True Stories About Tall Tales: A study of creativity and cultural production in contemporary Australian children’s picture books
Chloe Killen BArts, BComn (Hons)
A thesis submitted in fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in Communication & Media, School of Design, Communication and Information Technology, Faculty of Science and Information Technology, University of Newcastle, Australia.
February 2016
Statement of Originality
The thesis contains no material which has been accepted for the award of any other degree or diploma in any university or other tertiary institution and, to the best of my knowledge and belief, contains no material previously published or written by another person, except where due reference has been made in the text. I give consent to the final version of my thesis being made available worldwide when deposited in the University’s Digital Repository, subject to the provisions of the Copyright Act 1968.
Signed: ……………………………… Date: ………………………………
Name: Chloe Greentree Russell Killen
Declarations I hereby declare that the work embodied in this thesis generated the following publications. Journal Articles Killen, C. (2011). ‘Investigating creativity in the Production of Australian Children’s Picture Books: A foundation for future research’ in Clifton Evers (Ed.), Altitude: An e-journal of the emerging humanities. Vol 9, 2011. ISSN 14444-1160. Killen, C. (2010). ‘Investigating Creativity in the Production of Australian Children’s Literature: Implications for Teaching and Learning’ in The International Journal of the Book. Vol 7, No 3, 2010. Champaign, Illinois, USA: Common Ground Publishing LLC. Conference Papers (Refereed) Killen, C. (2012). ‘Once upon a time: constructing narrative and the role of storytelling in the (digital) future of Australian children’s picture books’, in C. Anyanwu, K. Green, J. Sykes (Eds), Refereed Proceedings of the Australian and New Zealand Communication Association conference: Communicating Change and Changing Communication in the 21st Century, Adelaide, July 4-6. ISSN 1448-4331. Available at: http://www.anzca.net/past- conferences/past-conf-index.html Killen, C. (2012) ‘Perceptions of authenticity and the construction of cultural identity in the production of Australian children’s picture books.’ 16th Annual Conference of the Australasian Association of Writing Programs, Byron Bay 23-25 November 2011. Available at: http://aawp.org.au/files/Killen.pdf Killen, C. (2010). ‘Investigating Creativity in the Production of Australian Children’s Literature: Implications for Future Research’. In Kerry McCallum (Ed.), Media, Democracy and Change: Refereed Proceedings of the Australian and New Zealand Communications Association Annual Conference, Canberra, July 7-9. ISBN 987-1-74088-319-1. Available at: http://www.proceedings.anzca10.org Conference Papers (Unrefereed) Killen, C. (2012) ‘Creativity in Australian Children's Picture Books: Examining Authorial Agency Within the Structures of a Dual Audience.’ 2012 Biennial Congress of the Australasian Children’s Literature Association for Research (ACLAR), National Library of Australia, Canberra, Australia, 20 - 22 June 2012. Killen, C. (2011) ‘Fear and Safety in Australian children’s literature: exploring the relationship between tradition and innovation.’ The 20th Biennial Congress of the International Research Society for Children’s Literature, Queensland University of Technology, Brisbane, Australia, 4 - 8 July 2011. Killen, C. (2011). ‘Exploring the relationship between tradition and innovation in contemporary Australian children’s picture books’, DCIT 2011 Research Higher Degree Student Congress, University of Newcastle, NSW, 28 November 2011. Killen, C. (2010). ‘Creativity in the Production of Australian Children’s Literature: An overview of the Field’, DCIT 2010 Research Higher Degree Student Congress, University of Newcastle, NSW, 8 November 2010. Russell, C. (2009). ‘Investigating Creativity in the Production of Australian Children’s Literature: An overview of the Implications for Teaching and Learning’, DCIT 2009 Research Higher Degree Student Congress, University of Newcastle, 24 November 2009. Russell, C. (2008). ‘Investigating creativity in the production of Australian Children’s Literature: An Introduction’, DCIT 2008 Research Higher Degree Student Congress, University of Newcastle, NSW, 13 November 2008.
Acknowledgements
I extend my heartfelt appreciation to everyone who has supported me in the completion of this thesis.
First and foremost thank you to all the interviewees who participated in this research, without their generosity and thoughtful openness this thesis would not exist. In particular, thank you to Kat Apel, Karen Collum, and Katrina Germein for bringing me into your confidence and sharing with me your time, knowledge, and continuous support.
I would like to thank the University of Newcastle, the Faculty of Science and Information Technology, and the School of Design, Communication, and Information Technology for supporting this research. Particular thanks are given to the School’s academic and general staff who graciously gave their assistance whether administrative, technical, or academic. I am also very grateful for the opportunity to teach into courses relevant to my research and I will treasure those hours spent exploring ideas with and being challenged by enthusiastic students.
To my supervisors, Associate Professor Phillip McIntyre and Dr Judith Sandner, thank you for your patience, positivity, and guidance throughout this lengthy process. In addition to her critical eye and impressive proofreading skills, Judith provided me with support, laughter, and an empathetic ear whenever I needed it. But it was Phillip who instigated a paradigm shift in my thinking and set me on this path all those years ago. As my teacher, mentor, and colleague, Phillip has repeatedly demonstrated his unfailing commitment to nurturing curiosity and sharing knowledge. I am incredibly grateful for his leadership and assistance, and I strive to follow his exemplary example in my own academic practice.
To my former colleagues at the University of Newcastle, you have set a high standard for academic work and collegial support – I miss the many lunchroom chats we shared. In particular, I’d like to thank Dr Janet Fulton and Harry Criticos for their advice and camaraderie. It has been inspiring to see your wonderful projects develop.
To my dear friend Dr Sarah Coffee, thank you for your unwavering friendship. I hold dear each and every phone call, supportive hug, and coconut cookie that we shared. I will forever be thankful that we walked this road together.
Thank you to my family – Mum, Les, Dad, Carl, Ben, Alicia, Steven, and little Mya – and to my generous in-laws – Lori and Andrew Killen, as well as Bryce and Mandy – for all your love and support.
Finally, words cannot adequately express the love and gratitude I feel for my husband, Heath Killen. You have been a life raft on the raging sea of this journey, helping me to remain focused while reminding me of life beyond. This thesis truly would not have been completed without your unfailing support, so I dedicate this project to you. Thank you.
Table of Contents
Table of Contents ...... ii List of figures ...... iv Abstract ...... v 1. Introduction ...... 1 2. Methodology ...... 12 3. Literature Review ...... 29 3.1. Communication and Media ...... 29 3.2. Literary Theory and Criticism in Children’s Literature ...... 35 3.2.1. Early approaches ...... 37 3.2.2. Authorial ...... 39 3.2.3. Text ...... 46 3.2.4. Reader ...... 54 3.2.5. Context ...... 60 3.2.6. Synthesis ...... 65 3.3. Creativity and Cultural Production ...... 66 3.3.1. Myths about the Romantic Artist ...... 70 3.3.2. Biological Approaches: ...... 73 3.3.3. Psychological Approaches ...... 86 3.3.4. Shift from Structuralism to Poststructuralism ...... 94 3.3.5. Culture ...... 97 3.3.6. Sociological approaches ...... 100 3.3.7. Reconceptualising Creativity ...... 106 4.0. The Domain of Australian children’s picture books ...... 115 4.1. Agency and Structure within the Domain ...... 121 4.1.1. Structure in Australian children’s picture books ...... 124 4.1.2. Limiting or Enabling ...... 125 4.2. Domain Acquisition ...... 128 4.2.1. Early interests ...... 132 4.2.2. Developing Skills and Knowledge ...... 143 4.2.3. Reading ...... 144 4.2.4. Immersion in Art ...... 152 4.2.5. Formal Education ...... 154 4.2.6. Informal Education ...... 163 4.3. Conclusion ...... 171
ii
5.0. The Field of Australian children’s picture books ...... 173 5.1. The Field of Colleagues and Peers ...... 182 5.1.1. Authors and illustrators as Colleagues ...... 183 5.1.2. Authors and illustrators as Peer support network ...... 187 5.2. The Field of Literary Agents ...... 191 5.2.1. Access to picture book literary agent ...... 195 5.3. The Field of Publishing ...... 199 5.3.1. Editors and Publishers ...... 199 5.3.2. Editors ...... 201 5.3.3. Publishers ...... 206 5.4. The Field of Audiences ...... 216 5.4.1. Professional Audiences ...... 218 5.4.2. Amateur Audiences: Readers ...... 229 5.5. Conclusion ...... 238 6.0. The Individual ...... 241 6.1. Personal Background: Biology and Experiences ...... 245 6.1.1. Biology ...... 246 6.1.2. Background ...... 251 6.2. Individual Practice ...... 260 6.2.1. Idea Generation ...... 261 6.2.2. Research ...... 266 6.2.3. Conditions for Work ...... 269 6.2.4. Planning ...... 275 6.2.5. Drafting ...... 277 6.2.6. Editing ...... 286 6.2.7. Conclusion ...... 291 7.0. Conclusion ...... 293 8.0. Bibliography ...... 303
iii List of figures
Figure 1. Csikszentmihalyi’s Systems Model of Creativity...... 7
iv Abstract
Creativity is a uniquely human trait. However its ubiquity does not mean it is simple to understand. Various investigations into the nature of creativity have focused on an individual’s biology or psychology, or studied the surrounding society and culture in an attempt to pinpoint creative action. These types of studies, while they have their merit, have tended to focus only on one part of the phenomenon at the expense of the others. Instead, as current research suggests, a more valuable explanation of creativity is one that encompasses multiple factors in a system of mutual influence. It is argued that Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi’s systems model of creativity (1988, 1996, 1999) along with Pierre Bourdieu’s discussion of cultural production (1977, 1993, 1996), as examples of confluence approaches, provide the best theoretical foundation to examine the complexity of creativity, as they both consider personal influences in conjunction with broader social and cultural contexts. All three of these components, a domain of cultural knowledge, a social field of experts, and individual creators can be identified within the sphere of Australian children’s picture books. Analysis of the data collected examined the connections between these three components to reveal the underlying systemic nature of creativity in Australian children’s picture books.
This research employed case study methodology to examine the work processes of and interactions between key producers of Australian children’s picture books. Of the 20 people interviewed, 18 had written or illustrated a picture book. These authors and illustrators provide a broad sample from the population with some at the beginning of their careers with a handful of published books while others have produced more than 60 books over multiple decades. Additionally, a number of these authors and illustrators have worked in other production roles as editors, publishers, and booksellers so they were able to speak to the function these intermediaries performed within the field as well. To support the interviews conducted with these participants, various modes of observation were used along with document and artefact analysis. The data gathered through these methods has demonstrated that there is a dynamic relationship constantly evolving between individual producers and the social and cultural structures they exist and work within.
This research has concluded then, that rather than being the product of a singular individual, Australian children’s picture books are produced within a complex relation of systemic elements. Producers, often authors and illustrators, work as individuals by drawing upon their respective backgrounds to engage with a domain of knowledge that pre-exists them as well as engaging with a unique social structure consisting of all the cultural intermediaries (such as editors, publishers, and audiences) who regulate that knowledge, in order to produce a novel product. Understanding this complex system is the key to enhancing the abilities of cultural producers and increasing the cultural productivity of both individuals and society.
v
1. Introduction
Creativity is a complex phenomenon that is often misunderstood. While it is a term that is commonly associated with artistic practice, recent research reveals that creativity is evident in a diverse range of disciplines (Csikszentmihalyi, 1997: 390- 391). An examination of the literature surrounding creativity reveals that Romantic conceptions are unsustainable as they often attempt to pinpoint a singular cause of creativity and cannot account for the level of complexity that occurs. With this in mind, Csikszentmihalyi contends that to understand creativity “we need to abandon the Ptolemaic view of creativity, in which the person is at the centre of everything, for a more Copernican model in which the person is part of a system of mutual influences and information” (1988: 336). As such, current research advocates a confluence approach to creativity that acknowledges the importance of multiple components converging at the right time. This thesis draws on rational investigations into creativity over the past 60 years that support this position (Boden, 2004; Negus & Pickering, 2004; Pope, 2005; Sawyer, 2006, 2012; Sternberg, 2006; McIntyre, 2012a) and advocates in favour of confluence approaches. Drawing on the theoretical confluence models of Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi and Pierre Bourdieu, creativity can be understood as the emergent dynamic interaction between an individual and their social and cultural contexts. Within this research, creativity is acknowledged as a process that can be understood as occurring when an individual uses their personal background and talents to draw on an area of interest and engage with a dynamic field of people to shape something relevant and innovative.
The following introductory discussion will briefly situate this research within the broader historical context of research into children’s literature and creativity and operational definitions will be outlined. Once the centrality of this project is established, key research questions will be identified and the framework for the rest of the thesis will be given.
1 1.1. Contextual Research
The production of texts has occurred throughout the historical development of civilisation. However, what we currently understand to be literature is a more modern construct. Significant in the development of literature was the invention of printing technology during the 15th century as it made possible the production and distribution of mass-produced material. Embraced by the 16th century Protestant Reformation, literacy levels were increased in an attempt to create universal access to the Bible (Squair, 2003: 27). Interestingly, during this time the western notion of childhood did not exist as it does today (Hunt, 1990) and books such as The Pilgrim’s Progress (1678), Robinson Crusoe (1719), Gulliver’s Travels (1726), and the fairy tales and fables of Charles Perrault (1729) were produced with no distinction between adult and child readers. For detailed historical accounts of the growth of children’s literature see Ariès (1962), Hunt (1990, 1994), Grenby and Immel (2009), and Rudd (2010).
John Rowe Townsend asserts, “before there could be children’s books, there had to be children” (1977: 17). While children have always existed, this comment speaks to the constructed nature of childhood where popular understanding has shifted from considering children as “miniature men and women” (Townsend, 1977: 17) to young people in their own right. This change occurred with the Industrial Revolution and the growth of capitalism as children came to be recognised as a marketable audience resulting in “increased representation in society’s key discourses” (Rudd, 2010: 3) and the production of cultural artefacts specifically for children. While “definitions of ‘childhood’ have differed throughout history, and from culture to culture” (Lesnik- Oberstein, 2002: 18) what is clear is that “ideas about children’s books are inextricably bound up with cultural constructs of childhood” (Immel, 2009: 19). As such, texts like John Newbery’s A Little Pretty Pocket-Book (1744) and Anna Laetitia Barbauld’s Lessons for Children (1778-9) began to be published specifically for a child audience. The success of these texts established an “informal dialogue between parent and child” (McCarthy, 1999: 88-89), which led to didactic children’s stories with the express purpose of inculcating ethics, religion, and morals (Squair, 2003).
In the second half of the nineteenth century societal attitudes regarding children began to change and book illustration became a popular and respected profession. Education for children was prioritised, literacy increased dramatically, and a marketing
2 distinction grew between children’s educational books and children’s books read for pleasure (Squair, 2003: 29). Books such as When We Were Very Young (1924) by A.A. Milne and The Story of Doctor Doolittle (1920) by Hugh Lofting demonstrated an almost inseparable link between pictures and text. This connection has continued through to the present day where children’s literature has become an established and thriving industry and an area considered worthy of academic discussion and inquiry (Hunt, 1990; Rudd, 2010).
