Or so argues Steven Johnson in his newest book about media culture. He says we shouldn't discuss pop culture in terms of morality but rather in terms of cognition. And, his argument goes, today's media is actually making us smarter. IQs have been steadily increasing since WWII and according to Johnson media is the reason.
Media-junkie that I am, I want to accept his argument but I'm not entirely convinced. Perhaps I'm skeptical because Johnson spends so much time discussing video games. I'm not a gaming fan, and I find that while avid gamers are extremely skilled in whatever games they favor, I don't see how those skills apply elsewhere. Does a gamer's increased cognitive ability to make decisions in a gaming world apply to problem-solving in the real world? I don't think so. Even if a game requires a comlex, embedded problem-solving process, the process is still discreet with only a certain number of variables (and, if you can't figure it out on your own, you can buy a gaming guide to help you out). In real-world problem solving there are many variables and you can't always guarantee that those variables will remain the same. People who are good at video games aren't so immediately. They are because they move through the same levels (problems) over and over again. If I had the chance to revisit intellectual and emotional problems over and over again, I'd eventually get it right, but I don't think it would make me more prepared for the next cognitive puzzle.
Johnson also talks about how tv and movies (less so than tv) are becoming more cognitively challenging (no longer the chronological narrative, but a mix of narrative threads, multiple characters, unexpected structures). While I agree with his assessment that tv is changing in these ways, I don't know whether that cognitive shift means smarter people. Just like IQ measures a specific type of intelligence, any cognitive increase that we get from more-complex tv watching seems limited to a specific set of skills. If I am able to process a more complex narrative, does that mean I am able to process more complex ideas in all cases? Because Johnson doesn't consider applicability, I find myself skeptical. I think I am a more sophisticated tv-watcher than say my parents, but I don't really think that my tv-watching skills (if you can call it that) affect any other aspect of my life.
Even though I don't fully buy Johnson's argument, I'm glad he's making it as I always find arguments against tv, etc. to be sort of silly.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
more thoughts on art
When I was an undergrad, I had this ambition to write an honors thesis about art and social responsibilty, but it never went anywhere beyond a lot of scribbled notes about Ayn Rand's antithetical view to my argument (I'm still not entirely sure why I was so hung up on Rand). Anyway, I've been thinking about the matter lately, not so much about art and social responsibilty, but about the relevance of art (as I mentioned in my previous cockroach post).
So, I was quite interested in a book review in the Guardian about John Carey's What Good are the Arts?
Carey, apparently, critiques elitist views of art (e.g. Clive Bell's comment that "All artists are aristocrats ... Why should artists bother about the fate of humanity?") and argues that the literature is a superior art form.
The comments about the snootniness of art have me thinking more about the recent trend to bring art to the underserved: Born into Brothels, Eve Ensler's work in women's prison, Mark Salzman's work with juvenile criminals. While the various artists are making a seemingly generous act, there is still an element of snootiness in what they're doing. Less so with Born into Brothels (can't remember the photographer's name) than with Ensler or Salzman. I'm not saying that none of them has good intentions, but the kids' photographs get shown to rich westerners (to raise money, of course, but I still sensed this assumption that these viewers will have more ability to understand what the kids are doing, to see the value of their art--and this is underscored by the parents' unwillingness to let their kids get more education, to spend time taking photographs); the prisoners' words get interpreted and performed by professional actresses, Salzman's book is as much about his own writing as it is the kids he works with. With Ensler and Salzman there is almost a sense of surprise about what they read ("the delinquents have souls!") And Salzman's writers don't work at all with craft (whereas he continually references his own efforts to craft Lying Awake); it's as if art for these writers should only be about expression, not art in the terms of careful craft. I hate to by a cynic, but it seems like there's an assumption that these writers won't be able to get writing in terms of "high art."
Ok, just some caffeine-induced rambling. I'm going to stop before my thoughts get totally convoluted.
Also interesting is a collection of artists' comments on art in anticipation of the publication of Carey's book.
So, I was quite interested in a book review in the Guardian about John Carey's What Good are the Arts?
Carey, apparently, critiques elitist views of art (e.g. Clive Bell's comment that "All artists are aristocrats ... Why should artists bother about the fate of humanity?") and argues that the literature is a superior art form.
