Maastricht-RAVENSTEIN, August 2019—in the last week of August, Andrea and I attended our last WTMC (Netherlands Graduate Research School of Science, Technology, and Modern Culture) summer school at Soeterbeeck conference centre—an old, semi-converted, monastery—in Ravenstein, Noord-Brabant province, the Netherlands. Here, I had the opportunity to present a brief extract from my current work, and to receive feedback from my fellow PhDs, along with Michael Guggenheim, the workshop’s anchor teacher.
I am currently in the process of writing the (likely) third chapter of my monograph, a chapter that explores the social aesthetics of place. The purpose of this chapter is twofold. First, I hope to open up, and begin to work towards, an understanding of the way in which place might be implicated in the translation of knowledge. More specifically, this means considering how the unique environment of the anatomy building—its subtle and slippery, aesthetic and atmospheric qualities—might have a role in producing the daily lives and practices of medical educators and novice physicians at Semmelweis University. Here I argue that the anatomy building as ‘place’—particularly its affective, sensory, and material dimensions—cannot be disentangled from the translation of anatomical knowledge practiced at Semmelweis, along with the material collected during my fieldwork, and the analytical arguments presented throughout my thesis.
The second aim of the chapter is to orientate my audience within the ‘place’ of my monograph, by making the anatomy building, the place of my research, a little more familiar. I attempt to do so by communicating the specific affective, sensory, and material dimensions of Semmelweis’ Department of Anatomy, Histology, and Embryology, via written text, photographs, and drawings. Here, my purpose is to translate some of these qualities and textures—qualities and textures which are inextricable from the material and analysis presented elsewhere in my work—in the hope of affording a richer reading of my arguments regarding the embodied and multisensory nature of anatomy training at Semmelweis that will be presented in part two of my thesis,
The chapter—along with my theoretical understandings of the atmospheric qualities of the anatomy building—functions in relationship with David MacDougall’s (for example, 2006, 2015) visual anthropological notion of ‘social aesthetics’ and Edward Casey’s (for example 1996, 1998, 2001) philosophical, phenomenological understanding of ‘place’. I then—in an attempt to accomplish the tricky task of translating the dimensions of aesthetics and place in written ethnography—draw upon the knowledge and work of anthropologist Kathleen Stewart, whose writing on affect, and in particular her book ‘Ordinary Affects’ (2007), has influenced my creation and use of ‘affective fieldwork excerpts’, three (truncated versions) of which, I share below.
My hope is that, by following Stewart’s lead—by taking her ‘experiment’ in affective ethnographic writing seriously—I might too ‘provoke attention’ to the forces of the everyday, making them animate, and therefore, in some manner, I might grapple with, and help translate, my embodied version of the affective, sensory, and material dimensions of the anatomy department. Dimensions which, though I contend are integral to human being and knowing at Semmelweis, are often elusive and push back against standard forms of representation.
Experimenting with everyday fieldwork affects
‘I write not as a trusted guide carefully laying out the links between theoretical categories and the real world, but as a point of impact, curiosity, and encounter… [my role is] not so much a subject position or [as] an agent in hot pursuit of something definitive as a point of contact; instead, [I] [gaze], [imagine], [sense], [take] on, [perform], and [assert] not a flat and finished truth but some possibilities (and threats) that have come into view in the effort to become attuned to what a particular scene might offer’.
Kathleen Stewart (‘Ordinary Affects’ 2007:5)
I. A quiet Tuesday lecture
There are only 16 students in the lecture theatre today.
The lecturer is using a hands-free microphone, but I am having difficulty making out what she is saying across the echoes and creeks of the empty theatre.
She moves to the chalkboard and starts drawing, saying, as she scrapes the chalk about, ‘the central canal, it gets deeper and deeper’. Here, she presses harder and the chalk screeches, leaving a thick, vertical line down the board.
I look around and see that the students are quickly copying the drawing into their notebooks. When the lecturer picks up a new, differently coloured, piece of chalk, I see the students swap their pens in unison—the zips and rustles of their pencil cases, confirming this change in colour.
The lecturer is now explaining the role of the cerebellum in human balance. She plays at standing on a tram, holding an imaginary pole, her tram stops, and she jolts forward, pretending to collect her balance.
She finishes the lecture with a drawing of the central canal. Its unmistakable butterfly silhouette is already in the process of being erased as we exit the lecture theatre.