Mirroring the academic spread of general English and literature studies at Universities in the late nineteenth century, higher education courses in children’s literature have been established to critically analyse children’s literature, artefacts, and the child’s general position in society. A wealth of books and international academic journals including Bookbird (1963-present), Children’s Literature in Education (1970-present), Children’s Literature (1972-present), The Looking Glass: New Perspectives on Children's Literature (1997-present), and the Australian journal Magpies (1986- present) have also emerged. Within Australia, prestigious prizes such as the Children’s Book Council of Australia’s Book of the Year Award, have been created to encourage and reward quality children’s literature and a number of picture books have been included on the Higher School Certificate English syllabus since 2004 (Board of Studies NSW, 2006). This situation speaks to the centrality of children’s literature in modern Western society.
Within Australia much of the development of literature has echoed that of Britain (Nile, 2002). As Katherine Bode notes “Australia was the largest export market for British books until at least the mid‐twentieth century” (2010: 30) so much of the material available reinforced British ideology and literary criticism (for a comprehensive account of Australian children’s literature see Saxby, 1969, 1971, 1993, 1998, 2002; Muir, 1992; White, 1992, 2004; Lees & Macintyre, 1993). The first children’s book to be published in Australia was A Mother's Offering to Her Children: By a Lady Long Resident in New South Wales (1841) written by a governess, Charlotte Barton (Bunbury, 2002: 844). The first picture book published was The Australian Picture Pleasure Book; Illustrating the Scenery, Architecture, Historical Events, Natural History, Public Characters etc of Australia (1857) by Walter George Mason. As a wordless book featuring Mason’s newspaper engravings, it “functioned as a
3 visual current awareness tool for children” (O’Conor, 2009: 7). Following these publications a number of significant Australian children’s stories were written including Ethel Turner’s Seven Little Australians (1894), Mary Grant Bruce’s Billabong novels, and a range of school stories focusing on the experiences of young girls. Humorous tales became popular with The Magic Pudding (1918) written and illustrated by Norman Lindsay and Dorothy Wall’s Blinky Bill stories (1933-1937), as did fairy tales and animal fantasies by Annie Rentoul and Ida Rentoul Outhwaite, May Gibbs, and Pixie O’Harris (Bunbury, 2002: 846-847). During the mid 20th century in Australia, librarians came to play a significant role as “self-appointed custodians of literature for children” (Bunbury, 2002: 847) resulting in the establishment of the Children’s Book Council of New South Wales in 1945, the Children’s Book Awards in 1946, and the Australian Children’s Book Council in 1959. These institutional entities and prestigious awards have been crucial in fostering children’s literature in Australia.
When it comes to discussions of creativity in Australian children’s literary criticism, while the term is often employed by critics and academics to describe work, it is rarely critically examined. Romantic assumptions imply that creativity either springs into being fully formed out of nothing, is a characteristic of certain texts, or the result of an agent’s self-expression free from any constraints. These misunderstandings are based on a person-centred view of creativity and diminish the conscious hard work of production while denying the influence of social and cultural contexts on an individual’s practice.
With the strong connection to British history, it is unsurprising that much of the literary criticism in Australian children’s literature, of which picture books are a small subset, has followed the British trajectory. Rather than focusing on questions of creativity and how texts for children are produced by a variety of adults, much of the critical discussion has revolved around primary definitional questions regarding literature and audiences (Hunt, 1990: 2) or specific issues. These concerns include discussions of nationalism as a way to distinguish the identity of Australian texts as separate from the English tradition; post-colonial examinations which subsequently led on to discussions of history, race, gender, and feminism; and biographical and historical approaches which have been more recently combined with notions of artistic celebrity. While these critical explorations are significant in their examination of social and cultural influences, they are limited in their singularity, failing to provide a 4 comprehensive account of creative production. This situation has predictably left gaps in the current literature. Hunt suggests that literary criticism and theory relating to children’s literature has only recently accepted “the patently obvious position of necessary plurality of meaning and response [and] begun to find a unique voice” (1990: 3). As such this research seeks to synthesise these various approaches to examine how cultural, social, and individual elements intersect to produce creative works in the realm of Australian children’s literature, with particular focus on the picture book form. For as Meek notes, “changes in the creation, production and distribution of children’s books do not happen in a vacuum” (2002: 8). By incorporating these previous approaches into a systemic understanding, this research will lead to a more inclusive account of creativity.
In a similar manner, the way creativity has been conceptualised has changed dramatically over time to move beyond its Romantic beginnings towards a more rational understanding of this complex phenomenon. Common beliefs around creativity are largely based on the eighteenth century Western Romantic movement with the associated ideas of divine inspiration and inherited genius as the cause of creativity for individuals (Zolberg, 1990; Wolff, 1993; Csikszentmihalyi, 1997; Boden, 2004; Negus & Pickering, 2004; Sawyer, 2006, 2012; McIntyre, 2012a). This line of thinking considers the creative artist as a lone genius operating free from any constraints but as Pope contends this explanation is a “narrowly artistic, deeply hierarchical view of creation” (2005: 39) and not particularly useful. These beliefs can be found in certain approaches to literary studies, however, as will be examined shortly in the literature review, they are limited in their ability to explain the complexity of creative production. Extensive research has been conducted into other individual focused approaches that attempted to explain creativity through biological and psychological factors, however they too have been unsuccessful in their ability to conclusively define creativity as an exclusively individual trait (Csikszentmihalyi, 1997). Creativity research shifted with post-structural theories that metaphorically called for the death of the author (Barthes, 1977; Foucault, 1977) in favour of elevating the role of the audience, to examine external contributing factors. Former literature also examined the influence of culture (Hesmondhalgh, 2002), as well as sociological theories that considered creativity as an exclusively societal-level event (Wolff, 1981, 1993; Becker, 1982; Giddens, 1984; Zolberg, 1990; Bourdieu, 1993). However, these
5 too are uni-disciplinary approaches, as they tend to only focus on one part of the phenomenon (Sternberg & Lubart, 2003). Instead Beth Hennessy and Teresa Amabile argue that:
Only by using multiple lenses simultaneously, looking across levels, and thinking about creativity systematically, will we be able to unlock and use its secrets. What we need now are all encompassing systems theories of creativity designed to tie together and make sense of the diversity of perspectives found in the literature - from the innermost neurological level to the outermost cultural level. (2010: 590)
As such, drawing on the accumulated research into creativity over the last sixty years, it is suggested that confluence based theories provide the most comprehensive explanation of creativity as they allow for “an increasingly complex understanding of creativity” (McIntyre, 2008a: 41).
With this in mind, and taking into consideration Aristotle’s work on ‘being’ where he states that “whatever comes to be is generated by the agency of something, out of something, and comes to be something” (1960: 142), the “ideological divide between rationality and intuition” (Negus & Pickering, 2004: 18) can be bridged. Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi’s systems model of creativity (1988, 1996, 1999) along with Pierre Bourdieu’s ideas on cultural production (1993), both provide suitable mechanisms to accomplish that task. As confluence models derived from a rationalist perspective (Sawyer, 2006, 2012) these theoretical positions suggest the convergence of individual, social, and cultural components “jointly determine the occurrence of a creative idea, object or action” (Csikszentmihalyi, 1988: 329). Subsequently, they are the most appropriate theoretical positions from which to examine creativity in the production of contemporary Australian children’s picture books.
In both of these approaches creativity is considered to be the result of more than an individual operating in isolation. Instead, in order for a creative work to be produced an individual must draw on the existing culture with its established conventions and knowledge systems to acquire an operational understanding of the procedures necessary for production. Csikszentmihalyi refers to this as the domain while Bourdieu identifies it as the field of works or space of works and this cultural structure provides
6 the possibilities for creative production. In engaging with this foundation of knowledge an individual is able to determine where they may make a variation that is then evaluated by the field (a term used by both theorists) to determine its novelty or worth. The field comprises of the social system that includes key intermediaries of the domain and consists of a range of individuals and groups of varying levels of expertise. If the field accepts the contribution, it then is absorbed back into the domain to inform future works and the cycle continues. In these ways, creativity is seen to be a systemic process involving the individual, the domain/field of works, and the field as essential and equally important components.
Culture
Domain
Selects Transmits Novelty Information Produces Novelty Field Individual
Society Personal Background Stimulates Novelty
Figure 1 – The systems model of creativity (Csikszentmihalyi, 2003: 315). Permission to copy and communicate this diagram has been granted by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi.
By reconsidering creativity this way and drawing on a case study of producers of Australian children’s picture books, it can be seen that an individual draws upon their background and biology to engage with a domain of knowledge, and a social structure consisting of cultural intermediaries, who regulate that knowledge in order to produce a novel product. This thesis uses these theories in a case study examination of creativity in the production of Australian children’s picture books. Drawing on interviews, observations, and document and artefact analysis this research provides a comprehensive explanation of how individual producers interact with their social and cultural structures to produce work that is deemed creative.
7 1.2. Operational definition of creativity
From this rational position, this research utilises Phillip McIntyre’s definition of creativity as:
a productive activity whereby objects, processes and ideas are generated from antecedent conditions through the agency of someone, whose knowledge to do so comes from somewhere and the resultant novel variation is seen as a valued addition to the store of knowledge in at least one social setting. (2008c: 1)
To apply this definition to the sphere of Australian children’s picture books, it can be seen that creativity is an activity in which a picture book producer (often an author or illustrator) draws upon existing knowledge structures to produce work different to that which has previously been published, and this variation is then presented for evaluation to the relevant social structure. If the work is deemed to be novel and appropriate, it is accepted and absorbed back into the established domain of Australian children’s picture books.
1.3. The Research Question
The research undertaken in this thesis examines what happens during the creation of messages in the Australian children’s picture book industry. As such, the central inquiry within this research is built on Cobley’s communication question “how are messages created?” (1996: 1), more specifically, how do authors and illustrators create or produce an Australian children’s picture book? As the research unfolded the research question evolved and expanded. But as Creswell (2003) explains this is not an uncommon development with qualitative investigations.
This evolution allowed for an exploration of a number of other questions relating to each component of Csikszentmihalyi and Bourdieu’s confluence models. For instance, in an examination of the codes and conventions within the domain that are often seen as constraints, it was necessary for this research to investigate how producers of Australian children’s picture books negotiated their agency within the structures of their cultural domain. Similarly, when taking into account the importance of the field 8 in creative production, this research expanded to find out how various producers of Australian children’s picture books interact to produce a final creative outcome. This led on to an investigation of how particular producers, in this case authors and illustrators, produced their work within a system of external influence. And finally, an exploration of the creative individual prompted consideration of how personal background influences an individual’s creative process. As such it was prudent to ask how an individual’s biological, psychological, and experiential background contributed to their production process. To summarise these various questions, the primary inquiry behind this research has been the question of how producers of Australian children’s picture books interact with cultural, social, and individual structures throughout their creative process.
1.4. Thesis outline
In order to pursue these questions, the following thesis deconstructs the current knowledge in order to apply it to the three components of Csikszentmihalyi and Bourdieu’s confluence models. In doing so, this research is situated within three significant bodies of knowledge, which will be reviewed throughout Chapter Two. The first section involves a brief review of the literature surrounding media and communication. An examination of the dominant theoretical positions of the process school and the cultural context school (McIntyre, 2010: 1) demonstrates that much of the research continues to draw upon the communication triad: Sender à Message à Receiver (Schirato & Yell, 2000: 4). While there is merit in these approaches, current studies support a synthesis that considers producers, texts, audiences, and their contexts as equally important whereby meaning is created through their systemic interaction. The second part of the literature review examines the development of research in literary criticism with a focus on children’s literature. Taking a similar approach that examines the role of authors, texts, readers, and their various contexts, it can be argued that literary criticism has tended to prioritise certain elements of this equation over the others. As such, an approach that takes into account multiple factors in a systemic relationship of mutual influence is necessary. The third and final aspect of the literature review canvasses research relating to creativity and the various ways it has been conceptualised. Examining creativity in disciplines such as biology,
9 psychology, cultural studies, and sociology demonstrates a remarkably similar shift has occurred away from a singular author-centred view to consider the interaction of multiple factors as necessary for creative work.
Chapter Three outlines and explores the use of case study as the methodology for this research. In this chapter the parameters of this study are identified and the theoretical foundations are discussed, along with the various strategies employed to collect the data. Using in-depth interviews, direct and participant observation, as well as artefact and textual analysis, this research provides a comprehensive explanation of how individual producers interact with their social and cultural structures to produce work that is deemed creative.
Following discussion of case study methodology, the next three chapters analyse the collected data in relation to the components of the systems model to demonstrate the iterative and recursive interactions between them. In this discussion, the systemic and emergent nature of creativity is revealed. Chapter Four focuses on the domain of Australian children’s picture books to examine how producers engage with established knowledge systems to learn about prior work as well as the accumulated cultural codes and conventions embedded in these works. Additionally, this chapter investigates how individuals as active agents, absorb knowledge of these structures in order to negotiate constraints and limitations to produce creative work. Chapter Five examines the field as a social network in operation. A detailed study of this social structure suggests that several individuals and groups hold significant cultural capital and these members of the field include authors and illustrators as colleagues and peers, literary agents, editors and publishers (including ancillary operatives in publishing houses), as well as the field of audiences which can be divided into experts (critics and media, booksellers, librarians and educators) and amateurs (children and the adults who read to and with them). Understanding how these cultural intermediaries interact to make decisions about the production and reception of cultural objects is necessary for an individual who wishes to make a creative contribution to the domain. Chapter Six considers the role of an individual’s background including biology, psychology, and personal experiences relating to childhood, family, and education. In addition, the individual’s personal creative process and work habits are explored from idea generation and research, through to drafting and editing before submission. These three chapters
10 together demonstrate that each component in the systems model is necessary for a complete understanding of creativity to occur.
The concluding chapter, Chapter Seven, reviews the interactions between the domain, field, and individual within the system of Australian children’s picture books. Furthermore, the implications and possible applications of this research are outlined along with potential research projects that would support and expand on the findings within this thesis.
11 2. Methodology
The research undertaken in this thesis is designed to uncover how individual agents operate within the particular social and cultural contexts of the publishing industry to produce creative products. In investigating this unique set of structures and agents, this research uses a qualitative approach “to make sense of personal stories and the ways in which they intersect” (Glesne & Peshkin, 1992: 1) and form a larger picture of an industry in operation. In examining the “multiple, socially constructed realities” (Glesne & Peshkin, 1992: 6) of participants, a complex and dynamic picture can be built to illustrate how these social agents engage in, construct, and are constructed by the world around them. The intent of this research is to “approach the inherent complexity of social interaction and to do justice to that complexity to respect it in its own right” (Glesne & Peshkin, 1992: 7).