The comments about the snootniness of art have me thinking more about the recent trend to bring art to the underserved: Born into Brothels, Eve Ensler's work in women's prison, Mark Salzman's work with juvenile criminals. While the various artists are making a seemingly generous act, there is still an element of snootiness in what they're doing. Less so with Born into Brothels (can't remember the photographer's name) than with Ensler or Salzman. I'm not saying that none of them has good intentions, but the kids' photographs get shown to rich westerners (to raise money, of course, but I still sensed this assumption that these viewers will have more ability to understand what the kids are doing, to see the value of their art--and this is underscored by the parents' unwillingness to let their kids get more education, to spend time taking photographs); the prisoners' words get interpreted and performed by professional actresses, Salzman's book is as much about his own writing as it is the kids he works with. With Ensler and Salzman there is almost a sense of surprise about what they read ("the delinquents have souls!") And Salzman's writers don't work at all with craft (whereas he continually references his own efforts to craft Lying Awake); it's as if art for these writers should only be about expression, not art in the terms of careful craft. I hate to by a cynic, but it seems like there's an assumption that these writers won't be able to get writing in terms of "high art."
Ok, just some caffeine-induced rambling. I'm going to stop before my thoughts get totally convoluted.
Also interesting is a collection of artists' comments on art in anticipation of the publication of Carey's book.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Harry Potter and the Curse of Hype
I swore I wouldn't buy the new HP. As I declared to lisa b. last night, the last book was tediously long and Rowling's editor needs to reign her in. And it's not like I don't already have a dozen books stacked by my bed, waiting to be read.
But I caved. Maybe it was the kids at the farmer's market sporting HP glasses. Or maybe it was all the folks on my children's lit listserv talking about the arrival of their books and their HP parties. Or maybe it's just that, despite myself, I really do want to know who the half-blood prince is. Whatever the catalyst, I caved to the hype. Now I have it--all 650 pages of it.
It was funny being at the bookstore today: a group of kids on the way in, arguing whether there would be any left ("they ordered billions," one declared. "it's not a problem); the near sense of awe as people approached the display--"there it is"; the adults hidden away in corners, devouring the thing. I can't imagine what the midnight release parties must be like.
I feel a bit ridiculous buying it, especially since I was so displeased with the last one. But, if you've read 5 you may as well read all 7. And besides, if you teach children's lit, you're almost obligated to read it, right?
But I caved. Maybe it was the kids at the farmer's market sporting HP glasses. Or maybe it was all the folks on my children's lit listserv talking about the arrival of their books and their HP parties. Or maybe it's just that, despite myself, I really do want to know who the half-blood prince is. Whatever the catalyst, I caved to the hype. Now I have it--all 650 pages of it.
It was funny being at the bookstore today: a group of kids on the way in, arguing whether there would be any left ("they ordered billions," one declared. "it's not a problem); the near sense of awe as people approached the display--"there it is"; the adults hidden away in corners, devouring the thing. I can't imagine what the midnight release parties must be like.
I feel a bit ridiculous buying it, especially since I was so displeased with the last one. But, if you've read 5 you may as well read all 7. And besides, if you teach children's lit, you're almost obligated to read it, right?
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
when I was a broadway orphan
Yesterday, I was sitting in a coffee shop, idly working but mostly eavesdropping on conversations (of which, unfortunately, there were few). The coffee girl started telling a customer about how she received an injury: in trying to rescue a Bengal tiger from a tree. The story was full of detail about how the tiger moved and she moved and for a few seconds I was cursing my mundane life, wondering how I might also be of assistance to exotic animals. And then I quickly realized that she was lying, and that the guy was buying it, wondering how he might get such an exotic woman. And then she paused, and he shifted nervously, realizing that he'd been duped. She laughed and admitted she was joking, telling the real story--which had something to do with walking down the street.