II. Like a butcher, but surgery
She is working to expose the spinal cord. We all gather around the cadaver, straining to get a good look. She says loudly, and to no one in particular, ‘feel it. Not with one finger, really feel it with your whole hand’.
The formaldehyde in the air is strong now and she says that she ‘cannot see past it’, though she does not slow down or stop what she is doing. She continues on, scalpel in hand, and now occasionally wipes her eyes as best she can on her shoulder or forearm.
She continues cutting into the back of the cadaver, spreading aside anything that impedes her access to the spinal cord. She looks up at me and says, while smiling, ‘why don’t you do it, are you afraid, or what?’
As she works, I watch the students’ faces. They appear surprised or perhaps amazed, by how quick and rough, yet precise, she is in her actions. One student says to another, ‘she’s really getting in there’. She hears this and responds, ‘you have to go deep and cut it deep, otherwise you’ll see nothing’. The student replies, ‘like a butcher’. Her response: ‘yes, like a butcher, but surgery’.
She leaves the room and re-enters with a new tool. She says loudly, ‘look!’, holding up what appears to be a pair of large stainless steel pliers. She tells the students that this is a ‘big tool for muscles and ligaments’ and that it might get ‘noisy’.
She continues working on the cadaver’s back, allowing students to also try out the tools. I now find out what the red plastic buckets underneath the gurneys are for—unwanted pieces of the cadaver which have been dethatched from the whole.
III. Morning in dissection box three
Her classroom, dissection room one is a large room, with walls that reach the ceiling. The rest of the dissection rooms housed in the old wing are smaller and have walls that only make it three quarters of the way up.
I am sitting now in room three and it is very loud and hard to hear. We are in an 8am class and, like myself, the students are either running late, tired, or both. Tiles equally cover the floor and walls—cream-brown for the floor and a gentle blue-green up the walls. This, however, causes echoes, and adds to the problem of noise coming from the other classrooms. Looking around I notice that many of the wall tiles have been damaged or have completely fallen, and this leaves small pieces of concrete and tile on the floor, along with intermittent naked concrete squares in the places where a tile has given way. There is a drain in the centre of the room, which the floor lightly slopes towards, allowing for a good hosing down during a clean.
Ultimately, with this work, I hope to persuade readers of the richness of knowledge production and writing, which might come from paying greater explicit attention to the affective, sensory, and material dimensions of place in ethnographic research. Indeed, writing this now, and reflecting on my time in the WTMC graduate programme, I am beginning to wonder as to the way in which Soeterbeeck’s unique, rustic yet ornate, contemporary and historical, material and sensory environment might be implicated in the knowledge practiced and translated at WTMC’s workshops and summer schools—the possible manner in which the old monastery’s affective and atmospheric qualities might, in fact, be entangled within the training, knowledge, and bodies, of the Netherlands’ new generation of STS scholars.
The below photographs might help to give you an understanding of the affective atmosphere, which I am now pondering.
Casey, Edward S. 1996. “How to Get from Space to Place in a Fairly Short Stretch of Time.” In Senses of Place, edited by Steven Feld and Keith H. Basso, 13-52. Santa Fe, New Mexico: School of American Research Press.
Casey, Edward S. 1998. The Fate of Place: A Philosophical History. Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London: University of California Press.
Casey, Edward S. 2001. “Body, Self and Landscape: A Geophysical Inquiry Into the Place-World.” In Textures of Place: Exploring Humanist Geographies, 403-425. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press.
MacDougall, David. 2006. “Social Aesthetics and the Doon School.” In The Corporeal Image: Film, Ethnography, and the Senses, edited by David MacDougall, 94-119. Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press.
MacDougall, David. 2015. Social Aesthetics and Embodied Cinema. In Studies from the Munich Institute of Ethnology: Working Papers in Social and Cultural Anthropology. Volume 18., edited by Eveline Dürr, Frank Heidemann, Thomas Reinhardt and Martin Sökefeld. Munich.
Stewart, Kathleen. 2007. Ordinary Affects. Durham and London: Duke University Press.
MAASTRICHT, May 17 2019—Earlier this year, on a particularly windy Sunday afternoon, Sally Wyatt and I attended a perfume-making workshop at Amsterdam’s Mediamatic Biotoop. The workshop—Introduction to smell: Make your own perfume—was led by Frank Bloem, a Dutch artist who uses scent as his primary medium, and who educates on perfumery.
