So is it as if it had never been?  I there anything left behind?  There are a few sheets of Magic Whiteboard on the walls, that I left so that those visiting the Rural Centre in the coming weeks can see something of what we were doing, and there are used teabags and fish-and-chip boxes in the bin, but few traces.

We trod lightly, like the agriculture of the island, where Corncrake and orchid live alongside sheep and cattle.

Some may have heard me talk about the way design is like a Spaghetti Western. In the beginning of the film Clint Eastwood walks into the town, and at the end walks away.  He does not stay, happily ever after, with a girl on his arm, but leaves almost as if nothing had ever happened.

But while he, like the designer, ultimately leaves, things are not the same.  The Carson brothers who had the town in fear for years lie dead in their ranch at the edge of town, the sharp tang of gunfire still in the air and the buzz of flies slowly growing over the elsewise silent bodies.  The crooked major, who had been in the pocket of the Carson brothers, is strapped over a mule heading across the desert towards Mexico, and not a few wooden rails and water buts need to be repaired.  The job of the designer is not to stay, but to leave, but leave change: intervention more than invention.

But the deepest changes are not those visible in the bullet-pocked saloon door, but in the people.  The drunk who used to sit all day at the bar, has discovered that he is not just a drunk, but he is a man, and the barmaid, who used to stand behind the bar has discovered that she is not just a barmaid, but she is a woman.

This is true of the artefacts we create and leave behind as designers, but much more so of the events, which come and go through our lives.  It is not so much the material traces they leave in the environment, but the changes in ourselves.

I know that, as the plane and ferry left with those last participants, a little of myself left with them, and I know many, probably all, felt a little of themselves left behind on Tiree.  This is partly abut the island itself; indeed I know one participant was already planning a family holiday here and another was looking at Tiree houses for sale on RightMove!  But it was also the intensity of five, sometimes relaxed, sometimes frenetic, days together.

So what did we do?

There was no programme of twenty minute talks, no keynotes or demo, indeed no plan nor schedule at all, unusual in our diary-obsessed, deadline-driven world.

Well, we talked.  Not at a podium with microphone and Powerpoint slides, but while sitting around tables, while walking on the beach, and while standing looking up at Tilly, the community wind turbine, the deep sound of her swinging blades resonating in our bones.  And we continued to talk as the sun fell and the overwhelmingly many stars came out , we talked while eating, while drinking and while playing (not so expertly) darts.

We met people from the island those who came to the open evening on Saturday, or popped in during the days, and some at the Harvest Service on Sunday.  We met Mark who told us about the future plans for Tiree Broadband, Jane at PaperWorks who made everything happen, Fiona and others at the Lodge who provided our meals, and many more. Indeed, many thanks to all those on the island who in various ways helped or made those at TTW feel welcome.

We also wrote.  We wrote on sheets of paper, notes and diagrams, and filled in TAPT forms for Clare who was attempting unpack our experiences of peace and calmness in the hope of designing computer systems that aid rather than assault our solitude.  Three large Magic Whiteboard sheets were entitled “I make because …”, “I make with …”, “I make …” and were filled with comments.  And, in these days of measurable objectives, I know that at least a grant proposal, book chapter and paper were written during the long weekend; and the comments on the whiteboards and experiences of the event will be used to create a methodological reflection of the role of making in research which we’ll put into Interfaces and the TTW web site.

We moved.  Walking, throwing darts, washing dishes, and I think all heavily gesturing with our hands while taking.  And became more aware of those movements during Layda’s warm-up improvisation exercises when we mirrored one another’s movements, before using our bodies in RePlay to investigate issues of creativity and act out the internal architecture of Magnus’ planned digital literature system.

We directly encountered the chill of wind and warmth of sunshine, the cattle and sheep, often on the roads as well as in the fields.  We saw on maps the pattern of settlement on the island and on display boards the wools from different breeds on the island. Some of us went to the local historical centre, An Iodhlann [[ http://www.aniodhlann.org.uk/ ]], to see artefacts, documents and displays of the island in times past, from breadbasket of the west of Scotland to wartime airbase.

We slept.  I in my own bed, some in the Lodge, some in the B&B round the corner, Matjaz and Klem in a camper van and Magnus – brave heart – in a tent amongst the sand dunes.  Occasionally some took a break and dozed in the chairs at the Rural Centre or even nodded off over a good dinner (was that me?).

We showed things we had brought with us, including Magnus’ tangle of wires and circuit boards that almost worked, myself a small pack of FireFly units (enough to play with I hope in a future Tech Wave), Layda’s various pieces she had made in previous tech-arts workshops, Steve’s musical instrument combining Android phone and cardboard foil tube, and Alessio’s impressively modified table lamp.

And we made.  We do after all describe this as a making event!  Helen and Claire explored the limits of ZigBee wireless signals.  Several people contributed to an audio experience using proximity sensors and Arduino boards, and Steve’s CogWork Chip: Lego and electronics, maybe the world’s first mechanical random-signal generator.  Descriptions of many of these and other aspects of the event will appear in due course on the TTW site and participants’ blogs.

But it was a remark that Graham made as he was waiting in the ferry queue that is most telling.  It was not the doing that was central, the making, even the talking, but the fact that he didn’t have to do anything at all.  It was the lack of a plan that made space to fill with doing, or not to do so.

Is that the heart?  We need time and space for non-doing, or maybe even un-doing, unwinding tangles of self as well as wire.

There will be another Tiree Tech Wave in March/April, do come to share in some more not doing then.

Who was there:

• Alessio Malizia – across the seas from Madrid, blurring the boundaries between information, light and space
• Helen  Pritchard – artist, student of innovation and interested in cows
• Claire  Andrews – roller girl and researching the design of assistive products
• Clare  Hooper – investigating creativity, innovation and a sprinkling of SemWeb
• Magnus  Lawrie – artist, tent-dweller and researcher of digital humanities
• Steve Gill – designer, daredevil and (when he can get me to make time) co-authoring book on physicality TouchIT
• Graham Dean – ex-computer science lecturer, ex-businessman, and current student and auto-ethnographer of maker-culture
• Steve Foreshaw - builder, artist, magician and explorer of alien artefacts
• Matjaz Kljun – researcher of personal information and olive oil maker
• Layda Gongora – artist, curator, studying improvisation, meditation and wild hair
• Alan Dix – me

I recall my own interest in the origins of language began young, as a seven year old over breakfast one day, asking whether ‘night, was a contraction of ‘no light’.  While this was an etymological red herring, it is very much the kind of change that Deutscher documents in detail showing the way a word accretes beginnings and ending through juxtaposition of simpler words followed by erosion of hard to pronounce sounds.

One of my favourites examples was the French “aujourd’hui”.  The word ‘hui, was Old French for ‘today’, but was originally Latin “hoc die”, “(on) this day”. Because ‘hui’ is not very emphatic it became “au jour d’hui”, “on the day of this day” , which contracted to the current ‘aujourd’hui’. Except now to add emphasis some French speakers are starting to say “au jour aujourd’hui”, “on the day on the day of this day”!  This reminds me of Longsleddale in the Lake District (inspiration for Postman Pat‘s Greendale),  a contraction of “long sled dale”, which literally means “long valley valley” from Old English “slaed” meaning “valley” … although I once even saw something suggesting that ‘long’ itself in the name was also “valley” in a different language!

Deutscher gives many more prosaic examples where words meaning ‘I’, ‘you’, ‘she’ get accreted to verbs to create the verb endings found in languages such as French, and how prepositions (themselves metaphorically derived from words like ‘back’) were merged with nouns to create the complex case endings of Latin.

However, the most complex edifice, which Deutscher returns to repeatedly, is that of the Semitic languages with a template system of vowels around three-consonant roots, where the vowel templates change the meaning of the root.  To illustrate he uses the (fictional!) root ‘sng’ meaning ‘to snog’ and discusses how first simple templates such as ‘snug’ (“I snogged”) and then more complex constructions such as ‘hitsunnag’ (“he was made to snog himself”) all arose from simple processes of combination, shortening and generalisation.

