Paul Kleiman

Eccentricity, conformity and arts education

Some years ago I happened to be standing and chatting to the then German Federal Minister for Education. We were in the (long) coffee queue during a break at an ELIA (European League of Institutes of Art) conference, the theme of which was the future of arts higher education in Europe in the light of Bologna, and he had just given a keynote address.

I had thanked him for his keynote, and he asked me my name and where I was from, and what what I did. When I said I was from the UK and worked in higher education performing arts, he smiled and said “Ah, the UK….”

There was a pause.

Then said, as we shuffled down towards the coffee and pastries: “Let’s put our differences to one side for moment. I have have a serious question for the UK. For the past 40 years or so, your economy has not always been in the best shape – to put it mildly. Yet during that period you managed to lead the world in areas such art, design, fashion, music, etc. Over the same period, until relatively recently [i.e. re-unification], we have had a relatively successful economy but, with a few exceptions, have produced nothing like that sort of creative output. So, my question is, what are you doing, or perhaps NOT doing, in your education system that enables that sort of creativity to flourish?

Standing there, eyeing from afar the rapidly diminishing plate of pastries, I did not have a clear, rigorously-argued, well-researched, evidence-based answer to give him. But a thought did occur, and I said to him: “I do think it may have something to do with our long tradition of non-conformity, of sticking two fingers up to authority, and also our high tolerance of eccentricity, neither of which – in my limited experience – you have in Germany”.

At which point we had reached the coffee and the few remaining pastries.

The minister simply said: “Ah, interesting” and we went our separate ways.

I often think about that conversation as I witness the virulent spread and baleful effects of compliance, conformity and standardisation throughout our systems of learning and teaching. Of course, given our traditions, many do stick two-fingers in the air and manage to develop and provide wonderful, creative learning experiences. But so often that is done despite not because of the systems in place. And while eccentricity and creativity still survive and occasionally thrive, we keep quiet about it, hoping that ‘they’ won’t notice while they obsess about ticking the quality assurance boxes, and obtaining the data to put in the institutional KIS (Key Information Set) data. It’s worth remembering that KIS also means Keep It Simple!

From out of the educational wilderness…towards what?

Two things became clear to me this week, both connected with education.

The first, I suspect, has been clear to many for quite some time, so I’m just ‘keeping up at the back’ on that one. The second one is far less publicly obvious, but I reckon is rather more insidious than the first.

The first is that the Tories have probably given up on the idea of winning the next election (my predictive text insisted on ‘ejection’!) and forming a government. So they have embarked on a mission to change the educational landscape so fundamentally and significantly that no government will be able to undo or reverse – within the lifetime of that government or even just a lifetime – any of the changes that have been wrought.

The second thing that occurred to me, which became obvious at a meeting I attended at the Department for Education (DfE) on the reform of ‘A’ levels, is that the ideological pressure is now so great that the language of education is being changed fundamentally, literally as we speak it and write it.

Others have commented – in various and many articles and blogs – how words and phrases such as ‘child-centred’ and ‘progressive’ that used to have such a positive, hopeful meaning now attract only scorn and derision from those who deign to govern us. There has also been a great deal of concern and comment regarding the constant dismissal and consequent erosion of the arts – which, by their nature, tend to be child-centred and progressive – in the national curriculum and in the media discourses on education. It’s all about STEM: Science, Technology, Engineering, Mathematics.

It’s also worth noting that the academies and free schools, that are so favoured by our government, are not tied to the national curriculum, so other measures (see below) are required to ensure the focus on STEM is maintained.

Recently the ideological focus has expanded to encompass not only the primary and secondary sectors, but also the tertiary sector and higher education (note: Mr. Gove has admitted in print that he would love to have the whole educational system under his guiding wing at the Dept. for Education).