The three-hour-long workshop, took us on an olfactory journey through the essential oils, and layers, necessary when crafting a pleasant, intriguing, and long-lasting perfume. Here—sitting around a large, circular table, in a many-windowed workspace overlooking one of Amsterdam’s numerous bodies of water—we listened and smelled, as base, middle, and top notes were passed around the room.
First, we learnt that base layer smells—made up of animal* and earthy scents—are heavier and help to ground the perfume, allowing it to linger. These smells included such things as musk (from deer), ambroxide (the synthetic form of ambergris, produced in the digestive system of sperm whales), and castoreum (from the anal gland of a beaver), along with patchouli, tonka bean, and oak moss. One particularly potent base scent was a synthetic form of civet—a glandular secretion produced by the civet cat—smelling, to my nose, of chemically cat pee. As we passed the civet around the table, and each took turns surrendering our nasal passages, there were many strong and visceral reactions—eyes were squinted, noses were scrunched, and the occasional squeal was let out. Amidst these reactions, however, we were counselled not to immediately discount the use of this scent, as it softens with time and helps to enhance floral tones.
Middle tones were next, and these flowery delights were more in the realm of what I had imagined a perfume might draw upon—including, lavender, rose, geranium, and jasmine. Within this layer, new olfactory experiences came in the form of floralozone (which smelt of thunder storms), mimosa (that somehow reminded me of a cross between oil paint and cucumber), and indole (the smell of white flowers which have gone bad—and for me, therefore, reminiscent of a funeral home, or, a vase neglected).
Lastly came the top layer scents; a layer made up of more familiar—yet swift to disappear—smells, which were divided into two categories: ‘citrus’ and ‘kitchen’. We were told that these smells might be used to ‘catch’ the nose before they fade, with the middle and base layer smells left to linger on the skin. Top layer scents comprised, for instance, mandarin, lemon, and bergamot, alongside coriander seed, basil, black pepper, and cedarwood. Here, we were also presented with three different scents from the orange plant: neroli (from the flower of the orange tree), petitgrain (unripe orange), and orange (that is, the fully formed and ripe fruit).
Our journey—as painted above—through the three layers of perfume, however, provides more than a window into the nature of perfumery; it also touches upon some key puzzles and questions our team faces in thinking about and studying the senses. For instance, when discussing the base layer, I described that, though repugnant to some, civet is a key ingredient in many perfumes, because of the way it lingers on the skin and interacts with floral scents—indicating the multiplicity of each scent, and our experience and perception thereof.
Secondly, when recounting the middle layer smells, I relied upon my memory and personal relationship to the scents to describe (the perhaps previously unheard of) floralozone, mimosa, and indole. Indeed, throughout the workshop, Sally and I both noted the difficulty we had in describing and naming the many scents presented to us. Frustrated by our inability to name and communicate, we noticed that we began to parrot our instructor, using the words he chose, to translate meaning between ourselves. Though a useful tactic, we were later encouraged to instead ‘not be too scientific’ in our understanding of the scents. Here, we found it better to drawn upon our relationship with the smell—to describe the smell through memory or association—that is, what it reminded us of (thunderstorms, for example), or what experiences and memories were triggered when taking it in. By associating smell and memory, we had a better chance of not only communicating amongst ourselves, but of also remembering the scent of each oil.
Lastly, when smelling our way through the top layers, we were presented with three scents derived from the orange plant. I was sceptical at first as to whether, and how, these would be different. Indeed, they were different, and I was particularly able to detect the differences when recalling memories of my father’s orange trees in bloom (neroli), a scent which I had all but forgotten until this workshop—once again illustrating the entanglement of scent and memory. However, I do wonder, without the introduction and naming of the scents, the degree of difference I might have detected on my own.
Indeed, these examples each speak to what was my primary frustration and takeaway from the workshop—that is, how challenging it is to describe, communicate, and translate sensory experience. This, of course, relates to a key question within the Making Clinical Sense project, how do medical students learn the sensory skills of physical examination?—or, how are sensory experiences translated between actors (both human and non-human)? How are smells taught and doctors’ noses trained? A skill, for instance, necessary to diagnose a diabetic patient’s breath when blood sugar levels become too high—as described by Anna Harris in her forthcoming book A Sensory Education. How are minute differences in sound learnt and translated between teacher and student? For example, in the form of a diastolic heart murmur, communicated through tapping and hand gestures—as I witnessed during clinical rounds at Semmelweis University. And, how might touch be translated? Necessary when interpreting a patient’s pulse, or feeling for a pathological prostate—as Andrea Wojcik has documented.
Though smells may, indeed, as Ackerman suggests, move us so intensely due to their ineffable qualities, and though we do, indeed, live in a particularly ‘sayable’ world, we must continue to investigate these questions, looking for the various, ‘non-sayable’, non-cognitive, and embodied translations of sensory knowledges, if we are to properly comprehend sensory skill and, in turn, the teaching and learning of physical examination skills.
And—for those interested—my recipe from the day:
15 drops of essential oil:
1 drop tarbrown
2 drops patoulli
1 drop oak moss
1 drop olibaum tiretre
1 drop rose
1 drop jasmine
1 drop floral ozone
2 drops mimosa
1 drop neroli
1 drop bergamot
1 drop black pepper
1 drop pine fir
1 drop calone
Ackerman, D. (1990). A natural history of the senses. London, England: Vintage Books.
*All animal extracts used were synthetic and vegan—animal scent extraction can be a painful, cruel, and deadly process, and is, of course, unjustifiable [see, for example, goddessgarden.com].
Semmelweis Museum of Medical History
Over the weekend I took some time out of my sunny schedule to visit the Semmelweis Museum of Medical History, where I had the pleasure of discovering a collection of historical models used in the translation of previous generations of medical knowledge. Amongst these simulations was the Venus Anatomica, an enchanting (if, eerily positioned) full-scale wax figure demonstrating the female lymphatic system. Alongside the Venus – produced circa 1780 – I learnt that wax models, crafted through the coordinated practices of anatomists and artists, were once essential technologies of anatomical education, distributed throughout the medical universities of Europe. Pieces ranged from specific organs, to full anatomical figures, which were used to depict entire bodily systems.
Department of Anatomy, Histology, and Embryology
Throughout my time within the Department of Anatomy, Histology, and Embryology at Semmelweis University, I have had the opportunity to come into contact with many 21st Century anatomical simulations. Though perhaps not as initially engaging as the Venus Anatomica, these models are exquisite in their own right, retaining the integrity of connection between art and anatomy. Medical students and educators turn to models (now usually made of plastic) as one of many pedagogical technologies available to confer knowledge of the human body. This may occur, for instance, when the makeup of a cadaver obscures, to enlarge or highlight certain structures (for instance, the ear or eye), or to help students orient within “virtual space”, as is the case with the pelvis.
The use of these models is one illustration of the continued importance of low-tech simulation within medical education and, particularly in the case of my ethnography, the translation of embodied knowledge of human anatomy through pedagogical technologies.
Jones, Felipe, Carlos Eduardo Passos-Neto, and Freitas Melro Braghiroli. 2015. “Simulation in Medical Education: Brief history and methodology.” Principles and Practice of Clinical Research 1 (2):56-63.
Ziv, Amitai, Paul Root Wolpe, Stephen D. Small, and Shimon Glick. 2003. “Simulation-Based Medical Education: An Ethical Imperative.” Academic Medicine 78 (8):783-788.
Something went wrong, this page does not seem to exist. Please return to the home page.
Let’s briefly ponder Le Guin’s words; the meaning and the beauty. This is, as I see it, a large part of what we all aspire to in our work as academics. Writing – a craft – which can meaningfully communicate the knowledge that we, alongside our interlocutors, produce and share. Writing – a skill – that has the power to engage, move, shape, and transcend time and space when tinkered with enough so as to emerge ‘gorgeous’ (Le Guin 2015).
Writing is, indeed, a learnt technique – a craft, a skill (Le Guin 2015, ix). Alongside finding meaning and shaping beauty, we are, at many temporal junctures, presented with the (sometimes daunting) task of pouring over, and into, our gathered material. Pages upon pages of fieldnotes, a camera full of photographs, a recorder jammed with videos, stacks of archival photocopies, soundbites and soundscapes, the list goes on. One question, which thus presents itself, is, how do we move from material to an academic text – one, which is both meaningful and beautiful?
Having mostly concluded our fieldwork and having worked in the Ghanaian archives, this question is a poignant one for our team. We therefore took the opportunity to, following the larger ‘Teaching/Learning Materials: A Skillshare Workshop’, organise a day-long event entirely devoted to the craft of writing and, specifically, to the initial stage of moving from (mostly) undigested material to a workable text that sits warm and comfortable in the belly.
Working on the craft
The event created was titled, ‘A Skillshare Writing Workshop’ and took place in Maastricht from the 12th-13th of July. We were extraordinarily privileged to have the time and expertise of Professor Rachel Prentice, Professor Janelle Taylor, and Professor Jeremy Greene, who guided the workshop, introducing and concluding the event, leading the smaller group writing sessions, and generously sharing their knowledge, frustrations, and personal metaphors for their processes of writing (beach combing, sculpture, and slalom).
The workshop was shaped by texts from authors Ursula K. Le Guin and John McPhee and was supported by an online resource catalogue complied from a list of suggestions given to us by the participants themselves. Our group comprised 19 persons from varying disciplines and with diverse thematic interests, half of who were senior scholars and half of who were PhD researchers – a combination which lent itself to a fruitful skillshare.
Following a wonderful introductory session led by Janelle Taylor and Jeremy Greene and bearing a set of useful tools – postcards, sticky notes, coloured markers, and index cards – we divided into three smaller groups. One writing exercise explored in the small group guided by Janelle Taylor began with a prompt. Using three index cards, participants were asked to 1) describe, in a sentence, an exchange of dialogue or interaction from the field, 2) to create a “map of your fieldwork”, and 3) to focus on an object from the field and present it through drawing. These were then the foundations of, and instigators for, the group’s free writing time.
Another, more practical suggestion for establishing and sticking to good habits of writing – particularly when perfectionism and procrastination (and perhaps a little fear) set in when properly comprehending the quantity of rich material one has collected – was given to us by Rachel Prentice. One minute of writing every day, no matter what. No excuses, no putting it off until tomorrow, no re-reading articles or pouring over notes, we can all commit to one minute. It may seem a little odd or even unproductive, one minute – what can one accomplish in that time? However, as I see it, the purpose is to make writing friendly and approachable. Sitting down and starting is often the hardest part, one can always fill their day with other productive research tasks. Though, as many of us know, once one begins to write, the joy of the medium – of crafting rhythmic sentences and expressing ideas which we truly care for – takes over and we lose ourselves in the task.
A provocation raised in the closing session led by Rachel Prentice was to not only engage with the content of our own, and others’, work but to attend to the language, the structure, and the rhythm of texts in a caring and radical manner. Here, we find ourselves back in conversation with Le Guin’s meaning and beauty. The necessity of playing with rhythm, sound, alliteration, flow (for instance) – of making our writing ‘gorgeous’.
Moving forward our team will be practicing our craft by working through the exercises presented by Le Guin in her book ‘Steering the Craft‘. If you fancy more deeply attending to the meaning and the beauty of your own work, perhaps you could too.
For now, let’s leave it at that, and with a selection of writing currently being enjoyed by some of the workshop participants;
Katherine Verdery (2018), ‘My life as a spy’.
Sayaka Murata (2016), ‘Convenience Store Woman’.
China Miéville (2009), ‘The City & the City’.
John Seabrook (2018), ‘Black Ice, Near-Death, and Transcendence on I-91’.
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (2006), ‘Half of Yellow Sun’.
Yona Wallach (1997), ‘Wild Light: Selected Poems’.
Urusla K. Le Guin (1985), ‘She Unnames Them’.
Thanks to the European Research Council and the Netherlands Graduate School of Science, Technology, and Modern Culture (WTMC) who provided the funding that made this workshop possible.
MAASTRICHT, 25 February 2018 – This July, the Making Clinical Sense (MCS) team will be holding a four-day event, ‘Learning/teaching materials: A skillshare workshop’. The workshop will bring together Dutch and international scholars from across disciplines, exploring, amongst other things, skill, learning/teaching, and expertise, and will be held in the beautiful Teaching Hotel Chateau Bethlehem on the outskirts of Maastricht. We are all very excited about this workshop (the first to come from the MCS project) and will post more details soon.
PhD Day: A Skillshare Writing Workshop
Beyond the four day workshop, Andrea and I (with the help of the rest of the MCS team) are organising a ‘PhD day’. This one-day event – running over Thursday 12 July and Friday 13 July – has the express purpose of being ‘organised by and for PhD students’.
