Recently, I had read a short paragraph that I had written at the beginning of this semester. The paragraph was composed of an answer I had given to the question, How would you define ‘composition’? Truthfully, though I like to think that my understanding of this subject has advanced in the past three months, still I do not want to be dishonest: it has got to do with persuasion, though beyond that, another’s guess is as good as mine.
My favorite definition of rhetoric (composition) is given by I.A. Richards, who said – maybe speciously – that composition is “the study of misunderstandings and their remedies.” This is a lovely little sentence, and I am certain that at another time, it may have had a good deal of relevance to a way of life far removed from our own cynical times, which, so it seems, has made “misunderstanding” –read: deliberate ignorance- a way of life, and consumption the remedy. Sadly, rhetoric has come to mean for most of us nothing other than the misleading of others for one’s own gain; I hope that in some other, more enlightened society, far in the future, we can regain the more noble meaning of rhetoric, which Andrea Lunsford defined simply as the “art, practice, and study of human communication.”
Does writing have the capacity to help the community come together? Without a doubt, many people seem to value family. “They’re my foundation,” wrote a 17-year old high school student, Kristiana St. John, in an article entitled “Youths’ stuff of happiness may surprise
parents.” The girls later commented that, though she may occasionally do something “stupid,” to be told by her mother that she was loved made her feel “very happy and blessed.” When I read these words, I was reassured by what I have always thought about communication, that is to say, it is a form that is far too vast to simply be used for manipulating or persuading others. Of this I am completely adamant. To insist that all communication is in one form or another hinged upon moving another in the direction one wants, I think, is too short-sighted. This mother wants her daughter to be as she is, no more.
Also, I have come to believe that writing and communication – particular ones – needn’t be inhibited by what are called the three important forms of communication: logos, ethos, and pathos. Let’s go to the extremes of sentiment, one on each side of our character. I think that, if we consider on the one hand tyranny and on the other passiveness, who could say that either is includes an argument? If I beat the whip down on your skin, telling you “Do as I say or the alternative is this,” what is my argument? Likewise, if you rejoined, “I had better do as he says, or I’ll get the whip,” you, as the tormented, could no more be considered to be as one who makes arguments than I, the tormenter: we simply exchange orders and meek replies of consent, which are hardly at all like arguments. Now, I do not mean to imply that rhetoric is based upon legitimacy, not in the moral sense, at least. I do say, however, that an argument must rely upon some external form of reason as much as an internal form. “Do as I say or the whip”: There is the internal reason, which, I suppose, is sound, assuming I were to follow through. But what if I was bluffing, and, instead, was only making a joke at your expense. To say, then, that my saying “Do as I say or the whip” confers the same meaning, whether I am joking or being sadistic, is not convincing: often,
communication is highly deterministic – meaning it’s controlled by the context in which we communicate.
I value writing. I have wanted to teach English for some time, though, to be truthful, I am skeptical about what possibilities writing could have in the future. I do not think that our society deems it worthy of the value it has, which has left mixed results. In a short time – maybe in the past ten years – I’ve been flabbergasted by the break-neck speed in which the culture has moved from what was once a more literate culture to one so heavily reliant upon imagery. From entertainment, to the way that we get our information to how we interact, electronics has become the dominant mode of modern life, which, to be sure, has benefits and drawbacks. Teaching will benefit from this, but somehow will be hurt by it, as is the clear case in how brief our children’s attention spans are, what, with the need to be constantly consumed with this or another gadget, like a cell phone or an i-pod. Recently, I heard that the Texas Tech library will soon begin to ship its books out to warehouses where, it was told, the books will be stored and eventually destroyed. The reason is because, supposedly, the students spend 98% of their effort in the library using computers. “A glorified coffee shop” is what the Tech library would be, said an employee. I couldn’t answer.
What is composition? In my view, it is something that I hope has a future.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Opening the Human Doors: Artist's Books and Pedagogic Theory
Opening the Human Doors: Artist’s Books and Pedagogic Theory
The reader became the book; and summer night
Was like the conscious beinthe book.