“The Unfolding of Language” begins with the 19th century observation that all languages seem to be in a process of degeneration where more complex  forms such as the Latin case system or early English verb endings are progressively simplified and reduced. The linguists of the day saw all languages in a state of continuous decay from an early linguistic Golden Age. Indeed one linguist, August Schleicher, suggested that there was a process where language develops until it is complex enough to get things done, and only then recorded history starts, after which the effort spent on language is instead spent in making history.

As with geology, or biological evolution, the modern linguist rejects this staged view of the past, looking towards the Law of Uniformitarianism, things are as they have always been, so one can work out what must have happened in the pre-recorded past by what is happening now.  However, whilst generally finding this convincing, throughout the book I had a niggling feeling that there is a difference.  By definition, those languages for which we have written records are those of large developed civilisations, who moreover are based on writing. Furthermore I am aware that for biological evolution small isolated groups (e.g. on islands or cut off in valleys) are particularly important for introducing novelty into larger populations, and I assume the same would be true of languages, but somewhat stultified by mass communication.

Deutscher does deal with this briefly, but right at the very end in a short epilogue.  I feel there is a whole additional story about the interaction between culture and the grammatical development of language.  I recall in school a teacher explained how in Latin the feminine words tended to belong to the early period linked to agriculture and the land, masculine words for later interests in war and conquest, and neuter for the still later phase of civic and political development. There were many exceptions, but even this modicum of order helped me to make sense of what otherwise seemed an arbitrary distinction.

The epilogue also mentions that the sole exception to the ‘decline’ in linguistic complexity is Arabic with its complex template system, still preserved today.

While reading the chapters about the three letter roots, I was struck by the fact that both Hebrew an Arabic are written as consonants only with vowels interpolated by diacritical marks or simply remembered convention (although Deutscher does not mention this himself). I had always assumed that this was like English where t’s pssble t rd txt wth n vwls t ll. However, the vowels are far more critical for Semitic languages where the vowel-less words could make the difference between “he did it” and “it will be done to him”.  Did this difference in writing stem from the root+template system, or vice versa, or maybe they simply mutually reinforced each other?

The other factor regarding Arabic’s remarkable complexity must surely be the Quran. Whereas the Bible was read for a over a millennium in Latin, a non-spoken language, and later translated focused on the meaning; in contrast there is a great emphasis on the precise form of the Quran together with continuous lengthy recitation.  As the King James Bible has been argued to have been a significant influence on modern English since the 17th century, it seems likely the Quran has been a factor in preserving Arabic for the last 1500 years.

Early in “The Unfolding of Language” Deutscher dismisses attempts to look at the even earlier prehistoric roots of language as there is no direct evidence. I assume that this would include Mithin’s “The Singing Neanderthals“, which I posted about recently. There is of course a lot of truth in this criticism; certainly Mithin’s account included a lot of guesswork, albeit founded on paleontological evidence.  However, Deutscher’s own arguments include extrapolating to recent prehistory. These extrapolations are based on early written languages and subsequent recorded developments, but also include guesswork between the hard evidence, as does the whole family-tree of languages.  Deutscher was originally a Cambridge mathematician, like me, so, perhaps unsurprisingly, I found his style of argument convincing. However, given the foundations on Uniformitarianism, which, as noted above, is at best partial when moving from history to pre-history, there seems more of  a continuum rather than sharp distinction between the levels of interpretation and extrapolation in this book and Mithin’s.

Deutscher’s account seeks to fill in the gap between the deep prehistoric origins of protolanguage (what Deutscher’s calls ‘me Tarzan’ language) and its subsequent development in the era of media-society (starting 5000BC with extensive Sumerian writing). Rather than seeing these separately, I feel there is a rich account building across various authors, which will, in time, yield a more complete view of our current language and its past.

“The Singing Neanderthal”, as its title suggests, is about the role of music in the evolutionary development of the modern human. We all seem to be born with an element of music in our heart, and Mithin seeks to understand why this is so, and how music is related to, and part of the development of, language. Mithin argues that elements of music developed in various later hominids as a form of primitive communication², but separated from language in homo sapiens when music became specialised to the communication of emotion and language to more precise actions and concepts.

The book ‘explains’ various known musical facts, including the universality of music across cultures and the fact that most of us do not have perfect pitch … even though young babies do (p77). The hard facts of how things were for humans or related species tens or hundreds of thousands of years ago are sparse, so there is inevitably an element of speculation in Mithin’s theories, but he shows how many, otherwise disparate pieces of evidence from palaeontology, psychology and musicology make sense given the centrality of music.

Whether or not you accept Mithin’s thesis, the first part of the book provides a wide ranging review of current knowledge about the human psychology of music. Coincidentally, while reading the book, there was an article in the Independent reporting on evidence for the importance of music therapy in dealing with depression and aiding the rehabilitation of stroke victims³, reinforcing messages from Mithin’s review.

The topic of “The Singing Neanderthal” is particularly close to my own heart as my first personal forays into evolutionary psychology (long before I knew the term, or discovered Cosmides and Tooby’s work), was in attempting to make sense of human limits to delays and rhythm.

Those who have been to my lectures on time since the mid 1990s will recall being asked to first clap in time and then swing their legs ever faster … sometimes until they fall over! The reason for this is to demonstrate the fact that we cannot keep beats much slower than one per second⁴, and then explain this in terms of our need for a mental ‘beat keeper’ for walking and running. The leg shaking is to show how our legs, as a simple pendulum, have a natural frequency of around 1Hz, hence determining our slowest walk and hence need for rhythm.

Mithin likewise points to walking and running as crucial in the development of rhythm, in particular the additional demands of bipedal motion (p150). Rhythm, he argues, is not just about music, but also a shared skill needed for turn-taking in conversation (p17), and for emotional bonding.

In just the last few weeks, at the HCI conference in Newcastle, I learnt that entrainment, when we keep time with others, is a rare skill amongst animals, almost uniquely human. Mithin also notes this (p206), with exceptions, in particular one species of frog, where the males gather in groups to sing/croak in synchrony. One suggested reason for this is that the louder sound can attract females from a larger distance. This cooperative behaviour of course acts against each frog’s own interest to ‘get the girl’ so they also seek to out-perform each other when a female frog arrives. Mithin imagines that similar pressures may have sparked early hominid music making. As well as the fact that synchrony makes the frogs louder and so easy to hear, I wonder whether the discerning female frogs also realise that if they go to a frog choir they get to chose amongst them, whereas if they follow a single frog croak they get stuck with the frog they find; a form of frog speed dating?

Mithin also suggests that the human ability to synchronise rhythm is about ‘boundary loss’ seeing oneself less as an individual and more as part of a group, important for early humans about to engage in risky collaborative hunting expeditions. He cites evidence of this from the psychology of music, anthropology, and it is part of many people’s personal experience, for example, in a football crowd, or Last Night at the Proms.

This reminds me of the experiments where a rubber hand is touched in time with touching a person’s real hand; after a while the subject starts to feel as if the rubber hand is his or her own hand. Effectively our brain assumes that this thing that correlates with feeling must be part of oneself⁵. Maybe a similar thing happens in choral singing, I voluntarily make a sound and simultaneously everyone makes the sound, so it is as if the whole choir is an extension of my own body?

Part of the neurological evidence for the importance of group music making concerns the production of oxytocin. In experiments on female prairie voles that have had oxytocin production inhibited, they engage in sex as freely as normal voles, but fail to pair bond (p217). The implication is that oxytocin’s role in bonding applies equally to social groups. While this explains a mechanism by which collaborative rhythmic activities create ‘boundary loss’, it doesn’t explain why oxytocin is created through rhythmic activity in the first place. I wonder if this is perhaps to do with bipedalism and the need for synchronised movement during face-to-face copulation, which would explain why humans can do synchronised rhythms whereas apes cannot. That is, rhythmic movement and oxytocin production become associated for sexual reasons and then this generalises to the social domain. Think again of that chanting football crowd?

