, no matter how remote. If the possibility for genuine au-
thorship was not assumed, then there would be no basis for attempting to engage
in or understand the distinctive quality of artists’ pedagogies.
In summary, this consideration of action and values allowed me to consider the
specificity, complexity, and possibility of pedagogic research. I next review what
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CHAPTER 3. PEDAGOGY
is presently known about artist pedagogy. I have argued that there is little known
and I now will substantiate that claim.
3.4 Review of research on artist pedagogy
In this section, I turn to discuss existing research on artist pedagogy. This discus-
sion includes my M.Phil. study that examines three East Anglian artists’ descrip-
tions of their pedagogies (Denmead, 2008). I present this research thematically
and consider key concepts such as the relationships between artists and students,
the nature of their collaborative enquiry, and artists’ approaches to space, time
and material.
Most of the few studies on artist pedagogy have focused on relationships be-
tween artists and students and how these relationships are different from those
often found between teachers and students in traditional classrooms. Some re-
search on artists’ engagement in schools has focused on the ways in which artists
establish collaborative relationships with students. In particular, this research has
described the ways artists establish more dialogic and equal relationships with stu-
dents through participating alongside students in collaborative enquiry (Pringle,
2008; Galton, 2008). Pringle (2008, p. 44), who focuses exclusively on visual artists
(though she does not publish who, how many or why they were selected) describes
these artists’ approaches as constructivist.
Similarly, Burnard & Swann (2010) describe how nearly 30 students in an 18-
month long artist-school partnership in the southeast of England value a collab-
orative community approach that provided the opportunity to compose and per-
form alongside musicians as peers and guiding experts. Griffiths & Woolf (2004)
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CHAPTER 3. PEDAGOGY
similarly used the apprenticeship model to describe relationships between artists,
teachers, and students working in a project across six schools in Nottingham. My
M.Phil. research also notes how three artists attempted to establish less authorita-
tive relationships with others whereby they did not prescribe what others might do
or how it might be judged (Denmead, 2008). Therefore, much of the early research
on artist pedagogy has described artists’ tendencies to work alongside participants
and engage collaboratively in creative enquiry.
Some research has also focused on the emotional dimension to these collabora-
tive relationships. A particular emphasis has been placed on how artists maintain
emotional risk without lowering ambiguity.1 Burnard & Swann (2010) note how
young people described musicians and composers as allowing for the emotional
“troughs and peaks” that are features of composing and performing music. In a
study featuring 11 artists selected for their excellence working in schools across
disciplines (e.g. visual arts, documentary filmmaking, music, dance, etc.), Galton
(2008) describes artists lowering the risk of failure by expressing their feelings and
conveying empathy.
Artists’ structuring situations in classrooms to maintain ambiguity and to allow
for unpredictable and contingent student-led enquiry has also emerged as a theme
(Maddock et al., 2007; Cremin, 2006). Whilst acknowledging the emotional diffi-
culty of doing so, Galton (2008) argues this process of allowing for unpredictability
juxtaposes traditional classroom didactics such as guided discovery (Brown & Cam-
pione, 1994) and cued elicitation (Edwards & Mercer, 1987). Rather than direct
instruction, these scaffolds involve teachers leading students towards the discovery
of knowledge by providing questions and activities (Greenfield, 1984). Cued elici-
1I am relying on Galton’s (2008, pp. 38–39) discussion of Doyle’s (1983) analysis of risk and
challenge in classroom tasks.
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CHAPTER 3. PEDAGOGY
tation prefigures the answers in heavily hinted questions, sometimes only through
intonation. Galton (2008) suggests these “teacher-framed” scaffolds lower risk and
ambiguity by providing clues as to what types of answers and ways of working
teachers expect. Based on this emerging body of research, it is known that artists
maintain ambiguity but lower risk through not providing clues and conveying un-
derstanding of the emotional risk of creative enquiry.
Other research emphasises the experiential dimension of artists’ pedagogies. Burnard
& Swann (2010) describe how students valued the ways in which composers and
musicians selected and explored so-called real world sites for composing. Selecting
these sites, the authors argued, contributed to their sense of purpose. Composing
and performing in sites that are different from the classroom perhaps contributed
to this sense of students’ purpose. Findings from my M.Phil. research are consis-
tent with this interpretation. I noted how artists described meeting participants
where they were and extending from there (Denmead, 2011b). Much like Dewey
(1938/1998) suggests, the artists described themselves as acknowledging their par-
ticipants’ interests and then trying to connect activities to them. I also interpreted
these artists as describing how they facilitated participants in attempting to sus-
pend customary ways of being in the world and extending themselves in new,
unfamiliar directions (Denmead, 2011a).
Research points to the physical and material dimension of artists’ pedagogies.
Burnard & Swann (2010) note the importance of these so-called real world sites
or physical spaces that contribute to a sense of purpose when composing and per-
forming. My M.Phil. research describes the introduction of simple materials that
might extend participants’ ways of using them (Denmead, 2008). Some research
has particularly focused on how situations might be physically structured to sup-
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CHAPTER 3. PEDAGOGY
port creative learning. The reconsideration of school design had led to orienting
spaces around different types of personal and social enquiry. Nair & Fielding
(2005) propose designing “caves” in schools for self-directed, independent study;
“watercooler spaces” for informal, social interaction; and “campfire spaces” for
performing and sharing. To promote creative learning, Loi & Dillon (2006) sim-
ilarly envision adaptive spatial environments that allow for jolting interventions
such as introducing eccentric objects and unfamiliar experiences.
I reviewed research that examines the ways in which teachers, not artists, have been
described as supporting creative learning. Jeffrey (2006) observes how teachers al-
ter traditional school boundaries of time and space to allow for unpredictable, rig-
orous, reflective, and sustained enquiry. Cremin (2006) describes teachers’ creative
writing practice altering relationships to students and the classroom by drawing
attention to their need for more empathetic support through the creative process.
Cremin (2006) describes these teachers’ increased capacity to tolerate ambigu-
ity when teaching. Research identifies teachers positioning themselves “off-centre
stage” (Cremin et al., 2006) and allowing learner-directed enquiry to unfold (Craft
et al., 2007).
These four studies examining teacher pedagogies resonate with the artist pedago-
gies described previously. Although the research on teachers does not necessarily
contribute to an understanding of artist pedagogy, it presents a different perspec-
tive to the view that artists bring a new and different approach in comparison to
teachers. This finding draws attention to what conditions contribute to how those
traditionally described as artists and teachers exhibit similar pedagogies. Exam-
ining and comparing these conditions is not the focus of this research, but it has
informed it. I have tried to avoid casting a pedagogic divide between artists and
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CHAPTER 3. PEDAGOGY
teachers as Hall (2010) points out that the boundaries between them are ambigu-
ous and complex. In this sense, findings from my research could be relevant for
those traditionally described as teachers and artists, and perhaps others, depend-
ing on what is discovered.
In summary, my review of artist pedagogy illustrates that this field of research
is emerging. The number, scale and scope of studies thus far have been relatively
small. Primary themes emerging from the research include artists working along-
side others as they lower risk and maintain ambiguity. In addition, artists address
emotional and experiential aspects of the engagement. Much of this research, how-
ever, has been supported by and perhaps shaped to some extent by the interests
of CP (e.g. Galton, 2008; Pringle, 2008; Griffiths & Woolf, 2004). CP-sponsored
research suggested the need for independent research to begin with a broad and
flexible starting point to focus on what was meaningful to artists.
I used this literature review to identify theoretical perspectives that could be use-
ful potentially in later stages of this principally ethnographic study. In theorising
artist and teacher pedagogy, I concluded that researchers have drawn on theo-
retical assumptions associated with sociocultural learning theory, progressivism,
and phenomenology. For example, experiential learning is a tenet of the so-called
progressivist pedagogic tradition associated with American pragmatism (Dewey,
1938/1998), as well as sociocultural theories that describe structuring situations
for learning (Rogoff, 1986). Therefore I decided to focus on extending my theoret-
ical understanding of pedagogy through examining these perspectives. I turn to
examine these models and their definitions next.
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3.5 Pedagogic models and definitions
In this section, I explore pedagogic models and definitions that I considered po-
tentially useful based on a review of the research on artist pedagogy. The purpose
of this exploration was not to find a stable and precise conception of pedagogy.
The purpose was to extend my understanding of different and potentially rele-
vant perspectives. To begin, I turn to sociocultural models and definitions before
considering them from phenomenological and pragmatist perspectives.
3.5.1 Sociocultural models and definitions
Sociocultural approaches to pedagogy extend consideration beyond a narrow as-
sociation with the transmission of subject-based knowledge in school classrooms.
Watkins & Mortimore (1999) attempt to broaden pedagogy beyond the classroom,
describing it as “any conscious activity by one person designed to enhance learning
in another” (p. 3, my italics). One possible criticism of Watkin and Mortimore’s
(1999) conception is that it limits pedagogy to what one person is conscious of.
One may not always be conscious of what one is doing or why. Its assumption
that pedagogy is an activity “designed to enhance” is also complex because this
definition suggests pedagogies must be intentionally pre-considered. I would ar-
gue that pedagogy is not always pre-planned or designed but is always underway.
One’s learning never stops.
Daniels (2001) also criticises Watkins and Mortimore’s (1999) conception of peda-
gogy for limiting it to an activity by one person. He argues that pedagogy must be
more broadly construed as “forms of social practice which shape and form the cog-
nitive, affective, and moral development of individuals” (p. 1, my italics). Daniels
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(2001) emphasises individuals’ immersion in culture, or a shared way of life, and
describes pedagogy as the “social context through which cultural reproduction-
production takes place” (p. 6, my italics). A focus on social practice and context
shifts attention away from the view that knowledge is “acquired”. Instead, this
sociocultural perspective emphasises the ongoing discovery of participating in so-
cial life through context (Cole, 1998).
Cole (1998) broadens the understanding of context beyond a physical environ-
ment to include the range of opportunities for participation in a shared way of
life within a particular time and place. Context includes tools, or artefacts, that
mediate cultural participation. Artefacts refer not only to physical objects such as
tools but also to conceptual systems such as beliefs, laws, customs, and language
(Cole, 1998). Individual activity partially creates and is partially determined by
the historical residue inscribed in artefacts. For example, human beings created
the hammer to pound objects and the hammer’s design then has physical affor-
dances that suggest how it might be used (Gibson, 1977). At the same time, the
artefact remains open to being adapted to other uses. The openness of the artefact
creates opportunity for individual authorship and cultural change, which I have
pointed out is central to assumptions underlying creative and cultural learning.
Relevant in and beyond classrooms, pedagogy from a sociocultural perspective
centres on optimally guiding a learner through mediated activity in a way that
outpaces development otherwise (Leach & Moon, 2008, p. 5). Vygotsky termed
this the zone of proximal development (ZPD). Cole (1998) describes ZPD as:
an environment of educational experience . . . which offers the interpsy-
chological but not yet intrapsychological in order that this development
may occur. (p. 111)
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CHAPTER 3. PEDAGOGY
The apprenticeship model I described personally experiencing in the restaurant
kitchen provides an example of ZPD. The more capable chef guided the less capa-
ble apprentice in the use of artefacts until the latter was capable of doing it alone.
Conceiving pedagogy through apprenticing in ZPD marks a shift away from teach-
ing as delivery of subject-matter knowledge in what Leach & Moon (2008) have
described as behaviourist or symbol processing didactics towards assisting perfor-
mance (Tharp & Gallimore, 1991, p. 46). Greenfield (1984) describes assisting
performance as scaffolding, which means providing graduated assistance for the
less capable to work through activities.
Vygotsky’s ZPD appears to suggest osmotic transference from the more capa-
ble to the less capable whereby the latter internalises the functions and skills of
the former. This dyadic and hierarchical interpretation of ZPD has been refuted
(Ivic, 1989; Rogoff et al., 1987). Yet, Tharp & Gallimore (1991) somewhat perpet-
uate this dyadic hierarchy by referring to the more capable as parents, teachers,
peers, and coaches and referring to the “less capable” as children. A deficient
view of children assumes historical progression whereby the weaker are guided by
the stronger and the younger by the older. The less capable internalises the more
capable’s skills and functions as they progress towards the better (Cole, 1998).
This dyadic model of pedagogy also does not account for the full complexity of
sociocultural views, which may not necessarily arise through a deficit view of the
child (Daniels, 2001). An alternative to this dyadic description is a participatory
model (Rogoff, 1995; Lave & Wenger, 1991). This approach views learning as a
(Matusov, 1998, p. 326 cited in Daniels, 2001):
process of transformation of individual participation in sociocultural
activity. Transformation of participation involves assuming changed
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responsibility for the activity, redefining membership in a community
of practice, and changing the sociocultural practice itself. (p. 41)
A participatory approach then theorises pedagogy as a process of navigating how
to participate in a community of practice. The community itself is learning through
that participation and the requisite participation changes (Lave & Wenger, 1991).
Joint or distributed learning becomes more vital than individual acquisition of ways
of participating in social life. In other words, cultural practice is shared within
and across the community (Leach & Moon, 2008, p. 74). Using a participatory
focus, pedagogical research might consider funds of knowledge, or emerging and
valuable resources for participants to drawn upon within communities (Moll &
Greenberg, 1990). Moreover, how learning environments are structured and what
opportunities for participation exist become increasingly important (Cole, 1998, p.
135). Structuring situations then becomes a form of pedagogical assistance much
like scaffolding (Rogoff, 1986).
Reviewing the literature on sociocultural perspectives towards pedagogy was par-
ticularly useful in helping me understand concepts and assumptions that appeared
to be most commonly used to describe artists working alongside others. This
perspective also seemed fit for interpreting how the artists in my M.Phil. study
described “meeting and extending” their participants, which could be interpreted
through the lens of ZPD (Denmead, 2011b). At the same time, the artists in my
M.Phil. research did not use any of the terms associated with these sociocultural
perspectives. Therefore, I approached data collection and analysis mindful of these
potential overlaps and remained open to other theoretical perspectives. I thought
phenomenological perspectives could be relevant because my M.Phil. research in-
terpreted artists describing an immersive, almost pretheoretical, way of being. I
turn to discuss a phenomenological perspective next.
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3.5.2 Phenomenological models and definitions
Phenomenology is used as a term in a variety of ways. It describes a highly tech-
nical philosophical method, a specific social science methodology, or more loosely,
connotes an inductive, descriptive, and less abstract approach to interpretation
that is used across multiple social science methodologies such as grounded theory
and ethnography. The latter two uses could be considered problematic in that
they deviate from phenomenology as a philosophical method. I tend to think the
wide applicability of phenomenology as a theoretical concept illustrates a conver-
gence forced by interdisciplinary ways of thinking. The wide use and applicability
of phenomenology recognises the limits of traditional disciplinary boundaries and
intellectual tribes. The use of phenomenology to theorise pedagogy provides yet
another example.
From a phenomenological perspective, van Manen (1996, p. 2) describes pedagogy
as being among children. He also describes phenomenology as a “human science”
that serves the “practical aims of pedagogy”. In other words, phenomenology can
also be a tool to describe the lived experience of being among children. Using
interpretive reflection can then contribute to ways of being among children that
might be more thoughtful and tactful in the future.
Phenomenology features strongly in two European pedagogic traditions in the 20th
century. In the Netherlands, Fenomenologische Pedagogiek was an intellectual and
social movement largely concerned with redressing the atrocities of World War II.
This social movement reconsidered how children might be reared into humanness
and develop a sense of meaningfulness and positive relationship with themselves
and others (van Manen, 1996). In Germany, Geisteswissenschafitliche Pa¨daogiek
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CHAPTER 3. PEDAGOGY
began at the turn of the twentieth century and concerned how to interpret the aims
people pursue within educational situations, or indeed, social life (Biesta, 2009).
Both conceptions suggest pedagogy’s broader applicability than the school class-
room. They also shift attention away from the symbol processing or behaviourist
forms of teaching described earlier. Alternatively, these two European traditions
draw attention to the ways children, and people more broadly, come into being.
Coming into being, or becoming, is phenomenologically assisted through attempts
at bracketing, whereby one tries to set aside “preconscious background assump-
tions” and assume the perspective of the other (Maso, 2001). One attempts to
dispose of one’s existing relationship to one’s lifeworld and enter into a more
pretheoretical or primordial state. This return to the things themselves, the ob-
jects of consciousness, is presumed to allow for discovering unfamiliar ways of
being in body, space, time and among others. Bracketing is an attempt to be in
the world in a way that is not clouded by one’s natural attitude, which has been
shaped through cultural mediation. Although fully suspending this natural atti-
tude is largely considered impossible, the following list describes characteristics
that have been associated with this pretheoretical way of being (Rodaway, 1994,
p. 8):
1. Heightened, aesthetic experience (Rodaway, 1994)
2. Meditative thinking (Heidegger, 1966)
3. Wonder (Relph, 1985)
4. Opening (Giorgi, 1970)
5. Surrender (Wolff, 1963)
6. Spiritual discipline (Zimmerman, 1985)
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7. Love (Laing, 1964)
For the purposes of this research, I considered how phenomenology draws atten-
tion away from the pedagogic discourse of learning towards what Bonnett (2009)
describes the a process of unselving. Unselving refers to a transitional and trans-
formational state where one leaves behind customary ways of being in the world for
unfamiliar ones. People make a new relation to the world in an act of poieses. My
interest in unselving was particularly influenced by my M.Phil. research whereby
artists rarely spoke of teaching or acquiring skills. Rather, the artists described
facilitating the making of an unfamiliar engagement with the world. I found it
useful to reflect on how I had described moments in my life that felt pedagogic in
this sense—moments when I openly received otherness and accepted invitations to
new places. The apprenticeship to a chef in France, working in the studio at New
Urban Arts, and indeed doing this research were all examples. Stepping some-
where unfamiliar, these experiences were pedagogic. They allowed me to feel out
of place in a way that was both beautiful and difficult.
To support interpretation, coming into being can be analysed phenomenologi-
cally using thematic dimensions such as spatiality, corporeality, temporality, and
relationality (van Manen, 1996, pp. 101–106). These themes describe individuals’
immersion in space, body, time and amidst the company of others. The body
is particularly central to phenomenological discourse because lived experience re-
sides there. Merleau-Ponty describes how the body is, as Dall’Alba (2009, p. 44)
notes, both the site and source of ambiguity amidst this lifeworld. The body is si-
multaneously subject and object, possessing the potential to touch and be touched.
The body creates unending possibilities for interpretation because the body is
ambiguous and can possess multiple meanings. In phenomenology, there is no fi-
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nal say, no final vocabulary or ending truth when describing lived experience even
if there were a search for its universal characteristics, or essences. Accepting the
ambiguity of the body challenges longstanding assumptions in Western philosophy
and pedagogy. The body has been distrusted because its imperfect senses distort
the truth and its temporary, fleeting needs distract the mind from pursuing univer-
sal knowledge. This assumption about the body begets classrooms where children
sit still in desks, divorcing their bodies from their minds to acquire verbal-linguistic
forms of knowledge. Phenomenology draws pedagogy and pedagogic research to-
wards engaging the whole body and interpreting its ambiguity, contingency, and
complexity.
Phenomenology was useful to me in this research because it gave me a broader
vocabulary for describing what might be considered pedagogic. It broadens the
perspective from being a teacher or student to being human. However, I also
struggled with phenomenology because of the density of its original texts written
largely from a philosophical perspective. I found pragmatism, discussed next, ex-
presses similar themes but was useful to me because of its clarity and educational
focus.
3.5.3 Pragmatist models and definitions
In the United States, John Dewey is the paramount figure in education. William
James is less discussed in educational circles even though his psychology theories
heavily influences Dewey’s pedagogic ones.2 I found both of their perspectives use-
ful in extending my understanding of pedagogy. Much like the phenomenological
lifeworld, James (1901, pp. 104–128) approaches body, time, and space as differ-
2James began teaching the first psychology classes at Harvard in 1875 and later wrote one of
the first psychology textbooks, Principles of Psychology (1901).
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entiable but not separable. James (1901, p. 104-128) also argues the plasticity of
the body allows it to change and acquire particular habits. The body can adapt to
what is asked of it, and over time, these habits settle into the body and are ready
to act without conscious mediation. The old pedagogic standby, “practice makes
perfect”, could hinge upon James’ theory of habit.
Building on this theory of habit, Dewey emphasises learning by doing with the
body. Emphasising an interest in overcoming mind and body separation, Dewey
(1938/1998, p. 33) describes this process as “the psychology of occupation” whereby
teachers introduce activities in schools that balance the intellectual and practical
phases of experience. More recently, this process has been described as experiential
education (Kolb, 1984). Dewey (1938/1998) goes deeper than describing habit as
a fixed way of doing things and argues that every experience that an individual
undergoes alters that individual. That change then affects the quality of subse-
quent experiences.
Much like the sociocultural perspective described previously, experiential educa-
tion describes an individual immersed in an ongoing and embodied stream of exis-
tence, arising out of the past and open to the possibility of the future. Recognising
situatedness and possibility for change, Dewey argues that teachers must teach in
ways that are not disconnected from students’ lives. Dewey (1938/1998, pp. 36–37)
presses teachers to create “objective conditions” that tangibly connect to students’
“internal ones”. This educative situation, Dewey (1938/1998) argues, must draw
students’ interest based on its relevance to their individual pasts and prepare them
“for experiences of a deeper and more expansive quality” (p. 47).
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CHAPTER 3. PEDAGOGY
Although pragmatism’s approach to pedagogy is oriented toward ameliorating the
future, it also draws attention to the sedimentary quality of a habituated body.
Prefiguring Bourdieu’s (1977) habitus, James (1901) recognises that habits become
the:
enormous fly-wheel of society, its most conservative agent. . . [and is]
what keeps us all within the bounds of ordinance, and saves the children
of fortune from the envious uprisings of the poor. (p. 121)
Yet, James also emphasises that habit frees up the body to consciously negoti-
ate more difficult and unfamiliar tasks. The possibility for agency and change is
largely the basis for Dewey’s theory of freedom, which is at the heart of his theory
of pedagogy. Dewey (1938) identifies freedom as the “power to frame purposes and
to execute or carry into effect purposes so framed” (p. 77). He considers freedom
as the possibility for the body-mind to consider and construct what is meaningful
and to act on those values.
Pedagogically, Dewey considers how to allow people to consider what their val-
ues are and how they might manifest them through action. To create a more just
and equitable society, Dewey (1938/1998, p. 85) advocates for individuals, such as
students, to become immersed in dialogic learning communities, whereby reflec-
tive attention can help them focus on how their actions are meaningful. Moreover,
this reflection considers how individual’s values, what one believes to be impor-
tant in life, inform constructing that meaning. This reflection can help individuals
overcome parochial habits by engaging with the pluralism inherent in civic life,
much like how I described the learning community at New Urban Arts. Reflective
dialogue through community participation draws attention to the ways in which
meaning is constructed differently. Therefore, Dewey’s pedagogy expresses a vision
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CHAPTER 3. PEDAGOGY
for a creative and radical democracy as a personal way of life in which individuals
open themselves to the complexity and fullness of communicating with others and
with difference (Bernstein, 2010, p. 88).
Potentially relevant to research on artist pedagogy, Dewey (1934/2005) also em-
phasises aesthetic experience as a way of forsaking the habituated customs of the
past for more purposeful experiences in the future, what I described in phenomeno-
logical terms as becoming. Viewing aesthetic experience broadly as the heightened
sensory engagement with the world and not simply conventions traditionally as-
sociated with the art world, Dewey (1934/2005) describes how the body’s senses
act on the world, are acted upon, and can lead to an experience that feels like
an interpenetration of body and that world. For Dewey, aesthetic experience is
an “attainment of a period of equilibrium” that also initiates “a new relation to
the environment, one that brings with it potency of new adjustments to be made
through struggle” (p. 16). In other words, this “time of consummation” is also a
period of “beginning anew” (Dewey, 1934/2005, p. 16). Therefore, Greene (2000)
argues, that aesthetic experience is at the heart of Dewey’s conception of the pos-
sibility for freedom because this experience allows for framing new and unfamiliar
purposes.
In this sense, it is not surprising that German philosopher Georg Simmel con-
cluded that pragmatism is what “the Americans were able to get out of Niet-
szche” (as cited in Rorty, 2007, p. 915).3 Pragmatism draws attention to the ways
in which existence is perspectival and contingent and how aesthetic experience can
unleash the body’s habituated past and allow for individual self-creation. From
this pragmatist perspective, pedagogy might be construed as the critical and reflec-
3Rorty (2007) argues that there is no evidence to suggest pragmatists read or were influenced
by Nietszche, but their ideas overlap.
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CHAPTER 3. PEDAGOGY
tive process through which this self-creation, this becoming in phenomenological
terms, occurs.
3.6 Conclusion
In this chapter, I have examined literature on artist pedagogy and extended my
understanding of pedagogic debates in the UK and select theoretical perspectives.
This review of sociocultural, pragmatist, and phenomenological perspectives drew
my attention to the contingency, complexity, and situatedness of pedagogy and its
research. I recognised that I was not looking for any clear and universal pedagogic
methods in one artist that could be used by other artists. I was researching artists’
use of particular methods that possessed particular meanings to them in complex
and dynamic social situations. I recognised there was a contentious and somewhat
mysterious relationship between action and how meaning arises for artists depend-
ing on their values. The literature review on pedagogy also introduced me to some
core assumptions and broad themes that could be potentially useful in my data
collection and analysis. Phenomenology, pragmatism, and sociocultural perspec-
tives each have different but related points of emphasis: a primordial state of being
and becoming; individual freedom and social amelioration; and, cultural change
and historical progress. Despite different terms, they share an intersubjective on-
tology in which life experience, located in the body, arises through an individual’s
transactions with the world. Each perspective draws attention to the different
but inseparable, always changing but never escapable, stuff of the world, such as
its space, time, people, and artefacts. Moreover, each perspective emphasises how
that engagement is characterised by possibility and ongoing change. For reference,
Figure 3.1 on the final side of this chapter presents a visual map of key pedagogic
concepts from sociocultural, phenomenological, and pragmatist perspectives.
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CHAPTER 3. PEDAGOGY
In exploring these pedagogic concepts and perspectives, I was not looking for a
clear definition of pedagogy to use in this research. Instead, I became more aware
of some assumptions I was making throughout this research. I approached peda-
gogy as an engagement with the world that is always underway and characterised
by change rather than as something that only occurs in classrooms and seeks the
permanent acquisition of knowledge. My research also drew my attention to an in-
terest in representing the complexity and specificity of different artists’ pedagogies.
Moreover, I became more aware of considering both action and values, even if the
relationship between them is contentious and ambiguous. I was neither seeking a
precise definition of pedagogy, nor was I interested in using these pedagogic con-
cepts to deduce my description and interpretation of artists’ pedagogies from the
start. With little independent research, I could not predict the vocabularies artists
would use to describe their pedagogies or the theoretical perspectives that could
be useful in interpreting them. Therefore, I attempted to bracket, or set aside, the
concepts discussed in this chapter, particularly in the early stages of this research.
My aim was to examine what artists did, how it was was meaningful to them, and
what vocabularies they used to describe their pedagogies. In the next chapter, I
turn to discuss the multiphased research design that I used to work towards this
aim.
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CHAPTER 3. PEDAGOGY
Sociocultural concepts
Social practice
Assisting performance
Community of practice
Scaffolding
Structuring situations
Artefacts
Distributed learning
Affordances
Funds of knowledge
Zone of proximal development
Context
Phenomenological concepts
Lifeworld
Being among children
Corporality
Bracketing
Relationality
Natural attitude
Temporality
Becoming
Spatiality
Unselving
Essences
Pragmatist concepts
Reflection
Learning communities
Freedom
Situation
Habit
Experiential education
Learning by doing
Action
Values
Aesthetic experience
Pluralism
Figure 3.1: Map of reviewed pedagogic concepts
74
Chapter 4
Research design
To this point, I have discussed the growing engagement of artists in UK education
during the New Labour government era (1997—2010). I argued that their en-
gagement arose through an interest in transforming what were perceived as dated
educational models through creative and cultural learning that met both social
and economic aims. Despite these presumed justifications, I noted that little re-
search had established what artists were doing and why they were doing it from
their perspectives. The purpose of this research was to examine both of these di-
mensions, and I argued that pedagogy was a useful theoretical concept for allowing
me to do so.
Exploring phenomenological, sociocultural and pragmatist perspectives, I set out
to extend my theoretical sensitivity of pedagogy in ways that would inform a mul-
tiphased, principally ethnographic research design. This design set out to provide
an understanding of artist pedagogy that focused on what artists did, why they
did it, and what words they used to describe it. Understanding artists in this way
would contribute new knowledge to the field simply because, as I have argued,
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CHAPTER 4. RESEARCH DESIGN
artists’ perspectives had been overlooked by independent research. Therefore, to
understand artist pedagogy, I settled on the following questions to begin this re-
search:
1. How do artists enact what they do?
2. How do artists describe what they do?
3. How do artists value what they have done?
In this chapter, I discuss the research design I used to address these questions. To
guide reading this chapter, I first turn to the pragmatist assumptions underlying
this principally ethnographic design. Then, I discuss my methods in an unfolding,
multiphased approach that draws on aspects of grounded theory.
In the first phase, I discuss how and why I purposively selected and accessed nine
artists from an East Anglian arts organisation. Then, I trace how I approached
exploratory ethnographic case studies based on unstructured, artist-led interviews.
The purpose of this second exploratory phase was to give rise to artists and their
interests that would be theoretically sampled in later phases.
For the third phase, I discuss participant observation and triangulating meth-
ods that produced descriptive cases of eight theoretically sampled artists. For
purposes of anonymity, I have used pseudonyms for the artists’ names. I follow
this discussion by explaining my cautious move towards developing a framework,
in the fourth phase, that interprets their pedagogies. After concluding with the
fifth and final phase of writing this dissertation, I review this research journey and
specifically discuss methodological challenges.
To ease reading this chapter, I have provided a timeline of this study in Figure 4.1.
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CHAPTER 4. RESEARCH DESIGN
Research Timeline
Sep 2009 Jan 2010 May 2010 Sep 2010 Jan 2011 May 2011 Sep 2011 Jan 2012
Phases 3 and 4: Member check focus group
May 2011
Examined 3 descriptive cases and interpretive framework 
with 6 artists.
Phase 2: Case studies
Jan–Feb 2010
Completed 3 exploratory case studies.
Phase 3: Semi-structured interviews
Feb–Jun 2010
Conducted 7 interviews with 5 participants and partners.
Phase 4: Member check interviewing
Oct 2010–Feb 2011
Conducted 3 interviews with 5 artists of 3 descriptive 
cases.
Phase 2: Exploratory interviewing
Feb 2011
Interviewed 1 artist new to study.
Phase 1: Access, sampling, & preparing for fieldwork
November 2009
Phase 4: Interviewing
Dec 2010–Jan 2011
Reinterviewed director and founder.
Phase 2: Member check interviewing
Mar 2010
Member checked 1 exploratory case study with 1 artist.
Phase 2: Exploratory interviewing
Nov 2009–Feb 2010
Conducted 12 interviews with 7 artists.
Phase 4: Writing Interpretive framework
Jul 2010–Jun 2011
Phase 3: Revising descriptive cases
Feb–Mar 2011
Shared revised drafts of descriptive cases with 4 artists.
Phase 5: Writing up
May–Oct 2011
Writing up featured throughout the previous 4 phases.
Phase 3: Break
Jun 2010
Stopped fieldwork after signs of saturation.
Phase 3: Participant observation
Feb–Jun 2010
Observed 21 workshops across 5 sites, 3 organisational 
sharing days, 2 artist-led conversations, and 1 conference.
Phase 3: Writing descriptive cases
Jul-Sep 2010
Completed and shared 3 case drafts with 4 artists
Figure 4.1: Research timeline
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CHAPTER 4. RESEARCH DESIGN
The timeline illustrates that the phases of fieldwork advanced and overlapped. To
begin this discussion, I now turn to the pragmatist assumptions underlying this
research.
4.1 Pragmatism
To varying degrees, pragmatists such as Charles Peirce, William James, George
Mead, and John Dewey argued against the possibility of discovering universal
principles “out there” (e.g. God, Truth, Forms, Scientific Laws) or “in here” (e.g.
Reason, Soul, Imagination) (Menand, 2001; Rorty, 1982). Without access to a pure
method to transcend the muddle of everyday life and discover absolutes, pragma-
tists attempt to evade epistemological problems it considers created by Western
philosophy and turn its attention to reflective enquiry that might be useful (West,
1989).
In conducting this research, I shared the pragmatist concern to produce research
useful in artists’ lives by informing artists, researchers, and policymakers. I did not
aim to discover “The Truth” about artist pedagogy from some privileged vantage
point. I was interested in developing a shared understanding of the pedagogies of
artists constructed through this research. However, I did not know in the begin-
ning how this research was going to be useful to these audiences because I did not
know precisely what I was researching.
To arrive at this understanding, I assumed that the actions of artists were im-
bued with meanings, and they interacted with others based on the meanings they
interpreted in their own and others’ actions (Mead, 1934). These meanings would
be situated and contingent as artists constructed them in light of their lived pasts
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CHAPTER 4. RESEARCH DESIGN
and projected futures (Rorty, 1989). They would also be complex, arising through
the unexpected and pluralistic nature of their social situations. In this research,
these situations often involved artists working with parents, children, and/or young
people in outdoor public spaces such as nature reserves.
Guided by these assumptions, I did not set out to find simple and final explanations
for how and why the artists engaged with these parents and young people dur-
ing their workshops. Alternatively, I was interested in representing the variations
and tensions that revealed the complexity of their pedagogies and the situations
through which they took place. From this perspective, I wanted to focus first on
producing descriptive representations of their pedagogies that accounted for this
complexity and situatedness.
I also recognised that the way I described the pedagogies of artists would be
inevitably influenced by my personal narrative and position in the research. For
this reason, I set out to interrogate my life histories to better understand these
influences. This illustrates why I began this dissertation by retracing aspects of my
life, beginning with an unfortunate experience in a school classroom and a trans-
formative one in a kitchen. At the same time, I did not engage in this reflexive
process because I assumed that I could step outside myself and discover some final
vocabulary for explaining my own causes (Rorty, 1982, p. 202). I recognise that to
some extent I constructed these stories based on how I wanted to perceive myself
and be perceived (Mead, 1934). Therefore, I recognised that I could not make so-
called objective claims based on bracketing preconscious background assumptions
and assuming the other’s perspective, as a phenomenological perspective might
argue (Maso, 2001).
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Whilst reflecting on my own life, I also believed that my best chance to produce a
trustworthy account of artist pedagogy was to turn to the artists themselves, ask-
ing for their interpretations of their pedagogies. As with myself, I did not assume
the artists could step outside themselves and arrive at some objective understand-
ing of their pedagogies, but I turned to artists because they were obviously most
familiar with what they were doing and why it was potentially meaningful to them.
Turning to artists was an obvious choice, because the research base did not pro-
vide much indication of where else to begin, not because subjective points of view
carried more epistemological weight (Rorty, 1982).
I also recognised that the meanings generated through this research would involve
a collaborative process of construction, deliberation, and negotiation between the
artists and me. But a collaborative process with artists does not implicate a radi-
cal relativism that undermined any descriptive claims I put forward (Rorty, 1982).
Whilst pragmatism refrains from claiming the possibility for discovering the final
say about the world out there, it does not deny the need and possibility for making
provisional claims about so-called reality (Rorty, 1989).
Moreover, these interpretive claims must be made to provide the basis for more
informed action as others continuously substantiate and/or revise them (Dewey,
1938/1998). I thought this descriptive and interpretive research was particularly
important. It could be one of the first contributions of independent social science
research in the UK that supported artists, researchers, and policymakers as they
considered what more informed artist pedagogy might mean. This research could
contribute to understanding whether visual artists, musicians, and performers are
suitable for meeting the social and economic aims put forward in the policies dis-
cussed herein.
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CHAPTER 4. RESEARCH DESIGN
I also recognised that the claims I intended to make hinged upon some conceptual
understanding. Concepts derived from the data would drive and inform further
data collection and analysis. Moreover, the concepts artists ultimately used, such
as simple materials or slowliness, would be necessary for me to describe and in-
terpret how data relates to other data. And, these concepts would provide the
basis for arriving at some shared understanding and vocabularies with the artists
of what their pedagogies meant to them (Strauss & Corbin, 2008).
I also recognised that these concepts could vary in their level of abstraction. There-
fore, my research aims could become more descriptive and/or theoretical depending
on the interests I negotiated with the artists (Lassiter, 2005). I needed to be cau-
tious doing so, because there was little research that provided evidence of how the
pedagogies of artists might be generalised beyond the situations through which
they arose. I was particularly sensitive to this issue given my concern that artists
at New Urban Arts could feel constrained by the imposition of others’ theories
and vocabularies. The imposition of theories and vocabularies seemed relevant to
this research because I had a hunch from my M.Phil. study that the artists in the
research could express some ambivalence towards academics theorising their work.
Therefore, I remained open to the idea that they might prefer a more descriptive
account.
If I did choose to move towards more abstract levels of theorisation, I did not nec-
essarily seek an underlying theoretical unity that explained these concepts, what
Dewey (1929a) critiques as the “Plotinian Temptation” of Western thought.1 I
was not going to claim that I had discovered the theory that explained their peda-
1Plotinus was a Greek philosopher who argued that all existence emanated from the “One”,
an ideal that underlies the complexity and variation of material existence.
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CHAPTER 4. RESEARCH DESIGN
gogies. Alternatively, I prepared to turn to multiple theoretical perspectives to in-
form varied and interdisciplinary interpretations of the artists’ meaning, including
the phenomenological, sociocultural, and pragmatist considerations of pedagogy
discussed in the previous chapter. I believed these three theoretical perspectives
could be particularly useful in later stages of my data collection and analysis to
further embellish my understanding of what artists did, how these actions were
meaningful to them, and what words they used to describe these actions.
Whether making descriptive and/or theoretical claims, I needed a flexible research
design to progressively focus on particular areas of interest, given that the lim-
itations of this research design (e.g. people, time, and resources) prevented me
from providing a complete account of their pedagogies, even if this was possible.
Therefore, I considered a multiphase principally ethnographic design that allowed
me to progressively focus on questions and concepts using criteria discussed later
(Strauss & Corbin, 2008, p. 145).
I should note that I am aware pragmatism is often affiliated with mixed meth-
ods educational research (Creswell, 2003). Creswell’s (2003) assumption may be
that pragmatism justifies a pluralistic approach and therefore supports a design
that combines qualitative and quantitative methods. However, the Chicago School
of ethnography, born out of the pragmatist tradition in the early twentieth cen-
tury, provides strong evidence that there is precedent for using pragmatism to
guide ethnographic research (Deegan, 2001). I turn to discuss my approach to this
methodology in the next section.
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CHAPTER 4. RESEARCH DESIGN
4.2 A principally ethnographic study
To this point, I have argued that progressively focusing on lines of enquiry gen-
erated with artists through a flexible and inductive approach provided the best
chance of understanding their pedagogies given the lack of independent research.
To arrive at this understanding, my role in this research was to attempt to act
as an interpreter for those whom other researchers have overlooked. Described
as verstehen in social science research, I attempted to “leap into other people’s
experiences by empathic interpretations based on [my] direct intuitive experience”
(Martindale, 1968, p. 308).2 To attempt this empathetic leap, it was necessary to
participate in the pedagogies of artists and observe that participation.
Central to the ethnographic method, my role as a participant observer involved
becoming enculturated within a group of artists whilst maintaining some critical
distance so this participation remained an object of investigation (Hammersley &
Atkinson, 2007). Though ethnography, in the traditional sense, refers to the de-
scription of culture, or the shared way of life of a particular group (O’Reilly, 2005),
my aim was not necessarily to provide this account. I wanted to ethnographically
position myself to understand how artists described and enacted their pedagogies.
In this sense, I suggest this study relied on principally ethnographic methods.
Schutz’s (1970) account of the stranger captures the awkward balance of this
ethnographic position of the participant observer. In the beginning of this re-
search, I was not a complete stranger to the group of artists I researched. I had
2If there is a substantiated conceptual framework suitable for understanding a particular
phenomenon, then erkla¨ren is likely more suitable. Erkla¨ren is associated with more positivist
approaches that use “allegedly value-free, detached observation. . . to identify universal features
of humanhood, society, and history [offering] explanation and hence control and predictability”
(Crotty, 1998, p. 67, emphasis mine).
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some familiarity with three of the nine artists sampled because they had partici-
pated in my M.Phil. research. However, I recognised that this understanding was
limited because of the minimal time and resources available for that project and
my relative inexperience as a researcher. As a result, I attempted to approach
findings from that research cautiously in relation to this project. Though I had
been involved with the organisation in the past, I aimed to be treated to some
extent as a stranger by them so they led me towards their interests without as-
suming I already knew them. To convey my limited understanding of the artists’
pedagogies, one challenge was introducing myself to the artists and their partici-
pants in ways that reminded them I was not of the group. This was particularly
challenging because I was doing a doctorate in education and was perhaps per-
ceived as an expert on artist pedagogy. Whilst I underestimated neither the value
of my personal experience at New Urban Arts nor my reading of the literature
and my previous research, I ultimately wanted to convince the artists of my sin-
cere belief that they had far more understanding about their pedagogies than I did.
I attempted to be wary of any perceived familiarity of their settings and peda-
gogies, thus avoiding the assumption that I understood what it meant to be of
their group. I tried to remind myself how unfamiliar their pedagogies were as I
observed them. At the same time, I increasingly participated in their group, and
therefore their workshops became more familiar. This familiarity increased as I
talked to artists, built personal relationships with some of them, participated in
workshops they provided, and sometimes tried during their workshops to enact
some of the pedagogies they described and modelled.
This complexity of being immersed in the group served as a reminder that my
role as a participant observer influenced and was influenced by that participa-
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tion. Artists might have altered their approaches based on my presence, and my
presence undoubtedly influenced what I researched and how I interpreted it. Fur-
thermore, I could not be everywhere at once during the workshops I observed. I
also undoubtedly affected what occurred wherever I was located. Therefore, this
research could be characterised as reflexive (Hammersley & Atkinson, 2007).
Strategies to contend with reflexivity are highly contested. Ethnographic re-
searchers at one time assumed that a “denial of the self” was an epistemological
necessity (Coffey, 1999, p. 21). This bracketing of the self presumed the ethnogra-
pher could objectively re-experience a group’s customs as the other through phe-
nomenological reduction. Yet, Gadamer’s (1979) hermeneutic perspective, much
like Dewey’s (1929b) pragmatist one, alternatively argues that one cannot simply
set aside preconceptions.
The hermeneutic circle refers to “a recursive process whereby our assumptions
are both preconditions and affected by the encounter” (Baert, 2005, p. 196). From
this perspective, pedagogic assumptions that I became more aware of through en-
gaging with the literature discussed in the previous chapter were generative in
an interpretive process, not barriers to overcome in order to produce a so-called
objective account. Without those assumptions, I would not have had a foundation
to construct meaning.
Assuming I could not set aside these preconceptions, I alternatively attempted
to bring them to light through taking pauses between phases of research to re-
flect upon my own and others’ participation. During collecting field notes and
inductively analysing data, I wrote memos to assess how my presence affected
ways in which meaning was constructed. I wrote journal entries to reflect upon
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my personal trajectory towards this research. I turned to literature to examine
different theoretical perspectives that I considered potentially relevant in theoris-
ing my interests and their influences. In this sense, I was attempting to recognise
the boundaries of my parochial understanding, thus opening myself up to different
perspectives held by the artists I was researching. If I sincerely attempted to make
this empathic leap, then I had to engage with difference both in the field and in
the literature.
This discovery process was complicated, however. Educational theory “outside”
the field was likely constitutive to some extent in my preconceptions and the ped-
agogies I was seeking to describe, what Giddens (1987) describes as the double
hermeneutic. Therefore, the boundaries were blurry between the artists’ “inside”
view (i.e. emic) and my “outside” view (i.e. etic) (Pike, 1954). To negotiate these
boundaries, I inductively collected and analysed data and constantly compared
this new data to extant data from the field. I did not use an existing theory to
deductively collect and analyse this data. However, my analysis shifted in the later
stages towards being both inductive and deductive, using perspectives and con-
cepts outlined in the previous chapter and emerging theories generated from my
analysis to inform future data collection. Through this iterative process, I needed
to constantly take stock of the meanings I discovered, to whom they belonged,
and what evidence I used to make these claims. Whilst negotiating ownership of
meaning was inevitably complex and ambiguous, I remained committed to pro-
ducing an account largely beholden to the artists’ perspectives, because they had
been overlooked (Erickson, 1986).
Attempting to overcome my parochial views and describing emic perspectives re-
veals to some extent how I drew upon phenomenological methods in this research,
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not just pedagogic concepts (van Manen, 1990). Phenomenological and ethno-
graphic research are undoubtedly different, but a phenomenological perspective
was influential here. I worked towards allowing the research journey to shift from
a more rule-bound process or mechanical approach to a process of “insightful in-
vention, discovery or disclosure” (van Manen, 1990, p. 79). This process needed
to be unmethodical to some extent to allow for a sense of surprise inherent in
discovering the unfamiliar. By definition, the unfamiliar could not fit neatly into
my preconceptions (Rorty, 1999, p. 145). I also wanted to poetically represent
artists’ emic perspectives to capture the mysteriousness and complexity of under-
going this world pedagogically, what phenomenologists describe as lived experience
(van Manen, 1990) and pragmatists call experience (Dewey, 1938/1998).
As I constructed meaning with artists about their pedagogies, I was not looking for
essences, or structures of experience, associated with phenomenological research
(van Manen, 1990). I was looking for concepts that captured how and why artists’
pedagogies were meaningful to them (Strauss & Corbin, 2008). As I suggested
earlier, the shift from producing a phenomenological account (i.e. descriptions of
lived experience and emic constructions of meaning) to a more abstract, theorised
one was a process that I needed to negotiate with artists throughout this flexible,
multiphased research design. With flexibility of design in mind, I now turn to
trace the five phases of this research.
4.3 Ethnographic methods
So far, I have described the interpretivist assumptions for this principally ethno-
graphic research. In this section, I describe how these assumptions translated into
methods. To do so, I chronologically trace a multiphased approach, detailing the
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iterative, largely inductive, and immersive steps taken. This approach includes
the following phases:
1. Phase one: Purposively sampling and accessing artists to maximise and vari-
ate opportunities to understand artist pedagogy.
2. Phase two: Working towards exploratory ethnographic cases to theoretically
sample artists and their emerging interests.
3. Phase three: Producing case studies that primarily describe what artists did.
4. Phase four : Producing an interpretive framework that presents how artists
interpreted what they did, why it was meaningful to them, and what vocab-
ularies they used to describe them.
5. Phase five: Writing up this dissertation.
To begin, I describe the first phase.
4.3.1 Phase one: Sampling and accessing artists
My discussion of my first phase is written in two parts. In the first, I describe my
purposive sampling strategy. I follow this with how I accessed artists to participate.
To begin, I discuss my sampling criteria for selecting artists.
4.3.1.1 Purposive sampling
To sample artists for this research, I opted for a non-probability, purposive sam-
pling strategy relying on criteria developed through personal experience and anal-
ysis of the literature. Purposive sampling was necessary, because the limited re-
search precluded me from being able to determine how selected artists could be
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representative of any larger group (Robson, 2002; Stake, 1995; Cohen et al., 2000).
Being involved in an emerging community of so-called socially engaged artists
prior to this research, I was unaware of institutions or professional organisations
that represented them and/or acted as a repository of information about them.
There was also little research evidence that suggested who they were or what char-
acteristics could be used to define them. Therefore, I decided to develop criteria
that sampled a group that would maximise opportunities to produce a theoretical
sample in subsequent phases based on the artists’ interests and criteria. This initial
sampling strategy was also limited by available resources. I did not have resources
for transportation and/or lodging. Given these limitations, I needed a relatively
small sample size to write a complex, descriptive account of artist pedagogy.