-Wallace Stevens
The art of children has long interested scholars, beginning perhaps as early as the 19th century. Sir Herbert Read supposed that the academic focus upon children’s art may have begun in John Ruskin’s The Elements of Drawing, published in 1857, (Gaitskell 15) though he listed several other candidates. Among these were writings in the 1890s by literary critic James Sully and, more convincingly, by Helga Eng, who, in the mid 1930s, recognized first the enormous expressiveness and variety in children’s art. (Gaitskell 15)
Though artist’s books have been traced back as early as William Blake’s mystical poems, (Klima 10) this peculiar genre of publishing – which evidently mixes the elements of art with the printed form of books – is mostly a phenomenon that emerged of the 1960s. Artist books, as we will see, are extraordinarily versatile forms of expression, though, with the exception of a small circle of collectors and universities, are often sadly obscure to the public.
For our purposes, we will explain why artist’s books are a novel approach to needless frustration faced by children each day in learning to write.
To begin, we will review, briefly, the history of this genre, with myriad examples throughout. Second, there will be included some views on matters of education and art by prominent thinkers in both fields. Then will be given a completely new and easy-to-apply example of an art book, after which we will settle on our conclusion.
“…An Impermanent World....”
What, precisely, is an artist’s book? Apparently, even among those who have made them for many years there is no consensus of what either “art” and “book” means. “There are as many definitions of an artist’s book as there are innovative expressions of its flexible form,” said Nancy Toulsey (Hubert 21). “This mercurial condition defines the nature of the artist’s book.” Another less general definition of the form was offered by Clive Philpot, former director of the Museum of Modern Art, New York, who regards artist’s books as needing a utilitarian purpose as well as being aesthetic: “[the] book form is intrinsic to work…one way of determining this is to consider whether what is presented could be shown on the wall.” (Hubert 22)
The first important revival of the artist’s book, where those who made them arrived from all over the country to consider what they are, was in 1973, at the Moore College of Art in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. (Klima 20) A pamphlet handed out at the modest exhibition, which featured 250 widely varied books, focused upon works from the early 1960s up to the present. “A book represents a permanent reality in an impermanent world,” wrote Lynn Lester Hershman in the exhibition’s pamphlet, “…access to its contents was controlled by the individual.” (Kilma 20)
Clearly, this person saw much more potential in the “permanence” of artist’s books than as simply a pleasing object to “be shown on a wall.” But the genre continued to grow, and has grown, perhaps even beyond the idea of permanence thought by those attending the exhibition at the Moore College of Art in 1972.
In Linda Smith’s book, Inside Chance (2000), the reader sees not so much a poem or an idea as a physical metaphor. Composed of eight black cardboard cubes, neatly trimmed, connected by black paper indiscernibly pasted in grooves connecting the cubes, the work unfolds like a strange puzzle – what one may expect to find in a nick-knack shop – and within can be read the poem by Alberto Rios, “Inside Chance.” (Wasserman166) As in that piece, Leah Micher Geiger’s The Reptile Brain (2003) features collage and words, though errs more to a sculpture than does Inside Chance, which is more book-like. With four rectangular square panels, oak, smeared with diluted white house paint, (Wasserman115) some ridden with text copied out of biology books, others pasted with natural objects – leaves, feathers, reptile bones -, The Reptile Brain is decidedly a more political work than Inside Chance. By reading it, the viewer is expected to consider the possible reptilian reflex, buried deep in our brains and gruelingly apparent in our habits.