My envy of her exotic lifestyle quickly shifted to envy of her ability to lie. I am a terrible, terrible liar. Even when I want to lie, when I think lying might serve me well or entertain me, I just can't lie. Just after I finished my cancer treatments, everyone kept asking me about how I lost my voice and giving me rememedies for it. Knowing they all meant well, I still hated people asking and having to tell them my health history. So, my sister and I made up a bunch of lies that I could tell people instead. There were many (kick-boxing lessons, getting mugged, being a singer in a heavy metal band) and they were detailed. But I never told a single one. Every time I was about to, I felt guilty for lying and for playing with people's sympathy. This was my favorite:
When I was eight, I was Annie on Broadway. I was a star. I could sing louder and longer than any Annie had ever sung before. I was selling out the place. jAnd then, I got a cold, a bit of laryngitis. But the show must go on, of course. They filled me full of lemons and honey, and I bravely stepped out onto the stage. Just me and Daddy Warbucks bringing hope to the masses. I sang for weeks soaked through with lemons, and one day my voice simply stopped. I was put to the streets with my red curls and my patent leather shoes. They foudn another Annie in the wings of the stage and scratched my name off every program.
The plan for the end of the story was for me to have tear hovering at the corner of my eye, gliding slowly, sadly, haltingly down my cheek and to offer a final chorus: "Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya tomorrow. . . "
My envy of her exotic lifestyle quickly shifted to envy of her ability to lie. I am a terrible, terrible liar. Even when I want to lie, when I think lying might serve me well or entertain me, I just can't lie. Just after I finished my cancer treatments, everyone kept asking me about how I lost my voice and giving me rememedies for it. Knowing they all meant well, I still hated people asking and having to tell them my health history. So, my sister and I made up a bunch of lies that I could tell people instead. There were many (kick-boxing lessons, getting mugged, being a singer in a heavy metal band) and they were detailed. But I never told a single one. Every time I was about to, I felt guilty for lying and for playing with people's sympathy. This was my favorite:
When I was eight, I was Annie on Broadway. I was a star. I could sing louder and longer than any Annie had ever sung before. I was selling out the place. jAnd then, I got a cold, a bit of laryngitis. But the show must go on, of course. They filled me full of lemons and honey, and I bravely stepped out onto the stage. Just me and Daddy Warbucks bringing hope to the masses. I sang for weeks soaked through with lemons, and one day my voice simply stopped. I was put to the streets with my red curls and my patent leather shoes. They foudn another Annie in the wings of the stage and scratched my name off every program.
The plan for the end of the story was for me to have tear hovering at the corner of my eye, gliding slowly, sadly, haltingly down my cheek and to offer a final chorus: "Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya tomorrow. . . "
Monday, July 11, 2005
housekeeping
I finished reading Marilynne Robinson's Housekeeping this weekend. I've been meaning to read it, of course, for years. I'm actually glad I waited so long because now I can go out today and buy Gilead instead of waiting for years, hoping she'll write something else. I especially found the last few chapters among the loveliest prose I've read.
The summary on the back on my copy says the book is about "the dangerous and deep undertow of transcience," but I'm not sure that gets it right. Yes, the book is about transcience, but I don't think any judgments are made about its merits. (and maybe the blurb writer was just trying to be cute with the emphasis on water). Dangerous suggests avoidabililty. It's not such a new thing that Robinson is saying, that life is transcience and memory pulls at us because it's an acknowledgement of loss. But what I adore about the way she says all of these things is the way she links it to housekeeping, the mundane acts of dusting and straightening.
I've never thought about this much, how we try to affirm our own permanence by keeping house. I am generally a disinterested housekeeper, but recently I have become strangely attentive to domestic chores. This weekend I cleaned cupboards and sorted stacks of paper in my office and painted. I was particularly caught up in the painting, and I was inexplicably upset when the plan I had for my kitchen stools didn't quite work out. Then I finished reading the book and started wondering about my motivations. I think I can comfortably say (I'm still contemplating the matter) that my efforts at cleaning and painting were efforts to work myself out of a lingering funk. My own life has seemed starkly about transcience lately, and perhaps newly painted stools and tidy cupboards will ward it off.
The summary on the back on my copy says the book is about "the dangerous and deep undertow of transcience," but I'm not sure that gets it right. Yes, the book is about transcience, but I don't think any judgments are made about its merits. (and maybe the blurb writer was just trying to be cute with the emphasis on water). Dangerous suggests avoidabililty. It's not such a new thing that Robinson is saying, that life is transcience and memory pulls at us because it's an acknowledgement of loss. But what I adore about the way she says all of these things is the way she links it to housekeeping, the mundane acts of dusting and straightening.
