Autist…
Auteur!
Fieldlab: test a.u.b. ons schrijflab
schrijflab.nl
(schrijver/componist Micha Hamel en Universiteit Utrecht) vernieuwt het creatief schrijfonderwijs. Ze ontwerpen schrijfoefeningen voor neurodivergenten, meer specifiek voor mensen op het autistische spectrum. Die willen we testen met leuke makers. Zoals jij.
ma. 17 februari, 17 maart of 14 april ‘25,
17–21uurStichting Artistic Research, Amsterdam IJburg
Voor wie?
Jonge neurodivergente makers die beter willen schrijven. (officiële diagnose niet vereist) Er is geen ‘juiste manier’ om mee te doen; we willen je natuurlijke reactie en feedback.
Wat doen?
Een leuke schrijfworkshop met een kleine groep (max 10) gelijkgestemden. Help onze nieuwe creatieve schrijfoefeningen testen, Deel je eerlijke feedback. Doe mee aan een gesprek over uitdagingen bij creatief schrijven.
Wat nodig?
4 uur: om te schrijven, om samen te eten en te evalueren. Breng je favoriete schrijfgereedschap. Een helder hoofd en je eerlijke perspectief. Geen ervaring vereist!
Wat krijg je ervoor?
Ontwikkel je vaardigheden. Draag bij aan betekenisvolle onderwijsvernieuwing. Ontmoet andere creatieve denkers. Vergoeding van € 60,–
Meer info op www.artisticresearch.org/schrijflab
Meedoen? Mail nu naar info@artisticresearch.org.Neem snel contact op — we verzamelen een kleine groep en de plekken zullen snel opraken…
Anna Lina Litz: Kun je ons iets vertellen over het verhaal achter Schrijflab? Wanneer, waarom en hoe ben je begonnen met dit project?
Micha Hamel: Wat er gebeurde is, ik zocht een middelbare school voor mijn zoon, en toen zag ik dat zijn schoolvak Nederlands een heel arm en saai curriculum was. Toen werd ik daar boos over. Want ik ben dichter, en ik wil dat alle jongeren van Nederland interesse krijgen in taal, in hoe rijk taal is en hoe interessant onze cultuur is. En wat ik toen heb gedaan is twee debatten georganiseerd, samen met mijn collega Els Stronks die werkt bij de Universiteit Utrecht als professor in de literatuur. Voor die twee debatten hebben we heel veel mensen uitgenodigd: Onderwijskundige, leraren, leerlingen, dichters, schrijvers, journalisten, et cetera. De diagnose was onder andere dat het schoolvak Nederlands veel te weinig een creatief vak was. Dat mensen wel leerden over boeken en cultuur, maar dat ze zelf nooit iets mochten doen, waardoor het een beetje doods aanvoelde. Toen dachten wij, daar gaan wij iets aan doen, we gaan geld vragen en een website bouwen waarin interessante schrijfopdrachten met culturele inhoud, die gaan over de wereld van de studenten. Die website hebben we gebouwd, die heeft inmiddels 150 oefeningen en wordt breed gebruikt op middelbare scholen in Nederland. Dat heet Schrijflab.
AL: Wat zijn tot nu toe je favoriete impact of positieve dingen die uit Schrijflab voort zijn gekomen?
M: Het is zowel kwantitatief als kwalitatief. We hebben ongeveer 4.000 gebruikers. Dat is best veel want we zijn een innovatie op onderwijs die niet moet van het curriculum, dus het zijn mensen die het vrijwillig doen. En we krijgen feedback van mensen die ons mailen en zeggen, wow, wat een leuke oefening, ik heb wat geleerd. Daar zit onze bevrediging heel erg in, in de gebruikers die gelukkig zijn uiteindelijk en die de betekenis daarvan inzien.
AL: Nu ben je bezig met het uitbreiden en innoveren van het Schrijflab. Hoe is dat tot stand gekomen?