The Great Wall of China (1991) was influenced by Shirley Sharoff’s early career, teaching middle-grade students the English language in China. A sort of cut-out, covered on either side by several cleanly written poems by Lu Xun, a Chinese dissident and author, “The Great Wall” is propped up and spirals, in and out, like a maze for mice. Sharoff wrote about her experience: “As an English teacher, I assigned my Chinese students short compositions so they could practice their writing, but for me, it was a way into their lives and their memories of life in the 1970s.” (Wasserman149)
”The Great Wall”
Artist’s books by the likes of Smith, Geiger, and Sharoff, have clearly pressed beyond the domain of what others may once have been comfortable to call a book. The best definition, however, of an artist’s book may yet have been offered by Ed Ruscha, who pioneered the genre with his book Twenty-Six Gasoline Stations (1962): “[the artist’s book] implies that what the book actually represents may matter less than what it dismisses.” (Klima 10)
A Thousand Words
We have all at one time or another heard the old phrase “a picture tells a thousand words,” though seldom may we have thought of what it means. How is it that a picture “tells,” seeming, as it does, to lack any of the conventions – grammar, words, and clauses – of spoken language?
By its very incapacity to communicate in words, the image has an added layer of depth that may be absent in writing. If it is true, as I think it is, that people are inclined by nature to self-interpretation, then it is clear that the image, though it does not speak, implies a question, which the onlooker is in turn expected to answer.
The value of art may be judged, argues Andre Malraux, not by its nearness to life but by its rarity. “If it so happens that an artist immortalizes some supreme moment, he does not do this by reproducing it, but because he subjects it to a metamorphoses.” (Malraux 279) Malraux’s idea of the “supreme moment” is, to him, an autobiographical moment, which, as we’ll now see, is a prominent theme in many artist’s books, and could be a help to students that need inspiration for their writing.
Renee Stout’s lovely book, Seven Windows, is a fine example of an autobiographical artist’s book. Properly speaking, it may be well to call this a biography of an imagination: the book, shaped like a common scrapbook, filled with drawings, made with rich, lucid lines of color, tells the story of Madame Ching, Stout’s childhood alter-ego. The author has made a truly bizarre character: the fortune-teller, with pale cheesecloth wrapped tightly around her head, wearing a broad sack-like blue dress, wizened dark skin and piercing white eyes, looks like
an old migrant woman from late 19th century America, standing tiredly, as she’s often portrayed, in a dark field, under a frozen sun. Madame Ching, in Stout’s words, was “a mysterious fortuneteller and root worker, [and] functioned as a vehicle through which I could analyze the complexities of the self and human relationships.” (Wasserman 47) We cannot guess how Stout may have embellished Madame Ching nearly 30 years after she had created her; the book contains many other drawings, including a strange and beautiful watercolor painting of a human heart, suspended in the center of the page, surrounded by short extracts, written in blood-red ink, from what appears the author’s journal. A project like Seven Windows would offer students a superb opportunity to bring their lives into their writing.
During an interview in which he discussed his many artist’s books, Mathew Gellar, author of “Difficulty Swallowing: A Medical Journal,” pointed towards two elements he considered to distinguish a book from a work of art. (Dept. of Social and Health Services 11) The first “fact” about books: Readers, unlike the person seeing images, is capable of being discerning about what he reads. Secondly, and leading from Gellar’s first point, the reader can do his activity when ever he thinks it appropriate; the average man, walking through a “museum” of reality, is hemmed in by the images surrounding him. Gellar is referring more towards the many forms of advertising in modern life, though art is no less to him as impressive. “The experience of [the artist’s book] presents an interesting combination of limitations and variables,” said Gellar in the interview’s conclusion. (Dept. of Social and Health Services 11)
When considering Gellar’s opinions about books, we could offer two mistakes in his reasoning, which is pertinent to the use of artist’s books as a tool for teaching composition. The
first point is: the interviewee had not considered that the reader can phase out material in a book as easily as a man driving through Lubbock to get to work can disregard whatever that does not get him to work. Secondly, Gellar appears to accept a contradictory notion about art: to him, the act of reading is always intellectual and voluntary, while to look at printed images, like advertisements, is always a visceral experience, and in such an experience the person has no choices.
We will suspend our opinion of Gellar’s argument, for the time being, and keep his two points in mind, while we continue to explore the artist’s book.
Next, I will illustrate an idea for an artist’s book that I conceived myself.
