David Patrick McKenzie

History Communicator

Category: Clio 1 Fall 2011 (page 1 of 2)

Posts for my introduction to digital history class, fall 2011.

What Difference Does New Media Make to Doing History?

It makes me sad to say that this is my last blog post for Clio Wired I. I have learned a great deal, and really enjoyed learning both the bigger picture of digital history, and some hands-on skills with it.

So, we come to the final post for class. What difference does new media make to doing history? The short answer: a great deal.

As I reflected in my first blog post, written at Charlotte airport on a hot day as I came back from an unexpected trip to Texas (and was stewing over my Steelers’ opening-day loss), coming into the class I thought that the main difference new media made to history was in its dissemination. New media makes it possible to reach broader audiences with the results of one’s historical research.

Now, as I sit under a blanket by my newly-decorated Christmas tree and the TV flashes NFL playoff scenarios (thankfully including the Steelers), I know that new media makes all the more difference to doing history. As Lev Manovich argued in The Language of New Media, new media, unlike previous technological advances, changes everything.

In the dissemination realm – the realm that previously concerned me more as a public historian – new media allows us to reach broader audiences. But the nature of the digital medium also forces us to conceive how we reach those audiences differently. As Sheri eloquently states in her post for this week, “Learning how to think in multiple formats and to structure information so viewers can navigate through information forwards, backwards, sideways, and otherways requires vision and planning similar, but also quite unlike the standard two-dimensional outline.”

For public historians perhaps that isn’t so much of a leap, since we already need to think of structuring information differently if we are presenting it in an exhibition, walking tour, brochure, lecture, film, interview, podcast, article, or book. Yet, as we discovered in week 9, all but two those types of products don’t often get one tenure in the academic world. Many of those outputs don’t leave much room for long-form argument or in-depth analysis. New media does, but just structured in a different way. What that way is, as we learned, is yet to be determined.

So, the main difference that new media makes for historians of all stripes output-wise is learning to think in different ways about how we structure our work. An exhibit is not a book, and a digital history project is neither.

For me, the most enlightening part of this semester has been learning more how digital media changes the process of producing history – not just the quantity of primary source material now available, but the means we have of approaching that material. As I mentioned in my post for week 10, we still need to rely on the oldest tool in our arsenal, the human brain, to come up with our questions and make sense of what the tools tell us. Yet, various tools and technologies allow us to ask and answer different questions than we could before.

As someone who has long desired to keep one foot in the academic history door and one foot in the public history door, but has been more in the public history realm the last several years, this class has been a great start to my Ph.D. Indeed, as this semester concludes, I find the main appeal of the digital for me is that it helps me straddle the (unfortunate) divide between academic and public history. It has helped me bridge the divide I was feeling between my academic and public history interests, particularly in the structuring of my career.

At this point I’m not sure if I will try for a digital dissertation, but I am more open to the idea than I was previously. At the very least, I plan to have an online archive to accompany my written dissertation – an archive I have begun for my final project in this class. I will look forward to learning more hands-on technological skills – many of which I lack beyond a rudimentary level (and some not even that advanced) – in Clio 2. In the meanwhile, I am thankful to Sharon and my classmates for great discussions and the new things I have learned, and the new tools and ways of thinking now in my arsenal as I proceed in my historical career.

Opening up–or locking down–scholarly communication

This week’s readings (Week 13) focused on the interrelated, sometimes opposed, issues of copyright and open access in scholarly (and other) communication.

I greatly enjoyed all of the readings, but the one that resonated with me most was Lawrence Lessig’s Free Culture. This well-written book–so well-written that in spite of having plenty of other readings, I didn’t do the graduate student skim (much to my chagrin on Sunday night!)–discusses the formation of the United States’s scheme of copyright, its recent abuses, and presents a moderate, well-reasoned solution to recent issues. In keeping with the Constitution’s original intent (yes, that loaded term) of promoting creativity by both granting and limiting copyrights, Lessig suggests allowing one fifty-year copyright term, renewable. That way, non-commercially-viable works will lapse into the public domain–allowing them to be used and built upon–while forcing registration of still-commercially-viable works. In the meanwhile–particularly after his unfortunate loss in Eldred v. Ashcroft (discussed in-depth and well in this book)–Lessig has promoted the Creative Commons licenses that have recently taken off.

This book resonated with me because of my experiences as a public historian, particularly as a content developer sourcing images for several museum exhibitions while working for The Design Minds, Inc. Because of the current 95-year copyright term, many of these exhibitions took on added expenses–expenses that could be crippling for many of the small museums for which we worked. In a couple of instances, we (or the client, depending on the nature of the contract) coughed up four figures for images. Because we had used largely public-domain images, or images from the clients’ collections, otherwise, in these cases the clients were able and willing to pay those costs. But other times we found ourselves having to substitute inferior images.

This is to say nothing of cases where copyright is uncertain–an issue rearing its head lately in regards to Google Books and the Hathi Trust, or old recordings.

I got lucky the one time I tried to do track down copyright for an old recording. When I was working on the Gold Mining Camp Museum at Monroe Park, I emailed Dick Spottswood of WAMU’s Bluegrass Country (whose delightful show I’m listening to right now) to ask what sort of music might have been heard at a mining camp in Fauquier County, Virginia, in the 1930s–the time and place we were interpreting. He was nice enough to reply and suggest John Ashby, a musician performing around Fauquier at that time. Thankfully, I was able to track down the copyright holder for Ashby’s music after only going through a few people, and gain permission–the person was even happy to provide me a digital file. This worked well for him–it exposed new audiences to Ashby’s music–and worked well for the county’s park authority (owner of the museum), allowing the featuring of a local artist.

But what if I had not been able to track that rights holder down? Would the client and I have decided to take the risk of playing that recording? Or would we have lost that local connection, choosing to play, say, jazz from that period (which Spottswood said would have been heard in Fauquier from Washington radio stations)? I’m guessing the latter, since we would have feared the repercussions of someone coming after us for breach of copyright–that is, if we could have even found Ashby’s recordings.

As Lessig brings up, digital technology is making copyright a bigger issue than before, as the technology allows for easier duplication and derivative works. As we have discussed through the semester, it also opens up new doors for scholarly communication. We can more easily find sources–presuming they are not locked down. Recently I followed a Twitter discussion suggesting that more historians will choose to study the 19th century, because so much 20th century material is locked down due to copyright, thus much harder to digitize and distribute–and not for technical reasons.

We also can disseminate our work in different ways, the subject of the Scholarly Communications Institute’s eighth session. The report–a nice summation of issues we have discussed during class–talked about different ways scholars can communicate using digital technology, going beyond the monograph-article model, and what the implications of those new means are. What of peer review? What of writing for a broader audience? Two lines about that subject particularly resonated with me:

To date, scholarly communication has privileged authors over audience, and many scholars carry this presumption of precedence into the digital realm (10). […] Which audience will take precedence–fellow specialists or the general public? Or if that dichotomy is itself a false distinction in the digital environment–as seems likely–what does it mean for scholarly communication? (11)

Indeed. Is it a false distinction in the digital environment? If it is–and I think it can be–that explains what attracted this public historian with academic leanings toward digital history–the ability to bridge that dichotomy, to fulfill my goal of having one foot in the academic history door, one in the public history door.

This and the other readings also raised the important issue of open access. Since we can, should we make our work readily available? I’m leaning toward yes. While some might worry about plagiarism, the technology makes plagiarism easier to detect. I’d like to hear what others think about this, though.

So digital technology has put us at a crossroads. Will our sources and the products we produce from those sources be locked down and controlled, or will they be open? What are the implications from each of those paths? Thoughts?

Popularizing the Historical Process

This week’s readings (Week 12) focused on what can broadly be called “citizen history” or “crowdsourcing”–inviting public participation in the process of creating knowledge, not just waiting to receive the end product.

The four articles, Roy Rosenzweig on Wikipedia, Jeff Howe’s Wired piece on crowdsourcing, a Smithsonian report [PDF] on the Institution’s collaboration with the Flickr Commons project, and a History News forum, all discuss issues with various aspects of crowdsourcing, but ultimately come to the right conclusion: the positives outweigh the negatives.

Crowdsourcing–whether a transcription project (like Papers of the War Department and the New York Public Library menus project), a research project (like the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum’s Children of the Lodz Ghetto or the National Postal Museum’s Arago portal), or a collaborative project (like Wikipedia)–can certainly have inaccuracies. But you don’t have to crowdsource for inaccurate information to get out there–even scholars, not to mention firebrand political commentators (couldn’t resist…) or textbook writers, can get history wrong.

But the above projects have tapped into the passion and knowledge that we can find dispersed in the public, and have used it to answer questions and, more broadly, produce knowledge. In 2008 I attended a session on crowdsourcing projects at the Mid-Atlantic Association of Museums conference. The two projects discussed, NPM’s Arago (presented by my friend Christine Hill Mereand) and the Library of Congress’s participation in Flickr Commons, took different approaches. Arago relied on a registration system before a researcher could begin contributing. LOC, by contrast, opened up the photos to all sorts of comments on the Flickr Commons.

Both projects relied on staff interaction, to filter comments and provide resources–indeed, if I remember correctly, that was Christine’s main job. Nonetheless, both projects greatly stretched the capabilities of the institutions, answering research questions much more quickly than they would have been answered by staff members or other researchers. The example I remember best from that presentation was a LOC photo of a tea house in an unknown town: someone recognized his/her hometown in Massachusetts. Now that information is available to researchers–someone researching the history of that town would never have found that photo, because it would not come up in searches for that town on LOC’s catalog. From what I remember of this presentation, they had to deal with little in the way of inaccurate information.

Perhaps more importantly, crowdsourcing projects are not only building on the knowledge of the public, they are inviting public participation. As my friend and former colleague Elissa Frankle, who works on the Children of the Lodz Ghetto project, stressed in her Ignite Smithsonian presentation, museums (and probably even more so academics) too often assume people will, and must, be passive consumers of information–and in the end, will get turned off by history. But as all of these projects show, there is a way to harness this passion. The Papers of the War Department reports 356 registered users in the past seven months–some (like me) who have done one or two documents, others who have done many more. Now all of these people have a connection to history.

So, then, what of expertise in a crowdsourced world? Why are all of us in this class pursuing this advanced degree? If anyone can do history, what is our role?

This not an either-or proposition. What we, as professionals, must do is provide the context, provide the guidance. We are the ones whose jobs (at least when we can get them!) include keeping the bigger picture in mind. As Rosenzweig noted, many Wikipedia articles focus on the minutiae–questions that we often deem to “small” to research. The Smithsonian report notes a seemingly low participation rate–one comment per 2,089 views. This raises the point that for us, being a historian is a job, not just a hobby on the side to juggle while we otherwise work, have family and social lives, etc.

We are the ones who have the time and the obligation to keep the bigger picture in mind, and to convey it. As I’ve found in working at museums and historic sites, questions from visitors have helped me hone my own interpretation, tested my own knowledge, and even helped lead me to new questions to research. Visitors at the Alamo asked me about Antonio López de Santa Anna’s visit to Washington in 1837. When I decided, several years later, to research just that, I stumbled upon a dissertation topic–and here I am, pursuing it.

It can be much the same with crowdsourcing. Seemingly inaccurate information or questions, whether they’re said online, in a classroom, or at a historic site, can provide “teachable moments.”

At the same time, opening our process up for scrutiny and participation brings a wider understanding of what we do. Crowdsourcing is no panacea for the troubles that ail history in the United States today. But even with its drawbacks, it offers a glimmer of hope, and can be part of the cure.

Visualization & Scholarship

Of this week’s readings, I found Martyn Jessop’s “Digital Visualization as a Scholarly Activity” [PDF] particularly interesting, as it got me thinking about other class discussions we’ve had about the nature of scholarship, and particularly what counts as scholarship.

This article discusses visualization as scholarship. Similar to Jo Guldi‘s argument that spatialization has a long history in the humanities, Jessop argues that digital visualization is an extension of older forms of scholarly activity, not a radical, new thing. Importantly, he differentiates visualization from illustration:

an illustration is intended merely to support a rhetorical device (usually textual) whereas a visualization is intended either to be the primary rhetorical device or serve as an alternative but parallel (rather than subordinate) rhetorical device (283).

In other words, a visualization is the end in itself, the product, not just a means to an end, a part of a final product.

As I read through this article, I wondered about a visualization as a scholarly product containing an argument. Let’s use an example that Jessop cites (285), one that has continually come up (perhaps because it’s so dang neat and it tells us so much) through the semester: Charles Minard’s graphical representation of Napoleon’s invasion of Russia in 1812, detailing the losses the Grande Armée suffered as it advanced and retreated. It certainly tells us a lot of information, in a powerful way–much more powerfully than pages of text could.

Minard's illustration of Napoleon's 1812 invasion of Russia

However, what is its argument? That the Grande Armée lost most of its force? That it must have really sucked to be a French soldier during that invasion?

Similarly, looking at Shaping the West from Stanford’s Spatial History Project, I have the same question. The visualizations the project offers all illustrate key points, in a more impactful way than a text could. These, like other visualizations, are products of both analysis and synthesis of primary sources. But do they contain arguments in themselves, or are arguments derived from analyzing the visualizations? The arguments derived from these visualizations are still conveyed textually. White himself discusses spatialization as a tool to reach new conclusions.

Going back to Jessop’s distinction of illustration versus visualization, I wonder if I’m missing the point. Are the examples I’m citing here more illustrations used as evidence for broader points? In the case of Shaping the West, for example, can we say that Richard White’s arguments about the impact of the railroad are conveyed through his book, and the visualizations are parallel–but still not making an argument in themselves?

Spatial history will be a major part of my dissertation, as I’m looking at visitors between particular countries (the United States and Mexico), to particular places (in the “cores” versus “peripheries”) in those countries. For example, in the website I’m planning to accompany my dissertation, I will include maps showing places that visitors traveled. Minard’s graphic even inspired me to include, perhaps, a graphic showing how many visitors passed through certain areas during certain periods. Yet all of these examples would still complement my written argument, perhaps even parallel it, but not supplant it.

Thus, thinking of our discussions about promotion and tenure two weeks ago, should or would a visualization–whether recreating a city, creating maps, or whatever format–count toward tenure and promotion? Or would visualizations like those in Shaping the West count as complements to the argument contained in a traditional text–a text that would then be the basis for tenure and promotion?

Can we discern an argument from a visualization–or am I just not “visually literate,” to use Jessop’s term, enough to be able to do so? Can a visualization inherently be the vehicle for an argument? If so, has the technology not advanced enough yet to have digital visualizations contain discernable arguments in themselves? Or does a visualization merely “tell” something versus “argue” something?

On these questions, I’m not sure where I fall, although I–perhaps surprisingly for a public historian who has created exhibitions and walking tours–am leaning toward a privileging of words (whether written or spoken) as the vehicle for an argument, albeit with use of various forms of visualization to present supporting evidence. But perhaps I’m privileging the traditional scholarly notion of what an argument is, versus the telling or chronicling of something? For example, in creating exhibitions and even walking tours, we speak of “take-away messages.” Are those messages arguments, or simply messages/chroniclings? Perhaps deciding a distinction on that question would help us distinguish what we’re looking for in visualizations.

Perhaps the jury is still out on all of these questions–and perhaps it will always be…

Data Mining & Distant Reading: Valuable Tools, but Merely Tools

This week’s readings (scroll to Week 10) concerned using digital technology to “read” texts in different ways.

I use the term “read” in quotation marks to draw attention to it, as this is not what many of us colloquially call reading–that is, what you are doing now, going over my post with your eyes. That term nonetheless applies–it describes what, for example, Google is doing with this post, going through it with algorithms to fish certain information out of it.

For me, the readings harkened back to those from week 3, particularly Susan Hockey’s “History of Humanities Computing.” In my post for that week, I mentioned my surprise, based on my own experience, how long of a history humanities computing had. Through most of that history, computers had been used for production of knowledge rather than its dissemination, beginning with Father Busa’s use of punchcards to index the works of Thomas Aquinas. This week’s readings focused on new, and not-so-new, ways of using digital technology in humanities research, particularly with texts.

Digital technology has assisted with knowledge production in the humanities by assisting us with the problem of quantity. Besides the basic function of searching through mountains of material to pull out what we need, the technology enables us to find patterns and quantities in the material itself.

As the readings all make clear, however, these tools are merely tools–means to an end, not ends in themselves. Nor should they be ends in themselves. To show that, I’ll use an example from my own work here.

For my American Revolution seminar at GW in 2006, I wrote a paper comparing ideology in the American Revolution and the contemporaneous Tupac Amaru Rebellion in Peru. Referencing other works’ historiography, I stated that interest in the Tupac Amaru Rebellion had picked up in the 1960s and 1970s. I revised that paper for my Ph.D. program writing sample in late 2010–just after the debut of Google’s N-grams Viewer.

So just for fun, I used the N-gram Viewer to find instances of the term “Tupac Amaru” in the English and Spanish corpuses since 1780. The results largely bore out what the historiography said: at least in English, a rise in mentions of that combination of terms in the 1960s and 1970s. Interestingly, though, the Spanish corpus shows a rise–indeed, a peak–in the 1950s.

As Dan Cohen correctly points out, using this tool is merely a start. Indeed, it leads to a host of other questions. For example, why do the English and Spanish corpuses have their peaks at different times? As Franco Moretti does with 18th- and 19th-century English novels, we need to look at the social contexts of those times to understand those peaks. In the case of Tupac Amaru, the rise of the term, in the English corpus at least, coincides–not coincidentally–with the rise of anticolonial movements and subaltern history. That’s what the historiographies in recent works said, at least. Why an earlier rise of the term’s frequency in the Spanish corpus? That is a question for further research.

To tease out other issues, we need to look more closely at the works cited. For example, the English corpus shows a rise of that combination of terms in the 1990s–not surprisingly, corresponding with the rise in popularity of the rapper Tupac Amaru Shakur, and, I’m guessing to a lesser extent, the Tupac Amaru Revolutionary Movement’s 1997 seizure of the Japanese embassy in Lima. Only by reading deeper–i.e., reading in the traditional, commonly-understood sense of the term–would one be able to learn whether that 1990s rise had to do with increased scholarship about the 1780-83 rebellion or the prominence of an individual and a group named for that rebellion’s leader.

Thus, my takeaway from this week’s readings: similar caveats as those that apply to the N-gram Viewer apply to other data mining and distant reading tools. The tools help us formulate questions, help us answer those and other questions, help us make sense of a mass of information. And they are super-cool. But they do not provide answers in themselves. For that, we still need to rely on the oldest tool in the humanities arsenal: the human brain.

Scholarship in the digital realm

This week’s readings concerned the question of scholarship in the digital realm. Specifically, what is digital scholarship, and how is it evaluated?

As the semester has gone on, we’ve learned how the digital makes a difference in format. As Lev Manovich discussed in last week’s reading, The Language of New Media, the rectangular computer screen forces a different language upon us. To make full use of the power of the digital, we must adapt our forms to its forms. This means that, while there is a place for the traditional monograph and article model of historical scholarship, we must think in new ways for the digital–not just replicating the old means on a screen.

What might digital scholarship consist of? The University of Nebraska’s Bill Thomas discusses one of the many possibilities in his article “Writing A Digital History Journal Article from Scratch: An Account.” He discusses his experience with an article that he and Edward Ayers of the University of Virginia wrote. This article was published in the American Historical Review print edition, and also online. In the print edition the scholars followed the traditional format. In the online edition, though, they experimented with new ways of making their argument. As they detail, some of these ways worked, some did not–in part, depending upon the audience. For me, the most interesting part of this article was its conclusion–where Ayers and Thomas challenged us to think outside of our usual paradigms–breaking down categories of archives, exhibits, etc.

As it is becoming clear, “digital scholarship” can mean many things. The fascinating Our Cultural Commonwealth, produced by the American Council of Learned Societies, offered as its starting point five categories worth quoting in full:

a) Building a digital collection of information for further study and analysis
b) Creating appropriate tools for collection-building
c) Creating appropriate tools for the analysis and study of collections
d) Using digital collections and analytical tools to generate new intellectual products
e) Creating authoring tools for these new intellectual products, either in traditional forms or in digital

As the report notes, only category (d) has been considered scholarship. As we have discussed in class, though, there are currently debates about inclusion of those other activities as scholarship. I’d like to see this discussion continued and expanded.

I found the Council for Library and Information Resources’ “Working Together or Working Apart: Promoting the Next Generation of Digital Scholarship” particularly valuable for its argument in favor of including the other aforementioned categories in the realm of scholarship. The portion that resonated most with me was Caroline Levander’s “The Changing Landscape of American Studies in a Global Era” (pages 27-33). First of all, being someone who gets on my high horse about how small the Rio Grande is physically, and yet how there seems to be more scholarship about transoceanic connections than connections across that little desert stream, I found myself saying “amen” when she gave a hemispheric definition of American Studies (I also wished I had looked at this report and quoted parts in my project proposal!). More to the point, though, she argues that the very content of an archive, and how it is formed, helps shape the questions that can be asked of it. Thus, she and her colleagues creating the Our Americas Archive Project–a collaboration of Rice University, the University of Maryland, and the Instituto Mora in Mexico City–are bringing together primary sources from throughout the Americas, as a way to bring about new questions. In this case, the formation of the archive–what to include, what to exclude, and how to search it–is the argument.

So if digital scholarship can mean many things beyond producing the traditional article or monograph, how is it evaluated? The evaluation of history produced in formats beyond those is not a new question, as the report and white paper of the Working Group on Evaluating Public History Scholarship make clear. Both of these–it’s worth reading the white paper and not just the final report–discuss how history departments can evaluate public history work. Their recommendations–that public history work be valued not just as service or teaching but as scholarship–carry over into the digital realm. Most importantly, they see scholarship as a process, not just the end product.

So in the end, what is “digital scholarship”? As I wrote this post, I noted that I skirted actually defining it–the closest I got was quoting Our Cultural Commonwealth. Based on these readings, it seems we can define digital scholarship as peer-reviewed, intellectually rigorous research and dissemination of that research using digital means. In other words, it is scholarship whose form is specifically digital. For example, although one can more easily read a traditional article or monograph on an electronic device like a Kindle or iPad–and even produce a “Kindle single”–I would not classify those as digital formats because they do not depend on the existence of the digital for their format. One could print them out and have the same.

Is that a satisfactory definition, or am I excluding too much by arguing that the form needs to be digital? Do we even want to define the term, or would that preclude too much? As my colleague Megan points out, public history doesn’t have a rigorous definition. What do others think?

Final grant proposal

Can be found here.

Week 8: Theory of New Media

John and I are this week’s discussion leaders. We’ve been emailing thoughts back and forth, and decided that each of us are posting our own thoughts/questions for the discussion on our respective blogs, and further commenting. So here are my thoughts:

We envision the discussion going along two interconnected strands: considering Manovich’s work on its own, with its broader implications, and then more narrowly with its implications for digital history. Since the book was published in 2001, one thing about which I’m curious is what others think of how it holds up. In my opinion, all in all it does, although some parts have changed over time.

All in all, I’ve liked the book. I don’t have formal background in media studies–but related more to the book than I initially expected.

One of my favorite things about the book was how Manovich related new media to other forms. His use of examples helped make these relations concrete. Manovich’s technique of going from the “inside” to the “outside” worked well–he brought us from the technology of the computer to what we see on the surface. His broad definition of new media–not just what is disseminated via computers but also what is produced (p. 19)–strengthens his analysis. As he notes, “the computer media revolution affects all stages of communication, including acquisition, manipulation, storage, and distribution; it also affects all types of media–texts, still images, moving images, sound, and spatial constructions” (p. 19).

This insight underpins much of what we have discussed so far this semester. The previous changes in media technology Manovich points out, such as cinema, television, and radio, have incrementally affected production of historical knowledge and its dissemination; the digital revolution has been just that, a revolution. It has forced us, as historians, to consider our craft in new ways.

So, some questions and discussion points that arise from this:

On page 7, Manovich discusses how the “previous cultural forms shaping [cinema] were still clearly visible and recognizable [in the early 20th century], before melting into a coherent language,” and relates that time in cinematic history to the present in new media, at least the present as of the book’s 2001 publication. Do we think the previous forms shaping new media have melted “into a coherent language,” particularly for digital history? Based on tweets from CHNM’s Sheila Brennan the other day (scroll to 10/13), and generally looking at what museums are doing online, I would argue that, particularly for history museums, new media is largely a reflection of the old.  Even Omeka takes the form of items, collections, and exhibitions, much like a physical museum or archive does. That platform’s major breakthrough is facilitation of digitization on the producer end and ease of access and information on the consumer end. So, are we any closer to a “coherent language” in 2011 than we were in 2001? Will we ever be, or is new media (and digital history) changing so fast–and is it by nature so varied–that we won’t have a “coherent language”?

On page 60, Manovich speaks of the “modern desire to externalize the mind.” He further states, “what before had been a mental process, a uniquely individual state, now became part of the public sphere.” This brought me immediately to think of technologies like Facebook and Twitter, particularly the idea that some people have ceased caring about privacy. Are these technologies the fulfillment of Manovich’s statements? How does this relate to the changes–and new demands–digital technology has brought to the history profession, particularly the (in my opinion, justified) demand that we make our work more transparent than before?

On page 65, page 97, and really throughout the book, Manovich talks about the windows present in the graphical user interface (GUI) first popularized by the Macintosh in 1984. Lately we’ve seen some moving away from that, as the iPhone, iPad, and now OSX Lion have adopted full-screen apps. But with those we still have the option of sliding between other full screens–for example, right now I have Tweetdeck open on another screen, a browser open on another, Zotero in another, Mail in another, and iTunes open in yet another. I can switch between them when I need (or, really, don’t need) a distraction. How has this affected how we interact with the computer? How will full-screen applications affect our digital history work? Will they help our end-user get more immersed in what we’re presenting?

On page 75, Manovich discusses how virtual reality enthusiasts envisioned a future 3-D Web. I’m curious as to the state of this. I haven’t heard much about things like Second Life in a while–even with places like the Smithsonian Latino Center making investments in a presence there. What do others know? Is there a future for a 3-D Web? Or will 3-D history projects be executed through more specific means, like Rome Reborn? What implications does the 3-D Web, or lack thereof, have for the way we do our work as historians?

Similarly, on page 86 Manovich discusses the importation of cinematic forms to new media–throughout, though, he largely discusses this through gaming. We are also seeing some applications of cinematic forms for digital history work, e.g., in reconstructing and representing spaces. Yet it seems a lot of digital history work is driven more by our older conventions of text-based media like the book and the article. How is all of this working together? To me, it seems we are using more cinematic technologies and techniques in concert with traditional means than previously–indeed, the ability to combine previously separate media is the power of new media for the history field.

In chapter 2, Manovich talks about (but does not bemoan) the idea of a person being a “prisoner” when it comes to media consumption. Even virtual reality constrains the body. How does this premise apply to the advent of mobile devices? Do these make us even more “prisoners” of the screen–we focus our attention on those small screens versus the real environment surrounding us? What about augmented reality?

On page 120 Manovich refers to the “overlap between producers and consumers,” a blurring of the lines. At the same time, he notes that as knowledge about particular aspects of programming becomes more widespread, programmers come up with more complex formats. We are seeing a parallel in history–we have the idea that digital technology democratizes history, allowing “everyone to do history,” but we are also seeing increased professionalization. After all, we in the class are all in advanced degree programs. Is it the case that everyone can do “the lower order tasks,” for lack of a better term, of history (e.g., transcription), while professionals are doing the “higher order” parts? How does this relate to what Manovich discusses? Is this how historical labor should be “divided”?

In parts of chapter 3, like page 130, Manovich discusses “authorship as selection.” On page 143 he states that “along with selection, compositing is the key operation of postmodern, or computer-based, authorship.” He contrasts that with the artistic ideal of starting with a blank canvas–while noting that collages, etc., have become more popular and accepted as art. For me, this evoked some of our discussions about the nature of authorship in the digital age–particularly Sharon’s argument that assembling an archive is a form of scholarship, with her caveat that many do not agree. Can we say that history work has generally consisted of “authorship as selection,” that we have always been “compositing,” and that new media is now making that more obvious? When writing a book or article we don’t just write what comes to mind. We assemble our evidence, and narrate an argument based upon it. I would like to discuss Manovich’s definition of compositing further in relation to other aspects of new media, particularly mashups and such, and the relations of compositing to digital history.

Along the same lines, in Manovich’s section on “digital compositing,” he notes that various images, sounds, etc., can be put together so that “the result is a single seamless image, sound, space, or scene.” With regard to images, Manovich notes on page 158 that “borders between different worlds do not have to be erased.” This has led to one of the dangers of new media for history–the questions of provenance and authenticity that we have discussed in class. As an example, Cohen and Rosenzweig point to an image of Lee Harvey Oswald seemingly jamming in the basement of a Dallas police station. One could argue we in digital history are trying to keep everything from being seamless. Where do we see this going in the future? Will this be even more difficult, or has new technology given us more tools to show provenance and authenticity?

In a similar vein, in chapter 4, Manovich argues that some digitally-produced 3-D images have been “too perfect,” and invokes the film Jurassic Park as an example–pointing out that the filmmakers had to make the dinosaurs less perfect. This made me think of depictions of the past on-screen that use computer-produced images. In many movies, and even in recent attempts to build “virtual cities” (to say nothing of historic sites)–are we seeing the past as being too clean, too perfect, when compared to reality? Is “dirtiness,” for lack of a better term, something we need to add to 3-D reconstructions? Even though I doubt someone would take, for example, Rome Reborn as what ancient Rome literally looked like, do we need to add, say, some dirt?

One section I particularly would like to discuss is Manovich’s discussion of the form, particularly his argument that narrative and database are “natural enemies.” As Andi notes, history needs narrative – even if not necessarily linear. As a case in point, I originally put a splash page on my planned site (before being rightfully smacked down). Is narrative the enemy of the database? I’m not so sure, and I feel (perhaps naively?) that we can reconcile what Manovich argues are two poles. For our work, we need to reconcile these. Do we turn to other forms of narrative, whatever those may be (no literary theorist here)? Or redefine what narrative is? As Manovich discusses on p. 243, have narrative and database yet successfully been merged “into a new form”?

What are some questions that others would like to discuss? Please feel free to post here, and we’ll make sure to address your questions and comments!

Reflections on the proposal for “Familiar Strangers”

In this post, I am answering several questions about my proposal for “Familiar Strangers,” a website about U.S. and Mexican visitors to each others’ countries between 1776 and 1846. Thanks to my lovely wife Laura, Sharon (the professor), Andrea, and my other classmates for their feedback on the proposal draft [PDF] and the presentation.

What is your inquiry question?

How did visitors between the United States and Mexico view each others’ countries as the two countries moved toward war?

What do you want your users to learn?

I want my users to understand the deteriorating relationship between the United States and Mexico as it played out “on the ground.” Particularly, I want them to learn how people from the United States and Mexico interacted, particularly in the “cores” of each country, in the decades before the two countries went to war with each other. As a corollary to that, I’d like my users to make comparisons to today, to understand the origins of mutual perceptions that people from the United States and Mexico have of each other.

What is your methodological stance?

For this project, I plan to present both primary sources and interpretation. The interpretation will help users place the primary sources in context and gain a greater understanding of the period.

This site approaches this history on a transnational basis, seeking to understand the leadup to the U.S.-Mexican War from both sides of the border through the interactions between the peoples of each country. It offers five means of accessing the primary sources and interpretation, allowing users to learn about different facets of this period (see below).

How does your design work to support these goals?

The site’s design allows users to retrieve primary sources and interpretations through five means: by visit (in my final draft, I’ve decided to use that term instead of “journey”), by person, by place, by a time period search, or by a keyword search.

For example, one can see how the people of a particular locality, such as Lexington, Kentucky, or the port of Tampico, Tamaulipas, interacted with visitors from the other country.

One could learn about a particular visit–whether it was a journey, as Antonio López de Santa Anna and Juan Almonte undertook to Washington from Texas in 1836-37, or a case of immigration, such as occurred with Spaniards who settled in New Orleans after Mexico expelled them.

One could also learn about a particular visitor and his or her interactions with the other country through time. For example, Juan Almonte, who accompanied Santa Anna to Washington in 1836-37, had been educated in the United States (even working in a store in New Orleans after the 1815 execution of his presumed father, the rebel leader José María Morelos, during Mexico’s War of Independence) and later served as Mexico’s minister in Washington. Another example is the Kentuckian John Davis Bradburn, who joined a Mexican rebel group during the 1810-21 War of Independence and later served in Mexico’s army.

The search by time period option, meanwhile, offers users the ability to see raw numbers of visits during a particular time period, and learn more about that time through visits. A keyword search allows for the finding of particular terms, such as “gringo,” in the primary sources.

What new things do you need to learn?

Many things. First and foremost, I will need to learn Omeka. I’ve had very cursory experience with it before, playing around a bit on Omeka.net and attending a couple of sessions at THATCamp Prime this summer. Indeed, the other day I had trouble with the one-click installation of Omeka on Dreamhost, and was thankful to be at CHNM when Sharon was around!

I also need to learn more principles of web design.

Also, I need to learn more about the sources that exist for this project. I have done some research on Santa Anna and Almonte’s journey to Washington in 1836-37, and through that have picked up some sources for other visits. But I need to learn more of what is out there.

How will you go about learning these things?

Just through my presentation and feedback I learned some more about what Omeka can and cannot do. The prototype that we are building for the second project will help me learn Omeka. As I work on the prototype, I will use Omeka’s extensive documentation to learn more how to use the software.

Meanwhile I will go back to Teach Yourself HTML and CSS in 24 Hours and some of our other readings to learn more about web design.

Learning more about where primary sources are will largely come with my dissertation research, but in the meanwhile I will plan to bring in more sample sources for the prototype.

What is the rationale for the decisions you’re making about source choices (by type, collection, time period, etc.)?

Time period: The ending date I chose for the site was easy: The outbreak of the U.S.-Mexican War in 1846.

The beginning date I chose was more arbitrary. Initially when conceiving of this project/my dissertation, I had thought about beginning at 1821, when Mexico gained independence from Spain. But that would leave out influential interactions before that time period. After Spain declared war on the United Kingdom in 1779 in support of U.S. independence, some aid came to the United States from New Spain. Spanish agents then operated in what was the Western United States to gain settlers’ loyalty–and split that region from the United States. Even in a recent conversation with the curator of the Alamo, who has been a mentor through the years, I learned of many visits pre-dating Mexican independence. Meanwhile, between 1800 and 1820, adventurers from the United States–filibusters–formed private armies to invade portions of northern New Spain, particularly Texas. Others, like John/Juan Davis Bradburn, joined Mexican rebel groups. These stories influenced the trajectory toward war in 1846 and deserve to be included. As such, I chose the date of 1776 as the beginning of the archive.

Types of sources: The sources for this project are spread in archives throughout the United States and Mexico. Part of the project’s rationale is uniting these sources. The sources are diverse, and I would use any from the period that cover visits between the United States and Mexico. Newspapers on both sides of the border reported on visits between the countries–whether it was covering (or publishing letters from) visitors, or covering travelers passing through a locality. Some travelers, such as Almonte, left diaries of their travels. Meanwhile, through the magic of ArchiveGrid I found Calista Long’s published diary of a trip through Kentucky in 1836, when she and her family stayed at the same inn as Santa Anna and Almonte. She reported a near-riot.

Others have left family papers. Other sources are more surprising; for example, at the Historical Society of Washington, D.C., I found a ship captain’s log that would be relevant to the project. This U.S. Navy captain, connected to a Washington family, escorted U.S. merchant vessels from New Orleans to Mexican ports in 1836-37, around the Texas Navy’s blockade. In several of those ports, the captain reported picking up merchants from the United States who, essentially, needed a ride home.

All of these sources would be included in the archive.

What questions remain for you to provide a convincing grant application?

The class presentation, the comments I’ve received, and this exercise have helped me answer some of my questions, particularly about what to include in the application. Besides the parts that Andrea and Sharon pointed out, I especially need to work on my work plan and my project team. I will look at other similar projects to gain a better idea of the timeframe and the people involved in making the project happen.

Presentation: “Familiar Strangers”

Here is my presentation for class on October 11.

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