M: Op gegeven moment kregen we een e-mail van Elijah Delsink, voorzitter van de vereniging Leerlingenbelang Voortgezet Speciaal Onderwijs (LBVSO). Hij zei: “Ja, heel leuk, maar jullie hebben niks voor speciaal onderwijs, want die leerlingen hebben dezelfde wensen, maar andere soorten problemen. Kunnen jullie niet iets voor ons doen?“ Toen hebben we weer bij het ministerie OCW geld gevraagd en gekregen, en nu doen we een eenjarig project waarin wij schrijfonderwijs verzinnen en inrichten voor speciaal onderwijs. Maar, wat is er aan de hand? Speciaal onderwijs is heel divers. Daar zitten heel veel verschillende kinderen op. Dus we hadden een focus nodig. Toen zijn we begonnen we de autistische kinderen, dus autisten. Ik mag autisten zeggen tegenwoordig?
AL: Ja, dat is zelfs beter dan “mensen met autisme“.
M: Dus we hebben gekozen om voor de autisten aan de slag te gaan en daar interessante schrijfoefeningen voor te verzinnen. En dit project, wat we nu doen met Stichting Artistic Research, dat heet een Fieldlab. En dat is een plek of een moment waar wij samen met autisten gaan onderzoeken of de oefeningen die wij met ons team ontworpen hebben werken — wat er goed is, wat er slecht is. We willen feedback, we willen discussie… we willen alles uitwisselen om onze oefeningen beter te maken. En daarom hebben we dus drie sessies georganiseerd, hopelijk met drie heel verschillende groepen. Dus een soort testronde.
AL: Kun je al een voorbeeld geven van een aangepaste oefening? Gaat het structureel veranderen of vooral qua inhoud en details?
M: Nou, een oefening die ik bijvoorbeeld zelf heb gemaakt: Ik heb het boek van Erik Jan Harmens gelezen, het grote autisme boek, en inspiratie geplukt uit wat hij schrijft.
Bijvoorbeeld: Voor een autist is het heel moeilijk om de vraag te beantwoorden “Hoe gaat het?“. Omdat een autist dan een explosie van vragen in zijn hoofd krijgt, van “Hoe gaat het dan eigenlijk?" Ik kan van hoeveelheid niet kiezen wat te antwoorden“. Nou, daar heb ik een oefening over gemaakt, waarin diegene die deze vraag krijgt heel rustig via het combineren en abstraheren van een aantal waarden en woorden langzaam tot een antwoord kan komen. Waarin het eigenlijk begint met het antwoord: Er hoeft geen antwoord op deze vraag te komen. We gaan gewoon de schrijfoefening doen om te onderzoeken wat het is. Nou, dat klinkt nu een beetje triviaal, maar in de oefening zelf is dat een stap-voor-stap proces, waarvan wij denken, vanuit de ervaring van wat Erik Jan Harmens beschrijft, dat we een klein stapje kunnen helpen om iemand zijn eigen ik, zijn eigen persoonlijkheid, een beetje te ontwikkelen met interessante taal.
AL: Zijn er nog andere bronnen na Erik Jan Harmens’ grote autisme boek?
M: Ja, zeker. Wetenschappelijke artikelen natuurlijk. Wij worden in dit project ook ondersteund door Johan Sonnenschein, dat is een andere academicus aan de Universiteit Utrecht. Hij is gespecialiseerd in disability studies en stuurt ons allerlei artikelen over mensen met autisme en hoe dat werkt. Het boek van Erik Jan Harmens is een personal account, een persoonlijke expressie van autistisch zijn. Maar daarnaast is het project aangevuld met wetenschappelijke kennis, wetenschappelijk materiaal.
AL: Je hebt ook poëzie gepubliceerd die expliciet over je eigen mentale gezondheid of ongezondheid gaat. Ik heb een interview gelezen waarin je zei dat je er alleen maar zo mooi mogelijk over wilde schrijven en dan weer iets anders doen. Maar ik vraag me nogal af of dit invloed zou hebben op hoe je schrijfopdrachten aanpakt voor mensen met een ander denkproces.
M: Dat is een hele goede vraag. Ik heb zelf ontdekt dat ik ook neurodivergent ben, dat ik door bipolaire stoornis een heel bijzonder hersenen heb, heel veel beperkingen en zo — en dat geeft mij wel de ervaring van relativiteit, dat we allemaal echt heel anders zijn en dat we echt rekening moeten houden met hoe iedereen reageert en hoe iedereen in elkaar zit. Dus in die zin is die ervaring die ik zelf heb verrijkend voor mijn denken over wat goed onderwijs is. In het praktische zou ik het niet zo heel goed weten, ik denk dat het niet zo is dat mijn persoonlijke medische geschiedenis nu invloed heeft op de schrijfoefeningen die ik schrijf. Ik werk echt vanuit de ambachtelijkheid van mijn dichterschap.
https://www.michahamel.com/
Autist...