Down the Rabbit-Hole
In Chris Marker’s 28-minute film, “La Jetee” (“The Jetty”, eng. 1962), the audience is hurled into the demented, savage world of the future. Paris has been completely destroyed by an atom bomb, as has the rest of the world, and the entire surface of the earth is covered with a poisonous nuclear residue. The surface world is blotted with decay and death, and those who would survive the Third World War, migrated underground, where, as the film begins, the human population had lived for at least 30 years. Much of the film’s story concerns a strange series of time-travel experiments, the purpose of which is to reverse the condition that had led to the explosion; one in particular, about a man, who, unable to tolerate the specter of his freedom in a new, more free world, attempts to travel to his past, where, he assumes, he can find freedom in his unhappy childhood. The movie inspired Terry Gilliam’s belated film adaptation, “12 Monkey’s” (1995).
“La Jetee” is an extraordinary film, not merely for its original story but for how it was made. At no point does the audience see a moving image: the movie is entirely composed of photograph stills, with the actors manipulated to seem as if they are communicating to one another. What results for the viewer is the disturbing feeling that they are looking at a torn-up scrapbook from the past, telling us something that is of dire importance to us.
Scene from “La Jette”
The film is very well written; when closing our eyes, we are convinced we are being read a short story. “Only later would he remember the sight of a frozen sun, at the sight of a stage setting at the end of a pier, and of a woman’s face,” says the omniscient narrator, over a stark photograph of an empty dock, with clouds looming above. “Nothing tells memory from ordinary moments; only afterwards do they claim remembrance on account of their scars.” (Marker) In instances like these, the narrator’s words increase what is shown in the photographs, sometimes subtly, and in this case, quite dramatically. What we are observing is persuasive writing.
What could students learn from watching “La Jetee”? My proposal is that they would do a project based on the film’s formula, of telling a story through a combination of photographs and text.
The principle of this exercise is straightforward. Simply put, we assume that the best way for a child to learn is if they are personally engaged in their work; for that to happen, they must be offered considerable independence to form their own works and, most importantly, to bring their own resources to their efforts. However, the students should not be left to fend for themselves entirely, and that is why the teacher, who has a better knowledge of the readings, would supply works – short stories, poems, novels – that that students would retell with photo illustrations and text. If a student, for example, chose to illustrate “The Circular Ruins,” a fantasy story by Jorge Luis Borges, he could cast himself as the wizard, who, separated from society, tries to dream of a boy in entirety to accompany him in his solitude. The student could choose locations (preferably a field, or near a hollowed out shack), make costumes; find someone to play the boy, perhaps a little brother. And finally, the student could manipulate the camera as he or she choose: take as many pictures as needed, make black-and-white or color images, and mix them together as they see fit. The students will be required, though, to add detail to the pictures with writing.
This project would address a number of issues about writing, the least not being that children often prefer imagery to writing. Ours is a visual culture, more visceral than it is thoughtful, and as such, children tend to consider reading and writing to be an obstacle rather than a means for important expression. Here is a project they can take home, that they have the
freedom to take apart and refashion to their liking; what is more, they have control over their story, and control is something that is rarely afforded to poor children in their personal lives.
Conclusion
We have discussed the fascinating history of artist’s books; of their extraordinary variety and potential for teaching composition in primary schools. We have realized how artist’s books could ennoble persuasive writing and make composition interesting to children. Perhaps no definition could embody anything as immutable and as strange as artist’s books. In closing, the reader would do well to consider Ralph Waldo Emerson’s opinion of art (Gowan 407): “…that beside his privacy as an individual man, there is a greater public power on which he may draw, by unlocking, at all risks, his human doors…the mind flows into and through things hardest and highest and the metamorphosis is possible.”
Works Cited
Dept. of Social and Health Services, Belltown. What Are We Waiting For? : An Exhibition of Artist’s Books. Seattle: Real Comet Press, 1984.
Gaitskell, Charles D. Children and Their Art: Methods for the Elementary School. New York: Harcourt, Brace and Company; 1984.
Gowan, John Curtis. Development of the Creative Indicidual. San Diego: Robert R. Knapp,
1972.