I've never thought about this much, how we try to affirm our own permanence by keeping house. I am generally a disinterested housekeeper, but recently I have become strangely attentive to domestic chores. This weekend I cleaned cupboards and sorted stacks of paper in my office and painted. I was particularly caught up in the painting, and I was inexplicably upset when the plan I had for my kitchen stools didn't quite work out. Then I finished reading the book and started wondering about my motivations. I think I can comfortably say (I'm still contemplating the matter) that my efforts at cleaning and painting were efforts to work myself out of a lingering funk. My own life has seemed starkly about transcience lately, and perhaps newly painted stools and tidy cupboards will ward it off.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
blanding
Blanding is an unfortunate name for a town. It was called first Sagebrush and then Grayson, and I think either one is better for a town that is essentially bland. The town changed its name because a wealthy investor promised a thousand-volume library to any town that would adopt his name (actually his wife's maiden name; his name and 500 of the books went to Bicknell, UT).
I did get a bit of the "adventure" promised by Blanding: many deep scratches from canyon bushwhacking, a serious case of road burn from getting tripped by an over-eager kid in the 4th of July 5k, a cold, and a speeding ticket. Not really the sort of adventure I was looking for, but oh well.
I also learned that Blanding has some serious class strife. The town was settled by two main groups: the "Hole-in-the-Rockers" and the "Pachecoites." The Hole-in-the-Rock contingency arrived first. These folks decided to ignore long, established routes to the area and created a "shortcut" to get from the west to the east. The shortcut took six months of ridiculously hard travel and they had to blast and build a variety of wagon pathways across slickrock and down steep plateaus. The Pachecoites came later--north from Mexico, abandoning Mormon settlements because of political unrest. In the town's social structuring, it is better to be of Hole-in-the-Rock stock than Pachecoite. (my family, btw, is equal parts of both). And amazingly, the division still matters. When my aunt was a teenager, she dated an outsider (a family that came to work for an oil company) who everyone disapproved of. My dad found him once outside their property yelling about how to be any good in the damn town, your grandfather had to come through the Hole-in-the-Rock. Everyone you meet down there has to tell you who their parents and grandparents were and where they came from.
What amuses me about the whole thing is the assertion that the folks who came to the area in the most ridiculous, foolhardy way possible are better. Many of my family members (me included) possess a legendary sort of stubbornness, and I think this is where it all started. Sometimes tenacity is a virtue, but other times it is just a waste of time.
I did get a bit of the "adventure" promised by Blanding: many deep scratches from canyon bushwhacking, a serious case of road burn from getting tripped by an over-eager kid in the 4th of July 5k, a cold, and a speeding ticket. Not really the sort of adventure I was looking for, but oh well.
I also learned that Blanding has some serious class strife. The town was settled by two main groups: the "Hole-in-the-Rockers" and the "Pachecoites." The Hole-in-the-Rock contingency arrived first. These folks decided to ignore long, established routes to the area and created a "shortcut" to get from the west to the east. The shortcut took six months of ridiculously hard travel and they had to blast and build a variety of wagon pathways across slickrock and down steep plateaus. The Pachecoites came later--north from Mexico, abandoning Mormon settlements because of political unrest. In the town's social structuring, it is better to be of Hole-in-the-Rock stock than Pachecoite. (my family, btw, is equal parts of both). And amazingly, the division still matters. When my aunt was a teenager, she dated an outsider (a family that came to work for an oil company) who everyone disapproved of. My dad found him once outside their property yelling about how to be any good in the damn town, your grandfather had to come through the Hole-in-the-Rock. Everyone you meet down there has to tell you who their parents and grandparents were and where they came from.
What amuses me about the whole thing is the assertion that the folks who came to the area in the most ridiculous, foolhardy way possible are better. Many of my family members (me included) possess a legendary sort of stubbornness, and I think this is where it all started. Sometimes tenacity is a virtue, but other times it is just a waste of time.
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