Auteur !
Fieldlab 1, February 17, 2025
by Anna Lina Litz
One poet, one professor, and twelve autistic artists walk into a room to test writing exercises for special education.
What do you get?
Something that feels contagiously like home.
Why is that?
Well. Allow me to explain:
1. Because it is somebody’s home, as well as an office. Next to a long desk/dining table, there are two cats, a spiky plant, a toothbrush, books and records. Artistic Research Studio is a lived-in workspace, three-quarter renovated and exuding creative chaos. That is precisely why it facilitates outspoken participation: You are welcomed here as you would be at an art friend’s house: No one is more important than anyone else. Come in, sit anywhere. There are various tables, benches, stairs, designer chairs, or maybe you prefer the floor?
2. Because many of these artists have sat at our table before. We used to share food and discuss how to create while surviving and perhaps even thriving mentally, physically, economically, socially — I know their stories of burnout, pouring their souls into the uncertainty of project proposals and funding applications, struggling to network, wrestling with the marketing and business-owner side of creative professionalism, procrastination and its opposite: forgetting to eat, drink, move for ours in hyper-focus. We all know the good work, the bliss, the awkwardness, the doubts and the loneliness.
3. Because writing is a kind of home, too, and the poet knows it very well: “Writing has to come from your position in the world”, he says, “From your brain and your heart and your society.” It comes from your position in the world, but also reinforces it; writing can anchor you. We are here to help autistic students in special education make a home for themselves in the world through writing, that’s why I use the word “contagiously”. The artists approach this with authentic earnestness, sharing the mechanisms of their minds openly, and the poet and the professor listen as openly as they can.
I am paraphrasing, but the first exercise went something like this: To accurately answer the plain old question “How is it going”, you’d need thousands of words, and yet people mostly answer “fine”, or “good”. This exercise is meant to help you formulate an answer to the question, so that when a friend or family member asks you, you can say something meaningful. Write a sentence about how your body feels right now, and why, and if it’s good or not so good. Then think of something you experienced earlier today, add a sentence about that. Connect the sentences with each other, play with connecting words and the different meanings they add.
Go!
This morning I sat in a zoom call to help determine
whether my partner has ADHD
I was short of attention
but now I feel words
in my fingers, so —
fine.
Most of the new Schrijflab.nl exercises we tested similarly deal explicitly with social situations and using language as a tool to navigate them: People often speak in riddles. Try writing sentences that mean the opposite of what they say. Somebody told you that you did something wrong. Make a table of adjectives and their opposites, happy-sad, polite-rude, short-long. Pick a few words from your list and formulate a response in that tone of voice.
The question “What is this exercise for? What is the purpose of it?”, came up during every feedback round: Is this meant to teach us social skills or writing skills? What if I wanted to write about gardening, space exploration or my grandmother and not the endless, frustrating at best and triggering at worst, issue of how to talk to other human beings? It’s still possible, and can actually be combined somewhat seamlessly with the format of the first exercise —
This morning I re-potted tomatoes with my grandmother
we loudly discussed the space-time-continuum
so now I have a sore throat
and I feel inspired
But it also scratches at the wound of feeling strange and different and being approached from an angle of “let’s learn how to mask”, a few of the artists pointed out. Jenny Konrads, self-described multisensory translator of information, who is fully at home in carving out a life that respects their neurodivergent needs, joys, cravings and crises, suggested: If you are using writing exercises for social training, it can be a chance to understand that communication styles are different, not better or worse, just different. It can be fun to learn a different way of communicating, like learning a new language. You may even connect to the sensations in your body by way of writing. But please don’t mask yourself on the page. “Yes and thank you”, agreed acclaimed writer of “The Big Autism Book”, Erik Jan Harmens, whose work served as inspiration for the exercises. “If possible, I would like to be myself. I’m not so interested in adapting.” Approaching writing as a way to explore difference without valuation could do a world of good, we concluded. Apart from this, concise, clearly-structured and open-ended exercises about anything — dancing, describing a person, space exploration, grandmothers, etc., were enthusiastically welcomed, and discussions continued over excellent home-cooked lentil soup and far into the night.
https://www.michahamel.com/
https://schrijflab.nl/
One poet, one professor, and twelve autistic artists walk into a room to test writing exercises for special education.