I should note that Mithin also discusses at length the use of music in bonding with infants, as anyone who has sung to a baby knows, so this offers an alternative route to rhythm & bonding … but not one that is particular to humans, so I will stick with my hypothesis

Sexual selection is a strong theme in the book, the kind of runaway selection that leads to the peacock tail. Changing lifestyles of early humans, in particular longer periods looking after immature young, led to a greater degree of female control in the selection of partners. As human size came close to the physical limits of the environment (p185), Mithin suggests that other qualities had to be used by females to choose their mate, notably male singing and dance – prehistoric Saturday Night Fever.

As one evidence for female mate choice, Mithin points to the overly symmetric nature of hand axes and imagines hopeful males demonstrating their dexterity by knapping ever more perfect axes in front of admiring females (p188). However, this brings to mind Calvin’s “Ascent of Mind“, which argues that these symmetric, ovoid axes were used like a discus, thrown into the midst of a herd of prey to bring one down. The two theories for axe shape are not incompatible. Calvin suggests that the complex physical coordination required by axe throwing would have driven general brain development. In fact these forms of coordination, are not so far from those needed for musical movement, and indeed expert flint knapping, so maybe it was this skills that were demonstrated by the shaping of axes beyond that immediately necessary for purpose.

Mithin’s description of the musical nature of mother-child interactions also brought to mind Broomhall’s “Eternal Child“. Broomhall ‘s central thesis is that humans are effectively in a sort of arrested development with many features, not least our near nakedness, characteristic of infants. Although it was not one of the points Broomhall makes, his arguments made sense to me in terms of the mental flexibility that characterises childhood, and the way this is necessary for advanced human innovation; I am always encouraging students to think in a more childlike way. If Broomhall’s theories were correct, then this would help explain how some of the music making more characteristic of mother-infant interactions become generalised to adult social interactions.

I do notice an element of mutual debunking amongst those writing about richer cognitive aspects of early human and hominid development. I guess a common trait in disciplines when evidence is thin, and theories have to fill a lot of blanks. So maybe Mithin, Calvin and Broomhall would not welcome me bringing their respective contributions together! However, as in other areas where data is necessarily scant (such as sub-atomic physics), one does feel a developing level of methodological rigour, and the fact that these quite different theoretical approaches have points of connection, does suggest that a deeper understanding of early human cognition, while not yet definitive, is developing.

In summary, and as part of this wider unfolding story, “The Singing Neanderthal” is an engaging and entertaining book to read whether you are interested in the psychological and social impact of music itself, or the development of the human mind.

… and I have another of Mithin’s books in the birthday pile, so looking forward to that too!

1. See particularly my essay on the role of imagination in bringing together our different forms of ‘specialised intelligence’. “The Prehistory of the Mind” highlighted the importance of this ‘cognitive fluidity’, linking social, natural and technological thought, but lays this largely in the realm of language. I would suggest that imagination also has this role, creating a sort of ‘virtual world’ on which different specialised cognitive modules can act (see “imagination and rationality“). [back]
2. He calls this musical communication system Hmmmm in its early form – Holistic, Multiple-Modal, Manipulative and Musical, p138 – and later Hmmmmm – Holistic, Multiple-Modal, Manipulative, Musical and Mimetic, p221. [back]
3. “NHS urged to pay for music therapy to cure depression“, Nina Lakhani, The Independent, Monday, 1 August 2011 [back]
4. Professional conductors say 40 beats per minute is the slowest reliable beat without counting between beats. [back]
5. See also my previous essay on “driving as a cyborg experience“. [back]

hammers

I should explain that problems with the hammer example are not my current struggles with Heidegger!  For the hammer it is just that Heidegger’s ‘ready at hand’ is often confused with ‘walk up and use’.  In  Heidegger ready-at-hand refers to the way one is focused on the nail, or wood to be joined, not the hammer itself:

“The work to be produced is the “towards which” of such things as the hammer, the plane, and the needle” (Being and Time¹, p.70/99)

To be ‘ready to hand’ like this typically requires familiarity with the equipment (another big Heidegger word!), and is very different from the way a cash machine or tourist information systems should be in some ways accessible independent of prior knowledge (or at least only generic knowledge and skills).

My especial annoyance with the hammer example stems from the fact that my father was a carpenter and I reckon it took me around 10 years to learn how to use a hammer properly²!  Even holding it properly is not obvious, look at the picture.

There is a hand sized depression in the middle.  If you have read Norman’s POET you will think, “ah yes perceptual affordance’, and grasp it like this:

But no that is not the way to hold it!  If try to use it like this you end up using the strength of your arm to knock in the nail and not the weight of the hammer.

Give it to a child, surely the ultimate test of ‘walk up and use’, and they often grasp the head like this.

In fact this is quite sensible for a child as a ‘proper’ grip would put too much strain on their wrist.  Recall  Gibson’s definition of affordance was relational³, about the ecological fit between the object and the potential actions, and the actions depends on who is doing the acting.  For a small child with weaker arms the hammer probably only affords use at all with this grip.

In fact the ‘proper’ grip is to hold it quite near the end where you can use the maximum swing of the hammer to make most use of the weight of the hammer and its angular momentum:

Anyway, I think maybe Heidegger knew this even if many who quote him don’t!

Heidegger

OK, so its alright me complaining about other people mis-using Heidegger, but I am in the middle of writing one of the chapters for TouchIT and so need to make sure I don’t get it wrong myself … and there my struggles begin.  I need to write about ready-to-hand and present-to-hand.   I thought I understood them, but always it has been from secondary sources and as I sat with Being and Time in one hand, my Oxford Companion to Philosophy in another and various other books in my teeth … I began to doubt.

First of all what I thought the distinction was:

• ready at hand — when you are using the tool and it is invisible to you, you just focus on the work to be done with it
• present at hand — when there is some sort of breakdown, the hammer head is loose or you don’t have the right tool to hand and so start to focus on the tools themsleves rather than on the job at hand

Scanning the internet this is certainly what others think, for example blog posts at 251 philosophy and Matt Webb at Berg⁴.  Koschmann, Kuutti and Hickman produced an excellent comparison of breakdown in Heidegger, Leont’ev and Dewey⁵, and from this it looks as though the above distinction maybe comes Dreyfus summary of Heidegger — but again I don’t have a copy of Dreyfus’ “Being-in-the-World“, so not certain.

Now this is an important distinction, and one that Heidegger certainly makes.  The first part is very clearly what Heidegger means by ready-to-hand:

“The peculiarity of what is proximally to hand is that, in its readiness-to-hand, it must, as it were, withdraw … that with which we concern ourselves primarily is the work …” (B&T, p.69/99)

The second point Heidegger also makes at length distinguishing at least three kinds of breakdown situation.  It just seems a lot less clear whether ‘present-at-hand’ is really the right term for it.  Certainly the ‘present-at-hand’ quality of an artefact becomes foregrounded during breakdown:

“Pure presence at hand announces itself in such equipment, but only to withdraw to the readiness-in-hand with which one concerns oneself — that is to say, of the sort of thing we find when we put it back into repair.” (B&T, p.73/103)

But the preceeding sentance says

“it shows itself as an equipmental Thing which looks so and so, and which, in its readiness-to-hand as looking that way, has constantly been present-at-hand too.” (B&T, p.73/103)

That is present-at-hand is not so much in contrast to ready-at-hand, but in a sense ‘there all along’; the difference is that during breakdown the presence-at-hand becomes foregrounded. Indeed when ‘present-at-hand’ is first introduced Heidegger appears to be using it as a binary distinction between Dasein, (human) entities that exist and ponder their existence, and other entities such as a table, rock or tree (p. 42/67).  The contrast is not so much between ready-to-hand and present-to-hand, but between ready-to-hand and ‘just present-at-hand’ (p.71/101) or ‘Being-just-present-at-hand-and-no-more’ (p.73/103). For Heidegger to seems not so much that ‘ready-to-hand’ stands in in opposition to ‘present-to-hand’; it is just more significant.

To put this in context, traditional philosophy had focused exclusively on the more categorically defined aspects of things as they are in the world (‘existentia’/present-at-hand), whilst ignoring the primary way they are encountered by us (Dasein, real knowing existence) as ready-to-hand, invisible in their purposefulness.  Heidegger seeks to redress this.