With this aim, one of the most appropriate research methodologies is that of the case study as it provides a “detailed research enquiry” (Payne & Payne, 2004: 31) into complex phenomena. As Robert Yin explains, a case study is a form of empirical enquiry that “investigates a contemporary phenomenon within its real life context; when the boundaries between phenomenon and context are not clearly evident; in which multiple sources of evidence are used” (1989: 13). A case study is pertinent to this research as it focuses on examining complex questions of ‘how’ and ‘why’ (Bryman, 2004: 280) which require detailed answers relating to attitudes, interpretations, and beliefs that are otherwise difficult to quantify (Yin, 2014).
All research involves the action of generating facts, opinions and insights to discover patterns and meaning (Yin, 2014). Most research is divided into two methodological standpoints: quantitative and qualitative. According to Blaikie, quantitative research methods are generally considered a “deductive strategy” (1993: 157) as they begin with a set hypothesis and test its strength through the collection and analysis of data. The outcome of deductive reasoning is predicted and expected by the premise; if the premise is true it logically follows that the conclusion must be true. Conversely, qualitative research methods are considered “inductive strategies” (Blaikie, 1993: 157). Inductive strategies work towards a theoretical goal but only solidify the hypothesis towards the end of the research timeline, in the data analysis stage. In qualitative research although the research premise or hypothesis supports the 12 conclusion it does not necessarily ensure it. As Thomas Kuhn asserts these two scientific approaches are not diametrically opposed but rather supportive of one another as “large amounts of qualitative work have usually been prerequisite to fruitful quantification” (1961: 162) and vice versa. So if all research involves the examination, analysis and interpretation of data (Glesne & Peshkin, 1992: 5) in order to discover patterns and meaning, variances in research can be attributed to how different researchers attempt to piece these multiple elements together to affect both the research processes and the final product. Jonathan Grix (2004: 66) acknowledges that one’s assumptions about the world inevitably impact the rest of the research design so a solid foundation is vital. To ensure consistency researchers must recognise and identify their own assumptions starting with their ontological and epistemological position. This awareness will inform the theoretical perspectives underpinning the research and lead to a logical choice in methodology and research methods. This directional framework (see Ruddock, 2001; Crotty, 2003; Grix, 2004) will ensure a strong foundation from which the researcher can make informed decisions.
2.1. Ontology and Epistemology
According to Grix “ontology and epistemology are to research what ‘footings’ are to a house: they form the foundations of the whole edifice” (2004: 57). Blaikie maintains that ontology refers to the “claims and assumptions that are made about the nature of social reality, claims about what exists, what it looks like, what units make it up and how these units interact with each other” (2000: 8). Epistemology on the other hand as “a theory of knowledge” (Ruddock, 2001: 27) refers to “how we come to know what we know” (Blaikie, 2000: 8). While “ontology is logically prior to epistemology” (Grix, 2004: 60) the two concepts are often conflated (Crotty, 2003). With this in mind, the foundation of this research is one that is commonly invoked by qualitative researchers and is built around the body of knowledge that supports constructionism. Drawing together objectivist and subjectivist positions, constructionism synthesises these ways of knowing by conceding that we do engage with tangible phenomena, but all meaning is negotiated though the individual’s relationship with said phenomena. In this way “meaning is not discovered, but constructed” (Crotty, 2003: 9) and the “subject and object emerge as partners in the generation of meaning” (Crotty, 2003: 9).
13 Bryman and Bell further suggest that through constructionism the interactive relationship between real world phenomena and individual ‘actors’ is “in a constant state of revision” (2007: 23). This notion is particularly important for this research, which seeks to investigate how individual agents operate within and negotiate their way through a socially and culturally constructed environment.
2.2. Theoretical perspective
The next step is to consider a logically consistent theoretical perspective that informs the methodology and provides context for the research process “grounding its logic and criteria” (Crotty, 2003: 3). The two complementary theoretical perspectives used in this research are Csikszentmihalyi’s systems model of creativity (1988, 1997, 1999) and Bourdieu’s notions of cultural production (1993) as both synthesise subjectivist and objectivist positions to support a constructionist research design. Additionally, both theories are confluence models associated with the concept of creativity and its relation to complexity. As will be discussed in greater detail in the literature review, creativity is a term that is often used but “rarely critically examined” (Boden, 2004: 14). In an attempt to reposition creativity as a concrete concept, current research moves beyond romantic, uni-disciplinary approaches in favour of confluence approaches (Csikszentmihalyi, 1988, 1997, 1999; Bourdieu, 1993; Weisberg, 1993; Sternberg, 1999a; Negus & Pickering, 2004; Pope, 2005; Sawyer, 2006, 2012; Hennessey & Amabile, 2010; McIntyre, 2012a). Considering these rational approaches and drawing on an Aristotelian definition of being (Aristotle, 1960), it is possible to define creativity as:
[A] productive activity whereby objects, processes and ideas are generated from antecedent conditions through the agency of someone, whose knowledge to do so comes from somewhere and the resultant novel variation is seen as a valued addition to the store of knowledge in at least one social setting. (McIntyre, 2008c: 1)
As the foundational theory underpinning this research, Csikszentmihalyi’s systems model of creativity (1988, 1997, 1999) suggests creativity can be understood as a dynamic and relational system of circular causality involving the convergence of a
14 person, a field and a domain of knowledge. In this view creativity can be understood as emerging from the systemic interaction of “three elements: a culture that contains symbolic rules, a person who brings novelty into the domain, and a field of experts who recognise and validate the innovation” (Csikszentmihalyi, 1997: 6). The second theoretical perspective is Bourdieu’s notion of cultural production (1993), which suggests it is the interplay between the concepts of cultural capital, the field, the field of works and an individual’s habitus that makes creative practice possible. Bourdieu proposes that creative practice cannot be sufficiently accounted for by focusing solely on the individual and instead advocates an examination of the relationship between an individual agent and the structures of their surrounding world. Both theories suggest that creativity is an emergent property resulting from the systemic interaction of an individual with the social and cultural structures they exist within. Building upon this systemic approach, this research seeks to investigate how individual agents operate within various social and cultural structures to produce Australian children’s picture books.
2.3. Methodology
With these ontological, epistemological and theoretical perspectives providing the philosophical foundations for this research, a methodology appropriate to these perspectives is necessary to strengthen the research design. According to Crotty a methodology includes “the strategy, plan of action, process or design lying behind the choice and use of particular methods and linking the choice and use of methods to the desired outcomes” (2003: 3). With the aforementioned theoretical perspectives investigating creativity as a systemic process, it is logical to take a qualitative methodological approach that “tends to view social life in terms of processes” (Bryman, 2004: 281). To examine the complexities of these systemic processes, a case study approach was selected. As outlined by Schramm (1971), “the essence of a case study...is that it tries to illuminate a decision or a set of decisions: why they were taken, how they were implemented, and with what result” (as cited in Yin, 2003: 12). For this research the in-depth nature of the case study considers what participants do in order to produce texts, what kinds of relationships they have with the people in the same industry, and what kinds of decisions they make in order to produce creative
15 products. As the focus of this research is to illuminate this type of “context dependent knowledge” (Flyvbjerg, 2006: 221), a case study is almost necessary to “give credence to the contextual nature within which both researchers and their research phenomena abide” (Glesne & Peshkin, 1992: 7). Using a case study for this research will therefore allow an intensive examination of the subjects where other methodologies may not be as successful.
The focus of this case study is how key players in the Australian publishing industry contribute to the production of children’s picture books. The 20 participants included Australian authors, illustrators, literary agents, editors, publishers and ancillary operatives, booksellers, educators, and other children’s literature specialists. Participants were recruited via email or post either directly or through their literary agents: 31 were contacted to participate and 25 responded. Several people declined to participate due to already having a full schedule, while some simply did not respond. These participants represented a wide range of ages and experiences with some authors and illustrators having published only a few picture books, while others have published upwards of 15 over a multi-decade career (Ann James for instance has over 60 picture books published in 25 years). Regardless of length of time in the picture book industry each participant had developed a reasonable public profile, with many being involved with books shortlisted for the Children’s Book Council of Australia’s Picture Book of the Year Award.
In this research, a “purposive sample” (Robson, 2002: 265) of participants was chosen to represent the variety of people involved in the production of Australian children’s picture books. As the researcher, I exercised my professional judgement about the typicality and relevance of the people that were approached. Initially authors and illustrators were selected based on their inclusion in the Children’s Book Council of Australia’s Picture Book of the Year Award list, along with their publishers, editors and literary agents. However, it became clear that since many of these people were well established in their careers, that the current research would benefit from the inclusion of early career authors and illustrators, as well as additional field operatives. Participants were generally selected on the basis of their profile and availability, which could give rise to questions about the representative nature of this sample. However, as Hsia argues, any sample, regardless of how it is drawn, contains errors, “because it represents the population but is not the population” (1988: 115). Additionally Lull 16 notes, “no truly random sample has ever been drawn” (1990: 19). Regardless, as the Australian children’s picture book industry is quite a small, contained group of people, any selection would represent a relevant snapshot of the industry. Also, many of the participants have held multiple roles in the industry throughout their careers so they were able to speak to these different roles and confirm what others had offered. The result of these dynamics is that by looking at multiple people engaged in as many aspects of the publishing industry as possible and evaluating the data using pattern- matching techniques, repeatable results could be achieved to uncover a broad set of features.
2.3.1. DISADVANTAGES:
As with all research methodologies, there are criticisms of the use of a case study as a research strategy. It is often maintained that because a case study is primarily used as a qualitative methodology it is somehow less scientific than other empirical research such as surveys or experiments. Yin (2003: 3) points out that this limited hierarchical view is incorrect and suggests instead that an inclusive understanding of varied research strategies is made possible. Case studies have also been critiqued for lacking rigour; however this criticism could be levelled at all forms of research, qualitative or quantitative. For instance, Susannah Priest (1996) argues that the very construction of an interview including the interviewer’s style, interviewee selection, and the order and presentation of questions could determine its outcome. Likewise, participant observation may affect a study’s results as the observed experience can be influenced by the researcher’s involvement, misrepresentation in reporting, or problematic recall. As such, questions surrounding subjectivism and bias apply to all forms of research (Flyvbjerg, 2006: 235) and “while some methods may be more structured and selective than others, all research, however exploratory, involves selection and interpretation” (Hammersley & Atkinson, 1983: 13). In order to ensure validity and reliability, which are themselves objectivist constructs, it is crucial to reflexively acknowledge these concerns with a commitment to detailed documentation of experiences and a strict attempt to remain as neutral as possible. In doing so, the researcher is more likely “to show his capabilities through attention to every facet of the conceptual framework and research design” (Marshall & Rossman, 2011: 8).
17 Another criticism is that because case studies simply illuminate the particulars of a single case they cannot be used to generalise and project future outcomes. However, claims like this are often levelled from opposing ontological perspectives without considering the aims of case study research. It can be argued that generalisation to the broader population is not even the purpose of case study research. Furthermore, Flyvbjerg asserts qualitative generalisation is improbable as “there does not and probably cannot exist predictive theory in social science” (2006: 223). While multiple case studies may provide “instances of a broader recognizable set of features” (Williams, 2000: 215) they can never transform the qualitative methodology into a macroscopic study (Yin, 2003: 10). Instead “the findings of qualitative researchers are to generalise to theory rather than to populations” (Bryman, 2004: 285), which is the purpose of this study. As case studies do not rely on statistical generalisations they do not necessarily aim “to say anything about populations but instead [make] claims about the existence of phenomena proposed by a theory” (Williams, 2004: 420-421). Yet even though knowledge from a case study cannot be formally generalised it “does not mean that it cannot enter into the collective process of knowledge accumulation in a given field or in a society” (Flyvbjerg, 2006: 227).
Another disadvantage to case study methodology is that it can become time consuming and result in lengthy, unreadable documents (Yin, 2003: 11). However, this predicament is not unique to case studies as most research has the capacity to create large quantities of data (Yin, 2003: 11). Taking this into account, a researcher must diligently manage the collected data to ensure the documents are well ordered, easy to access, and filed in an appropriate manner. Additionally, digital files may be cross- referenced and coded for ease of use as well as stored electronically to minimise the use of valuable physical space. As such, these limitations are not insurmountable. While a case study approach may have flaws, Miles and Huberman maintain that regardless of the type of research being conducted it is impossible to “study everyone everywhere doing everything” (1994: 27).
2.3.2. ADVANTAGES:
Conversely there are several advantages to the use of case study as an investigative research methodology. Firstly, the design of a case study lends itself to obtaining a detailed view of an individual’s life or a particular phenomenon in its existent context
18 (Yin, 2003: 13). Marshall and Rossman suggest that the investigative nature of case studies is particularly “significant because they illuminate in detail larger [external] forces” (2011: 7) that are often difficult to quantify through other methodologies. Within this research, the use of case study methodology has allowed in-depth examination of personal opinion, private practice, social constraints, and issues participants may not have vocalised publicly before. Yin suggests “the case study’s unique strength is its ability to deal with a full variety of evidence – documents, artifacts, interviews, and observations” (2003: 8) and as such is able to investigate complex issues and anomalies that other methodologies may not have the luxury to explore. Additionally, “the social and physical setting...and internalized notions of norms, traditions, roles, and values are crucial aspects of the environment” (Marshall & Rossman, 2011: 91) when investigating complex phenomena (Snape & Spencer, 2003; Silverman, 2006). Due to these conditions, it is essential that the study “be conducted in the setting where all this complexity operates” (Marshall & Rossman, 2011: 91). A case study is therefore the most appropriate methodology to use when investigating the role of creative agents in the production of Australian children’s picture books and the complex relationships they have with the social and cultural contexts of the contemporary publishing industry.
As mentioned previously, case studies are often incorrectly regarded as the lowest in the research hierarchy (Yin, 2003: 3). As a result, researchers using case study methodology are often quick to “elucidate the unique features of the case” (Bryman, 2004: 50) in order to confront and address any limitations before undertaking their study. In particular it is important to identify issues surrounding objectivity as a researcher and the subjective nature of human experience, matters which arose several times during this original research project. For example, as many of the participants were professional storytellers their interviews were filled with narrative techniques that occasionally necessitated interpretation. For instance, several participants used extended metaphors or spoke in the second person to illustrate their points and as the researcher I was left to infer connections. Having to make connections between data is not uncommon in many forms of research as “no social fact can have any scientific meaning till it is connected with some other social fact; without which connection it remains a mere anecdote, involving no rational utility” (Comte, 2009: 476). Therefore, as part of the research process it has been the researcher’s responsibility to
19 acknowledge and examine issues of objectivity and bias as much as possible. A reflexive account of my role will be provided shortly.
A significant way to defend case study methodology is to strive for validity and reliability. According to Yin, it is important to construct validity by establishing correct operational measures for the concepts being studied (1989: 40). This research adhered to Yin’s suggestions in several ways: through internal validity with the exploration of causal relationships; external validity through the domain in which the study can be generalised; and through the reliability of techniques used which can be repeated with the same results if need be (1989: 40-41; Wimmer & Dominick, 1991: 35). It is a fact that all research is flawed, but by strictly monitoring the adherence to certain criteria (Wimmer & Dominick, 1991: 35) reliable and systematic research may be conducted.