To accompany and support this expanded focus, and to maintain the ideological commitment to STEM, we have had to adopt a new vocabulary of educational double-speak, in which some ‘A’ levels are designated ‘facilitating subjects’ for entry into a ‘good university’, while others – mainly but not only arts subjects – are designated ‘non-facilitating subjects’. In addition, Ofqual (the government agency responsible for all qualifications in the schools’ sector) has decreed that all ‘A’ levels must be designated as either ‘exam-assessed’ or ‘non-exam assessed’, the latter referring to any form of assessment that is not a traditional, sit-down, written examination: a not uncommon phenomenon in the arts. What is astonishing is that the nice, seemingly intelligent people at Ofqual and the DfE insist that there is absolutely no implication of value in that language. They insist that all subjects are regarded as equal, despite the unequivocal evidence that some are clearly more equal than others. The baleful consequences can be seen in the growing list of schools that have deleted arts subjects from the list of A levels they offer.

Our political leaders have taken it upon themselves to lead us out from what they perceive as the desert of educational disaster – in which we have been wandering for at least 40 years – and to enter the promised land flowing with STEM and increased PISA scores. When it comes to education, particularly in England, they are guided not by the evidence provided by years of careful, rigorous research by educational researchers, nor by the evidence provided by scientists in new and potentially paradigm-shifting fields such as educational neuroscience. Rather they stick a finger in the air to see which way the ideological wind is blowing, listen carefully to what their favourite soothsayer has to say on the evils of past educational discourses and practices, check that the pillar of right-teous ire that is the Daily Mail is well and truly behind them and that the pillar of smoke and mirrors is in front of them…and off they go, confident that the caste of pedagogic priests and disciplinarians that they have appointed will ensure obedience and silence dissent.

As we traipse reluctantly behind them, we look back to see the tattered tents and banners of genuine, life-enriching and life-enhancing education left blowin’ in the wind.

A kindness that repairs the world

BABY LOSS WEEK PIN — Baby Loss Awareness week 9-15 Oct

Kindness, whether one follows a particular faith or creed or not, is regarded as an essential human virtue, and acts of kindness – whether large or small – help strengthen the fabric that binds our lives to those of others. While no one has a monopoly on kindness, one of the primary virtues of Judaism is that of Chesed – usually and roughly translated as ‘loving-kindness’. It is through such acts of love and kindness that one engages in and contributes to Tikun Olam ‘repairing the world’.

A few years ago I witnessed at close hand a great act of both loving-kindness and determination that helped to repair someone’s world.

There is a double sadness behind this story. A good friend of ours was in the final stages of terminal cancer. We had known her, her husband and their family for a long time, and one of their sons and our son were the best of friends. She was at home, surrounded by her family, who were dealing with the terrible situation as best they can.

As is so often the case when individuals are facing the end of their life, there was an unfinished life event that Esther (not her real name) wanted to resolve in order to soothe her own passing and comfort her family.

The gaping hole in her life was that her first child, a baby boy, died at birth nearly thirty years ago. As was common in those days the baby was immediately taken away and buried in an unmarked grave, in this case in one of the several Jewish cemeteries in the city where we live. Our friends got on and carried on with their lives as best they could amidst a profound, silent grief, and very little if anything was ever said.

Now, as the end of her own life approached, Esther wanted that chasm in her life and the life of her family to be filled with knowing not only where their son and brother was buried, but also to mark his grave in a way that told the world that he lived, though very briefly, is loved, and is remembered.

We became involved in that poignant quest not just because they were close friends but also that we, too, are bereaved parents, and that our baby son also died at birth, in 1990. Unlike our friends, however, we have the comfort of being able to visit his grave whenever we so choose. For a number of years, it being a new cemetery, his grave stood alone in what was the designated ‘children’s section’, out by the cemetery fence and separated a long way from the ‘adult’ section. Now, sadly, there are three small graves in that section. But all are visited regularly and cared for.

Since our son’s death, we – and particularly my wife Jo – have been involved in Sands, the UK charity that supports those whose babies have died: either still-born or soon after birth. Jo promised Esther that she would do everything she could to provide her with the information that she so desperately wanted.

At first it didn’t seem hopeful. Though Jo had the baby’s name, the date he died and the name of the cemetery, there seemed to be no record. Eventually there was a breakthrough when she realised that the cemetery that our friends have, for 27 years, believed to be the one where their baby son was buried was not the right one. Slowly but surely, after hours of trawling online through various official registers and documents concerned with death and burial, and various telephone conversations with various official and unofficial organisations, Jo managed to identify the location of David’s grave. (David is not his real name, but he has a real name, and that’s important because he is no longer an anonymous ‘Baby – deceased’

Once Jo had identified the general location, the next task was to obtain confirmation of the precise location amongst the graves of other babies and young children, and to get a small gravestone made and erected as soon as possible. After some more detective work and once she was absolutely certain of the precise location, Jo rang the main Jewish burial organisation. When she had explained what she was doing and why she was doing it, the phone at the other end was passed to the head of the Beth Din – the Jewish religious authority.

Jo again explained the background to her quest and the fact that Esther did not have much time left. Once the Rabbi was assured that everything about the circumstances, identification and location was correct, he said that it must and will be done as quickly as possible. He added that all the administrative costs would be borne by the Beth Din as an act of Chesed, and a tiny but important rent in the fabric of the world was well on the way to being repaired.

Having finally identified and confirmed the precise location of David’s grave, Jo spent a few hours trying to arrange for a gravestone to be made and set in place. After the local stonemasons who had been recommended didn’t work out, in desperation she rang the stonemasons who had made the gravestone for our own baby. The woman who answered the phone turned out to be the daughter of the woman we had dealt with twenty seven years ago when our own baby died. Responding to the urgency of the situation she said that there was a small, spare piece of black marble in their workshop, in perfect condition, that would be ideal, and that as soon as they received the details of what to put on the stone they would start work.

Just four days later, Jo received an email, with photographs, showing the stone – beautifully engraved in Hebrew and English – set in place and marking David’s resting place.

Esther departed this world knowing that a large wound in her life had been healed, and the family – amidst the sadness and sorrow – found great comfort in knowing not only where their son and brother lay, but also that there are kindnesses that do, indeed, repair the world.

On history and all that (Part 2): a marvellous lesson

I was once privileged to witness the most marvellous history lesson…taught by a drama teacher.

It was in a comprehensive school. The students, a mixed class of girls and boys, were taking GCSE History, and the theme was England in the 17th century. The ‘teacher’ was Dorothy Heathcote, the eminent and inspirational drama education specialist. (For those who have never heard of her, do read this http://www.mantleoftheexpert.com/community/about-us/dorothy-heathcote/.)

One of the things Dorothy used to say was that the most powerful word in education is the word ‘might’. Ask a child “what IS the answer to this?” pre-supposes there is a single ‘right’ answer. It’s a closed question. But ask “what MIGHT be the answer to this?”, then you open up the possibilities, the curiosity, the imagination.

The environment was a standard classroom, with melamine tables and plastic chairs.

The session started with Dorothy hanging three large blank sheets of paper on the wall. On the top of one she wrote: ‘I know this about the 17th century’. On the second she wrote ‘I think I know this about the 17th century’. On the third she wrote ‘I’d like to know this about the 17th century’.

She then asked the students to fill out each paper. Not a great deal went on the first one. A bit more went on the second one. A quite a bit more on the third one.

Dorothy then quickly went through each one, checking to see if there was any more to be added.

She then asked the students to get into groups of two or three, and gave each group a set of photocopied sheets of paper. They were taken from one of those guides to antique furniture, and contained images and information about 17th century tables and chairs

Dorothy asked each group to look at the images and read the information, and then to select one – either a table or chair.

She then announced that from that moment on the classroom was now Heathcote’s Expert Antique Restoration Workshop. The students were now all experts at restoring antique furniture, and she was in charge. She then, pointing to the classroom tables and chairs, asked the workers to start restoring the piece of furniture they had selected.

Notwithstanding a bit of embarrassed bewilderment, the students started to ‘work’ on their chosen item: inspecting it, discussing what might be wrong with it, what needed repairing, starting to repair it, etc.

Dorothy walked round inspecting the work, and would ask questions. A typical exchange would be as follows:

Dorothy: What have you got there?

Student: It’s an oak dining chair, Miss.

D: Where’s it from?

S: Something Hall, Miss. I think it’s one of those big houses. [they’d read that on the sheet]

D: What’s wrong with it?

S: Er…it’s got a big split. [that wasn’t on the sheet]

D: Any idea how that split might have occurred?

S: Not sure, Miss. But there’s some scorch marks around the split, so we reckon it was in a fire and perhaps got chucked out of a window. [definitely not on the sheet!]

D: And how do you reckon that might have happened?

And you could see the students’ imagination switch into gear, and out came stories about corridors, and candles, and late night trysts, and a chase, and a dropped candle, and the panic, and the servants being woken up and being ordered to save the furniture, and the chair being thrown out of a high window….

Each group created and shared its own story, using what they knew, what they thought they knew, and what they imagined. And slowly but surely, a real sense of 17th century life began to be created and understood.

After a short break, the session re-started. Now two new characters were introduced along with a set of typical everyday ’17th century’ artifacts e.g: a ring, a quill and ink, a bell, a hand written letter, a pamphlet, etc. The characters – played by actors – were the lady of the house, and a male servant. Each sat at each end of the room, and the students – moving between the two – could ask them questions about their lives, and about the various artifacts which they could touch and examine, each of which had a story attached to it.

As in the first session, layer upon layer of knowledge and understanding gradually was created.

At the end of the session, Dorothy returned to the three sheets of paper, and once more asked the students to fill them in. This time round, what had been the sparsely filled ‘I know this…’ sheet was now filled – confidently and, in some cases, passionately – with information.

The obvious lesson, from this history lesson, was that it’s our natural curiosity about people, our ability to imagination the world through a different pair of eyes, and our love of stories, that powers our understanding of history. Facts and chronologies, of themselves, do not an understanding of history make. But engendering curiosity, imagination and, indeed, passion, might well encourage the pursuit of the factual.

On history and all that (Part 1): my deal with history

There’s been much sound and fury recently about the teaching of history in schools, prompted by the pronouncements and interventions of Michael Gove, the Secretary of State for Education.

Like many I really love and am fascinated by history. But, though I am an educationalist, I’m not an historian or history teacher (nor for that matter is Michael Gove) so I won’t comment on what should be in or out of the history curriculum – I’ll leave that to the experts to argue about. This is more about my own personal history of my journey into history.

I really didn’t get history when I was at school, though I did it for A-level. I loved art and english, couldn’t do music because it clashed with art, and history was the least worst option. In fact my attendance and achievement was such that Mr. Davis, the history teacher, who took great pride in the success of his students and in his teaching of the history of 19th century Europe and America, suggested strongly that it might be for the best if he did not enter me for the exam.

With pride suitably hurt, I decided to make a deal with Mr. Davis. In exchange for allowing me to take the exam, I would revise hard and ensure that I at least passed. He, somewhat reluctantly, agreed, and we shook hands on it.

As I lived in London, the next day I travelled to the centre of the city and headed for Foyles, the famous bookshop. There I purchased the past seven years of A-level history papers.

On my arrival back home, I cleared a space on my bedroom floor, laid out the A-level papers, and started to make a chart of the questions. By the time I’d finished I’d worked out that there was always a question on Bismark and German unification, always a question on Garibaldi and Italian unification, invariably a question on an aspect of the American War of Independence, the Corn Laws and so on.

I then went out and bought several of those ‘help with your revision’ books (the internet wasn’t an available option in those days) that covered the various topics I had identified as ‘favourites’. I read them carefully and made copious notes.

On the day of the History A-level examination, I sat down in the school hall along with c. 50 other boys (it was an all-boys grammar school) and at the words ‘You may start’ I turned over the paper and opened it. There were seven questions, and I’d got six direct ‘hits’…and I could just about waffle through the seventh.

When I went to school some weeks later to pick up my results, my path crossed with that of Mr. Davis. He stopped, smiled a bit weakly, and said: “It seems I underestimated you, Kleiman. The powers that be have seen fit to award you a ‘B’. Erm..congratulations!” With that he shook my hand, shook his head, and walked off.

(to be continued…)