Hubert, Renne Riese; and Hubert, Judd D. The Cutting Edge of Reading: Artist’s Books. New
York: Granary Books, 1979.
Klima, Stefan. Artist’s Books: A Critical Survey of the Literature. New York: Granary Books,
1998.
La Jetee/San Soleil. Dir. Chris Marker. The Criterion Collection, 2007.
Malraux, Andre. The Voices of Silence. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1978.
Wasserman, Krystyna. The Book as Art: Artist’s Books from the National Museum of Women
In the Arts. New York: Princeton Architectural Press.
The reader became the book; and summer night
Was like the conscious beinthe book.
-Wallace Stevens
The art of children has long interested scholars, beginning perhaps as early as the 19th century. Sir Herbert Read supposed that the academic focus upon children’s art may have begun in John Ruskin’s The Elements of Drawing, published in 1857, (Gaitskell 15) though he listed several other candidates. Among these were writings in the 1890s by literary critic James Sully and, more convincingly, by Helga Eng, who, in the mid 1930s, recognized first the enormous expressiveness and variety in children’s art. (Gaitskell 15)
Though artist’s books have been traced back as early as William Blake’s mystical poems, (Klima 10) this peculiar genre of publishing – which evidently mixes the elements of art with the printed form of books – is mostly a phenomenon that emerged of the 1960s. Artist books, as we will see, are extraordinarily versatile forms of expression, though, with the exception of a small circle of collectors and universities, are often sadly obscure to the public.
For our purposes, we will explain why artist’s books are a novel approach to needless frustration faced by children each day in learning to write.
To begin, we will review, briefly, the history of this genre, with myriad examples throughout. Second, there will be included some views on matters of education and art by prominent thinkers in both fields. Then will be given a completely new and easy-to-apply example of an art book, after which we will settle on our conclusion.
“…An Impermanent World....”
What, precisely, is an artist’s book? Apparently, even among those who have made them for many years there is no consensus of what either “art” and “book” means. “There are as many definitions of an artist’s book as there are innovative expressions of its flexible form,” said Nancy Toulsey (Hubert 21). “This mercurial condition defines the nature of the artist’s book.” Another less general definition of the form was offered by Clive Philpot, former director of the Museum of Modern Art, New York, who regards artist’s books as needing a utilitarian purpose as well as being aesthetic: “[the] book form is intrinsic to work…one way of determining this is to consider whether what is presented could be shown on the wall.” (Hubert 22)
The first important revival of the artist’s book, where those who made them arrived from all over the country to consider what they are, was in 1973, at the Moore College of Art in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. (Klima 20) A pamphlet handed out at the modest exhibition, which featured 250 widely varied books, focused upon works from the early 1960s up to the present. “A book represents a permanent reality in an impermanent world,” wrote Lynn Lester Hershman in the exhibition’s pamphlet, “…access to its contents was controlled by the individual.” (Kilma 20)
Clearly, this person saw much more potential in the “permanence” of artist’s books than as simply a pleasing object to “be shown on a wall.” But the genre continued to grow, and has grown, perhaps even beyond the idea of permanence thought by those attending the exhibition at the Moore College of Art in 1972.
In Linda Smith’s book, Inside Chance (2000), the reader sees not so much a poem or an idea as a physical metaphor. Composed of eight black cardboard cubes, neatly trimmed, connected by black paper indiscernibly pasted in grooves connecting the cubes, the work unfolds like a strange puzzle – what one may expect to find in a nick-knack shop – and within can be read the poem by Alberto Rios, “Inside Chance.” (Wasserman166) As in that piece, Leah Micher Geiger’s The Reptile Brain (2003) features collage and words, though errs more to a sculpture than does Inside Chance, which is more book-like. With four rectangular square panels, oak, smeared with diluted white house paint, (Wasserman115) some ridden with text copied out of biology books, others pasted with natural objects – leaves, feathers, reptile bones -, The Reptile Brain is decidedly a more political work than Inside Chance. By reading it, the viewer is expected to consider the possible reptilian reflex, buried deep in our brains and gruelingly apparent in our habits.
The Great Wall of China (1991) was influenced by Shirley Sharoff’s early career, teaching middle-grade students the English language in China. A sort of cut-out, covered on either side by several cleanly written poems by Lu Xun, a Chinese dissident and author, “The Great Wall” is propped up and spirals, in and out, like a maze for mice. Sharoff wrote about her experience: “As an English teacher, I assigned my Chinese students short compositions so they could practice their writing, but for me, it was a way into their lives and their memories of life in the 1970s.” (Wasserman149)
”The Great Wall”
Artist’s books by the likes of Smith, Geiger, and Sharoff, have clearly pressed beyond the domain of what others may once have been comfortable to call a book. The best definition, however, of an artist’s book may yet have been offered by Ed Ruscha, who pioneered the genre with his book Twenty-Six Gasoline Stations (1962): “[the artist’s book] implies that what the book actually represents may matter less than what it dismisses.” (Klima 10)
A Thousand Words
We have all at one time or another heard the old phrase “a picture tells a thousand words,” though seldom may we have thought of what it means. How is it that a picture “tells,” seeming, as it does, to lack any of the conventions – grammar, words, and clauses – of spoken language?
By its very incapacity to communicate in words, the image has an added layer of depth that may be absent in writing. If it is true, as I think it is, that people are inclined by nature to self-interpretation, then it is clear that the image, though it does not speak, implies a question, which the onlooker is in turn expected to answer.
The value of art may be judged, argues Andre Malraux, not by its nearness to life but by its rarity. “If it so happens that an artist immortalizes some supreme moment, he does not do this by reproducing it, but because he subjects it to a metamorphoses.” (Malraux 279) Malraux’s idea of the “supreme moment” is, to him, an autobiographical moment, which, as we’ll now see, is a prominent theme in many artist’s books, and could be a help to students that need inspiration for their writing.
Renee Stout’s lovely book, Seven Windows, is a fine example of an autobiographical artist’s book. Properly speaking, it may be well to call this a biography of an imagination: the book, shaped like a common scrapbook, filled with drawings, made with rich, lucid lines of color, tells the story of Madame Ching, Stout’s childhood alter-ego. The author has made a truly bizarre character: the fortune-teller, with pale cheesecloth wrapped tightly around her head, wearing a broad sack-like blue dress, wizened dark skin and piercing white eyes, looks like
an old migrant woman from late 19th century America, standing tiredly, as she’s often portrayed, in a dark field, under a frozen sun. Madame Ching, in Stout’s words, was “a mysterious fortuneteller and root worker, [and] functioned as a vehicle through which I could analyze the complexities of the self and human relationships.” (Wasserman 47) We cannot guess how Stout may have embellished Madame Ching nearly 30 years after she had created her; the book contains many other drawings, including a strange and beautiful watercolor painting of a human heart, suspended in the center of the page, surrounded by short extracts, written in blood-red ink, from what appears the author’s journal. A project like Seven Windows would offer students a superb opportunity to bring their lives into their writing.
During an interview in which he discussed his many artist’s books, Mathew Gellar, author of “Difficulty Swallowing: A Medical Journal,” pointed towards two elements he considered to distinguish a book from a work of art. (Dept. of Social and Health Services 11) The first “fact” about books: Readers, unlike the person seeing images, is capable of being discerning about what he reads. Secondly, and leading from Gellar’s first point, the reader can do his activity when ever he thinks it appropriate; the average man, walking through a “museum” of reality, is hemmed in by the images surrounding him. Gellar is referring more towards the many forms of advertising in modern life, though art is no less to him as impressive. “The experience of [the artist’s book] presents an interesting combination of limitations and variables,” said Gellar in the interview’s conclusion. (Dept. of Social and Health Services 11)
When considering Gellar’s opinions about books, we could offer two mistakes in his reasoning, which is pertinent to the use of artist’s books as a tool for teaching composition. The
first point is: the interviewee had not considered that the reader can phase out material in a book as easily as a man driving through Lubbock to get to work can disregard whatever that does not get him to work. Secondly, Gellar appears to accept a contradictory notion about art: to him, the act of reading is always intellectual and voluntary, while to look at printed images, like advertisements, is always a visceral experience, and in such an experience the person has no choices.