2.4. Methods
Research methods are “the techniques or procedures used to gather and analyse data related to some research question or hypothesis” (Crotty, 2003: 3). With any methodology it is valuable to employ a triangulation of methods to effectively procure evidence (Yin, 2003: 97). By examining the question closely from multiple directions the reliability of the outcome is strengthened. Yin outlines six sources of evidence useful in conducting case studies: documentation, archival records, interviews, direct observation, participant observation, and physical artefacts (2003: 12). For this research the specific methods used included one-on-one recorded in-depth interviews, both direct and participant observation, and artefact and textual analysis. These methods have been chosen as they “are viewed as particularly helpful in the generation of an intensive, detailed examination of a case” (Bryman, 2004: 48-49).
As the primary form of research, the one-on-one recorded in-depth interviews were conducted with 20 participants either face-to-face or over the telephone and transcribed shortly after. These semi-structured interviews ranged from one to three hours and 4 interviews were conducted over two sessions to fit in with schedules and other commitments. One interview was conducted via email as the participant requested the opportunity to reflect at length on the questions asked. The series of pre-
20 determined open-ended questions used were informed by Csikszentmihalyi’s (1997) previous use of in-depth interviews with creative people, designed to extract detailed and thoughtful responses and to encourage the examination of additional information. The questions covered seven broad categories which included personal and family background; education and training; work habits and writing schedule; process; constraints; professional and peer relationships; and general questions about the picture book industry. As is the case with in-depth interviewing, although the interviews began with a pre-determined set of questions, it was often necessary to “ask follow-up question to get a more complete answer, or to ask for clarification of interesting points” (Priest, 1996: 26). Due to the small and insular constitution of the Australian picture book industry, many of the participants had held multiple roles within the field throughout their careers. For example, 10 authors had also worked in education as teachers, teacher-librarians or lecturers, 3 participants had previously held key roles in the Children’s Book Council of Australia, and several were involved in promoting literacy programs and in advisory capacities for professional bodies. These participants were questioned about their various roles, which provided a more complete view of the social and cultural contexts in which they operated.
The second technique used was direct and participant observation. Direct observation included, when possible, site visits to authors and illustrators homes and workspaces, as well as the workspaces of various field operatives to gather data. In these instances my role was similar to that outlined by Dane (1990: 158) where my position as researcher was known to the participants but I did not actively participate in any specific proceedings. It was valuable to observe participants in their everyday working reality to gain contextual insight into their operational processes. From these observational opportunities, in conjunction with observing professional presentations at conferences and/or writers festivals, field notes were generated and utilised throughout this research. The opportunity to undertake these observations was limited by a number of factors including cost, time constraints, conflicting schedules, and various participants geographical locations. Additionally, some were reluctant to grant access to such a private, personal space. Nevertheless the observation that was undertaken allowed insights into the social and cultural, private and public contexts of key players within the Australian picture book industry.
21 Throughout my research there were times when I operated as a ‘participant-observer’ (Hansen, Cottle, Negrine, & Newbold, 1998: 51) as a member of the group I was studying. Following Susannah Priest’s (1996) suggestions, it was important to maintain a commitment to constant reflexivity by avoiding the potential for imposing my own cultural bias. For this research the participant observation took place in several ways. From 2009 to 2014 I, as the researcher, participated in regular discussions on Twitter and other chat platforms, with picture book authors, illustrators, literary agents and other field operatives about various topics to do with the Australian picture book industry. The participants in these conversations were representative of a wide range of experience and knowledge. My researcher status was identified from the outset in my public profile and was at times referred to by myself or other members of the chat: at no time was this status concealed. Significantly, this participant observation method gave unique insight into “the inner sanctum” (Hansen et al., 1998: 35) where I could observe interpersonal behaviour and information not accessible in any other manner. For example, on 9th August 2010 the Twitter-based discussion revolved around particular rules of writing, many of which were acknowledged as unspoken rules that people often stumbled across incidentally rather than being officially informed about. As such this participant observation was a rich source of data. Other participant observations included four days of participant observation (February 2011) in the marketing department of a large Australian publisher with several divisions dedicated to children’s literature. Additionally, I was invited to provide manuscript assessments to several Australian picture book authors. These experiences provided vital information about the processes of drafting, editing and feedback that are crucial in forming books for children, and gave insight as to how picture books are marketed to the public. The drawbacks of observation of any kind are with mediation and the potential to become too involved or supportive of the group being studied (Priest, 1996). With this risk in mind it was important to reflexively examine my role as a researcher and my close involvement with the subject matter, while simultaneously acknowledging my positioning as “part of the social world [under] study” (Hammersley & Atkinson, 1983: 15). For as Hammersley and Atkinson argue, “This is not a matter of methodological commitment, it is an existential fact” (1983: 15). They also suggest “we cannot study the social world without being a part of it” (Hammersley & Atkinson, 1994: 249). Consequently, observation is not simply a
22 technique for research but “a mode of being-in-the-world characteristic of researchers” (Hammersley & Atkinson, 1994: 249) in general.
The final method used in this research consisted of artefact and textual analysis. Differing from the quantitative approach of content analysis, this type of analysis (sometimes called document analysis – see Bowen, 2009) refers to “a variety of means by which researchers and students may analyse how texts produce potential meanings and what those potential meanings are” (Hughes, 2007: 249). Textual analysis is useful for researchers who “want to understand the ways in which members of various cultures and subcultures make sense of who they are, and of how they fit into the world in which they live” (McKee, 2003: 1). By examining texts in relation to the multiplicity of ways in which people interpret reality and engage in meaning-making, we can also come to “understand our own cultures better because we can start to see the limitations and advantages of our own sense-making practices” (McKee, 2003: 1). This approach was useful in illuminating the cultural features of various participants work, as well as providing insights into the technical operations of their practices.
For this research the artefact analysis included studying draft material, personal and professional websites, secondary interview material, newspaper articles, and how-to- manuals. The textual analysis focused primarily on examining the picture books produced by participants “to describe and interpret the characteristics” (Griffin, 2012: 34) of their messages. These examinations uncovered many correlations with the wider world (politics, current affairs, popular culture), and the results were a factor in the primary data collection through in-depth interviews, as the producers were occasionally asked about the textual content and intertextual features of their stories. These connections support Keith Punch’s assertion that “all documentary sources are the result of human activity” (1998: 226) by demonstrating that “these are always located within the constraints of particular social, historical or administrative conditions and structures” (1998: 226). This original research investigates the very nature of the structures involved in the production of texts, and as such recognises that “texts are both produced within powerful institutions and are themselves sites of power and contesting debates” (Hughes, 2007: 250). Therefore, it has been vital that related artefacts and texts underwent consideration in tandem with the social and cultural contexts they developed and emerged in.
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2.5. Reflexivity on role as researcher
A methodological commitment to reflexivity was important to this research as it aligns with Pierre Bourdieu’s discussions of structure and agency. Bourdieu (in Bourdieu & Wacquant, 1992) explained that bias is an inevitable issue in social research and emphasized that researchers can only overcome this by reflexively acknowledging the effects of their personal positions. Reflection is a unique human activity in which experiences, actions and decisions are recalled, considered and evaluated. Consciously examining these experiences is an important learning strategy as “it is only when we bring our ideas to our consciousness that we can evaluate them and begin to make choices about what we will and will not do” (Boud, Keogh, & Walker, 1985: 19). Within this specific research it was necessary to reflexively examine my role as researcher to consider how life experiences and engagement with relevant literature might affect actions and decisions taken, or instigate acceptance or rejection of certain ideas. Reflection in this context refers to “interpreting one’s own interpretation, looking at one’s own perspectives from other perspectives, and turning a self critical eye into one’s own authority as interpreter and author” (Alvesson & Sköldberg, 2000: vii).
External or internal forces may trigger reflexive moments, but not all experiences will become the focus of reflection, and not all can be perceived of as unique incidents in order to identify triggers (Boud et al., 1985: 20). According to Dewey reflective thinking often originates in a moment of hesitation or a seed of doubt and the key to unravelling it is “searching, hunting, inquiring, to find material that will resolve the doubt, settle and dispose of the perplexity” (1933: 12). As such, several moments of ‘inner discomfort’ (Boyd & Fales, 1983) occurred during this research that initiated critical reflexivity on my part as a researcher. For instance, when I was to interview an illustrator for the first time I observed that although I often experienced minor nerves prior to interviewing, my nervousness was more pronounced. I observed my own preconceptions that illustrators would be more ‘romantic’ in their thinking about creativity than other participants, which reinforced how pervasive and deeply held romantic beliefs about creative activities are generally, again confirming the importance and relevance of this line of research. My reflection aligned with Donald
24 Schön’s (1983, 1987) notions of reflection-in-action and reflection-on-action. According to Chapman, Dempsey, and Warren-Forward, “reflection-in-action is the process that occurs when the result of an action does not accord with what was expected” (2008: 30). As I had acknowledged my ‘inner discomfort’ prior to the interview I was able to reflect-in-action while conducting the interview to consciously examine my concerns “without breaking the flow and progression” (Frid, Reading, & Redden, 2000: 328) of the interview. This personal awareness worked to minimise any problematic influence on the interview process, thereby ensuring the outcome was similar to other interviews conducted. The pre-selected format of semi-structured interviews also ensured that while each interview was not identical, they were at their core very similar. Additionally, reflection-on-action (Schön, 1987) after an event or action had been completed, revealed that earlier concerns were unfounded. The specific interview with the illustrator and its subsequent results were not markedly different to the other interviews. In fact, in several instances this particular interviewee discussed aspects of creativity with greater clarity and rationality than some of the other participants.
In these ways, reflexivity was important throughout the research process to acknowledge issues as they arose and provide an avenue to work through them. Boud et al. support these process techniques by suggesting that the very “desire to learn for a particular purpose can assist in overcoming many obstacles and inhibitions” (1985: 24). The continual use of reflexivity as a methodological strategy within this research process has lead to greater self-awareness and an ongoing commitment to improve and refine my individual research practice.
2.5.1. ETHICS
In the writing up phase of this thesis several moments presented themselves as an opportunity to critically reflect upon the ethics involved in being a researcher. Glesne & Peshkin suggest that “ethical considerations are inseparable from your everyday interactions with your others and with your data” (1992: 109) highlighting that effective researchers should constantly examine what it means to be ethical. According to Plummer (1983) there are two possible positions a researcher can take when it comes to ethics: that of an ethical absolutist or situational relativist. However, with the constructionist foundation of this research, a confluence of these positions is more
25 appropriate. In this view, it is acknowledged that broad ethical codes guide research behaviour, but there is “room for personal ethical choice by the researcher” (Glesne & Peshkin, 1992: 125) based on “the researcher’s continual communication and interaction with research participants” (Glesne & Peshkin, 1992: 125).
One key ethical consideration within this research arose regarding the inclusion or exclusion of certain data (see Lee, 1993; Murphy & Dingwall, 2007). This came about not due to the express wishes of the participants, but through a sense of responsibility as a researcher. Glesne and Peshkin note that “researchers often acquire information that is potentially dangerous to some people” (1992: 114) and as such a researcher has an ethical responsibility to accurately and fairly represent their subjects while ensuring the publication of data does not harm them in any way. During data collection information was occasionally revealed that required a decision about whether or not it should be included in the analysis. For instance, while every participant provided informed consent to the publication and attribution of their name, comments were sometimes made that implied confidentiality. This required researcher consideration about whether or not to include information that could potentially affect a participant’s reputation. When contemplating issues of disclosure, Glesne and Peshkin advise researchers to develop a “support group to discuss worries and dilemmas [as] part of the research process” (1992: 115). With this recommendation in mind the researcher’s supervisor was consulted and the final decision was made to exclude any such material deemed insignificant to the research. But, if judged to be significant the information was included as de-identified data. Although the act of preserving confidentiality can be seen as “one of the ways our accounts entail acts of deliberate concealment” (Rappert, 2010: 572), as with all research, some selection and exclusion has been necessary as it was impossible to include everything.
The position of researcher is a privileged one that requires the establishment of trust, especially with long-form in-depth interviews. Glesne & Peshkin (1992: 116) note that it is not uncommon for researchers to develop, or even begin their research with friendly relationships with their subjects. Due to the intimate nature of this type of research, the boundaries between researcher and subject can be transgressed at times with interviewees confiding information that they otherwise might not share. It has been therefore necessary for the researcher to consider the impact that these developing relationships might have had on the research process, as well as the 26 researcher’s role in ethically managing this material. According to Taylor (2011: 14) as a researcher progresses through their study they develop a sense of when information has been given as a research participant and when it has been given as a friend. When this distinction is not clear it is useful to conduct a ‘member check’ (Lincoln & Guba, 1985) to clarify the researcher’s interpretations with those being interviewed or observed. With this in mind, participants were offered the opportunity to revise their transcripts with a view to editing them if required, however none of them considered it necessary. Plus any issues of this kind were discussed with the researcher’s supervisor to ensure the material was managed appropriately.
2.6. Analysis
The data analysis for this project consisted of “examining, categorizing, tabulating, or otherwise recombining the evidence, to address the initial propositions of a study” (Yin, 1984: 99, as cited in Krueger & Casey, 2000: 125). Only minor statistical analysis was used in this qualitative study, where appropriate, to illustrate consensus of responses. In conjunction with the careful collection and organisation of data, a theory directed approach was undertaken to uncover patterns in response to the research question that initiated the inquiry. This approach was undertaken to “discover systematic relationships” (Tan, 1985: 14) among the data collected. Lull asserts that, “pattern seeing must be a consequence of knowing what you are looking for” (as cited in Inglis, 1990: 143). This pattern matching approach saw data analysed as it was collected to find relevant information relating to the theoretical perspectives and establish logical chains of evidence. For instance, responses to the open-ended questions within the in-depth interviews were collated and coded into categories of similar content. This is standard practice, but can inevitably lead to some loss of information (Robson, 2002: 57). To minimise this potential, additional documents were generated to capture thematic information as it emerged. This meant the data collected was cross-referenced allowing for more detailed analysis as the data was coded in multiple ways to avoid any loss. The resulting data was then compared with the predictions to confirm the original hypothesis and achieve validity under the systematic case study protocol. As with all other areas of the research design and implementation, meticulous care was taken with the collection and analysis of the data
27 to ensure the reliability and validity of the study. With this approach in place, as Tan suggests, a “systematic view of reality, prediction [was] possible” (1985: 14).
In conclusion, while there are limitations to the use of case study as a methodology there are equally, a number of distinct advantages. The crucial component of any research is to guarantee that the tenets of validity, reliability and logical argument are strictly maintained to ensure success. For this research, the case study approach was an invaluable methodology to provide in-depth investigation into the lives of producers of Australian children’s picture books. Using the theoretical perspectives of Bourdieu and Csikszentmihalyi with an ontological and epistemological foundation in constructionism, this research illuminates the process of the individual agent’s creativity and their ability to act within the structured social and cultural environment of contemporary Australian literature.