Based on the above considerations, I developed the following criteria for the pur-
posive sample:
1. They must be active as artists and/or creative practitioners, i.e. they saw
themselves as practising within one of the thirteen creative industries listed
on page 17.
2. They must design and/or lead workshops that I could observe in and/or
outside schools.
3. They must be committed to participation requirements of this second phase.
4. They must be located within a reasonable distance from Cambridge, acces-
sible by public transportation or bicycle.
I considered how my sample could maximise and variate opportunities to learn
about artist pedagogy. I intended to use variables such as gender, age, media, and
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years of experience to select as diverse a sample as possible. This selection would
provide a broad starting point that potentially provided different perspectives on
potential research problems and questions, thus maximising my opportunity to
select a stronger theoretical sample in subsequent phases (Patton, 1990).
I discovered the BOP (2006) report describing the backgrounds of artists engaged
in CP, discussed in Chapter 2, after I had begun sampling. This report indicates
that the majority of those commissioned for work in CP had visual arts, music,
or performing arts backgrounds. The report also indicated that 46 per cent of
its spend went to just 6 per cent (220) of individuals contracted by CP between
2002 and 2006 (BOP, 2006, p. 15). It remains unclear the extent to which this
small group of contractors doing most of the CP work are representative of a larger
group in and beyond CP. Nonetheless, it does provide some rationale for focusing
on artists in the more traditional sense rather than the broader conception of cre-
ative practitioners working in the creative industries.
The three artists I investigated in my M.Phil. research satisfied the criteria above.
Therefore, I elected again to access their organisation. This organisation described
itself as a group of innovative and experienced artists offering creative projects for
populations ranging from children to adults in and beyond schools. Through a
process described in the next section, I initially invited 15 artists to participate in
this research.
4.3.1.2 Access
In October 2008, I approached the organisation’s director to survey the feasibility
of accessing its artists for this research. She invited me to a meeting of its trustees
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in May, 2009 during which I proposed this research. The response of the trustees
was positive. In September, 2009, I met again with the director, as well as its
founder. The purpose of this meeting was to establish a possible timeline for the
research, discuss possible ethical concerns, and develop a plan for accessing artists
to participate in the second phase of research. This second phase planned for three
individual interviews with each artist over a 10-week period.
I received a list of 11 active members of the organisation from the director. I
sent to each artist a personalised letter and an example is presented in Appendix
B. This letter stated the level of commitment in this initial phase of data collec-
tion. Then the organisation’s administrative assistant sent an email on October
21, 2009, to these artists, encouraging participation in the research. This email,
which can be read in Figure 4.2, described me as a “very nice young man.” It
seemed that I was positioned as young or younger than the artists themselves and
perhaps friendly. I am unsure the extent to which this description may have af-
fected who opted into this study and/or my relationships with them.
Following this introduction, I sent a brief and personalised email to each artist
assessing interest. I received 11 responses: four affirmative, three negative, and
four unsure. Of the four unsure responses, they expressed some concern whether
they were fit for my research because they were not offering workshops through the
organisation at the time or they did not consider their current work as relevant to
my research. From these responses, I considered what I may have unintentionally
conveyed in accessing the organisation. Whilst I expressed an interest in all facets
of their work, I suspected that contacting them through the organisation may
have contributed to the impression I was only researching workshops the artists
facilitated through it. Whilst this ultimately did become the focus, it was not
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Hello Everyone
I hope you are well.  You should have recently received a letter (via xxx) 
from Tyler Denmead.  
Tyler is working on an educational research project at the Faculty of 
Education and would like to contact artists who might be interested in 
taking part (see letter for details).
This email is by way of an introduction so Tyler can follow-up and see if 
anyone would like to be involved.  He's a very nice young man if that 
helps! :-)
Over to you Tyler
Best wishes
xxx
Figure 4.2: Introductory email from administrative assistant
necessarily my intention at the time. From my M.Phil. research, I was aware that
the boundaries between what constituted their pedagogies within and beyond the
organisation were perhaps unclear. Therefore I wanted to present a more holistic
interest to provide a potentially broader starting point.
I was surprised that three of the four individuals who were unsure about par-
ticipating in this phase of research also expressed concerns whether they could
be considered artists, facilitators, and/or creative practitioners. I included these
three terms recognising the potentially problematic ways in which people can con-
struct and apply these narrowing identities (Hall, 2010). The organisation had
stated that central to its ethos was an inclusive understanding of who was cre-
ative. Therefore, I assumed that I had used enough terms to include all the artists
affiliated with the organisation.
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I assured the three artists they were good candidates for my research, but they
ultimately declined. In retrospect, it was possible that two suggested they were
not the right fit as a polite way of saying no. One unsure participant, the direc-
tor of the organisation, did agree to participate. I assured the fourth artist, who
suggested she was initially too busy, that my research design was flexible and she
could join at a later point. The next spring, this artist facilitated workshops at the
first site I observed and became a participant in the research. Although not ideal
or as planned, she had participated in my M.Phil. research so I had two earlier
interviews with her upon which to draw.
Of the three negative responses, each cited feeling overworked. This sensitised
me to this possibility for artists who opted in. It reminded me of my ethical re-
sponsibility to treat their time and commitment with respect. One who declined
also cited a preference for “making work rather than talking about it”. This was
a curious observation that became significant later.
From this initial invitation of 11 artists, five agreed to participate initially, one
belatedly, and five declined. Of the six committed artists, three had participated
in my M.Phil. research. This concerned me. As I felt my research skills had de-
veloped since that study, I hoped for a fresh opportunity to engage with a bigger
sample. My initial sample size also did not feel sufficiently large to develop a
stronger theoretical sample in later phases.
So I contacted the director to discuss inviting potential candidates from the or-
ganisation who had not been invited in the first round. I learned that the director
had decided to not include four artists because they had not contracted with the
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organisation in some time. This was not a concern for me if they met my criteria,
which they did. With the director’s permission, I contacted them and two more
agreed to participate.
Following this second round of invitations, my sample consisted of eight artists,
one of whom who planned to join later. This sample size was satisfactory when
considering my research aims and limitations. Six months later, a ninth artist
joined the organisation and my research. Therefore, I individually interviewed her
at that time. One artist lived and worked both in England and France and was
only interviewed once because it became impractical to include her in the study.
I deselected this artist after finding it too difficult to schedule a second interview
and opportunities to observe her. Therefore, I focused on the remaining eight.
The majority of the eight participants were from the UK, although it was an
international group with a few who were born and raised in other countries. They
also represented a diversity of arts and design disciplines, including: creative move-
ment, visual art, installation art, performance art, graphic design, fashion design,
set design, and sculpture. Two artists also did not necessarily see themselves as
having a traditional arts background. One had a professional background in mar-
keting, and the other in biological anthropology. This diversity contributed most
significantly to the varied sample for which I hoped. At the same time, all partici-
pants in my initial sample were women, which reflected their predominance within
the organisation. I now briefly discuss other preparations I made for fieldwork and
then describe the second phase of research.
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 I'm a student in the PhD program at the Faculty of Education at 
Cambridge.  I am interested in understanding the work that you are doing 
as educators, artists, or creative practitioners, or facilitators --- or however 
you might or might not think about yourself and your work.  I was the 
director of an arts studio in the States for high school students, young 
artists, and educators.  
 I played, I guess for a lack of a better term, the executive role within 
the organisation for ten years, building support and interest in what I hoped 
was a semi-functioning organisation.  This was a difficult job, in large part, 
because I wasn't entirely clear what it was that our artists were doing as 
educators.  
 So, I thought research presented an interesting opportunity to begin 
to sort this out, and I thought that it might be interesting to approach this 
problem in a different culture and context.  This brought me to Cambridge, 
[this organisation] and to you.  
 I think this research might be helpful for folks with similar interests 
and questions, whether they are artists, educators, academics, or policy 
makers.  But, at this point, I’m completely unfamiliar with what you do and 
why you do as an artist and educator.
Figure 4.3: Script I used to introduce my research to artists
4.3.1.3 Final preparations for fieldwork
As I suggested earlier, it was essential at this point that I conveyed my lack of
understanding of their pedagogies to these artists before beginning to interview
them. At the same time, I did not intend to represent myself dishonestly. To
address this balance, I developed a script outlined in Figure 4.3. I used this script
when they asked why I engaged in this research. To begin a reflexive research
process, I also noted expectations I had for the project and possible challenges I
foresaw (Delamont, 2002).
To support fieldwork, I developed and procured a variety of technologies and sys-
tems to ensure safe, reliable, and rigorous collection and organisation of data.
These are discussed in Appendix C. I also developed an audit trail, viewable in
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Figure 4.4, to describe each step taken during data collection and analysis (Lincoln
& Guba, 1985, pp. 382–392). Using spreadsheet software, my audit trail included
a running log that tracked the date, the cite key of the data item, the analytical
step taken, and the reflexive commentary.
I did not keep this trail to be fully audited by another researcher, as Lincoln
& Guba (1985, pp. 382–392) propose. In contrast, I assumed that my journey
was a unique creative process among myself, artists and participants. Therefore,
I concluded that the same trail of steps taken by another researcher would have
produced different interpretations (Cutcliffe & McKenna, 2004). Alternatively, I
used an audit trail to:
1. Heighten my awareness and attention to detail.
2. Provide a record to guide collection and analysis.
3. Offer evidence to self-assess this journey (Whitehead, 2004).
4. Facilitate writing up.
At the end of each month, I reviewed the audit trail and created a monthly sum-
mary of what took place. An example of a monthly summary is provided in Ap-
pendix D. With artists purposively sampled and these systems in place, I began
the exploratory ethnographic phase of this research described next.
4.3.2 Phase two: Towards ethnographic exploratory cases
In the previous section, I described recruiting a purposive sample so I could begin
to identify artists’ interests and discover who the most suitable artists could be to
further study them. Between November, 2009 and February, 2010, I planned to
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Figure 4.4: Screen shot of audit trail
develop individual, exploratory ethnographic case studies of these nine artists. In
this section, I describe the development of these cases.
Case study as a method was fit for the purpose of developing concrete, descrip-
tive, and particular examples of artists and their pedagogies (Yin, 1981). Unlike
experimental or survey research, case study research normally does not sample to
accurately represent a population that is being researched (Robson, 2002; Stake,
1995). To develop the focus for these exploratory cases, I used unstructured,
artist-led interviews to give rise to interests that mattered to the artists, such as
decluttering spaces and providing participants ordinary materials.
These interests then provided the basis to theoretically sample artists that I ex-
amined through descriptive (Yin, 1981) and intrinsic (Stake, 2000, p. 437) case
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studies in later phases. To develop the foundation for a later progressive focus, I
discuss my approach to interviewing during the exploratory phase.
4.3.2.1 Unstructured, artist-led interviews
To begin collecting data for these exploratory cases, I planned two unstructured,
artist-led interviews during November and December, 2009, followed by a third in-
terview in January, 2010. With little theoretical guidance to structure interviews,
I drew on respondent-led unstructured interviews to identify informant-suggested
lines of enquiry. I attempted to refrain from using any a priori categorisation
that might limit where the artists led the research (Powney & Watts, 1987, p.
18). At the same time, I assumed that these interviews were not a neutral tool
for identifying the interests of the artists. Instead, I recognised that they would
arise through our interaction, leading to “negotiated, contextually-based results”
(Fontana & Frey, 2000, p. 646).
In early November, I began interviewing the seven artists who had committed
to this phase. I invited them to suggest convenient locations, and they most often
chose their homes. Prior to interviewing, I reviewed ethical considerations with
them, which I will examine further in a separate section in a moment. I also ap-
proached these interviews with my research questions in mind, as well as some
categories of pedagogy emerging through my ongoing literature review.
Recognising these unstructured interviews needed some focus, I planned on ex-
amining the following areas of interest:
1. What the artists did during workshops, in their studios, and/or other places.
2. Why it was meaningful to them.
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3. Vocabularies they used to describe what they did.
4. What criteria they used to determine their value.
I remained open to artists suggesting lines of enquiry and was particularly attuned
to listening for unfamiliar vocabularies that they introduced into these first inter-
views. Example terms resulting from these interviews included rich and curious
words such as unpicking, slowliness, slippage, decluttering, and prompting. Because
it could be difficult for artists to explain these vocabularies or what they did and
why it was meaningful to them, I asked artists to “tell me about a recent work-
shop in which [they] have participated”. Narration fits within the ethnographic
assumption that the researcher has less understanding of the phenomenon, thereby
privileging participants’ phenomenological descriptions (Hammersley, 1998, p. 9).
However, I was also aware that narration could skew the ethnographic evidence
because stories told are often what informants want to be heard (Cortazzi, 2001).
During these interviews, I also avoided using specialist language such as pedagogy.
Instead, I attempted to use vocabularies once artists introduced them during the
interviews. Based on familiarity from my M.Phil. research and my preliminary
conversations with the organisation’s staff, I initially felt comfortable beginning
interviews by talking about workshops because that is what many of them, as well
as their organisation’s literature, stated they offered.
But after a few individual interviews with artists, I decided to broaden my opening
prompt. I concluded that narrating workshops was perhaps too limiting. Some of
the participants had a studio and gallery practice that may not have been included
by this prompt. So I then interviewed artists by asking them to begin by telling
me about their work. I thought this approach was more ambiguous and produced
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more opportunity for variation. After asking artists to tell me about their work, I
listened for them to repeat themselves or emphasise particular points. I used prob-
ing techniques to clarify language and meaning, as well as solicit greater depth and
detail of what artists described (Robson, 2002; Morrison, 1993).
Interviews unfolded in a conversational manner, each approximately 60 minutes in
length. I conducted these interviews with seven artists between November, 2009
and January, 2000. In February, 2011, I interviewed the artist who had joined the
study, using a similar approach described above but I focused on workshops I had
observed.
After each interview, I quickly noted first impressions. Then I transcribed each
interview soon after and prior to any subsequent interviewing. I used a template
(see Appendix E) for transcripts in which pages and lines of text were numbered.
When transcribing, I took note of contextual information, such as the setting,
as well as nonverbal communication such as pauses, laughter, and gesture that
added understanding. However, extensive detail was not required given I did not
perform any conversation analysis. Transcriptions also included time stamps at
five-minute intervals in order to facilitate relistening to original recordings, if nec-
essary. Each transcription involved listening to each recording three or more times.
To prepare for the second interview, I analysed the first in a series of steps detailed
in the next section. Having identified possible threads to pursue in greater detail,
I then interviewed five of the seven artists for a second time in December, 2009
and January, 2010. I deselected the sixth at this point because of the scheduling
difficulties that arose from her living in England and France. I was also unable to
schedule a second interview with the seventh artist. However, it made sense for
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her to remain in the research because, unlike the deselected artist, she was offering
nearby workshops in the spring for me to observe.
The purpose of the second, more structured interview was to begin to progressively
focus on potential areas of interest using criteria that I discuss in the next section.
In particular, I wanted to develop a more in-depth understanding of artists’ emic
descriptions, meanings, and vocabularies in ways that could be useful when observ-
ing them in subsequent phases. During this second, more structured, interview, I
brought excerpts of the first interview grouped by emerging concepts and relevant
questions. I also brought narrated passages of workshops to solicit further detail.
For example, one schedule for an interview included the concept creative parenting,
as well as an excerpt from the interview and clarifying questions I intended to ask
about it. Like the first interview, I used repeated probing techniques to solicit
greater detail and clarify meaning.
In one of these interviews, one artist brought to my attention potential researcher
bias, describing a moment from the first interview when I summarised her words.
She said that she felt there was a moment when I had “rounded up” her words
and “put ideas” into how she described it. Bearing in mind my interest in artists’
emic perspectives, this observation obviously concerned me. When I asked her if
she could identify the incident, she could not. But I reviewed the vocabularies
that she used such as atmosphere, invitations, and the making process and looked
for moments where I might have imposed meaning. I could not find them. I asked
her to consider reviewing the transcript, though I warned her that it could be un-
comfortable. The experience appeared somewhat painful to her, as she described
herself as incoherent in the interview and expressed doubt that she could contribute
anything to my research. I reassured her otherwise and she allowed me to observe
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her later in the spring. Her observation however renewed my attention to inter-
viewing in ways that solicited phenomenological description to the extent possible.
At this point, I had conducted a total of 13 interviews with eight artists. I now
turn to discuss how I analysed these interviews towards developing ethnographic
exploratory case studies, including criteria I used to identify possible areas of focus
in the second interview.
4.3.2.2 Grounded data analysis
To analyse these interviews, I did not have an existing theory of artist pedagogy
from which I could deduce meaning. Therefore, this flexible research design re-
lied on an iterative, immersive, and initially inductive approach to data analysis
drawn from aspects of grounded theory (Glaser & Strauss, 1967). At this point, I
was analysing only data within each case (e.g. each artist) to understand the dis-
tinctiveness of each artist’s understanding of their pedagogies. In ways described
below, I analysed interview transcripts to identify areas of interest meaningful to
them—and to me—that I could examine in subsequent phases.
Immersing myself in these interviews, I listened to them and reread the transcripts
multiple times. Working with the data within days of conducting and transcribing
interviews, I created a cover sheet for each transcript. The cover sheet included
information such as interviewee, date, location, and cite key. I also summarised
the transcript to distill aspects of each interview that felt important at the time.
An example is provided in Figure 4.5. The summary facilitated coding and future
data retrieval and analysis.
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In this first interview, we primarily discuss her workshop with xxx from a local hospital. 
She discusses different types of play and what it means to be a xxx.  She describes the 
different atmospheres, of, for example, a museum and a hospital. She describes the 
struggles of working institutionally in terms of their times and responsibilities which 
interfere with play.  She talks about simple materials being elementary in form and 
suggestion; that is they do not have an obvious or immediate identity. Perhaps like xxx 
slippage, they lend themselves quickly to transformation.  She discusses the importance of 
de-cluttering the room, of clearing it out, and making something out of nothing.  xxx has 
pointed out to me the importance for the artists of being immersed, and I begin to pick up 
on that in this interview.  She also describes working in pairs with other artists, being 
daring, not being prescriptive, and working with themes.
Figure 4.5: Example of transcript summary
At this point, I was interested in reducing the already vast amounts of qualitative
data to something more manageable, something that I could use to describe and
interpret their pedagogies (Miles & Huberman, 1994). Therefore, I began to select
particular types of data that would deepen my understanding of their pedagogies
and focus future data collection. As I analysed this first interview, for example, I
selected the following types of data:
1. Highly descriptive narration of their pedagogies.
2. Artists interpretations as to why they may have been meaningful.
3. Vocabulary and metaphors used to describe and represent them.
4. Questions or tensions that opened lines for progressively focused enquiry.
As I selected this data, I was looking for emerging concepts, suggested by artists,
that would focus my research. To aid this process, I used the following criteria to
prioritise those concepts I selected:
1. Repetitiveness of particular concepts.
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2. Intensity the artist conveyed when describing them.
3. My particular interests based on my theoretical sensitivity of pedagogy, my
M.Phil. research, and personal familiarity with New Urban Arts.
4. Lack of clarity.
To begin to identify these concepts, I also experimented with using a line-by-line
open coding approach, using in vivo codes whenever possible. With an interest in
cautiously comparing codes across specific situations, I coded by slightly abstract-
ing artists’ language from a predicate dependent on a particular subject (e.g. “he
ran”) into a non-finite form as a gerund (e.g. “running”). An example is provided
in Figure 4.6. These slightly more generalised codes allowed for easier comparison
within each case.
Passage Codes
They would bring sand, and da da 
da, then put in the colour, and we 
would let them, then it would reach 
its natural conclusion, because it 
wouldn't have... Then they could go 
back to the sand pit because... 
Bringing sand
Putting in colour
Reaching a natural conclusion
Going back to the sand pit
Figure 4.6: Example of coding
At first, I manually wrote these codes in the margins of a preprepared transcript
provided in Appendix E, and then later in word processor tables and/or notecards.
Then I compared and clustered codes around categories, subsuming codes within
these more general concepts or breaking them apart when discovering differences
(Robson, 2002, pp. 494–495). This method of constant comparison involved a com-
bination of both deductive and inductive reasoning whereby new codes and cate-
gories emerged and other codes fit within existing categories (Strauss & Corbin,
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2008). Some examples of categories are provided in Appendix F.
In discussing this line-by-line approach with a fellow researcher, I described it as
feeling too mechanical. I wondered if I was just fixing labels rather than thinking
through the data (Strauss & Corbin, 2008). I also questioned whether I was relying
on this mechanical approach to cope with the ambiguity and uncertainty associ-
ated with this research design. So I became more comfortable with writing memos.
I used memos to reorganise data in different ways. For example, I reconstructed
workshops, chronologically tracing what artists did during the workshops they de-
scribed from beginning to end. I also developed imaginary profiles of ideal and
difficult workshop participants to ascertain how their workshops might be mean-
ingful to them. Memos also provided me the chance to reflect on longer passages
of text and write in full paragraph form about emerging concepts, such as leaving
traces, immersion, and atmosphere. This memo writing also facilitated unantici-
pated connections in the data and created lines of enquiry to pursue through future
data collection, such as the semi-structured second interview.
After the second interview, I analysed multiple sources of data. This collection of
data included:
1. Two transcripts.
2. Grouped codes and categories.
3. Memos.
4. The second interview schedule.
Working with this data side-by-side, I began to write ethnographic exploratory
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cases for each artist. I organised these cases by category, examining artists’ de-
scriptions of workshops that they used as evidence of these concepts.
Whilst writing, I also recoded the two transcripts for the first time with TAMS
Analyzer, an open-source computer-aided qualitative data analysis software pack-
age (CAQDAS). I used a sketchbook and TAMS Analyzer to create concept maps
of possible relationships between codes and categories. An example of this data
display is provided in Figure 4.7. Through this writing and mapping, I contin-
ued the constant comparison method described previously, attempting to further
saturate each emerging category within each case with the one or two interview
transcripts I had so far.
Atmosphere
How What Why
Closer_to_feelings_of_being_a_child Energising Remove_barriers_to_making Tempting_mind When_right_child_plays
Barrier_to_making
Expectations Hyperrealism Pre_Determined_Outcomes Regular_thinking Regularity Talking_jargon Technicality
Education_jargon Educational_background Poking_people_to_describe_feelings Theory
Having_antennaes_up Prompt Slowliness
Figure 4.7: Example map developed whilst writing exploratory case
At this point, each case had a different focus. For example, I discussed how
one artist prepared spaces for a workshop and another described the chronology
of her educational training. At the same time, I did begin to note some overlaps
between cases. For example, how the artists attempted to address the physical
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and emotional qualities of spaces, which some artists described as atmosphere,
seemed significant to several of them. Providing a few different examples of simple
materials, each provided in abundance, was also emerging as a broader theme that
interested several artists. I also began to note how artists described invitations,
provocations, and starting points that they used to facilitate participants. Whilst
recognising that these overlaps were beginning to deepen my understanding of
what these concepts meant within and across these cases, I also remained com-
mitted to maximising variation. To do so, I developed case studies that focused
on artists’ differences as much as their similarities. I examined how one artist
described a divide between working in a gallery and in public settings with peo-
ple; another described the importance of working in pairs with another artist to
facilitate workshops. Whilst it was not obvious to me then, these outliers became
more central to my analysis later.
Although I worked towards sharing these cases with participants for validation
in a third interview at the end of this second phase, I decided not to do so for
reasons discussed next.
4.3.2.3 Changing course
In February, I completed three exploratory cases, each averaging 10,349 words.
Their table of contents can be viewed in Appendix G. Before writing the remaining
cases, I shared these three drafts with a supervisor to help investigate an emerging
concern. I wondered whether feeding these case studies back at this point in a
third interview would be useful. This apprehension arose because I believed the
cases were too long to share at this point; I was unclear whether to bound the
cases individually, by pairs, or by organisation; I had the hunch that these artists
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were sensitive to how they might be represented by an academic; and, I was un-
clear which artists were remaining in the study. Therefore, I opted to develop and
share visual maps with one artist in order to pilot a member checking interview
and assess these emerging concerns. I knew this artist was moving away and I
would not be able to observe her in later phases. Therefore, this presented a good
opportunity to do so.
During this interview, I presented one map titled insecurity that grouped together
a myriad of ways in which the artist described how she believed she was not a good
parent, teacher, craftsperson, or artist. However, after seeing this map, she had a
different interpretation, noting that she put herself down to create more space for
others to contribute. This difference highlighted several issues for me. Firstly, I
became more sensitised to the personal nature of this work, which reminded me
of my ethical obligations to cause no harm. Secondly, it forced me to reconsider
the complex, political nature of ethnographers who are empowered to tell others’
stories (Lassiter, 2005). By introducing my etic view of insecurity, I privileged my
perspective before more fully attempting to understand hers. I also was not clear
enough in my mind prior to this interview about the level of interpretation I was
making or if/how it was warranted by the evidence. I thought after this event that
a more suitable step would have been to feedback the way she described herself,
asked how and if they were related, and compared her interpretation with my own.
I also felt the need to balance this concern with avoiding going native, or for-
saking my role as a researcher for one of an advocate (Robson, 2002, p. 187). I
did not want to play the role of advocate for this artist, simply telling her story
the way she wanted. For me, both our interpretations still felt relevant and sub-
stantiated. This event reminded me I was not necessarily concerned with seeking
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an interpretation deemed right or wrong in some final, objective sense. Instead, it
illustrated how the collaborative nature of ethnography, whereby the dialogue be-
tween researcher and researched seeks out and negotiates different interpretations
in light of the evidence, pushing towards greater complexity and understanding
(Lassiter, 2005).
Because of this event, I decided to refrain from further developing and sharing
individual case studies for each artist at this point. Alternatively, I considered how
to theoretically sample a particular group of artists that maximised the opportu-
nity to further examine emerging concepts from this second phase. In particular,
I returned to examine the overlaps between each individual case. This cross-case
analysis involved comparing their concept maps. As I did this, I began to fur-
ther focus on conceptual overlaps such as the use of simple materials, open-ended
provocations, and decluttered spaces that appeared in nearly all the individual
cases. Yet, it was unclear to me how and why these materials, for example, were
simple or provocations were open-ended.
Given these overlaps and curiosities, I began to consider progressively focusing
on them. I wanted to select artists who would deepen understanding and increase
variation within each concept (Miles & Huberman, 1994). I also needed to con-
sider which artists maximised opportunities to observe these concepts. Narrowing
artists through theoretical sampling was going to be a challenge because not every
artist involved in this second phase was necessarily planning on offering workshops
in the third. I now discuss the ethics of interviewing artists in this phase and of
observing their workshops in the next.
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4.3.2.4 Ethical considerations
This study strictly adhered to British Educational Research Association’s ethical
guidelines (BERA, 2004). To do so, I first completed the Faculty of Education
Research Ethics Review Checklist and had it signed by a knowledgeable person of
standing at my registration viva. Then I met with the organisation’s director and
founder to introduce and discuss ethical considerations. Subsequently I asked for
each artist’s informed and voluntary consent based on their understanding of this
second phase of research, its possible uses, the commitment asked of them, and
recognition of their right to opt out at any time. This consent form, signed by each
artist, has been included in Appendix H. For the subsequent phases of research,
if the artists participated, I received their verbal consent under the existing terms
of that ethical agreement.
Particular attention was paid to preserving the confidentiality and anonymity of
the artists to avoid compromising them in any way. In addition, I attempted to
approach them, their time, and information they shared with care and respect. I
also promised that data collected was protected to the best possible extent, but
notified them of the potential risks of data loss.
Observing artists’ workshops in the next phase presented ethical challenges, in-
cluding how to secure informed, voluntary consent from workshop participants.
Several factors contributed to this:
1. Series of workshops held at five different sites were either one-offs or more
likely a short series of two to seven workshops.
2. Registration often did not occur prior to each workshop series.
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3. The participants included children.
4. Series of workshops sometimes took place through partners such as schools,
nurseries, or local charities who recruited participants.
Because of these factors, I took several steps to respect participants’ interests to
the extent possible. Firstly, I secured permission from partners at all times and
provided my Criminal Record Certificate up front. This certificate is provided in
Appendix I. Secondly, I tried to secure informed and voluntary consent from both
parents and children. In most workshops, parents participated alongside their
children. To seek consent, I introduced myself at the beginning of each workshop,
describing myself as a research student at the University of Cambridge. During
this introduction, I suggested I was producing research that described the artists’
approach, hoping this research might benefit those interested in offering similar
workshops elsewhere. Whilst I iterated there was no obligation, I suggested they
could help the research by talking to me about what was taking place during work-
shops.
Telling them I would keep these conversations private and protect their anonymity,
I then invited them to let me know at any point if they did not want for me to ob-
serve them. Although not ideal, this offer of opting out seemed most appropriate.
I needed to balance my need for consent with interrupting artists’ introductions
every workshop. The artists also used opting out consent when they asked partic-
ipants if they did not want their photographs taken. Therefore, this approach felt
consistent.
Nonetheless, I was sensitive to participants not feeling comfortable opting out
in front of other participants and artists. In the 20 workshops I observed across
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five sites, only one parent opted out for himself and his child, doing so in private
after the introduction. Therefore I approached their consent as an ongoing nego-
tiated process throughout each workshop. For example, I tried to reach out to
participants during workshops, but did not push. To an extent, I tended to ob-
serve parents and children who did converse with me, which may have suggested
an openness to participate in the research. At two of the five sites that I observed
in the next phase, children participated without their parents. Because I did not
know who was attending workshops at these two sites in advance, I was not able
to secure parents’ consent. In the end, I deselected these two sites for this re-
search primarily because of the ethical limitations of researching children without
parental or guardian consent.
To the extent possible, I also aimed to protect participants’ anonymity. I was
sensitive in particular to any information that participants shared with me. For
example, I did not want to feedback participants’ comments in the early stages of
the research to artists. Instead, I was attempting to allow the workshops to unfold
as naturally as possible. I was open to the possibility that I may have needed to
share data and participants’ identities to help to address an ethical problem (e.g.
a child was at risk or in danger). However, no instances arose.
Before interviewing a few parents and partners in the third phase, I discussed
ethical considerations and sought their informed and voluntary consent in the
same way I approached the artists prior to the second phase. I viewed parents’
participation in these interviews as another layer of consent. Therefore I leaned
towards selecting observational data of these interviewees’ children for my descrip-
tive cases.
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In writing my findings, I paid particular attention to any cues in the data that
revealed participants’ identity. Although I did the same with the artists, I could
not guarantee their anonymity within the organisation because the other artists
could easily identify them. These concerns and expectations were put in writing
prior to the beginning of fieldwork. Because of this threat to their anonymity, I
solicited artists’ feedback of each descriptive case that I wrote. Following their
feedback and my revision, I shared this draft with them to seek permission to
share it with others, to which they consented.
Once a final draft of my findings were shared with the organisation, I provided the
director and the artists the right to decide whether their names, and the name of
the organisation, would be revealed in future publications. I also communicated to
the director and artists that I planned to withhold the right to publish the account.
This was communicated up front and bound by the signed ethics agreement. Bear-
ing in mind these ethical decisions, I now turn to discuss the next phase of research
during which I participated in and observed the artists’ workshops.
4.3.3 Phase three: Towards descriptive cases
In the previous section, I described the second phase of artist-led interviewing that
produced some emerging concepts that seemed to be shared by most of the artists.
I contacted the organisation’s director to tell her of my interest in developing de-
scriptive case studies by observing artists who had been involved in the second
phase. She provided me a list of the workshops in the coming spring. There were
five series of workshops planned across different sites. These sites, outlined in Fig-
ure 4.8, included three nature reserves, one primary school, and a public cemetery.
These workshops were going to be led by four artists I had interviewed in the
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What Who For Whom When Where Why
The Wood
Worthington
Blackberry Brush
Woodbridge Country 
Park
Powell Cemetery
7 workshops A, B Nursery school children and parents February - March
Woodland in nature 
reserve near early 
years centre
Outdoor learning
3 workshops C, D Primary school children and families March
Public pavilion and 
primary school
Public 
consultation for 
art funding
4 workshops A, E Reception year children and parents April - May
Open field in nature 
reserve neary primary 
school
Outdoor learning
3 workshops A, E Young carers May
Enclosed outdoor 
learning site at public 
park
Outdoor learning
4 workshops A, F
Nursery and primary 
school children and 
parents
May Public cemetery Exploring play in cemetery
Figure 4.8: Summary of five sites observed
second phase. There were also two artists who I had not interviewed facilitating
workshops. Given these relatively small numbers, I decided I could not be selec-
tive in determining who I observed. Instead, I included all six artists to maximise
opportunities to observe these concepts and discover new ones. I contacted these
six artists to solicit their agreement to participate in this third phase of research.
All six agreed to my involvement and the ethical terms outlined in the previous
phase. Then the director contacted staff coordinating each partnership at each site
to introduce me as a Ph.D. student in Education at the University of Cambridge
researching her organisation. All these partners consented to my participation.
Between February and June, 2010, workshops were scheduled in such a way that
typically allowed for two days of observation per week. The remaining days were
allocated for data preparation and analysis. To summarise, data collection during
this period included:
1. Observed six artists facilitate 20 workshops, each averaging approximately
two hours in length.
2. Observed three organisational retreats called “Sharing Days”, in which these
artists collectively planned, described and discussed workshops.
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3. Observed a daylong conference hosted by the organisation on outdoor learn-
ing, which included presentations by two artists I observed.
4. Participated in two artist-organised and led reflective conversations during
which artists and site partners discussed workshops I observed.
5. Conducted seven semi-structured interviews with three partners and three
workshop participants.
Below I discuss how I collected and analysed data that emerged from these oppor-
tunities.
4.3.3.1 Participant observation
To begin fieldwork at each site, I approached participant observation attuned to
Delamont’s (2008, p. 43) suggestion that good educational ethnography is not
about looking for the striking or noteworthy, but attempting to make the mun-
dane unfamiliar. Before attending artists’ workshops I prepared notebooks by
labelling pages with emic codes and categories for observation I had selected from
the exploratory phase, such as providing spaces and inviting participants. I have
provided some further examples in Figure 4.9. I marked some pages with question
marks to remind me to remain attentive to observational data that did not appear
to fit within existing categories. Remaining open to new concepts was particularly
important as I had not interviewed two of the artists, and I did not know what to
expect from them. I was interested in discovering these differences and variation
to add to the complexity of my account.
Observing their pedagogies for the first time, I looked for patterns that were con-
sistent and/or inconsistent with the emic concepts that had emerged from the
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Preparing spaces Inviting participants
Establishing a suitable area Creating excitement
Attuning Offering a challenge
Hanging out One-lined provocation
Setting boundaries Offering materials
Claiming space Echoing
Figure 4.9: Example observational categories and codes
exploratory phase (e.g. decluttered spaces and ordinary materials). This theoreti-
cal sampling had an iterative and progressive quality (Strauss & Corbin, 2008), as
I saturated particular categories such as the physical qualities of materials artists
used and the provocations they provided when introducing them. Attempting to
saturate these categories led to new questions and tensions, including why artists
considered some materials simple and ordinary and other artists did not. Noting
differences between artists led to new opportunities for data collection that added
complexity.
Data sets were reanalysed using new concepts as they emerged and I began to co-
alesce concepts within broader, emerging themes, such as how artists approached
and used material, space, and time. At this point, I began to notice strong simi-
larities with phenomenological and pragmatist discourses, and turned increasingly
to that pedagogic literature. As I familiarised myself with this etic literature, I
then cautiously looked for similarities and differences. This process became par-
ticularly useful in identifying the body as a theme potentially relevant to several
of the artists but not necessarily explicitly verbalised by them.
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In addition to paying attention to existing concepts and remaining open to new
ones in and outside the field, I described events as they unfolded in the field,
paying particular attention to how workshops began and ended. I drew maps of
each site and wrote the time of day regularly. I used shorthand developed in the
field, and these notes were used to prompt recall later. Full narrative accounts
that expanded field notes were generated soon after observation, most often that
day and into the next. Field notes from each workshop ranged between 3,000 and
7,000 words.
Becoming more familiar with language and events that appeared relevant and
significant to artists and participants at each site, I continued to selectively watch
them. To remain attentive and make the increasingly familiar strange, I moved
in and out of periods of unfocused watching, searching for surprising phenomena
followed by intense focus on selected phenomena based on emergent categories
(Delamont, 2002, p. 131).
During opportune moments, I attempted to ask artists and participants to clar-
ify what they were doing and why they were doing it (Delamont, 2002, p. 122).
Most of the workshops I observed involved artists facilitating parents and children
as they explored materials and outdoor spaces. When chatting with parents and
children during these workshops, I used an open-ended approach to questioning.
An example of a sequence of questions I used is:
1. Can I talk to you about this workshop?
2. What are you doing?
3. What is it like to work with X (the artist)?
Informal interviewing of participants helped me to account for artists and partic-
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ipants’ meanings of their actions. At the same time, this line of questioning was
challenging because some appeared to find it difficult to describe what may have
seemed obvious to them.
To further aid observation, I time sampled some workshops by observing five-
minute periods every 20 minutes. Time sampling became significant because work-
shops were two hours long. Without doing so, I became too fatigued to remain
as focused as necessary. I also time sampled within particular categories. For
example, within the theme of body, I was seeking evidence whether working in
pairs allowed one artist to work alongside participants, whilst the other played a
standing back and documentarian role. Several described this phenomena in their
interviews from the second phase. To observe this dynamic, I created tables that
sampled 10-minute intervals over the course of the workshop, noting what each
artist was doing with their bodies during the same moment.
Throughout fieldwork, I took 365 photographs to document what took place dur-
ing workshops. These photographs were intended to serve multiple purposes, such
as:
1. Aid expansion of field notes.
2. Triangulate their accuracy.
3. Support photo elicitation in future interviews.
As participants verbally consented to having their photographs taken and perhaps
put on the organisation’s website, I intended to use photography to gain further
access and trust with the artists and the site partners. I offered to share images
with the organisation and the site partners if they wanted to use them for promo-
tional and/or evaluative reasons.
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Another consideration during participant observation included remaining atten-
tive to differences between description and low-level interpretation. I heightened
my attention to different levels of interpretation because of the two incidents from
phase two where I may have imposed meaning on the artists. In my field notes, I
used question marks and/or brackets to denote when I thought I could be making
low-level interpretive comments to consider later. In so doing, I attempted to vi-
sually separate low-level interpretations from more descriptive data. At the same
time, I generated questions and inferences that provided future opportunities for
data collection and analysis. When expanding field notes, I also combed through
them looking for examples of low-level interpretations that I might have miscon-
strued for description.
Navigating the complexities described above, participant observation continued
until June, 2010 when I began to suspect some evidence of saturation. I began to
feel like I was standing around, not being struck by new phenomena. Moreover,
I did not feel like I was adding anything new to existing categories. Reflecting
with my supervisors, I decided at this point to begin to exit the field again and
immerse myself more deeply in the data I had collected to this point. I turn to
discuss other means of data collection used and then the steps I took to reanalyse
data from second and third phases.
4.3.3.2 Triangulating data
During this phase, I triangulated data I collected through participant observation
in order to strengthen the trustworthiness, or internal validity, of this account
(Cohen et al., 2000, p. 107). Discussed below, these methods included arte-
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fact collection, informant-led data collection, and interviews with participants and
partners.
During the first 10 workshops I observed, I collected some artefacts, including
objects created by participants. At some of the outdoor sites, the artists also gave
parents observation booklets in order to stand back and describe what their chil-
dren were doing. Thirteen observation booklets were completed by parents across
multiple sites and were shared with me. Like photographs, these artefacts provided
another perspective of particular events and supported elicitation in interviews.
Triangulating methods was aided by feedback forms that the organisation devel-
oped and administered after each workshop. These feedback forms asked (Brennan,
2004):
1. What were the children doing?
2. What were the children learning? What did they enjoy most?
3. What else would have been useful/made the workshop more enjoyable?
4. What did you learn? What did you enjoy the most?
5. Is there anything you’d like to do next?
These open-ended, primarily descriptive questions were useful in drawing my at-
tention to the interests of parents and children. Receiving over 40 completed feed-
back forms, they also provided further ethnographic evidence of what I observed,
as well as what parents and artists described during interviews. As I mentioned,
there were also two artist-led reflective conversations and three organisational re-
treats during which the artists and site partners reflected upon the workshops I
observed. During one conversation in particular, the artists and partner began to
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describe how their workshops lessened the fear of the unknown, or as the partner
put it, softened the blank sheet. They noted moments during workshops when
participants would be struck with fear when they faced the ambiguity of their
workshops. They described navigating that by, for example, providing simple ma-
terials and a prompt. In my subsequent individual interviews with three parents
and two partners, I used a semi-structured interviewing approach to gather their
perspectives on how the artists used materials, spaces, and provocations to soften
the blank sheet.
To further strengthen my analysis, I collected over 50 organisational documents,
including brochures, websites, job descriptions, program evaluations, risk assess-
ments and grant proposals. Based on my experience producing this literature as
an organisation director, I was aware of the ways in which these artefacts could be
skewed as corporate advocacy. I took the above into consideration whilst weigh-
ing the relative strength of data in the ongoing and iterative process of analysis
described in greater detail next.
4.3.3.3 Grounded data analysis
To develop descriptive cases of artists’ pedagogies, I faced the difficult challenge of
how to bound them for analysis. Individual artists worked in pairs across multiple
sites as members of an organisation. To address the different dynamics at each
of these levels, I attempted to allow for this complexity and take a nested ap-
proach to further understand each individual part whilst paying attention to their
relationship to the whole (Miles & Huberman, 1994, p. 29). I decided to begin
writing cases bound by site. I approached each site as its own story, believing this
provided the best narrative structure. I focused on each artist within each case,
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how different pairs of artists worked together, and how features of these artists’
pedagogies were similar and different across each site.
In writing about each site, my aim was to provide vivid and varied represen-
tations of what took place there. I was still attempting to refrain from more
abstractly theorising their pedagogies as I wrote these cases. Yet, I recognise that
the boundaries between these two aims blurred, as my understanding of artists’
emic concepts informed what descriptive data I collected and selected to use in the
cases (Miles & Huberman, 1994, p. 91). Moreover, the line between emic and etic
concepts also began to blur, as I found strong evidence, for example, to further
examine phenomenological and pragmatist themes such as the body within each
case. Therefore, my data analysis began to shift towards both a deductive and
inductive approach.
At this point, I decided to deselect two of the five sites as potential descriptive
cases. I was not comfortable with the level of participant consent. At these sites,
children participated without parents, and I was unable to directly communicate
to their parents without extensive effort I could not afford. As a result, one artist
featured across the three sites that I had selected. Whilst minimising variation, I
believed that my ethical concerns should prevail. Curiously, the three sites selected
featured the artists working outdoors. Although the outdoor focus of these three
workshops minimised variation based on what I observed (e.g. one series took place
in a school), it was more representative of the organisation’s workshops during the
time of this research.
To develop the three remaining descriptive cases, I continued to use criteria to
progressively focus on data from both the second and third phases of research.
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These criteria included:
1. The ongoing emphasis and repetitiveness of what artists did and said.
2. Inconsistencies between what they said in the second phase and what they
did in the third.
3. What interested participants in interviews, feedback forms, and documenta-
tion booklets.
4. What appeared to be the most salient concepts based on my emerging un-
derstanding of their pedagogies.
During this analysis, I wrote over 120 memos totalling approximately 60,000 words
to reflect on data selected using this criteria.
I wrote vignettes that attempted to give a story-like structure to the data se-
lected (Miles & Huberman, 1994). Then I compared vignettes and considered
how to maximise opportunities for variation within each case. In other words, I
avoided selecting two vignettes that described how artists opened their workshops,
if their openings were similar. To further add to the complexity within each case,
I attempted to select vignettes that balanced multiple perspectives and described
what artists did among various artists and participants. I considered the relative
status of different types of data and attempted to avoid selecting data simply to
make a coherent story. I was still aware that outliers would add complexity to
my representation. I also wrote the descriptive cases longer than they ultimately
would become. Providing longer drafts allowed artists to comment upon a broader
and more varied sample of events in member checking interviews. Then I could
better ascertain aspects of their workshops more significant to them.
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In addition, I started to consider the formal qualities of my representations. I
became more aware that I was writing sparsely, perhaps as an effort to put for-
ward an undistracted focus on what artists did. I believed this would allow for
more varied interpretations from the reader, which I believed would benefit the
research’s contribution to the field. I also decided to use metaphors in some in-
stances to emphasise the ambiguity of what artists did and its multiple possible
meanings.
I decided to write myself into the text to further add to the situated and complex
nature of my representations. I wanted to be transparent about my presence. I
included the feelings I felt and the memories I encountered during workshops to
further illustrate these were not pure, objective accounts (Lassiter, 2005). But I
also doubted whether a highly introspective vanity ethnography would be useful
(Van Maanen, 1988). This approach questions its own form until it is formless.
Alternatively, I wanted to present a coherent but obviously constructed narrative
that told stories about what artists did, how it was meaningful to them, and what
vocabularies they used. By September, I finished drafts of three descriptive cases.
Now I further discuss the concept of reflexivity and its impact on how I conducted
fieldwork and wrote these descriptive cases.
4.3.3.4 Reflexivity
Placing myself within the narrative of my cases was consistent with my view to-
wards my reflexive position within the field. Rather than considering my participa-
tion in the research as a limitation to overcome, I believed it could strengthen the
research “by promoting more penetratingly vigilant attention, more subtle aware-
ness, and keener sensitivity” (Shusterman, 2008, p. 138). Moreover, I believed that
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engaging in a reflexive process would open myself up to the perspectives of artists
who perhaps held views different from my own (Warnk, 1984, p. xiii).
Using journal writing for example, I engaged in an ongoing process of re-examining
my preconceptions’ role in shaping how I collected and analysed data (Delamont,
2009). I maintained an open dialogue with supervisors and another ethnographic
researcher to seek outsiders’ perspectives (Robson, 2002, p. 175). In the field, I
conversed with artists, site partners, and participants to ascertain how my presence
might have affected what I observed, particularly as a man often among women
(Hammersley, 1998). In addition, I suspected my status as a Ph.D. researcher
from Cambridge may have been threatening to some families, particularly at sites
where they likely came from a lower socioeconomic demographic than others. I
also found myself drawing more interest and curiosity from those likely of a higher
socioeconomic demographic. I made these assumptions based on my familiarity
with the demographic profiles of partnering schools and nurseries across each site,
presented in Ofsted reports available online.
I tried to remain attentive to these issues and address them when possible. For
example, I pushed myself to more directly participate with artists and other partic-
ipants rather than standing back and playing a more passive role. I paid particular
attention to engaging with children when their parents were nearby. At one site
that partnered with a school characterised by a lower socioeconomic profile, I sat
with one family during an entire workshop without taking field notes. I was sim-
ply trying to establish rapport and trust. In the end this was not as possible as
I would have liked given the short term nature of the artists’ involvement at each
site.
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Even though I used the above approaches, I am not claiming I arrived at a complete
understanding of how I affected this research, nor that I fully overcame the limi-
tations of this study. Nonetheless, I attempted to negotiate an inevitably complex
encounter and produce a trustworthy account. This effort was further strengthened
by member checking interviews of the descriptive cases, which I discuss next.
4.3.3.5 Member checking interviews
As I neared completion of this third phase, I shared the three descriptive cases
with four artists from the three selected sites. To support their reading, I pro-
vided a letter and a list of questions, viewable in Appendix J. I then conducted
three member checking interviews between October, 2010 and February, 2011. In
reviewing these descriptive cases with artists, I was interested in whether artists
remembered events as I described them. I wanted to ascertain whether the terms
that I used were appropriate and consistent with their uses and interests. I was
interested in which events I described particularly interested them and why. I
wanted to hear accounts I may not have selected that they felt were important. I
intended to collect more data from artists who I felt were less represented in these
cases. Finally, I sought permission to share these descriptive cases with the other
artists in the organisation, as well as my supervisors.
I decided to interview pairs of artists from each site for one hour, assuming that
their collaboration could aid recall of particular events. After the first interview,
I reflected upon it with my supervisors. We noted that I had some difficulty
engaging both artists in reviewing the cases. For the second and third member
checking interview then, I relied on a more structured approach to focus on par-
ticular questions that emerged whilst writing the cases. The second and third
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interview schedules can be viewed in Appendix J. In addition, I decided not to
include the artist who had featured in all three cases for the third interview to
ensure that the other artist was more adequately represented.
In addition to the above structure, I attempted to use photo elicitation during
interviews to support artists’ recall of particular events, to narrate events I did
not observe, and to point me to categories not yet noticed. In some cases, I se-
lected photographs the artists or participants had taken and events unfamiliar to
me. In other cases, I selected photographs that I took that could provoke further
understanding of categories still unclear. Some artists described this as useful in
reviewing what they did and why it was meaningful. For others, it seemed less
useful because they had difficulty placing images that I or partners took. The
workshops were often scattered across large open areas, so photographs did not
necessarily represent events familiar to them.
These three interviews did not suggest to me that I needed to make any sig-
nificant alterations to my descriptive cases. They did, however, provide further
instances to gauge artists’ interests in particular vignettes, thus providing more
evidence for me to sample particular data. Moreover, these interviews provided
another instance for me to saturate categories and provide more accounts of under-
represented artists. At the end of these three interviews, I promised to revise the
cases and return them for the artists to read a second time. The artists agreed for
me to begin to share theses cases with other artists in the organisation. Based on
artists’ feedback, I began to believe that including a separate interpretive frame-
work would be beneficial to this research. I discuss why and how I approached
this framework in the next section.
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4.3.4 Phase four: Towards an interpretive framework
The descriptive cases that I developed in the previous phase primarily focused on
the research question, “How do artists enact their pedagogies?” In my member
checking interviews, some artists expressed concern that I had not included what
these actions meant to them. Others also critiqued their partial representation,
namely that they only provided a description of my particular encounters during
workshops, perhaps exacerbated by the open, expansive geography of somewhat
scattered workshops. Still others expressed some concern that some artists who
participated in the exploratory phase of this research were not accounted for. Some
artists also asked me what I thought the significance of their pedagogies was, whilst
others seemed less interested.
With these concerns in mind, I started a new, overlapping phase of research to
work towards developing an interpretation of these descriptive cases. Describing
one phase as descriptive and the other as interpretive is somewhat misleading as
writing these descriptive cases was interpretive. At the same time, it was noticeable
during my member checking interviews that the primary matters of disagreement
with artists concerned details of particular events, not differences of broader in-
terpretation. These descriptive cases did not present the meaning to the artists
of what they did or too many words the artists used to describe what they did.
And yet, I continued to sense some suspicion among them towards academics who
theorised artists’ work in ways that could overshadow or misconstrue what artists
did and why. When I attempted to interrogate this issue with artists, I confronted
some defensiveness that did not allow me to fully assess it. Therefore, I had much
to negotiate moving forward as I developed this interpretive framework, which I
consider below.
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4.3.4.1 Building theory
To develop this interpretative framework, I reanalysed the data, primarily opera-
tionalising the questions, “How do artists describe what they do and value what
they have done?” In selecting data, I decided to include all eight artists who had
participated in the study to this point. I did so because several artists were con-
cerned that others would be left out of my research based on the three cases I
selected. Moreover, including these other perspectives allowed me to further em-
bellish, not necessarily triangulate, the concepts that had emerged in the three
descriptive cases I had selected. I believed this would add greater depth and com-
plexity to my representation. In developing this framework, my first and primary
intention was to try to construct artists’ meanings and represent them conceptu-
ally. As I have maintained, I used their vocabularies for categories to the extent
possible. I thought that providing their vocabularies would be particularly useful
for these and other artists in similar groups to consider how they talk amongst
themselves. As I worked towards more abstract concepts and themes, I still tried
to maintain density and variation by accounting for the complexity of the specific
situations through which different artists enacted and interpreted those concepts
(Strauss & Corbin, 2008, p. 305). I was not trying to smooth over differences
simply to give a more coherent framework.
As I have stated, this analysis relied upon an open and comparative approach
to coding. Data sets were reanalysed using new categories as they emerged and
I began to coalesce these categories within broader emic themes that were still
emerging. At the same time, I kept earlier sets of codes and categories for future
comparison. As I coded, I operationalised each theme through different questions
that pushed me to look at the data from different perspectives. I sought to develop
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theories that related the themes to one another. Bearing in mind these emerging
theories, I revisited codes and categories and then worked backwards towards re-
vising the emerging theories.
I also continued to collect data as opportunities arose, such as a conference in
which one artist presented on the big ideas of time and space. Through this on-
going data collection and analysis, I coalesced my interpretive framework around
themes of space, time, and material. I produced a summary table for these three
themes, incorporating data from all the artists in this data display. Like the con-
cept maps discussed earlier, I displayed data in this fashion to “view a full data set
in the same location. . . arranged systematically to answer the research questions
at hand” (Miles & Huberman, 1994, pp. 91–92). These summary tables included
the:
1. Categories organised by theme.
2. Working definition of categories, relying largely on in vivo codes.
3. Number of instances for each category.
4. Descriptive examples of each category.
These data displays allowed me to look for relationships between themes, cate-
gories and codes as I attempted to build theories. An example of a summary
table is provided in Appendix K. Through this analysis, I began to work towards
testing the theory that these artists were describing ways they altered time and
space, used their bodies, and introduced materials to facilitate an immersive way
of being that deeply and pleasurably engaged with unfamiliar possibilities. I began
to reanalyse data and look for exceptions to this theory while continuing to alter
and saturate categories through both inductive and deductive reasoning.
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To deepen my understanding of existing themes, I also turned to etic concepts.
I selected literature based on what was familiar to me, unfamiliar literature sug-
gested to me by my literature review of artist pedagogy, and suggestions from
my supervisors based on their reading of my descriptive cases and summary ta-
bles. In particular, I turned to pragmatist William James’ Principles of Psychology
(1901), which draws on both phenomenological introspection and laboratory-based
research, to examine themes of time, space, and the body. As I became more aware
of the body as a potentially relevant concept, I reanalysed the data, finding evi-
dence of its significance. Therefore, my analysis at this point was gradually and
cautiously shifting towards both an inductive and deductive approach.
I turned to Dewey’s Art as Experience (1934/2005), which draws on James’ theo-
ries, to describe aesthetic experience as a sensory heightened state of being. This
book was particularly useful for me in deepening my understanding of the artists’
approaches to body, material, and immersive experience. Also relevant were phe-
nomenological perspectives, including drawing attention to the body and a pri-
mordial sensory engagement with the lifeworld (Merleau-Ponty, 1962). Finally, I
turned to pragmatist perspectives that draw on Nietzsche and Dewey’s theorisa-
tion of the contingency of the world, thus allowing for opportunities for individual
self-creation (Rorty, 1989).
It is noteworthy that I tended to avoid sociocultural theories and vocabularies
in my theorisation of the artists’ pedagogies. Although scaffolding and structuring
situations were useful concepts to an extent, I did not find the artists using these
vocabularies in ways that resonated in particular with phenomenological litera-
ture. Therefore, I tended to steer away from this body of work even though other
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researchers of artist pedagogy had found it useful (e.g. Galton, 2008; Pringle, 2008).
As I extended my theoretical sensitivity of time, space, body, and material as
themes, I continued to negotiate the ambiguous and complex balance between ac-
counting for artists’ meaning of their pedagogies and my own. To negotiate this
complexity, I tried to create different spaces within my interpretive framework for
them. I decided to write about artists’ interpretations of categories within each
theme, and selected data for its density, repetitiveness, and variation to present
a meaningful way for readers to engage with the data. This conceptual analysis
referred back to the descriptive cases in order to give a situated understanding of
them. I embellished concepts within each theme by incorporating all of the artists’
descriptions and interpretations of situations that did not feature necessarily in
the descriptive cases.
After presenting the artists’ views within each theme, I wrote and rewrote anal-
yses that drew on literature and personal experience to provide an outside view.
My aim was to extend cautiously beyond these local meanings in ways that might
further deepen and expand the reader’s understanding of these artists’ pedagogies.
Slightly generalising these concepts could be useful by illustrating their relevance
beyond the sites I observed and artists I researched. However, I wanted to empha-
sise the provisional, contingent, and situated nature of this interpretation. This
interpretation was not the final say, but one among many, as I made sense of spe-
cific moments in the past.
To make this clear, I used provisional language, whilst also attempting to clearly
signpost whose interpretation was being put forward, either the artists’ or my own.
Whilst developing this interpretive framework, I continued to collect data to re-
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solve remaining uncertainties and begin to seek some validation. I turn to discuss
these final acts of data collection in the next two sections.
4.3.4.2 Further interviewing the founder and director
In developing this interpretive framework, there were aspects of how artists de-
scribed their pedagogies that remained unclear to me. In particular, I was struck
by the artists’ interest in metaphor and their disinterest in literal language both
during workshops and in reflecting upon them later. In the exploratory phase of
this research, both the founder and director of the organisation had touched upon
this area of interest. Therefore, I conducted individual semi-structured interviews
that focused specifically on this emerging area of interest with each of them. Then
I reanalysed all the data keeping this analysis in mind and using the constant
comparison method. Through this analysis, I added a fifth theme, language.
During an interview with the organisation’s founder, she concluded by saying that
she had the impression during the interview that I knew more about the organisa-
tion than she did. This observation was another indication that I was reaching the
point where further data collection with artists would not lead somewhere new.
Therefore, I continued to wind down data collection. However, I conducted one
final focus group with six of the artists who remained local and were featured in
this research.
4.3.4.3 Focus group
For my final data collection event in May, 2011, I invited the eight artists who
featured in this interpretive framework to participate in a focus group and the six
who still resided in the area attended. My interest in this final focus group was
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multifold:
1. Seek some validation of my emerging interpretation.
2. Add contributions from artists who were underrepresented within each theme.
3. Continue to explore lingering questions related to representation.
Recognising the somewhat delicate nature of representing artists’ pedagogies, this
focus group also provided me an opportunity to slowly and delicately review how
I was beginning to interpret their pedagogies and why I was doing so.
For this focus group, I was not seeking validation from the artists in the sense
that I wanted to hear from them that these themes were the right ones. Alterna-
tively, I was allowing for open and constructive dialogue to ascertain whether there
remained any conflicts or tensions between my interpretation and theirs (Lassiter,
2005).
Prior to this focus group, I sent these six artists all three descriptive cases and
asked them to read them. To open the focus group, I traced my research journey
and its assumptions, then introduced the five themes of my unfolding interpretive
framework. After this initial conversation, I asked seven questions, providing one
minute to each artist to respond to each prompt in turn. I used this structured ap-
proach to ensure everyone had the chance to speak, thus maximising opportunities
for understanding consensus and disagreement among the group. These questions
can be viewed in Appendix L.
Interspersed within these questions were three opportunities for the artists to have
an open discussion and reflect upon what the others had said. After these ques-
tions and reflection opportunities, I provided an open opportunity for artists to
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comment upon the descriptive cases as a group.
Through this focus group conversation, I was confident that the themes I had
developed resonated with the artists. Moreover, I was convinced that the artists
as a group were interested in how I was interpreting their pedagogies through these
themes. Although I added underrepresented voices to particular themes within my
interpretive framework through this focus group, I did not find that the group in-
troduced any tensions or conflicts worth pursuing further. Therefore, I decided I
had finished data collection and turned to write up in the fifth and final phase,
which I discuss in the next section.
4.3.5 Phase five: Writing up and dissemination
Writing this dissertation was not done post facto but was integral to my research
journey. During fieldwork, writing was central to my analysis, as was evident
in writing memos, case studies, and the interpretive framework. Nonetheless, I
began to formally write up this dissertation in November, 2010 as I increasingly
stepped out of the field, and multiple drafts of this text were reviewed by my
supervisors before a final proofreading conducted by a professional. In submitting
this dissertation, I also submitted an abbreviated version to the organisation and
its artists, including the three descriptive cases and the summary of my interpretive
framework presented in Chapter 7. Having discussed these five phases of fieldwork,
I now turn to briefly review this research journey and then present my findings in
the final three chapters.
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4.4 Methodological challenges and limitations
Through this research, I had to contend with different methodological challenges.
For example, my sample had limited diversity with respect to age and gender as
a result of the organisation I accessed. My interest in maximising variation in my
sampling strategy was also limited because one artist featured across four of the
five sites I observed and the three descriptive cases I selected. The organisation
selected artists for sites based on the design of the project and the availability of
the artists, which was outside my control. As this became an obvious concern, I
began to sample the other artists at each site more frequently to produce more
variation in my data. In addition, I decided, as the artists also encouraged, that
it was important to include all artists to strengthen the density and variation of
my interpretive framework.
Another sampling issue concerned the short-term workshops the artists facilitated,
ranging from two to seven workshops at each site, often with new participants each
workshop. The short-term nature of workshops made it difficult to establish re-
lationships with parents and children and presented ethical challenges described
previously. I was concerned that the short-term nature of the workshops did not
allow me to develop trust with a diverse sample of participants. I suspected that
parents who were more likely to trust me as a researcher and agree to interviews
were more likely from higher socioeconomic backgrounds. One parent also told
me that being a man made it more difficult for me to establish relationships with
young girls.
Therefore, I attempted to redress these imbalances when collecting and analysing
data. I mentioned one example whereby I simply sat with a parent and child
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throughout a workshop without taking field notes to try to build trust. I cautiously
avoided some parents and children who seemed somewhat ambivalent about my
presence yet without giving up on establishing relationships with them. In my
analysis, I attempted to select vignettes that represented the involvement of both
boys and girls, those who were perceived by the artists as ideal or difficult partic-
ipants, and those who represented the socioeconomic diversity across sites.
During fieldwork, I also became concerned about the extent to which my photo doc-
umentation of workshops disrupted the naturalness of the workshops I observed.
Working as pairs, the artists described one artist playing a photo documentation
role, whilst the other immersed herself in participating alongside parents and chil-
dren. As I took photographs, I noted artists telling me that it was a relief that I
was playing this role for them. Because I wanted to preserve the naturalness of
the setting to the extent possible, I stopped taking photographs. I communicated
this decision to the artists, and they resumed taking photographs and shared over
200 of them with me.
Next I summarise the methodological challenges and limitations of this research
design before turning to my findings in the next three chapters.
4.5 Summary of research design
In this chapter, I traced a multiphased and flexible research design oriented to-
wards producing artist-led descriptions and interpretations of their pedagogies.
Underpinned by pragmatism, I described how I developed a principally ethno-
graphic study relying on aspects of grounded theory to develop these accounts.
The design began with a purposive sample of nine artists and a set of flexible
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research questions informed from my review of the literature and personal experi-
ence. My first phase was designed to work towards exploratory ethnographic cases
that would allow me to theoretically sample artists and their emerging interests.
Although I did not feedback the majority of these cases, I moved forward with
a smaller theoretical sample that presented opportunities to observe workshops
offered by the organisation I accessed for this research.
Through participant observation and other triangulated methods, I moved on to
produce descriptive case studies that accounted for the complex and specific na-
ture of artists working outdoors with parents and children. Navigating complexity,
I approached an interpretive framework cautiously, structuring the text in such a
way that indicates that these findings are perspectival and contingent. Moreover,
this representation prioritises the construction of artists’ meaning within specific
situations, and cautiously moves to extend understanding beyond it.
I have illustrated that the findings of this research are trustworthy through the
rigour of this design. These descriptions and interpretations provide a strong basis
for artists, researchers, and policy makers to use as a point of connection and/or
departure as they develop their pedagogies, policies, and future research.
I now turn to answer my research questions in the next two chapters:
1. How do artists enact what they do?
2. How do artists describe what they do?
3. How do artists value what they have done?
I answer the first question through the descriptive cases in Chapter 5 and the
second and third questions through the interpretive framework in Chapter 6.
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Chapter 5
Description
To this point, I have argued the need for descriptions of artists’ pedagogies that
present complexity, variation, and situatedness. In this chapter, I address this
need by presenting three descriptive cases that primarily address the research
question, “How do artists enact what they do?” Prior to each case, I provide a
brief introduction to help the reader understand how, where, and why the series of
workshops came to be. To begin, I turn to the first series of workshops I observed
at Potter’s Creek.
5.1 Beautiful little moments
This first descriptive case features outdoor workshops that took place
in 2010, facilitated by two artists, Zoey and Evie, for parents, chil-
dren, and nursery nurses from an early years centre. In 2008, the early
years centre served approximately 128 children aged three months to
five years. According to Ofsted, the centre at that time was situated
in one of the most deprived areas in the country, characterised by
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high unemployment and many families on benefits. Most children in
this area entered early education with significantly lower skills than
those expected for their age. The majority of its population were also
described as White British. Children and their parents, as well as nurs-
ery nurses, were invited to attend any or all of these seven workshops,
which were part of an initiative to discover and share the joys of out-
door learning. These free workshops began in late February and were
offered 1–2 days a week for several weeks. They took place in a nearby
woodland I have named “Potter’s Creek” to attempt to preserve the
confidentiality of the participants. Also to preserve their anonymity, I
have used pseudonyms for all individuals mentioned. I begin this case
with the second workshop, which took place in early March.
The grey clouds hang low and heavy, dimming hope for the long awaited arrival of
spring. I have arrived at the nature reserve at noon—an hour before the artists’
second workshop is scheduled to begin. I pass through a kissing gate and over a
short wooden bridge that traverses a muddy stream. The stream is dotted with
plastic carrier bags and empty water bottles. Taking a winding, narrow footpath
into a wooded area, I see what the artists call traces that have been left behind
from the first workshop. Green string and eyelash yarn have been strung between
trees to mark a boundary. Knotted orange and blue ribbon adorn the yarn and a
gated arch of willow is decorated with more orange ribbon.
I find Evie and Zoe sitting in a clearing in the woods. At their feet are sev-
eral plastic carrier bags full of materials. We greet each other and I glance inside
the bags. There are boxes of chalk, both white and coloured, as well as unopened
rolls of baking paper, a pair of green rubber gloves with knobby fingers, blue and
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orange fabric, and balls of eyelash yarn. The yarn has a dark thread base with
bright, sprouting purple, yellow, and orange hair.
Zoe and Evie tell me they plan to invite parents and toddlers to make flags with
baking paper, found sticks, thumbtacks, ribbon, and yarn. Zoe notes the supply
budget for this workshop, like any other they offer, is only £10. When I ask where
they found the materials, Evie notes she keeps an eye out for them at jumble sales.
She pulls out a bright blue apron with a daisy floral pattern to show an example.
Zoe pulls a box of thumbtacks out of a plastic bag. Its price tag from a local thrift
shop is marked £0.30.
Evie walks away from the clearing to hang a few laminated signs on nearby trees.
The signs announce a family workshop is in progress and ask people to keep dogs
on leads. Zoe notes to me that glass shards are poking through the dirt, having
been uncovered when participants explored the woodland in the last workshop.
She says they need to be cleared out to make the area safer. Evie returns from
hanging signs and tells Zoe that they will need to encourage the children to bounce
up and down to stay warm. Then they begin to pick up rubbish, such as the glass
and dog waste.
After spending ten minutes clearing the space, they note it is time to return to the
early years centre to meet the parents and children. They debate for a moment
whether they can safely leave behind materials such as scissors and thumbtacks.
Evie dryly notes that it is hard to get injured with chalk. They decide to bring
the scissors and thumbtacks with them, to leave the rest behind, and to drop the
rubbish off along the way. Evie picks up the bag of rubbish, which was sitting
next to the bags of material they brought.
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“This is the rubbish one, isn’t it?” Evie says and Zoe laughs.
The three of us walk back to the centre and arrive fifteen minutes before the
workshop is scheduled to begin. We wait for participants in a multipurpose room.
Moveable and cushioned dividers have been pushed to the sides of the room and
mats have been placed on the blue linoleum floor. Zoe and Evie greet Elaine,
who works at the centre and has helped recruit families for the workshops. They
begin to talk about the weather. Elaine suggests that the weather during the first
workshop was just good enough to remind everyone that it could have been a lot
worse.
The first two participants arrive, a middle-aged woman and her young daugh-
ter. The mother asks Evie if what they left behind in the first workshop is still
there.
“Most of it is as we left it,” Evie replies. “There is also a new teepee resting
against a tree! Somebody has been out there since the first workshop.”
Parents and children, most of them around 2 years old, begin to arrive. Zoe squats
low and greets one boy eye-to-eye. The boy lifts up his jumper to show her his shirt
underneath. Zoe puts her right arm across her thighs, braces her left elbow on her
left knee, and rests her chin on the heel of her left hand. Then she listens quietly
to the boy talk about his shirt featuring Ben Ten, a children’s animation character.
At 13:00, Zoe and Evie ask the group of seven adults and ten children to form
a circle in the room. Then they ask parents and children to introduce themselves,
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if they want. All the parents do so and then give their children a chance as well.
Only the boy with the Ben Ten shirt introduces himself. He tells the group he is
named Ben Ten.
After these introductions, Zoe tells the parents and children they are going to
head to the woodland “to explore, look around, and make”. Evie emphasises that
they are going to “experience the woodland”. Zoe says they will not be making
artwork today but they will make suggestions to the group about what they might
do once they are in the woodland.
“And if it rains,” she adds, “we’ll try to rough it out. But we can run back
to the school if necessary.”
As we leave the room and exit the centre, Elaine hands kids SureStart backpacks
for collecting treasure.1 We walk into the centre’s garden just outside the school
building and then past a playground onto large, open playing fields. A man is
painting fresh white stripes on a pitch. I notice the toddlers’ backpacks hitting
the back of their knees as they walk across the field. I think to myself this must
be a long journey for their little legs. Walking in front of the parents and children,
Zoe turns around and offers a big smile to the group. Zoe and Evie later describe
a young girl who had been to the first workshop saying at this point, “We’re going
to the jungle to get messy!”
In an interview weeks later, a key staff person of the early years centre described
working with these artists to explore different ways of working in this wooded
1SureStart is a national initiative to improve early childhood development through childcare,
education, and health/family support, particularly in neighbourhoods marked by low-income
households.
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public space. She said that her centre had offered “traditional nature walks” for
parents and children. However, she described these artists “opening up people’s
minds to what else could be done”. She said that when she toured the woodland
with the artists for the first time, she noticed their “awe and wonder” as they
discovered the canopy of the wood and the decaying material beneath it. In the
decaying material, she said, the artists described seeing a “huge amount of scope
for making and moving”. She also noted how the artists planned to “define an
area” by marking boundaries, entrances, and exits with string hung between trees
and willow. She suggested this definition would make the workshops safer by giv-
ing children a place to explore without running off.
The children, parents, and I wait for Zoe and Evie to unlock the school’s pad-
locked gate into the nature reserve. A little girl peers through the fence. Later,
Zoe describes her saying “Oh! It’s dark in there!”
The group walks in a single file line on a muddy path and begins to cross a bridge
over a stream.
“We have cleaned up the nasty bits,” Evie says to the group, “so you can feel
safe. But it is slippery on the other side of the bridge!”
The bridge is covered in a slick mix of brown mud and grey clay. Wire mesh
laid across it gives some traction. I scoot the bottoms of my wellies across the
bridge and think about a moment during the first workshop when Zoe told the
group that mud is delicious.
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When she said this, I laughed. I was the only one who wore sneakers in the first
workshop, not wellies, and I tried to avoid the mud as much as possible. The
children, on the other hand, appeared to take delight in stomping about in this
thick, grey mud.
At a forked path past the bridge, Evie tells the group to head to the left to-
wards a clearing. The group files past one family workshop sign tied to a tree. At
the clearing, Evie points out the boundaries made by the first group, constructed
out of string, willow, and logs. The boundaries mark off an area that is about 60
square meters.
“Let’s keep our eyes on the little coloured hats as they pop around the woods
and play,” Zoe adds. Then she reminds the parents that the children are ulti-
mately their responsibility. “But let the children go. Let them explore. Let them
be messy. And let them play, play, play.”
Zoe and Evie then hand out folded books of white paper to the parents. They
suggest to them that they might document what the children say and do. Evie
tells the group that these “documentation aids” can help parents stand back and
observe. Zoe then invites the group to make flags out of sticks, noting that chil-
dren should pay attention to thorny ones and remember to point them down. She
uses me as a dummy to show what might happen if the stick is pointed up. She
motions with the stick as if it pokes me in the eye. Zoe suggests to the group they
might explore the wood, perhaps to find a stick that might be used.
Then Evie pulls out a roll of baking paper. She says that the paper can be used
for drawing what they see, making rubbings, or writing down things they hear.
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Suddenly, Zoe lies down on her back on a patch of dirt in the clearing and looks
up at the sky. She asks the children what they can see and hear. She says she
can see clouds and hear children whispering. A girl lies down next to her in the dirt.
“I can see a bit of blue poking through the cloud over to the left,” Zoe says.
Evie then points to a nest in a tree. A mother crouches behind her daughter
and points too. I think the mother is trying to help her daughter spot the nest.
Still lying on the ground, Zoe hands a clump of moss to a young boy and asks him
what it feels like. Then she stands up and asks the group whether they should
wander around the wood and see what they can find. Most of the group begins to
leave the clearing. Then she lies back down on the dirt, next to the girl still lying
on her back.
“I can see your boots,” Zoe says as the girl lifts her wellies in the air. The
girl’s mother warns her that she might get poked with a stick protruding from
the ground when she puts her legs down.
I walk away from the clearing towards a group of parents and children who have
gathered by a pit surrounded by fallen trees. The pit is as deep as the children
are tall. It is also wide enough that several adults and children can comfortably
play there at the same time. One parent crouches down low in the pit and begins
to rummage underneath moss. She lifts up a millipede and places it on her flat
outstretched palm. Several children gather to look. The woman blows the bug off
her hand and it lands on a child’s winter coat. She notes how the bug uses his
little legs to hold the coat tightly. She blows another one and that bug falls to the
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ground. “He’s going to have a head ache!” she says. She picks up another clump
of moss and says, “Oh look!” Two children bump their heads as they bend over
to look at the same patch of dirt. Evie stands quietly behind them, lifting her
iPhone above their heads to take a photograph.
I stand at the clearing for ten minutes as the parents and children look for mini-
beasts under moss. Then I return with Evie to the clearing where some parents
have joined Zoe in making flags with their children. Some children are planting
sticks in the ground and wrapping them with baking paper. Some sheets of baking
paper have been marked with squiggly lines from pastel coloured chalk. Evie picks
up a piece of baking paper and chalk and begins to do a rubbing on a tree.
Then Zoe turns to a girl who is waving her flag back and forth. “That is gor-
geous! Whup! Whup! Whup!” she says as she whips her body like a windblown
flag. With moss and leaves clinging to the back of her sweater, Zoe then announces
to the group scattered across the wood that it is snack time. The rest of the par-
ents and children begin to return to the clearing from their explorations.
During snack time, Evie, Zoe and Elaine pass out breadsticks and peeled clemen-
tines that Elaine has prepared. In a later interview with Elaine, she described only
having a “sketchy idea” of what was going to take place in these workshops. She
thought the workshops could involve art activities, she said. But she described
how she discovered that these workshops were “not an art activity”.
Some children and parents sit on a circle of logs in the clearing and chat dur-
ing snack time. Zoe lowers herself to the ground to sit face-to-face with a young
boy. His mother stands behind the two of them and is rocking back and forth with
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her arms crossed. Zoe rests her weight on one leg tucked underneath her body and
stretches the other leg out across the dirt. The mother stops swaying and begins
tapping her foot on the log where her son is seated. Then Zoe hands the boy some
blue chalk and rips a piece of baking paper off the roll. The boy softly talks to
her but I cannot hear him. Zoe pulls a sharp pencil, which is pointed at his face,
from behind her left ear. She puts it aside on the ground.
Zoe asks the boy whether he can find a stick to use for his flag. Instead, the
boy points at the box of gold thumbtacks on the ground nearby. Zoe tells him
that thumbtacks are sharp and they can hurt. She puts a tack in his palm with
the point upward. She gently takes one of his fingers from his other hand and
touches it to the sharp end of the tack. And then she lets go. She picks up a stick
and presses a thumbtack through the baking paper into it. Then she hands the
flag to the boy who begins to wave it up and down. “Up!” Zoe says as the boy
raises the flag. “Down!” she says with excitement as he lowers it. She raises and
lowers the pitch of her voice with the upward and downward swinging of the flag.
The boy’s mother still stands above them with her arms crossed. Zoe hands him
a pair of scissors and tells him to be careful as he cuts blue yarn to decorate his
flag. She holds his hands and they cut the string together. She ties the string to
the top and the bottom of the flag.
“Look what you have done!” the mother says to the boy.
The boy runs from the clearing, continuing to wave his flag. Zoe smiles, stands up
and walks over to me. She asks me the time.
“It’s 2:20.” I reply.
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“Wow. Okay, ” she says.
Moments later, Zoe and Evie notice children are crying. Sensing they are cold
and tired, they decide it is time to round up the group and head back to the
school. We walk together across the pitch into a bitter headwind. Some children
hold their flags rattling behind them in the air over their shoulders.
Back in the multipurpose room, Zoe sits down on the floor and asks a boy if
she can see the treasure in his backpack. The boy pulls a feather from it and Zoe
says the feather is beautiful. A girl runs over, followed by three others. They begin
to share treasure, and Evie starts to hand out feedback forms to parents. “The
next object is a pebble,” a boy’s parent says as he pulls one out of his backpack.
“We have one feather, an eggshell, a beautiful stone, and a seashell!” Zoe says
to the seated group with excitement. “How did you find a seashell in the woods?
That’s magic!”
After the participants leave, Evie tells Zoe that she heard from several partici-
pants that they appreciated being allowed time and space for exploring. Later she
walks out of the multipurpose room and begins to weave willow and ribbon into a
tall wire fence enclosing the centre.
I look at the feedback forms. One parent describes learning “to talk less and
let my daughter do most of the talking around what she was doing”. Another
describes learning her daughter “has a real interest in bugs and beetles”. A third
describes enjoying “an opportunity to be exploring and the bit of guidance given”.
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For the next workshop a week later, I arrive in the woodland on a sunny Sat-
urday morning. My spirits lift as I munch on an apple and look at the sprouting
leaves on the trees. Evie greets me in the clearing and shows me a new addition to
the nature reserve. There is a den made out of willow, logs, moss and dried grass.
“You see what happens,” Evie says. “You leave materials behind and somebody
builds a den!”
“It’s perfect,” Zoe says. “We plan on exploring shelter today. And here it is.
Somebody has made us a shelter.”
After this initial excitement, Evie and Zoe start picking up after other people’s
dogs again. They express frustration and disgust for having to do so. After clear-
ing the space, Evie walks to her car to fetch more bundles of willow. Zoe continues
to tidy up the clearing, picking up thorny sticks and tossing them into a fire circle.
Zoe then steps outside the clearing looking for larger logs for additional seating.
She picks up a large log and then puts it back down. “There are lot of living things
under there,” Zoe says to me. “The kids can discover them on their own.”
After Evie returns with the willow and leaves it by the clearing, the three of
us head back to the centre to meet the participants attending this third workshop.
The audience for this workshop is specifically children and their fathers.
The head of the early year’s centre meets Evie and Zoe in the multipurpose room.
They discuss how the workshops have gone so far. The head asks them to no
longer use thumbtacks, suggesting they are not age-appropriate for this group.
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Three men and three little girls arrive soon after. Zoe welcomes this group and
says that the workshop today is about having fun as a family. Evie adds they are
going to “perhaps make something shelterish”. She suggests they might look for
examples of shelters, find materials, and construct their own. Zoe adds that they
have tried to clear the land of dangerous objects as much as possible but they
cannot clear out the whole woods. She adds there will be time for wandering off,
time for a snack, and then more time for wandering and exploring. Evie hands out
documentation booklets, suggesting that the fathers can use them to stand back
and observe.
“Document little moments,” Zoe says. “Beautiful little moments are what we
are most interested in.”
At the woodland, Evie leads the group to the new shelter. It looks like an igloo
made out of sticks. Two little girls step into the shelter and begin to explore moss
and sticks on the ground. Nearby, Zoe and the third girl begin building a nest,
fetching sticks and placing them in a circle on the ground. Two other children
start to explore the woods with their fathers.
After fifteen minutes, all the participants join Zoe and the girl in adorning the
nest with ripped fabric, found feathers, and cut string. Some children make marks
with chalk on baking paper Zoe lays across the ground. One girl places found
feathers in the holes of a decaying piece of wood. Most of the fathers stand or
crouch outside the nest and watch.
With Zoe, two other children begin to tie ribbons to branches above their heads.
One girl’s hood catches on a branch and yanks her back as she tries to walk away.
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She looks up and then frees her hood from the branch. The girl then runs to Evie
and asks her for thread. Evie pulls out different spools of twine and yarn from a
plastic carrier bag.
“What do we have here?” Evie asks. “We have really pretty ones.”
The girl chooses a ball of green twine and runs back to the nest. She begins
weaving it in the branches that snagged her hood. Another girl begins making
marks on a stick with a purple crayon. Then I notice one of the girl’s fathers
crouched by a tree. I notice how we mirror each other. We are both crouched
down low, equidistant from the nest and writing into booklets. I find out later he
is drawing his daughter as she builds the nest.
During this nest building, two men and two little girls, whom I believe are their
daughters, arrive late. Evie welcomes them and encourages them to explore the
wood. The men follow the girls who walk past the boundaries of green string
furthest from the nest. Evie follows them and lets them go beyond the boundary.
Eventually they return and she leads them back to the nest. With the whole group
at the nest, Evie notices a robin in a tree. “Look, there is a robin bird. No, it’s a
pair! Maybe it’s checking out our nest!”
After the workshop, the parents describe through the feedback forms how their
children were making nests, decorating with materials, observing, exploring, wan-
dering the woods, collecting stones and feathers, and watching birds. One parent
describes how the workshop was “a chance to do something remarkably simple
and enjoyable that most of us do not take normally”, and that “it was just nice
to have time and space to do something creative in a safe place”. Another parent
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describes learning and enjoying how to explore and unwind.
The next week, Evie and Zoe welcome the group once everyone has arrived. They
tell them that a lot has changed in a week.
“The buds are this long!” Zoe says as she stretches apart her thumb and in-
dex finger.
Then Zoe and Evie walk out to the nature reserve with a new group joining them
for the fourth workshop.
During the walk across the pitch, Evie carries two bundles of willow. The ten-
foot-long rods are dotted with wooly white buds. Some of the buds have tiny
golden flowers. A young girl walks between Zoe and her mother, reaching up to
hold their hands. Zoe takes little steps with her feet, landing them at the child’s
pace. Zoe tips her head left and right to the same beat.
Walking into the woodland, I notice the muddy paths have begun to dry out.
The dull washed-out landscape is becoming speckled with colour. There are green
shoots on the trees and bushes. Brown branches are adorned with brightly-coloured
orange and blue-ripped fabric. Elaine later notes how these brightly coloured ma-
terials made the group’s markmaking more visible in contrast to what was a flatly
lit, grey and brown, wintry landscape. In the clearing, Zoe and Evie introduce the
workshop to this group much as they have done in previous workshops. Then Evie
notices birdsong.
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“Do you hear a bird? Is it looking at our nest?” Evie asks. Then she continues.
“Today we are going to create a space for placing.” She tells the group that in
the last workshop one of the young nest builders stuck feathers in the holes of a
mossy log. She describes creating a space today where other people might display
their found treasures.
“It will be like an outdoor gallery,” she adds.
Zoe then invites the parents and children to wander throughout the wood and
find beautiful things for their space. Then she steps out of the clearing and off a
trail. “Okay!” Zoe says. “I’m exploring!”
Children, parents and grandparents follow her lead and begin to scatter in the
wood. Evie walks across the path and begins to use a “derby dibber” to poke
holes in the ground. The derby dibber is a tool that looks like a shovel except it
has a spike and stirrup in place of a blade. Driving the spike into the ground by
stepping into the stirrup, she makes holes and plants willow rods about four feet
from each other in a straight line. Then she weaves their tops to make a colonnade.
Whilst parents and children explore, Zoe joins Evie in this new place. A roll
of masking tape hangs from Evie’s arm like a bracelet, and she holds green twine
in her hand. As Evie continues to build the willow structure, Zoe begins to adorn
it by suspending between two trees three evenly-spaced sticks wrapped in green
twine.
A young girl returns to the space for placing. Zoe hands her a piece of ripped
fabric. “What should we do with this?” Zoe asks the girl.
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“Attach it to a stick,” the girl replies. Then she begins wrapping it around one of
the suspended sticks.
A boy sees Evie using the Derby Dibber and wants to make holes too. His grand-
father, however, does not want the boy to do so unless he explains why he wants
to use it. In a conversation later, Evie describes how the boy perhaps could not
verbalise that he simply wanted to make holes for the satisfaction of doing so. She
says he should have been able to make holes without defending or explaining why.
During the workshop, I notice how Evie appears to stand between the boy and his
grandfather. She hands the boy the tool and begins to help him poke holes. Then
the boy starts staking sticks in them.
In the gallery, Zoe is now draping masking tape between the sticks suspended
in green twine. An older boy, around 8 years-old, returns to the gallery from ex-
ploring the woodland. His hood is draped over his head and he appears quiet and
focused. He unslings his backpack on the ground and begins to pull green moss
from it.
Elaine tells me later that the boy’s mom and dad had brought his younger sister,
but not him, to the earlier workshops. She describes how his father explained to
her that they thought he did not like nature walks.
Zoe crouches down next to the boy. He sticks moss to masking tape, which I
appreciate from a distance for its colour contrast. The boy runs out of moss and
goes off to collect more dirt and moss in his purple backpack. Then he returns to
the gallery. On one knee, the boy takes fistfuls of dirt from his bag lying on the
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ground. Zoe joins him low to the ground and holds one end of a piece of masking
tape. The other end of the tape adheres to a suspended stick. The tape droops
to the ground between them with its adhesive side facing upward. The boy then
sifts dirt through his fingers and loosely sprinkles it onto the tape. Some dirt falls
to the ground and some adheres to the tape. At one point, Evie takes Zoe’s place.
She continues holding the tape, as Zoe did, and the boy sprinkles more dirt on it.
In a conversation later, Evie tells me that the boy described the dirt as “beautiful
and sparkly”. She describes him “spending ages” during this “beautiful” moment.
Elaine also watches and describes later how the boy was “intensely involved...
in his masking tape”. Elaine explains after sprinkling dirt on the tape, he took
a bit of dry branch and broke it into rungs to begin to make an insect ladder.
Then he spaced them horizontally on a piece of masking tape. Elaine said she
folded over the top of the tape and stuck it to a tree. The bottom rung rested on
the ground for the bugs to climb the tree. Finishing his “insect ladder”, Elaine
describes the boy turning to his mother and saying, “Is this place real? It is so
magic!”
For snack time, Elaine and Zoe pass out wet wipes for parents and children to
clean their hands. Then they offer peeled clementines, sliced bananas, and but-
tered hot cross buns. It is Easter time.
In the clearing during snack time, Evie is on her knees weaving willow. She has
made a hoop and laid two parallel sticks across it. Then she begins weaving willow
rods over and under the hoop and these cross braces. I ask her what she is doing.
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“I am making a table for children to put their treasures on,” Evie says. “I think
the space needs a table.” Moments later, she explains to me how anybody can
make a table with sticks from their garden using this Catalonian weaving technique.
Then I ask her how she is going to build the legs.
“I don’t know how I’m going to do that,” she replies, to my surprise.
At the end of snack time, the boy and his grandfather set out to look for ma-
terials that they might use to make legs for Evie’s table. When they return, the
grandfather suggests they cannot make legs without a saw. Then the grandfather
notices that the boy has returned with something heavy in his bag. The grand-
father reaches into the bag to find out what it is. He pulls out a rusted piece of
machinery with a red rope knotted to it.
“This has sharp edges. We can’t have that. We’ll get rid of that,” Elaine later
describes the grandfather saying to the boy. She describes how he walked off and
tossed the object into a far corner of the woods.
Meanwhile, Evie has begun to make legs for the table, perpendicularly weaving
two hoops into the round tabletop. She puts the table on the ground and it rocks
slightly back and forth on its round legs. She presses slightly down on the top of
the table to make it stand more sturdy and upright. Then Evie places the table
in the centre of the gallery.
Whilst Evie and some participants begin to place treasure on the new table, Zoe
sets off again to explore the woods. She finds the rusty machinery that the grand-
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father had tossed away. This is her first time seeing the object. She later describes
herself saying, “God, this is beautiful! Look how wonderful this is!” She brings it
back to the gallery and places the treasure on the new table.
With the workshop coming to a close, Zoe walks around the space with children
photo documenting what they have made. The open-air gallery has a willow entry-
way and colonnade for walls. These walls are decorated with masking tape stuck
with dirt, moss, and twigs. Branches are adorned with orange and blue ribbon,
and an insect ladder climbs a tree. There is a willow table for found objects. Zoe
and Evie begin to refer to this table as “the altar”. Evie says later that anything
put there was “given an extra bit of specialness”. On the altar, there is rusty
gearing with sharp edges, a white feather lying on a bed of green moss, and a
white seashell perched on a red rock.
Zoe and Evie gather everyone in a circle in the clearing before walking back to
school. They turn to each person and say their name and thank them for coming
to the workshop, exploring in the woods, finding and making beautiful things, and
creating a space for placing treasure.
On the walk back to the centre, Evie points out to me that she did not want
to tell me or others how she was going to build legs for the table. She describes
wanting to provide “an opening” for others. By suggesting not knowing how she
might make the legs, she suggests people might have taken the initiative to make
legs on their own.
A few weeks later, I enter the wood for the final workshop. In the woodland,
I find Zoe and Evie somewhat despondent. The places they created there, such as
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the gallery, were destroyed sometime during the previous week. After surveying
the destruction, I walk with Evie to her car to fetch a wide assortment of buckets
and watering cans. Their theme today is muddy water play, which they chose
because of the recent rainfall. Back in the clearing, Evie and Zoe sort out how
they are going to use buckets to fetch water from the stream. Standing on the
muddy bridge, they tie string to the bucket handle. Then they lower it to the
stream below it. The bucket floats on top of the water until Zoe flicks the string
and flips the bucket on its side. The bucket fills up with water, and then Zoe
and Evie pull it back up together. Immediately, Zoe pours water from the bucket
through the wooden slats of the bridge. It splashes through the wire mesh and
slats of the bridge and then slaps the water below. Zoe notes she feels much better
now, pouring water out of a bucket from a bridge.
Perhaps because of the rainfall, only one parent and her daughter show up. This
is the same mother who blew bugs on children’s coats in an earlier workshop. For
much of this workshop, the daughter plays with Zoe or her mother, and Evie picks
up the masking tape and ribbon off the ground. Evie also starts to place willow
rods in a pile, which she leaves behind after the workshop. Zoe and the two others
turn to make marks on a mirror with chalk, dirt, and water. They also hunt for
puddles to stomp in and tap with sticks. I spend most of the workshop helping
pick up.
Towards the end of the workshop, Evie and the girl go to the bridge to play
with the bucket and water, and I walk over to watch. Evie lifts a bucket of water
from the stream. The girl waits next to her, holding three big sticks in her little
hands. Evie then puts the bucket at the girl’s feet and drops the sticks into the
bucket. Then Evie counts to three. Together, they hold the handle of the bucket
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and toss the water and the sticks over the upstream side of the bridge. The water
slaps the bridge and the stream below. They turn around, step across the bridge,
and face the downstream side. With Evie crouched down next to the girl, they
peer over a lower railing and wait for the sticks to appear.
“It’s Pooh Sticks,” Evie says. “But we think it’s better to throw the sticks with a
bucket of water. Then there is a lovely sound too!”
Standing next to Evie and the girl peering over the bridge, we watch the three
sticks flow down the stream. One stick hits the edge of a log protruding from
the bank. The current of the stream spins it in circles until it becomes unhitched
and continues downstream. This stick trails a second one that floats quickly by.
The third stick follows behind the other two, moving in slow water. I scrape the
mud off my wellies on the side of the bridge and leave the woodland for the final
time.
5.2 Chalk in the mud
The second descriptive case features outdoor workshops at a different
site. This series of workshops were part of the same outdoor learning
initiative as the previous case. These four workshops were facilitated
by Zoe and Lucy at a nature reserve, anonymously named “Blackberry
Bush”. The workshops catered to reception year children, their par-
ents, and their teacher from a nearby primary school. The site partner,
Keri, who is a reception year teacher invited all children in the school
to participate in any or all of the workshops. In a 2008 Ofsted report,
the school was described as being larger than most, with a diverse pop-
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ulation including over one fifth of its student body from the Traveller
community. The school was also described as having a higher than
average population of students eligible for free school meals. The free
workshops offered by Zoe and Lucy began in April 2010 and ran for
four consecutive Thursday afternoons.
Children stream out of the school building to their waiting parents as the hurdy-
gurdy sounds of an ice cream truck play nearby. Lucy and Zoe walk towards
the school to meet Keri, a reception year teacher before heading off together to a
nearby nature reserve. They plan to survey the outdoor space for the first time
before the workshops begin next week.
As a group, we set off for the nature reserve. We walk for 15 minutes and arrive
in the neighbourhood where the nature reserve is located. Although the teacher
and the artists appear to know it is nearby, they cannot find it. They turn to two
boys sitting on their bikes and ask for directions.
“Pass around to the right,” one says. “You’ll see an opening.”
We walk down a winding road that dead ends at a staggered gate crowded by
overgrown bushes. Passing through the gate, we step into the nature reserve.
“It was like discovering a secret garden,” Lucy later describes.
A sinuous, paved path bordered by large trees wraps around the perimeter of
the nature reserve. Beneath this canopy is a sprawling thicket of bramble. Zoe
and Lucy leave the path and head towards the centre of the reserve to find a large
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open meadow. “I like how this space is open,” Lucy says to the group. “I’ll be
able to see the children here.”
They walk around the meadow to survey it and find some litter beneath nearby
trees. Zoe tells Keri that they clear out spaces before workshops to make them
safer. Then Lucy points out a bicycle tyre hanging from a branch high in a tree,
and later describes it as a “statement”.
“Oh that’s lovely!” Zoe responds in genuine appreciation as she looks at the
tyre.
Tucked away in a corner of the nature reserve, we find a small pond with a wooden
observation deck. There is also a nearby green space hidden behind a hedge and a
fence. Leaning over the fence to look at it, Zoe says this space feels too removed.
She tells the group she wants a space that is open and interactive, that invites
participation and consensus. Lucy and Zoe then turn to each other and decide
they want to use the open meadow for the workshops.
“It’s like an open studio. It’s not a prescribed space like a playground,” Lucy
comments.
I ask her what she means.
“In a playground, people know what to do with the swings,” she adds. “But in an
open space, it’s like an open room. It is not too clear how it will be used.”
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They continue to take the perimeter path to see the rest of the nature reserve.
Along the path, we find remnants of a small campfire. Lucy bends down and picks
a metal object out of the ash. She twirls it in her blackening fingers.
“I like this!” she says, showing the piece of scrap metal with stamped letter-
ing to the group. “It says ‘motorcycles’ on it!”
The four of us take a closer look. Zoe notes that she likes how the space al-
lows them to notice new things like this. She then looks down towards the ground
and sees a plastic bike reflector. She picks it out of the dirt, brushes it off, and
holds it up to one of her eyes. She closes the other and looks through the reflector.
“In one workshop that I did, a child told me a reflector has all the colours of the
world in it!” Zoe says.
The next week, I arrive at the nature reserve for the first workshop. It is the
first warm and sunny day of spring. The smell of fresh cut grass is a welcome de-
light. The last daffodils scatter about in patches of unmowed grass and the trees
bordering the path are now abloom with white flowers. Whilst waiting for Lucy
and Zoe to arrive, I wonder whether I was supposed to meet them at the school.
They arrive soon after and apologise for being late meeting me. Then they set off
to prepare the space.
They begin by hanging signs at the gates to the nature reserve. Zoe and Lucy
then slowly step through the meadow, using sticks to flick dog waste into carrier
bags. They fill a bag, rolling their eyes in disgust.
“How are we doing for time?” Lucy asks me.
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“It’s 2:37,” I reply.
They decide it is time to leave the nature reserve and we head to the school
to meet the parents and children.
In the school lobby, I notice a large collage on the wall. Paper cutouts of chil-
dren encircle an image of the earth, each with a tag that says “Welcome” in a
variety of languages, including English, Polish, Portugese, Punjabi, Urdu, Taga-
log, and Yaruba.
Keri steps into the lobby. She is wearing a red fleece jacket, hiking pants and
hiking shoes. She tells Zoe and Lucy with excitement that 13 families signed up
for the workshop. Then they briefly review a risk assessment. Keri has identified
and developed strategies to address potential hazards such as stinging nettles and
crossing roads with small children. The four of us then venture into the school
courtyard to meet the families. Eight parents and their children are ready to go.
Some have buggies for small children. One child is riding a scooter and another
has a tricycle.
Lucy and Zoe excitedly greet the group, and ask the parents and children their
names. The parents reply in turn, saying whether their children are in reception
year or nursery. One boy says that he does not want to go to the workshop and
runs down a side road away from the school. His father chases after him and Keri
follows to help.
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We leave the school as a group and immediately cross a busy street. Zoe stands
in the middle of the crossing outstretching her arms and legs. Standing before a
stopping white van, she smiles as the caravan of parents and children crosses the
road. The boy who briefly ran away follows with his father.
When we arrive at the gate to the nature reserve, I find a sign hung up ear-
lier is gone. I look in a nearby rubbish bin and find it thrown away. I take it out
and hang it again as Zoe and Lucy lead the group to the meadow. Then I join the
group in the meadow where the artists have asked everybody if they would like to
sit in a circle.
The artists have led the group to a corner of the meadow bordered by bram-
bles and unmowed grass. Some sit and others stand as Zoe welcomes everybody
to their “adventure”. She asks the group the name of the nature reserve. “Is it
Blackberry Park? Blackberry Field?”
After a brief silence, Keri replies. “I am not too sure what the name of the
place is. But I have heard some people call it ‘The Nature’.”
“The Nature!” Zoe says excitedly. “Perhaps the group might find a name for
this place! It is a glorious day for a workshop. Lucy and I are doing four sessions
here with you, each about an hour and a half long, exploring and engaging.”
“This is a shared experience,” Lucy adds. “The space where we are sitting is
base. People can go and explore and come back to this base area. The workshop
today is an opportunity to slow down and explore together.”
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“And we have cleared the area earlier,” Zoe says. “You are free to go off and
explore, but do keep your children in sight.”
“Yes,” Lucy reiterates. “Ultimately, the children’s safety is your responsibility.”
“We will come back midway through to share stories of what we have done,”
Zoe says. “It is a wonderful space to just look, listen, touch and feel!”
“And smell!” Lucy adds.
“And smell as well!” Zoe agrees. Then Zoe suggests that people might lie on
their back and look up at the sky. Lucy adds they might allow themselves to enjoy
the time and make any marks they might like with masking tape and wool. Zoe
offers they might decorate entrances.
“How does that sound?” Lucy asks.
Zoe adds that the workshop is about having fun, listening to children, and seeing
how they respond to the environment and materials. Zoe stands up and begins to
reach into plastic bags as she tells the group she is going to put out some materials.
As she does, Lucy says to the group that she and Zoe photo document the work-
shop because it is fascinating to see what children pick up and what they do. She
mentions that the photographs will be used on their organisation’s website and if
anyone has any objections to let them know. Then Zoe and Lucy begin to pull
rolls of lining paper out of a plastic bag. Parents and children stand up as well.
Some are quiet, looking at each other.
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“Where should we go?” one mother asks her child, breaking the brief silence.
“What is this space about?” Zoe asks the group as she reaches for another roll of
paper.
Another child walks down a path in the meadow away from the group.
“Should we go find some animals?” he says to his mother.
“Like lions, tigers, and bears?” she replies to him with a smile.
As parents and children scatter out of the meadow onto various paths in and
out of trees, Zoe and Lucy begin to unroll about four meters of white lining paper
on the ground. They add another piece perpendicular to it and then begin to
tape them together with masking tape. A man and young girl newly arrive to the
meadow and Keri turns to welcome them.
“We are just allowing the children to explore the space,” Keri says to the new
arrivals.
A woman and boy also arrive and Zoe greets them. The boy runs over to the
long line of white paper on the ground and begins to walk on it, tapping a stick
in front of him. His parent reproaches him, but Zoe assures her it is fine.
Lucy continues to work from her knees adding a long piece of black paper to
the pieces of white paper on the ground.
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A girl in a red-and-white checked school uniform and a camouflage sunhat re-
turns from her exploration with a feather in her hand. With excitement, Zoe asks
the girl if she would like to stick it on the rolled-out paper. The girl smiles and
nods yes. With a roll of masking tape dangling from her wrist, Zoe pulls tape
from the reel, puts the end of it in her mouth, and rips off a piece. Then she
makes a loop of masking tape and sticks it to the paper and the feather to the
loop. Handing the girl a second loop of tape, Zoe asks her if she wants to take it
with her to stick other found treasure.
The girl heads off and soon returns with another feather and begins to tell Zoe a
story. Zoe kneels by the paper, face-to-face to the girl, and asks her to slow down
so that she can write it down. She transcribes on the long piece of white paper as
the girl dictates:
We were on our way back when we saw the feathers. 10 feathers. Lots
and lots. . . . And it might have been a struggle between a fox and a
bird because the bird was trying to get away from the fox because the
bird didn’t want to be eaten.
As Zoe transcribes the girl’s story, there is a frenzy of activity on the paper. Chil-
dren begin to mark the paper with black markers, make nests out of grasses, bird
puppets out of paper, and tape feathers, dandelions, grasses and catkins to it.
Lucy takes lumps of chalk out of a bag and begins dropping them one by one
on the black paper. Unlike chalk found on the shelf beneath a blackboard, these
lumps of chalk are soft, white, and porous rocks. They are the size of a fist.
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A boy asks Lucy if he can do some writing with the chalk.
“Of course you can,” Lucy replies. “Here is some chalky chalk.” She asks whether
he might want to put some out for others to use. The boy nods and she hands
him the bag. He begins to drop the white chalk one by one on the black paper.
Nearby Lucy then notices a mother and son who have taped together a bunch
of little sticks. They hand Lucy the sticks and she spins it above the white paper,
twirling black shadows. She comments how crisp the shadows are. Then Lucy
notices a group of boys nearby making marks with chalk on black paper. “Wow!”
she exclaims. “You are doing noisy drawing on bumpy ground.” She picks a tiny
leaf off the ground and places it on the black paper. “Perhaps you can observe
the leaf and draw it,” she suggests. Lucy then welcome a girl who has returned
to the base with a long stick. The two of them begin to snap thorns off the stick.
Lucy asks the girl if she would like to decorate the stick with some wool. She
hands her a spool of green and purple eyelash yarn. The girl and her mother begin
to closely wrap the stick in wool. Then they tape leaves and flowers to one end of it.
In the meantime, a toddler nearby crawls back and forth across the black pa-
per, picking up chalk and tossing it on the paper. Then he picks the chalk off the
paper and tosses it on the ground. He does this a few times until he crawls off the
black paper. At this moment, wind sweeps the paper up into the air and tosses
materials aside.
“Hello wind!” Zoe says, excitedly. “Thank you for joining us!”
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After forty-five minutes of parents and children playing with materials and ex-
ploring the nature reserve, I hear Zoe and Lucy note to each other that they are
beginning to feel a lull. They suggest to each other that it might be time to bring
people together and share stories. Instead of doing so, Lucy decides to unroll a
small piece of silver reflective card and place it on the ground. Then she puts some
chalk rocks on each corner to hold it flat.
In a few moments, a toddler crawls over and sits on top of the reflective card.
He picks up chalk from one corner and drops it on the card, whilst looking at a
distorted reflection of himself. Zoe notices this from a distance and makes eye
contact with Lucy as they both stand back and watch. Later, Zoe tells me that
his puckered lips were evidence of his absorption in the activity.
Soon parents begin to thank the artists and say goodbye to one another. Zoe
fetches feedback forms for parents from Keri’s rucksack and hands them out. Eight
parents complete them and describe their children finding and making things with
sticks, leaves and flowers. One describes placing leaves and twigs onto a collage
and “venturing into the unknown woods”. When asked what their children enjoyed
about the workshop, four describe their children enjoying the freedom outside to
explore.
Once the participants have left, Zoe tells Lucy, Keri, and me a story of a boy
who told her that he found a big, scary lion in the wood. Lucy describes one
child telling her that he was setting off to find a wolf. After they tell these sto-
ries, they begin to collect the materials. Zoe and Lucy rip a few drawings and
collages from the large pieces of lining paper to present them in a display in the
school’s reception year classroom. The rest they bundle up and throw in the bin
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on the way out. Leaving the nature reserve, I walk to fetch the sign I hung a sec-
ond time. It is missing again. I look in the rubbish bin but it is not there this time.
For the second workshop the following week, the group is smaller. It is rain-
ing outside, which the artists and Keri attribute as the cause for lower attendance.
After this second workshop ends, Zoe and Lucy describe struggling to engage this
small group of participants in exploring the clay they brought. They wonder if
the clay was too dry. They also notice how several participants were drawn to the
pond with the observation deck. A few brought nets and buckets, which they used
to catch a few newts and a water boatsmen. The creatures appeared to attract a
lot of interest from the participants.
The following week, I arrive at the nature reserve for the third workshop be-
fore Zoe and Lucy. I head over to a nearby playground and think about Lucy’s
earlier comment that playgrounds are prescribed spaces. I reach for a web of ropes
above my head and swing my legs up to see if I can hang upside down like some
acrobatic kids do. “Evidently not,” I think to myself as my legs quickly fall back
to the ground. I let go and look at the rope burn on my hands when I notice Zoe
has arrived in her car.
Zoe explains to me that she has just dropped off Lucy at the school to update
the display board and then bring the families over. She adds that she and Lucy
have been going from hardware store to hardware store all day looking for bamboo.
Since the last workshop, she and Lucy spoke about the “pull of the pond” and
have decided to build a wall that connects the meadow and the pond. In building
a wall, Zoe describes trying to honour the participants’ interest in the pond in
addition to her and Lucy’s interest in the open, unprescribed space.
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At the same time, she says she wants to lure the group away from the pond.
“The group was a bit scattered last week,” Zoe then says. “They were hard to
engage as a group. I think today we need to build something together. I think the
group needs a ta-da.”
She then describes the need to lay out all the materials and have them ready
before the group arrives. She unrolls white lining paper across the ground and
begins to lay out balls of wool, rolls of masking tape, scissors, chalk rocks, baskets
of crayons, and rolls of green and white paper. Then we sit and chat whilst she
cuts long ribbons of fabric from old aprons and sheets.
Lucy arrives an hour later with the group. Then Zoe and Lucy invite them to
sit in a circle in the usual corner of the meadow. Zoe suggests to the group that
they are going to make a drawing trail from this gathering space to the pond using
any of the materials they have provided or they find. Lucy adds that the workshop
is a chance for the group to work together.
After this brief introduction, Zoe turns her attention to a boy in front of her
and quietly asks his name. Parents and children begin to stand up and pick up
the bamboo sticks. They begin to stake them in the ground about a meter apart
along a trodden path, which is marked by a thin bare strip of dirt in the grass.
The path leads from the meadow to the pond. I pick up some materials and begin
to join the group adorning the sticks with string, tape, paper and wool. I begin
to wrap wool string between bamboo sticks to further brace them to one another.
I also string the wool diagonally between bamboo sticks, crisscrossing back and
forth to make patterns.
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A few moments later, I stop and look up and notice that the wall of bamboo
has already wrapped around a bend towards the pond. No one is nearby me, so I
walk down the path and find most of the group gathered again at the pond.
Several more children are fishing with nets than the previous week. I see that
two newts are already on display in a white bucket. There is also a bike sub-
merged in the pond. I approach Lucy to ask her how she thinks the workshop is
going. She says that they need to figure out ways “to extend participants making
and their being in the space”. She tells me that the father who has been bringing
many of the nets for his boys apologised to her for drawing people’s attention to
the pond again. She says the space is so open it might be unwieldy, and it has
been hard to hold people together.
An hour after the workshop began, most of the group returns to the open space for
snack time. We sit together in the sun eating malted milk biscuits and drinking
orange squash. Some parents and children resume exploring the materials Zoe and
Lucy have brought. A boy approaches me and his face is covered in chalk dust. I
ask him what he has been doing.
“Chalk in the mud,” he says with excitement.
“Chalk in the mud!” I reply. “That sounds exciting. Will you show me?”
He nods yes and takes me to the dirt path along the drawing trail. Two other
kids are sitting there on the ground with lumps of chalk in their hands. They are
making marks on the dirt with chalk. I pick up a lump of chalk and begin to do
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the same. It feels earthy and soft to draw this way. Then I notice a toddler with
shoulder-length hair walking backwards towards me. He is unspooling a roll of
masking tape. With a long line of tape trailing behind him, he scurries towards
the pond. Swinging his elbows back and forth, he drags the long trail of masking
tape until part of it sticks to a girl’s leg. She begins to cry and he stops to look
back. The girl’s mother leans over and peels the tape off her daughter’s leg and
lays it flat again on the ground. The boy puts his head back down and resumes
his march to the pond. Winding around the path, he arrives there and begins to
wrap the trail of tape around a bamboo stick stuck in the ground. He covers the
entire stick with tape and then rips off the remaining tape.
“What have you been up to?” I ask.
“Truck!” he exclaims.
After admiring his adventure, I return to the meadow with the boy as other par-
ents and children appear to be leaving. I notice a group of parents and children
who have masking tape, ribbon, and yarn wrapped around their heads and waists.
Some are running around the meadow. I ask a nearby parent what they are doing.
“They are experimenting whether they can go faster if they have tails,” she says
to me with a smile.
For the fourth and final workshop, Zoe drops off Lucy again at the school. Lucy
continues to display work on the bulletin board in the nursery before bringing the
families over. At the nature reserve, Zoe tells me that she and Lucy spoke at
length between workshops about how they might bring the group together in this
final workshop. I learn that Lucy has come up with the idea for the group to use
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clay and make their own pond.
“The pond is such an attraction,” Zoe replies. “I think the pond has an ele-
ment of danger to it. It has an element of excitement. There is that element of
catching a living thing, putting a living thing in a bucket, and looking at the living
thing in a bucket. They can spend hours engaging at the pond. They can bring
paraphernalia like those little nets. It’s exciting.”
As she speaks, she unfolds the blue tarp and places it in a dip in the ground.
Next to the tarp, she places a bucket and bags of clay. She also brings over a
basket with several rolls of masking tape. She takes a water jug, opens its spigot
and pours water into the red bags of clay. Then she closes the red bags.
“Rather than collecting and identifying, we want them to respond,” she continues.
“To use their imaginations. Collecting and identifying isn’t creative. To really
respond as yourself, as your authentic self, rather than a learned response, a mim-
icked response, a practised response. They hunt for the frog. They catch the frog.
They hunt the frog again. Every child has the right to be an individual, to be
listened to. And when you teach in a didactic away, it risks that some kids aren’t
going to get it and be left behind. And the damage is so far reaching.”
Moments later, Lucy arrives with a group of 10 parents and 14 children. To
begin this workshop, Zoe and Lucy invite them again to sit in a circle. They tell
the group they might consider making a pond today. They suggest making a ring
of clay on the tarp, adding some water and making creatures. After this brief
introduction, Lucy and Zoe hand the parents and children lumps of clay. Some
children and parents begin rolling them out on the blue tarp. Lucy begins to
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clump bits of clay together and smooth the seams together to make a clay wall for
the pond.
After several minutes, the boy who showed me how to draw in the mud with
chalk in the previous workshop approaches me and complains his hands are dirty
from the clay. He suggests we go to the pond, and I follow him there. At the
pond, we find the three boys who have been regulars at the pond since the first
session. Their father, who apologised to Lucy for drawing attention to the pond,
is not present.
I ask the boys what they are doing and one mentions he is trying to catch a
fish. The boys are splashing their nets in the pond and scooping them up from the
bottom. Then the boy who led me here begins climbing over a fence that borders
the pond. He walks along a raised, wooden ledge extending over the pond. He
holds the fence and leans his body over the water. The other boys join him on the
ledge and begin knocking their bodies into each other. “You’ll have to get around
me,” one boy says to the other without budging.
Their father arrives and quickly tells the boys to get on the other side of the
fence. His boys crawl underneath it to the other side. The boy who brought me
here remains on the ledge, leaning over the water.
“You should probably get on this side of the fence too,” I say.
“Why?” he replies. “I’m not scared.”
The other boys begin stomping about on the observation deck. They appear
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to be giving each other orders and waging a sea battle. The father warns them
they are scaring all the fish away.
“What would you do if someone was hunting you?” he asked. “You’d go some-
where dark and quiet? Somewhere far away, right?”
“They’re in a cave,” a boy says. “Let’s fish there.”
“There is a cave?” I ask curiously. “Where?”
“It’s over here,” the boy says. He reaches out his fishing net and splashes it
in the water.
“There isn’t a cave,” the father says, shaking his head.
I ask the father how they catch newts. He takes a fishing net from one of the
boys and then sits on top of the highest railing of the fence that borders the pond.
He slowly lowers the net into the water until it reaches bottom. Then he drags it
across the bottom and lifts it up.
“They aren’t moving very fast down there,” he says. “You just run the net along
the bottom and scoop them up.”
He drags the net along the bottom a few times, but only brings up leaves and
mud. He empties the net by turning it over and tapping it on top of the fence. He
reaches the net under the deck and scoops it out.
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“Only mud down there,” he says. One of his boys reaches his net under the
deck as his father had just done.
“Only mud down there,” he repeats to his son.
I head back to the open space. Other than this small group at the pond, the
rest of the parents and children are still working on the clay pond on the blue
tarp. Most of the children are seated in a circle on the edges of the tarp, with
some children sitting on their parents’ laps.
Once the ring of clay has been enclosed, it is a few feet wide. Some children
are making small water creatures and plant life, and then are putting them on the
blue tarp inside the clay ring. There are lumps of clay decorated with leaves and
grass, sticks protruding from clay balls, and fish-looking creatures.
I approach Zoe who is making teepee structures out of bamboo canes and placing
them around the group.
“What are those?” I ask. As soon as I do, I quickly regret asking her to identify
and classify them.
“Well, I don’t know,” she replies. “We might dangle things from them. We
might put a bridge across them.”
She asks me to help and I begin taping bamboo sticks together to reach from
one teepee to another.
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Then I turn to notice the father and his boys walking back from the pond with
their nets and buckets. They sit slightly away from the group. Zoe approaches
them, bringing some wool, sticks, and scissors.
“Now what could we make with this?” she says.
“Spears!” one of the boys says.
“Okay, spears!” Zoe replies. “Now how are you going to do that?”
“I am going to do it like this,” he says, wrapping wool around the stick and
tying a feather to its end.
“Okay. Good idea,” Zoe says, as she stands up and hands to the pond being
made, leaving materials behind with them.
I go and sit with the group making the pond. The boy who made the truck
out of tape in the previous workshop is stringing masking tape from one teepee
structure to the next. He wraps tape around me, sticks it to my back, then walks
over to the next teepee, stringing the tape along. The boy takes a few more laps
around the pond, wrapping tape and blue yarn around buggies and other people,
including his mother. Above our heads, others have been adorning the bamboo
bridges by tying and dangling coloured fabric. The space is becoming enclosed
above and around us.
“I’m trapping everybody Mummy,” the boy says to her, as he wraps tape around
her one last time.
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During snack time, children pass out malted milk and bourbon biscuits to each
other and their parents. Keri passes out cups and orange squash. To end snack
time, Zoe and Lucy decide to add water to the clay pond. They bring over the
20-gallon jug filled with water. Zoe rests it on her knee and then they begin to tip
it forward towards the clay pond. Lucy turns the spigot and water begins to pour
on the blue tarp inside the clay wall. Parents and children gather to watch what
happens.
“Is it holding the water?” Zoe asks.
“I think so!” Lucy replies. “And it’s making a lovely sound.”
The water begins to puddle on one side of the clay circle and then slowly creeps
to the other side. The water encroaches a clay shark sitting in the middle.
“Is the shark swimming?” Zoe asks as it goes underwater.
Children begin to pick up their clay objects and toss them into the pond.
“Do you want to help?” Zoe says, turning to a child nearby.
Zoe carries the jug to the other side of the circle and kneels down. A few kids place
their hands on top of the jug at the same time. Zoe opens the spigot and they
continue to fill the pond from the other side. Several parents take photographs of
their children with camera phones.
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One of the boys who was waging a sea battle at the other pond is on his knees.
He splashes a white legoman in the pond whilst singing a song. “My legoman is
having a bath,” he sings, repeating this refrain. “My legoman is having a bath.”
He then takes a clay fish and sweeps it back and forth through the air and then
plunges it towards the pond. “The fish is trying to escape,” he says suddenly in a
cryptic voice. “He’s going to the dark side.”
Other children begin fishing in the clay pond with their nets. Eventually, the
clay pond becomes a soupy mix of muddy water and clay objects that have lost
their form. As this workshop ends, some parents and children thank the artists
and begin to leave.
The boy who trapped the group in masking tape earlier begins splashing in the
water with his hands. His mother tells him that she does not mind if he gets in
the water, but he needs to take his trainers off. He starts to do so as his sister
begins to take her shoes and socks off too. They step into the clay pond and begin
to slop about.
“How does it feel?” Zoe asks.
“Cold!” the girl says.
“Messy!” the boy says.
“Slippy!” the girl says.
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Zoe echoes “Cold! Messy! Slippy!” in staccato as she flicks her head back and
pops her index finger in the air to each beat.
Later describing the children stomping about in the pond, Lucy describes this
play as “true immersion and flow”.
I turn to the mother of the children playing in the clay puddle and ask her what
she has thought of the workshops.
“It’s been lovely. They have really enjoyed it,” she replies smiling. “I mean,
we come here and we play in the park. We pick berries. But we haven’t ever built
anything. I guess sometimes we look for bears over there in the woods. But we
haven’t found any yet!”
5.3 Letting ladybirds run
This third and final descriptive case features outdoor workshops facili-
tated by two artists, Zoe and Nicola, for parents, children, and teachers
from three different nurseries and primary schools. The workshops were
funded by the City Council to develop a “Play Prompt”, or a down-
loadable resource for families using the cemetery. The purpose of this
tool was to facilitate families in creatively exploring a cemetery that
nearby residents were attempting to restore. There were four of these
free workshops, which took place in May 2010.
I am lost in a maze of terraced homes cramped together like too many books on
a bookshelf. Walking up and down a street, I cannot find the entrance to the
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cemetery. Then I enter the parking lot of a small industrial complex and ask a
man standing outside a bookbinding studio where I might find it.
“Right in front of you,” he says, pointing to a gateway through a brick wall.
I thank him and then walk through the gate. I step onto a footpath that tramples
across a gravesite. I take a long stride and try not to step on it. Then I head
towards a central promenade that traverses the cemetery, looking for parents and
children gathered for the first workshop.
Looking for the artists and participants, I begin to survey the cemetery. Most
of the tombs are from the turn of the twentieth century. The names and years
carved into the stone have softened away into faint, undecipherable shapes. Cru-
cifixes on top of plinths have fallen over, and it appears that bites have been taken
out of the tops of some tombstones. They are leaning irregularly, sinking and tilt-
ing like trees in their final years. A horse chestnut sapling has sprouted through
the crack in one cover stone, and thickets have swallowed up others. In one spot,
cracked tombstones have been placed flat on the ground for people to sit in circles
around fire pits.
In the centre of the cemetery, I find parents and children gathering with the artists.
Some children and parents are hiding behind tombstones, appearing to play hide-
and-go-seek. Other children have started a queue near one tombstone with a large
scroll on top of a plinth. They are sliding down the granite scroll one at a time and
then jumping onto the ground. I immediately feel disoriented, recalling a moment
a few years earlier when I became upset watching my nearly eighteen-month-old
daughter dance on top of my mother’s grave marker. It was the first time I had
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visited it after her funeral. My wife began photographing her and I did not know
how to feel. Watching these children stand on these tombstones, I register that I
still do not know how to feel.
I approach Zoe and Nicola and tell them I am surprised to find this big, open
cemetery in this cramped neighbourhood.
“Yeah! It’s like a TARDIS!” Zoe replies.2 After she explains to me her cultural
reference, she invites the group to follow her to a corner of the cemetery.
The group begins to form a circle in this corner, which is adjacent to two brick
walls. Some children sit on their parents’ laps or just next to them. Others run
about on their own. Zoe welcomes the group by saying they are here to learn what
children think about this space.
“Today, the children are going to have the opportunity to be off and explore
places, find places, and settle into places,” she says. She then adds that dog walk-
ers use the cemetery and there may be dogs coming in and out of the workshop.
She also tells the parents they are responsible for the safety of the children. She
mentions that park rangers have hoovered the area knowing children will be here
today. I later learn that the cemetery was recently a site where people allegedly
shot up heroin until a nearby drug dealing pub was closed. The park rangers were
checking for stray needles.
“We don’t have to know anything about this place,” Nicola adds. “It’s about
finding out about it.”
2A TARDIS is a time machine in the TV series Dr. Who, stuck in the form of a sixties-era
phone box. Its interior is significantly bigger than its exterior might suggest.
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A teacher accompanying the nursery group on her day off asks the artists if we
need boundaries.
“This is our base,” Zoe says motioning to the area where we are circled. “You
can go off and explore the surroundings, but one of us will be here and you can
come back.” She then suggests to parents that today is an opportunity for them
to stand back and document children’s explorations.
“Look at Tyler,” she says pointing to me whilst passing out booklets and a
masking-taped quiver of paper stuffed with #2 pencils. “He has a little book
for documenting. He must have hundreds of these little special books.”
“You can use the books to document what children do and say,” Nicola adds
then turns to Zoe. “Should we begin with our senses?”
Zoe nods yes.
Although Nicola has been leading outdoor workshops with children and parents for
several years, this is her first workshop with another artist from this organisation.
She later tells me she wanted to begin collaborating with other artists to work in
more “recognisably experimental” ways. She says she was looking for the chance
to reflect with other artists as they continuously try new workshop approaches.
“What can you hear?” Nicola asks the group. “It’s a quiet place, isn’t it? I
can hear Powell Street. Who else can we hear? What can we hear?”
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“Oh yeah! Does it help if we shut our eyes? Let’s shut our eyes-es,” Zoe says,
making eyes plural one extra time. “Now look behind you and make sure there is
nothing there. Roll down onto your back. Now what can you see?”
I look behind me and lie on my back. I become conscious that I am lying on
my back around others, looking up into the sky. I remind myself that this does
not need to be awkward. I see an empty blue sky with winged silhouettes in flight.
“Now roll over onto your tummy,” Zoe says after a long pause.
I roll first onto my side and notice that my shirt is covered in dried, cut grass. A
young girl sitting next to me is not lying on her back. She is kneeling and looking
at a black and red ladybird crawling on her finger.
“Is it going to fly away?” a woman sitting next to the girl asks her. I continue to
roll over.
“Now we are the grassy people,” Zoe says. “Now what can we see? What do
you smell if you take your nose right down to the ground?”
I lower my nose into the cut grass. A child says, “It smells smelly.”
“It smells smelly,” Zoe echoes. “Now what can we see in these lowdown places?”
My forehead and the tip of my nose support my face in the grass as I open my
eyes. Lost shadows sink behind darting green. Horizon lines come to mind, and I
wonder what the world would look like without them.
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Later, a parent told me this moment was a nice opportunity to “suddenly be
with the space” and “a very rare. . . peaceful, quiet time with her child.” Another
described it as almost meditational.
“Now do you want to set off and explore?” Zoe asks.
I roll over and sit up and pause. Parents and children begin to stand up. A
few begin to walk away from the base. The girl next to me is still seated with her
mother nearby. The girl has rolled up her trousers and the ladybird is now crawl-
ing up and down her shin. She giggles as the ladybird falls off her leg then reaches
into the grass. She picks it up with her thumb and index finger, and I slightly
cringe as I wonder if she crushed it. I relax when I see the ladybird crawling on
her shin again until it falls a second time. The girl then says to her mother that
she wants to show “the lady” her ladybird. She pinches it again and puts it on the
documentation booklet. Then she stands up and carries the booklet like a dinner
tray to Nicola and puts it down on the ground. She and Nicola lie down on their
bellies and begin to watch the ladybird walk about on the paper, and I listen as
they whisper to one another.
Later, her mother told me that she did not know what to expect for this workshop
but thought we might do leaf rubbings or some other art activity. “I twigged
it was probably about something else,” she says, “when I noticed the artists did
not bring any easels or paints.” She also noted she knew her daughter would not
lie down when the artists asked her to. She told me her daughter has been so
independent lately. But she quickly realised that it was okay for her child to do
what she wants in this workshop. “She already found what she wanted to play
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with,” she added. For playing outdoors, she suggested she normally would have
taken her to a playground to play on its equipment. She would not have, she said,
watched her daughter let a ladybird run for so long. She described starting to see
her daughter differently during this workshop. In particular, she did not know her
daughter’s fondness for ladybirds.
As she and the girl lay in the grass, Nicola uses her hands to peel some of the
leaves of grass back. She looks closely into tiny spaces, whilst the girl is still
watching the ladybird walk across the booklet. The girl sits up and takes off her
pink sneaker, and then puts the ladybird inside the shoe.
“Where is she?” the young girl asks, looking into the pink sneaker. “There she is!
I think she wants to come out.”
After a long moment, the mother approaches her daughter and asks her if she
wants to explore the cemetery some more.
The girl stands up and puts the ladybird back on the documentation booklet.
Handing it to her mother, she says, “Mom, make sure you don’t lose her.”
Her mother takes the paper and holds it in front of her. The ladybird hops off
immediately. The girl begins to rummage around the grass looking for her.
“Let’s see if I can find her,” she says as another girl approaches.
“I had two ladybirds,” the newly arrived girl says. “But they flew away.”
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“So did mine,” the girl replies.
We follow the two girls as they search for their ladybirds. I notice her mother
has dried grass on her shirt like me. Later, she described walking around town
after the workshop and not knowing this. She said it felt funny because:
It didn’t look like I’d been doing anything. That whole thing about a
mother and doing things. It was obvious that I had just been lying in
the grass.
Brushing the dried grass from my shirt, I notice Nicola has discovered a flock of
ladybirds on a nearby tombstone. They are hunting unsuspecting, translucent lime
green aphids. Nicola hands one of the girls a magnifying glass to look closer. The
mother and I join them and begin to look closely at the tombstone. The other girl
notices a red mite standing alone amongst the green bugs. She tries to scoop it
up with the magnifying glass but squashes it instead.
“Look,” she says apprehensively whilst showing me the squashed bug.
I shrug and suggest it was only an accident.
“Oh! Look!” Nicola says, pointing out a crevice in the tombstone. A ladybird
pupa hides in the nook of a stone flower petal carved into the tomb. The black
exoskeleton stands still on the stone like a barnacle on a boat hull. I wonder how
such a thing grows red, black-spotted wings. I then stand back and notice the
inscription on the tombstone. It reads:
In loving memory of my dear husband
William Bonnard
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Who departed this life
May 14, 1904, Aged 39
“Thy will be done”
Treasured memories of our loving mother
Elizabeth Marie Bonnard
Died July 4, 1944, Aged 77
“She hath done what she could”
“If only William Bonnard knew,” I say to the girl’s mother.
“Yes,” she replies laughing. “He would probably be proud that children are having
fun here.”
The mother and I become curious by the meaning of the quotation on the tomb-
stone, “She hath done what she could”. As we talk about it, the mother says to
me that she did not know ladybirds were going to bring her to a theological conver-
sation. Zoe walks by in this moment, and points at the documentation booklet in
the mother’s hands. “You might want to write that down,” she says to the mother
who then laughs. “No I’m being serious,” Zoe says. Then she repeats each of her
words as she walks her finger along an imaginary line on the documentation book-
let, “I did not know ladybirds were going to bring me to a theological conversation.”
The mother turns to write in her book, and I notice another parent nearby, playing
with a boy and girl. The girl has blonde pony tails sprouting all over her head,
which are held together with multicoloured bows and ribbons. She stands on a
plinth and points to a scrap of nylon cord left behind from a string trimmer. “Can
I jump to the orange string?” the girl says to the woman.
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The cord is a few feet away from the plinth and it lies on the ground at the
foot of another tombstone. I start to worry that the effort of the long jump might
carry her forward and cause her to tumble and hit her head on the nearby stone.
As she looks down and prepares to jump, my mind drifts to a summer’s day years
ago when I joined a man and his daughter on a fishing trip. We set out into the
ocean to retrieve a fifty-meter fishing net we had cast the day before. I looked over
the edge of the boat and watched the wake stream by. As the wooden keelless boat
chuffed and stumbled forward in the choppy ocean waves, I turned to notice his
young daughter standing on her tiptoes and leaning over the edge of the boat. Like
me, she was looking at the passing water below. The father noticed the worrisome
look on my face as I moved to crouch behind and hold her.
“It’s okay,” he said. “At some point, you have to let your daughter look over
the edge of the boat.”
From the plinth in the cemetery, the pony-tailed girl jumps for the orange string.
She takes the landing into her knees. Like a frog, she lands crouching down as she
braces herself with her hands placed firmly on the ground. Then she safely stands
up.
“Wow!” I say.
“It’s gathering time!!!” Zoe yells a few moments later to the group.
As I walk back to where we first gathered during this workshop, the girl with
the ladybird walks up to me.
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“I found the ladybird,” she says, smiling and holding up a closed raisin box.
“It’s inside?” I ask.
She nods.
“With the raisins?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “We took them out.”
We walk back to the gathering place and the group sits in a circle. Zoe begins to
pass around a stack of malted milk biscuits. One mother uses a pocket knife to
cut a homemade rhubarb polenta cake to share with others. Zoe and Nicola begin
to ask the children what they have found so far.
“I found lots,” one says.
“I found lots,” another repeats.
“I found lots,” a third says.
“I found ladybirds,” a girl says.
“I found the same thing as her,” a boy says.
“Perhaps the two of you would like to help us by rolling out paper,” Zoe asks
the girl and boy who last responded. She hands them a roll of white lining paper
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that they begin to unroll from one side of our circle to the next.
“We can draw things we find,” Zoe says as they scoot across the ground on their
knees unrolling the white paper. “We can stick things we find on masking tape.
Maybe not the ladybirds, but other things. Like grass for example.” She picks up
some loosely cut grass and sprinkles it on the ground.
As they roll the paper across the ground, Nicola begins to speak in a soft and
rhythmic voice. “You might find old things and new things, tiny things and big
things,” she says, pausing on each contrast. “Dark things and really really light
things. Try to find things that might be different from each other and put them
on the paper.”
A third child joins the girl and boy as they unroll the paper towards the other end
of the circle.
Zoe asks them how far they should roll it out.
“This far?” one asks in response.
“Maybe further?” Zoe suggests.
The children begin to unroll the paper further towards me. I move out of the
way so they can continue to unroll it if they want. One woman notes to a boy
next to her that it is a really long piece of paper for placing treasure from the
workshop. I hear another woman say that the paper is like a path.
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Then the girl unrolling the paper says they cannot unroll it beyond the circle
of sitting people. “There are not any children on that side,” the girl warns.
But the boy seems to want to unroll it further. The two of them begin to wrestle
over the paper roll. Zoe approaches them and thanks them for bringing the paper
to “the perfect spot”. Then she kneels down and begins to cut the paper.
“Oh, I love that sound,” she says to the three children. She then overhears another
child. “Oh! I have just heard a really good idea. Put the tape on the paper like
this. Loop it so you can put treasure on it. It’s like an outdoor gallery space.”
“What would you like to put on the paper?” a woman next to me asks a child.
“Should we go look for things to put on the paper?” another adult says.
I watch as a boy sits at the edge of the paper on his knees and begins to draw big
circles, then circles inside circles, then a squiggly line. His nursery teacher kneels
down beside him and comments how much she likes his circles. Then the boy and
the girl who unrolled the paper earlier walk by me wrapping tape around their
wrists. Its adhesive faces outward. “Ooh! Bracelets!” I notice.
“It’s not a bracelet!” the boy says defiantly.
“Oh. Sorry. What is it?” I ask regretfully.
They walk away without answering. They return later and show me the tape
on their wrists. The tape is covered in small daisies and grass. Their adorned tape
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looks like lace.
“What’s on yours?” I ask the boy, trying this time to ask him to describe rather
than identify what is on his wrist.
“Nothing,” he says.
“You didn’t decorate the tape with anything?” I ask.
“I didn’t want to decorate it,” he replies. “They are nothing.”
“Mine are nothing too,” the girl replies as she whips her head over her shoul-
der and walks away from me.
Later this girl’s mother told me how pretty the bracelets were though they did
not last very long.
I told her how her daughter did not seem to want to talk to me about them.
“Well, you are a man. So maybe. . . ,” her mother said with a smile.
“A bit scared of me?” I replied as she nodded.
Parents begin to tell children it is time to head back to the nursery. Several
turn over documentation booklets to the artists. When I read them, I notice how
the mother of the girl with the tape bracelet describes her daughter describing a
blossoming tree as a “snow machine”. Her mother explained to me a few weeks
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later:
There was a big tree with blossom on and she and some of the other
girls were pulling on it so that the petals fell off. Normally, I would
say, “Don’t pull on that tree!” I am always like that about things. It
was fun. We were all there for that sort of thing, for them to interact.
So it was alright to pull on the tree and let things fall off.
She added that she felt freedom during the workshop to not have to “do things
right”. “It wasn’t up to me,” she said. “I just had to follow my daughter.”
In the other documentation booklets, I read one parent who describes her child
finding an egg shell, suggesting it was probably from a baby chicken or a dinosaur.
Another parent traces a conversation, describing her child asking the mother what
she has found. Her daughter says it looks like a caterpillar. The mother writes
that she replied that it could have been a catkin, which is a type of seed from a
tree. She notes that her daughter told her that it was a “nutkin” and that they
should show the others.
After parents and children leave the cemetery, Zoe and Nicola take time to re-
flect on what happened during the workshop and how they might approach the
three remaining workshops differently. For example, they talk about the difficulty
of documenting during workshops. Nicola describes this as a “split in accom-
paniment” where it is hard to be immersed in an interaction with a participant
and then step out of it to document. After the second workshop, they describe
struggling with “busy parenting”. Zoe describes how teachers and parents rush to
intervene with the children as soon as they invite them to explore, asking them
what they plan on finding and/or doing.
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Nicola adds they want to avoid questions that identify, classify or suggest what
to do. Nicola also suggests this busy parenting comes at a particular moment.
She says there is fear and nervousness that arises during “empty time and space”.
Nicola suggests adults are attempting to avoid what she describes as a “hump of
uncomfortableness” where they have to figure out how to explore on their own.
They attempt, she says, to fill this “long silence” with talk.
In preparing for the third and fourth workshop, they consider how they might
be more explicit as they help parents and teachers through this. Nicola says it
is very important to acclimate them to this different sense of time, to experience
stretched out time, for example, by encouraging them to lie under a tree.
“It’s incredible how much longer time feels,” Nicola says. “Just lying under a
tree, seeing what we see, hearing what we hear.”
Nicola also critiques herself, saying she has not liked how she invited partici-
pants to find contrasting things, such as big things and little things. She then
suggests encouraging stories might be a better alternative. When introducing the
third workshop to the teachers, parents, and children, I notice a change. Nicola
introduces the third workshop this way:
We’re going to be exploring with our bodies. We are going to explore
moving through the space. There are all sorts of spaces to explore here.
We’re also going to use our senses to explore this space. What can you
hear? Everyone be quiet and perhaps you might hear something you
have never heard before.
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And then she continues after a long pause:
We’re also going to explore with your imaginations. There are stories
of the people who are buried here. There are stories of the creatures
who live here. There are stories of the old trees that live here.
And for the fourth and final workshop, some children fall asleep during Zoe’s
introduction, which also focuses on stories. She says:
Now we are going to continue to explore with the children. . . . And
rather than take a beeline to a particular place, allow yourself and
your children to drift and to settle. This isn’t a nature walk where we
try to identify and classify what they find and do. You know, “This is
a nettle, don’t touch that. This is a bramble, don’t touch that.” We’re
interested in how the children construct their worlds, so we allow them
to explore and create their own stories of this place. We have found
that children’s stories are a great place for exploring this space. But
this is also time to just slow down. There are a few [children] sleeping
right now, which is fine. Feel free to just stay here if you want.
After this introduction, one father stays put on his back as his son sleeps on his
chest. Other parents and children set off to explore the cemetery. I remain at the
base and watch the group from afar.
In the distance, Nicola is on her own, kneeling down and using her hands to
peel grass away from the edge of tombstones to see what she might find. She is
not interrupting the participants or joining in their explorations. A woman is lying
on her back in the grass in the distance not far from her. A child is lying across
this mother’s chest.
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Another child, perhaps 18-months old, is climbing a nearby plinth. He steps off
the plinth and walks across a long, low-lying stone as if it is a tightrope. He puts
one foot in front of the other with his arms outstretched. The woman does not sit
up to watch or ask him what he is doing.
In the meantime, Zoe has rolled out another long piece of white paper. Then
she sticks several loops of masking tape to them. A boy begins lining up large
sticks on the tape, as well as an orange piece of nylon cord and some yellow but-
tercup flowers. When he is ready to hunt for more flowers, he jumps across the
white paper to the other side. Moments later, he returns with more found mate-
rials, including a fistful of daisies. Then he jumps back across the paper.
Zoe begins to add sound effects to his jumping. “Whoosh!” she says when he
is in mid-air. “Katunk!” she says when he lands with one foot stretching across
the paper onto the grass. I sit by the paper and continue to watch. A girl holds
her purple monkey cuddly toy as she tapes flowers onto the paper. A young boy
has a pencil in his left hand and a pine cone in his right. He allows his pencil to
drift around the paper and let squiggles unravel. One moment, he punctures the
paper with his pencil. He pauses and then pulls the pencil out to look at the hole.
He pokes his pencil again and makes another one.
“Two holes-es,” he says with excitement.
“Yes,” Zoe repeats. “Two holes-es.”
I take my pencil and try it out. I squiggle along the paper and then poke a
hole. Then I poke another. The boy looks at me and says, “Make holes too.”
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“Yes, I am making holes too,” I reply.
Steadily other children begin to join in. I begin to notice how much noise the
stabbing begins to make as children stab the paper with found sticks and pencils.
A parent later described for me how much her son enjoyed stabbing holes. She
said it was easy to do because the paper was lying on the grass.
Nicola kneels forward and looks through the paper. “We can use the holes as
a looking glass to see what’s underneath,” she says.
Some children begin to leave sticks standing up in the holes. Others have found
burnt wood from a fire pit and are using this charcoal to make marks. Another
boy takes a long bramble cane and tries to stick it in the paper. It falls onto the
ground. He tosses it to the side of the paper and goes to look for more sticks. I
notice a girl sitting alone at the end of the paper roll. She begins to mark it with
charcoal and it starts to unroll. She takes a stick and unrolls it further.
“Long,” she says to Zoe. “Long.”
Zoe nods her head and tells her that she can roll it out if she wants too. The
girl unrolls the paper several meters. The girl’s parent appears to notice. She says
something to the girl in a language I do not understand. The girl then stops and
says something back to the woman. She sounds like she is pleading with her.
The woman turns to Zoe who nods her head affirmatively and smiles. The woman
says something to the girl a second time, and the girl resumes unrolling the paper.
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She rolls it an additional 50 feet over the next ten minutes. I watch as the paper
makes a clean white stripe down the green, overgrown cemetery.
‘Watch out Beatrice Gladys Gumm,’ I say as I notice the name on the tomb-
stone that the girl is approaching.
‘Beatrice Gladys Gumm,’ a woman replies. ‘What a great name!’
The girl eventually bumps her back into Gumm’s tombstone. She looks behind
her and then pauses for a moment. She turns and twists the paper around the
tombstone and continues to unroll it. Then she walks back towards the group.
She fetches her purple monkey cuddly toy, which has long dangly legs. She tosses
the monkey on the paper. “Monkey is going in the river,” she says. “Monkey is
going for a wash.”
A boy runs next to the paper until he passes Gumm’s tombstone. He turns around,
darts back, and jumps across the white paper.
“I can do that too,” a girl says as she runs down and back.
As the workshop closes, a boy runs down to Gladys Gumm’s grave and begins
to roll the paper towards the group. Nicola follows and stands a few feet in front
of him. Occasionally, she bends down and slightly straightens the roll out or lies
the unrolled paper flat on the ground. The boy slowly continues to roll up the
paper for the next four or five minutes. When he finishes, the roll is slightly askew.
As the group departs, Nicola picks the paper off the ground and lightly taps the
ends of the roll to recentre it.
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Chapter 6
Interpretation
In the previous chapter, I presented three descriptive case studies to address the
research question, “How do artists enact what they do?” In this chapter, I turn
to the remaining research questions:
1. How do artists describe what they do?
2. How do artists value what they have done?
Below I present their vocabularies and values thematically across five dimensions:
space, time, material, body and language. It is important to note that the artists
did not present these themes as unrelated. Like aspects of the phenomenological
lifeworld (e.g. body, space, time, and relationships), the artists may have differenti-
ated these themes but did not separate them (van Manen, 1990). I have presented
them separately to more clearly present each theme. Following the discussion of
categories within each theme, I draw on literature I felt relevant and fruitful in
adding a layer of meaning to what the artists described.
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In presenting the artists’ and my own interpretations, I also include perspectives
of artists and participants who were not included in the descriptive cases. This
decision reflects the nested case study approach that I described in my research
design. I wanted to further embellish and add complexity to the themes and
categories that emerged in the descriptive cases, whilst also meeting the artists’
interests in representing more artists across their organisation in this study. In
particular, there are three additional artists from the organisation that are included
in this chapter. They include:
1. Frances—a visual artist who once worked as a secondary classroom teacher.
Though I interviewed her three times, I did not observe her workshops.
2. Rachel—primarily a visual artist who also worked as a secondary classroom
teacher prior to facilitating workshops through this organisation. I observed
her lead a school-based workshop that invited young people to consider pos-
sibilities for a new public art project in a nearby real estate development. In
addition, I individually interviewed her two times for my M.Phil. research,
as well as two times for this project.
3. Megan—the organisation’s founder, trained as a set designer. She now pri-
marily works as an installation artist and leads workshops through the organ-
isation. I observed her co-facilitate the school-based workshop with Rachel.
I also individually interviewed her three times for this research.
I include perspectives from Mary, the organisation’s director. Her background is
in marketing. She expressed some ambivalence if I referred to her as an artist in
this research. Yet I had participated in a workshop she facilitated that was much
like the other workshops I observed offered by other artists from this organisation.
Therefore, the boundaries between who or who was not an artist in this organi-
sation were not that clear cut to me. Nonetheless, my three interviews with her
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informed my understanding of the artists’ pedagogies and the organisation as a
whole. In addition to the artists and the organisation’s director, I have included
perspectives of two site partners from the cases discussed in the previous chapter:
Elaine and Keri. I include perspectives from Reannon, the site partner at Powell
Cemetery. I introduce the viewpoints of several parents and children. For every
participant, I have used pseudonyms.
To be clear in my presentation of this interpretation, I have adopted several con-
ventions. I introduce categories within each theme and primarily focus on the
artists’ interpretations. When I believe my perspective adds depth, complexity,
and relevance to their accounts, I introduce my own interpretation within these
categories, using phrases including: “My interpretation is. . . ’ or “I interpret this
as. . . ”. In putting forward my interpretation, I am examining their pedagogies and
asking myself “So what?” to theorise the artists’ pedagogies in ways the artists
may not have. After I have presented each of the categories within each theme, I
further interpret how the categories relate to one another within and across each
theme. I draw on literature from “outside” the field to do so. I also include visual
conceptual maps within each theme and include a summary map of the thematic
concepts and categories in the next and final chapter. With this introduction, I
now turn to the first of five themes: space.
6.1 Space
In this first section, I discuss how the artists described their pedagogies of space.
To begin, I turn to how and why they described clearing and decluttering outdoor
and indoor spaces. I then discuss their descriptions of establishing boundaries
before turning to the potential significance they described of places they created
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with participants. Following this discussion, I turn to phenomenological and psy-
chological perspectives to further interpret this theme.
6.1.1 Clearing and decluttering spaces
In each case study presented in the last chapter, I observed and described artists
arriving at outdoor sites prior to participants. During this time, they cleared these
spaces of what they described as unsavoury, unhygienic, and dangerous items: rub-
bish, glass shards, and dog waste. Evie told participants when they crossed the
bridge for the first time at Potter’s Creek that they could feel safe. She told
them she and Zoe had cleared out “the nasty bits” beforehand. The concern for
physical safety is one reason why artists described clearing spaces. Several sug-
gested that fear, including for one’s physical safety, would inhibit participants’
exploration of spaces. In addition to clearing outdoor spaces, several artists also
similarly described decluttering indoor spaces before workshops. Prior to a school-
based workshop not described in the previous chapter, I observed two other artists,
Rachel and Megan, clear an entire classroom of its tables and chairs. Then they
covered the entire floor and one wall with huge sheets of brown and white paper.
During another workshop, I observed Megan tape down several layers of lining
paper on top of a table to create an unmarked, off-white surface. Then she put a
large mound of clay on top.
In these examples, the artists interpreted clearing spaces to reassure teachers and
administrators that their physical spaces were safe from the use of messy materials.
In addition to this reassurance, numerous artists also interpreted how declutter-
ing spaces altered their atmosphere. They stressed the importance of doing so
particularly in schools, hospitals, and nursing homes. Rachel argued that she and
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Zoe changed the “chilly atmosphere” of a hospital for workshops offered to hos-
pital workers and patients. She noted how they addressed its “rush,” “sounds,”
and “small spaces” by rearranging furniture and introducing soundscapes to allow
participants to feel spaciousness. All the artists were critical of the way in which
participants might feel “invaded,” as Zoe suggested, by the clutter of physical
spaces.
Several artists suggested a feeling of spaciousness facilitated participants in at-
tempting to make some type of mark or contribution on the spaces themselves.
Describing a primary school classroom, Megan, the organisation’s founder, sug-
gested clutter:
makes you feel. . . less able to make any sort of contribution or comment
. . . so if . . . a wall is absolutely full of stuff, then the last thing you are
going to do is put something on there.
Similarly, Mary, the director of the organisation, suggested the artists have declut-
tered these classrooms so that children are not “squeezed out”.
Most artists also interpreted how they hoped the contributions participants make
to spaces might be distinctive rather than replicative. Zoe noted how she and
Lucy attempted to move participants away from the pond at Blackberry Bush
because they might have responded in learned, mimicked, or practised ways rather
than in more authentic and distinctive ones. Lucy described trying to “extend”
participants ways of making and being by pulling them away from the prescriptive
pond and playground. In this sense, most artists described seeking out ambiguous
spaces that did not prescribe particular ways of being in them.
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Along these lines, Megan described how a cleared classroom allows teachers to
“take off the baggage of coming into the same place everyday”. She suggested
teachers might reappreciate existing features of a classroom: a window inspiring
them to develop a stained glass project using coloured acetate. Lucy described
how clearing a floor of tables and chairs might open up possibilities for large scale
collaborative drawings. She suggested that reinvigorating children’s uses of spaces
in this way is essential because many children start to believe they cannot draw.
Yet they associate drawing with sitting in a chair at a desk, which she argued
they learn is the valid approach to markmaking in school. She suggested moving
whole bodies across a classroom allows them to see mark making and themselves
differently.
During a conference presentation, Nicola expressed her interest in gently nudg-
ing participants to explore unfamiliar spaces. She showed a “map for getting lost
in the city” drawn by a child in a Reggio Emilia school. Echoed by most of the
artists investigated here, Nicola said she was interested in engaging with unfamil-
iar spaces, suggesting that becoming lost outdoors has led her to “value surprise,
unpredictability, and not knowing as rich beginnings of learning.” She particularly
emphasised this to participants at the cemetery, suggesting to them that “they do
not need to know anything about this place. . . it’s about finding out about it.”
I took note of experiencing the unfamiliarity of these three outdoor spaces when
describing my attempt to find them, as they felt somewhat mysterious and hidden
to me. The mysteriousness of unfamiliar spaces was echoed by one parent who
described enjoying “venturing into the unknown woods” with the child(ren) she
accompanied at Blackberry Bush.
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Therefore, most artists seemed to describe clearing and decluttering spaces as a
way to lessen fear of physical harm and create spaces so participants could make
what feels like a more distinctive, unprescribed contribution. Most interpreted
decluttering spaces to allow for the unanticipated and the unexpected as a gen-
erative provocation, not a source of fear. Moreover, most interpreted supporting
these unprescribed and unexpected explorations by making familiar spaces unfa-
miliar and seeking out more ambiguous ones. In the next section, I turn to how
artists described establishing boundaries to further reassure participants amidst
these ambiguous and unpredictable spaces.
6.1.2 Establishing boundaries
In addition to clearing out dangerous items, the artists at the three sites described
in the previous chapter were observed determining where it would be safe for par-
ticipants to explore. They investigated pre-existing boundaries and considered
how they might create new ones. At Blackberry Bush and Powell Cemetery, the
artists located participants near corners of these respective spaces to benefit from
the proximity of existing boundaries made by bramble thickets and brick walls.
In another example, Evie, Zoe, and the participants devoted the first workshop
at Potter’s Creek to making what the artists described as boundaries, entrances
and exits. Making them was facilitated in part by trees, which they used to string
up twine and create temporary fencing. A key staff person at Potter’s Creek de-
scribed being reassured by the fencing. Elaine, the site partner there, suggested
that these boundaries that Evie and Zoe established created a space large enough
for the participants to feel like they had room to explore without being ill-defined
as a place.
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Alternatively, Zoe created an imaginary boundary at Powell Cemetery by hav-
ing children run as far as they could from one corner during two counts to three.
She then told them they should try not to go further from base during the work-
shop. The artists also hung up laminated signs to mark off where workshops were
taking place, particularly for outsiders and especially to encourage dog owners to
be considerate by keeping their dogs on leads.
Several artists noted these boundaries were necessary because so many adults
can be terrified to let children go outdoors and unseen. These boundaries, they
argued, reassured and protected participants. In this sense, there is an overlap
between clearing spaces and establishing boundaries. The artists attempt to as-
suage the fear of exploring unfamiliar spaces. Along similar lines, Lucy described
how boundaries bring people together, which partly supported their facilitation.
This viewpoint was expressed by most artists, and I turn to further explore it
next.
6.1.3 Creating focal points
Most artists, particularly those working outdoors, interpreted creating places to
bring people together to make and be among one another. At Blackberry Bush
and Powell Cemetery, both relatively open spaces, Lucy used the metaphor of
base to interpret places where the group gathered first. The artists marked out
these bases on the ground with lining paper or a blue tarp. At Blackberry Bush,
Lucy and Zoe suggested the importance of using these bases because of what Lucy
described as the unwieldy nature of the meadow. Although she preferred it for
its ambiguity, the openness of the space and the pull of the pond created what
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Lucy also described as the “feel of a scattered project” where people were “pulled
apart”. She suggested therefore that the open, ambiguous space needed these focal
points.
Efforts to create focal points culminated for Zoe and Lucy in the final workshop
at Blackberry Bush. Zoe, Lucy and the participants used a blue tarp, bamboo
and masking tape to create a semienclosed space. Taller and shorter, older and
younger, people sat together on the blue tarp, lowered to the same level, stuck
in a web of a boy’s tape-trap. Lucy argued this base created a “shared experi-
ence” where “being human” could be deepened by exploring with others. Mary
noted the deep pleasure she derives in observing families exploring together during
workshops. Similar to Lucy’s interest of extending participants’ ways of making
and being in spaces, Zoe added that being together also nudged people to explore
in new ways because they were introduced to unfamiliar approaches to exploring
spaces and materials by other people. Evie added another way of interpreting
these bases and focal points. She suggested that they created the outdoor gallery
in Potter’s Creek to encourage everyone to “explore, find something, and bring
it back to the core”. Indeed, all the artists often sent participants off to explore
outdoor and indoor spaces from these focal points soon after their initial workshop
introductions. At Potter’s Creek, discovering swimming badges and shells during
this exploration and then putting them on the altar later, Evie said, would give
these objects and explorations a sense of specialness. To illustrate, Zoe and Evie
referred to the boy returning to the space with dirt and moss to sprinkle on mask-
ing tape. They both described this response as a beautiful and special moment.
The boy seemed to agree, asking his parents if the woodland was real because it
was “so magic”.
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Echoing Evie’s interest in specialness, Elaine, the site partner at Potter’s Creek,
also interpreted these places that Zoe and Evie created with participants (e.g. the
nest and the space for placing) as nurturing a sense of a shared place. She said
these places reminded her of picnic blankets at festivals with her family. With
a blanket, they marked off a place they could call their own. Her children could
wander off and know where to return.
Bearing this sense of a shared place in mind, several artists interpreted estab-
lishing focal points as a way to facilitate participants in making their distinctive
contributions and responses to spaces. In addition, most artists suggested how
this call and response could be “extended”, as Lucy particularly emphasised, by
being among others at a shared focal point. Moreover, some considered being to-
gether during beautiful little moments to offer a sense of shared humanity. Next,
I turn to summarise these interpretations of pedagogies of space and then I turn
to literature, primarily from phenomenological and psychological perspectives, to
add my own layer of meaning.
6.1.4 Interpreting space: Softened and unprescribed spaces
In this section, I have presented how the artists interpreted clearing and declut-
tering spaces to lessen the fear of physical harm. Some suggested an interest in
seeking out open, ambiguous spaces that extended participants beyond familiar
ways of making and being. Others interpreted bases and boundaries bringing peo-
ple together and further offering some sense of security as they engaged with the
unfamiliar. In addition, several argued bases provided the opportunity for partici-
pants to make spaces special as they responded or contributed to them in ways that
felt personally and collectively significant. Most artists noted a difficult balance
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between extending participants in unfamiliar spaces, whilst attempting to assuage
the fear of doing so. Evie described this balance as allowing participants to feel
“comfortable in undirectedness”. Nicola described it as both moving them beyond
the “hump of uncomfortableness” and the “discomfort of the unfamiliar”. Elaine
echoed this by describing how the artists’ approach to using bases and boundaries
“softened the blank sheet” or lessened the fear of the unknown. To visually rep-
resent how artists retrospectively interpreted what they did and how they valued
it, I have presented a concept map in Figure 6.1.
Nicola presented a good metaphorical illustration of negotiating this delicate and
awkward balance: the child’s map for getting lost in the city. The obvious irony of
this map is that maps are usually intended to give map holders a sense of where
they are in relation to somewhere they know. Lynch (1960, p. 4) describes how
people establish cognitive relationships through mental mapping to provide a sense
of emotional security amidst the perceived chaos of a city.
By contrast, the paradox of the map for getting lost is that it is meant to stray
map holders from paths they know lead home. Becoming lost can cause fear, an
almost diffuse sense of dread (Tuan, 1979, p. 5). The map for getting lost then
is much like how the artists described seeking out ambiguous spaces and clearing
out familiar ones. Becoming lost might lead their participants and them towards
unmappable places of mystery and doubt, in and beyond their bodies, which Solnit
(2006) describes as the blue of distance.
Yet at the same time, this map provides something to hold onto, offering a glim-
mer of emotional security whilst engaging with the unfamiliar. Much like offering
a map, the artists described taking several steps to support the emotional security
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Softened & unprescribed spaces
Clearing spaces
Removing 
``nasty bits''
To create emotional and 
physical safety
Decluttering 
spaces
Removing visual 
and physical clutter
To create unfamiliar spaces
Establishing 
boundaries
Defining spaces
To create spatial constraints
To create shared experience
To create emotional and physical safety
Creating 
focal points
Establishing a 
base
To create emotional and physical safety
To introduce the unfamiliar
To create shared experience
Theme Category How they valued itWhat they did
Figure 6.1: Concept map of pedagogies of space
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needed to dwell in ambiguity, a skill Keats (1817/2011) described as our negative
capability. The artists interpreted establishing bases as if they were illuminating a
beacon before participants ventured off to explore unfamiliar spaces. They inter-
preted boundaries by providing a limit to how far participants could go.
My interpretation is that bases and boundaries offered a glimmer of security by
establishing a spatial range (Hart, 1979). Spatial ranges are first established when
mothers and babies develop shared intimacy at the mother’s chest, creating and
reestablishing a sense of attachment whilst allowing for greater separation and in-
dependence over time (Ainsworth & Bowlby, 1991). From this perspective, bases
might be interpreted as maternal nests from which participants could then set off
to explore, working in tandem with boundaries much like the proverbial dinner
bell, or perhaps now the mobile phone. The child might find it easier to become
lost by straying from the nest, and the mother might be assured enough to allow it
to happen, knowing that the dinner bell is within earshot. Though lost—dwelling
in the unknown and developing her negative capability—the child can still find a
way home.
Within these bases and boundaries, I interpret artists attempting to strengthen
participants’ emotional security by facilitating them in the making of safe and spe-
cial places amidst these unfamiliar spaces. Examples abound, including the clay
pond, the drawing trail, the nest, or the space for placing. Tuan (1979) argues that
every shelter we build, mental or material, is constructed to provide “rest, at least
temporarily, from the siege of inchoate experience and of doubt” (p. 6). These
places could provide some respite amidst this unfamiliarity. Relatedly, I inter-
preted these focal points as the artists’ attempts to facilitate participants’ feelings
of spaciousness through offering a starting point that allowed them to determine
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their coordinates and find their bearings in unfamiliar spaces. Within these safe
and special places, participants could then potentially experience these beautiful
little moments, as Zoe and Evie described them, where ways of being and making
are extended and become significant through open-ended discovery.
Whilst Sobel (2002) argues children construct special places in the outdoors (e.g.
dens and bush houses) to discover who they are, I would suggest that the artists
here would go further and argue that they provide opportunities for participants
to extend “the boundaries of the self into an unknown territory” (Solnit, 2006,
p. 5). The artists frequently recounted stories that featured children who where
tragically judged by adults. They celebrated how children defied those judgements
by extending their ways of being in spaces. They described schools as places built
upon a foundation of judgement where teachers and students are constantly being
judged, or labelled, as Nicola said, “as one thing only”.
To offer an example of artists’ interests in participants extending themselves be-
yond these judgements, Evie and Zoe were particularly interested in the boy who
immersed himself in sprinkling dirt and moss on masking tape during his beautiful
little moment. Part of their interest, it seemed, related to how his parents had de-
scribed their son as a boy who “does not do nature walks”. To suggest what this
meant, Elaine noted that their early years centre had offered “traditional nature
walks” to this family whereby the purpose was to go from “here to there” during a
predetermined time period. Traversing this predictable ground, participants were
expected to identify what they found in nature. Based on this conception of the
nature walk, the parents described their boy as someone who would not be inter-
ested in the artists’ workshops, indeed nature itself, and therefore, opted not to
bring him to the first few.
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Although I do not know how the boy described himself, one could assume that
how his parents described him partly gave rise to his self-description. Nonetheless,
I think he extended the boundaries of how he was described by immersing himself
in his masking tape, moss and dirt. His parents took note, attempting to update
their descriptions of the boy and make sense of how he enjoyed doing what he did
outdoors. This example was not isolated, as the girl and her ladybird at Powell
Cemetery can attest. Her mother said that she saw her daughter for the first
time as a girl fond of ladybirds. This partly arose from being pushed beyond her
customary way of being with her daughter outdoors, which she said often featured
playing on playground equipment.
Therefore, I interpret this interest in extending the boundaries of being as be-
ing central to the artists’ interest in clearing and decluttering spaces, and seeking
out ambiguous ones. Through the residue of spaces’ pasts, the artists appeared to
consider how spaces themselves create the basis for being in particular ways and
judged for those ways of being. To illustrate, several artists described playgrounds
as places where people can be judged for how high they swing, ponds as places
where people can be judged for how many fish they catch, and nature as a place
where people on traditional nature walks can be judged for how many leaves they
identify. All the artists described these judgements as damaging in that they nar-
row people’s understanding of who they are and who they might become.
In light of the above, Megan argued that ambiguity is necessary so that people are
not judged. She said:
You can’t fail with the stuff we give people. You can only do something
that gets acknowledged one way or another. It’s much easier to fail
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when you are being prescribed what to do.
With this in mind, I interpret them creating unprescribed spaces with participants
to offer the chance for them to extend ways of being in spaces beyond how they
have been described in the past. They attempted to encourage a way of being in
spaces free from labels that predetermine from the outset who is capable or what
types of participation are legitimate. These distinctive and extended ways of being
could not have been known beforehand because the spaces where these beautiful
little moments took place could not have been mapped. They were unfamiliar.
And yet, the artists attempted to soften the fear of venturing into unknown spaces
through providing boundaries, bases, and focal points. To further support this
interpretation, I now turn to how the artists similarly described their pedagogies
of time.
6.2 Time
In the previous section, I presented how I interpreted the artists attempting to
soften the fear for participants as they explored, cleared, and decluttered ambigu-
ous spaces, thus allowing them to extend possibilities for being and making. In
particular, I noted the possibility that the artists described eliminating the residue
of a space’s past and avoiding spaces with expectations of the future to attempt
to eliminate the possibility of damaging judgement. In this section, I examine the
artists’ related interpretations of their approach to time. I discuss how several
artists’ interpreted their interest in allowing participants to take time for them-
selves through flexible workshops without much timetabling or timekeeping. Then
I discuss how most of the artists interpreted facilitating slowliness. After this dis-
cussion, I turn to literature primarily from psychology to further interpret their
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pedagogy of time. To begin, I turn to the importance they placed on participants
taking time for themselves.
6.2.1 Taking time
During interviews, several artists discussed their sensitivity towards external time
pressure and its affect on how we spend time. In particular, several artists often
cited the institutional imposition of time in schools and hospitals where they some-
times offered workshops. Zoe described pursuing a career in the National Health
Service (NHS) as a movement therapist before opting out. She noted an “impo-
sition of time” meant that therapy had “to be done in an hour because that’s
what therapy dictates.” Other artists also noted how working in hospitals and
schools involved spending too much time filling out forms. And when caregivers
and teachers were working with people, several artists described them being con-
stantly interrupted with monotonous, administrative tasks.
Alternatively, the artists’ organisation described in its literature how its work-
shops allow participants “to take time for themselves”. At Potter’s Creek, Elaine
described how Zoe and Evie may have taken time through staying in the same
place and describing out loud what they saw. Several artists noted the importance
of stillness when exploring unfamiliar spaces. Several modelled doing so by lying
on the ground and looking up to see birds and squirrel dreys. Several looked down
into small spaces hidden in the grass. This close observation of spaces became
particularly evident to me when Lucy and Zoe noted several newfound wonders
at Blackberry Bush including the plastic reflector, a metal badge, and a rubber
tyre. At Powell Cemetery, I watched Nicola kneel and lie in the grass by herself for
sustained periods, simply peeling back leaves of grass with her fingers to see what
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she could see. At the same site, Zoe encouraged this stillness when introducing
one workshop. She suggested to participants they avoid “taking a beeline” to a
particular place and “feel free” to stay in the same place if they wanted. At these
workshops in particular, Zoe and Nicola led the participants through what they
described as a sensory survey in which they used slow voices whilst participants
stayed still and were asked what they could smell, taste, hear, see, and feel.
At Potter’s Creek, Elaine described how parents and children might have ap-
proached time differently without Evie and Zoe’s facilitation. She described the
need of adults to feel like they covered ground, going from “here to there” during
a predetermined time frame. Without the artists’ facilitation, she suggested, par-
ents, teachers, and children would probably not have stayed in the same place for
an hour or two in the woodland. I was reminded of this interpretation when the
mother at Powell Cemetery described how the grass on her back embarrassed her
when she walked through town later. For her, the grass on her shirt signified she
had not been a “mother. . . doing things”. Other participants also appeared to take
notice of an unfamiliar sense of stillness as they began to take time. On feedback
forms completed after workshops, a common refrain from parents was that they
peacefully enjoyed taking time outdoors with their children in ways they normally
would not have.
I interpret the artists being concerned that external impositions of time pressures
people towards busyness, monotony, and prescribed ways of being. They critiqued
how institutions impose artificial constructions of time to encourage efficiency and
productivity. Alternatively, they were attempting to create the temporal condi-
tions for participants to engage in open-ended enquiry in contrast to worlds that
pull them towards the rushed, the predictable, the efficient, and the practical.
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The artists were critical particularly of institutions—including schools—that have
adopted a corporatised, market-driven ethos—whereby the value of time spent is
measured by maximum production towards measurable, predicted outcome for the
least effort. Therefore, the artists believed that the opportunity for open-ended
enquiry—which is difficult to predict, do quickly, or measure—is far too rare at
work, at home, and in school. Yet, the artists emphasised that open-ended en-
quiry is critical to challenge and extend customary ways of being and relating to
the world. They were attempting to redress the pressure of time, to allow individ-
uals to take time back so that they can develop negative capability to deepen the
significance of how they are present to the world and become agents of personal
and cultural change. In the next section, I turn to how several artists described
flexibly structuring workshops to further alter participants’ sense of time towards
this aspiration.
6.2.2 Untabling time
In the last section, I noted how artists interpreted encouraging participants to
take time for themselves. In this section, I explore how several artists interpreted
approaching time flexibly by avoiding timetabling and timekeeping during work-
shops. Though their outdoor workshops were often scheduled in two-hour blocks,
the way they began, unfolded, and ended appeared much more flexible. Below I
interpret how the artists untabled time.
Lucy told me it was important to have at least a start time for a workshop to
establish what she described as a social connection. But she suggested that even
having a start time was inconsistent with her flexible approach to time. In a
telling incident about her relationship to timekeeping, Lucy said to two girls dur-
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ing one workshop that she could not bear having to know the time. In jest, the
two girls stood shoulder to shoulder and shuffled their feet in a circle around her.
They began rhythmically saying “one o’clock. . . two o’clock. . . three o’clock. . . .”
As she laughed, Lucy told the girls that being surrounded by time was haunting.
Later, she smiled and told me she wished time was told by teasing girls in this way.
Several artists noted that some families arrived after others and they needed flex-
ible beginnings to workshops to accommodate them. In one workshop at Potter’s
Creek, I took note of Evie standing back at a distance, allowing two “late” ar-
riving families to wander past established boundaries and explore reaches of the
woodland far from the group. Though most participants were working together on
making a large nest, she did not appear pressured to weave them into this activity
already underway. She told me later that each participant would arrive at their
explorations in their own time.
I also interpreted the artists introducing flexible endings to their workshops as
well. I observed Evie and Zoe shorten one workshop at Potter’s Creek, noting
the increasing cries of young children outdoors during a cold, damp day. In an-
other example, Zoe and Lucy lengthened one workshop at Blackberry Bush when
participants were playing in the clay pond. At Powell Cemetery, I described how
Nicola allowed one child to spend five minutes rolling up lining paper as the final
workshop concluded. Nicola did not rush the process of cleaning up, but later de-
scribed allowing this child to experience this moment in his own time. This sense
of flexibility may have been one reason why one parent at the cemetery workshops
noted to me that it did not feel as if Nicola and Zoe were paid by the hour.
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Thinking along similar lines, I asked Megan, who was facilitating a daylong work-
shop in a school, whether the paper in her hand was her itinerary. She replied,
“[itinerary]-ish”. She interpreted participants’ explorations having a natural life-
cycle. It might “start beautifully”, she said, and then eventually “die off”. She
noted the importance of standing back and being flexible with time to allow partic-
ipants’ explorations to naturally unfold. In this sense, she might have approached
a workshop with only an “ish” of an itinerary to respond to the natural lifecycle
of participants’ explorations.
Artists’ interpretations of their flexible approach to time became more resonant
for me when I watched Evie and the girl’s modified game of Pooh Sticks at Pot-
ter’s Creek. Tossing sticks into the water and standing back to watch appeared to
be a suitable metaphorical illustration for interpreting artists’ prompting partici-
pants to explore and then allowing them to move downstream at their individual
pace. Like each stick, the artists interpreted participants experiencing starts and
stutters, perches and flights, in their own time. I would suggest that they are unt-
abling time to further create the temporal conditions for open-ended enquiry. The
artists emphasised their lack of concern with participants working towards partic-
ular outcomes or covering a distance within a predetermined timeframe. With this
flexibility in mind, I now turn to how the artists described attempting to alter, or
slow, participants’ perception of time.
6.2.3 Slowing time
To this point, I have discussed how I interpreted the artists untabling time, as
well as facilitating participants to take time for themselves. In this section, I turn
to interpret artists altering participants’ sense of time as they explored unfamiliar
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spaces. To illustrate, Nicola argued in her conference presentation on the “big
ideas of time and space” that by not filling time with “structures that are safe”,
her workshops confront people with, as I have noted, “the discomfort of the unfa-
miliar”. In her workshops, Nicola suggested that “meeting spaces on their own”,
without the certainty of routines including fishing at a pond or taking a nature
walk, will result in finding that “time feels different”. She described how:
This time does not feel like classroom time. It does not feel like rushed
time. It feels very slow in fact. Time can really become a much more
elastic thing than a timetable suggests or that an activity might sug-
gest. It can remind you when you were a child and you spent hours
and hours doing something totally absorbed. You couldn’t believe
when someone said, “It’s time to pack up! It’s time to come in!’ We
began to value this idea of slow time, slowliness, of stopping even, of
absolutely stopping and sitting.
In this passage, Nicola has pointed to several categories I have already discussed.
She mentioned seeking a sense of stillness in contrast to the rush of classroom
time. She noted an untabled, elastic approach to time unlike a timetable. Echoing
all the artists in this study, Nicola also noted how this sense of time is slow and
childlike. Rachel suggested that this “childlike way of being” is a “peaceful” and
“balanced” attitude that feels like “diving into the sea”. Slowing herself down
before workshops, Evie described a childlike process of “making [her]self into a
space where [she could] just respond and do and be.” To discover this space
within herself, she said that she would begin by “not thinking too hard”, which
was a common refrain from several other artists.
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Reflecting back on workshops, several artists and other adults tended to single out
activities when participants were, as so many said, absorbed. To give an example
of participants exploring at length in the same spot without interruption, Evie in-
terpreted the child sprinkling dirt and moss on tape for ages. Zoe interpreted the
boy at Blackberry Bush being absorbed on the reflective card with his puckered
lips. Lucy similarly interpreted the children at the same site as being immersed
in the cold, messy, and slippy clay pond during their beautiful little moment.
During workshops, Zoe described herself “coming up and out of” these immer-
sive moments alongside participants. She seemed surprised to find how much time
had passed after lowering herself to the ground to help a boy make a flag for several
minutes. Often finding myself playing the role of timekeeper in all the workshops I
observed, I frequently noted that most artists seemed surprised by how much time
had passed after these interactions with participants.
By contrast, several artists spoke critically of moments when participants’ explo-
rations were not sustained as long as they would have liked. At Blackberry Bush,
Zoe and Lucy expressed some dissatisfaction with the brief length of time partic-
ipants spent playing with clay during the second workshop and the wall in the
third. They described using the provocation of building a clay pond in the fourth
workshop to facilitate a more sustained engagement. I would argue that the artists
here value slowliness as evidence that participants are releasing themselves from
the accelerating rhythm of clock-time in a fast-paced world and are discovering a
pleasurable way of being-in-the-world that is more conducive to open-ended en-
quiry. I make this claim in the next section when I turn to conclude this discussion
of time by examining three approaches to time and utilising relevant literature,
primarily from psychology, to further ground this interpretation.
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6.2.4 Interpreting time: Slowliness
In this section, I have discussed how several artists interpreted their pedagogies
of time, including their interest in enabling participants to take time for them-
selves. Taking time involved becoming less busy and more still as they more
closely observed the unfamiliarity of spaces. I noted how most artists interpreted
their avoidance of predetermining the beginning and end of workshops, whilst al-
lowing participants to pace themselves through untabled workshops. I noted all
the artists’ interpreted slowing time during workshops. I have visually represented
these pedagogies of time in Figure 6.2. To further interpret their potential signifi-
cance to the artists, I now turn to literature to facilitate the interpretation of their
concept of slowliness.
Perhaps borrowing from Csikszentmihalyi (1991), Lucy interpreted slowliness as
“true immersion and flow”. His concept of flow describes an effortless release of
psychic energy during moments where nothing else seems to matter and there is a
feeling of union with the environment (Csikszentmihalyi, 1991). Csikszentmihalyi
(1991, p. 41) describes flow as an immersive process whereby we encounter new
levels of complexity, experiencing both differentiation and integration (i.e. what
sets us apart and in common with others), whilst receiving positive signals that we
are up to the task of meeting these new levels of complexity. Whilst interpreting
slowliness in similar terms, most of the artists also seemed to place special empha-
sis on the childlike nature of this immersion. Nicola noted that slowliness does not
feel like classroom time, but feels more like the elastic, slow time reminiscent of
the way we experience time as children playing. Similarly, all the artists empha-
sised slowliness as a childlike way of being. When I first heard these descriptions,
I must admit I was quite sceptical. I found myself agreeing with Mead (1977)
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CHAPTER 6. INTERPRETATION
Slowliness
Taking time
Being still and quiet
Engaging senses
To redress the imposition 
of time pressureUsing slow voices
Untabling time
Flexible beginnings
Not prescribing times for tasks
To avoid prescribing 
outcome within a timeframe
Flexible endings
Slowing time
Becoming absorbed
Just responding
To release oneself from
the accelerating rhythms
of a fast-paced world
To release oneself 
from judgement based on the 
conventions of the past and 
the expectations of the futureBeing peaceful
Theme How they valued itWhat they didCategory
Figure 6.2: Concept map of pedagogies of time
who argues “The Child” is a fiction, and childlike being is a nostalgic falsehood.
Romanticising it may be a projection of a desire for a paradise lost that never was.
I wanted to overcome this bias and I turned to psychology to do so.
Psychologists have long explored why perceived time might feel slower for chil-
dren.1 One theory put forward by James (1901, p. 625) is that “the foreshortening
of years as we grow older [is due] to the monotony of memory’s content.” Res-
onating with artists’ descriptions, this theory relies on the body’s senses becoming
heightened when engaging with the unfamiliar. This more heightened sensory
state leads to more and better memories of our immediate pasts. Therefore, more
distinct moments of time are parsed amidst what James (1901) coined the stream
of consciousness. As a result, the perceived duration of time begins to lengthen
and time feels slower (Brown, 1990, p. 146).
1See Chapter 14 of Draaisma et al. (2004) for a good literature review.
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CHAPTER 6. INTERPRETATION
This theory of slow, childlike time suggests that to stifle the acceleration of time as
one grows older, then one must do what some of the artists, parents, and children
did in these workshops: play with chalky chalk, shake flower blossoms from a snow
machine tree, let ladybirds run on your legs, slop about in cold, messy, slippy clay,
puncture holes in paper laid across grass, sprinkle sparkly dirt on masking tape.
In other words, one must engage with the unfamiliar and embellish memories with
sensory-rich experiences.
As the senses become more attuned to these enriched and unfamiliar experiences
with materials in spaces, neurological pathways may shift, leading us to accept
these objects of our attention, whether they be chalky chalk or sprinkly dirt, as
“things-in-themselves”, “uncomplicated by autobiographical references” (Austin,
1999). In this moment of flow, our past and future in relation to the object slips
away. As Nicola suggested, time feels different when we “meet spaces on their
own”, uncomplicated by the certainty of past routines or burden of future expec-
tations.
I interpret the artists being interested in temporarily suspending past references
and future expectations amidst this slowliness, thus minimising the possibility for
being judged as a failure. Immersed in slowliness, participants cannot fail because
they have temporarily suspended, or phenomenologically bracketed, what has come
before and what has come next (Merleau-Ponty, 1962, pp. vii-xxiv). There is no
basis for judgement, a characteristic of the feeling of this union or oneness that
Lucy described as a feature of slowliness. I would argue therefore that the artists
interpret slowliness as evidence of and a pathway towards open-ended enquiry that
is not prescribed by judgements based on past conventions or future expectations.
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I would also suggest that most artists valued this slow, open-ended enquiry because
they believe these beautiful little moments are pleasurable and peaceful. Their in-
terpretations of slowliness have strong resonances with what James ((1902/2008,
pp. 177–178) describes as healthy-mindedness, or:
The loss of all the worry, the sense that all is ultimately well with
one, the peace, the harmony, the willingness to be. . . . A passion of
willingness, of acquiescence, of admiration, is the glowing centre of
this state of mind.
Echoing this description, Rachel compellingly notes that this immersive slowli-
ness, this peaceful and balanced attitude, may be “the solution to the cruelty in
the world.”
With this in mind, I think it is possible to interpret their descriptions of time
much as I interpreted their descriptions of space. In a fast-paced world, slowliness
could be perceived as laziness and idleness—a failure to produce efficiently. I sug-
gest the artists view prescribed, fast-paced time as prohibiting open-ended enquiry
from fully taking root as individuals are pressured and judged by what has been
done in the past and what is expected in the future.
To allow for individuals to deepen and extend their ways of being-in-the world
in ways that could not have been known beforehand, I argue that the artists see
themselves introducing opportunities for slow, unprescribed and beautiful little
moments that might allow people to more deeply engage in open-ended enquiry.
Amidst these beautiful little moments, they can experience a passion of willingness
that pleasurably extends their understanding of who they are and how they might
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be-in-the-world. With this pleasurable passion of willingness in mind, I now turn
to how the artists described contributing to slowliness through the introduction of
materials.
6.3 Material
To this point, I have explored how the artists described creating safe and special
places in unfamiliar spaces where participants could experience slowliness. A re-
lated theme includes their use of materials to facilitate this immersion, which I
describe in this section. First, I explore how several artists interpreted their use
of ordinary and low-tech objects. Then I turn to how some noted introducing am-
biguous materials with slippage, before discussing the sensory-rich and ephemeral
properties several interpreted when selecting materials for workshops. After also
noting how the artists interpreted presenting materials, I turn to literature from
primarily psychology and aesthetics, again from pragmatist and phenomenological
perspectives, to further theorise their pedagogies of simple materials.
6.3.1 Ordinary
Across sites I observed, artists consistently introduced materials they interpreted
as ordinary, simple, and everyday. They provided materials of string, twine, yarn,
aprons, masking tape, thumbtacks, chalk, and different types of household papers
(e.g. baking and lining paper). These artists also described only allotting £10
per workshop for these ordinary materials. A telling moment at Potter’s Creek
occurred when Evie joked about the difficulty of deciphering a bag of rubbish from
their bag of materials.
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Most artists also suggested that it was important for participants to find and
use materials from the sites where workshops took place. In the outdoors, these
materials often included sticks, feathers, flower petals, and grass. In workshops
for staff and patients at a local hospital, Zoe and Rachel discussed the importance
of using materials from the hospital including sick bowls, pill pots, and hospital
scrubs. Echoed by several artists in interviews, Lucy offered a political justification
for offering ordinary materials and encouraging the use of found ones:
I think it’s the idea about using stuff that is inclusive and including
of a lot of people... I think that’s probably a political sense... I don’t
want to make this an exclusive activity.
Through the introduction of materials, most artists shared this interest in inclu-
sivity, in not allowing participants to feel excluded on the basis of skill. Rachel
argued that a more specialised art material (e.g. oil paint) would demand know-
how that might exclude participation. Exclusion, several artists suggested, also
might occur through a lack of access, financial or otherwise. Most artists noted
how they wanted to emphasise that materials found in cupboards could offer a
generative starting point for some exploration.
Similar to my discussion of their approaches to space, the majority of the artists
interpreted how ordinary materials prompted people to explore materials in ways
that might feel, in their words, more authentic or less prescribed. To further
suggest what authenticity might mean to the artists, Mary wrote in a program
evaluation how this “simplifying approach to the materials leaves space for the
children to represent their own ideas and experiment. . . .” By contrast, Evie noted
that clay, a specialised material, might suggest the need to make clay “look nice”
as a ceramicist might, whereas masking tape, an everyday material, would not
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prescribe its use to the same extent. Evie also described how everyday materials
might encourage experimentation by lessening the fear of failure. She added that
less expensive, everyday materials might comfort participants because if they felt
they “screwed up”, it would at least not feel like an expensive mistake.
In some instances, artists suggested they wanted to introduce more expensive
art materials if fit for a particular purpose. Zoe introduced compressed charcoal
in a workshop at Powell Cemetery, which she said made beautiful marks more
easily in comparison to a cheaper HB pencil. Artists also did not always agree on
which materials might be considered ordinary. Lucy suggested clay was inclusive
because of its forgiving and ubiquitous properties, whilst Evie interpreted it as
specialised. Moreover, Evie specialised in willow weaving and often introduced
willow into workshops. Yet Zoe said she would not introduce clay and willow on
her own since she did not see herself as skilled in using them. Nonetheless, artists
were in agreement that they wanted to introduce ordinary materials in spite of
these different interpretations of what constituted one. Next, I turn to discuss
the ways in which the artists interpreted the importance of low-tech materials for
similar reasons.
6.3.2 Low-tech
The use of new technologies was noticeably absent from workshops I observed and
listened to artists interpret. In interviews, several artists described how new tech-
nologies could sometimes be alienating for those unfamiliar with them. Most, if not
all, artists described their interest in low-tech technologies. Because most work-
shops I observed were outdoors, I did not witness their use as much as I might
have otherwise. However, I have included this category based on the emphasis
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placed on it by most artists during interviews and its prominence in organisational
materials. In one example, Megan described a school workshop where she invited
children to collect material from their outdoor play area, including a sand box,
and place it in slide mounts. Projecting this collected sand was uninteresting, she
noted, until ants started to crawl about in the slide projector. This ant activity,
she noted, produced a large-scale animation. Describing it as “only a light box
with a magnifying glass”, Lucy expressed a similar interest in how overhead pro-
jectors (OHPs) transform objects through shadow and scale, unlike new visualisers
that project literal, real time representations.
Several artists expressed interest in other technologies that were less alienating.
Explaining what they might have meant by this, Frances, an artist I interviewed
three times but did not observe, argued old technologies allow participants to see
and understand how they work. She offered a manual typewriter as an example.
Frances also added that new computer technologies in schools introduce expen-
sive objects into classrooms, thus potentially contributing to a more adversarial
relationship between teachers and students. She said that it introduces objects
that students should not touch for fear of breaking it. Alternatively, the artists
interpreted less adversarial, low-tech objects encouraging visual and tactile exper-
imentation.
Some artists also appeared to positively describe the constraint of having few
tools and materials when exploring the outdoors. Evie hoped that participants at
Potter’s Creek would come up with an inventive solution to the legs for her altar
without having tools to do so. Although it was not mentioned to me by partici-
pants, the artists also said that participants sometimes dismiss them as unskilled
and unprofessional when they bring pipe cleaners and rubber bands to workshops.
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Participants dismissing artists is somewhat ironic given the artists’ interest in be-
ing inclusive through their introduction of everyday materials.
To some extent, most artists discussed technology in terms of electronically pow-
ered objects. Frances took a broader view, suggesting that knitting needles are a
technology. Along these lines, I did observe non-electronic tools including scissors
and thumbtacks introduced in workshops. I did ask Evie to explain her use of the
derby dibber at Potter’s Creek, which seemed unique as a more specialised and
unfamiliar technology. She said she could have used sticks to make holes in the
ground, but described an interest in quickly and easily making willow structures
after the artists’ introduction at the beginning of the workshop. Another exception
included artists using camera phones and digital cameras to document workshops.
Nonetheless, their interpreted use of low-tech materials is consistent with my in-
terpretation that they are seeking to introduce objects that are inclusive through
softening the fear of judgement, whilst also encouraging open-ended experimenta-
tion. The interest in open-ended experimentation relates to the artists’ description
of ambiguous materials, or materials with slippage as Lucy termed it, which I turn
to next.
6.3.3 Slippage
Similarly interpreted by numerous artists, Lucy suggested she was interested in ma-
terials that allow for slippage. To illustrate, I noted how she cited shadows from an
OHP in contrast to the literal representations projected by visualisers now used in
some classrooms. Also termed open-ended materials by others, Megan described
introducing ambiguous materials and objects in workshops and inviting people to
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invent functions for them. Zoe described these materials as those that “lend them-
selves very quickly into transforming into something else.” Zoe offered a wet wipe
as an example because it does not have an “obvious, immediate identity as a toy
thing or a some thing.” By contrast, Zoe described avoiding the introduction of
Barbie because she is “readymade with a whole army of ideas and thinking and
expectations.”
To illustrate the slippage of materials during workshops, consider the ways I
observed artists and participants approach lining paper at Powell Cemetery. It
became a(n):
1. Percussion instrument for tapping sticks.
2. Object to unroll.
3. Track lane for racing back and forth.
4. Pit for jumping across.
5. River for washing a monkey.
6. Lens for looking at grass.
7. Tableau for making marks.
8. Display for found objects.
Similarly, I observed how children at Potter’s Creek used masking tape for adher-
ing sprinkled dirt, building a ladder of twigs for insects to climb trees, displaying
found sticks and feathers, and establishing boundaries.
I interpret the artists’ interest in materials with slippage as similar to their in-
terest in ambiguous, unprescribed spaces. Most artists were critical of what they
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considered prescriptive materials including fishing nets and buckets. These mate-
rials’ physical properties might clearly suggest a particular meaning (e.g. a fishing
net is used for fishing). With materials that can slip from a prescribed use, most
artists may have been interested in more ambiguous relationships between object
and meaning accentuated by selecting materials not normally associated with the
context of an “artist’s workshop”. They hoped that participants did not feel pre-
scribed for how materials might be used or judged based on how they did so. They
provided materials that, as Frances argued, could “easily become something” so
participants could extend their ways of using them during beautiful little moments.
In the next section, I discuss how several artists interpret materials that further
facilitate extending possibilities for making through their immediacy.
6.3.4 Immediacy
In addition to ambiguous, open-ended materials, several artists expressed interest
in materials that would not require multiple steps in production. Most artists
noted their aversion to using oil paint or ceramic glaze that would demand mul-
tiple layers, drying times, and necessary sequences. At the workshops I observed,
adhering was achieved instantly, albeit impermanently, with masking tape rather
than glue.
At Potter’s Creek, Elaine compared the artists’ uses of materials with a paint
colour mixing activity for young children she led in her nursery. She described this
activity involving the following steps:
You put the brush in the water. You press. You touch the brush onto
the sponge so it’s not too wet. You put it into the powder paint, and
then you put it into the mixing palette. Then you go back and wash
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the brush, put it into a different colour. Sponge. Different colour. And
then mix it and see what colour you get. And then you put it on the
paper. It was just too much.
At Potter’s Creek, by contrast, adorning with colour was done more immediately
through tying bright, ripped strands of fabric around branches. Using fabric to
adorn with colour avoided this repeated sequence of dipping, mixing, applying,
washing, and waiting.
To offer an interpretation of immediate materials, Megan described how she val-
ued the way children explore material without “thinking first and then doing” or
“looking at what somebody else is doing” before making. To support their interest
in slowliness described earlier, I interpret how artists selected materials with phys-
ical properties that allowed participants to respond instantly without deliberating
steps in advance. Not deliberating steps drew attention away from prescriptions
of the past and expectations of the future. Next, I discuss all the artists’ interest
in sensory-rich materials to further facilitate this slowliness.
6.3.5 Sensory-rich
To this point, I have described how the artists selected materials that might facili-
tate slowliness. Sensory-rich materials offer a particularly good example. Earlier I
mentioned Zoe’s interest in compressed graphite because they made beautiful lines
more easily. She suggested these lines felt good to make and appeared rich once
made. Her interest was a shared one among all the artists who interpreted some
materials more fully and pleasurably engaging the body and its senses. There
are numerous examples. Zoe described the mud at Potter’s Creek as delicious. I
observed how mud presented immersive opportunities for mark and sound mak-
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ing with the body, as children and adults jumped and slipped in one particularly
muddy workshop at Potter’s Creek. Similarly, Lucy mentioned the “sheer delight”
of using clay at Blackberry Bush because it was a “visceral material” so pleasur-
able to feel with the body. Assessing the second workshop at Blackberry Bush,
Zoe and Lucy thought the clay’s dryness might have explained why participants
did not sustain their engagement with the material as long as the artists preferred.
With this visceral interest, most of the artists also discussed an interest in using
natural materials. They contrasted natural materials with synthetic and sterile
plastics associated with high-tech objects. An exception included found plastic
aprons Zoe and Rachel described using in the hospital workshops. But they did
not invite participants to wear these coloured aprons to shield themselves from
messy materials, but rather to use them to adorn a space by tying or weaving
them together.
By contrast, Nicola noted her disappointment at an outdoor workshop she ob-
served where children were asked to put a coat and then a waterproof apron on
before messing about with clay outdoors. Mary joked that using an apron to play
with clay is equivalent to putting on plastic gloves and putting up a protective
screen before making crumble to avoid becoming dusted with flour.
There were countless examples of materials that artists selected which could be in-
terpreted as effective in engaging the senses. At Potter’s Creek, Elaine noted how
the artists’ uses of brightly-coloured fabrics allowed participants to more defini-
tively make their mark on the flatly-lit, late winter woodland. For listening, Zoe
ripped fabrics when offering them to participants and/or made sounds whilst cut-
ting them. The sound of ripping masking tape from the reel also seemed to draw
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artists and participants’ interests across sites. At Potter’s Creek, sound and mark
making also featured in the adaptation of Pooh Sticks. Both Zoe and Evie com-
mented on the richness, almost healing properties, of the sound when throwing
water from the bridge. Lucy similarly noted the lovely sound of pouring water
from the jug into the clay pond.
In another example at that site, Lucy offered fistfuls of unprocessed chalk rather
than the breakable, screeching chalk from blackboard rails. At Powell Cemetery,
Reannon, the partner from the folk museum who commissioned and observed the
workshops there, noted how the children’s tactile puncturing of paper lying on
the grass was accompanied by the satisfying sound of making holes. One parent
described her child becoming completely engrossed in making these holes, another
example of slowliness. With a more dramatic visual effect, white and/or black
lining paper was rolled out in long lines across the ground at different sites. The
white paper provided contrast for dark marks from charcoal or shadows, whilst the
black paper provided contrast for lightly-coloured chalk and masking tape. This
interest in light was taken further by the ways in which artists interpreted their
uses of torches, mirrors, slide projectors, and OHPs.
When commenting on their workshops, Megan emphasised the importance of par-
ticipants having a chance to derive pleasure from the things they touch, see, hear,
and smell. Evie added that pleasure is the sustaining factor of participants ex-
plorations with materials. If the pleasure is gone, she suggested, the playful ex-
ploration will stop. Similarly, Lucy described a school workshop where she let
children experience the “intoxicating” delight of using an unlimited amount of
blue pigment to create a map of their playground.
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In this use of sensory-rich materials, I interpret all the artists described selecting
materials for their potential to provoke pleasurable and sustained sensory engage-
ment so that they can become more immersed in their open-ended enquiries. The
artists appeared to value the way these materials heightened the body’s senses and
embellished its memory, thus facilitating that slowliness. It may also be consis-
tent with their described interest in the ephemeral nature of exploring material
discussed next.
6.3.6 Ephemeral
In addition to sensory-rich materials described previously, several artists described
their interest in the ephemeral nature of material and making. Lucy noted her in-
terest in the “act of making” and “the possibility of material” rather than the
outcome. She noted transitioning during art school from making visual objects to-
wards installation and performance, including making furniture out of caramelised
sugar. Describing why she made this impermanent furniture, she said:
I am very against making permanent objects that sit in the world. It
is all tied into that consumerist thing... I’m very resistant to it.
Evie discussed similar influences when choosing living willow to make outdoor
sculpture. She described her interest in its short lifespan. The willow sculpture
literally takes root, grows and evolves, and then dies when its roots eventually
crowd each other out. Zoe also expressed her interest in impermanence in relation
to her interest in movement. “With dance,” she said. “It’s gone, it’s always going.”
With this interest in impermanent materials, it is not a surprise that most artists
provided materials likely not considered worth preserving. Masking tape does not
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provide permanent adhesive. A few children at Powell Cemetery collected small
flowers and grasses to adorn masking tape wrapped around their wrists, although
they claimed to me they were “nothing”. One of the girl’s mothers mentioned to
me how pretty the “bracelets” were though they did not last very long.
Megan also suggested that what was made during workshops could be “taken
apart, taken home, or put in the bin”. Most of the time, I watched artists discard
what was left behind after workshops, with the exception of occasionally taking
home clay or bamboo sticks for future re-use. Children and parents would also
sometimes take home a ripped piece of paper with a loop of masking tape and nat-
ural materials stuck to it. Nonetheless, inexpensive, impermanent and ordinary
materials made them easier to discard.
I argue that the artists introduced impermanent materials so that participants did
not feel prescribed by outcome. Instead, the artists viewed impermanent materials
themselves as a tool to facilitate open-ended enquiry characterised by experimen-
tation and invention. Now I turn to discuss how artists described introducing
materials with qualities noted so far to participants.
6.3.7 Presenting abundant materials in a limited palette
To this point, I have noted how the artists interpreted the qualities of materials
they introduced during workshops. In this section, I turn to how the artists inter-
preted presenting the materials to participants. All artists interpreted how they
offered materials in abundance. Some examples they cited included offering 40 me-
ter rolls of lining paper, a dozen rolls of masking tape, and/or an enormous mound
of clay. Most artists suggested they did not want participants to feel limited by the
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amount of material they provided. Though individual materials were provided in
abundance, the artists limited the selection of materials. Examples of this limited
palette, as Megan described it, included baking paper, crayons, and masking tape
for one Potter’s Creek workshop, and clay and a blue tarp for one at Blackberry
Bush. Megan argued constraint challenged participants to take notice of the po-
tentially unexpected materials they introduced. Thus, much like the constraint of
spatial boundaries and focal points discussed earlier, Megan suggested this limit-
ing constraint can begin to extend participants beyond “doing what they normally
do”. She said a guiding principle for the artists explored here is that “less is more”.
Most artists also interpreted presenting these materials in unfamiliar ways. Sev-
eral artists described playing with volume, dimension, and scale through stringing
masking tape from floor to ceiling indoors, putting a large mound of clay on a blue
tarp, or casting large shadows of small objects with an OHP. Zoe often did this to
dramatic effect, rolling out lining paper further and further across settings. She
interpreted doing so to raise participants’ interests in the materials and sense of
uninhibitedness in using them. In presenting materials in these uninhibited ways,
Nicola added that she finds it pleasurable when participants find out that they do
not have to “stick to the rules” or that “things do not have to be as they were”. In
addition to this sense of unfamiliarity and uninhibitedness, Zoe also argued there
is an “aesthetic” to her presentation of materials, describing how she has carefully
lined up wooden matchsticks on a table to appear inviting and beautiful. In a
school-based workshop for young adolescents, I observed Megan and Rachel shape
several large bricks of clay across the floor like cars on a train, which the children
appeared to respond to with delight. Lucy argued that this presentation of materi-
als creates “a slant on an existing setting” and might further extend participants’
explorations.
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Alternatively, artists sometimes presented materials once the workshop was well
underway. At Potter’s Creek, Evie unbound a bolt of willow and began to use her
Derby Dibber to build the gallery space after participants set off to explore the
woodland. Lucy and Zoe similarly rolled out lining paper to create a focal point
at Blackberry Bush after participants set off. Echoing Evie’s description of her
delayed use of the derby dibber, Lucy noted that:
If we had laid the paper out immediately, they might not have spent
much time enjoying and exploring the space first. It then seemed like a
way to extend their reflecting and exploring further when they returned
to base.
In addition, Lucy argued that seeing paper and chalk at the beginning of work-
shops would suggest to them they were going to “sit and draw”. Similar to their
use of immediate materials then, some artists did not want participants to delib-
erate how to use materials during their introductions.
In summary, artists introduced materials in different ways depending on specific
contexts. However, I argue they were interested most in providing constraints, as
well as a sense of pleasurable uninhibitedness, that allowed participant to explore
materials without prescriptions of the past or expectations of the future. With this
in mind, I turn to summarise this discussion of materials and their relationship
to the themes of space and time, before drawing on literature from aesthetics to
further interpret the artists’ pedagogies of material.
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6.3.8 Interpreting material: Simple materials
In this section, I have presented how all the artists interpreted using ordinary ma-
terials to allow participants to feel less ill-prepared to use them, though there were
some differences as to what constituted ordinary. I suggested all expressed interest
in ambiguous materials with slippage to allow greater flexibility for participants
to experiment or extend their explorations in less prescribed directions. I also ex-
plored how most described introducing less alienating, low-tech objects, to reduce
the fear of breaking expensive objects and further allow for less prescribed exper-
imentation. Then I discussed how all interpreted avoiding materials that required
multiple steps and prescribed outcome.
I also noted how all the artists expressed interest in introducing sensory-rich ma-
terials that contributed to the pleasurable and immersive slowliness discussed pre-
viously. I examined their interest in the ephemerality of material to lessen par-
ticipants’ expectations of making objects to sit permanently in the world. And,
I discussed how artists described abundantly presenting a limited palette of ma-
terials, sometimes aesthetically or dramatically beforehand and sometimes whilst
the workshop was underway, to extend participants’ explorations of unexpected
materials. I have included a visual representation of these pedagogies of material
in Figure 6.3.
These descriptions of material resonate with my earlier interpretations of space.
They prized ordinary and ambiguous materials, much like spaces, that did not
clearly suggest particular courses of action. Gibson (1977) theorises how materials
have affordances that provide preconscious clues as to how they might be used (e.g.
a pull on a drawer, a handle on a hammer). One possible interpretation is that
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Simple materials
Ordinary Introducing everyday materials
To be inclusive
To encourage experimentation
To encourage unprescribed enquiry
Low-tech
Introducing old, analog equipment
To encourage experimentation
To be less alienating and adversarial
To introduce non-literal media
Slippage Introducing ambiguous materials
To allow for invention
To facilitate transformation
To introduce ambiguity
To be inclusive
Immediacy
Introducing materials that avoid 
multiple steps in production To discourage deliberated responses
Sensory-rich
Introducing materials that engage all 
the senses
To deepen immersion
To create pleasure
Ephemeral Introducing materials that do not last To avoid the pressure of outcome
Abundant 
materials & 
limited 
palette
Introduce a lot of a few materials 
at opportune moments
To avoid limitations
To extend through constraint
To facilitate uninhibitedness
To inspire interest
To create the unfamiliar
To avoid prescribing outcome
CategoryTheme What they did How they valued it
Figure 6.3: Concept map of pedagogies of material
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CHAPTER 6. INTERPRETATION
these artists particularly avoided materials with obvious meanings, or affordances,
so that participants did not simply do what the meaning of materials prescribed.
In addition, the artists described avoiding materials with affordances associated
with “being an artist”. Echoing most of the other artists, Megan suggested that
they avoided these materials so that participants did not feel like they were set
up to fail in an artistic (or any other) task; and, that anyone, not just those in
the art world, have access to materials that they might explore in distinctive and
authentic ways. Avoiding prescriptive materials was similar to their interest in
avoiding ponds or playgrounds that might prescribe and judge people as fisher-
man and acrobats.
As a side note, it is the case that contemporary artists are now recognised for
scavenging materials found in “everyday life”, as Lucy noted of Arte Povera, an
Italian arts movement in the 1960s. In this sense, masking tape or a ripped piece
of fabric might now be considered an art material used by artists in the art world.
Nonetheless, I suspect if masking tape became identified as an “artist’s material”
by families exploring in the woods, then these artists would seek out other, less
familiar ones. Whilst materials might have multiple meanings, those meanings
cannot be divorced from context. Artists held different views regarding what con-
stitutes an ordinary or specialised art material because it depended on why, where,
how, when, and with whom workshops took place.
Their presentation of materials resonates in other ways with my earlier interpre-
tation of their approaches to space. Much like offering bases and boundaries, they
described and were observed introducing materials aesthetically, abundantly, and
within a limited palette. These approaches to presenting materials were meant to
heighten participants’ interest in materials that were unfamiliar in the context of
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working with artists. Drawing their attention to the excitement and possibility
of these materials through rolling out an entire roll of lining paper could draw
attention away from the fear of dwelling in the unknown. Softening this fear could
further develop participants’ negative capability, thus allowing them to extend
themselves through open-ended enquiry.
There were also strong parallels with the artists’ interpretations of their peda-
gogies of time. In this discussion of time, I explored artists’ interpretations of
materials, particularly focusing on how the artists were interested in participants
experiencing a slow, childlike unity with materials and spaces. In the section de-
voted to material, I interpreted their interest in selecting materials that facilitate a
deep inward feeling of pleasure in the body with little regard for their past uses or
future expectations. Future expectations included how an object might be made
or whether it will be worth preserving. Without outcomes being prescribed, in a
sense, through the materials, participants would be challenged to explore them in
an open-ended way.
Alternatively, all the artists suggested an interest in heightening all the senses
of the body through engaging with delicious mud, visceral clay, splashing sticks,
and chalky chalk. In early years education, sensory-rich materials are often associ-
ated with Montessori (1917) who described an interest in developing her perception
of children’s nine senses.2 Montessori (1917, pp. 203–204) presents her interest in
sensory-rich material through the Old Testament creation story, arguing that a
sensory education allows children to bring order to chaos much like God separated
day from night, oceans from land, etc. She argues a sensory-trained child will be
more productive in the future with a finely tuned, well-stocked sensory database
2The nine sensed properties include dimension, form, colour, texture, weight, temperature,
flavour, smell, and sounds (Montessori, 1917, p. 204).
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that can more efficiently contend with a chaotic world (Montessori, 1917, p. 204).
This instrumentalist theory provides a point of contrast with the artists’ interpre-
tations of sensory-rich materials here. In my discussion of time I began to argue
that the artists interpreted their interest in sensory-rich materials because the ma-
terials contribute to slowliness, embellishing our memories of our recent pasts and
lengthening our sense of time. These descriptions draw attention to pleasure in a
slow, childlike present, rather than preparation for an adult future characterised
by a more efficient engagement with the world.
To illustrate this contrast, consider Montessori’s description of the child develop-
ing a sensory-rich database in comparison to James’ (1902/2001) theory of healthy
mindedness, whose glowing passion of willingness I have suggested resonates with
the artists’ descriptions of slowliness. Using Walt Whitman, the American poet,
as his case study for healthy mindedness, James (1902/2001) draws on a descrip-
tion by one of the poet’s “disciples” to describe his engagement with sensory-rich
nature during beautiful little moments:
His favourite occupation. . . seemed to be strolling or sauntering about
outdoors by himself, looking at the grass, the trees, the flowers, the
vistas of light, the varying aspects of the sky, and listening to the birds,
the crickets, the tree frogs, and all the hundreds of natural sounds. It
was evident that these things gave him pleasure far beyond what they
give to ordinary people. (p. 63)
Like the image of Evie and Zoe taking profound delight in the splashing sound of
water hitting a stream, this portrait of Whitman draws attention to a more im-
mediate and pleasurable immersion in sensory-rich materials and outdoor spaces.
This description of the pleasure of engaging the senses, particularly outdoors, of-
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fers a more primordial understanding of aesthetic experience than one associated
with making art with art materials. I think primordial aesthetic experience best
resonates with Dewey’s (1934/2005) theory of aesthetic experience.
Whilst James wrote about the passion of willingess from a psychological, and
indeed spiritual, perspective, Dewey (1934/2005) drew on James’ theory of the
body and senses to describe his aesthetic theory. This theory attempted to draw
attention away from engaging with what has been deemed art by the art world,
much like James (1902/2005) attempted to draw attention away from how religious
experience has been defined by the church. In particular, Dewey (1934/2005) was
interested in a pleasurable “heightened vitality” between body and material where
there is a “complete interpenetration of self and the world of objects and events”
(p. 18), which strongly resonates with the artists’ descriptions of slowliness and
Csikszentmihalyi’s (1991) conception of flow.
At the core of the slowliness the artists described, Dewey (1934/2005) argues
the senses are not “pathways along which material is gathered to be stored away
for a delayed and remote possibility” (p. 18). Dewey is critiquing the assump-
tions underlying Montessori’s interpretation of the sensory database stored in a
central cognitive processing unit (i.e. the mind). Instead, he describes the body
and mind in more distributed terms, with inseparable senses as the “sentinels of
immediate thought and outposts of action” (Dewey, 134/2005, p. 18). With this
interpretation, the body is located in a liminal space where its senses touch and
are touched upon by the world (Shusterman, 2008). In this liminal space, a boy
might become immersed “in his masking tape” during his beautiful little moment
as Elaine described.
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In interpreting the artists’ use of materials, I am arguing that the artists are inter-
ested in beautiful little moments when participants become immersed in materials
during which the past and the future slip away. The artists avoid materials that
prescribe predictable outcomes—prescriptions that then allow for judging who has
ability and what materials’ legitimate uses are. With a passion of willingness un-
inhibited by the fear of judgement, the artists value ways that participants can
use simple materials to engage in open-ended enquiry that extend themselves be-
yond their customary ways of being in the world—more inventively, evocatively,
distinctively and pleasurably. I now focus on the artists’ related pedagogies of the
body.
6.4 Body
In the previous sections, I have touched upon how the artists described overlap-
ping interests in space, time, and material. In this section, I turn to further
investigate how the artists interpreted using their bodies during workshops. I be-
gin by discussing how artists described creating a tone for workshops conducive to
participants’ explorations, followed by a related discussion of body gesture and po-
sitioning. I discuss how artists interpreted their paired arrangement allowing them
to position their bodies in relation to one another. After presenting the artists’
perspectives, I turn to literature, primarily from psychology and philosophy, to
further interpret them.
6.4.1 Tonesetting
In my earlier discussion of space, I discussed how the artists’ described bases and
boundaries as a way to soften participants’ fear of dwelling in the unknown. In
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my discussion of time and material, I described the pleasure and peacefulness they
associated with a slow, childlike engagement with sensory-rich materials. In this
section, I further examine how they described using their bodies to set a more
peaceful and less fearful tone.
Several artists frequently described creating an atmosphere with their bodies. Lucy
argued she created a silly and more engaging atmosphere by clowning with her
body. She noted making objects with clay quickly and shoddily to spark partici-
pants’ interests in materials. Frances suggested that quickly sculpting poorly-made
puppets out of clay contrasted to presenting exemplars, or “mentally-restricting”
finished products. Frances also noted that working shoddily created “more space”
for participants to make their mark. Zoe discussed her delight in rolling down hills
during workshops. Evie similarly interpreted how she attempts to be uninhibited
with her body by sitting or lying in the mud, which I observed her doing whilst
weaving the altar. Megan similarly noted modelling playfulness by playing with
materials in her hands as she walked and talked during workshops. I observed her
doing so in her school-based workshops.
Describing a similar approach to clowning, Rachel noted how she sewed thirteen
pockets into an apron for her hospital workshops for patients and workers. Then
she concealed small objects in each pocket. Like a magician pulling a coin from
behind an unsuspecting ear, she described hiding and unveiling materials from
the apron’s pockets. She interpreted this sparking participants’ interests through
providing a felt “tension” in the body that extended them beyond their regular
way of doing and being. During the second workshop at Blackberry Bush, Zoe
and Lucy similarly described how the participants needed a “ta da” when they
first arrived. During the second rainy workshop, they hid big red bags of clay
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in tall grass. Once the participants arrived, they stomped through the grass like
marionettes, leading the group to try to find the concealed objects.
Several artists also discussed physically attuning themselves to participants to
set this tone. Rachel interpreted using “antennae” to “feel how the workshop is
going” and adapt the workshop to those feelings. Zoe argued this was a “golden
rule” in their workshops: to use their bodies to be non-verbally aware of the levels
of participants’ engagement and how it might be affected by physical space. She
also interpreted, as did several others, attuning herself to whether a workshop
feels like it is moving too fast or too slow. Similarly, most artists described using
their bodies to note unspoken lulls or discomfort and then adapted to workshops
accordingly. Adapting to workshops is consistent with the flexible approach to
timetabling I discussed earlier.
The artists also interpreted trying to put participants at ease by encouraging
participants to dress comfortably and appropriately when outdoors. They argued
that participants could not creatively explore if they felt uncomfortable, wet or
cold. They also noted how they stopped workshops in the middle to give children
and parents a chance to snack to further contribute to this comfort. These inter-
pretations resonate with their earlier explanations of providing emotional security
through bases and boundaries. To offer a parent’s perspective of the tone they
created, one said that Nicola and Zoe at Powell Cemetery “seemed to be so gen-
uinely joyful about anything that happened, that it was infectious. . . .” Several
parents also described how the artists were friendly, warm and calm. Similarly,
Reannon suggested that their soft and warm approach “calmed everybody down”
considering the difficulty of confronting the ambiguity and uncertainty of their
workshops.
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I interpret the artists using their bodies to create a tone that might assuage fears
and provoke excitement and uninhibitedness in participants’ explorations of ma-
terial and spaces. Like clowns tripping and stumbling to set the stage for graceful
trapeze artists to follow, a further interpretation is that some artists downplayed
their bodies’ technical abilities to create an atmosphere that eased the fear of fail-
ing to meet expectations. Clowning reduced the fear of judgement, or failure, to
which so many artists expressed a strong aversion. By attempting to set a tone, I
interpret the artists attempting to create the optimal conditions to negotiate open-
ended enquiry partly characterised by the risk of uncertainty. In the next section,
I further explore how the artists interpreted using body gesture and positioning to
create this tone.
6.4.2 Gesturing and positioning
In the previous section, I discussed artists’ perspectives towards tonesetting. In
this section, I further explore how they described positioning and gesturing with
their bodies to further establish this empathetic and uninhibited tone. I started
to pay closer attention to the artists’ body positioning after I noticed the same
hole beneath the left knee of a different pair of Lucy’s jeans. I remember my
grandfather, an electrician, used to always develop one hole in the same leg of
his trousers because he always kneeled on the same knee to lower himself when
working. With this in mind, I started to ask the artists how they interpreted low-
ering themselves to the same level as children, as well as working low to the ground.
To offer one interpretation, Megan noted how she practices a “choreography of
working alongside”, which Mary discussed through mirroring, coming alongside,
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coming to the same scale, doing by example, and lowering height if appropriate.
These interpretations were echoed by all the artists, often noting lowering their
bodies was a non-authoritative way of working that further put participants at
ease. In my field notes for a Powell Cemetery workshop, I described Nicola as-
suming a common body position for artists during workshops I observed, which
illustrates this choreography of working alongside:
[Nicola and two girls] are huddled together on the ground. Nicola is
on her knees, sitting on her heels, with her belly resting on her thighs.
She is as low to the ground as possible, using her fingers to pull apart
leaves of grass. The children are nearby, looking through the grass too.
Nicola is talking so softly I cannot understand her. I am standing only
a few feet away. I am upright. She is talking into the ground.
Nicola explored this area of grass for over ten minutes with these two girls. At one
point, they stretched out and laid on their bellies. Illustrating Mary’s lowering
and coming to the same scale, my field notes describe Nicola “huddling” her body,
and compacting it low to the ground so that she was exploring and occupying a
similarly small space as her child partner. And, I interpreted Nicola exploring the
grass to model this slowliness.
Illustrating mirroring, Zoe interpreted echoing other participants to more fully
understand them and affirm what they were doing with the body. At Potter’s
Creek, she walked across the big, open field with little steps at the same rhythm
as the child with whom she held hands. Evie also noted an event in which she used
her body to shield children from unhelpful interventions of adults. She recounted
the event at Potter’s Creek when the boy’s grandfather would not let him use the
Derby Dibber unless he explained what he intended to do with it. As several other
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artists noted, Evie interpreted stepping between them and shifting attention away
from what she described as this “unhelpful conversation”.
Most, if not all, artists also discussed at length the ways in which they attempted
to stand back, refraining from intervening or talking with the participants as they
explored. Lucy described the importance of “not invading” participants’ space
and giving them more space to explore. When I first observed Evie at Potter’s
Creek, I found it particularly difficult to describe her methods because it some-
times appeared to me like she was doing nothing. Then the artists clued me into
the notion of standing back, only intervening when they felt it would be necessary
to provide some catalyst.
Yet, several artists noted the difficulty of standing back, as it can feel like an
abdication of one’s role as a “facilitator”. Several artists suggested that partici-
pants view them as being unprepared by not prescribing activities for participants.
So I interpret the artists’ standing back as encouraging students to become im-
mersed in and direct their open-ended enquiry without interruption.
In sum, most artists described a choreography of working alongside participants
at their level and scale to model and affirm particular ways of making and being
in spaces with materials. In light of their description of slowliness, I interpret
the artists positioning their bodies to allow for comfortable, sustained engagement
low to the ground and at the same level as their child partners. The artists’
body positioning contrasts to bending at the waist. In addition, I interpret the
artists refraining from prescribing and interrupting sustained open-ended enquiry.
Therefore, the artists also stood back.
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In the next section, I continue to explore these two types of positioning, work-
ing alongside and standing back through examining the artists’ paired arrange-
ment.
6.4.3 Working in pairs
In the previous section, I interpreted how the artists opted between two postures,
working alongside and standing back in relation to participants. In this section, I
interpret how the artists worked in pairs to partly ease the difficulty of doing both.
Megan, the organisation’s founder, suggested that she initiated artists facilitating
in pairs to address the uncertainty of their workshops. She said she was scared
to do it by herself because she did not plan to predetermine what was going to
happen. Having support from a partner, she argued, made that difficulty more
bearable.
During workshops, Megan also noted how working in pairs allowed for a process
of “dipping in and out”. In other words, it allowed one person to observe and doc-
ument workshops whilst the other immersed herself in activity with participants
or independently. Several suggested that the co-facilitative model was one way
to, as Zoe described, shift “organically” between roles. Echoing several artists,
Nicola discussed this pull between dipping in and out as a “split in accompani-
ment”. The artists suggested working in pairs made it easier to negotiate this split.
Whilst the artists might have interpreted working alongside as a way of mod-
elling and affirming participations’ explorations, they also described this standing
back role as necessary to capture the beautiful little moments that would not be
fully appreciated otherwise. They discussed and were observed doing so with cam-
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eras and camera phones. At the same time, some artists also interpreted using
a camera to document the participants’ explorations as a possible way of inter-
rupting their slowliness. Megan also noted that using a camera is “easier to do”
rather than becoming more fully immersed in exploring. Turning to the camera
resonated with my experience as a participant observer. As I began to observe
workshops, I played this standing back role, which was captured in the moment
at Potter’s Creek when one father and I were mirroring one another: crouching by
a tree and observing the artists and children’s nest building. Over time, I tried to
stop standing back and taking photographs as much and pushed myself to immerse
myself more as a participant in the uncertainty of their workshops.
Curiously, some artists noted how the more passive observational role I played at
first allowed both artists to become immersed alongside participants. The artists
seemed to be more interested in immersing themselves in the slow exploration of
materials alongside participants. I thought it was important to avoid playing this
standing back role to observe the co-facilitative, complementary, and organically
shifting arrangement they interpreted.
Artists also interpreted other ways that working in pairs was useful to them.
Frances added that planning sessions with Rachel was influenced by what they
had not done yet (e.g. working big if they previously worked small). Echoed
by several artists, Megan argued that facilitative partnerships forged across dis-
ciplines provided different viewpoints. Two artists from different disciplines, she
suggested, think differently about materials and processes. Therefore, I interpreted
these interdisciplinary partnerships as a tool for the artists to experiment with and
extend their pedagogies. In addition to pushing experimentation and representing
different viewpoints, Frances suggested co-facilitation allowed her to learn Rachel’s
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“tricks of the trade”. I interpreted how the partnership itself served as a way for
one artist to apprentice to another.
During workshops, Zoe also noted how important it was that the artists’ bod-
ies conveyed to each other during workshops that they supported one another.
They used body language to provide the sense of security that Megan described
seeking when establishing the co-facilitative arrangement. Echoed by several other
artists, Frances mentioned talking with Rachel after every session to review how
workshops went. Evident in my observations, the artists almost always spent time
after workshops describing the way participants explored spaces and materials.
They also sometimes appeared to vent, critiquing the way parents and teachers
sometimes prescribed children’s explorations.
Therefore, I interpret the artists working in pairs to create and cope with the
emotional uncertainty and experimental nature of their workshops and to learn
ways they might facilitate and make sense of workshops. Working in pairs might
also have helped them navigate the difficult split in accompaniment by allowing
each artist to assume one of two body positions. Therefore, working in pairs was
another tool to facilitate and validate beautiful little moments when participants
might become immersed in open-ended enquiry. Next I review this discussion of
the body and turn to literature, primarily from pragmatist approaches to psychol-
ogy and philosophy, to further interpret the artists’ perspectives.
6.4.4 Interpreting body: Empathetic, uninhibited bodies
Throughout my discussion of how the artists interpreted their pedagogies of space,
time and material, the body has featured prominently. I noted how most artists
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interpreted clearing out spaces and establishing boundaries to soften the fear felt
by participants’ bodies as they explored in uninhibited, experimental ways. I have
suggested that artists interpreted their attempt to slow down the feeling of time
passing in the body. I also noted how most, if not all, offered sensory-rich mate-
rials to draw the body deeper into slowliness. Each of these examples illustrate
the central importance of the body to these artists. In this section, their emphasis
on the body continued to become clearer as I discussed how the artists described
tonesetting, positioning, gesturing, and working in pairs in ways that might be
conducive to a slow, open-ended enquiry.
A prominent theme throughout this discussion has been the artists’ attention to
fear and pleasure. In my discussion of space, I noted how the artists attempted
to minimise situations in which participants’ bodies might be exposed to physical
harm, through clearing out spaces. In this section, I have added several examples
exploring how the artists interpreted using their bodies to add to this sense of
emotional security. They interpreted mirroring participants’ bodies and occupy-
ing the same scale to validate participants’ uninhibited and experimental ways of
being and doing. Similarly, I interpreted them huddling low to the ground and
peeling away leaves of grass to model for participants how to engage in open-ended
enquiry if they were at a loss for what to do in unfamiliar spaces. These and other
pedagogies of the body discussed below are featured in Figure 6.4.
Based on the above, I argue that the artists did not approach the body as merely
expressive of mentally generated emotions, but as the “formative core” of emotion
(Shusterman, 2008, p. 150). The artists may have been sensitive to the ways in
which sensations in the body give rise to emotional states, not the inverse (James,
1901). They introduced materials that felt good to touch and see, which could
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Empathetic. uninhibited bodies
Tonesetting
Clowning
To facilitate unrestricted playfulness
To extend into new ways of being and doing
To reduce the fear of failure
Attuning
To create physical and emotional safety
To be adaptable and flexible
Gesturing and 
positioning
Echoing To be empathetic and adaptable
Working alongside
To reduce the fear of uncertainty
To be less hierarchical
To model slowliness
Shielding To maintain open-endedness
Standing back
To facilitate uninterrupted and 
self-directed open-ended enquiry
Working in pairs Pairing artists to facilitate 
and document
To soften the fear of uncertainty
To notice and validate little moments
To experiment with and extend their pedagogies
To apprentice tricks of the trade
To facilitate reflection
Theme Category What they did How they valued it
Figure 6.4: Concept map of pedagogies of body
provoke feelings in the body that gave rise to a sustained state of pleasure. By
contrast, they attempted to minimise situations in which participants’ bodies could
have reacted in fright or discomfort, such as finding a piece of broken glass when
exploring low down spaces. In this way, the artists were attempting to give rise
to feelings in the body that expanded pleasure, contributed to immersion, and
softened the fear of dwelling in the unknown. Through attending to participants’
emotions with empathetic bodies, I suggest that the artists were attempting to
create optimal conditions to engage in open-ended enquiry.
I think there were other ways the artists used their bodies to negotiate space and
give rise to emotional states conducive to slow, open-ended enquiry. Several artists
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interpreted standing back to avoid interrupting or invading participants’ spaces. I
interpreted standing back as an attempt to offer participants some independence,
whilst also, as Lucy suggested, conveying a sense of shared humanity whilst work-
ing alongside participants. Dewey (1934/2005, p. 43) argues this balance between
the individual and the collective is essential to experiencing the emotional signif-
icance of aesthetic experience. He suggests it must feel as if emotions arise from
within the certainty of our own bodies, and yet they must be towards something,
including others, to reverberate. I suggest that all the artists in this study believed
that open-ended enquiry at least must feel as if it originates from their bodies in
order to feel unprescribed, authentic, and genuine. If this open-ended enquiry oc-
curs in the company of others, then it has the potential to reverberate and become
more significant.
I noted in my discussion of material how the artists were concerned with all the
senses and heightening as many as possible with sensory-rich materials. Nicola
noted that the body is there for people to discover the world, and the world that
appeared to interest the artists most is one that provides a rich playground for the
senses. Tossing wet water from a bridge, with the sight and sound of its splash,
had a rejuvenating quality for Evie and Zoe. Although the artists did not say it,
I interpreted them approaching the senses of the body as interconnected, rather
than cut off from one another (James, 1901). I would therefore argue they ap-
proached the body and its senses more holistically. Taking in the colours of the
world or ashened metal objects, I interpreted their interest in a glowing, heightened
multisensory state, which felt like a primordial unity of flesh and world in which
a sense of past and future is temporarily suspended (Dewey, 1934/2005).
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In my discussion of time, I have also suggested most artists described how slowli-
ness is as much about extension as it is stillness. Most expressed interest in how
the body is the site where participants might extend themselves through experi-
mentation beyond how their bodies are accustomed to be and act in spaces and
with materials. I found it helpful to turn to James’ (1901) theory of habit, in which
he describes how repetition causes ways of acting on the world to feel as if they
have sedimented in the muscles, allowing people to preconsciously act in familiar
situations. Yet James also notes this habituated body also possesses plasticity,
thus freeing up the body’s resources to negotiate unfamiliar tasks and acquire new
ways of acting with the world.
In these workshops, I interpreted artists encouraging participants to not feel be-
holden to habits of the past—a Nietzschean effort to unleash the body’s expansive
and active forces rather than its reactive forces that say no to what is different and
unfamiliar. Through Nietzche’s theorisation, lying in the grass as grassy people
becomes a radical act during which a mother refashions her body. She acquires a
new habit in which she does not, for at least a beautiful little moment, have to
be a mother doing things. Likewise, the artists interpreted themselves clowning
to create an experimental and uninhibited tone in which participants could poten-
tially extend their understanding of who they are and who they might become in
the world.
In summary, I argue that the artists attempted to offer empathetic and unin-
hibited bodies that were ever present to creating and adapting to an atmosphere
of warmth, enthusiasm, silliness, and suspense. They also attempted to facilitate
slow bodies in tune, or in unison, with unfamiliar worlds exempt from the prescrip-
tions of the past and expectations of the future. Together, they described their
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pedagogies of the body encouraging participants to extend their bodies through
open-ended enquiry. Through conditions they attempted to create with their bod-
ies across dimensions of space, time, and material, I interpreted them trying to
allow participants to refashion their accustomed habits in ways that could not have
been known beforehand. I now turn to how the artists similarly described using
language during their workshops.
6.5 Language
To this point, I have interpreted artists’ pedagogies of space, time, material, and
the body. In this final section of this framework, I present their overlapping inter-
est in language use during workshops. Through this theme, I examine the artists’
ways with words. In particular, I explore how the artists interpreted prompting
participants before turning to their discussions of playful and uninhibited narra-
tion. I follow this discussion with their aversion to particular types of talk, as well
as their preference in some instances for standing back and being quiet. Finally, I
discuss their interest in poetic, unfamiliar language. To conclude, I turn to philos-
ophy, particularly from a pragmatist perspective that draws on Richard Rorty and
Friedrich Nietzsche to further interpret their use of language. To begin this final
section of this chapter, I first turn to the artists’ interpretations of open-ended
starting points, or prompts.
6.5.1 Prompting
All artists interpreted the use of prompts, invitations, and/or provocations to catal-
yse participants’ explorations. The artists discussed presenting themes, much like
materials, at the beginning of workshops to serve as starting points. Examples
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include Evie and Zoe suggesting to participants at Potter’s Creek that they make
flags, create a space for placing, or water play. In some instances, artists described
selecting themes in light of recent events. Water play in the final workshop at
Potter’s Creek was a response to recent rain, and the space for placing was in-
spired by a girl displaying feathers in the holes of a log during an earlier workshop.
Sometimes, these themes seemed somewhat ambiguous, including Evie’s “make
something shelter-ish” at Potter’s Creek or Lucy’s “let’s see how clay sits in the
space” at Blackberry Bush. I would interpret the ambiguity of these themes as
consistent with their interest in allowing participants to direct unprescribed and
more authentic open-ended enquiry.
In addition to providing themes, several artists often used sensory surveys as a
starting point, which involved asking people what they heard, saw, felt, etc. One
parent interpreted the survey as “coming into the moment . . . almost slightly med-
itationally” as she “started to hear wind chime rings and be in the place in a
different way than before.” I interpreted this meditational tone being encouraged
by the way the artists spoke, which was slow and soft. This way of speaking could
be interpreted as further contributing to the friendly tone in ways that also drew
attention to participants’ bodies and their experiences of space and time. In this
sense, their way of speaking during the sensory survey could be interpreted as both
provoking and softening the fear of engaging in open-ended enquiry.
The artists also interpreted tailoring their provocations to participants’ explo-
rations throughout each workshop. All of the artists suggested they used open-
ended questions to do so. To illustrate, Megan contrasted these prompts with
briefs. A brief, she said, provides an outcome in advance though not necessarily
the pathway towards it. Reannon, the site partner at Powell Cemetery, interpreted
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the artists there using prompts: “Do you want masking tape?” or “What can we
do with this masking tape?” and not “Make a bracelet with masking tape.” She
suggested these questions do not express the possibility of judgement as there is
no sense of right or wrong.
Similarly, artists compared their prompts to what is often described as cued elic-
itation, or providing clues to answer questions in the questions themselves. They
noted how prompting leaves participants to their own devices, which can be an
unaccustomed feeling as it maintains ambiguity. Like ambiguous spaces and ma-
terials, Reannon noted how the open-endedness of these questions is difficult for
participants and can leave them with a “caught in the headlights feeling”. Keri
made a similar observation at Blackberry Bush, noting that participants appeared
stuck, not knowing what to do after Zoe and Lucy’s introduction to the first work-
shop. Nonetheless, Elaine also suggested that artists’ prompting at Potter’s Creek
provided a hint of structure, like bases and boundaries as I have noted, to soften
this feeling. Therefore, I argue that the artists used prompting to provoke open-
ended enquiry to encourage participants to direct enquiry amidst ambiguity in
ways the artists and participants might consider more pleasurable and genuine.
At the same time, Mary mentioned the difficulty of opening workshops, recognising
that the language the artists introduce through these prompts may not be the lan-
guage participants use. She noted the difficulty of trying to find a shared language
almost immediately that might make people feel comfortable in this uncertainty.
Zoe and Lucy might agree, for they noted always feeling like they have hashed the
introduction. Resembling the other artists, Mary interpreted workshops “opening
up” when there is a shift in dialogue away from participants asking for permission
(e.g. “Can I do this?” or “Can I use this material?”) towards inquisitiveness (e.g.
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“What would happen if I did this?”). I interpreted this shift as reflecting the
participant occupying a more self-directed and experimental position.
In summary, I interpreted these prompts as being partly a paradox. On the one
hand, they appeared to provide some structure so that participants could feel more
comfortable in the undirectedness of open-ended enquiry. On the other hand, they
appeared to be ambiguous and undefined enough to allow for the discomfort of
uncertainty. I interpreted the artists negotiating this tension to facilitate partic-
ipants in extending themselves beyond customary ways of being and doing with
materials in spaces. With this tension in mind, I now turn to how the the artists
discussed their use of narration.
6.5.2 Narrating
In addition to prompting participants with open-ended prompts, the artists inter-
preted using narration to further soften the fear of dwelling in the unknown. In my
previous section on working in pairs, I noted how Frances suggested she learned
the tricks of the trade from Rachel, and the first trick she cited was the use of
narration to facilitate participants’ explorations. Rachel interpreted narration as
allowing participants to explore materials somewhat free from the preconceptions
and expectations that might cause doubt or fear.
Inviting participants to make marks with their eyes closed, Rachel recounted mark
making workshops in which she narrated an imaginary landscape with dramatic
shifts in weather and an abundance of playful wildlife. She explored how partic-
ipants responded to her narration by making furious, short marks in response to
imagined rainfall. She interpreted these participants becoming immersed in mark
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making as she used this narrative to create what she described as a “mood of a
game”. My interpretation is that she used narration to create an uninhibited tone
that softened the fear of negotiating uncertainty and of being judged potentially
for the marks participants made.
At Powell Cemetery, Nicola and Zoe noted turning towards narration over the
course of the four workshops. Nicola suggested she wanted to move away from
using contrasts to facilitate participants’ explorations (e.g. big / little things; dark
/ bright things). As an alternative, she discussed wanting to shift towards encour-
aging children and adults to tell their own stories about their discoveries, noting
how much she particularly loved children’s stories that blurred the boundaries be-
tween the real and the imaginary. I interpret this emerging interest in stories as
consistent with Rachel’s interest in the mood of an uninhibited game. I also inter-
pret this shift towards narration as reflecting these two artists’ interest in moving
away from prescribing what participants should look for in the future, but instead
encouraging them to narrate, and possibly make sense of, open-ended enquiry after
it was complete.
There were numerous examples of this imaginary storytelling during workshops.
A girl at Blackberry Bush recounted a story to Zoe, who, resting on her knees,
transcribed on lining paper her imagined encounter, at least I assume, with the
fox and the bird. At Powell Cemetery, a girl imagined the lining paper as a river
where she storied about washing her purple monkey. At Blackberry Bush, a boy
gave his legoman a bath in the clay pond and later led a clay fish to the dark
side. And although Zoe and Lucy were concerned about the prescriptiveness of
the pond, I observed the same boy and others wage an imaginary sea battle there
including a mysterious cave, which incidentally, their father dismissed.
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In summary, I interpreted the artists’ use of narrative as a way to blur the bound-
aries between the real and the imaginary, creating a mood that felt playful and
uninhibited. They appreciated narrative for allowing people to construct worlds
where they might become protagonists of their own stories and/or transport them-
selves into the imaginary realm. In addition, they used storying as a way to avoid
prescribing what participants did and instead as a way to allow them to make
sense of it afterwards. A related approach to language included the artists’ sug-
gestion that they focused on descriptive ways of talking during workshops, if talk
was necessary at all.
6.5.3 Silence
Although the artists recounted the importance of prompting and using narrative,
they also discussed an aversion to particular types of talk, and in some cases, talk
in general. I noted in the section on working in pairs how all the artists inter-
preted the importance of standing back and not interrupting participants as they
explored. Nicola noted the importance of not “filling up space” with talk in com-
parison to some adults who spoke particularly during undirected, uncomfortable
workshop moments. Zoe and Megan argued that professional development work-
shops the organisation offered for teachers must allow them to do and be, rather
than talk. As I noted earlier, Evie similarly described avoiding thinking too hard
before workshops, noting the importance of coming into a way of being where she
would respond, do and be. Therefore, I interpret artists sometimes approaching
silence as a condition for and evidence of participants’ immersion in open-ended
enquiry, whereas talk was an anxious response to uncertainty.
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In addition, a common refrain throughout this research was that the artists wanted
to take time during their “sharing days” — termly meetings where the artists came
together — to make as a group rather than talk about their most recent work-
shops. Evie similarly described turning down a job because the position was more
concerned with talking about this work than actually doing it. She also described
feeling “intensely irritated” in art school when people were valued for their ability
to talk about their work but not necessarily their ability to make something beau-
tiful. In another telling example before fieldwork even began, one artist opted not
to participate in this study because this artist wanted to spend more time making
work and less time talking about it. I interpret this sentiment as reflecting the
artists’ primacy of the body over the mind, practice over theory, and immediate
engagement over retrospective meaning.
Evidence for this interpretation was further substantiated in an interview with
Rachel, who was critical of what she described as “talking jargon” within my re-
search and the organisation. I interpreted her using talking jargon to refer to the
different vocabularies she and other artists used to describe their workshops. She,
like many other artists discussed here, tried to de-emphasise talk during work-
shops. Several artists also expressed interest in how the descriptive cases in this
research would allow their actions to speak for themselves rather than being in-
terpreted or explained.
The artists also described and were observed offering adults, when in workshops
with children, documentation booklets. They interpreted these booklets as a means
to encourage participants, particularly adults, to stand back and avoid interrupt-
ing children. Nicola suggested this modelled a way for adults to avoid explaining
or shaping children’s explorations through talk. Earlier, I similarly noted how Evie
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interpreted using her body to shield children from what she described as unhelpful
interventions of adults.
I interpret the artists being more interested in an immersive way of being, which
de-emphasised talk and the verbal construction of meaning. Moreover, they were
attempting to model silence and intervene when necessary to minimise the extent
to which the explorations of participants, particularly children, were prescribed
and/or judged. De-emphasising talk is consistent with the somewhat atheoreti-
cal, almost preverbal, interpretation of slowliness that does not offer possibilities
for judgement. In this sense, I suspect that the artists considered the slowliness
they described to be ineffable. I now turn to how they expressed interest in more
descriptive and atheoretical forms of talk.
6.5.4 Describing
In addition to encouraging silence and avoiding interruption of slowliness, several
artists suggested it was unnecessary for participants to explain why they wanted to
do something during workshops. Evie intervened when the grandfather at Potter’s
Creek asked the boy to explain why he wanted to make holes. She suggested he
may not have had the vocabulary, or even needed one, to express that he simply
wanted to experience the pleasure of making holes. Several artists also expressed
interest in more descriptive and less explanatory forms of talk during workshops.
Lucy stood back to observe boys at Blackberry Bush making marks with white
chalk on black paper. Then, she described to them how they were doing “noisy
drawing on bumpy ground” affirming their way of drawing and also highlighting
its sensory-rich characteristics. Then, she placed a leaf on the paper and followed
with a prompt, “Perhaps you can observe a leaf and draw it”.
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At Blackberry Bush, Zoe similarly asked children to describe how it felt to muck
about in the clay pond. Again drawing attention to their senses, she echoed
back their words saying, ‘Cold! Messy! Slippy!’, using her body to accentuate each
word. Zoe added sound effects to participants’ movement. She made the unfamil-
iar sound, “katunk”, when the child at Powell Cemetery landed from his jumps
across white paper. Megan suggested she hoped participants used this sensory
language, which as Lucy and Zoe agreed, indicates that talk is emerging from
the immersive exploration of material. Consistent with my interpretation of the
artists’ use of silence, I interpret the artists’ being interested in descriptive use of
language to draw attention to their immersive, open-ended enquiry.
Alternatively, I interpret the artists refraining from using explanatory forms of lan-
guage because that could prescribe this enquiry. During one of the school-based
workshops at Powell Cemetery, Reannon contrasted the artists ways of describ-
ing immersion with some of the teachers and parents’ tendencies to hold leaves
and ask children to identify their trees. Most artists expressed strong aversion to
this type of speech, which they interpreted as identifying and classifying the world.
Instead, most artists expressed an interest in participants avoiding naming things
they observed. I interpreted the artists wanting participants to immerse themselves
in the unfamiliarity of found objects, including a leaf. Rather than assuming they
knew what it was and experiencing the brief satisfaction of identifying it, I inter-
pret the artists wanting to use language to draw attention to the leaf’s speckled
and veined skin. In this way, I interpret their use of descriptive language as a tool
to draw participants’ into an immersive, sensory-heightened state during which
they could meaningfully and pleasurably engage in open-ended enquiry.
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As a participant observer, I struggled with using descriptive rather than classi-
ficatory language during workshops. I regretted asking Zoe what her teepee struc-
tures were at Blackberry Bush. I similarly wished I could take back the moment I
identified the children’s bracelets at Powell Cemetery. From the artists’ perspec-
tives, these objects did not need to be identified. Instead, they could be affirmed
through description in sensory terms and participants’ explorations of them could
be extended further through another prompt.
So I interpret the artists not feeling it was necessary to explain the meaning
of beautiful little moments. Indeed, explaining them for the artists seemed to
interfere to some extent with participants experiencing these moments. I also
suspect that artists were averse to identifying or classifying the world within exist-
ing webs of knowledge because it would presuppose a right or wrong answer that
prescribed outcome and made it easier for people to fail. Therefore, descriptive
language would be more inclusive in facilitating open-ended enquiry. I take this
interpretation further by discussing how the artists interpreted their use of poetic
language.
6.5.5 Poeticising
In addition to focusing on descriptive, somewhat atheoretical forms of speech, the
artists recounted the use of playful and inventive approaches to language. Megan
argued that one of the key criteria for a successful workshop was participants in-
venting language. Recounting a story from one of the first school-based workshops
she facilitated, she described placing a large piece of thick glass on dewy grass.
A girl stepped on the glass to examine puddles of dew beneath the glass as the
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sun shone on top of it. Megan recounted the girl inventing the word “suddles” by
combining puddles and sun to describe an unfamiliar encounter.
There were a variety of examples of inventing language I observed and heard
during workshops. At Powell Cemetery, a child invented the work “nutkin” to
describe a catkin, and a girl named a “snow machine tree” as her mother noted
moving beyond the fear that her daughter should not be allowed to shake the
flower blossoms from it. Along similar lines, Lucy used playful alliteration when
she offered a boy “chalky chalk” at Blackberry Bush. I interpreted the significance
of the invention of language to the artists as evidence that participants were en-
gaging with the unfamiliar. New words reflected to the artists an extended and
previously unknown way of engaging with the world, and indeed, the creation of
new words themselves is an unfamiliar experience.
I believe there were also other poetic uses of language valued by the artists. At
Powell Cemetery, Zoe clowned with language, echoing a boy who doubly plu-
ralised holes by saying “holeses”. She also did it on her own when she prompted
participants at the same site to shut their ‘eyeses’. At Blackberry Bush, Zoe also
personified the wind, welcoming it to the group’s workshop, when a wind burst
lifted the lining paper and tossed everybody’s materials to the side. Frances sim-
ilarly interpreted using language that encourages the imagination to go playfully
as far as it wants to go.
Nicola offered an example when she described asking participants, “What if the
whole world was made of mud?” Frances noted how this playful language causes
participants to jump out of habituated ways of being. Zoe similarly noted the im-
portance of using language that is “dreamy”, “upside down”, and “non-sensical”
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to quickly indicate that what the artists are offering is a “different way of being”.
This clowning with language is consistent with ways they used their bodies to
create an uninhibited tone conducive to experimentation.
Most artists suggested preferring metaphors to literal language because they open
up opportunities for meaning, allowing them to “step sideways”, as Zoe said, and
see the world anew. Stepping sideways has resonances with their uses of mate-
rial, as Lucy noted her interest in ambiguous projections of an OHP rather than
the literal, real time representations of a digital visualiser. I noticed some artists
searching for metaphors in their attempt to describe their pedagogies, which they
often noted was difficult. Megan described how she has struggled to find the right
“speak” for their workshops, transitioning from “art speak” to “education speak”
in the search for suitable metaphors.
Throughout this research, I even sensed that some artists felt that my project
was a Sisyphean task, questioning the very idea of finding adequate language to
describe their pedagogies. When I first introduced my research to the artists as a
group, noting my interest in describing their pedagogies, several artists seemed to
wish me luck in jest. Moreover, I found some artists being evasive in explaining the
meaning of metaphors they used. I felt sometimes that they were not interested
in pinning down meanings ascribed to their pedagogies.
Prior to my involvement, the organisation itself had also struggled with finding
suitable and clear language to describe artists’ pedagogies. Months before my re-
search had begun, there had been an internal crisis of sorts within the organisation.
Mary noted that an external consultant assessed the organisation and put forward
the key finding that there was a lack of clarity around how they described their
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work. Mary noted attempting to play more of a translational role, trying to com-
municate what the artists planned to do specifically in workshops for partners and
more broadly as an organisation. Yet she described meeting resistance from some
artists when she tried to push for this clarity. I interpreted this resistance to my
research and that process as evidence that the artists want to keep open the pos-
sibility for new meanings. Keeping their language ambiguous is largely consistent
with their efforts to maintain open-ended enquiry that engages with the unfamiliar.
Through this exercise of attempting to describe their work, both Mary and Megan
suggested several artists may have felt pressure that they were being held to ac-
count in new ways. With this crisis in mind, Mary rhetorically asked, “Is it
threatening [to the artists] to name [their pedagogies] or better left unnamed? I
don’t know.” In light of this question, I now turn to summarise and then fur-
ther interpret how the artists described uses of language, primarily drawing on
philosophy from a pragmatist perspective.
6.5.6 Interpreting language: Playful, poetic language
In this section, I have discussed how artists interpreted prompting participants
with open-ended starting points that would avoid prescribing participants’ explo-
rations. I discussed how several interpreted narration as a tool to create a playful,
uninhibited and imaginary tone in which participants could suspend prescriptions
of the past or expectations of the future. I turned to the importance the artists’ ex-
pressed towards standing back and being silent to avoid interrupting participants’
slowliness. I also noted some artists were averse to talk in general, placing greater
emphasis on creating opportunities to experience this immersive slowliness rather
than talk about it. Yet, they also expressed an interest in descriptive language
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that revealed the sensory nature of participants’ explorations. Finally, I inter-
preted how artists averted explanatory and classificatory forms of speech during
their workshops, but valued playful and inventive language. These pedagogies of
language have been visually displayed in Figure 6.5.
These interpretations have strong resonances with how the artists described ap-
proaching the body, time, material, and spaces. They described using ways of
speaking that could facilitate immersive, open-ended enquiry. They appeared to
question the extent to which verbal expression is privileged over visual or kinaes-
thetic languages. I interpreted their interest in talk playing a somewhat secondary
role, affirming but not interfering with the sensory-rich nature of participants’
open-ended, sensory-heightened enquiry.
I interpreted their resistance to talk, particularly classificatory talk, because of
the ways in which it conveys judgement. The artists seemed interested in avoiding
language that created the basis for whether participants might be judged right
or wrong, capable or incapable. They used documentation booklets and standing
back to prevent adults from introducing language that relates what participants
discover with what is already known. They were not concerned with whether
adults and children could classify an oak leaf within the known taxonomy of leaves.
Alternatively, when the artists used language, I noted that they seemed partic-
ularly interested in metaphor, what Rorty (1989, p. 28) describes as unfamiliar
marks and noises. Engaging with the unfamiliar presupposes that one does not
yet have the language to formulate what it is that one wants to do. Metaphor
is necessary to make sense of the unfamiliar. Unfamiliar utterances indicate that
indeed the child has led herself into an unmappable place of mystery and doubt,
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Playful, poetic language
Poeticising
Using metaphor
To extend possibilities for 
being and doing
Clowning with words To create an uninhibited tone
Inventing words To engage with the unfamiliar
Describing
Using descriptive 
not explanatory talk
To be inclusive
To facilitate immersive enquiry
Silence
Standing back 
and not talking
To emphasise immersive enquiry
To avoid prescribing enquiry
Narrating Telling stories
To make sense of open-ended enquiry
To create the uninhibited mood of a game
Prompting Providing open-ended 
questions and themes
To provide some structure to 
open-ended enquiry
To maintain ambiguity and 
allow for self-directed enquiry
Theme Category What they did How they valued it
Figure 6.5: Concept map of pedagogies of language
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CHAPTER 6. INTERPRETATION
beyond how her habituated body has described her relationships to things, such as
sunshine and puddles, in the past. When the metaphor suddles is uttered, it causes
new conjectures, new ways of interrelating with the world that might emancipate
the body from engrained, sedimented habits.
As Rorty (1989, p. 18) argues, to speak in metaphor is also to utter something
which is neither true or false, right or wrong. It cannot be confirmed or discon-
firmed, argued for or against. It can only “be savoured or spit out” (Rorty, 1989,
p. 18). In other words, the word suddles may be used in the future to describe the
relationship to sunshine and puddles if it becomes useful. In this case, it would
no longer act metaphorically and instead become literal and provide the basis for
classifying suddles and non-suddles.
Rorty (1989) is borrowing from Nietzsche (1874) to make this point, as Nietzsche
describes “truth” as “a movable host of metaphors”. After adopting its usage,
metaphors become literal, and for Nietzsche, they become “fixed, canonical, and
binding”. Understanding truth as a movable host of metaphors is helpful in inter-
preting why some artists were averse to talk and others seemed sceptical to having
the meaning of their metaphors pinned down. Savouring these metaphors through
this research might cause them to become literal. Then, these literal worlds might
offer the basis in the future to judge whether the artists’ pedagogies are true or
false, right or wrong.
But these artists seemed interested in an inclusive approach. I interpret their
inclusion arising out of the assumption that one cannot know where the next dis-
covery will come or who will produce it. If it could be predicted, then it could
not be a discovery. Therefore, they used language in an attempt to avoid labels
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and limits and to maintain possibility for who might extend understanding of how
people might be or act in the world.
Avoiding labels and limits is largely consistent with one interpretation of what
it means to be an artist. To be an artist in the broadest sense, Nietzsche (1874)
argues that it requires standing at the frontier of that which is not understood,
inventing new languages to describe the unfamiliar. If the experience is unfamil-
iar, then it requires inventing language that acts metaphorically to describe it and
further open up possibilities for who one might become.
The artists here make me wonder whether it also requires cannibalising one’s
metaphors. In other words, artists here altered and erased the meanings of metaphors
used in the past to reassert their position at this frontier of unfamiliarity. If they let
their metaphors become literal, then the beautiful little moments they are seeking
could be mapped and judged beforehand. Then they would be prescribing their
enquiry, which would threaten their interests.
Several artists also reiterated to me how they often hear from early years edu-
cators how they did not know their pupils were capable of doing what they did
during the artists’ workshops. All the artists emphasised the ultimate tragedy:
when participants accept other’s judgemental descriptions, such as the boy who
does not do nature walks. I sense the artists wanted to move beyond the literal,
that which is already known and prescribes and judges what can be done, to allow
participants to become the makers of new words as they discover unaccustomed
ways of being and doing. I now turn in the next chapter to summarise findings
from these five themes and discuss them in relation to the justification for this
educational research.
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Chapter 7
Discussion
When I started this research, I set out to understand what artists do, the vocabu-
laries they use to describe what they do, and how they value what they have done.
I was interested in these research questions because there was little independent
research that had represented artists’ pedagogies from their perspectives. This lack
of knowledge existed despite the fact that artists had been given the responsibility
to train the UK’s creative workforce and promote social and emotional wellbeing.
In the previous two chapters, I presented both descriptive and interpretive findings
that emerged through a multiphased, principally ethnographic research design that
prioritised artists’ perspectives. Now I plan to step slightly outside my phenomeno-
logical role as ethnographic researcher to discuss why I think these findings matter.
First, I summarise my interpretation of these artists’ pedagogies across the five
dimensions discussed in the previous chapter: space, time, material, body, and lan-
guage. Third, I examine these artists’ pedagogies in relation to existing knowledge
of artist pedagogy and policy justifications for artists’ engagement in education.
Fourth, I conclude by summarising this research’s contributions to the education
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CHAPTER 7. DISCUSSION
field and by suggesting new areas for education research. I have included a visual
map of a summary of findings in Figure 7.1 and a bullet point list in Appendix M.
In Appendix N, I have also included a larger format and more detailed visual map
that presents all the themes and categories. I have presented these three displays
to the artists in addition to the three descriptive cases.
A critical insight into the artists’ perspectives towards their pedagogies that were
largely consistent across sites and different populations emerged during a workshop
at Potter’s Creek. I sensed a tinge of irony as Zoe told the participants at Potter’s
Creek that she and Evie were most interested in “beautiful little moments”. Zoe
appeared to understate the significance of these moments by describing them as lit-
tle. At the same time, she and the other artists continued to discuss the magnitude
of these moments in conversations with me. I interpreted the artists suggesting
that human beings are only moments under the sun, but these moments—these
beautiful little moments—are when people truly come alive.
I interpreted these beautiful little moments as occurrences of poiesis when people
make and transform their relationship to the world. The artists were interested in
participants becoming poets in the broadest sense. They wanted participants to
become the makers of new and distinctive ways of being, doing, and talking in the
world. During these beautiful little moments, old ways of being in the world are
left behind and people extend themselves into new realms of possibility and un-
derstanding in ways that could not have been predicted beforehand. These poetic
moments are out-of-body and out-of-time experiences as people transition from the
old to the new, the familiar to the unfamiliar, the known to the not known. Then
to answer what these artists did, my finding is that they attempted to create the
conditions for open-ended enquiry across five dimensions—space, time, material,
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CHAPTER 7. DISCUSSION
Slowliness
Taking time
Untabling time
Slowing time
Empathetic, uninhibited bodies
Tonesetting
Gesturing and 
positioning
Working in pairs
Simple materials
Ordinary
Low-tech
Slippage
Immediacy
Sensory-rich
Ephemeral
Abundant materials / 
limited palette
Playful, poetic language
Poeticising
Describing
Silence
Narrating
Prompting
Softened, unprescribed spaces
Clearing spaces
Decluttering 
spaces
Establishing 
boundaries
Creating focal points
Creating the conditions
to extend possibilities
for being and doing
through open-ended enquiry
An interpretive framework of artists' pedagogies.  Submitted 
as part of a PhD thesis: Denmead, T. (2011) Beautiful Little 
Moments: A principally ethnographic study of a group of East 
Anglian artists.  University of Cambridge, Cambridge.
Theme Category What they did How they valued it
Key
Figure 7.1: Concept map that summarises the artists’ pedagogies
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CHAPTER 7. DISCUSSION
body, and language—so that this unpredictable transformation, these beautiful
little moments, could occur.
The artists believed that open-ended enquiry was necessary to unleash partici-
pants from the prescriptions of the past and the expectations of the future. They
held strongly that this transformation springs up when pathways forward are not
clearly mapped or prescribed and therefore they clouded workshops in ambiguity.
The artists attempted to suspend predicting who will experience the next beautiful
little moment, or how or why. If these moments could be predicted beforehand,
then they would fall short of the artists’ aspirations for more evocative, inventive,
and genuine ways of being.
The artists were also highly concerned with creating an emotionally protected
and inclusive space for participants to engage in this open-ended enquiry. They
were sensitive to the ways in which open-ended enquiry might wither amidst the
fear of uncertainty and judgement. They believed these moments of slowliness
bloom when all the senses of the body are heightened and engaged, thus drawing
the body more deeply into immersion and out of the fear of uncertainty. There-
fore, they espoused pedagogies of tender care, deeply attuned to the emotions of
participants, to soften the fear of dwelling in the unknown and to inspire beautiful
little moments.
To answer why the artists valued their pedagogies, my finding is that they be-
lieved that there are too few opportunities for people to develop the capabilities
to make their distinctive mark on the world and enjoy the pleasure of doing so.
The artists particularly discussed the limited opportunities for people to refashion
ways of being and doing as a result of the corporatisation of public institutions,
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CHAPTER 7. DISCUSSION
particularly schools. According to this view, schools have taken a market-driven
approach that stresses efficiency towards predictable and measurable outcomes,
stoked through competition for fewer resources between students, teachers, schools,
learning authorities, and nations. Within this climate, artists viewed teachers who
are pressured to teach to tests in a “hurry along” climate (Dadds, 1994) and stu-
dents who are often pressured to “play the system” and work towards prescribed
outcomes rather than experience the joy, curiosity, and discomfort of being in the
world in unfamiliar ways (Jeffrey, 2003; Pollard et al., 2000).
The artists railed against the narrowing of the possibilities for being through
schools’ rigid regimes of teaching and testing that legitimise particular forms of
knowledge that can be predicted, verbalised, and efficiently marked. The artists
argued against classrooms that breed conformity through prescribing disembodied
ways of being in spaces (e.g. sitting at desks) and devaluing pleasure and ex-
ploring with the whole body. They lamented schools for narrowing the curricula
towards more so-called practical subjects to churn out employable workers ever-
more efficiently. They critiqued schools as tragic sites of judgement where these
externally-imposed regimes predetermine possibilities for being through judging
who is (not) able or what ways of being are (not) legitimate. The artists longed
for emotional and physical spaces in which teachers and students could resist the
external imposition of values and approaches shaped by market assumptions. The
artists longed for conditions in which people could unpredictably and slowly ex-
tend their understanding of how and what it means for them to be in the world.
Their open-ended pedagogies attempted to create these conditions.
To answer how the artists described their pedagogies, my finding is that they
used poetic language consistent with this open-ended approach. The artists cre-
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CHAPTER 7. DISCUSSION
ated a variety of unfamiliar, poetic terms including slippage and slowliness that
conveyed a sense of ambiguity and possibility. Some artists drew on some con-
cepts that are more familiar in the context of “art speak”, as Megan described
it, including open-ended and site-specific pedagogies, but they were not nearly as
cited as words the artists had created. The artists rarely incorporated terms asso-
ciated with classroom pedagogy. They did, however, introduce phenomenological
concepts into this research of being, time, and space.
At this point, I remain unclear how introducing their emic concepts into this
emerging field of research will be useful for the artists I researched or artists who
might read this study. It seemed more useful for the artists I researched if these
concepts remained ambiguous. This longing for ambiguity was consistent with the
artists’ interest in an unprescribed engagement with the unfamiliar and the mak-
ing of unfamiliar ways of being in the world. These artists could see it as a sign of
failure if they accept other people’s terms or conceptions of their own. Shared and
defined concepts would no longer act metaphorically for the artists and allow them
to engage with the unfamiliar. This finding led me to refrain from introducing into
my representation many of the pedagogic concepts that I reviewed in Chapter 3,
even if concepts of scaffolding or structuring situations could be considered par-
ticularly relevant.
So if the question is how artists described their pedagogies, then I think the key
finding is less concerned with the actual vocabularies they used. How the artists
created and cannibalised concepts to maintain ambiguity in ways that might be
conducive to open-ended enquiry is the more significant finding. With this finding
in mind, the logic follows that pedagogic concepts from a phenomenological per-
spective might resonate more with artists. These concepts—such as space, time,
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CHAPTER 7. DISCUSSION
body, and relationships—are more understated and less academic than sociocul-
tural theoretical terms. Thus, these everyday terms may appear to be less of an
external imposition and may provide greater latitude for artists’ interpretation and
use.
It is little surprise that these artists held these values, used these approaches,
and took this stance towards the description of their pedagogies. Artists resist-
ing externally-imposed and institutionalised ways of being, doing, and talking is
common-sense knowledge about what it means to be an artist. These pedagogies
are also not new. They feature strongly in the expressionist post-war era dur-
ing which art teachers and artists took a hands-off approach and allowed young
people to cathartically express themselves through the arts (Efland, 1990). These
artists’ pedagogies also possessed a contemporary hue when they facilitated the
construction of temporary, site-specific installations. Ephemeral installations are
consistent with the dematerialisation of arts practice that has arisen out of artists’
anti-consumerist attitudes towards the art market (Lippard, 1997). Whilst not
necessarily new, this research makes a contribution to the education field by repre-
senting artists’ pedagogies and their pedagogic vocabularies from their perspectives
in ways that did not exist to my knowledge.
This account of their pedagogies still did surprise me even though I could have
predicted them to some extent. In particular, these findings offer a counterpoint
to the stereotype of artists in the educational field: they show up to workshops at
the last minute unprepared and then allow the workshops to unfold “organically”
if not chaotically. The artists in this research constantly described struggling with
this perception. I would be remiss if I did not point out that there was some
evidence during my fieldwork to validate this view. For example, some artists
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CHAPTER 7. DISCUSSION
sometimes showed up later than I anticipated to meet me before workshops or
during meetings later. But I also took note of how these artists possessed a highly
considered pedagogic approach that I hope my account reveals. It could appear to
the “natural observer” that the artists were unprepared and not doing much. Mov-
ing beyond this perception was one of the difficulties of my role as a participant
observer. But doing so allowed me to realise that what is perceived pejoratively
about artists—that they can be unprepared, unclear, late and lazy—may be a
misinterpretation of their essential attributes. In other words, artists’ flexibility
towards time and space may be central to their negative capability. Their use of
ambiguous language may be central to their distinct capacity to create the open-
ended conditions for participants to extend possibilities for who they are and who
they might become. These characteristics may distinguish artists who have the
responsibility to develop a creative workforce, which I discuss next.
7.1 On the subject of the creative workforce
None of the artists in this research described their pedagogies in relation to the
creative industries or creative workforce development. Nonetheless, there were ob-
vious affinities between how the artists enacted their pedagogies and the different
proposed methods for “reskilling and educating the population” for the creative
workforce. Their emphasis on open-ended enquiry was not bound by any dis-
cipline and encouraged flexible approaches to problem solving. The artists also
demonstrated a nonhierachical and nonauthoritative approach that provided par-
ticipants more autonomy in experimenting and representing “their own ideas”, as
Mary described it.
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Creative learning’s emphasis on improvisation as a tool to develop the creative
workforce is clearly evident in their pedagogies. “Collaborative knowledge build-
ing activities”, another described feature of creative learning, was also evident.
Although the artists never used the rhetoric of knowledge generation per se, they
did describe and enact participants working together to challenge customary ways
of being in the world and to share the significance of moments when they occurred.
The artists researched in this study, therefore, were enacting pedagogies that are
consistent with methods proposed to develop a creative workforce.
However, there were stark differences between how the artists valued their ped-
agogies and the economic aspirations of creative workforce development policy.
The artists approached their pedagogies as a way to resist accumulation through
personal consumption. The artists’ interests sharply contrasted with TWF’s ar-
gument that a creative workforce is needed to meet the complex emotional and
psychological needs of consumers (TWF, 2007, p. 17). The artists were highly re-
sistant to externally imposed, unquenchable flicks of desire used as a tool to drive
consumption. They were interested in sustained, slow pleasure arising from within
the body through sensory-based exploration.1
Differences in the artists’ values, approaches, and vocabularies show how their
pedagogies are in tension with the underlying rationale for engaging artists in de-
veloping a workforce for the creative industries. The artists would never state
that experiencing beautiful little moments is necessary to strengthen the UK’s in-
ternational economic competitiveness and improve GDP. These artists would find
that claim to be the pinnacle of absurdity. The artists alternatively stressed the
importance of extending possibilities for being in the world because they believe
1I am particularly drawing on Foucault’s delineation between pleasure and desire, which can
be listened to here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uNcQA3MSdIE.
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this to be among the highest ideals human beings can enact. This contrast be-
tween their pedagogies and the creative workforce rationale reveals a paradox that
offers support for Garnham’s (2005) critique, namely that the “ambiguity of [the
creative industries’] rhetoric can mobilise individuals with disparate interests. . . ”
(pp. 15–16). This paradox raises some difficult issues given that CP and related
initiatives have given artists a central role in developing the creative workforce.
Artists may not want to enlist in initiatives as they become aware of how these
initiatives’ values strongly contrast with their own. Yet artists may not have the
economic flexibility to turn down these contracts given the short-term, freelance
nature of their professional lives.
CP and similar initiatives might also find that commissioning creative practition-
ers from other sectors who perhaps share these economic values may not bring the
pedagogic approaches suitable to developing the skills necessary to work in the
creative industries. Moreover, research might also find that creative practitioners
from other sectors are similarly sceptical of these values but still do not bring these
approaches. Perhaps it is the negative capability that one develops through art
making—a practice that these artists would argue is available for anyone to try—
that is central to pedagogic approaches needed to develop a creative workforce and
resist its economic rationale.
I cannot claim at this point that only artists within the creative industries de-
velop and resist the creative workforce. There is little research to my knowledge
that examines the pedagogies of creative practitioners who participate in other
sectors such as software design, advertising, and television. This points to a new
avenue for research that can be compared with the findings presented in this study.
Further investigating the pedagogies of creative practitioners within the different
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sectors of the creative industries can settle the question of who is fit for developing
a creative workforce, how, and why. Next I discuss these artists’ pedagogies in
relation to social and emotional aspects of learning.
7.2 On the subject of wellbeing
In contrast to the creative workforce agenda discussed above, the artists explicitly
supported facilitating social and emotional aspects of learning that were associ-
ated with the New Labour government’s wellbeing agenda. A fundamental value
for the artists in this research was inclusion. They sought to avoid at all costs the
possibility that any of their participants might feel excluded from participating
and not have the opportunity to experience beautiful little moments. Moreover,
the artists also paid acute attention to the emotional dimension of participants’
engagement in their workshops. They attempted to create conditions that offered
emotional security and minimised fear that could be associated with engaging with
the unknown.
How the artists enacted their pedagogies was also consistent with addressing par-
ticipants’ social and emotional needs. Pedagogies of open-ended investigation,
experimentation, and teamwork were described as beneficial for wellbeing (QCA,
2009). The artists described and enacted their pedagogies in ways that were also
consistent with these more nonhierachical and nonauthoritative values and meth-
ods. And although these artists did not engage in “passionate and committed
subject teaching” per se as the QCA (2009) argues is necessary, passion and com-
mitment could be used to describe their approaches.
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The artists’ vocabularies are also consistent with social and emotional aspects of
pedagogy. Slowliness has strong affinities with depth in creative learning (Sefton-
Green, 2008, p. 12), flow (Csikszentmihalyi, 1991), engagement (Hart, 1998; Ben-
nett et al., 1984), and absorption (Armstrong, 1980). These concepts emphasise
how people might become immersed in pleasurable and extended ways of being in
the world. Yet, the artists’ description of slowliness draws attention to the senses
and materials in ways that do not feature as strongly in these other concepts. In
contrast to the developmental sensory theory of Montessori, I noted these artists
described and approached the senses as being there for people throughout life to
discover an unfamiliar world. I suggested, therefore, the artists’ approach is more
consistent with Dewey’s theorisation of heightened and pleasurable aesthetic ex-
perience. These artists’ pedagogies draw attention to the relationship between
physical matter and absorption in ways that have not been as widely discussed to
my knowledge.
The artists’ engagement of the senses and their approach to materials also draws
further attention to the body and technology. The artists refrained from intro-
ducing new and/or electronically powered technologies to engage the senses. They
seemed to place a special emphasis on working outdoors to become immersed in
so-called natural sights and sounds. I interpreted the artists’ critiquing technology
as a negative aspect of consumerism. Shusterman (2008) describes how technol-
ogy overstimulates and desensitises the body, thus driving consumption through
an unyielding demand for greater stimulation: more speed, more information, and
stronger sensations.
The artists’ interest in softer, more natural somatic stimulation is consistent with
their interest in sustained sensory pleasure arising from within as opposed to desire
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being overstimulated from without. Whilst the artists did not argue for a com-
plete abdication of technology in some utopian back-to-nature fantasy—they used
iPhones to document workshops—they did invite consideration of how to approach
the body and its senses when attempting to promote physical and emotional health
amidst a wired world.
The artists rejected the assumption that knowledge can only be stored and ex-
pressed verbally. They emphasised a body’s way of knowing, which may not be
clearly expressible orally. This focus on embodied ways of knowing is significant
in the context of schooling because of the emphasis on “learners” being able to
clearly state “what they have learned” for this knowing to be registered and val-
idated. The artists critiqued schools where the optic sense has been privileged
and students have to sit still behind desks to focus their eyes and their minds for
knowledge attainment that can be spoken back. The assumption underlying this
disembodied approach is that the eyes provide a direct portal to the mind where
symbolic forms of knowledge are transcribed on its translucent membrane, ready
for later recall through speech or writing (Bresler, 2004).
The artists’ emphasis on the body presents a challenge to move beyond optic
and linguistic dominated approaches to pedagogy. This challenge seemed particu-
larly relevant to me when considering the increased presence of digital technology
in everyday life. The powers of computing, storing, sharing, and carrying data
afforded by new technologies express the pinnacle of how the mind traditionally
has been conceived. These technologies allow for the transmission, storage, and
retrieval of knowledge bits in networked databases in ways that will never be pos-
sible for the brain. Yet, the human use of technology is limited by the physical
needs of the body (e.g. rest, love, movement).
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In this digital age, these artists’ pedagogies provoked me to consider the renewed
importance of focusing on embodied approaches to pedagogy. If networked tech-
nology is usurping what could ever be envisioned for the educated mind, then
the opportunity seems ripe to extend understanding of the educated body. These
artists’ approaches extended that understanding for me in ways I had not antici-
pated.
Another feature of these artists’ pedagogies that has not been widely discussed
in literature on artist pedagogy or wellbeing is judgement. The artists’ most vi-
tal concern was that their workshops avoided participants feeling prescribed for
what they might do or judged for what they have done. These artists wanted to
create conditions in which participants could step beyond imposed conceptions of
themselves. They appeared to take pride in the ways in which parents and teach-
ers described participants in new ways (e.g. a daughter who enjoys ladybirds and
a son who likes nature walks). The artists were highly sensitive to orthodoxies
that become inscribed across dimensions such as space and time that provide the
basis for judgement. The artists were critical of the orthodoxy of the seemingly
innocuous nature walk—going from here to there and identifying leaves—because
this orthodoxy could then be used to judge who is good at it and who likes it.
This judgement could then be used to exclude who is given the opportunity and
to prejudge how people can be in the outdoors.
To create conditions where people can learn without vocabularies being used to
judge and limit who they are and who they can be in the world, these artists
draw attention to pedagogies of erasure. I interpreted these artists erasing ortho-
doxies that become inscribed in materials, spaces, bodies, language, and time (e.g.
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decluttering spaces, slowing down time, uttering unfamiliar words, introducing un-
orthodox art materials that slip, clowning with their bodies). I think these artists’
pedagogies invite others interested in inclusive learning to consider how they erase
orthodoxies to do so.
This discussion on the senses and erasing orthodoxies highlights the complexities
of these artists’ pedagogies in relation to social and emotional aspects of pedagogy.
It presents a more nuanced account than using the arts to enhance moods through
self-expression (Weare, 2000) or that happiness contributes to academic achieve-
ment (DfES, 2005c). The artists in this research believed that engaging with the
unfamiliar through open-ended enquiry is uncomfortable but that this discomfort
is necessary to extend possibilities for being. Therefore, these artists’ pedagogies
negotiate the difficult balance between providing the emotional security and inse-
curity that is necessary for people to extend themselves somewhere unfamiliar.
One question that I struggled to address throughout fieldwork was who—artists
and/or participants—felt emotionally insecure during workshops, at what mo-
ments and why. I sensed that although the artists were creating the conditions for
open-ended enquiry, they knew the general contours of what was going to happen
during workshops. The artists also did not have to confront the ambiguity of ex-
ploring unfamiliar materials because they introduced materials that were familiar
to them every workshop. I also observed the artists using them in similar ways
across sites. The artists’ emotional insecurity appeared to arise when participants
did not engage in their prompts. Zoe and Lucy seemed to particularly struggle
with participants at Blackberry Bush opting out to play in the pond. Evie and Zoe
also seemed distraught at Potter’s Creek when vandals destroyed their installations
even though these installations were not meant to last anyway. It seemed to be
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CHAPTER 7. DISCUSSION
rejection that was distressing to the artists, not engaging with the unfamiliarity
of materials and spaces.
I wondered whether the artists confronted less ambiguity than they asked of par-
ticipants. I debated whether the artists were demanding fewer emotional risks of
themselves than the participants. For the artists, a workshop appeared to some-
times be another day at work. For some participants, the workshops seemed to
have the potential to become unusual and distressing events. My debate about the
potential for participants to become distressed ultimately raised questions for me
about power and ethics. I was unsure how emotional security and insecurity were
distributed among artists and participants and how artists facilitated workshops
to create or address this distribution. Moreover, I was unsure what ethical consid-
erations the artists gave to this emotional dimension of their workshops when the
artists could be construed as unexpectedly manipulating participants’ emotional
states.
Artists’ ethical obligations with respect to participants’ emotions is a grey area
worth considering further. More attention could be given to how participants ex-
perience emotions during artists’ workshops and how participants attribute those
experiences to artists’ pedagogies. Related research could examine the ethics of
artists engaging participants in potentially distressing open-ended enquiry. Re-
search on ethics and emotions would contribute to extending the understanding
of what is known about artist pedagogy. I now discuss the artists’ pedagogies in
relation to this body of knowledge.
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7.3 On the subject of pedagogy
There were several similarities between findings in this research and existing re-
search on artist pedagogy. The ways in which the artists attempted to establish
non-hierarchical, “working alongside” relationships with participants resonated
with similar descriptions of “constructivist” pedagogies (Pringle, 2008; Galton,
2008). The artists investigated in this study also could be described as engaging in
an experiential and experimental process of collaborative enquiry with participants
(Burnard & Swann, 2010). I also described a variety of ways the artists attempted
to maintain ambiguity whilst lowering the risk for failure, such as open-ended
prompts and spatial ranges. Galton (2008) describes similar interests including
how artists structure tasks through dialogue.
The artists’ sensitivity towards the ways in which fear might inhibit participants’
explorations is also consistent with Galton’s (2008) description of how artists he
studied negotiated behavioural problems as emotional concerns and not cerebral
ones. I discussed how the artists in this research attended to ways in which feelings
in the body might give rise to emotions that facilitate or inhibit one’s explorations.
Therefore, these artists used their bodies to create and adapt to the tone of work-
shops in ways they felt were conducive to dwelling in the unknown. The artists’
tonesetting resonates with the ways in which Burnard & Swann (2010) describe
musicians honouring and allowing for students to experience the emotional troughs
and peaks of composing.
I also explored how artists organised space, material, and time to allow for open-
ended investigation led by participants (Maddock et al., 2007; Cremin, 2006). The
artists here similarly negotiated how to move time and space from being pre-
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dictable, normative, and accountable to being unknown, open, and contingent
(Maddock et al., 2007). I think this study in particular adds to this emerging
body of research by describing specific ways artists approached space, time and
material. Some research emphasised the more “dialogic” nature of artists’ ped-
agogies in comparison to teachers (Galton, 2008). This research also specifically
describes how artists approached language to facilitate participants’ explorations,
such as narrative and sensory-rich description.
In examining the vocabularies artists use to describe their pedagogies, I adopted
themes from phenomenology. This contribution of these five themes—time, space,
material, body, and language—as a starting point for pedagogic discourse is not
new. As I noted, this phenomenological discourse emerges, for example, in Ger-
many and the Netherlands following WWII as educationalists on the continent
wrestled with how to rear children and adults into humanness in ways that might
preclude the re-emergence of fascism, and indeed, violence as a means of coping
with difference. It is noteworthy that aspects of this discourse have been taken up
by some artists today as a response to the dehumanising and disembodying ten-
dencies associated with the corporatisation of public institutions discussed earlier.
This discourse draws attention to how to create conditions to be among others—to
be among difference—in a way that is driven by curiosity and acceptance rather
than fear. To be sure, engaging with difference is what the artists meant by open-
ended explorations that extend possibilities for being. Therefore, the artists’ use
of phenomenological language may be particularly useful for artists struggling to
locate a discourse that provides the clarity and the ambiguity, the focus and the
latitude, to create the open-ended conditions to engage with difference.
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In hindsight, another possible interpretation of the artists’ pedagogies is that they
have exhibited what could be argued is the best of early years pedagogy in schools
and nurseries. A characteristic of these playful pedagogies includes establishing
“pedagogies of relationships” that allow children and adults to build a shared
discourse that emerges from children’s intuitions (Rinaldi, 2005). Children’s sto-
rying is allowed to unfold without the convention of pencil and paper or adult
coercion so children can shape in their words the meaning of experiences (Paley,
1990). Another characteristic includes providing ample time for a full exploration
of a wide variety of materials and resources in ways that will differ from child
to child—without expectation of an end-product (Moyles, 1989). Suggested play-
ful pedagogies in the Steiner Waldorf tradition among others such as Montessori
schools includes nourishing all the senses of the body to create immersive ways of
being (Oldfield, 2001). Another trait includes adults standing back to observe and
document children’s play to be fascinated, inspired, and perhaps challenged (Luff,
2007).
There are obvious examples of these playful pedagogies in this research. I have in-
terpreted how the artists passed out documentation booklets to parents, provided
sensory rich-materials, and partnered with children in storying. I documented the
difficulty I found in learning how to follow the artists’ lead in avoiding identify-
ing for children what they have made, such as the masking tape “bracelets”. I
discussed the flexibility with which the artists approached time to allow for the
natural lifecycle of immersive explorations. Each of these interpretations resonate
with what is sometimes considered the best of early years pedagogy described
above.
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However, I suspect that the artists could consider an interpretation using an early
years framework to be too narrow, if not misleading. The artists interpreted us-
ing similar pedagogies in a variety of settings—be it outdoors, museums, schools,
or community centres—with a variety of populations including children, families,
teachers, artists, museum educators, and other professionals. Other research has
examined case studies of artists from this organisation presenting similar peda-
gogies in secondary schools (Maddock et al., 2007), and Maddock et al. (2008)
evaluate a project in which these artists work with primary school teachers in sim-
ilar ways. Moreover, I observed two artists in this study work with teenagers and
I also participated in two workshops offered by two artists to graduate students
prior to embarking on this research. In these examples, I observed and partici-
pated in workshops whereby the artists introduced similar pedagogies including
clearing out indoor spaces, introducing sensory-rich materials, and storying with
participants.
This study unfortunately did not present the diversity of settings and populations
served by the artists of this organisation. A limitation of this study was that it
only focused on outdoor workshops offered to children and their parents. The tim-
ing of the research and ethical considerations, as I have noted, precluded me from
presenting this diversity. Nonetheless, one could argue that these artists’ pedago-
gies exhibit what is sometimes considered the best in early years pedagogy. At the
same time, I have interpreted how the artists see themselves transgressing bound-
aries and using ambiguous language to maintain pedagogic possibilities. A more
diversified account could have illustrated how the artists applied some early years
methods with populations and in settings that were not limited to young children
and school classrooms. In so doing, I may have been able to make a stronger case
that the artists resisted being characterised as early year practitioners—indeed any
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type of practitioner—because they considered these interpretations too narrow for
them.
In summary, it is becoming increasingly clear that researchers know that artists
are attempting to create the conditions for open-ended enquiry although how and
why artists do so may vary. This research adds to this emerging knowledge by
describing and interpreting specific ways artists do so across five dimensions. I
now conclude by reviewing the key contributions of this research, how I plan to
disseminate these findings, and new possibilities for research.
7.4 Summary of findings
This educational research has answered what some artists do pedagogically, how
they describe their pedagogies, and how they value what they have done. It argues
that these artists’ pedagogies attempt to create the conditions for people to engage
in open-ended enquiry and extend how they might be in the world. The artists
view these pedagogies as essential alternatives to the ways in which possibilities
for being are narrowed by a prescriptive, competitive, and alienating market ethos
they believe is shaping possibilities for being in public institutions, particularly
schools.
These findings resonate with common-sense knowledge about what it means to be
an artist, but this research provides an independent account of how artists have
specifically created open-ended conditions across five dimensions—space, time,
material, body, and language. These descriptions and interpretations overlap with
a small but growing body of research and introduce less reported aspects of artist
pedagogy. How and why artists negotiate the balance between the emotional secu-
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rity and insecurity needed to engage with the unfamiliar adds to related, existing
accounts of artist pedagogy.
The physical properties of selected materials and a focus on the body and its senses
are new contributions. How artists’ pedagogies confront the tragedy of judgement
through erasing new orthodoxies is also a new offer. The use of phenomenological
discourse as a method to confront the artists’ interests in humanising pedagogies
that are more pre-theoretical in their position also contrasts with other researcher’s
uses of sociocultural and constructivist perspectives.
These findings also contribute to debates concerning whether artists are fit to
develop a creative workforce. I have argued their approaches are consistent with
developing a creative workforce but their values are not. I have suggested that
some stereotypes of artists describe the key attributes of their negative capability
although this capability may be necessary to develop the skills for creative work.
I have suggested that a new area for research includes examining the pedagogies
of creative practitioners in creative industries’ sectors other than the visual and
performing arts. This new research would help settle the question of who is fit for
developing a creative workforce, how and why.
These findings show a strong affinity between artists’ pedagogies and social and
emotional aspects of learning. I have argued that their pedagogies push for a more
complex approach of wellbeing that accounts for the discomfort of learning and
the opportunity for slow, sustained pleasure felt in the body.
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7.5 Plans for dissemination and future research
When I began this research, I was driven by the concern that artists who engage
pedagogically with others have little access to a critical and reflexive conversa-
tion whereby they can consider how to deepen their engagement with others in
ways that might be more meaningful and ethical. My view has been that research
could make one contribution to this conversation. This aspiration is one shared by
many educational researchers. Whilst many researchers probably hope their re-
search might make schools better places for teachers and children, I am interested
in ways my research might contribute to workshops that provide more significant
moments for artists and their participants.
Towards that end, I will develop two articles for peer-reviewed journals that present
these findings thematically. An additionally planned peer-reviewed article includes
a literature review on the current economic justification for engaging artists in ed-
ucation, how extant research supports this justification, and what new areas for
research might be needed to address gaps of knowledge in this area. I intend to
redraft portions of this thesis to produce a book oriented towards a broader au-
dience of artist practitioners and researchers working in and across formal and
informal settings such as the outdoors, museums, galleries, schools, and health
care settings. This book will include artists’ responses to these descriptions and
interpretations, and perhaps an additional descriptive case study from future field-
work that will diversify this account. My hope is that this book contributes to the
development of a field of pedagogically engaged artists, whilst being sensitive to
their possible interest in transgressing fields themselves. Finally, I plan to publish
a peer-reviewed article on methodology that examines the use of open-source soft-
ware in qualitative research.
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I have suggested a new area for research includes examining how participants expe-
rience emotions during artists’ workshops and how they attribute those experiences
of emotions to artists’ pedagogies. A related interest involves examining the ethics
of artists engaging participants in potentially distressing open-ended enquiry. A
surprise for me in this research was the focus on the body, which also presented
some challenges for me in terms of how the body is captured using phenomenologi-
cal description. I am presently conducting an interdisciplinary literature review for
publication in a book that examines how movement of the body has been captured
using technologies such as notation, video, and motion-capture. A final area for
research—one that remains elusive to me—is how to develop methodologies that
represent artist pedagogy in ways that provide new understanding in clear terms
but do not undermine artists’ interests in maintaining ambiguity and experiencing
beautiful little moments.
302
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327
Author Index
Abbs (2003), 9, 312
Acheson (1998), 34, 312
Addison & Burgess (2006), 46, 312
Ainsworth & Bowlby (1991), 216, 312
Alexander (2000), 50, 54, 312
Alexander (2004), 50, 312
Alexander (2007), 31, 312
Alexander (2008), 50, 312
Armstrong (1980), 15, 297, 312
Arts Council England (ACE) (2007), 18,
21, 24, 39, 312
Ashwin (1975), 7, 313
Austin (1999), 230, 313
Baert (2005), 85, 313
Bartolome´ (1994), 53, 313
Becker (1984), 8, 313
Bell (1973), 19, 313
Bennett et al. (1984), 15, 297, 313
Bernstein (2010), 71, 313
Bewick (2009), 17, 313
Biesta (2009), 66, 313
Bilton & Leary (2002), 20, 313
Bishop (2006, February), 313
Bonnett (2009), 67, 313
Bourdieu (1977), 70, 314
Bourriaud (2002), 6, 9, 314
Brehoney (1992), 9, 314
Brennan (2004), 120, 314
Bresler (2004), 300, 314
Brice-Heath & Wolf (2004), 46, 314
British Educational Research Association
(BERA) (2004), 110, 314
Brown & Campione (1994), 57, 314
Brown (1990), 229, 314
Burnard & Swann (2010), 56–58, 303,
315
Burnard et al. (2006), 46, 314
Burnard (2006), 46, 314
Burnard (2007), 46, 314
Burns Owens Partnership, Ltd. (BOP)
(2006), 25, 27, 90, 315
Campbell (2010), 51, 315
Central Advisory Council for Education
(CACE) (1967), 9, 315
328
AUTHOR INDEX
Chappell et al. (2008), 46, 315
Clark et al. (1999), 34, 315
Clark (2010), xiii, 315
Coffey (1999), 85, 315
Cohen et al. (2000), 89, 119, 315
Cole (1998), 62–64, 315
Cortazzi (2001), 99, 315
Craft et al. (2007), 59, 316
Craft (2005), 46, 316
Craig (2007), 37, 38, 316
Creativity, Culture, and Education (CCE)
(n.d.), 7, 16, 17, 316
Cremin et al. (2006), 46, 59, 316
Cremin (2006), 57, 59, 304, 316
Creswell (2003), 82, 316
Crotty (1998), 83, 316
Csikszentmihalyi (1991), 36, 39, 227, 252,
297, 316
Culture and Learning Consortium (CLC)
(2008), 16, 40, 316
Cunningham (2004), 23, 316
Cutcliffe & McKenna (2004), 96, 317
Dadds (1994), 290, 317
Dall’Alba (2009), 67, 317
Daniels (2001), 61, 63, 317
Debord (1977), 42, 317
Deegan (2001), 82, 317
Delamont (2002), 95, 117, 317
Delamont (2008), 115, 317
Delamont (2009), 125, 317
Denmead (2006), 5, 317
Denmead (2008), 56–58, 317
Denmead (2011a), 58, 317
Denmead (2011b), 58, 64, 318
Department for Children, Schools, and
Families (DCSF) (2008), 17, 318
Department for Education and Skills (DfES)
(2003), 31–33, 318
Department for Education and Skills (DfES)
(2005a), 35, 318
Department for Education and Skills (DfES)
(2005b), 34, 318
Department for Education and Skills (DfES)
(2005c), 35, 301, 318
Department of Culture, Media and Sport
(DCMS) (2001), 19, 318
Department of Culture, Media and Sport
(DCMS) (2008), 318
Department of Culture, Media and Sport
(DCMS) (2009), 318
Deuze (2007), 22, 23, 318
Dewey (1929a), 81, 318
Dewey (1929b), 85, 318
Dewey (1934/2005), 71, 264, 266, 318
329
AUTHOR INDEX
Dewey (1938/1998), 70, 319
Dhand (2009), 319, 345
Doddington & Hilton (2007), 51–53, 319
Doyle (1983), 57, 319
Draaisma et al. (2004), 229, 319
Dweck (2006), 3, 319
Ecclestone & Hayes (2009), 38, 319
Edwards & Mercer (1987), 57, 319
Efland (1990), 39, 292, 319
Erickson (1986), 86, 319
Evans & Shaw (2004), 41, 319
Finney et al. (2005), 40, 319
Flew (2002), 23, 319
Fontana & Frey (2000), 98, 320
Furlong et al. (2000), 52, 320
Fu¨redi (2003), 37, 320
Gadamer (1979), 85, 320
Galloway & Dunlop (2007), 20, 320
Galton (2008), 56–58, 60, 132, 303, 304,
320
Garnham (2005), 28, 295, 320
Gibson (1977), 62, 247, 320
Giddens (1987), 86, 320
Giorgi (1970), 66, 320
Glaser & Strauss (1967), 102, 320
Goldbard (2006), 8, 320
Goleman (2006), 36, 320
Gradel (2001), 44, 54, 321
Greene (2000), 71, 321
Greenfield (1984), 57, 63, 321
Griffiths & Woolf (2004), 56, 60, 321
Hall et al. (2007), 46, 321
Hall (2010), 60, 92, 321
Hammersley & Atkinson (2007), 45, 83,
85, 321
Hammersley (1998), 99, 125, 321
Happiness Lessons [Editorial] (2007, June
14), 37, 321
Hargreaves (2000), 52, 321
Hartley & Cunningham (2001), 23, 28,
322
Hart (1979), 216, 321
Hart (1998), 15, 39, 297, 321
Heidegger (1966), 66, 322
Henriksson (2007), 53, 322
Hesmondhalgh (2007), 20, 322
Higher Education Research Institute (HERI)
(2010), 41, 322
Hocking (2011), 4, 322
House of Commons Education and Skills
Committee (HCESC) (2007), 18,
322
Howkins (2002), 20, 322
Hoyle (1995), 52, 322
330
AUTHOR INDEX
Huppert et al. (2005), 36, 322
Ivic (1989), 63, 322
James ((1902/2008), 230, 322
James (1901), 54, 68–70, 131, 229, 264,
266, 322
Jeffery (2005), 44, 54, 323
Jeffrey (2003), 290, 323
Jeffrey (2006), 59, 323
Jenkins (2004), 22, 323
Keats (2011), 323
Kester (2004), 8, 323
Kind et al. (2007), 46, 323
Kinder & Harland (2004), 40, 323
Kolb (1984), 69, 323
Kwon (2002), 6, 9, 323
Lacy (1995), 9, 323
Laing (1964), 67, 323
Lassiter (2005), 81, 108, 109, 124, 134,
323
Lave & Wenger (1991), 47, 63, 64, 324
Leach & Moon (2008), 62–64, 324
Lessig (2004), 22, 324
Lincoln & Guba (1985), 96, 324
Lippard (1997), 8, 292, 324
Local Government Improvement and De-
velopment Agency (LGID) (n.d.),
324
Loi & Dillon (2006), 59, 324
Luff (2007), 305, 324
Lynch (1960), 214, 324
Maddock et al. (2007), 57, 304, 306, 324
Maddock et al. (2008), 306, 324
Martindale (1968), 83, 324
Maso (2001), 66, 79, 324
Matusov (1998), 63, 325
McIntyre & Brown (1993), 53, 325
McLaughlin (2008), 38, 325
Mead (1934), 78, 79, 325
Mead (1977), 229, 325
Meltzer et al. (2003), 31, 325
Menand (2001), 78, 325
Merleau-Ponty (1962), 131, 230, 325
Message (2009), 16, 30, 325
Miles & Huberman (1994), 103, 109, 121–
123, 130, 325
Miller (2008), 37, 38, 325
Mitchell (2000), 46, 325
Moll & Greenberg (1990), 64, 326
Montessori (1917), 2, 250, 326
Morrison (1993), 100, 326
Moyles (1989), 305, 326
Nair & Fielding (2005), 59, 326
National Advisory Committee on a Cre-
ative and Cultural Education (NAC-
331
AUTHOR INDEX
CCE) (1999), 9, 10, 14–16, 23,
30, 39, 326
National Archives (2006), 34, 326
Nietzsche (1874), 283, 284, 326
Noddings (1991), 51–53, 55, 326
O’Connor (2007), 28, 326
O’Reilly (2005), 83, 327
OED (2011), 327
Oakley (2004), 42, 326
Oakley (2006), 42, 326
Office for Standards in Education (Of-
sted) (2000), 34, 327
Office for Standards in Education (Of-
sted) (2003), 18, 327
Office for Standards in Education (Of-
sted) (2008), 34, 327
Oldfield (2001), 305, 327
Paley (1990), 305, 327
Palmer (2007), 31, 327
Patton (1990), 90, 327
Pike (1954), 86, 327
Pollard et al. (2000), 290, 327
Pope (2001), 41, 327
Powney & Watts (1987), 98, 327
Pratt (2004), 20, 328
Pringle (2008), 56, 60, 132, 303, 328
Qidi (2006), 23, 328
Qualifications and Curriculum Author-
ity, (QCA) (2004), 17, 328
Qualifications and Curriculum Author-
ity, (QCA) (2007), 33, 328
Relph (1985), 66, 328
Rinaldi (2005), 305, 328
Robson (2002), 46, 89, 97, 100, 104, 108,
125, 328
Rodaway (1994), 66, 328
Rogoff et al. (1987), 63, 328
Rogoff (1986), 60, 64, 328
Rogoff (1995), 63, 328
Rorty (1982), 78–80, 329
Rorty (1989), xiii, 79, 80, 131, 283, 329
Rorty (1999), 87, 329
Rorty (2007), 71, 329
Ross (2006), 9, 329
Sawyer (2006), 24, 329
Schutz (1970), 83, 329
Sefton-Green et al. (2008), 24, 36, 329
Sefton-Green (2008), 15, 39, 297, 329
Seligman & Csikszentmihalyi (2000), 36,
329
Seligman et al. (2009), 36, 329
Seligman (2011), 36, 329
Shah & Marks (2004), 35, 329
Shulman (1986), 49, 330
332
AUTHOR INDEX
Shulman (1987), 49, 330
Shusterman (2008), 124, 252, 264, 299,
330
Simonton (2000), 24, 330
Simon (1981), 50, 330
Smith (2000), 34, 330
Sobel (2002), 217, 330
Solnit (2006), 214, 217, 330
Springgay et al. (2008), 9, 330
Stake (1995), 89, 97, 330
Stake (2000), 97, 330
Strauss & Corbin (2008), 81, 82, 87, 104,
105, 116, 129, 330
Tan & Gopinathan (2000), 23, 330
Tharp & Gallimore (1991), 63, 331
The Work Foundation (TWF) (2007),
19–21, 26, 42, 294, 331
Thomson et al. (2006), 46, 331
Tuan (1979), 214, 217, 331
Tweedy (2007), xiii, 331
UNICEF Innocenti Research Centre (2007),
32, 35, 331
Upitis (2006), 46, 331
Van Maanen (1988), 124, 331
Waite (2007), 37, 331
Warnk (1984), 125, 331
Watkins & Mortimore (1999), 50, 61,
332
Weare (2000), 39, 301, 332
Weare (2004), 36, 332
Wellington College (2007), 37, 332
Wertsch (1998), 53, 332
West (1989), 78, 332
Whitehead (2004), 96, 332
Wolff (1963), 66, 332
Yin (1981), 97, 332
Zimmerman (1985), 66, 332
van Manen (1990), 54, 87, 204, 331
van Manen (1996), 65, 67, 331
333
Appendix A
The organisation and artists
sampled
The arts organisation sampled for this research began in 2002 as an informal net-
work of practitioners with a range of backgrounds in art, education, drama, and
museum education. A woman was inspired to create this network through her par-
ticipation in a national initiative that attempted to address the lack of children’s
museums in the United Kingdom in comparison to the United States. She de-
cided against launching a children’s museum because she did not believe it would
be feasible in her community. Instead, she informally established a network of
people—mainly women that she met through her children—that shared a “com-
mon language” and “mutual interests” towards creative projects they might offer.