We have designed the day as a ‘Skillshare Writing Workshop’, in this way extending the theme of the overall workshop, whilst specifically focusing on the craft of academic writing. At Maastricht University – particularly within the MUSTS research programme, within which MCS is situated – and also within the WTMC (the national graduate programme that Andrea and I belong to) we have many opportunities to share academic texts ‘in progress.’ This, for instance, can take the form of working dissertation chapters (as happens in WTMC’s ‘write shops’), or articles, conference presentations, etc., which one is stuck on, or fine-tuning, for instance (as is the case at the MUSTS weekly ‘work in progress’ meetings). However, Andrea and I both felt that – though these shared sessions are an invaluable resource in the latter stages of writing – we were in need of some guidance in our initial, sometimes desperate, attempts to move from collected empirical material to academic text. Hence, the thinking behind the ‘Skillshare Writing Workshop’.
This workshop will focus on the stage of writing that comes upon returning from the field or resurfacing from the archive (timely considering our current research trajectories). The very practical question driving the workshop is: How do we move from material – fieldnotes, (sensory) experience, a quote from a transcript, photographs, videos, documents – to academic text?
As hinted at, this is quite an invisible stage of writing, and one that we often struggle through (mostly) alone. Over the course of the writing workshop we will thus take the time to articulate what this stage of the writing process entails as well as develop skills for working through it. To do this, we are posing the following guiding questions: What are the challenges related to beginning to write? How have we learnt to write? How does this relate to the identified challenges? What happens to our subjects and our material as we work towards an academic text?
Beyond working through these questions, the participants of the workshop will be asked to submit a ‘think piece’ – that is, some form of material gathered/generated during research – and will, throughout the course of the workshop, move towards translating this piece into text. The workshop will be composed of both junior and senior scholars, and we expect that this combination will allow for a ‘skill share’ related to the creation of academic text.
Although we will focus on a practical skill during the workshop, the scholars who have been invited share thematic interests with the MCS research team. These include materiality, technology, the senses, skill development, medicine, education, teaching/learning, and embodied knowledge. They are ethnographers and historians who use a variety of methods (e.g. re-enactment, video reflexivity, and participant observation). We are very pleased to announce that Professor Rachel Prentice, Professor Janelle Taylor, and Professor Jeremy Greene will help guide the day, functioning as group leaders and writing advisors.
WTMC Funding and Scholarships
We are also pleased to announce that this workshop has received funding from the Netherlands National Research School of Science, Technology, and Modern Culture (WTMC). We thank the WTMC for this generous assistance. The grant received will go towards facilitating the event at large, and will also fund the attendance of six WTMC Graduate Programme members on full scholarships. A call for WTMC member applications will be circulated in early March, and more information will follow here as well. However, if you have any questions at this time, please do not hesitate to contact us.
The workshop, entitled ‘Ethnographic Experimentation: Fieldwork Devices and Companions,’ centered on novel forms of ethnographic practice and presentation. The event hosted a range of scholars, mostly from within anthropology and its surrounding disciplines, and invited its participants to describe their own ethnographic fieldwork practice and to share their experiences of ethnographic experimentation. The three-day programme was divided into open-format sessions, paper presentation panels, and ethnographic film screenings, and allowed for plenty of time outdoors to enjoy the sun and gardens and, if lucky enough, to make friends with a host of local birdlife.
I attended the workshop on behalf of the Making Clinical Sense team and presented our recent work related to experimental and collaborative methods in a 30-minute open-format session.
Here, with the gracious help of the workshop organisers, I assembled an interactive space for participants to engage in the making of an omelette following a Julia Child video recipe (The French Chef: The Omelette Show). Other participants were then invited to notate the learning and cooking experience using various techniques and instruments, such as cameras, smartphones, and tablets, used for photography, video and sound recording, and sketch pads, pens and pencils, used for drawing and writing.
This format was designed in relation to Making Clinical Sense’s quasi- “proof of concept study” (which took place in June, 2017), in which we experimented with different methods of elicitation and notation – namely drawing, photography, and video – which imaginatively attended to skilled, sensory learning. Here we substituted omelette making – a sensory skill that demands finely tuned technique – for the primary focus of the project, the bodily and sensory clinical skills of physical examination.
I am very grateful to have been involved in the workshop and to have had the opportunity to meet with other ethnographers experimenting with methods and methodology, particularly in relation to sensory and material aspects of the empirical. It was an enjoyable and inspiring three days, filled with imaginative ideas and approaches to ethnographic practice – something to bring forward within Making Clinical Sense’s approach to our own fieldwork practice, and to the collection and sharing of our empirical material.
Many thanks to the event organisers for their vision, time, and effort, and for providing several of the materials used in my omelette making session.