28 3. Literature Review
3.1. Communication and Media
Communication is broadly considered the action of “imparting or exchanging of information by speaking, writing or using some other medium” (Oxford Dictionary, 2015a: online). While this definition appears to be deceptively simple, the notion of what communication is has been the site of contentious discussion for many years. One of the earliest frameworks for communication can be traced back to Aristotle’s work on rhetoric (see Griffin, Ledbetter, & Sparks, 2014: 283-292) as he identified “the speaker, the speech and the audience as the constituent elements of the communication act” (Rogers & Kincaid, 1981: 32) and we continue to discuss communication in these terms today. More recently, the World Summit on the Information Society stated, “communication is a fundamental social process, a basic human need and the foundation of all social organization” (WSIS, 2003: online). Communication involves the exchange of information through verbal and non-verbal means, it involves language as well as gestures, symbols and illustrations, it involves both sending and receiving, it can be both formal and informal, and it encompasses interpersonal contact between groups as small as two or contact with large groups en masse (Fiske, 1990; Berger, 1995; Cobley, 1996; Mattelart & Mattelart, 1998; Schirato & Yell, 2000; Severin & Tankard, 2001; O’Shaughnessy & Stadler, 2002; Balnaves, Donald, & Shoesmith, 2010; McQuail, 2010; Griffin, Ledbetter, & Sparks, 2014). As such, there are many communication and media theories that attempt to make sense of this complex process, and the following is a brief discussion of the key theories that relate to this research.
The discipline of communication draws upon a diverse set of intellectual frameworks from classical humanities and social science fields, to the hard sciences, from all over the world. This includes (but is not limited to) fields of enquiry such as philosophy and ethics, linguistics, rhetoric, literary studies, semiotics, art and aesthetics, sociology, cultural studies, psychology, economics, political science, technology, as well as scientific enquiries into biology, behaviourism, and cognitive sciences. As the discipline of communication is positioned “at the crossroads of several disciplines”
29 (Mattelart & Mattelart, 1998: 1) tensions and antagonisms abound. As a result the field is often divided into different, and sometimes oppositional, schools of thought.
Historically, research into communication and media studies can be broadly divided into two ‘schools’ (Carey, 1989; Fiske, 1990): the process school and the cultural context school (McIntyre, 2010: 1). Generally speaking the process school conceptualised communication practices “as the efficient transmission of intentional ‘messages’ from senders to receivers” (Schroder, Drotner, Kline, & Murray, 2003: 27). In this way, power to control meaning lies with the producers of messages, while audiences are seen as passive recipients. Conversely the cultural context school considered communication as a more complex process whereby meaning is produced, negotiated, and processed by members of a culture within a specific cultural context (Schirato & Yell, 2000: 1). Power over meaning making in this view is aligned with the receiver and/or the context in which the communication act occurs.
One of the fundamental theories of communication and media that gave rise to the process school of thought is that of the transmission model (Fiske, 1990). Objectivist in nature, this perspective sees communication as a unidirectional activity involving a sender transmitting information to a receiver (Schirato & Yell, 2000; Griffin, 2003; Cunningham & Turner, 2010; McQuail, 2010). Building upon information theory, the primary concern was with the technical efficiency of transmitting a message from one place to another with minimum noise distortion (Shannon & Weaver, 1949). While this sequential model was “a convenient way to catalogue some of [the] chief elements” (Schramm, 1997: 112) in interpersonal and mass communication, the research was not interested in examining the semantic meaning of any content. Nevertheless, this simple linear model quickly became the standard account for human communication.
Process theories are still prevalent in the study of communication (Schirato & Yell, 2000: 4; McQuail, 2010: 65) and have been useful in identifying the most “important components of communication and their general relationship to one another” (Debasish & Das, 2009: 41). Everett Rodgers claims that this unidirectional, effects- oriented approach was “the single most important turning point in the history of communication science” (1986: 85). It provided a position from which to further investigate the processes of communication and as a result revealed subtle and complex nuances associated with human communication (Schramm, 1997: 112).
30 However, the “dominant paradigm” (McQuail, 2010: 63) of the process school of communication research has been criticised as being hegemonic and deterministic in nature (McQuail, 2010: 63-65). Under this framework the process of production is privileged while recipients are seen as passive. This is problematic as by overlooking the agency of individuals in interpreting messages according to their individual subjectivities and experiences the exchange of information is left almost completely decontextualized (Schirato & Yell, 2000: 5). Rogers claimed that this limited view resulted in communication scholars heading into an “intellectual cul-de-sac of focusing mainly upon the effects of communication, especially mass communication” (1986: 88). As a reaction, a significant portion of communication theory has worked to correct this linear conception of communication.
As a move away from the “dominant paradigm” (McQuail, 2010: 63) of linear communication models, empirical research shifted towards an “alternative paradigm” (McQuail, 2010: 66). The primary function of this critical approach was to incorporate a socio-cultural perspective situating the relationship between the sender and receiver within their particular social and cultural context. This school has been referred to in a number of ways but can be categorised and unified by their understanding of communication as the “socially ritualised production and exchange of meanings resulting in the creation of ideologies and cultural identities” (Schroder et al., 2003: 27). For the purposes of this discussion, the term “cultural context school” (McIntyre, 2010: 1) will be used as an acknowledgement that meaning is established in the act of reception and is subject to the cultural context it exists within (Schirato & Yell, 2000). Shifting the power of meaning making to the audience, these theories suggest that this process of constructing meaning always occurs in a dynamic framework where multiple discourses operate simultaneously.
As Schirato and Yell suggest, communication can no longer be thought of as simply the transfer of latent information between inactive parties, but rather it must include “the practice of producing meaning” (2000: 1). With communication research focusing on “how messages, or texts, interact with people in order to produce meanings” (Fiske, 1990: 2) an approach that acknowledged the complex socio-cultural context affecting the sender, the message and receiver was inevitable. Rather than seeing meaning as a fixed concept embedded in the message and assigned by the sender, cultural context models emphasise that meaning is made “according to the social situation and interests 31 of those in the receiving audience” (McQuail, 2010: 67). As “meaning is always context specific” (Schirato & Yell, 2000: 10) it is therefore subjective and relative to the position of the reader. This model challenges traditional notions of top-down power to consider an even and diffuse power distribution within the reception and context of a communication act.
While this approach was useful in illustrating the unique way a receiver might engage with or deconstruct a text according to the intricate relationship they have within a particular social and cultural framework, it was problematic too. By placing the power to control meaning with the audience, the cultural context models largely disregarded the role of the sender in the construction of a message. Thus only one side of the communication act is taken into account and any embedded meaning a particular message may hold is lost. Raymond Williams acknowledged the importance of studying both sides of the equation and suggests that models of communication “can be read in either direction, and the choice of direction is often crucial” (1988: 73). This “led to the study of both parties in a communication relationship, and especially to the ideas of active rather than passive receivers, senders who are themselves products of influences and controls” (Schramm, 1997: 112).
To provide a link between transmission and cultural context models, Stuart Hall’s ‘Encoding/Decoding’ model (1973) is useful as it accounts for both the production and reception of texts. According to Hall, intended meaning could be built into (encoded) messages in both open and concealed ways that could then be decoded by audience “in different and unpredictable ways” (Gauntlett, 2002: 23). The resulting interpretations could be categorised in three ways. First is the “dominant-hegemonic position” (Hall, 1980: 136, emphasis in original) where the reader accepts the preferred reading of meaning legitimated by the encoding process that reflects the “dominant cultural order at an institutional, political and ideological level” (Procter, 2004: 68). Second is the “negotiated code or position” (Hall, 1980: 137, emphasis in original) where the reader broadly accepts the dominant reading but adapts it to better reflect their position, beliefs and interests. And third, is the “oppositional code” (Hall, 1980: 138, emphasis in original) where the reader acknowledges the dominant position but contests or opposes them to bring about an alternative frame of interpretation. Referring less to individuals, and more to social groups, these three positions “are best understood as part of a continuum across which viewers move, rather than separate, static points of 32 view that the audience take up or reject once and for all” (Procter, 2004: 70). Encoding and decoding are therefore both fundamental and significant processes in the communicative exchange.
In testing Hall’s hypothesis David Morley (1980) provides the most significant refinement of the encoding/decoding model. This study of audience groups found that in addition to Hall’s three proposed decoding mechanisms, there were in fact many ways audiences could read and interpret a message. Consequently audiences could no longer be seen as simply absorbing fixed meanings from senders in a passive manner, as “‘decoding’ must necessarily involve a struggle over meaning which is dependent upon the social position of the viewer” (Procter, 2004: 66). Meaning then, can no longer be conceptualized as a static singular entity, but rather as open, plural and polysemic (Morley, 1980; Fiske, 1990; Van Zoonen, 1994: 27; Procter, 2004: 66; McQuail, 2010: 73). In this way, readers are not simply audiences but also producers of meaning in their own right.
In order to move beyond the binary landscape the two conflicting schools of thought present, it is possible to acknowledge the merits of each divergent approach while maintaining an awareness of their problems. As such, a synthesis in the field of communication research is emerging. This shift can be found in ideas of message co- creation (Botan & Taylor, 2004) where producers and audiences are considered as equally important and with their interaction resulting in the symbiotic creation of meaning. This confluence approach considers communication as a joint process “in which the participants create and share information with one another to reach a mutual understanding” (Rogers & Kincaid, 1981: 63).
Along this line, McIntyre (2012a, 2012b, 2013) proposes a systemic approach to understanding the complex components of communication. Using Arthur Koestler’s (1975) discussion of holons, McIntyre (2012b, 2013) explains that a holon is an entity that is simultaneously a complete whole while also operating as a component part of a larger unit. He outlines three holons involved in any communication act: 1) the symbolic structures, 2) the agent, either individual or collective, and 3) the field of users. While these can be isolated for the sake of analysis, no one factor is more important than the other. Instead, “they constitute integrated aspects of the system itself and are themselves constituted by it” (McIntyre, 2012b: 15) and it is this system
33 in operation that creates meaning. Additionally, the interaction of these holons in a creative communication act can be seen to be scalable. For instance, a domain consisting of symbolic codes, conventions, and cultural practices can be viewed as “a discrete body of knowledge” (McIntyre, 2013: 91), but when that body of knowledge is considered a necessary antecedent to creative activity, “it can then be seen as an indispensable component of a larger system of creativity” (McIntyre, 2013: 91). The same can be said for the social group or field, as well as an individual agent who are both singular entities at the same time as being inter-related components of a larger, dynamic creative system. This scalability suggests that the creative system “applies equally well at the individual level and also at the group, organisational, institutional or sociocultural level” (McIntyre, 2013: 92). Thus McIntyre concludes that, “acts of communication come into being as emergent properties of what may be best described as a system of communication at work” (2012b: i). This echoes Rogers and Kincaid’s supposition that “the communication process has no beginning and no end, only the mutually defining relationship among the parts which give meaning to the whole” (1981: 55-56).
Absorbing the myriad of previous approaches, Paul Cobley proposes several fundamental questions for consideration when conducting communication research (1996: 1). Taking Cobley’s suggested foci of research within the discipline into account, this research is primarily concerned with investigating his question: “how are messages created?” (1996: 1). This concern is reinforced by the Australian Standard Classification of Education (ASCED) who define communication and media studies as “the study of the creating, producing, disseminating and evaluating messages” (ASCED, 2006: online). By acknowledging that the sender, the message, and the receiver are equally important and cannot be separated from their social and cultural contexts, this research seeks to examine the complexity of these relationships in conjunction with the theoretical perspectives of Csikszentmihalyi’s systems model of creativity (1988, 1997, 1999) and Bourdieu’s notions of cultural production (1993) to form a more complete picture as to how messages are created within the arena of Australian children’s picture books.
As will be discussed in more detail in the next section, much of the research into studies of literature has mirrored the “binary landscape” (Schroder et al., 2003: 27) of media and communication research outlined above. There has been a significant shift 34 from author-centred approaches that consider the audience to be passive towards reception theories that position the audience as active.
As such a connection can be drawn between the concepts of communication, creativity, and meaning making. As McIntyre notes, “communication is the bringing into being of signification” (2012b: 10). Bringing this together with his Aristotelian definition of creativity (McIntyre, 2008c: 1) it can be argued that communication as the making of meaning is a creative act that occurs within social and cultural contexts. With this in mind, the construction of meaning as a creative practice “must emerge from the interaction of a multiple set of factors operating in an open and dynamic system” (McIntyre, 2012b: 10) which will be explored in further detail throughout this thesis. This exploration of the dual and simultaneous construction of meaning, which is a creative practice, by media institutions and audiences (Van Zoonen, 1994: 8) in the field of children’s literature will reinforce that a confluence approach that takes into account the author, the text, the reader, and their various social and cultural contexts is necessary. Similarly this repositioning has occurred in the field of creativity research. Singular approaches that privilege the individual or their social surrounds have been rejected in favour of more complex approaches that consider the interrelationship of multiple and equally important factors. The existence of this repeated pattern through communication, children’s literature, and creativity research illustrates the significance of each discipline to one another.
3.2. Literary Theory and Criticism in Children’s Literature
Theory is a way to engage with and understand particular phenomena in the world. It helps to map our understanding using a “simplifying device that allows you to decide which facts matter and which do not” (Baylis & Smith, 1997: 3). Roderick McGillis notes that theory is deeply ingrained in our lives as “our means of understanding what things are and the way they work in the world” (2010: 18). We cannot escape theory as to do so would be tantamount to evading understanding.
Theoretical frameworks in literary criticism, echoed in the study of children’s literature, can be categorised and examined in many ways. This is because the development of ideas is inherently circular in nature with many ideas doubling back on 35 themselves only to leapfrog forward again. Theories that emerge may be narrow or broad in their focus as they depend upon the interests of each particular scholar. So there is no perfect way to divide the narrative of ideological development. For the purpose of this research, and drawing on the common theoretical divides evident in communication theory, the following examination of relevant literature in literary studies and children’s literature will conform to the established communication triad: Sender/Author – Message/Text – Receiver/Reader. These three elements have been identified as key to literary theory (Jakobson, 1960; McGillis, 2010). Additionally, and in line with the development of communication theory, there has been a recent consideration of a fourth element, context, which includes both social and cultural approaches. Nodelman and Reimer note the importance of this as “debates of literary theorists do not involve literature only but also are tied to larger cultural and political debates” (2003: 218). Echoing similar studies of communication theory (as outlined in the previous section), it can be argued that literary criticism has tended to prioritise certain elements of this equation over the others.
However, it must be noted that the way forward is not isolating unique elements, but examining them in relation to one another. While it is important to understand the progression of ideas and examine each one in detail before being able to bring them together, we will see that theory is constantly shifting to locate new areas to investigate (McGillis, 2010). So by following these various approaches through the complex landscape of literary theory, we will see that they represent only one part of a larger system in operation, and an approach that accounts for the confluence of multiple factors will be necessary.
What follows then, is an attempt to untangle the multiple theoretical perspectives relating to literary theory and children’s literature. While texts created for the young have been studied in concert with critical and theoretical approaches to all types of literature, a number of approaches have been favoured over others (Thacker & Webb, 2002; Reynolds, 2011). The following literature review outlines the various schools of thought that have influenced the development of literary theory in general, and where necessary further detail will be provided to demonstrate the effect this has had in criticism of children’s literature.