“If we look at Things just ‘theoretically’, we can get along without understanding readiness-to-hand.” (B&T p.69/98)

Heidegger wants to avoid the speculation of previous science and philosophy. Although it is not a Heidegger word, I use ‘speculation’ here with all of its connotations, pondering at a distance, but without commitment, or like spectators at a sports stadium looking in at something distant and other.  In contrast, ready-to-hand suggests commitment, being actively ‘in the world’ and even when Heidegger talks about those moments when an entity ceases to be ready-to-hand and is seen as present-to-hand, he uses the term circumspection — a casting of the eye around, so that the Dasein, the person, is in the centre.

So present-at-hand is simply the mode of being of the entities that are not Dasein (aware of their own existence), but our primary mode of experience of them and thus in a sense the essence of their real existence is when they are ready-to-hand.  I note Roderick Munday’s useful “Glossary of Terms in Being and Time” highlights just this broader sense of present-at-hand.

Maybe the confusion arises because Heidegger’s concern is phenomenological and so when an artefact is ready-to-hand and its presence-to-hand ‘withdraws’, in a sense it is no longer present-to-hand as this is no longer a phenomenon; and yet he also seems to hold a foot in realism and so in another sense it is still present-to-hand.  In discussing this tension between realism and idealism in Heidegger, Stepanich⁶ distinguishes present-at-hand and ready-to-hand, from presence-to-hand and readiness-to-hand — however no-one else does this so maybe that is a little too subtle!

To end this section (almost) with Heidegger’s words, a key statement, often quoted, seems to say precisely what I have argued above, or maybe precisely the opposite:

“Yet only by reason of something present-at-hand ‘is there’ anything ready-to-hand.  Does it follow, however, granting this thesis for the nonce, that readiness-to-hand is ontologically founded upon presence-at-hand?” (B&T, p.71/101)

What sort of philosopher makes a key point through a rhetorical question?

So, for TouchIT, maybe my safest course is to follow the example of the Oxford Companion to Philosophy, which describes ready-to-hand, but circumspectly never mentions present-to-hand at all?

and anyway what’s wrong with …

On a last note there is another confusion, or maybe mistaken attitude, that seems to be common when referring to ready-to-hand.  Heidegger’s concern was in ontology, understanding the nature of being, and so he asserted the ontological primacy of the ready-to-hand, especially in light of the previous dominant concerns of philosophy.  However, in HCI, where we are interested not in the philosophical question, but the pragmatic one of utility, usability, and experience, Heidegger is often misapplied as a kind of fetishism of engagement, as if everything should be ready-to-hand all the time.

Of course for many purposes this is correct, as I type I do not want to be aware of the keys I press, not even of the pages of the book that I turn.

Yet there is also a merit in breaking this engagement, to encourage reflection and indeed the circumspection that Heidegger discusses.  Indeed Gaver et al.’s focus on ambiguity in design⁷ is often just to encourage that reflection and questioning, bringing things to the foreground that were once background.

Furthermore as HCI practitioners and academics we need to both take seriously the ready-to-hand-ness of effective design, but also (just as Heidegger is doing) actually look at the ready-to-hand-ness of things seeing them and their use not taking them for granted.  I constantly strive to find ways to become aware of the mundane, and offer students tools for estrangement to look at the world askance⁸.

“To lay bare what is  just present-at-hand and no more, cognition must first penetrate beyond what is ready-to-hand in our concern.” (B&T, p.71/101)

This ability to step out and be aware of what we are doing is precisely the quality that Schon recognises as being critical for the ‘Reflective Practioner‘.  Indeed, my practical advice on using the hammer in the footnotes below comes precisely through reflection on hammering, and breakdowns in hammering, not through the times when the hammer was ready-to-hand..

Heidegger is indeed right that our primary existence is being in the world, not abstractly viewing it from afar.  And yet, sometimes also, just as Heidegger himself did as he pondered and wrote about these issues, one of our crowning glories as human beings is precisely that we are able also in a sense to step outside ourselves and look in wonder.

1. In common with much of the literature the page references to Being and Time are all of the form p.70/99 where the first number refers to the page numbers in the original German (which I have not read!) and the second number to the page in Macquarrie and Robinson’s translation of Being and Time published by Blackwell. [back]
2. Practical hammering – a few tips: The key thing is to focus on making sure the face of the hammer is perpendicular to the nail, if there is a slight angle the nail will bend.  For thin oval wire nails, if one does bend do not knock the nail back upright, most likely it will simply bend again and just snap.  Instead, simply hit the head of the nail while still bent, but keeping the hammer face perpendicular to the nail not the hole.  So long as the nail has cut any depth of hole it will simply follow its own path and straighten of its own accord. [back]
3. James Gibson. The Ecological Approach to Visual Perception [back]
4. Matt Webb’s post appears to be quoting Paul Dourish’ “Where the Action Is”, but I must have lent my copy to someone, so not sure of this is really what Paul thinks. [back]
5. Koschmann, T., Kuutti, K. & Hickman, L. (1998). The Concept of Breakdown in Heidegger, Leont’ev, and Dewey and Its Implications for Education. Mind, Culture, and Activity, 5(1), 25-41. doi:10.1207/s15327884mca0501_3 [back]
6. Lambert Stepanich. “Heidegger: Between Idealism and Realism“, The Harvard Review of Philosophy, Vol 1. Spring 1991. [back]
7. Bill Gaver, Jacob Beaver, and Steve Benford, 2003. Ambiguity as a resource for design. CHI ’03. [back]
8. see previous posts on “mirrors and estrangement” and “the ordinary and the normal“ [back]

In computer science, and in particular programming languages, a whole vocabulary has arisen to talk about names: scope, binding, referential transparency. As in philosophy, it is typically the association between a name and its ‘meaning’ that is of interest. Names and words, whether in programming languages or day-to-day language, are, what philosophers call, ‘intentional‘: they refer to something else. In computer science the ‘something else’ is typically some data or code or a placeholder/variable containing data or code, and the key question of semantics or ‘meaning’ is about how to identify which variable, function or piece of data a name refers to in a particular context at a particular time.

The emphasis in computing has tended to be about:

(a) Making sure names have unambiguous meaning when looking locally inside code. Concerns such as referential transparency, avoiding dynamic binding and the deprecation of global variables are about this.

(b) Putting boundaries on where names can be seen/understood, both as a means to ensure (a) and also as part of encapsulation of semantics in object-based languages and abstract data types.

However, there has always been a tension between clarity of intention (in both the normal and philosophical sense) and abstraction/reuse. If names are totally unambiguous then it becomes impossible to say general things. Without a level of controlled ambiguity in language a legal statement such as “if a driver exceeds the speed limit they will be fined” would need to be stated separately for every citizen. Similarly in computing when we write:

function f(x) { return (x+1)*(x-1); }

The meaning of x is different when we use it in ‘f(2)’ or ‘f(3)’ and must be so to allow ‘f’ to be used generically. Crucially there is no internal ambiguity, the two ‘x’s refer to the same thing in a particular invocation of ‘f’, but the precise meaning of ‘x’ for each invocation is achieved by external binding (the argument list ‘(2)’).

Come the web and URLs and URIs.

Fiona@lovefibre was recently making a test copy of a website built using WordPress. In a pure html website, this is easy (so long as you have used relative or site-relative links within the site), you just copy the files and put them in the new location and they work Occasionally a more dynamic site does need to know its global name (URL), for example if you want to send a link in an email, but this can usually be achieved using configuration file. For example, there is a development version of Snip!t at cardiff.snip!t.org (rather then www.snipit.org), and there is just one configuration file that needs to be changed between this test site and the live one.

Similarly in a pristine WordPress install there is just such a configuration file and one or two database entries. However, as soon as it has been used to create a site, the database content becomes filled with URLs. Some are in clear locations, but many are embedded within HTML fields or serialised plugin options. Copying and moving the database requires a series of SQL updates with string replacements matching the old site name and replacing it with the new — both tedious and needing extreme care not to corrupt the database in the process.

Is this just a case of WordPress being poorly engineered?

In fact I feel more a problem endemic in the web and driven largely by the URL.