After offering an initial series of creative projects in early years settings, a group
of founding members—supported by two organisational development grants from
Arts Council England—established a charitable organisation to offer what they
described as “imaginative and ground-breaking projects”—in schools and in the
community—for children, professionals, families, artists, and community groups
across the East of England.
At the time of this study, the organisation struggled to find new commissions
for their workshops as the funding landscape for arts and cultural activities dra-
matically worsened during the so-called Global Financial Crisis beginning in 2008.
Nonetheless, there were 15 people in the network at the time of the study and eight
of them participated in this research. Using pseudonyms to protect their confiden-
tiality, these eight people described themselves in the following ways:
1. Rachel obtained her MA in Fine Arts and trained as a visual art teacher in
continental Europe. She is a practising visual artist and has offered work-
334
APPENDIX A. THE ORGANISATION AND ARTISTS SAMPLED
shops for children and adults at museums, schools, and arts centres.
2. Nicola studied English literature as an undergraduate and then trained as a
biological anthropologist. Her particular interest in this network has involved
partnering with toddlers and parents in woodlands to develop an outdoor
creative practice.
3. Evie trained in visual art to MA level and has worked with a wide age range,
from very young children to adults. She has an environmental interest and
prefers to work principally with natural, biodegradable, recycled or found
materials. She has built living willow play areas and collaborative sculptures
for schools and outdoor festivals.
4. With a background in psychology and marketing, Mary strategically directs
the organisation and partners with others described here to facilitate work-
shops.
5. Zoe describes herself as a movement artist with a MA degree in dance move-
ment therapy. She worked in a variety of audiences and settings from edu-
cation to health care.
6. Frances trained as a secondary visual art classroom teacher in South Africa
before turning to offering arts and crafts workshops in and beyond schools.
7. Megan, the founder of the organisation, trained in theatre design and cur-
rently works as an interdisciplinary artist.
8. Lucy is a theatre practitioner and visual artist with a training in sculpture
and has more recently begun experimenting with video. She has described
herself as a creative facilitator doing residencies in and outside schools for
children, families, museum educators, and others.
335
Appendix B
Letter inviting participation
336
Tyler Denmead
Faculty of Education, University of Cambridge
184 Hills Road
Cambridge, UK CB39ET
td287@cam.ac.uk
October 15, 2009
Filipa Pereira-Stubbs
Cambridge Curiosity and Imagination
Dear Filipa:
I am writing to ask if you might be willing to participate in an educational research project.
Through this project, I am interested in learning more about what you do as an artist, facilita-
tor or creative practitioner, why you do it, and how you have developed this practice.
Last spring, I completed a small-scale research study on three artists involved with CCI for
my MPhil degree at the Faculty of Education, University of Cambridge. I am conducting this
more in-depth research for a PhD project, which I hope is helpful for artists, educators, and
policy-makers who might learn from your experiences.
At the moment, I am asking if you may be willing to participate in 3 recorded interviews,
each one hour to one hour and a half long, between now and January at a location convenient
for you. From these conversations, I plan to develop a case study that describes the work that
you do as an artist and educator. I hope that you will find that these interviews are helpful
to you. In addition, I plan to write case studies for each artist interviewed, which may provide
useful documentation for you as you develop your practice.
After this initial phase of research, I hope to select a smaller group that I can further research
between January and August of 2010. This research will include attending your workshops,
further interviews, and discussions with your participants. This smaller group will be selected
based on questions that come up from the first round of interviews, as well as your flexibility
and interest in continuing on with this research. By agreeing to participate in this first round
of interviews, I am not asking you to commit now to this second phase of research.
By participating in this project, you have the right to confidentiality. I can alter details
such as names and places to protect your anonymity to the extent that it is possible. You
may also choose to withdraw from participating in the research project at anytime, for any
or no reason. Please feel free to contact me or one of my supervisors, Dr. Mandy Swann
(mm10006@cam.ac.uk), if you have any questions. I will follow up with you shortly to ask if
you may be interested and answer any questions you may have.
Thank you in advance,
Tyler Denmead
Appendix C
Data storage, collection, and
analysis tools
Prior to fieldwork, I developed and procured a variety of technologies and systems
to ensure safe, reliable, and rigorous collection and organisation of data. Each
data item—whether text, photographs, or sound—was entered into my personal
laptop computer. I recorded interviews using an Edirol R-09HR personal digital
recorder borrowed from the Faculty of Education. I later purchased a similar Tas-
cam DR-07 for convenience. I also used a Canon Powershot A5320 to take pictures.
During the research, I did not encounter any data loss of recordings or images.
However, I prepared for that inevitability by listening to recordings immediately
following interviews in case the recording failed and I needed to recall what was
said. Each recording was immediately uploaded onto my password-protected lap-
top, as well as backed up on compact disc. To facilitate transcription, I used free
338
APPENDIX C. DATA STORAGE, COLLECTION, AND ANALYSIS TOOLS
Express Scribe software which enabled me to slow down recordings and use key-
board shortcuts to rewind, forward, or repeat segments of the interview.
For field notes, I used Moleskine pocket-sized notebooks, each one filled with notes
typically every two sessions. I lost one notebook, which contained field notes of
one observed session. This loss occurred immediately after the workshop. Within
an hour of it ending, I returned to the site and rewrote field notes based on memory.
I modified BibDesk, a free open source reference manager, to use as an electronic
database system for data storage, backup, and retrieval. A screenshot is viewable
in Figure C.1. I used BibDesk in the following ways:
1. Entered basic information about each data item (e.g. participant, datatype,
date, date entered, and summary).
2. Automatically generated a distinct cite key for each data item to ease refer-
encing.
3. Filed each data item within each record using drag and drop.
4. Categorised, searched, and ranked each data item by participant, datatype
(e.g. interview, memo, field notes, photograph, artefact, etc.), site, collection
date, date added.
339
APPENDIX C. DATA STORAGE, COLLECTION, AND ANALYSIS TOOLS
Figure C.1: Bibdesk screenshot
5. Created smart folders to automatically organise data by the categories listed
above.
With my data archive automatically filed in one folder, I easily backed it up offsite
to an online cloud service each day and to an external hard drive once each month.
Through BibDesk, I also created a searchable database to facilitate data retrieval
and analysis. Basic information about each data record was easily viewable in a
windowpane. This system also allowed me to select multiple records and generate
reports with collated information, such as data sets for individual artists or sites.
An example dataset report is viewable in Appendix O. Between phases, I often
revisited this database for weeks at a time, refamiliarising myself with data and
340
APPENDIX C. DATA STORAGE, COLLECTION, AND ANALYSIS TOOLS
writing up data summaries that may have been missing.
In addition to coding and concept mapping with pencil and paper, I also used
TAMS Analyzer, a free, open source CAQDAS for Macs, to facilitate analysing
data in a more expedited fashion. A screenshot is viewable in Figure C.2. This
software included all the standard features of CAQDAS packages, and there was
precedent for using it in educational ethnography (Dhand, 2009). I used TAMS
Analyzer in the following ways:
1. Selecting text and generating codes.
2. Double click coding.
3. Creating hierarchies of codes.
4. Commenting on coded data.
5. Extracting and comparing coded data.
6. Recoding extracted data within reports.
7. Using coding frequency and co-occurrence reports.
8. Mapping hierarchies of codes and their relationships.
I uploaded data into TAMS Analyzer for coding, but kept original uncoded copies
in BibDesk to support an iterative approach to data analysis, which involved reim-
341
APPENDIX C. DATA STORAGE, COLLECTION, AND ANALYSIS TOOLS
Figure C.2: TamsAnalyzer screenshot
mersing myself in uncoded data.
For Phase 2 interviews, I used a template, viewable in Appendix E, for tran-
scripts in which pages and lines of text were numbered. This facilitated review of
the context of coded data extracted from transcripts. Later, I began transcribing
and coding within TAMS Analyzer, which allowed me to embed the audio file from
interviews within the transcription file. In addition to being able to easily relisten
to the recording, I could access the original transcript when reviewing hyperlinked,
extracted data. This allowed for easy examination of context.
I also used the open source software LATEX for writing and typesetting my dis-
sertation, and BibDesk for eased reference management, cite-while-you-write, and
342
APPENDIX C. DATA STORAGE, COLLECTION, AND ANALYSIS TOOLS
bibliographic formatting. Throughout fieldwork, I used different approaches to
journaling, including writing in a notebook, and using word processing and spread-
sheet software. By the end of the research, I was pleased to find the open source
software MacJournal with a similar user interface to BibDesk, allowing me to set
up related folders and tags to organise journal entries.
343
Appendix D
Monthly summaries of data
collection and analysis
344
February 2010 Summary
My aim in February was to begin to generate descriptive case studies for 
each of the artists and begin scheduling third interviews whereby I can seek some 
respondent validation.  At this point for each individual, I have two interview 
transcripts; an outline of codes, their meanings, and memoed reflections upon 
them; and excerpts from the interviews grouped under higher-level categories.  
Then, I began to use TAMS Analyzer, an open-source Mac-based computer-aided 
qualitative data software package to recode these interviews, progressively 
focusing on higher-level categories that were related to my research questions 
and featured prominently in the interviews.  I kept these multiple documents 
side-by-side, working back and forth, and across, comparing the data and looking 
for incidents that may be similar, different, or confusing.  Once I had recoded 
documents, I generated reports that grouped together coded passages within 
higher-level categories.  From there, I began to write descriptive memos that 
explored each of these categories, which I then compiled into a provisional draft of 
a case study.  I generated four case studies, which were each about 10,000 words 
long.  I became quite unsure about the amount of data that these case studies 
were producing, as well as the prose format.  I thought that these artists, none of 
whom described themselves as writers or literary types, might feel overwhelmed 
by this amount of text.  Similarly, I was feeling overwhelmed by the scale of this 
project.  So, I decided instead for the remaining cases to begin to use the analytic 
software to map potential higher-level categories and codes, generating maps for 
each artist that I might share with them and use to guide future, progressively 
focused data collection and analysis.  
In retrospect, I wonder the extent to which my coding and analysis to this 
point was too `mechanical'.  While this feels somewhat muddy and ambiguous to 
me, my sense is that I was too strict in my coding approach --- working with too 
many codes, focused too heavily on in-vivo codes, and using analytical tools that 
were too mechanical --- using outlines and maps to delineate codes and categoies.  
I think I might have spent more time writing memos, pondering and exploring 
particular categories and their potential meanings.  I think this may have lead to 
a deeper understanding at this point of both my understanding, but perhaps 
more importantly, my lack of understanding of these concepts.  But, I found 
myself, perhaps at these early stages of research, and perhaps because of the 
nature of undertaking a major research project at the time, to leap to analytical 
tools that felt like leaps to security --- words surrounded by bubbles and kicked 
off by bullets --- rather than amidst other words in a muddy puddle of 
uncertainty.  
Citekey: Denmead2010Data-collection2
Appendix E
Template for interview
transcripts
346
Code Transcript
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
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22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
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2009Interview1
Tuesday, 3 November 2009 Page 2 of 20
Appendix F
Categories from first interviews
348
Materials
Busy-ness
Atmosphere
Doing
Being in
Being in situ
Settling into spaces
Slowing down-ness
Immersing oneself
Anchoring
Peeling away
Inviting
Hand-made universe
Teaching thematically
Creating kid culture
Unexpectedness
Belonging
Motherhood
Enemy of conflict
Becoming in mind
Reflecting on pedagogy
Learning the tricks
Prompting
Not breaking the spell
Materials driven
Opposing exemplars
Using narrative
Areas of practice
Briefing
Providing starting points
Art speak
Being site-specific
Being open-ended
Being process-led
Mediating
Unmediating
Being childlike
Limiting the palette
Materials
Becoming theatrical
Becoming site-specific
Becoming ephemeral
Materials driven
Slippage
Provoking responses
Shifting slant on settings
Tragedy of shutters closing
Democracy of material
Observing
Feeding starting points
Immediacy
Simplicity
Everydayness
Poor material
Being an artist
Being a creative practitioenr
Being mothers
Working fluidly
Being open-ended
Meshing
Translating
Brokering
Timekeeping
Structuring
Conscientising
Facilitating with artists
Opting out
Immersing
Atmosphere
Talking jargon
Areas of work
Playfulness
Working as an artist
Inviting
Simple materials
Offering materials
Visualising process
State of mind
Being childlike
Experiencing making
Being anxious / fearful
Eternal student
Self-employment
Art therapy
Constructs of art school
Motherhood
Rejecting bureaucracy
Self-learning
Facilitating
Giving free reign
Areas of practice
Working fluidly
Having space and time
Slowing down
Standing back
Not being literal
Making familiar unfamiliar
Non-judgmental spaces
Artist 1 categories:
Artist 3 categories:
Artist 6 categories:
Artist 2 categories:
Artist 7 categories:
Artist 4 categories: Artist 5 categories:
Appendix G
Exploratory case study
categories
350
Contents
1 Introduction 1
2 Working creatively: An immersive process 5
2.1 Features of immersion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
2.1.1 Open-endedness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
2.1.1.1 Daring not to know . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8
2.2 Slowing down-ness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
2.3 Crossing the threshold into the immersive process . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
2.4 Feeling blocked . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
2.5 Feeling stupid . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
2.6 Expectations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
2.7 Being exposed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
2.8 Clutter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
2.9 Summary: Immersion and its barriers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15
3 Facilitation 16
3.1 Preparing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16
3.2 Attuning . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17
3.2.1 Anchoring . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18
3.2.2 Decluttering . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
3.2.3 Hanging Out . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
3.3 Inviting . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21
3.3.1 Creating drama . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
3.3.2 Oering simple materials . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24
3.3.2.1 The one-liner . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
3.3.2.2 Qualities and types of simple materials . . . . . . . . . . 26
3.3.2.3 Being generous with materials . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28
3.3.2.4 The aesthetic of the invitation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29
3.3.3 Using the body: Echoing participants . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30
3.3.4 Summary: The invitation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34
3.4 Holding . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34
3.5 Unpicking . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36
4 The ‘artist’s’ next steps 37
5 Conclusion 38
1
Below is a table of contents from an exploratory case of an artist listing the 
themes and categories.
Contents
1 Introduction 3
2 Education background and early career 3
2.1 Teenage years . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
2.2 Theatre design training . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
2.3 Design career into motherhood . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
3 Blurring boundaries between two practices 7
4 Elements of her practices 10
4.1 Playfulness: Being a child again . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
4.1.1 Inventing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
4.1.2 Storying . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
4.1.3 Life cycle of play . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
4.2 Enquiry: Questioning and not knowing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
4.3 Site-specific . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15
4.4 Process-led . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16
4.5 Open-ended . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17
4.6 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
5 ‘Her own work’: Designing games 19
5.1 Memory Game . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
5.2 Monopoly Game . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
5.3 An interpretation: Playing games in galleries . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21
6 Facilitating others 22
6.1 Starting points . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
6.2 Limiting the palette . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26
6.3 Providing simple materials . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27
6.4 Element of surprise . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29
6.5 Interaction there and then . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30
6.6 Collaborating . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31
6.7 Documenting . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
7 Conclusion 35
2
Below is a table of contents from an exploratory case of a second artist listing the 
themes and categories.
Contents
1 Introduction 3
2 Atmosphere 4
2.1 Hospital and museum atmospheres . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
2.1.1 The hospital atmosphere . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6
2.1.1.1 The rush . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6
2.1.1.2 Small spaces . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
2.1.1.3 Hospital sounds . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
2.1.1.4 Precariousness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8
2.1.1.5 Chilliness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8
2.1.2 Museum Atmosphere . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
2.1.2.1 Softness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
2.1.2.2 Homeyness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
2.1.2.3 Places for settling down . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
2.1.3 Potential significance in contrasting hospital and museum atmo-
spheres . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
2.2 Atmosphere: A state-of-mind in an environment . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
2.3 Creating atmosphere . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
2.3.1 The drawing game: Spiralling beyond the paper’s edge . . . . . . 15
3 Invitation to the making process 18
3.1 The Making Process . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18
3.1.1 Childlike ways of making in the moment . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18
3.1.2 Diving In . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
3.1.3 Openness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
3.1.4 Fear and anxiety in the making process . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
3.1.5 Visualising the making process . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24
3.1.6 Summary: The making process . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
3.2 Invitations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26
3.2.1 Saying little . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26
3.2.2 Allowing the time for initiative . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27
3.2.3 Using narrative . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28
3.2.4 Creating excitement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29
3.2.5 Playing games . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30
3.2.6 Oering simple materials . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32
3.2.7 Less developed invitations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34
3.3 Summary: The invitation to make . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35
4 Conclusion 36
1
Below is a table of contents from an exploratory case of a third artist listing the themes 
and categories.
Appendix H
Ethics agreement
354
INFORMED AND VOLUNTARY CONSENT FORM FOR
RESEARCH PROJECT WITH TYLER DENMEAD
Thank you for your willingness to participate in an interview for my research project. As
you may or may not know, my research is attempting to describe and understand the ed-
ucational practices of CCI artists, with the hope that it might support artists, educators,
and policymakers interested in this type of work.
I anticipate that information from this interview will be shared within CCI. In addi-
tion, it will be included in my doctoral dissertation, which will be publicly available at
the University of Cambridge Faculty of Education library. I also withhold the right to
publish this account in other outlets such as journals and websites.
As a participant in this research, you have the right to remain anonymous, and I can
anonymise to an extent your account (e.g. changing names, places, etc.). I will seek
your ongoing permission to share anonymised transcripts of our interviews with others.
I am willing to consider altering/eliminating particular details in order to preserve your
anonymity to the extent possible.
I plan on recording and transcribing our interviews. I will do my best to protect this
information by storing data in secure locations. If data is ever lost or compromised in
some way, I will attempt to notify you.
You have the right to withdraw at any time from participating in this research, or partic-
ular aspects of this research, for any reason. You are also not obligated to tell me why.
During the course of the research, if you have particular concerns that you want anony-
mously shared with me, I invite you to contact at any time either of my supervisors, both
faculty members at the University of Cambridge, Faculty of Education. My supervisors
are:
• Dr. Mandy Swann (T: 01223 767536 & E: mm10006@cam.ac.uk), and;
• Dr. Richard Hickman (T: 01223 767640 & E: rdh27@cam.ac.uk).
Thanks again for your willingness to participate in this research. I recognise that this
research places an additional demand on your limited time. I hope, however, that it is a
fruitful process for you.
If you have any ethical questions or concerns that you feel I have not addressed in this
letter, please feel free to contact me at your convenience. My home phone number is
01223 474 275, and my email is td287@cam.ac.uk. By signing this letter, you understand
and agree to what I have proposed above.
SIGNED:
PRINTED NAME:
DATE:
1
Appendix I
Enhanced disclosure
356

Appendix J
Member checking letter and
questions
358
Letter to artists seeking respondent validation
September 2010
This case study is a first attempt in presenting a highly descriptive account of 
what I observed, as well as how I heard you and others involved with the 
workshop describe what took place.  I hope you will take the chance over the next 
two to three weeks to read this.  I recognise that it may take an hour or two and 
appreciate you doing so. 
I also respect that it may be awkward for you to read how someone else observes 
and describes the work that you do.  I have tried to be sensitive to this, but 
appreciate the sometimes personal nature of this work.
This case has not been anonymised yet, as it was easier for me to write it using 
the real names of people, places, and other details.  Similarly, it may be easier 
for you to read the first draft before I anonymise the text.
You will also find questions that I have drafted to help you in your reading of the 
case.  I am also interested in questions that you have as you read it.
I also hope that we can schedule a time to meet and discuss what I have written.  
Perhaps it would be best to have that conversation with the other artist with 
whom you facilitated this workshop.  Before sharing this case study with others, 
it is important we have this conversation.  I will contact you both to schedule this 
time.  
Over the next several months, I will be reanalysing the data that I have collected 
and generated from these workshops, as well as these interviews I will be 
conducting over the next few weeks.  
From this data, I will be developing my interpretation of your values and 
practices as expressed in these workshops.  
My hope is that these descriptions and my interpretation will be generative for 
you and other practitioners as they consider how they might approach this work.  
Thanks for your time and consideration.
Possible questions for your consideration:
⁃ Is the account truthful?  
⁃ Do I describe events in ways that you remember them?  If not, how 
are your recollections different?  
⁃ Do you have any documentatation that either supports or discredits 
these accounts?   Are you willing to share this documentation for my 
research?  (If so, we can discuss some of the ethical considerations 
before doing so.)
⁃ Are there events or details that I include that you feel not should be 
included for ethical, professional, or other reasons?  If so, which ones?  If 
you feel comfortable discussing it, why?
⁃ Are there events or aspects of these workshops that I do not describe that 
you feel are critical to understanding what took place?
⁃ Are there events or aspects of these workshops that I do describe that you 
feel are not necessary to understanding what took place?
⁃ How do you find the language and tone?
⁃ What is your interpretation of how and why you facilitated the workshops 
described here?
⁃ Are you comfortable with this case being shared with others in and/or 
outside the organisation as it stands?  If not, why and how would it need to 
be changed?
EXAMPLE OF MEMBER CHECKING INTERVIEW SCHEDULE
• Initial impressions about interview?
• Any vignettes not included that should have?
• Any vignettes included that should not have?
• Are there words that I used that are words you wouldn't use?
• I've heard a couple of other artists talk about how they prepare themselves physically 
and mentally for workshops, to get into a state of mind where they are ready to offer 
workshops.  Does this idea resonate with you?  How do you do it?
• Do you recognise that moment?  How do you feel in that moment?   What is the 
significance of that moment for you?
• I noticed that the gallery setting began to resemble a church a bit, and that you began to 
use even the language and symbolism of the church, for example, in the altar.  Is there 
any significance to that for you?
• When you lead them on the shelter walk, how did you lead that?  Why did you do that?  
What came up during those conversations?
• What is the significance for you of people making contributions to the space between 
workshops?  And, what is the significance for you of people destroying it in the end?
• A couple of years ago, you talked about how you began to see it as an asset that 
explored a lot of different media and practices, rather than devoting yourself singularly to 
a particular media and practice, a value described as being taught by Art School.  Do you 
still value that idea today?  How so?
• Health and safety issues arose with this project.  What was the significance of the 
thumbtack episode for you?
• Slight exception as a tool: particular to a discipline, while somewhat self-explanatory, 
did require some demonstration, etc.  What is the signficance of it?
• Fencing violets?  What was that story?
• In two of your sessions, I created an observation schedule, where I sampled every 60 
seconds for multiple twenty minute periods, documenting physically your relationship to 
one another.   And, in the majority of these instances, I noticed one as being down and 
in, for example, immersed in an activity with a child, while I had the other poking holes, 
preparing materials, documenting with photographs.   What is the significance for you in 
having these two different roles?  How did you see yourselves working together?
• How did you develop that game, Pooh Sticks?    Do you remember how that process 
unfolded?
• What is the significance of the woman who did not pick up her child?
• Do I have permission to share these with others?
Appendix K
Summary table
362
MATERIAL # Working definition Examples
Values
Abundant 2
Offering a generous amount of materials, which offers 
greater potential for their use.  Perhaps it also peels away 
the fear that the materials are precious, that there is 
little room for mistake.  Instead, accidents can happen, 
projects can be started over, etc.
Reels of masking tape, two large bags of clay, 40 bamboo 
canes, 40 meter rolls of lining paper.
Biodegradable 4
Material that can naturally decompose.  This speaks to 
the extent to which process triumphs over product for 
these artists, an interest in found material and how 
material/artefacts might transform through decay.
Paper, clay, chalk. 
Colourful 1
They tend to pick fabric, ribbon, wool, string that is 
brightly coloured, which stands in contrast to the browns 
and greens of nature.  This perhaps relates to notions of 
adornment, how we might transform and beautify 
environments with ordinary and everyday materials.
Eyelash wool
Disposable 21 Material is not being used in such a way that it will be 
preserved.  
Making and constructing a pond, only to fill it and 
destroy it with a flood.  Bricolaging found materials that 
will not last.  Counter-example: Child wants to take 
balloon-stick home.
Found 34
Finding and using materials that surround us, perhaps 
contributing to everyone experiencing immersion.  
Perhaps it levels the playing field (we have equal 
expertise and experience working with, for example, a 
feather we find in the woods) and is a reminder that we 
can experience this immersion anyplace/anytime.  This 
speaks to a possible tension with power and control, 
however, as these artists do have vast experience working 
with feathers, string, and tape.  In many ways, for them, 
these materials are not so much found, but selected.
Feathers, sticks, grasses, bike reflectors, metal objects 
that says `motorcycle’.  
MATERIAL # Working definition Examples
Immediacy 6
Using materials that allow for an immediate provocation 
and response.  The interest here seems to be in the 
participant being able to `put more of themselves in', to 
act spontaneously, rather than to be mediated, controlled, 
predicted by the material.  It’s dramatic.  Using material 
with the potential to create excitement.  By creating 
excitement, the artefact perhaps might contribute to 
peeling away fear, and as S says, `shifts people's readings 
of things' --- being provoked, calling for some type of 
equally exciting response to the material.
Picking up leaves like a moustache, twirling a 
`broomstick’ to make shadows, adhering anything to 
masking tape.  This is very different, for example, from 
mixing paint colours.  The 20-gallon jug, the hidden clay 
bags.
Lowtech 11
Lowtech are materials that can be used with little 
specialisation or compartmentalisation, and the way in 
which they operate is relatively self-explanatory.  An 
interest in lowtech may be interpreted as a desire to 
create less estrangement, less distance between the 
artefact and the participant.   The assumption may be 
that the less we know about how an artefact works, then 
the less we may know how we are mediated by it, the less 
we spontaneously and freely respond to the artefact.   
It's hard to know the relevance of this category to their 
work in the outdoors.  What constitutes old-fashioned 
technology?  Masking tape?  A water jug?
Materiality 14
An interest is described in the sheer delight of material, 
material that is visceral, that provokes deep inward 
feeling.  It feels good to the senses.   Materials might be 
selected for and used, because of, or perhaps, in spite of 
the ways they lend themselves to being messy and untidy. 
But these artists may feel that the messiness is part of 
the materiality of clay, part of what makes it a valuable 
material to use.  If it wasn't messy, it wouldn't feel so 
good to the touch, slipping through our toes as S says. 
Natural chalk rocks.  Counter example: dry clay.
Old 8
S, in particular, describes loving old-fashioned technology. 
Drawing on T, one interpretation is that old-fashioned 
technology is less alienating, the user will feel less 
estranged from the technology by having greater 
understanding of how a less complex technology works.
Other than S’s interest in the old-school building, there 
is little evidence of this in this case.
MATERIAL # Working definition Examples
Ordinary 9
S in particular describes being interested in `everyday' 
materials.  The artists describe wanting to demonstrate 
that it is possible to create with anything around us.  It 
does not require purchasing expensive art materials.   It 
is more about the process, the experience of the material, 
than the material itself.  S mentions being inspired by the 
anti-consumerist Art Povera movement, which used 
inexpensive materials in art as a way of questioning the 
commodification of the art object in the contemporary art 
marketplace.
Wool, masking tape, clay, bamboo canes, lining paper, 
sticks, feathers.  
Recyclable 3
Dual possible meanings here: Materials that can be 
recycled, as well as materials that are re-introduced from 
one workshop to the next, allowing for participants to 
pace themselves.
(a) Paper (b) Tape, wool, bamboo canes, clay.
Slippage 46
A material that possesses slippage, can, as F says, `easily 
transform into something else.'   They are un-prescriptive. 
They do not have an obvious or immediate identity.  They 
lend themselves very quickly to being transformed.  They 
do not come readymade with an army of ideas and 
expectations.  They are unadorned.  They are not 
processed (market-tested, manufactured, predicted, 
controlled, suggested).  Found, natural materials seem 
particularly appealing.  Expensive, complex artefacts 
exclude on the basis of expertise and money, they deny 
spontaneous responses through making too strong of 
suggestions.
A roll of masking tape becomes a site for display through 
bricolage, then a boundary-marker, then a trap, then a 
binding/connecting agent to make a witch's broom, then 
a musical instrument (e.g. rrriiiippp), then a yo-yo, then 
a three-dimensional post-it note. 
MATERIAL # Working definition Examples
Performing Spontaneous use of material, immersing the body in 
engagement with material.
Connecting 26 Using tape, wool, etc. to connect two different objects.
Children using tape to connect sticks and teepees, using 
wool between drawing trail, boy connecting the balloon 
to the stick, Making the bridges, connecting the teepees 
with tape.
Enveloping 20 Making webs and enveloping objects.
Wrapping sticks with eyelash wool to cover thorns, 
surrounding the pond-making area with tape, the 
mother wrapping her child in wool.
Extending 3 Making things longer, a way of playing with scale. Kids taping sticks to teepees, making flags taht we can 
be waved up and down.
Filling 4 Put material in a place to fill a space. Putting water in the clay-made pond, putting chalk on 
paper/off paper.
Markmaking 33
Making a line, a figure, a symbol, a trace.   The 
expectation of making marks is different from, for 
example, `drawing a sheep'.   Marks might be made with 
crayons or markers, or less traditionally understood 
materials such as masking tape or wool.    The marks are 
traces of play with material moreso than an attempt at 
representation.
S suggests making marks with masking tape and wool 
during the introduction; noisy drawing on the bumpy 
ground; tracing leaf veins; chalk in the mud; tape trail 
(i.e. `the truck'), the drawing trail.
Moving
Responding kinesthetically to the environment --- 
engaging the body through motion, through positioning.  
Having the freedom to roam about.
Stomping about in the clay water; falling on the black 
paper; leaning over the fence; flying away with quidditch 
broomsticks; playing with reflective card and chalk; 
Experimenting with tape tails.
Rotating 3 Spinning things, unrolling things, making circles. Boy with yo-yo of tape; rolling down a hill; unrolling the 
black paper and taking the white chalk for a walk.
Shadowing 6
Using the body and materials to cast shadows, playing 
with scale, provoking a sense of immediacy, working with 
movement and narrative.
Walking the broomstick along the white paper, twirling 
leaves above.
Appendix L
Focus group questions
367
Topic Duration
1 Prompts 60.00
1 Describe how you try to talk and/or not talk during CCI workshops. 6.00
2 Describe ways you hope participants might talk and/or not talk during CCI 
workshops.
6.00
3 Open discussion 6.00
4 How do you try to use your body during CCI workshops? 6.00
5 Open discussion 6.00
6 What are your first thoughts about pleasure in CCI workshops? 6.00
7 What are your first thoughts about judgement in CCI workshops? 6.00
8 Open discussion 6.00
9 What does it feel like to describe CCI workshops to non-CCI artists? 6.00
10 When non-CCI artists have attempted to describe CCI workshops, how have 
those descriptions made you feel?
6.00
2 Case review
1 Are their features of the described workshops that were surprising to you?
2 If other artists read these cases, what would you want the key take aways to be 
for them?
3 Are their important elements of your workshops that you feel were not described 
in these cases?
4 Are the accounts truthful?
5 How did you find the language and tone?
6 Are their events or details that raise any ethical concerns?
Appendix M
Bullet point summary of
findings
This research asked how and why artists described, enacted, and valued their ped-
agogies. These questions were addressed across five themes: space, time, material,
body, and language. The major findings within each theme were:
1. Space
(a) Artists working outdoors described and were observed clearing spaces
before workshops to reduce the fear of physical harm.
(b) Artists working indoors described and were observed decluttering spaces
before workshops so that participants might feel more able to make a
less ‘prescribed’ and more ‘authentic’ contribution to them.
(c) Most artists described, sought out, and/or created ambiguous and/or
unfamiliar spaces for workshops.
(d) Working outdoors, all artists described and established material and
imaginary boundaries, as well as focal points, in order to establish a
spatial range where participants could explore. Artists described doing
so to reassure participants’ sense of security, create a sense of together-
ness, and nudge them to move beyond their accustomed ways of being
in spaces.
(e) All artists working outdoors described and were observed making spe-
cial places with participants. Some artists described how these places,
such as the space for placing at Potter’s Creek, imbued participants’
explorations with specialness.
369
APPENDIX M. BULLET POINT SUMMARY OF FINDINGS
(f) Therefore, I interpreted artists seeking out and creating ambiguous
spaces that would not prescribe particular ways of making and being
in spaces, nor set the conditions for judging those actions as right or
wrong afterwards. I also suggested they hoped to maintain ambiguity
whilst softening the blank sheet, or lessening the fear of dwelling in the
unknown. Encouraging participants to explore without judgement in
spaces, the artists hoped participants might extend beyond customary
ways of being in spaces in ways that felt significant to them.
2. Time
(a) Most artists described the importance of allowing participants to take
time for themselves. This included, for example, taking breaks from the
pressure to produce, cover ground, or do monotonous work prescribed
by others. To encourage taking time for themselves, most artists de-
scribed and attempted to model stillness and making familiar surround-
ings unfamiliar.
(b) All artists described and approached time flexibly during workshops by
avoiding timetabling and timekeeping to the extent possible. All the
artists cited, for example, the importance of allowing participants to
pace themselves during what one artist described as the ‘natural life-
cycle’ of an exploration. Alternatively, all artists described and were
observed avoiding ways participants might feel pressured to work to-
wards a completed task within a particular timeframe.
(c) All artists described an interest in slowliness. The artists described
multiple characteristics of slowliness, such as participants immersing
themselves in an activity, not thinking too hard, responding to spaces
and materials, and feeling peaceful and balanced. Artists prized work-
shops in which participants’ explorations were sustained for lengthy
periods during these beautiful little moments.
(d) With this in mind, I interpreted the artists’ slowliness as a state of
assurance in which participants feel a sense of heightened vitality and
a slowing of time. Much like a way a child might experience time
playing outdoors, spaces and materials could be accepted as things-
in-themselves, uncomplicated by references to the past or the future.
Amidst this glowing passion of willingness, artists were perhaps at-
tempting to facilitate participants to extend themselves and make their
distinctive mark on materials and spaces.
3. Material
370
APPENDIX M. BULLET POINT SUMMARY OF FINDINGS
(a) Artists described and were observed using ordinary materials that were
affordable and perhaps easily accessible in the home. All artists ex-
pressed interest in these materials because they did not want to exclude
participants on the basis of skill or finances. In addition to lessening the
fear of failure with more expensive materials, some artists also described
how ordinary materials allow participants to explore in less prescribed
ways, thus leaving more opportunity for them to ‘represent their own
ideas and experiment’. There were some differences and exceptions
among artists as to what constituted ordinary materials.
(b) All artists expressed some aversion to introducing some electronic tech-
nologies into workshops. Few ‘high-tech’ materials were observed during
workshops other than digital cameras and camcorders for documenta-
tion purposes. Various reasons were cited for the use of low-tech ma-
terials, such as an interest in: introducing materials that participants
could see and understand how they worked; providing a constructive
constraint; avoiding the adversarial relationship that emerges with the
introduction of costly objects; and, avoiding the literalness of some dig-
ital technologies.
(c) The artists described and were observed introducing materials with
‘slippage’, or open-ended materials whose meanings were ambiguous.
Most artists described an interest in these materials because they did
not want the materials to predetermine how participants might explore
them.
(d) All artists expressed and were observed selecting ‘immediate’ materi-
als that did not require multiple steps or planning in advance. Several
described how they selected materials with immediacy so that partici-
pants avoided deliberating how they might explore the materials in the
future or compare their explorations to others.
(e) Sensory-rich materials featured strongly in my discussion with all artists,
as well as my observation of their workshops. Materials were selected
that perhaps had greater potential to engage all the senses, such as
fistfuls of unprocessed chalk or shadow making devices. The artists de-
scribed the pleasure of exploring sensory materials, which more deeply
immersed the body in slowliness.
(f) All artists also expressed interest in impermanent materials, such as
living willow or masking tape. Most artists suggested they were more
interested in facilitating participants’ explorations of materials rather
than encouraging them to attempt to produce objects that could sit
371
APPENDIX M. BULLET POINT SUMMARY OF FINDINGS
more permanently in the world. Several artists suggested that this
helped participants avoid predetermining in advance how they might
explore materials, as well as lessened the fear of not meeting those
expectations.
(g) I also observed and presented artists’ descriptions of how they presented
abundant materials in a limited palette. Most artists described doing
so to provide a constructive constraint, as well as raise participants’
interest in perhaps unexpected materials.
(h) In light of the above, I interpreted artists introducing simple materials
less complicated by any references to how they have been used in the
past or how they might be used in the future. Instead, artists perhaps
selected materials for their potential to touch the body’s senses, con-
tributing to a state of slowliness marked by an interpenetration of body
and material.
4. Body
(a) Establishing an empathetic, enthusiastic, and uninhibited tone with
their bodies was described as significant by all the artists. Artists de-
scribed and were observed using their bodies to heighten participants’
interest in spaces and materials, as well as lessen the expectations that
there is a right or wrong way of exploring them. Some artists described
using ‘antennae’, a sense for understanding non-verbal language, to be
able to gauge this tone and redress it if necessary.
(b) Artists described and were observed gesturing and positioning their
bodies primarily in two ways: working alongside and standing back.
Using their bodies to echo and honour participants was described and
observed, as well as modelling explorations at the same scale and level
as participants. In addition, they were observed and described standing
back in silence to avoid interrupting participants, as well as intervening
in some cases to shield participants from what they considered unhelpful
contributions to their explorations.
(c) The organisation paired artists in order to address the ‘split in accom-
paniment’ that artists described, noting the difficulty of both immersing
themselves alongside participants and standing back. Working in pairs
was also cited as a way to push experimentation, share pedagogic tricks
of the trade, affirm one another in the uncertainty of their workshops,
and reflect on workshops to generate meaning.
(d) Therefore, I interpreted how the artists used attuned bodies to convey
372
APPENDIX M. BULLET POINT SUMMARY OF FINDINGS
physical and emotional security, as well as an empathetic, enthusiastic,
and uninhibited tone. In addition, they perhaps attempted to facilitate
participants so that their bodies became in tune with material, space,
and time. I also interpreted how their pedagogies perhaps facilitated
participants in extending ways of being in uncustomary ways that could
not have been known beforehand.
5. Language
(a) Artists were described and observed using prompts or invitations to
provide starting points to their workshops. These included introducing
materials, providing themes, and/or leading participants in a sensory
survey. I noted how the artists described using open-ended questions
that maintained ambiguity, whilst providing a hint of structure that
might soften the fear of dwelling in the unknown.
(b) I observed the artists’ descriptions of using narration to blur the bound-
aries between the real and the imaginary, creating a mood of a game
where participants might explore materials and spaces with their bodies
in more uninhibited ways.
(c) Standing back and remaining silent was also a noteworthy aspect of
pedagogies I observed. The artists stressed the importance of mak-
ing, for example, rather than talking. They noted the difficulty adults
sometimes find in remaining silent whilst children explore, and there-
fore offered documentation booklets to encourage them to stand back
and observe.
(d) When necessary, the artists described and were observed using talk that
was descriptive, focusing particularly on the sensory nature of partici-
pants’ explorations. All the artists noted that non-descriptive language
can prescribe and judge explorations in ways that might not be con-
ducive to slowliness, particularly talk that focused on identifying and
classifying phenomena within existing webs of meaning.
(e) In addition, poetic language was also considered important, as I noted
numerous ways in which artists and participants invented words and
played with unfamiliar sounds. I noted the difficulty artists described
of finding existing language to describe their pedagogies, and even some
resistance in naming them.
(f) In considering these aspects of language, I described how dwelling in
the unknown for these artists perhaps required shedding old vocabu-
laries and inventing unfamiliar ones to describe inchoate and ineffable
373
APPENDIX M. BULLET POINT SUMMARY OF FINDINGS
experiences. I noted the tragedy artists described when old, literal
vocabularies are used to reductively describe a person’s interests or ca-
pabilities in fixed terms. Alternatively, they were interested in creating
conditions in which participants might extend themselves beyond those
narrowing judgements.
374
Appendix N
Visual map of findings
375
Slowliness
Taking time
Being still and quiet
Engaging senses
To redress the imposition 
of time pressure
Using slow voices
Untabling time
Flexible beginnings
Not prescribing times 
for tasks
To avoid prescribing 
outcome within a timeframe
Flexible endings
Slowing time
Becoming absorbed
Just responding
To release oneself from the accelerating 
rhythms of a fast-paced world
To release oneself from judgement 
based on the conventions of the past 
and the expectations of the future Being peaceful Empathetic, uninhibited bodies
Tonesetting
Clowning
To facilitate unrestricted playfulness
To extend into new ways of being and doing
To reduce the fear of failure
Attuning
To create physical and emotional safety
To be adaptable and flexible
Gesturing and 
positioning
Echoing
To be empathetic and adaptable
Working alongside
To reduce the fear of uncertainty
To be less hierarchical
To model lowliness
ShieldingTo maintain open-endedness
Standing backTo facilitate uninterrupted and 
self-directed open-ended enquiry
Working in pairs
Pairing artists to facilitate and document
To soften the fear of uncertainty
To notice and validate little moments
To experiment with and extend their pedagogies
To apprentice tricks of the trade
To facilitate reflection
Simple materials
Ordinary
Introducing 
everyday materials
To be inclusive
To encourage experimentation
To encourage unprescribed enquiry
Low-tech Introducing old, 
analog equipment
To encourage experimentation
To be less alienating and adversarial
To introduce non-literal media
Slippage Introducing 
ambiguous materials
To allow for invention
To facilitate transformation
To introduce ambiguity
To be inclusiveImmediacy
Introducing materials 
that avoid multiple steps 
in production
To discourage deliberated responses
Sensory-rich
Introducing materials that 
engage all the senses
To deepen immersion
To create pleasure
Ephemeral
Introducing materials that 
do not last
To avoid the pressure of outcome
Abundant 
materials / 
limited palette Introducing a lot of a few 
materials at opportune 
moments
To avoid limitations
To extend through constraint
To facilitate uninhibitedness
To inspire interest
To create the unfamiliar
To avoid prescribing outcome
Playful, poetic language
Poeticising
Using metaphor
To extend possibilities for 
being and doing
Clowning with words
To create an uninhibited tone
Inventing words
To engage with the unfamiliar
Describing
Using descriptive 
not explanatory talk
To be inclusive
To facilitate 
immersive enquiry
Silence
Standing back 
and not talking
To emphasise 
immersive enquiry
To avoid 
prescribing enquiry
Narrating
Telling stories
To make sense of 
open-ended enquiry
To create the uninhibited 
mood of a game
PromptingProviding open-ended questions and themes
To provide some structure to 
open-ended enquiry
To maintain ambiguity and 
allow for self-directed enquiry
Softened, unprescribed spaces
Clearing spaces
Removing 
``nasty bits''
To create emotional and 
physical safety
Decluttering 
spaces
Removing visual 
and physical clutter
To create unfamiliar spaces
Establishing 
boundaries
Defining spaces
To create spatial constraints
To create shared experience
To create emotional and 
physical safety
Creating focal points
Establishing a 
base
To create emotional and physical safety
To introduce the unfamiliar
To create shared experience
Creating the conditions
to extend possibilities
for being and doing
through open-ended enquiry
An interpretive framework of artists' pedagogies.  
Submitted as part of a PhD thesis: Denmead, T. (2011) Beautiful Little Moments: A principally 
ethnographic study of a group of East Anglian artists.  Cambridge: University of Cambridge.
Theme Category What they did How they valued itKey
Appendix O
Example of Bibdesk report
377
January  14, 2010 
Author: Anonymous Artist
Title: Interview 1
Site: St Pancras International 
Datatype: Transcript  
Citekey: artist52010Interview1
Entered: 2010-01-14 20:17:08 +0000
       Summary: 
During this interview, we discuss a recent workshop she facilitated in a school 
using video, which is kicking off a long residency in the school.  She describes the 
subtleties of partnering with teachers and schools, including doing an 
`observation day'.  She describes offering a creativity as practice session on 
`standing back', which she describes as being about listening and noticing --- or 
taking in aspects of the environment such as the accoustics, the feeling you have, 
the temperature, the humidity.  She also describes her trajectory as an eternal 
student, trying out new things such as graphic design, film, art therapy, painting, 
running a gallery and couture.
February  2, 2010 
Author: Anonymous artist
Title: Clustering and comparing codes of first interview
Site:  
Datatype: Codes  
Citekey: artist52010Grouping-/-comp
Entered: 2010-02-02 13:32:54 +0000
       Summary: 
I clustered codes under her personal history as an eternal student: tracing her 
first degree in fashion design, to becoming a self-employed couturier, to taking art 
therapy courses.  I examine why she does not become an art therapist, examining 
both her role as a mother and her interest in rejecting bureaucracy.  Her history 
evolves to starting to sell paintings and doing a second degree in graphic design.   
From there, she begins facilitation work, running an art gallery, and launching an 
experimental videomakers group.