36 3.2.1. Early approaches
3.2.1.1. Child Focused
Early criticism of children’s literature was driven by key educationalists with the goal of determining what kinds of material would be ‘good’ for children to engage with. These books would then be recommended to children and other educators to propagate a particular system of beliefs about children, childhood, and appropriate reading material for young minds. The Guardian of Education (1802-1806) edited by Sarah Trimmer was one of the first significant proponents of wholesome educational ideas. As a British periodical dedicated to reviewing children’s literature, content included advice on raising children along with assessments and critiques of popular educational theories (Grenby, 2002, 2005; Reynolds, 2011).
Coming to prominence during the 19th century this child-focused criticism, while contributing a great deal to discussions of children’s literature, reveals unconscious adult expectations and ideology about the nature of childhood. Karin Lesnik-Oberstein explains that when critics acknowledge a book to be good for children it “actually involves saying that the book is good because of what they think a book does for children, and this in turn cannot avoid revealing what they think children are and do” (2002: 20). This present a fundamental problem with this line of thinking as critics are unable to come to a consensus over what particular books children might like, why they might enjoy them, and perhaps most importantly what represented a ‘good’ book for children and why. While this child-centred approach to children’s literary criticism still has roots today, the study of children’s literature has expanded widely to consider many other modes of analysis.
3.2.1.2. Psychoanalytic and psychological approaches
Drawing from the disciplines of psychoanalysis and child psychology, another early theoretical approach in the study of children’s literature focused on the “ancient tradition of using stories to help children understand themselves and those around them” (Reynolds, 2011: 42). Underpinned by the idea that children’s literature plays an important role in the construction of self-identity, summaries on the development and
37 influence of psychoanalytic approaches can be found in Nodelman and Reimer (2003), Bosmajian (2005), and Reynolds (2011). Taking a psychoanalytic approach, texts for children are used to give narrative form to the child’s inner world by revealing “hidden aspects of the self” (Reynolds, 2011: 43).
Three key scholars have played a central role in the development of psychoanalytic theory: Sigmund Freud (1938, 1962), Carl Jung (1959), and Jacques Lacan (1981). Freud’s interest in sexual desire as an unconscious motivation for human behaviour has been extended by a number of theorists and can be seen in Bruno Bettelheim’s (1976) re-reading of ‘Cinderella’ as a story of Oedipal jealousy. Jacques Lacan (1981) reworked a number of Freud’s ideas in his theories of structural linguistics claiming “the unconscious is structured like a language” (1973/1978: 20). Heavily influenced by Lacan, Jacqueline Rose (1984) asserted that constructions of childhood within fictional works are deeply embedded with adult needs and desires. In turn, this notion has since been further developed by Karin Lesnik-Oberstein (1994) and Karen Coats (2004). Rollin and West (1999) similarly note that children’s literature invites the adult writer to explore their childhood fantasies as they write. Carl Jung’s work has also had an influence with his notion of personal development as “a quest to restore psychic wholeness” (Reynolds, 2011: 44). His work (1959, 1971a) on the collective unconscious has been explored in archetypal plots and echoes Joseph Campbell’s (1949) recurring story of ‘the hero with a thousand faces’. Northrop Frye (1957) likewise examined literary archetypes in this manner.
In addition to these scholars, there have been a number of significant works in children’s literary criticism that build on these important foundations. One pivotal text was The Cool Web (1977), which combined theories from clinicians and psychologists with insights from key literary practitioners including writers, illustrators, literary critics, librarians, and educationalists. Psychoanalytic approaches have also been linked to the child development in the work of Jean Piaget (1929/1990, 1972) and Nicolas Tucker (1981), which in turn have influenced studies on the implications of autobiographical writing (Berryman, 1999). More recently, Hugh Crago (2005) considered bibliotherapy as a form of psychotherapy for dealing with emotional distress. Additionally, these ideas have been explored within the pages of children’s texts where authors have consciously probed issues to do with “children’s psychological dilemmas and development” (Reynolds, 2011: 43). Maurice Sendak’s 38 Where the Wild Things Are (1963) and Neil Gaiman’s Coraline (2002) are prime examples of the child’s struggle with fear and adulthood.
While these early approaches may be where the study of children’s literature began, a number of other important theoretical developments have since occurred. What follows is an exploration of these ideas. Using the theoretical divides present in communication research as a guide the subsequent review of the literature on literary studied and children’s literature will follow a similar pattern examining the author, the text, the reader, and their contexts, in order to come to a workable synthesis.
3.2.2. Authorial
A persistent approach to literary criticism is the use of author-centred theory to ascertain clues from the author’s life as a way of unlocking meaning from within a text. This focus on authorship can be traced back to the medieval conception of those with power of authority as the custodians of knowledge. Typically the author is deified with the belief that they have embedded their ‘true’ meaning within a text to be correctly decoded by a reader. The value of literature was therefore measured by how well this ultimate message was conveyed and what impact this message had upon ideological systems.
Within the author-centred framework critics have often focused on particular authors believing that the study of literary works had the power to morally unify society. This approach was predominant in England and can be seen in the work of Matthew Arnold (1869), A.C. Bradley (1988), F.R. Leavis (1964), F.R. Leavis and Denys Thompson (1933/1964), Q.D. Leavis (1983-1989), and the journal Scrutiny (1932–1953). However, while authors wrote about societal values and beliefs these were less a reflection of universal truths and more an exemplification of views held by influential groups within society. As such what can be read from these texts is not a precise representation of society, but rather one privileged element of competing discourses that the author existed and operated within.
At this point it would be prudent to acknowledge that for the purposes of this discussion the term author will be applied in a broad sense to anyone who contributes
39 significantly to the production of a text. In relation to this research this applies to both writers and illustrators of children’s picture books. Although they contribute in different ways to the production of a picture book, they are equally important in the construction of meaning making within a text. As such they are considered co-creators of meaning and the term authors is appropriate. What follows is an exploration of various studies that prioritise and privilege authorship as the most significant component of understanding the meaning of a text.
3.2.2.1. Literary authorship
Throughout history authorship has not always been a central concern in the discourse of copyright (Bently, 1994). Our current understandings of authorship stem from the advent of Romanticism during the late eighteenth century when notions of copyright emerged simultaneously (Watson, 2005). During this time the notion of authorship flourished due to the Romantic Movement’s focus on and celebration of individual achievement. This was equally important for creativity research (see McIntyre, 2012a: 176-194) as will be outlined in the next section. Texts were considered the product of divine inspiration and an avenue to convey an author’s thoughts and feelings regarding notions of truth and issues of morality and humanity. The written word was considered a mirror to real life that was filtered through the author’s consciousness (Moon, 1990) and the value of these texts was determined by how effectively the author’s ideas were communicated. However a shift occurred with Kant’s (1982) contention that the locus of creativity was not to be found within a biblical or Platonic understanding of divine inspiration, but internally within the individual. In this way a creative individual “generates his style and the significance of the product in accordance with his freely functioning imagination” (Rothenberg & Hausman, 1976: 29). As a result, it eventually came to be accepted that an author’s words were original and deserved protection through copyright much like any other form of property (Pease, 1995).
Until this time, copying restrictions were generally the purview of printers rather than authors, which lead to a public protest against the Licensing of the Press Act 1662 (Rose, 1993, 2009) and Parliamentary relinquishment of the Act (Deazley, 2004). In 1710 the Statute of Anne was passed taking publishing rights out of the realm of private law into the public space and vesting authors with legal rights over their own
40 work (Patterson & Joyce, 2003; Alexander, 2010; Bently, 2010). This shift to protect the work of individual creators was “a historic moment in the development of copyright” (Deazley, 2006: 13) and has significantly influenced our perceptions of an author’s role in the creation of a text.
3.2.2.2. Authorial intention
Taking seriously the role of the author in the creation of a text, the notion of authorial intention insists that the correct interpretation of a text reflects as closely as possible what the author had in mind when they were creating it. Short and Fox argue that understanding authorial intention is important as “differing intentions result in different stories for different audiences” (2004: 379). Roland Barthes explains that in this view the author is seen to be “confiding in us” (1978: 143) and a text is viewed as a way of unlocking the author’s ultimate expression of self. Coining the term Author- God, Barthes (1978) explains the author’s intention must be dismantled if the reader is to understand the true meaning of a text.
Advocates of this approach suggest it is possible to understand the author’s specific aims by examining meaning encoded (consciously or unconsciously) within the work (see Anscombe, 1957; Meiland, 1970; Iseminger, 1992). Literary critic E.D. Hirsch (1967, 1976), a proponent of this way of thinking in the 1960s and 70s, discussed the hermeneutical belief that “a text means what its author meant” (1967: 1). Critics from the Geneva School further suggested that literature is a physical form of the author’s consciousness that a reader can access and explore. The act of reading is performative in that it is reproduced in the mind of the reader, and this act encourages the reader to form opinions and judgements about the author’s life and ideology. Intentionalists would argue that it is therefore possible to not only know the author’s intentions but also connect directly to their consciousness. Others (Arnold, 1869) have noted the cultural function authors performed by promoting and advocating particular sets of moral values. In this way literature was considered an instrument of social stability.
41 3.2.2.2.1. Textual Criticism
One branch of authorial intention is textual criticism, the practice of identifying and removing transcription errors in texts. The ultimate goal of the textual critic is to produce a ‘critical edition’ containing text that is the closest approximation of the author’s final intentions as possible. Key scholars include bibliographer McKerrow (1904, 1939) who introduced the notion of copy-text, Sir Walter W. Greg whose 1950 essay ‘The Rationale of Copy-Text’ was a turning point for textual criticism, which was in turn significantly expanded by Fredson Bowers (1964, 1972) and G. Thomas Tanselle (1972, 1975, 1976, 1981, 1986, 1995). Editors in this vein have also been referred to as intentionalists, and using the principles of the Bowers-Tanselle school of thought they would examine work for traces of authorial intention. If transcription and typesetting issues are discovered, the source is questioned about their intention, but if not feasible the editor would draw upon their accumulated knowledge to approximate authorial intention as close as possible.
However, there have been a number of people who have criticised this emphasis on authorial intent. Although a supporter, Hirsch (1967, 1976) notes that there are two levels of meaning operating within a text: the objective meaning conferred by the author’s intention and the significance of a work as read by an individual reader. This seems to undermine his original argument as he “[allows] the interpreter to frequently usurp the right of the author to say first what he meant to say” (Kaiser, 1985: 204; see also Leschert, 1992). D.F. McKenzie (1985) and Jerome McGann (1983/1992) argue for the consideration of a ‘social text’ that acknowledges changes overtime without privileging one version over the other. A distinct criticism of authorial intention is the essay on intentional fallacy by New Critics Wimsatt and Beardsley (1946). They argued that looking towards authors to provide the ultimate explanation of a literary work is problematic as they are inevitably not around to answer any questions, and even if questioned their opinions are merely one among many.
3.2.2.3. Biographical context
A similar approach dealing with authorial intentionality in literary criticism is that of biography. A biographical approach encourages the examination of an author’s life and
42 the world they inhabit to find clues to explain their writing and intention. In this approach, authors are considered the source of ultimate meaning that pre-exists texts and language and their texts are imbued with their ideologies and experiences as well as influenced by their time and place in history. With this in mind, to completely understand a text, a reader must examine biographical or autobiographical factors to uncover the author’s intended meaning.
In this vein, there are two common approaches used for interpreting literature: literary biography and biographical criticism. Literary biography explores the psychology of an author, by incorporating personal history using autobiographical sources as well as the author’s literary works (Karl, 1985; Salwak, 1996; Backscheider, 1999). Biographical criticism however is the deliberate use of biographical information to examine the connection between an author’s life and their work (Benson, 1989). By acknowledging specific historical contexts a literary work is seen “as a reflection of its author's life and times” (Guerin, Labor, Morgan, Reesman, & Willingham, 2005: 51).
However taking a biographical approach to literature is problematic as it is singular in its focus and dependent upon unreliable texts. New Critics of the 1920s criticised this approach as a ‘biographical fallacy’ (Frye, 1947; Lees, 1967) arguing that works of art are constructed products and open to the reader’s interpretation. Nevertheless biographical criticism was a significant component throughout the 20th century and is still used today in the study of authors such as John Steinbeck (Benson, 1989), Walt Whitman (Knoper, 2003), and William Shakespeare (Schiffer, 1999).
3.2.2.4. Implied author
A significant addition to conceptions of the author in literary criticism came in the 20th century with Wayne Booth’s (1961/1983) concept of the implied author. The notion of the implied author has roots in the Russian formalist conception of ‘literary personality’ by Yuri Tynianov (1927/1971), which referred to the abstract entity of the author found within the work. Booth’s implied author is a literary device designed to make a distinction between the real author of a text and the imagined character of the virtual author that is constructed and evoked in the reading act. Separate from the narrator embedded in the story, the implied author may be quite unlike the author
43 proper. Further exploring the notion of the implied author Genette (1972, 1988) suggested the term focalization to separate out the point of view and focal position of a work, but he was criticised by Bal (1985/1997) who noted that this classification system only described the narrator and not the implied author of a work.
In this way, the implied author consists of two components. It is an objective element of the text’s literary structure (found in its style and aesthetic properties), but it is also a subjective product of the reader’s interpretation. The importance of the reader’s role in meaning making will be discussed shortly in more detail, but it is important to note that every reader will have a unique interpretation of the implied author as it is reconstructed in each single reading. Although this concept centres on the idea of an author, it is not representative of authorial intent as the image of the implied author is considered more of a by-product of language (Bühler, 1934/2011) rather than an intended construction.
The notion of the implied author has been built upon by a number of key theorists. Wolfgang Iser (1972/1974) used it as a foundation for his notion of the implied reader. Hans-Georg Gadamer (1986, 1989) noted that the text is a conversation with a reader, while Seymour Chatman (1978, 1990) argues that this exchange involves two constructs: the implied author and the implied reader. Chatman (1990) also significantly noted that the notion of the implied author encourages the reader to recognise that the text is not a direct line to the real author. In children’s literature Barbara Wall explores the notion of implied author in her book The Narrator’s Voice (1991). Additionally, several people have used alternate terms to examine similar phenomena. Umberto Eco (1979) refers to a ‘model author’ as product of the reader’s interpretation of a text, Antony Easthope (1983: 30-72) suggests the phrase ‘subject of enunciation’, while Wolf Schmid (1973, 1986, 2005/2008) links back to Russian Formalism to defend the use of the term ‘abstract author’ which has also been used by a number of other theorists (Link, 1976; Hoek, 1981; Lintvelt, 1981/1989).
3.2.2.5. Examination of the notion of ‘author’
Additionally, the focused examination of author-centred approaches necessarily brings to the foreground questions about the very nature of authorship. Moving beyond the
44 legalities of what constitutes an author, postmodern literary critics such as Roland Barthes and Michel Foucault posited a division between the producer of a text and the interpretation of meaning within said text. As such meaning-making is not solely within the realm of the author. While these two theorists will be discussed in more detail later, their contributions to the evolving understanding of an author will be outlined here briefly.