What do you get?
Something that feels contagiously like home.
Why is that?
Well. Allow me to explain:
1. Because it is somebody’s home, as well as an office. Next to a long desk/dining table, there are two cats, a spiky plant, a toothbrush, books and records. Artistic Research Studio is a lived-in workspace, three-quarter renovated and exuding creative chaos. That is precisely why it facilitates outspoken participation: You are welcomed here as you would be at an art friend’s house: No one is more important than anyone else. Come in, sit anywhere. There are various tables, benches, stairs, designer chairs, or maybe you prefer the floor?
2. Because many of these artists have sat at our table before. We used to share food and discuss how to create while surviving and perhaps even thriving mentally, physically, economically, socially — I know their stories of burnout, pouring their souls into the uncertainty of project proposals and funding applications, struggling to network, wrestling with the marketing and business-owner side of creative professionalism, procrastination and its opposite: forgetting to eat, drink, move for ours in hyper-focus. We all know the good work, the bliss, the awkwardness, the doubts and the loneliness.
3. Because writing is a kind of home, too, and the poet knows it very well: “Writing has to come from your position in the world”, he says, “From your brain and your heart and your society.” It comes from your position in the world, but also reinforces it; writing can anchor you. We are here to help autistic students in special education make a home for themselves in the world through writing, that’s why I use the word “contagiously”. The artists approach this with authentic earnestness, sharing the mechanisms of their minds openly, and the poet and the professor listen as openly as they can.
I am paraphrasing, but the first exercise went something like this: To accurately answer the plain old question “How is it going”, you’d need thousands of words, and yet people mostly answer “fine”, or “good”. This exercise is meant to help you formulate an answer to the question, so that when a friend or family member asks you, you can say something meaningful. Write a sentence about how your body feels right now, and why, and if it’s good or not so good. Then think of something you experienced earlier today, add a sentence about that. Connect the sentences with each other, play with connecting words and the different meanings they add.
Go!
This morning I sat in a zoom call to help determine
whether my partner has ADHD
I was short of attention
but now I feel words
in my fingers, so —
fine.
Most of the new Schrijflab.nl exercises we tested similarly deal explicitly with social situations and using language as a tool to navigate them: People often speak in riddles. Try writing sentences that mean the opposite of what they say. Somebody told you that you did something wrong. Make a table of adjectives and their opposites, happy-sad, polite-rude, short-long. Pick a few words from your list and formulate a response in that tone of voice.
The question “What is this exercise for? What is the purpose of it?”, came up during every feedback round: Is this meant to teach us social skills or writing skills? What if I wanted to write about gardening, space exploration or my grandmother and not the endless, frustrating at best and triggering at worst, issue of how to talk to other human beings? It’s still possible, and can actually be combined somewhat seamlessly with the format of the first exercise —
This morning I re-potted tomatoes with my grandmother
we loudly discussed the space-time-continuum
so now I have a sore throat
and I feel inspired
But it also scratches at the wound of feeling strange and different and being approached from an angle of “let’s learn how to mask”, a few of the artists pointed out. Jenny Konrads, self-described multisensory translator of information, who is fully at home in carving out a life that respects their neurodivergent needs, joys, cravings and crises, suggested: If you are using writing exercises for social training, it can be a chance to understand that communication styles are different, not better or worse, just different. It can be fun to learn a different way of communicating, like learning a new language. You may even connect to the sensations in your body by way of writing. But please don’t mask yourself on the page. “Yes and thank you”, agreed acclaimed writer of “The Big Autism Book”, Erik Jan Harmens, whose work served as inspiration for the exercises. “If possible, I would like to be myself. I’m not so interested in adapting.” Approaching writing as a way to explore difference without valuation could do a world of good, we concluded. Apart from this, concise, clearly-structured and open-ended exercises about anything — dancing, describing a person, space exploration, grandmothers, etc., were enthusiastically welcomed, and discussions continued over excellent home-cooked lentil soup and far into the night.
https://www.michahamel.com/
https://schrijflab.nl/
Autist...
Auteur !
Fieldlab 2, March 17, 2025
by Anna Lina Litz
One poet, one professor, and twelve autistic artists walk into a room to test writing exercises for special education.
How do they begin?
I’d like it to be quiet (exercise 123)
They begin by searching for silence, a precious and elusive phenomenon in a classroom (and anywhere, really).
When we intentionally stop talking and start listening, what do we notice? Make lists, from loudest to softest, least annoying to most annoying errant noise.
Some find it difficult to connect sounds to words, find the “correct” descriptions. Listening reminds some of their irritation by sounds, others that they aren’t bothered by auditory stimuli as much as they used to be. Many make distinctions between avoidable and unavoidable, necessary and unnecessary noises: Necessary noise like people breathing or a cat meowing is less irritating than unnecessary, avoidable noise like whispering, printing, and walking around.
One possible list/refusal to list:
Whispering, footsteps, typing, opening a bottle, pouring water, footsteps, whispering, printing a document, footsteps, whispering, cough, car, whispering, printer noises, typing.
There seems to be a kind of loop or a pattern of noise.
whispering, footsteps,
typing, opening a bottle, pouring
water, footsteps, whispering,
printing a document, foot
steps, whispering, cough,
car, whispering,
printer, footsteps
typing.
I don’t want to formulate a complaint, I want the silence to grow wider and wider.
whispering, footsteps,
typing, opening
a bottle, pouring
water, footsteps, whispering,
printing a document, foot
steps, whispering, cough,
car, whispering,
printer, footsteps
typing.
Showing yourself through language (exercise 124)
After our encounter with silence, we were invited back into social space. The premise of exercise 124: You know everything about yourself, and have to curate how to narrate parts of that complete experience to other people. Not everybody gets the same story. So who hears what & when & why?
Somebody remarked: This exercise is more interesting than the first, because it lets us examine the social contract. Back in school, this would have helped me understand things better.
But are we learning to write, or to understand social situations? Would it be helpful to state the exercises’ intentions clearly and outright? In the form of a learning goal, or a theme? How can an exercise offer both guidance and freedom? No consensus. A smile is a smile is a smile — (exercise 126)
Make a list, once again: A smile can mean a lot of things. Write down 4.
We collected our findings. A smile can be
overwinning, irritatie, opluchting, liefde, verwondering, extase, ongemak, schoonheid, tevredenheid, grappig, plezier, onbewust, meelevend, maskerend, blijheid, ego/manipulatie, bemoedigend, trots, dapper, verbergen van onbegrip, ontwapening, excuserend, verlegen.
It can be a default, a greeting, brief politeness or a signal of friendly intentions. It can be affirmation, affection, amusement, mockery, fondness, self-defence. It can be that something crosses your mind that is not legible to all the world, and you enjoy that little privacy.
Is this an autism-exercise for recognising facial expressions?, somebody wanted to know upfront.
There’s no specific goal, but it can be a way to categorise through language and make your reality more comfortable that way, the professor responded.
Participants agreed that it was interesting to hear others’ impressions and make them available for group discussion. But, again, not really an exercise that allows you to write. However, on second thought: an exercise that lets you give the character in your sci-fi saga a nuanced smile when a nuanced smile is warranted. Human needs (exercise 6)
After the soup break, we reconvened to write & speak about human needs. What’s your personal primary need?
It was easy, someone said in the feedback round, and somebody else: It was uninspiring. And: It was confusing, are we talking about food and water, or are we talking about love and understanding?
And what is the difference, in this case, between writing and speaking about these things? And why are we always speaking about ourselves? This is starting to feel a bit like a therapy session.
It’s because you never get the chance to reflect on yourself and your position as a human within society, as a citizen, the poet and the professor explained. Usually you’re asked to write opinion pieces, constructing arguments out of other peoples’ quotes. Here, it’s all you.
It might be easier, a few participants advised from experience, to invite self-reflection via the detour of other perspectives. Make it absurd, even. You are a stone in the lining of your jackets, what are your needs? That way, you can be creative, play, and reflect without the familiar and tiring routine of analysing and explaining yourself and your needs.
https://www.michahamel.com/
https://schrijflab.nl/
One poet, one professor, and twelve autistic artists walk into a room to test writing exercises for special education.
How do they begin?
I’d like it to be quiet (exercise 123)
They begin by searching for silence, a precious and elusive phenomenon in a classroom (and anywhere, really).
When we intentionally stop talking and start listening, what do we notice? Make lists, from loudest to softest, least annoying to most annoying errant noise.
Some find it difficult to connect sounds to words, find the “correct” descriptions. Listening reminds some of their irritation by sounds, others that they aren’t bothered by auditory stimuli as much as they used to be. Many make distinctions between avoidable and unavoidable, necessary and unnecessary noises: Necessary noise like people breathing or a cat meowing is less irritating than unnecessary, avoidable noise like whispering, printing, and walking around.
One possible list/refusal to list:
Whispering, footsteps, typing, opening a bottle, pouring water, footsteps, whispering, printing a document, footsteps, whispering, cough, car, whispering, printer noises, typing.
There seems to be a kind of loop or a pattern of noise.
whispering, footsteps,
typing, opening a bottle, pouring
water, footsteps, whispering,
printing a document, foot
steps, whispering, cough,
car, whispering,
printer, footsteps
typing.
I don’t want to formulate a complaint, I want the silence to grow wider and wider.
whispering, footsteps,
typing, opening
a bottle, pouring
water, footsteps, whispering,
printing a document, foot
steps, whispering, cough,
car, whispering,
printer, footsteps
typing.
Showing yourself through language (exercise 124)
After our encounter with silence, we were invited back into social space. The premise of exercise 124: You know everything about yourself, and have to curate how to narrate parts of that complete experience to other people. Not everybody gets the same story. So who hears what & when & why?
Somebody remarked: This exercise is more interesting than the first, because it lets us examine the social contract. Back in school, this would have helped me understand things better.
But are we learning to write, or to understand social situations? Would it be helpful to state the exercises’ intentions clearly and outright? In the form of a learning goal, or a theme? How can an exercise offer both guidance and freedom? No consensus. A smile is a smile is a smile — (exercise 126)
Make a list, once again: A smile can mean a lot of things. Write down 4.
We collected our findings. A smile can be
overwinning, irritatie, opluchting, liefde, verwondering, extase, ongemak, schoonheid, tevredenheid, grappig, plezier, onbewust, meelevend, maskerend, blijheid, ego/manipulatie, bemoedigend, trots, dapper, verbergen van onbegrip, ontwapening, excuserend, verlegen.
It can be a default, a greeting, brief politeness or a signal of friendly intentions. It can be affirmation, affection, amusement, mockery, fondness, self-defence. It can be that something crosses your mind that is not legible to all the world, and you enjoy that little privacy.
Is this an autism-exercise for recognising facial expressions?, somebody wanted to know upfront.
There’s no specific goal, but it can be a way to categorise through language and make your reality more comfortable that way, the professor responded.
Participants agreed that it was interesting to hear others’ impressions and make them available for group discussion. But, again, not really an exercise that allows you to write. However, on second thought: an exercise that lets you give the character in your sci-fi saga a nuanced smile when a nuanced smile is warranted. Human needs (exercise 6)
After the soup break, we reconvened to write & speak about human needs. What’s your personal primary need?
It was easy, someone said in the feedback round, and somebody else: It was uninspiring. And: It was confusing, are we talking about food and water, or are we talking about love and understanding?
And what is the difference, in this case, between writing and speaking about these things? And why are we always speaking about ourselves? This is starting to feel a bit like a therapy session.
It’s because you never get the chance to reflect on yourself and your position as a human within society, as a citizen, the poet and the professor explained. Usually you’re asked to write opinion pieces, constructing arguments out of other peoples’ quotes. Here, it’s all you.
It might be easier, a few participants advised from experience, to invite self-reflection via the detour of other perspectives. Make it absurd, even. You are a stone in the lining of your jackets, what are your needs? That way, you can be creative, play, and reflect without the familiar and tiring routine of analysing and explaining yourself and your needs.
https://www.michahamel.com/
https://schrijflab.nl/
Autist...
Auteur !
Fieldlab 3,
April 14, 2025
by Anna Lina Litz
One poet, one professor, and twelve autistic artists walk into a room to test writing exercises for special education. Some of them for the second time. We’re working with design iterations, seeking out criticism. Main takeaway this time around: If nothing can go wrong, you should say so explicitly.
‘How is it going?’, one exercise asked. Connect something you did earlier today to a sensation in your body, sum it all up with an adjective. The artists had 15 or so minutes to go through the motions.
Then the poet asked for feedback. “What do you think you practiced?”
“I’m wondering the same thing.”, one of the artists responded. “I still don’t know what the goal of this exercise is. I’ve learned that my answers are usually too real, too honest, too detailed. I’m expected to just say “good”. So this exercise feels like it’s trying to teach me the opposite, or maybe help me find a middle ground, which can be good, but then I’d like you to be clear about that.”
Someone else was held captive by the consummate adjective: “I wrote ‘vertwijfeld, dus’, but I’m not sure I actually was vertwijfeld. Maybe I just wrote it because of the way the exercise was phrased.”
Another participant suggested repeating the exercise five times in order to break free from the need to make every sentence true and perfect.
“Words slip through everybody’s fingers.”, the professor chimed in. “Writing can be a kind of test, you write something down to determine whether or not it is really true. But what we want to do with these exercises is to create a playground, a space where it is not possible to make mistakes. Where you can operate without judgement, where these topics are relieved from some of their heaviness.”
“It’s a writing exercise to tinker with words”, the poet maintained. “The exercise is not designed towards linear success, or to provide guidelines for social interaction. We want to invite reflection, crisis and space to play with those sentiments.
When belabouring a question like ‘How are you?’, which can — or feels like it can — make or break a social situation right at the outset, this is not obvious. “It helps a little, not to tinker with words but to come to an answer that’s both short and personal”, someone said. “It’s obvious that words sometimes don’t mean what they say, but it’s not obvious that there is space to play, that you can’t go wrong. So can you make that explicit?”
A similar discussion arose during the exercise for writing silence. When everybody stops talking, make a list of what you can still hear. Then organise your list: loudest to softest, least irritating to most irritating. In the final step, write a letter to your teacher with complaints and suggestions for improving silence in the classroom.
“Would it be possible to change the colour of the interface so that it indicates which parts are writing and which parts are reflection exercises?”, someone suggested.
“Writing down sounds helps to understand where my irritation comes from”, another participant said. And: “How am I supposed to write a letter to my teacher about how much my classmates’ breathing annoys me?”
Again, the poet clarified: “In literature, everything is possible. You’re writing a literary letter, a fictional letter, you can say anything: I want all my classmates to drop dead because I find their breathing so irritating. Where can I order a gun? Thankfully, it’s all just words.”
We took a break complete with luxurious asparagus soup.
Then the group reconvened to ponder the problem of ‘It is what it is’. It is what it is, it goes like it goes, what’s got to be has got to be, we must row with the oars that we have, not the oars we don’t.
What does it all mean? Nothing, except when you place it in context, the exercise states. A few of the participants disagree. Nevertheless, the exercise provides a context:
Janneke comes home. Her whole house seems to have burned down. She hears from the fire brigade that all the paintings she has painted herself have been destroyed. Her expensive new TV is nothing more than a molten black clump. First, she cries. But after a cup of coffee at the neighbours she comes back to her senses and finds words for what has happened. She says: It is what it is.
What does the last sentence mean, now?
It means, I imagined: If I were a time traveller, I’d go back and build a force field around my house so that the UFO couldn’t crash into it, but I’m not a time traveller, and so I’m just grateful to be alive. It also means: I have spent a decade of my life on these paintings but perhaps what really matters is that I observed the trees and the sea and the shape of my mother’s eyebrows more closely than I otherwise would have. It also means: at least those aliens didn’t take me with them. Although actually it means, I wish they would have taken me, then I would see something of the world at last, but they just smiled and waved. It means: what can you do, except to keep on going, row with the oars that you have and not the oars that you don’t.
Then the exercise flips on its head, asks to make up the scenarios around ‘empty’ sentences, and finally exchange them with a peer to compare interpretations. At this point, everybody had more or less let go of the idea of right and wrong answers, or perhaps this exercise was set up less as a social skills exam.
Finally, the poet thanked Artistic Research Studio for the hospitality, the participants for their honest feedback, and thusly we concluded a successful third and final fieldlab.
https://www.michahamel.com/
https://schrijflab.nl/
One poet, one professor, and twelve autistic artists walk into a room to test writing exercises for special education. Some of them for the second time. We’re working with design iterations, seeking out criticism. Main takeaway this time around: If nothing can go wrong, you should say so explicitly.
‘How is it going?’, one exercise asked. Connect something you did earlier today to a sensation in your body, sum it all up with an adjective. The artists had 15 or so minutes to go through the motions.
Then the poet asked for feedback. “What do you think you practiced?”
“I’m wondering the same thing.”, one of the artists responded. “I still don’t know what the goal of this exercise is. I’ve learned that my answers are usually too real, too honest, too detailed. I’m expected to just say “good”. So this exercise feels like it’s trying to teach me the opposite, or maybe help me find a middle ground, which can be good, but then I’d like you to be clear about that.”
Someone else was held captive by the consummate adjective: “I wrote ‘vertwijfeld, dus’, but I’m not sure I actually was vertwijfeld. Maybe I just wrote it because of the way the exercise was phrased.”
Another participant suggested repeating the exercise five times in order to break free from the need to make every sentence true and perfect.
“Words slip through everybody’s fingers.”, the professor chimed in. “Writing can be a kind of test, you write something down to determine whether or not it is really true. But what we want to do with these exercises is to create a playground, a space where it is not possible to make mistakes. Where you can operate without judgement, where these topics are relieved from some of their heaviness.”
“It’s a writing exercise to tinker with words”, the poet maintained. “The exercise is not designed towards linear success, or to provide guidelines for social interaction. We want to invite reflection, crisis and space to play with those sentiments.
When belabouring a question like ‘How are you?’, which can — or feels like it can — make or break a social situation right at the outset, this is not obvious. “It helps a little, not to tinker with words but to come to an answer that’s both short and personal”, someone said. “It’s obvious that words sometimes don’t mean what they say, but it’s not obvious that there is space to play, that you can’t go wrong. So can you make that explicit?”
A similar discussion arose during the exercise for writing silence. When everybody stops talking, make a list of what you can still hear. Then organise your list: loudest to softest, least irritating to most irritating. In the final step, write a letter to your teacher with complaints and suggestions for improving silence in the classroom.
“Would it be possible to change the colour of the interface so that it indicates which parts are writing and which parts are reflection exercises?”, someone suggested.
“Writing down sounds helps to understand where my irritation comes from”, another participant said. And: “How am I supposed to write a letter to my teacher about how much my classmates’ breathing annoys me?”
Again, the poet clarified: “In literature, everything is possible. You’re writing a literary letter, a fictional letter, you can say anything: I want all my classmates to drop dead because I find their breathing so irritating. Where can I order a gun? Thankfully, it’s all just words.”
We took a break complete with luxurious asparagus soup.
Then the group reconvened to ponder the problem of ‘It is what it is’. It is what it is, it goes like it goes, what’s got to be has got to be, we must row with the oars that we have, not the oars we don’t.
What does it all mean? Nothing, except when you place it in context, the exercise states. A few of the participants disagree. Nevertheless, the exercise provides a context:
Janneke comes home. Her whole house seems to have burned down. She hears from the fire brigade that all the paintings she has painted herself have been destroyed. Her expensive new TV is nothing more than a molten black clump. First, she cries. But after a cup of coffee at the neighbours she comes back to her senses and finds words for what has happened. She says: It is what it is.
What does the last sentence mean, now?
It means, I imagined: If I were a time traveller, I’d go back and build a force field around my house so that the UFO couldn’t crash into it, but I’m not a time traveller, and so I’m just grateful to be alive. It also means: I have spent a decade of my life on these paintings but perhaps what really matters is that I observed the trees and the sea and the shape of my mother’s eyebrows more closely than I otherwise would have. It also means: at least those aliens didn’t take me with them. Although actually it means, I wish they would have taken me, then I would see something of the world at last, but they just smiled and waved. It means: what can you do, except to keep on going, row with the oars that you have and not the oars that you don’t.
Then the exercise flips on its head, asks to make up the scenarios around ‘empty’ sentences, and finally exchange them with a peer to compare interpretations. At this point, everybody had more or less let go of the idea of right and wrong answers, or perhaps this exercise was set up less as a social skills exam.
Finally, the poet thanked Artistic Research Studio for the hospitality, the participants for their honest feedback, and thusly we concluded a successful third and final fieldlab.
https://www.michahamel.com/
https://schrijflab.nl/