Recently I was experimenting with Firefox extensions. Being a good 21st century programmer I simply found an existing extension that was roughly similar to what I was after and started to alter it. First of course I changed its name and then found I needed to make changes through pretty much every file in the extension as the knowledge of the extension name seemed to permeate to the lowest level of the code. To be fair XUL has mechanisms to achieve a level of encapsulation introducing local URIs through the ‘chrome:’ naming scheme and having been through the process once. I maybe understand a bit better how to design extensions to make them less reliant on the external name, and also which names need to be changed and which are more like the ‘x’ in the ‘f(x)’ example. However, despite this, the experience was so different to the levels of encapsulation I have learnt to take for granted in traditional programming.

Much of the trouble resides with the URL. Going back to the two issues of naming, the URL focuses strongly on (a) making the name unambiguous by having a single universal namespace;  URLs are a bit like saying “let’s not just refer to ‘Alan’, but ‘the person with UK National Insurance Number XXXX’ so we know precisely who we are talking about”. Of course this focus on uniqueness of naming has a consequential impact on generality and abstraction. There are many visitors on Tiree over the summer and maybe one day I meet one at the shop and then a few days later pass the same person out walking; I don’t need to know the persons NI number or URL in order to say it was the same person.

Back to Snip!t, over the summer I spent some time working on the XML-based extension mechanism. As soon as these became even slightly complex I found URLs sneaking in, just like the WordPress database The use of namespaces in the XML file can reduce this by at least limiting full URLs to the XML header, but, still, embedded in every XML file are un-abstracted references … and my pride in keeping the test site and live site near identical was severely dented¹.

In the years when the web was coming into being the Hypertext community had been reflecting on more than 30 years of practical experience, embodied particularly in the Dexter Model². The Dexter model and some systems, such as Wendy Hall’s Microcosm³, incorporated external linkage; that is, the body of content had marked hot spots, but the association of these hot spots to other resources was in a separate external layer.

Sadly HTML opted for internal links in anchor and image tags in order to make html files self-contained, a pattern replicated across web technologies such as XML and RDF. At a practical level this is (i) why it is hard to have a single anchor link to multiple things, as was common in early Hypertext systems such as Intermedia, and (ii), as Fiona found, a real pain for maintenance!

1. I actually resolved this by a nasty ‘hack’ of having internal functions alias the full site name when encountered and treating them as if they refer to the test site — very cludgy! [back]
2. Halasz, F. and Schwartz, M. 1994. The Dexter hypertext reference model. Commun. ACM 37, 2 (Feb. 1994), 30-39. DOI= http://doi.acm.org/10.1145/175235.175237 [back]
3. Hall, W., Davis, H., and Hutchings, G. 1996 Rethinking Hypermedia: the Microcosm Approach. Kluwer Academic Publishers. [back]

• if the literal is XML, it should be an XML literal
• if the literal is in a particular language (such as a description or a name), it should be a plain literal with that language
• otherwise it should be given an appropriate datatype

These seem pretty sensible for simple data types.

In work on the TIM project with colleagues in Athens and Rome, we too had issues with representing data types in ontologies, but more to do with the status of a data type.  Is a date a single thing “2009-08-03T10:23+01:00″, or is it a compound [[date year="2009" month="8" ...]]?

I just took a quick peek at how Dublin Core handles dates and see that the closest to standard references¹ still include dates as ‘bare’ strings with implied semantics only, although one of the most recent docs does say:

“It is recommended that RDF applications use explicit rdf:type triples …”

and David MComb’s “An OWL version of the Dublin Core” gives an alternative OWL ontology for DC that does include an explicit type for dc:date:

<owl:DatatypeProperty rdf:about="#date">
  <rdfs:domain rdf:resource="#Document"/>
  <rdfs:range rdf:resource="http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#dateTime"/>
</owl:DatatypeProperty>

Our solution to the compound types has been to have “value classes” which do not represent ‘things’ in the world, similar to the way the RDF for vcard represents  complex elements such as names using blank nodes:

<vCard:N rdf:parseType="Resource">
  <vCard:Family> Crystal </vCard:Family>
  <vCard:Given> Corky </vCard:Given>
  ...
</vCard:N>

From²

This is fine, and we can have rules for parsing and formatting dates as compound objects to and from, say, W3C datetime strings.  However, this conflicts with the desire to have self-describing RDF as these formatting and parsing rules have to be available to any application or be present as reasoning rules in RDF stores.  If Jeni had been trying to use RDF data coded like this she would be cursing us!

This tension between representations of things (dates, names) and more semantic descriptions is also evident in other areas.  Looking again at Dublin Core the metamodal allows a property such as “subject”  to have a complex object with a URI and possibly several string values.

Very semantic, but hardly mashes well with sources that just say <dc:subject>Biology</dc:subject>.  Again a reasoning store could infer one from the other, but we still have issues about where the knowledge for such transformations resides.

Part of the problem is that the ‘self-describing’ nature of RDF is a bit illusary.   In (Piercian) semiotics the interpretant of a sign is crucial, representations are interpreted by an agent in a particular context assuming a particular language, etc.  We do not expect human language to be ‘sef describing’ in the sense of being totally acontextual.  Similarly in philosophy words and ideas are treated as intentional, in the (not standard English) sense that they refer out to something else; however, the binding of the idea to the thing it refers to is not part of the word, but separate from it.  Effectively the desire to be self-describing runs the risk of ignoring this distinction³.

Leigh Dodds commented on Jeni’s post to explain that the reason the expense amounts were not numbers was that some were published in non-standard ways such as “12345 (2004)”.  As an example this captures succinctly the perpetual problem between representation and abstracted meaning.  If a journal article was printed in the “Autumn 2007″ issue of  quarterly magazine, do we express this as <dc:date>2007</dc:date> or <dc:date>2007-10-01</dc:date>  attempting to give an approximation or inference from the actual represented date.

This makes one wonder whether what is really needed here is a meta-description of the RDF source (not simply the OWL as one wants to talk about the use of dc:date or whatever in a particular context) that can say things like “mainly numbers, but also occasionally non-strandard forms”, or “amounts sometimes refer to different years”.  Of course to be machine mashable there would need to be an ontology for such annotation …

1. see “Expressing Simple Dublin Core in RDF/XML“, “Expressing Dublin Core metadata using HTML/XHTML meta and link elements” and Stanford DC OWL [back]
2. Renato Iannella, Representing vCard Objects in RDF/XML, W3C Note, 22 February 2001. [back]
3. Doing a quick web seek, these issues are discussed in several places, for example: Glaser, H., Lewy, T., Millard, I. and Dowling, B. (2007) On Coreference and the Semantic Web, (Technical Report, Electronics & Computer Science, University of Southampton) and Legg, C. (2007). Peirce, meaning and the semantic web (Paper presented at Applying Peirce Conference, University of Helsinki, Finland, June 2007). [back]

We all know “Cogito ergo sum” (or in French, ” Je pense, donc je suis”), “I think, therefore I am”, which comes near the beginning of “Principles”.  This is preceded by an exhortation to a form of radical scepticism casting doubt on every sense, belief and assumption we have about the world.  Only by throwing away everything we took as given, are we able to know what is really true.

However, Descartes regards this as “once in a lifetime” activity for the enquirer, not a position of continuing doubt and uncertainty, but an opportunity through doubt to come to solid bedrock.

He is also very practical, warning:

“… this process of doubt should be restricted to our considering what is true. For as far as the conduct of life is concerned, the moment for action would usually have passed long before we could resolve our doubts. We are often forced to opt for what is only probably right, and sometimes we even have to choose between two equally probable alternatives.” (Part I, Section 7)

In life we often must simply act.

During this once in a lifetime event of radical scepticism, and having come to the position of absolute doubt, the one thing that we can be certain of is the awareness of our own doubt and the surety that there is something/someone, me, who is doubting; hence “cogito ergo sum”.

However, Descartes is then left with the problem of how we can know anything else.  Our senses of the world can be flawed and whilst the fact that we perceive things is further evidence of our own existence (that awareness of perception is part of the ‘cogito’), it gives no reliable evidence of anything else.