Barthes’s essay ‘The Death of the Author’ (1978) called for a radical reconsideration of the role of the author in creating a text. He argued that instead of looking to the Author-God for ultimate meaning, authors should be thought of as “scriptors” (1978: 146) who exist to produce but not explain the work. Instead he argued that the intertextuality of a text reveals its own meaning through the act of being read and the notion of authorial intention is diminished in favour of allowing language to speak for itself. Foucault (1979) similarly agreed that the concept of the author needed to be re- appraised to consider them as one part of a larger system of beliefs that limit and restrict meaning. However, he noted that the author does hold some function. In his 1969 essay ‘What is an Author?’ Foucault explained that there are a number of principles that are at work for the title of author to be bestowed. He called these ideas ‘the author function’. Both theorists argued for a separation between the text’s creator and its interpretation. In this way an author is redefined from being the person who penned a text, to including “whoever can be understood to have produced a particular text as we interpret it” (Nehamas, 1986: 686).
Due to these complications with the notion of ‘author’, Barthes and Foucault advocate for the role of a reader’s subjective interpretation using the language of the text as the ‘author’. However, the power and role of the author’s intention is still an ongoing discussion with Burke (2010) recently arguing that authors may even be responsible for unintended readings of their texts.
Examining literature through the lens of authorial intention is limited in its singular focus. Once a text has been created it will take on a life of its own separated from its author’s explanations. In addition, as the New Critics noted, author-centred approaches are premised on the hypothesis that it is possible for authors to completely understand their own work, which is a notion that has since been destabilised it is possible for an author to have an incomplete (or incorrect) understanding of their own work (Wimsatt
45 & Beardsley, 1946). While an author’s biography or historical placement may provide an additional layer of information when reading a text, it should not be seen as the only way of unlocking a text’s meaning. This deification of authors has occurred at the expense of understanding a text’s unique elements as well as considering the power of its readers.
As such critics of intentional approaches (see Schroeder’s 1986 summary) argue for the broadening of the idea of authorship to encompass all those involved in the act of making meaning. This shift has seen an acknowledgement of the mutual authoring of meaning by both author and reader (Bendix, 1997). As such, the determinism of authorial approaches cannot be sustained in the face of the postmodern consideration of meaning as plural and polysemic (Morley, 1980; Fiske, 1990; Van Zoonen, 1994: 27; Procter, 2004: 66; McQuail, 2010: 73). So while “every book must have an author” (Ryan, 1991: 45), perhaps the role of the author in the construction of a text is simply one part of a complex puzzle.
3.2.3. Text
Moving away from approaches to literary criticism that consider the author’s intention as the source of true meaning, Barthes argued for “the complete removal of the concept of authorship from analysis” (Wolff, 1981: 118). Following this suggestion, the next collection of theories focus on the text as an isolated phenomenon. Characteristic of the twentieth century, text-centred approaches are premised on the idea that a text, once written, assumes a life of its own to be reiterated and understood infinitely through the reading event. As a text’s structure and content remains unchanged once published, it is argued that meaning is similarly stable and not dependent upon outside social and cultural factors. As such examining the grammar, syntax, rhetorical, and formal patterns of a text is the preferred way of uncovering meaning. While there are a number of approaches in this vein, the unifying theme is that they maintain “the important thing is the text – and the text alone” (Russell, 2005: 48).
46 3.2.3.1. New Criticism
One significant text-centred approach is that of New Criticism, prominent in Australia, the United Kingdom, and the United states from the 1920s to the late 1970s. New Critics argued that understanding the meaning of a text is not simply a matter of deciphering an embedded message, but rather an experiential connection based on the constructed nature of the text. In this way, authorial intention is not the key to making meaning within a text, rather understanding the literary qualities of the text is.
New Criticism focused on literature as an aesthetic object, and although primarily concerned with the literary value of poetry, its ideology extends to other literary forms. By separating literature from its historical context, New Criticism considers the text as an independent construct to be understood using critical techniques like close reading and practical criticism. This has had a significant impact upon literary education as close reading involves focusing only on the content of a text to avoid being influenced by extra textual information and emotional reactions (Stephens, 2010). Using this approach, texts could be read objectively as “the possible range of meanings of a particular text is always present within the text itself (i.e. meaning is intrinsic)” (Stephens, 2010: 215-216).
A number of key people have been associated with New Criticism and argued in favour of concentrating on the text as the locus of meaning. John Crowe Ransom first used the term in his book The New Criticism (1941/1979), with I.A. Richards extending this work in England with Practical Criticism (1929/1930) and The Meaning of Meaning (1923). A number of theorists focused on the structure of poetry including Cleanth Brooks with The Well-wrought Urn (1972, 1975), W.K. Wimsatt’s The Verbal Icon (1967), and T.S. Eliot’s critical essays ‘Tradition and the Individual Talent’ (1932) and ‘Hamlet and His Problems’ (1921). While W.K. Wimsatt and Monroe Beardsley argued in their essay The Intentional Fallacy (1946) that it was possible for a reader to unpack the meaning of a text without knowing anything about the author (an idea supported by other anti-intentionalists see Beardsley, 1958, 1970; Fowler, 1986).
Criticism has been levelled at New Criticism however as it tends to privilege “works of a particular quality [which] mask[s] its underlying ideological assumptions” (Stephens,
47 2010: 217). Additionally, other approaches to studying literature are excluded which results in a limited understanding as other theories offer “richer conceptual frameworks than did the new criticism for reflecting on literature and other cultural products” (Culler, 2000: 136-137). Regardless, the enduring legacy of New Criticism is in the techniques of close reading that remain in practice today.
3.2.3.2. Formalism
While New Criticism was developing in the west, Russian and Soviet scholars were exploring similar ideas with Russian Formalism. In particular, Victor Shklovsky (1917/2004), Roman Jakobson (1921, 1997), and Boris Eichenbaum (1965) were significant in reorienting the study from the “isolation and objectification of the single text” (Rice & Waugh, 1990: 16) to the study of literariness. This investigation centered on the use of specific techniques and language devices within a text and was also seen in the work of Yuri Tynianov (1977) and Boris Tomashevsky (1928/1978). Pushing aside semiotic content, formalists attempted to identify what the qualities of literature were in order to address the question of what makes a text literature. Jakobson in his book Modern Russian Poetry insisted that “the study of literature has to acknowledge the device as its only ‘hero’” (1921: 63) and critics should refuse “to offer value judgments” (1921: 59). This pursuit of “the system of the literary discourse” (Rice & Waugh, 1990: 17) resulted in examinations of forms, designs, and patterns in a literary work to assess “how the work functions as a harmonious whole” (Russell, 2005: 48).
Broadly speaking, two categories of formalist literary criticism have emerged: descriptive and prescriptive. Descriptive formalism concentrates on the literariness of a text by examining specific linguistic devices. This approach was embraced by New Criticism’s practical criticism whereby texts are treated as self-contained artefacts to be read and understood without requiring extra-textual details (Stephens in Rudd, 2010: 215-216). Descriptive formalism is considered a precursor to ideas of structuralism as can be seen in the work of Vladimir Propp (1928/1968, 1984), Mikhail Bakhtin (1978, 1981), and Yuri Lotman (1976, 1977, 1990). Prescriptive formalism, on the other hand, advocates an author’s responsibility to encourage readers to see things in new ways through the use of particular literary writing styles and techniques.
48 Drawing on the ideas of Marxism, prescriptive formalism is embodied in the maxim of Soviet critic Shklovsky “to make the stone stony” (1917/2004: 16). In this, prescriptive formalists argued that the function of literature was to employ challenging literary techniques to encourage a deeper, and more thoughtful engagement with the text. Bertolt Brecht (1961) referred to this alienation effect as ‘Verfremdungseffekt’, noting that certain literary forms operate by juxtaposing the familiar with the unfamiliar to encourage the viewer to confront and challenge their ideological assumptions.
The strength of formal criticism was in its encouragement of careful and active reading of literature. However, this approach generally fails to recognise “the interconnectedness of literature, the influence of society on literature, and the importance of the author’s individualism” (Russell, 2005: 48). It likewise doesn’t accommodate the reader’s personal experiences and how they might contribute to the reading of a text. Rice and Waugh note that in the case of prescriptive formalism relying on techniques to alienate readers, “literary devices cannot remain strange for all time” (1990: 17). Through their use and reuse, they inevitably become familiar so must be constantly revised in order to stay unfamiliar and challenging to an audience. As such, they argue towards the idea of literature as a system that is discontinuous and constantly in flux “where breaks and reformations in form and formal devices continually renew the system” (Rice & Waugh, 1990: 17).
3.2.3.3. Structuralism
Following the ideas of the Russian Formalists came the advent of structuralism in the 1950s and 1960s. Structuralism proposed that in order to understand and organise our social and cultural worlds we first must examine the particular structures underpinning them (Fiske, 1990). As a reaction to phenomenology, the goal of structuralism was not to describe experience, but to expose the embedded structures that make it possible. As a literary theory, structuralism draws on Saussure’s linguistic theory to focus heavily on the text itself. In this way, literature forms are considered analogous to the structures of language and are examined to understand how meaning is created.
A number of prominent theorists working in a range of fields have applied structuralist principles in their examinations of social and cultural phenomena. Karl Marx (1998)
49 explored class relationships, which was extended by Louis Althusser (1965/2005), while Sigmund Freud (1962) sought an explanation of people’s unconscious desires. Seeking meaning in the structural relationships of linguistics C.S. Pierce (1931) and Ferdinand de Saussure (1916/1974) examined semiotics and language, while Claude Levi-Strauss (1958/1963) explored anthropology, and Jacques Lacan (1973/1978, 1977) psychoanalysis. In the realm of literary and cultural studies the work of Algirdas Julien Greimas (1966/1983, 1987), Gerard Genette (1972, 1972/1980), Roman Jakobson (1921, 1960, 1997), Vladimir Propp (1928/1968), Roland Barthes (1975, 1993), and Tzvetan Todorov (1977, 1993) have been important especially their work on narrative structures as systems of meaning. Significantly a number of these theorists explored the use of recurring motifs and themes as a way of producing meaning to propel cultural myths.
3.2.3.3.1. Semiotics
One structural approach significant to the study of literature is that of semiotics, which proposed that it is only possible to understand the world by examining the underlying “conceptual and linguistic structures of our culture” (Fiske, 1990: 115). Originally derived from linguistics, semiotics now encompasses all social and cultural processes (Levi-Strauss, 1958/1963) as mediated forms of communication that seek to signify and represent the world (O’Shaughnessy & Stadler, 2002). In this way “meanings are culture-specific, but the ways of making them are universal to all human beings” (Fiske, 1990: 45).
Credited as one of the founders of semiotics, Charles Sanders Pierce claimed that a sign is “something which stands to somebody for something in some respect or capacity” (1931, 2.228). Taking the notion that signs are representative of larger structures of meaning further, Swiss linguist Ferdinand de Saussure (1916/1974), noted that sign consists of two dualistic components: a signifier which is the sign we perceive, and a signified which is the mental concept the sign evokes. Saussure also acknowledged the arbitrary nature of meaning, arguing that meaning is not inherent but rather determined in a system of difference through the differentiation of one sign from other similar signs (Culler, 1985; Fiske, 1990: 45; O’Shaughnessy & Stadler, 2002: 82). Barthes (1967) similarly proposed two levels of meaning: the descriptive
50 analysis of denotation and the connotations of subjective associations a viewer will connect to the sign in order to make meaning from it.
In relation to literary theory, a number of structuralists focused on an examination of narrative structure to explain the way in which cultures share stories to regulate ideology and propel particular myths they deem important (Culler, 1975). Claude Levi-Strauss (1958/1963) examined the structure of myths to propose that universal laws of thought encourage similar myths in different cultures. Roland Barthes (1957/1987) argued that myths are a form of storytelling that represent a culture’s way of conceptualising their reality (Fiske, 1990). His belief that narrative structure produced meaning in a similar way to language was an extension of the work of Vladimir Propp (1984). An early structuralist, Propp through his examination of Russian folk tales found a constant narrative structure within them that reinforced cultural myths. Roman Jakobson (1960) explored elements of narrative that are unchanging (fabula/story) and elements that are in constant flux (syuzhet/discourse). While Tzvetan Todorov (1975) built upon the ideas of Russian Formalists to suggest that every story has a similar narrative arch: equilibrium, disruption to that equilibrium, and pursuit of and attainment of a new equilibrium. Syd Field (1982) similarly echoed this overarching structure in his screenwriting discussion suggesting that all stories follow a standard Act One, Act Two, Act Three frame.
Nevertheless, structuralism is somewhat deterministic and Universalist in its attempt to explain the world through the lens of a singular systematic approach. This position has failed to account for the dynamic relationships that agents have with the structures they exist within. As a reaction, theories of personal agency have emerged which consider the capacity of individual ‘agents’ (Bourdieu, 1999) to construct and reconstruct their worlds. This will be discussed in further detail in the Creativity literature review.
3.2.3.4. Poststructuralism
As a reaction to the narrow focus of structuralism came the notion of poststructualism. Categorised by plurality, poststructuralism considers language and meaning as polysemic, and considered the possibility of polyvalence in relation to multiple subjectivities. The primary concern with poststructuralism was to refocus examinations
51 of texts to include the relationship between texts and their referents. This approach opened up infinite possibilities for meaning making as texts were no longer self contained objects but seen as existing within multiple larger meta-structures of society and ideology. As a result “texts became sites of endless and even contradictory meaning” (McGillis, 2010: 20) with the goal of poststructuralism being the ‘untying’ of the text (Young, 1981).
Poststructuralism encompasses a number of theoretical discourses and the rejection of objective knowledge in favour of a multiplicity of meaning. Many of the theorists associated with structuralism (Barthes, Lacan, and Foucault for instance) quickly moved beyond its tight boundaries and came to be identified as poststructuralists as they acknowledged the ever changing and relative nature of sign systems. Joining poststructuralists such as Jean-Francois Lyotard (1984) and Jean Baudrillard (1988, 1994), children’s literary theorists Karin Lesnik-Oberstein (1994) and Jacqueline Rose (1984) examined childhood as a construct in which “children’s literature speaks for and about itself” (McGillis, 2010: 18).
3.2.3.4.1. Deconstruction
A significant literary contribution to poststructuralism involved the deconstruction of the text. Rejecting the notion of fixed meaning within a text, deconstruction involves “challenging the closed systems that structuralism sought to establish” (McGillis, 2010: 20). A central concern of deconstruction is the critique of hierarchical oppositions that underpin Western thinking. By revealing the constructed nature of these oppositions it is possible to dismantle and reconstruct them to function as alternative structures. Arriving at a final ‘authoritative’ reading of any text is considered impossible, as textual interpretation occurs within the structural boundaries of a reader’s ideological assumptions. Readers cannot be separated from their experiences and this inevitably influences their reading of particular texts.