We will suspend our opinion of Gellar’s argument, for the time being, and keep his two points in mind, while we continue to explore the artist’s book.
Next, I will illustrate an idea for an artist’s book that I conceived myself.
Down the Rabbit-Hole
In Chris Marker’s 28-minute film, “La Jetee” (“The Jetty”, eng. 1962), the audience is hurled into the demented, savage world of the future. Paris has been completely destroyed by an atom bomb, as has the rest of the world, and the entire surface of the earth is covered with a poisonous nuclear residue. The surface world is blotted with decay and death, and those who would survive the Third World War, migrated underground, where, as the film begins, the human population had lived for at least 30 years. Much of the film’s story concerns a strange series of time-travel experiments, the purpose of which is to reverse the condition that had led to the explosion; one in particular, about a man, who, unable to tolerate the specter of his freedom in a new, more free world, attempts to travel to his past, where, he assumes, he can find freedom in his unhappy childhood. The movie inspired Terry Gilliam’s belated film adaptation, “12 Monkey’s” (1995).
“La Jetee” is an extraordinary film, not merely for its original story but for how it was made. At no point does the audience see a moving image: the movie is entirely composed of photograph stills, with the actors manipulated to seem as if they are communicating to one another. What results for the viewer is the disturbing feeling that they are looking at a torn-up scrapbook from the past, telling us something that is of dire importance to us.
Scene from “La Jette”
The film is very well written; when closing our eyes, we are convinced we are being read a short story. “Only later would he remember the sight of a frozen sun, at the sight of a stage setting at the end of a pier, and of a woman’s face,” says the omniscient narrator, over a stark photograph of an empty dock, with clouds looming above. “Nothing tells memory from ordinary moments; only afterwards do they claim remembrance on account of their scars.” (Marker) In instances like these, the narrator’s words increase what is shown in the photographs, sometimes subtly, and in this case, quite dramatically. What we are observing is persuasive writing.
What could students learn from watching “La Jetee”? My proposal is that they would do a project based on the film’s formula, of telling a story through a combination of photographs and text.
The principle of this exercise is straightforward. Simply put, we assume that the best way for a child to learn is if they are personally engaged in their work; for that to happen, they must be offered considerable independence to form their own works and, most importantly, to bring their own resources to their efforts. However, the students should not be left to fend for themselves entirely, and that is why the teacher, who has a better knowledge of the readings, would supply works – short stories, poems, novels – that that students would retell with photo illustrations and text. If a student, for example, chose to illustrate “The Circular Ruins,” a fantasy story by Jorge Luis Borges, he could cast himself as the wizard, who, separated from society, tries to dream of a boy in entirety to accompany him in his solitude. The student could choose locations (preferably a field, or near a hollowed out shack), make costumes; find someone to play the boy, perhaps a little brother. And finally, the student could manipulate the camera as he or she choose: take as many pictures as needed, make black-and-white or color images, and mix them together as they see fit. The students will be required, though, to add detail to the pictures with writing.
This project would address a number of issues about writing, the least not being that children often prefer imagery to writing. Ours is a visual culture, more visceral than it is thoughtful, and as such, children tend to consider reading and writing to be an obstacle rather than a means for important expression. Here is a project they can take home, that they have the
freedom to take apart and refashion to their liking; what is more, they have control over their story, and control is something that is rarely afforded to poor children in their personal lives.
Conclusion
We have discussed the fascinating history of artist’s books; of their extraordinary variety and potential for teaching composition in primary schools. We have realized how artist’s books could ennoble persuasive writing and make composition interesting to children. Perhaps no definition could embody anything as immutable and as strange as artist’s books. In closing, the reader would do well to consider Ralph Waldo Emerson’s opinion of art (Gowan 407): “…that beside his privacy as an individual man, there is a greater public power on which he may draw, by unlocking, at all risks, his human doors…the mind flows into and through things hardest and highest and the metamorphosis is possible.”