How to cook an omelette: A proof of concept study
Sensory ethnography is becoming an increasingly popular method for exploring taken-for- granted practices that are otherwise difficult to articulate. Sensory ethnographers are asked to attune to their own learning, to learn with, not about, others (Ingold 2013). There is however, limited discussion on how to document not only one’s own learning, but also how others learn sensory skills. In the context of a larger comparative ethnographic study about how doctors learn sensory skills of diagnosis, we set out to experiment with different digital methods of elicitation and notation, which imaginatively attend to sensory learning. In a quasi- “proof of concept study”, we will take another example of a sensory skill that demands finely tuned technique – making omelettes. Because our interest in the medical world is the role of pedagogical technologies we will use various audio-visual notation methods to document how cooking omelettes is taught to a group by different technological arrangements: video (Julia Child’s The French Chef); written recipe (M.F.K Fisher’s How to Cook a Wolf); and apprenticeship (under the guidance of a chef). In doing so, we work in collaboration with media and art historians to understand more about what it means to experimentally re-enact and reconstruct recipes.
With awareness that our methods don’t describe practices but rather help create them, in the workshop we will share our discoveries about documenting sensory learning and discuss collaboration, as an ethnographic team, as well as learning experimental methods from other disciplines such as history. Beyond this, we invite participants to engage with sensory and skill learning as well as notation techniques, in the creation and documentation of their own omelette cooking experience.
As the day began our first speaker, Dear Hunter’s Remy Kroese, informed us that Dear Hunter and the Institute of Calibration ‘approach artistic research practice as a space in which the artist develops a methodology of her own’—that is, the artist acts as the instrument of research. The programme, it was explained, would therefore engage with the following (amongst other) questions: ‘How is an artist-as-instrument made sensitive? What kinds of embodied, aesthetic, intimate, sensory ways of knowing are developed? And, how does the artist-as-instrument become attuned or calibrated?
The event was organised as a ‘hands-on working session’ in which thinking-through-making was paramount (hence the sketch pads and pens!). The central and practical aspect of the day was the creation of our own “instrument”—instrument being a metaphor employed by the Institute of Calibration as a means by which to gain perspective on artistic research practice. We were thus instructed by the facilitators to draw imagined instruments and were provided with only one parameter, namely, that the instrument would be capable of receiving input and producing output. So (and with images of Leonardo da Vinci swirling in my mind) we crafted, through our drawings, tens of imaginary instruments, each unique and all with the ability to receive input and produce output, be it material or sensory.
A “letter sorter” was devised by one participant, alongside an instrument capable of receiving and expelling water, and another which had the ability to intake both mass and noise and subsequently compute these into a visual output map. I, myself—completely out of my comfort zone and not entirely sure what I was doing—created a pseudo stethoscope-type instrument and later, better comprehending the exercise, came up with an instrument capable of receiving positive thoughts and translating these into a syrupy output which I titled “happiness tea.” Throughout the course of the day—a day which was interspersed with presentations on hand drawing, architecture, and DIY oscilloscopes—we continued to come back to these instruments, sketching what their output might look like, thinking about the ways in which they might fail, and further fine-tuning their design and function.
These presentations and exercises, though not directly related to Making Clinical Sense, have, in the weeks since the symposium, provided me with some titbits to ponder over at the outset of our project. Firstly, the process of creating an imagined instrument, crafting its function and, in particular, its input and output, has afforded me space to consider, in a more creative way, potential lines of inquiry within my own research. That is, I ask myself, what are the corresponding input, output, and instrument categories within my project? What input, so to speak, will I be receiving when I arrive at Semmelweis, and what output do I anticipate or am I striving for? Moreover, what instrument(s) will I be using to make this conversion?
For me, drawing an instrument to represent this process can serve as an alternative way to conceptualise of my impending ethnographic practice, particularly when, at times, faced with the stagnation of language. Beyond this, Drawing Instruments has caused me to question and experiment with the utilisation of drawing as an ethnographic method. Here, drawing may be seen as a practice which not only considers the artist as a research instrument, but the anthropologist too—that is, drawing may be a different way to conceive of oneself as a sensitive research instrument. Drawing becomes not only a way to represent observed and interpreted reality, but is understood as an action, a way of working with and learning alongside the interlocutors of one’s research. Toying with these ideas I find myself beginning to delve deeper—that is, engaging with another methodological arena—into what it means to consider myself as a research instrument, a specifically important (and exciting) task at the outset of any ethnographic research project.