Descartes at this point turns to God.  Self examination and a variant of the “ontological argument”² forces him to both believe in an omnipotent and good God, and also that, while our sense are imperfect, God would not give us a fundamentally flawed view of the world.  Our senses are at least partially reliable because of the nature of God; and hence our own personal exploration of the world and the whole scientific endeavour become meaningful.

A constant problem for all non-theistic ethics is how to move from descriptive accounts of particular ethical positions to prescriptive ones of how one should act.  They are morally toothless.  However,  the non-theistic epistemological gap in science is less often discussed.

I recall some years ago, just before I went to university, talking to a mathematics lecturer who was, I believe, an atheist.  He explained to me how he believed the sun would rise every morning, but had no evidence that it would.  Even assuming that our sense are reliable (which Descartes would doubt), we can observe that the laws of physics stay the same and have been the same, but in the end have no reason to believe that this will continue to be the case.  The “law of uniformitarianism” can be observed to have held in the past, but only by reflexively applying the ‘law’ to itself can we assume it will continue to do so.

Science without God is ultimately blind faith.

I was also fascinated by Descartes’ exposition of the nature of emotion and senses (part IV section 190) and surprised at the sophistication of the model of sensory stimulation of nerves (assumed to be mechanical motions), including discussion of phantom limbs, which recur in modern texts.  He talks about our five external senses and two internal ones.  The list of external senses has been fairly stable since Greek times and one of his internal ones would also feature in ‘modern’ lists³, that is the sense we have of stomach, bladder etc., which Descartes relates to our appetites.

The other internal sense is perhaps more interesting, he suggests that motions of the “little nerves” of the heart give rise to emotion.  If the blood stretches in the heart, the expansion is felt as joy; if it is sluggish the lack of expansion of the ventricles is felt as sadness.  Although the exact physical model differs, the general flavour of this is surprisingly modern; current models of complex emotion usually involve some form of interpretation of body, lower brain activity, and hormones and other chemicals in the blood stream and brain.  Descartes describes how calling an event to mind can lead to a bodily reaction which is then felt as the emotion related to the event.  This cycle of thought leading to bodily emotion leading back to feelings is exactly what one would find in a modern account; a holistic view that sees body and mind both distinct in some ways but also intimately connected.

So, if anyone ever describes your work as too Cartesian … be proud.

1. René Descartes, 1644, Principles of Philosophy, trans. George MacDonald Ross, 1998–1999 [back]
2. I have never found the ontological argument for the existence of God particularly convincing, but it continues to cause debate even now nearly 1000 years after Anslem’s first formulation. [back]
3. Now-a-days the list of internal senses would be longer including proprioception (sense of body position) and equilibrioception (sense of balance). [back]

I had imagined long evenings reading philosophy of the physical world, and weekend afternoons under the shade of a tree on the Palatine Hill, but it didn’t quite work out like that.

Of the ‘work’ books I brought to Rome (and borrowed here), I have only read Gibson’s “The Ecological Approach to Visual Perception“, Goodman’s “Languages of Art” and Noe’s “Action in Perception“; and of the ‘fun’ books only Tamara Pierce’s  The Healing in the Vine. I have flights back and forth to India next week, so may manage a bit more then, but mainly overnight, so I fear most of my bookshelf will return to the UK unread

One of the reasons is evident on a table in my office. Normally at home when I finish something the paper from it ‘goes away’ somewhere, but here as I have read something or finished with printouts I have been laying them out on an empty table in case I wanted to refer to them again. So the table is now covered, smothered, in the results of three weeks normal academic work. I am amazed, if not aghast, at the volume. The entire table between 50 and 500 sheets thick in paper, I’d guess somewhere between one and two thousand sheets of paper printed, read and to be discarded. I mentioned climate change in last post and, boy, it looks like one academic can wipe out most of the Amazon and drown the South Pacific single-handed.

I have printed out a bit more than I normally would as I knew I couldn’t print things during the evenings at the apartment and so tended to do so ‘just in case’ before heading out of the office.  So normally some of this would have been dealt with purely electronically, but nevertheless, the volume is frightening. And I don’t think this was a particularly unusual three weeks in terms of volume.

So what is here?

On the one side there is input: there is a PhD thesis, twenty of or so papers reviewed or meta-reviewed during the period, several papers given to me by people to read while here, one EPSRC grant proposal I reviewed, and a few piles of papers I was referring to in things I was producing during the period. On the output side during the three weeks two grant proposals have been submitted, one other needed extra work and a STREP is in process of preparation for the autumn, two journal papers, a book chapter, an article for Interfaces, some work on other papers, and a few internal reports for discussions about future work. Other things never saw paper: a couple of long blog posts (5000 words between them), three job references, innumerable emails, and the preparation for 33 hours of masters and PhD teaching and two other talks.

Although I often feel busy seeing all that paper makes it tangible and does shock me somewhat. But I know this is relatively normal; Aaron Quigley‘s twitter feed is exhausting just to read!

So, did I see much of Rome …

Well on one Sunday, with Manuela, Francesco and his daughter I visited the annual open-air art exhibition of the 100 painters in Via Margutta (between Piazza di Spagna and Piazza del Popolo). One of the artists was, Paul Van den Nieuwenhof, a friend of Manuela and Francesco from whom they had recently bought a still life (apples). Paul’s real passion is more avant-garde installations, but the still lives are mainly focused on the Italian market where modern art is not so popular. Looking at his more traditional paintings I was impressed again by the way an expert oil painter creates light from pigment: shapes and solids seem more the medium and the pure light the message.

Another Sunday I took lunch in a pizzeria on the Trastevere (my favourite place for both pizza and bread), and took a meandering path there nearly as far as St Angelo and sauntering along the Tiber … but mainly because I took the wrong road out of Largo di Torre Argentina. In the middle of Argentina is a large exposed ruin, and I was told (but by whom I have forgotten!) that this was where Julius Caesar was assassinated.

Incidentally, while in Milan (which I will write about separately sometime) I learnt that in Julius Caesar’s time it would have been pronounced Kaiser as in German today, the softer ‘c’ came later.

Apart from that I am ashamed to say no art galleries or exhibitions, and my main view of Rome has been the area between Termini station, the Department, and my appartment, ‘Al Colosseo’, a lovely location within sight (just) of the Collosseum (see below).

However, most mornings I have taken a run down past the Colloseum as far as Circo Massimo and one or more laps of that. It is a popular spot for morning runners, although I prefer it best when I get there a little earlier. Not to avoid the others, but because from about 7am when the sun starts to rise it gets so hot. The most interesting end of Circo Massimo is currently boarded off as they do works there and in the last 2 weeks the far end has turned into a mini-stadium for Beach Soccer, I assume to coincide with the UEFA football next week.

Tonight it will be another pizza evening and I am promised it will be at a place that specialises in Roman-style pizzas and those lovely deep fried vegetables. Italy is about sun and ruins, about design and expensive cars and the Vatican and bureaucracy, … but above all it is about food and friends.

In my recent post about “language and action: sequential associative parsing“, I compared the role of semantics in the parsing of language with the similar role semantics plays in linking disparate events in our interpretation of the world and most significantly the actions of others. The two differ however in that language is deliberative, intentionally communicative, and hence has a structure, a rule-iness resulting from conventions; it is chosen to make it easier for the recipient to interpret. In contrast, the events of the world have structure inherent in their physical nature, but do not structure themselves in order that we may interpret them, their rule-iness is inherent not intentional. However, the actions of other people and animals often fall between the two.

In this post I will focus in on individual actions of creatures in the world and the way that observing others tells us about their current activities and even their intended actions, and thus how these observations becomes a resource for planning our own actions. However, our own actions are also the subject of observation and hence available to others. We may deliberately hide or obfuscate our intentions and actions if we do not wish others to ‘read’ what we are doing; however, we may also exaggerate them, making them more obvious when we are collaborating. That is, we shape our actions in the light of their potential observation by others so that they become an explicit communication to them.

This exaggeration is evident in computer environments and the physical world, and may even be the roots of iconic gesture and hence language itself.

The CSCW Framework

In the early 1990s I began to use variants of the following diagram as a way to understand the different kinds of systems found in groupware and CSCW research. It has proved useful in many papers and notably in the groupware chapter of the HCI textbook.

communication through the artefact
(from “Computer Supported Cooperative Work – A Framework“).

At the top, the two circles labelled ‘P’ represent participants in a collaborative interaction. Although there are two they are taken to represent any number in a group¹. The ‘A’ represents the ‘artefacts of work’, the things people are creating or working with in order to achieve their collaborative purpose. The simple diagram helps to distinguish direct communication from the control of and feedback from shared artefacts, and also to discuss the role of diexis (and even barcodes!) in collaborative work.

Most important for the current argument is that the actions of one participant on shared artefacts can often be observed by the other participants. That is, in addition to feedback of one’s own actions, one obtains feedthrough about the actions of others. This creates a path of communication through the artefact in addition to those of direct communication.

The framework was formulated to discuss computer-mediated interactions, so the core examples of shared artefacts were shared documents, diaries and files; now-a-days it would be Google docs, but at the time it was various collaborative authoring and editing tools such as DistEdit² and Quilt³.

However, the framework diagram was typically illustrated through the same kinds of interactions on physical world objects, and most often moving furniture.

“Compare two persons moving an object, say a piano, by hand with them moving it with the aid of two (small) forklift trucks. … In the manual case, much of the time you hear little (except grunts). As they manoeuvre it round corners, one of them (probably the one in front) may tip it and the other, feeling the movement, moves in concert. …”

extract from “Computer Supported Cooperative Work – A Framework“.

Our skills in understanding actions on virtual artefacts are inherited from our real world interactions.

So, let’s move from the computer systems of the 21st century and take ourselves to a place far away from all technology, or maybe back to a simpler time before computers.

Conflict and camouflage

Somewhere on an African plain a lioness watches a zebra. The zebra has more meat than the many bucks that roam freely and would make a better meal for her cubs, but it is fast and has sufficient stamina to outrun her in a long chase. If the lioness makes a dash from too far away, the zebra will escape and the meal is lost. So the lioness slowly moves through the grass, hoping to get close enough to go for the kill. Meanwhile the zebra has noticed the lioness, but the grass is good and the lioness may not be hungry or may have had a recent kill. It is better to stay around and eat the good grass than to run unnecessarily. So the zebra watches the lioness, but tries not to show that it is doing so. The lioness is also watching for signs that the zebra has taken fright. She is trying to get as close to possible, but if the zebra starts to run she will chase it; the slightest movement that looks like flight is her trigger to move.

Each animal is watching the other; reading the movements of action and looking for subtle signs of the intention to act. But they are in conflict, their goals diverge in the extreme, so they obfuscate and hide both action and intention. Some of this is played out in the moment, the lioness holding her body low amongst the grass. Some has been set by millennia of adaptations: the golden coat of the lioness is almost invisible amongst the sun-scorched grass and red-oxide earth; the stripes of the zebra confuse its form against the bush.

Collaboration and communication

Now let’s shift our attention to the Siberian snows. A pack of wolves are stalking a herd of deer and the deer take fright. The younger, weaker and slower deer are evident, and as the chase begins the pack leader spots a likely prey and runs for it. One of its pack mates sees the wolf’s movements, and that the deer, while weak, is making a break; so it heads off the deer turning it to bay and the rest of the pack moves in.

Again the animals read each other’s movement and the subtle signs of action and intention. However, here the pack needs to act in concert, they are collaborating in the kill and so it is to their advantage if the visible (and aural) signs of their actions and intentions are clear to one another. Indeed before the chase begins the pack leader may have identified the likely target and the rest of the pack seen this through the direction of gaze. A class of hunting dogs are called ‘pointers’ because they literally point their noses towards prey; the modern hunter with green wellies and shotgun is reading their signs just as the pack mates of their ancestors did thousands of years before.

In some ways the reading of the actions of the other wolves is just like the lioness reading the actions and intentions of the zebra, or vice versa. However, because the lioness and zebra are in conflict, they each seek (whether intentionally, or instinctively) to obfuscate the signs of their actions. In contrast, the wolf pack are cooperating and so while they may need to obfuscate their intentions from the deer, it is to their advantage to make these clear to one another.

Like the lioness and the zebra, this may include long-term changes in their appearance, but certainly changes in instinctive behaviours. The ‘pointing’ of pointer dogs is tapping into instincts. However, the form of this is particular. It is natural for the act of seeking out and staking prey that the dog (or its wolf ancestor) looks at the selected target. The other animals are attuned to these natural signs. However, at some point the ‘looking at’ becomes exaggerated beyond what is essential for the action itself; it is just like the original action, but ‘more so’. So without any change in the perceptions of others a form of message is given, the sign becomes a signal⁴.

Of course, the process is symmetric, over time animals adapt to not only notice the ordinary signs of action, but to especially notice the exaggerated movements signalling intentions. Sometimes the exaggerated signal becomes divorced from the original signs and takes on a life of its own⁵. This is especially evident in mating rituals, which are not moderated by the need to obfuscate actions from prey.

Cooperation in conflict

Some conflict situations, particularly predator-prey, are zero sum; there is a winner and a loser and no middle ground. However, in other situations, between animals competing for food, or between males competing for leadership of herd or pack. There is a zero sum competition for the food or position, but it is in both competitors’ interests to avoid actually fighting, which will hurt both.

This young bull elephant below clearly means business: the extended ears say, “I’m getting upset, I don’t want you near”. However, it is not in the interest of the elephant to charge a car, nor in the interests of the occupants to stay around. We drove away!

In this case the elephant and the car occupants are cooperating to prevent a conflict about territory becoming a physical confrontation. In this case the elephant is using the same signal of raised ears as he would use to another elephant or animal. It is partly a deception, making the elephant look bigger than it is (it wants to win in the conflict!), but also a signal “I don’t want to fight but I will”, which is understood by other elephants … and car drivers.

Towards gesture

Of course as deliberative creatures, we humans not only instinctively act, but also do so deliberatively, with forethought and consideration.

Some of this we learn without being aware that we do so. The baby may cry because it is hurting and the mother comforts it, but later may cry to obtain attention. Watch a small child who has fallen over and bursts into tears. The tears will often abruptly stop if no one notices. It is not that there is no hurt, nor that the tears are purely a show, but they are exaggerated to become a signal to the parent, a message, not just a sign of the pain.

As adults our behaviours are full of these unconscious signals: smiles and frowns, looking at our wrist (even if we do not have a watch) if it feels time to leave, or slightly exaggerated shuffling of papers when a meeting has gone on too long.

The borders between this and more thought-out deliberate action is blurred. Certainly politicians and seniors managers both naturally give out these signals, but also may learn explicitly how to read and how to create these impressions, from shoulder pads to the power stare.

A few years ago I was putting a note on my door as I was leaving my office for a few minutes, but knew a visitor was due. I suddenly noticed myself adjusting the note to make it less vertical. This was not a conscious action, but clearly deliberate. On reflection I realised that the door was covered in various permanent posters and notices. There was clearly a danger that the visitor might knock at the door and never notice the temporary note amongst this background. However, a temporary note will typically be put up in a hurry, and will not be carefully aligned; so its disposition⁶, its skew-whiff angle, will act as a sign to the visitor that it is temporary and so worth reading. Without explicitly realising it, I was exaggerating this sign of temporariness. Now that I know (explicitly) the ‘trick’ I deliberately do this; but note the unconscious complexity of every-day thought that was achieving this without my awareness.

This is not a one-off phenomena. I have also found myself leaving my office light on when I leave the office as a signal that I am ‘in’. Again emulating what could be an accidental sign of presence … albeit not very environmentally sound.

One of the Equator experiments took place in the Mack Room, a gallery in the Lighthouse arts centre in Glasgow⁷. The experiment linked three participants; one was in the Mack room itself with a PDA tracked using ultrasonic sensors, the second was using desktop VR navigating a model of the room, and the third was using plain web pages. They were all able to speak to one another through microphones, and each could see a representation of themselves and the others in a map view.

Even when still, the person in the room would sway slightly (and maybe the ultrasonic sensors had some noise), so there was a slight movement of the avatar, but the avatar of the VR participant was rock steady as soon as hands left the cursor keys (used for moving). After a while the VR participant was seen to periodically ‘wiggle’, deliberately using small cursor movements to draw attention to speech or location by emulating the natural wiggle of a standing person.

Onomatopoeic action

These effects are similar to what I used to call onomatopoeic action. When you are driving down the road and want to turn right at the next junction you may gradually move the car to the middle of the road. In a wide road this is the correct road position. However, if the road is narrow, then you need more room to turn and the appropriate road position to start the manoeuvre is on the opposite side of the road. However, even in such situations, one often initially moves to the centre, and only at the last minute sweeping to the left then making the right turn. Why?

Turning right into a narrow road:
(1) normal road position, (2) initially move towards centre of road, then
(3) move to the left ready for (4) swing into the narrow entrance.

The initial movement to the centre (labelled (2) in the diagram) is not necessary for the action of turning, but is a signal to other road users that you intend to turn right. Obviously you can use your indicators as well, but we often trust our reading of other driver’s road position more than explicit signals and the person behind seeing someone pull over to the left might mistake it for stopping and erroneously and dangerously decide to overtake just you make your turn

Things go wrong: (1) normal road position with car following,
(2) move to left ready for manoeuvre, following car assumes you are stopping so
(3) begins to overtake at which point you complete your manoeuvre turning right
and … (4) boom!

Words, like ‘boom’ or ‘tinkle’, that imitate in their sound what they denote in meaning are called onomatopoeic. The action of moving into the middle of the road conveys in its form (rightness) the intended future action (turning right), so can be thought of as an onomatopoeic action. The skew-whiff placement of notes on the door, leaving the light on, looking at a non-existent watch all have this onomatopoeic element.

To language: from exaggeration to representation

Note that the development of the ‘move to the centre to signal a right turn’ action will almost certainly have started out as exaggeration. On a wide road it is not necessary to move to right or left, but simply to turn from the normal road position. However, the movement to the centre begins the action ahead of time, exaggerating it. It is the start of the actual action, but also emphasises it to others.

By the time we have the right turn in the narrow road, the action of moving to the centre of the road has become divorced from the actual action of turning right. It is representative of or maybe even symbolic of the action of turning right, but is not actually a part of the action (which really needs a position to the left).

This is similar to the runaway mating displays of birds and other animals, but whereas these are solely instinctive, our own actions of this kind often mix reactive and deliberative elements.

This is reminiscent of the idea of accountability in ethnomethodology: as we act in a social situation we know that our actions and activities are available to others and must therefore be meaningful to others within the particular cultural and social settings. Similarly Goffman regarded day-to-day activity as a performance; just as an actor performs on-stage, we perform moment to moment for those around us and often for ourselves. However, while the actor emulates fictive actions, when we perform in an exaggerated way we effectively emulate what we are doing anyway!

The important shift occurs at the moment when we no longer emulate what we are doing, but emulate in order to convey what we may be about to do. We then move from observable actions to representative gestures and surely the beginnings of symbolic language.

1. Note the choice of two participants in the CSCW framework diagram seemed unproblematic, until some years later I realised it had limited the scope of analysis of awareness. A third participant is needed in order to talk about the way one person is aware of the communications or collaborative actions of others. The diagram had proved incredibly powerful in suggesting questions and issues, but by its nature had precluded others; good lesson about any diagram, notation or system of thought! [back]
2. Knister, M.J. and Prakash, A., (1990), DistEdit: a distributed toolkit for supporting multiple group editors, in CSCW’90 Proceedings of the Conference on Computer-Supported Cooperative Work, ACM SIGCHI & SIGOIS, 343-355 [back]
3. Leland, M.D.P., Fish, R.S. and Robert E, K., (1988), Collaborative document production using Quilt, in Proceedings Of CSCW’88, 206-215 [back]
4. I am aware that I am using the words ‘sign’ and ‘signal’ in nearly the opposite way to those used in some branches of semiotics. However, the sense here is the normal sense in the English language, where one talks about the crocus being a sign of spring, or smoke is a sign of fire, but smoke deliberately covered and uncovered to create a characteristic pattern is a signal. In ordinary language a signal suggest intention, something emitted deliberately to be noticed, the possession of the sender.  In contrast, signs are noticed, but not necessarily intended; indeed the thing that has a sign may not even be animate; the meaning of a sign belongs to the recipient. In fact, doing a quick check it seems that in Pierce’s semiotics, ‘sign’ is very close to the meaning here. [back]
5. I’m not an expert on Pierce, but I think he would refer to the point at which the sign becomes detached from its ‘natural’ connection to the action as the change from sinsign to legisign. [back]
6. We have used the term ‘disposition’ is used in previous work, such as “Trigger Analysis – understanding broken tasks” and  “Artefacts as designed, Artefacts as used: resources for uncovering activity dynamics“.  Often the location of an artefact is important (papers placed on a chair for reminders, or in a particular position on a desk).  However, often the way in which it is placed in that location is also significant – the disposition (straight or at an angle, front-side up or down). [back]
7. See the Equator pages about the Mack Room project also the Mackintosh Interpretation Centre web site, and the HCI book case study on the Mack Room. [back]

Mostly philosophy of the mind and materiality … the latter to help as we work on the DEPtH book on Physicality, TouchIT

• Shaun Gallagher, Dan Zahavi. The Phenomenological Mind: An Introduction to Philosophy of Mind and Cognitive Science, Routledge, 2007.
• John Lechte. Fifty Key Contemporary Thinkers: From Structuralism to Post-Humanism, 2nd Edition, Routledge, 2007.
• Jean-Paul Sartre.  Being and Nothingnes: An Essay on Phenomenological Ontology, 1943.  Routledge Classics, , 2nd Edition, 2003.
• Jay Friedenberg. Artificial Psychology, Routledge , 2008.
• Max Velmans.  Understanding Consciousness, Routledge, 2009.
• Peter Carruthers. The Nature of the Mind, Routledge, 2003.

In fact, with these and the previous  set I had far too many even for a month of evenings, and below you can see the books I actually brought.

As well as a selection from the academic books also some fiction/leisure reading, some old favourites and some new ones:

• How Green was My Valley, Richard Llewellyn – a Welshman has to read this :-/
• The Catcher in the Rye, J.D. Salinger – a classic I’ve never read
• More of the Good Life – the TV series was formative for me as a child, but 40 seemed so far away
• Lark Rise to Candleford, Flora Thompson – some years since I’ve read it last, and have been loving the TV series, but I don’t think it has stayed very close to the book!
• Nella Last’s War – this is the book that was the basis for the TV drama Housewife 49 and part of the Mass Observation that collected diaries from ordinary people across Britain during the Second World War.
• Ruth, Elizabeth Gaskill – another classic that I’ve not read yet!
• As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning.  Laurie Lee’s account of travelling in Spain in the run up to the Civel War.  I read it in school for O’level.
• Swallowdale, Arthur Ransome – Couldn’t find Swallow’s an Amazons, I think one of the girls might have it on their shelves!
• The Shining Company, Rosemary Sutcliff – we have loads of her histroical novels for children.  I find that good children’s writing is so much better than most adult books, which often feel they need to be incomprehensible to be good.
• The Growing Summer, Noel Streatfield – lovely story, children visiting a quirky old lady in west coast of Ireland.
• Hovel in the Hills, Elizabeth West  – another book I’ve read many times, but not for many years.  True story about a couple who buy an old house on a Welsh hillside.

In addition, but missing from the picture, is one I borrowed from my daughter, Tamara Pierce’s  The Healing in the Vine, and one I’ve borrowed from Tiziana Catarci during my visit the Languages of Art.

So, two weeks in and how far have I got …

Well, been a little busy, two journal papers, a book chapter, an interfaces article, two 3 hour lectures to the masters students here, a seminar, reading thesis chapters and helping with two grant proposals … so not got very far through the bookshelf.

In fact, to be brutally honest, so far only finished the Tamora Pierce and nearly finished Gibson (just conclusions to go):

As you can see LOTS of notes on Gibson, I will write a very long blog sometime about this, but several others in line first!

But next week several train journeys, so may get through a few more books