Works Cited
Dept. of Social and Health Services, Belltown. What Are We Waiting For? : An Exhibition of Artist’s Books. Seattle: Real Comet Press, 1984.
Gaitskell, Charles D. Children and Their Art: Methods for the Elementary School. New York: Harcourt, Brace and Company; 1984.
Gowan, John Curtis. Development of the Creative Indicidual. San Diego: Robert R. Knapp,
1972.
Hubert, Renne Riese; and Hubert, Judd D. The Cutting Edge of Reading: Artist’s Books. New
York: Granary Books, 1979.
Klima, Stefan. Artist’s Books: A Critical Survey of the Literature. New York: Granary Books,
1998.
La Jetee/San Soleil. Dir. Chris Marker. The Criterion Collection, 2007.
Malraux, Andre. The Voices of Silence. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1978.
Wasserman, Krystyna. The Book as Art: Artist’s Books from the National Museum of Women
In the Arts. New York: Princeton Architectural Press.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Composition
If you were to ask me what I thought of Composition 3360, I would answer that I enjoyed it, for the most part.
There were the obvious troubles, namely of trying to read Lanham’s entire book, “Style: An Anti-Textbook.” Not that “Style” was a bad book. On the contrary. Simply put, I could find very little time to read it, what, with my schedule being so hectic and all. The thesis of the book was very interesting, though, or what I had interpreted as its thesis: that discourse, in any form, is an expression of the human will to wave power over others’ heads.
Of course, I no more now than at the beginning of the semester believe at all in this, as I’m sure I argued in class more than a few times. There may be, however, a grain of truth in this idea, which I admit begrudgingly. But before going further, I would only point out one flaw that I think is pandemic in this argument as it’s traditionally used. The flaw is this: Assuming that the thesis is correct, that discourse is meant, invariably, to exercise power over others, is such communication always meant for selfish means? I’m speaking, evidently, about the sort of “selfishness” that’s pathological, here; no doubt, we could name all sorts of instances from simple observation in which we could prove that selfishness is not only healthy but even desirable. That isn’t what I’m talking about here, though.
Then there was the so-called “MOO” project, which I’m not sure how I feel about, except to say it was different. What struck me most of all, after everybody had stopped their fingers from clipping the keys and stood up from their little chairs, was of how relieved I felt at that instant to see people around me once more. It’d be difficult to produce a metaphor; maybe I felt like Plato’s naked man emerging from the cave to see the light, wanting to tell everyone else about it.
Over all, I enjoyed the class.
There were the obvious troubles, namely of trying to read Lanham’s entire book, “Style: An Anti-Textbook.” Not that “Style” was a bad book. On the contrary. Simply put, I could find very little time to read it, what, with my schedule being so hectic and all. The thesis of the book was very interesting, though, or what I had interpreted as its thesis: that discourse, in any form, is an expression of the human will to wave power over others’ heads.
Of course, I no more now than at the beginning of the semester believe at all in this, as I’m sure I argued in class more than a few times. There may be, however, a grain of truth in this idea, which I admit begrudgingly. But before going further, I would only point out one flaw that I think is pandemic in this argument as it’s traditionally used. The flaw is this: Assuming that the thesis is correct, that discourse is meant, invariably, to exercise power over others, is such communication always meant for selfish means? I’m speaking, evidently, about the sort of “selfishness” that’s pathological, here; no doubt, we could name all sorts of instances from simple observation in which we could prove that selfishness is not only healthy but even desirable. That isn’t what I’m talking about here, though.
Then there was the so-called “MOO” project, which I’m not sure how I feel about, except to say it was different. What struck me most of all, after everybody had stopped their fingers from clipping the keys and stood up from their little chairs, was of how relieved I felt at that instant to see people around me once more. It’d be difficult to produce a metaphor; maybe I felt like Plato’s naked man emerging from the cave to see the light, wanting to tell everyone else about it.
Over all, I enjoyed the class.
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