Jacques Derrida famously popularised the term ‘deconstruction’ in his book Of Grammatology (1976). Drawing on the semiotic work of Saussure, Derrida (1988) argued that the multiplicity of meaning in language is endless due to its iterability. Any attempt to deconstruct and define meaning causes it to disappear in an infinite regress. For Derrida a text is “no longer a finished corpus of writing, some content enclosed in
52 a book or its margins, but a differential network” (1979: 84). In this way, texts and those who engage with them exist within a network of textuality where meaning is gained from complex interactions with other texts.
3.2.3.4.2. Intertextuality
Exploring this idea further is the notion of intertextuality, which focuses on the relationship and connections between texts. As a key feature of text-based criticism the term ‘text’ is favoured over ‘work’ when referring to cultural products as it carries embedded associations of texture and implies a connection to the physicality of weaving or folding. What is significant to note, is that “intertextuality draws attention to literature as a system of communication with ties to other systems of communication” (McGillis, 2010: 20).
A number of theorists have examined intertextuality in children’s literature, while countless numbers of authors have employed it as a literary device. Predominantly the study has been of specific texts (Benton, 2005) as can be seen in John Stephens’ (1992: 84-119) proposal of seven possible relationships between texts, and Agee’s (1983: 55- 59) analysis of the use of literary allusion and intertextual patterning. Additionally Jacqueline Rose (1984) worked to identify genre conventions and intertextual connections, John Stephens and Robyn McCallum (1998) examine intertextuality in storytelling, while Wilkie-Stibbs (2005) looks at intertextuality and the child reader.
While text-based approaches have lead to some useful criticism, as a singular theoretical stance its assumption that a text can exist independent of author and context is problematic. Texts do not simply appear out of the ether unconnected to any time or place, they are a product of both production and reception events. Texts are encoded with particular meanings by an author for an audience to read. If the audience does not share at least some of same codes then the decoded meaning will diverge from the intended meaning (Hall, 1973).
Similarly, the search for meaning within the literary content of a text is not simple, as words do not operate as neutral, objective “labels that can be unproblematically attached to things or acts or experiences” (Schirato & Yell, 2000: 19). Meaning is subjective and cannot be fixed within a text. Instead Schirato and Yell note that the best we can do is acknowledge that the meaning is “a matter of negotiation,
53 disagreement or conflict” (2000: 19). Texts therefore are capable of holding more than a singular, author-defined meaning and the power to make meaning must also involve the reader.
3.2.4. Reader
Moving beyond theories that suggest meaning is inherent within a text, postmodern theorists argue that readers play a central role in the meaning making process. As Ernest Hemingway claimed “books should be judged by those who read them—not explained by the writer” (1932/1981: 368). This reader-centred way of thinking differs from the previous approaches to literary studies, as meaning is no longer considered fixed (either by the author’s intentions or the textual content); instead it is seen as a product of the reader’s engagement.
This reader-centred way of thinking came to prominence in the 1960s and 1970s and includes a number of significant theorists (see Holland, 1968, 1975; Bleich, 1975, 1977, 1978; Hirsch, 1976; Iser, 1978; Rosenblatt, 1978; Fish, 1980). During the 1970s and 1980s reader-centred approaches to studying literature gained popularity in primary and secondary education as a way of encouraging students to talk about texts. Underpinning this approach is a constructivist notion that knowledge is not independent from the knower as both are socially constructed. Meaning is in constant flux as readers draw upon their knowledge, experiences, and ideologies, which inevitably change over time to make connections and “[fill] in things left unsaid” (Culler, 2000: 137). As such the relationship between text and reader is a continual process of renegotiation. Likewise meaning is now considered plural, as there is not a “one-way cause and effect relationship” (Crago, 1981: 161) between reader and text.
Roland Barthes advocated the “birth of the reader” (1978: 148) to seriously consider the power of interpretation readers possess in generating meaning. He argued that readers have the power to make meaning through their unique engagement with the text and that this ability to perceive meaning as different from that intended by the author destabilises traditional author-centred approaches. His claim that “a text’s unity lies not in its origin but its destination” (Barthes, 1977: 148) redefined the process of meaning making “as one in which the receivers (readers) engage in a continual process 54 of interaction with and interpretation of the work of art or literature” (Zolberg, 1990: 113-114). The shift in focus from the “author and the work to the text and the reader” (Holub, 1984: xii) was significant and signified ‘the return of the reader’ (Freund, 1987).
These ideas have been echoed in reader-response and reception theories that see the reader as paramount in the construction of meaning. Barbatsis explains that reception theories focus on the interaction that occurs within “a text-reader or medium-audience nexus” (2004: 271). Audiences are perceived of as active and meaning is no longer restricted by the author’s single existence in time and space, but instead constructed in the relationship between the reader and the text. This reader-focused approach has been most popular within children’s literature as it is “a species of literature defined in terms of the reader rather than the authors’ intentions or the text themselves” (Hunt, 1990: 1).
3.2.4.1. Reader-Response
Theories focused on reader-response came as a reaction to formalist theory and textual approaches associated with New Criticism in the early part of the twentieth century. Drawing from the work of phenomenology as the study of the structures of experience and consciousness, and hermeneutics as a philosophical approach to interpretation, reader-response criticism welcomes the inclusion of background knowledge and emotional reactions in the reading of texts. Texts are not seen as objective and independent from the reading experience, rather they are made in the action of being read. Readers are no longer seen as passive recipients of information, instead they are active participants in the meaning making process. Terms such as reader, reading process, exchange and transaction are paramount in discussions of reader-oriented criticism and reception analysis as they acknowledge the powerful position that audiences occupy (Nodelman & Reimer, 2003). Jane Tompkins explains this approach as “a way of conceiving of texts and readers that reorganizes the distinctions between them” (1980: x).
Approaches in reader-oriented theories can be divided into two variant directions. A formalist direction, like that of Iser (1978), which seeks to explain “the ways a text
55 implies a reader and the type of reader a text implies” (McGillis, 2010: 22). By examining the production of texts, the focus is on how texts imply particular readerships and how they can guide acts of meaning making. This can bee seen in discussions of the implied reader, which will be addressed shortly. Alternatively, a psychoanalytic direction seeks to examine “the ways various readers respond to texts and why (Holland, 1968)” (McGillis, 2010: 22). Focusing on reception and audience sense making, this approach seeks “to understand how audiences make sense of a media text and how this sense making contributes to the social construction of reality (Jensen, 1987, 1990)” (Barbatsis, 2004: 272).
While the reader-centric position encompasses a variety of approaches, the commonality lies in the conception of the audience as an active participant in the reading process. German literary theorist Hans Robert Jauss (1982) spoke of the ‘aesthetics of reception’ to explain how texts are received and understood differently by readers at different times throughout the history of a work’s reception. This variation of literary interpretation due to changing norms has been referred to as the ‘horizon of expectations’ (Jauss, 1982). Stanley Fish (1980), although originally arguing a text-centric position, shifted his understanding of meaning making to acknowledge the authority of a reader as part of an ‘interpretive community’. As such, textual features are not to be objectively found within the text itself, but are instead the product of reading strategies or ‘interpretive principles’ which both enable readers to make meaning while at the same time limiting the range of possible meanings (Fish, 1980).
3.2.4.2. Implied Reader
Most prominent in reader-centred approaches to literary theory is the work of Wolfgang Iser (1972/1974, 1976/1978) who argued that all texts have an implied reader. Alluding to Wayne Booth’s ‘implied author’ (1961/1983), Iser speaks of the hypothetical reader that is “hailed” (O’Shaughnessy & Stadler, 2012: 185) through the literary devices in the text. However it is important to note that this reader is constructed and is “in no way to be identified with any real reader” (Iser, 1976/1978: 34). While Iser was using the term ‘impliziter Leser’ or ‘implicit reader’, a number of
56 other theorists were exploring similar ideas with Wolff (1971) and Link (1976) referring to an ‘intended reader’, Grimm (1977) an ‘imagined reader’ and ‘constructed reader’, and Eco (1979) making a distinction between a ‘model author’ and a ‘model reader’.
While all readers may interpret a text in a slightly different way, “they are nevertheless all reading the same text – and the text does imply a way of being read” (Nodelman & Reimer, 2003: 18). As such the notion of the implied reader has limitations and represents constraints upon a reader’s freedom, as a reader cannot “make a text mean anything and everything” (Nodelman & Reimer, 2003: 18). While readers construct meaning according to their personal experiences it cannot be said that texts are wide open to infinite meanings. Instead the reader is bound by “the prestructuring of the potential meaning by the text” (Iser, 1972/1974: xiii). Additionally, through the characteristics of each text a specific reader or groups of readers is implied as best equipped to understand them. A reader is “drawn into the ‘events’ or givens of a text and made to supply what is meant from what is not [emphasis added] said, or not given” (Iser, 1978: 168). As such readers are charged with the responsibility of meaning making during the communication exchange.
3.2.4.3. In Children’s Literature
In terms of children’s literature, reader response theories have drawn on the work of the aforementioned theorists as well as a number of others (see also Harding, 1962; Holland, 1968, 1975; Tabbert, 1980; Steig, 1989).
In the development of children’s literature criticism, Peter Hunt (1990, see also Hollingdale, 1997) advocates what can be called a “childist method of reading” (McGillis, 2010: 23). As an attempt to address the tendency to draw theories from other disciplines, childist criticism is concerned specifically with how literature addresses children as readers (Reynolds, 2011). While Hunt developed this way of thinking, it was Aidan Chambers who initially called for “a critical method that will take account of the child-as-reader” (1980: 250-1). Chambers’ article ‘The Reader in the Book’ (1977) is seen as one of the most significant contributions to the notion of the implied child reader. Chambers explains that the implied reader is written into a
57 text through the use of particular textual devices (Saxby, 1997: 23) and reveals how an author “creates a relationship with a reader in order to discover the meaning of the text” (Chambers, 1980: 252). Zohar Shavit (1983) also extended the notion of the implied reader to accommodate childhood and child readers. She notes that creators of children’s texts are unique as they are “asked to address one particular audience and at the same time appeal to another” (Shavit, 1986/2009: 37). Michael Benton (1988, 1992, 2004, 2009) similarly examines the relationship between authors and their implied readers within the pages of particular children’s texts.
Maurice Saxby notes however that “the real or actual reader will, of course, never fully equate to the implied reader, and will make an individual response” (1997: 23) thus pointing to the relative nature of reader-reception. Rosenblatt’s transactional theory (1938, 1969, 1978, 1985) argues that reading is a unique transaction between reader and text as they influence and act upon one another. For Rosenblatt, texts are inert and only come into existence in the minds of readers as part of a “lived-through process” (1978: 69). As such readers draw upon their background knowledge and context in order to engage in the reading act. Barbatsis (2004) echoes that in children’s literature meaning is produced in the engagement between the reader and the text, or picture and viewer. She explains that texts, once published, do not change or live in isolation from the reading response (Freund, 1987; Barbatsis, 2004). This can also be seen in Webb’s (2011, 2013b) discussion around the multiplicity of subject identity and the multiplicity of readings that result in response to children’s picture books. In this way, meaning is “not something that one extracts, but an experience one has in the course of reading” (Tompkins, 1980: xvi). Significantly for children’s picture books Barbatsis explains that this text-reader “interaction has important implications for how we conceptualize visuals and visual communication as well as how we study them” (2004: 271). This approach acknowledges, “a mediated text is separated in its production from its reception” (Barbatsis, 2004: 271). John Stephens (1992) has critiqued the implied reader by examining textual techniques “to show how they produce ideological constructions of implied child readers” (Sarland, 2005: 42). An idea also explored by Peter Hollindale (1992). Similarly Jacqueline Rose (1984) argued that children’s books construct children as characters and readers, revealing deeper ideological structures. As such, children “are seen as beings with a privileged perception, untainted by culture” (Sarland, 2005: 42).
58 3.2.4.3.1. Child readers
As children’s literature is uniquely defined by its readership (Hunt, 1990; Benton, 2005) it is important to note that this is not a single homogenous group as it is consists of both adults and children (Chambers, 1980; Hunt, 1990; Hollingdale, 1997; Melrose, 2002, 2011). These two readerships will read and understand texts in very different ways (Chambers, 1980) as they are necessarily influenced by a diverse set of physical, social, and cultural backgrounds. As such, Reynolds notes that a child focused approach to children’s literature “opens up some interesting philosophical and ethical debates about the adult-child relationship in and outside the text” (2011: 57).
According to Shavit these the two implied readers of children’s texts consist of “a pseudo addressee and a real one” (1986/2009: 71). She explains that the child, although they are often thought of as the real addressee are “much more an excuse for the text rather than its genuine addressee” (Shavit, 1986/2009: 71) which are adults. In this way, “the actual adult implied reader of texts of children’s literature knows more than the official child it implies” (Nodelman & Reimer, 2003: 21) as the adult possesses a ‘literary repertoire’ far beyond that of the child. As such, Jill May notes “as texts with dual (or multiple) audiences, children’s stories hold more than one meaning” (1995: 55).
Sebastien Chapleau suggests that children’s literature has two distinct characteristics: “the implied readers of the texts were/are ‘children’; the actual users of the texts were/are predominantly ‘children’” (2005: 10). This overlap was noted by C. Walter Hodges who noted “if in every child there is an adult trying to get out, equally in every adult there is a child trying to get back” (1975: 57). As an addition to this way of thinking is the work of U.C. Knoepflmacher and Mitzi Myers (1997) who acknowledged the concept of the ‘hidden adult’ (see also Nodelman, 1998). When speaking of cross-writing they note that “authors who write for children inevitably create a colloquy between past and present selves” (Knoepflmacher & Myers, 1997: vii). Lissa Paul advocates moving away from approaches that position adults and children in a them-and-us relationship in favour of looking “at children’s literature as something that keeps childhood and adolescence alive within us” (1987: 157).
59 The role of the reader in a communication act can no longer be seen as passive. Audiences are active in their engagement with texts and play a critical role in making meaning. However, as with the singular approaches previously outlined, exalting the position of the reader can be problematic. If authors cannot be separated from their broader contexts then it is equally impossible to do so for readers. Readers engage with and exist within multiple and competing discursive fields which inevitably inform their reading of a text. Meaning cannot be divorced from the contextual elements of a text’s reception or creation. As such Bennett notes that rather than liberating readers, Barthes’ advocating for “the birth of the reader” (1978: 148) actually “replaces the controlling, limiting subjectivity of the author with the controlling, limiting subjectivity of the reader” (Bennett, 2005: 18).
If we are then to acknowledge that authors, texts, and readers are contextually bound a different approach is required. Taking a constructivist position is far more useful, where the “subject and object emerge as partners in the generation of meaning” (Crotty, 2003: 9) and meaning is constantly shifting. This suggests then, that a confluence approach is necessary to take into account the dynamic relationship between the author, the text and the reader in the construction of meaning.
3.2.5. Context
Context is a fundamental element when considering communication and meaning making. As Schirato and Yell explain “meanings are not to be found or understood exclusively in terms of acts of communication, but are produced within specific cultural contexts” (2000: 1). Contexts refer to the specific social and cultural frameworks that shape an individual’s engagement with and understanding of the world. Individuals may inhabit and participate in a number of different contexts at any one time, and in this way the process of meaning making will be different for each individual. