Author: Maren Deepwell

Signpost: This is a post from the Neon Flaneuse blog. The Neon Flaneuse is a blogging project for which I write about art, anthropology and edtech. It’s part of my professional practice but a project I pursue in my own time.

Nearly two decades ago I had an idea to create a Travelling Monument Kit. This is the original drawing which I still have in a sketchbook somewhere even though the actual suitcase I made has been lost in the mists of time (read: one too many house moves). 

The idea of the travelling monument kit is really a layered metaphor, several ideas wrapped into each other, so let me try and unpack it for you. 

Note: From here you proceed at your own risk… this is a post about a half remembered artwork on a blog about an imaginary character. 

At the heart of the Travelling Monument Kit, what originally got me thinking about this idea, is the relationship between travelling and permanence. Travelling is all about leaving things behind, discovering new ones and changing perspectives… it’s about change. Monuments are normally fixed in place and time, permanent markers of things to be remembered. They signify that which we don’t want to change or forget or leave behind. 

The Travelling Monument Kit contained maps, both a world map to put pins/markers on the chart and track the overall route, to record places visited; it included a camera to take photos of the travelling monument (the physical artwork included a Polaroid camera); a plaque with text to affix to or mark the monument on location; an album for recording and collecting the monuments. 

I’m not sure anymore whether I originally imagined there to actually be anything else in the suitcase, or whether any given object or place identified could simply become a monument by virtue of the process of making it so, putting up the plaque, taking pictures, recording it and so forth. In real life I did both, create those kinds of monuments as well as choosing an object to actually travel with in the physical sense. 

(The object I chose for that purpose was a pair of swimming flippers. Why? Because there was a beach underneath the city streets that I was interested in finding.)

In a way the Travelling Monument Kit explores how we can create lasting meaning amidst change. The process of ‘making a monument’ is very similar to, for example, going to a familiar restaurant in unfamiliar surroundings or finding connections between landscapes we are familiar with in a new place that is strange and different. It’s about creating something solid and strong, a connection, to bring things into perspective. 

The Travelling Monument Kit is also in a suitcase. And that was a deliberate choice as well as being integral to the idea. It’s important that it’s a suitcase. It’s important in a number of different ways: a suitcase is purpose built for travel. It’s a native travel object. It is designed to be at home whilst travelling in a way very few things are. It’s never not at home because it (by definition) contains everything within it. Also, a suitcase is made to be in transit, on the road. In contrast to objects like first aid kits which are usually fixed in place and purpose, a suitcase is flexible both conceptually and practically. In the context of the Travelling Monument Kit it signifies that you can take the ability to create your own monuments, your own lasting meaning, memories and connections with you. You can pack it in a suitcase and never be without it. 

The physical dimension is important, too. It’s important that the process isn’t digital, but focused on visual and material things. It makes a difference that the traveller, the monument maker, undertakes a physical, practical process. It’s important for the same reason as visiting physical monuments in the real world is distinct from seeing visual or digital representations of them. The sensory and embodied practice of interacting with a specific place or object is key to creating the connection, to making a memory, to establishing meaning. It’s particularly important for a traveller because our physical bodies can often be out of sync with new time zones or sleeping patterns, food, smells, perspectives. It can be disorientating to experience a lot of change, to encounter a lot of new places or people in quick succession. It’s necessary to relate to what we encounter with our senses and physical selves in order to make sense of things. 

That’s where the historical dimension of the monument idea comes in. It’s about creating order, a timeline, it’s about finding a narrative, a story that connects the new markers we place on our map and brings them into perspective. It helps us create our own histories, to make sense and determine the meaning of things to us and in the context of our own internal worlds. It’s a lot like writing, I suppose, but also more than that.

The Travelling Monument Kit is not an instant monument kit. It’s not about appropriation. Technology and the tech industry keep looking for shortcuts to creating a sense of history, of legitimacy, of belonging in our lives. This artwork is not about quick ways to create the look of the thing – even though some of its elements are very visual, like taking a photo, putting up a plaque etc. It’s about a process, about experience and embodiment. At the time when I made this I didn’t own a mobile phone yet. I neither had nor dreamt of the affordances of such digital tools as are now commonplace. But even if I had done so, I don’t think it would have mattered that all physical elements of the Travelling Monument Kit could now be easily replicated or approximated with my phone. A camera, a custom map, a plaque, a photo album or record… I could easily replicate the look of the thing, make an app, an Instagram account. But it would be something entirely different from the original. 

The intention that shaped the making of this Traveling Monument Kit was not focused on what it would create, although I did end up creating some travelling monument ‘books’. It wasn’t about creating and sharing content. The intention was to articulate, to think through the ideas, to create a sense of belonging whilst travelling, whilst being in flux and to foster that ability within yourself. 

All themes that I still think about two decades later and which have developed new, interesting dimensions since. 

In the sketchbook that the original drawing is from, you can follow the development of the idea:

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The Travelling Monument Kit itself is the final drawing in that sketchbook, after that there are only some blank pages. It’s as if the train of thought that had led to the drawing came to a full stop. The idea was created. I hadn’t thought about that before, how appropriate it was that the sketchbook ends after that drawing. It’s a useful thing to keep our own archive sometimes, to be able to go back and look at the physical objects that shape your thinking. Searching through my desk drawer revealed another interesting clue as to where my thoughts went next (this next sketchbook was probably bought in London but travelled to Athens where I was living at the time and back again and has followed me through all the house moves since 2002): the cover says it all: the suitcase files – travel accessories as metaphor.

Soundtrack for this post:
Dusty in Memphis by Dusty Springfield

Also…

• The Neon Flaneuse home
• Twitter @neonFlaneuse
• Small print

How do you cite a graphic novel? I’ve been reading Art Matters by Neil Gaiman, illustrated by Chris Riddell. And I want to write about it but simply quoting the words doesn’t work, so I have decided that pictures of the pages of the book may be better. They are all from the chapter entitled ‘why our future depends on libraries, reading and daydreaming’. (As an aside, I really recommend the book – it makes for inspiring reading.) 

I’ve been looking for ways to think about my professional practice, my work and the future that isn’t bleak technological determinism, surveillance capitalism or decided by algorithms. I’ve found starting points for theory, policy and the wider context, but this post is more about the personal dimension, the ‘what do you get out of bed for’ part of any creative endeavour. Art Matters is a good book about practice and work, and although it is mostly written from the perspective of creative professionals like artists, musicians and writers, I think the heart of the book is just as relevant to working in education or edtech. 

I read so much that I don’t often think about reading. So the page above made me pause. In this bit Gaiman talks about how important it is to read when you are young, or rather to get into the habit of reading for pleasure as early as possible. It reads: 

You are finding out something as you read that will be vitally important for making your way in the world. And it’s this: the world doesn’t have to be like this. Things can be different. 

This is about reading fiction, reading for fun,  but I think it’s equally useful to consider in the context of reading policy, reports and so forth. Much of what I read about innovation, disruption and change, other than research, doesn’t seem to be about things actually changing, about things being different. 

I like the idea that reading fiction builds empathy. It sounds very akin to ethnographic fieldwork. To see the world through other eyes. The idea that reading fiction as a journey that changes us is simple and powerful. It rings true to me. And it can be true of other stories, too. Really good lectures, inspiring keynotes, research.. the stories we tell. I hadn’t really thought about it in terms of building empathy before. 

I read a lot in all media. And the pages of the book (above)  made me reflect on how something like a book remains valuable and relevant even though there are other formats, alternative choices. It says:

I do not believe that all books will or should migrate to screens: as Douglas Adams once pointed out to me, over twenty years before digital books showed up, a physical books is like a shark. Sharks are old. There were sharks in the ocean before the dinosaurs. And the reason there are still sharks around is that sharks are better at being sharks than anything else is. … physical books are tough, hard to destroy, bath resistant, solar operated, feel good in your hand: they are good at being books, and there will always be a place for them. 

I want that to be true. I think it goes back to what I wrote about in the last post, that it’s not helpful to frame our relationship with technology, with digital things, in terms of which one is better, which one becomes obsolete. It seems more helpful to appreciate that for instance physical and digital books can exist alongside each other. Like audio books and physical books, complimentary and each good in its own way. Plus, I really appreciate the bath reference. Sometimes there’s a story you can’t put down and you want to keep reading even in the bath. Some of my favourite books have spent days carefully drying out next to the radiator.

Earlier in the chapter Gaiman talks more about the importance of literacy, libraries and access to information. Even though it’s both interesting and important, I am going to skip that bit and hopefully let you read that for yourself. Instead, I want to come back to what he says about imagination. 

Fiction is the lie that tells the truth. We all have an obligation to daydream. We have an obligation to imagine. It is easy to pretend that nobody can change anything, that society is huge and the individual is less than nothing. But the truth is individuals make the future, and they do it by imagining that things can be different. 

This is one of the radical bits of the book. There are quite a few, as it is mostly written like a call to action, a manifesto, but this bit in particular reminded me of something I have been thinking about recently: namely how hard it is to make something that is true for us, something that we feel is important, sound valid. Somehow I feel like I ought to proof. 

Such words as ‘imagine that things can be different’ can easily sound trite and get dismissed quickly. Partly, I think, because of the responsibility they entail. It’s after all within my power to daydream, to imagine… to do better, to speak up, to make a change. It doesn’t require anything but my will to do that and so it’s entirely up to me. It’s within my power as an individual, a human being, but that means it’s also my responsibility – and that is the bit that many don’t feel comfortable with regardless of whether you are talking about inequality or technology or reading books or making art. 

It’s what I really like about this book. It’s funny and it talks of failure. The loneliness of writing and the comic mistakes made. And the tragic ones. It’s about making choices and putting important things first. And so I am going to borrow yet more words from it to end this post with the following parting thought: 

… ‘the things I did because I was excited, and wanted to see them exist in reality, have never let me down, and I’ve never regretted the time spent on any of them.’

Soundtrack for this post:
Dreams by The Cranberries

Also…

• The Neon Flaneuse home
• Twitter @neonFlaneuse
• Small print

Deep in the edtech sprawl, where daylight only rarely penetrates and you can hear the constant hum of servers being cooled, there is writing on the wall:

Is digital better?
Is a computer better?
Is AI better?

Passers-by hurry past these words, but they still read them. In those words they hear the deep thumping beat of the march of the machines. That sound is never absent from the edtech sprawl, forever thriving to mechanise, industrialise, to cut costs and increase profits. ‘Better’ may look glossy, sexy, new… but usually it is shorthand for something more, for devaluing labour for example. Deep in those dark and dank streets, there is a constant race to keep up, to remain relevant, to be employable. There is a competition to answer those questions about what is better, who is better. A machine or a human being.

Fortunately, we are making a map (with small moving footprints on it like the magical map in Harry Potter, only that the footprints on this map glow briefly in different neon colours… it is the Neon Flaneuse we are following after all) that will lead us to think about things in a different way, beyond the ‘digital dichotomy’. Beyond, to a more helpful and interesting part of the sprawl, where we can sit on a bench and watch the world go by. A bench which is still wrapped in the grey fog of the metropolis, but where the daylight sometimes penetrates. The bench has a plaque which reads: In Memory of Lilac and Flag.

There are two things I want to think about:

Creative professional practice, the way artists and designers work, which often blends different modalities of working, analogue and digital. Their approach provides a different starting point for thinking about the relationship between humans and machines or humans and data, more integrative than adversarial.

Also, experiencing art in person, rather than looking at a (digital) representation of or reading about it, may point in the same direction. May help our thinking take a step away from which is ‘better’, take a step back from the human versus machine narrative and get us to a more interesting place… .

Let’s think about art first. Many artworks are now catalogued online, and I can even take a virtual stroll through a museum or exhibition. The experience of reading about and looking at digital representations isn’t the same as experiencing a painting or a sculpture in person. Even if I wore a VR headset, and the recording or scan was extremely high resolution, it would be different to my first hand experience. It may be amazing, but it’s not the same as being there. It’s hard to articulate those different experiences I find because usually the language we use to talk about experiencing things through machines or the way in which machines function humanises technology. We use phrases like ‘the camera sees’ or the ‘the computer thinks’ or ‘the robot cares’ and that confuses the issue. So articulating the difference between what a human being does and what a machine does is tricky unless you are expert enough to use technical terms. Yet encountering art, a sculpture or a painting for example, is different for a human than it is for a machine. Obviously. 
There are many variables between an object, a person and a situation, that combine to create the experience. All of which contribute to the meaning that particular work of art may hold for the individual. Nothing holds meaning for a machine.
Some elements of that meaning may be shared, like feeling small when encountering a large installation. Others may be so specific that they are singular. Some art or architecture is so spectacular that it is easier to engage with it because we know we should – we should look for meaning. But it can be hard to find, and taking a selfie, having a record, has become the predominant mode of engagement.

I like to imagine that with the Neon Flaneuse any museum I went to would suddenly be quiet, that people would magically melt away. All those labels and descriptions would also disappear and we would just follow our feet and stop and pause whenever something really captured our imagination. I went to art school for six years and yet never developed an interest in reading about art in museums. I still hardly ever read the labels. I know that I can remember enough about it to look it up in a book or on the internet later. But when I’m there in person, I want to really pay attention, to notice what I get from the experience. 

Many people don’t feel that they really understand art.
So they read the information provided in order to do so. It helps make sense, explains why something is important or what others feel was special about it.
But if the museum was devoid of such clues, if there were no markers to tell you which one to pick, what would you go by?
How would you know which one to like?
Which one to take a picture of?

For me, personally, encountering art is all about the moment. There are artists whose aesthetic, ideas, style or mastery I admire. There are types of art of which I like the medium. There is art that I like because of its role in history. But for that I can buy a postcard or read a book. I don’t need to necessarily go to see Marcel Duchamp’s urinal or Rachel Whiteread’s house. 

Instead, I want to focus on what I feel drawn to. A tortoise would be a good museum companion, making her way slowly and steadily through the levels. She could potter on whilst I stood still. People usually find that annoying. After all, there is always more to see, guides to follow.

A few years ago I spent the morning at the Scottish National Gallery in Edinburgh and the visit had two real highlights. Walking up to the museum I saw a big neon sign spelling out the words: everything is going to be alright. It really meant something to me that morning. It was just the message that I needed to see light up in bright lights. It made me smile despite being wet and cold. 

I went to see the Ed Ruscha exhibition they had on and some specific artworks I’d never seen before in real life. It was interesting but also what I had expected. No surprises, even though I learnt a lot. But in the last room of the exhibition I came across a painting that made me stop in my tracks. I sat down in front of it for so long that the school kids with their sketch pads were jostling me as they made their drawings and the security guard gave me funny looks. But that day this particular painting made me feel that sitting and staring at it, really drinking it in, was just what I wanted to do. It inspired me. It made me think and feel things I hadn’t felt before. Looking at it now on the Tate website I don’t connect with it in the same way. I still ‘like’ it and I get echoes of how I felt that day in Edinburgh but it’s different. The moment has passed, it’s become part of my story. 

Coming back to those words on the wall, to the adversarial “which one is better” narrative… I don’t think it’s helpful to think in terms of which one is better. How we perceive the world isn’t better or worse than what we can measure or capture with tools and machines. Technology is useful. It enables me to learn all about that painting I saw in Edinburgh, to show it to you, to reference it and so forth. There is no competition as to what is better. Each type of experience, different ways to relate to and interact with the world have a different purpose and meaning. Both have value.

Creative professional practice has a long history of making use of technology. Digital technology has expanded the toolbox significantly but physical objects and other forms of knowledge are no less important. It seems perfectly logical to combine using original archive materials with digital sources to create physical models which can then be used to create a digital version and so forth. All have their place in the creative process.

There’s an interesting documentary series on the art of design that gives insight into this beautifully, but I’d guess talking to most creative professionals or visiting an art school or studio will highlight the same. The point is that we use whatever is the most useful without creating a hierarchy of what’s better. There is a joy in creative practice which I feel is absent in much of the work in educational technology. 

So instead of asking which is better, a print maker or a printing machine, a teacher or a teaching machine, we ask different questions. We don’t set up a dichotomy which focuses on measurable indicators rather than purpose and meaning. We move beyond the digital dichotomy and we keep walking and go to the museum. Pick something and spend some time sitting with it. You won’t need to take a selfie. You will remember.

Soundtrack for this post:
Our Day Will Come by Amy Winehouse

Also…

• The Neon Flaneuse home
• Twitter @neonFlaneuse
• Small print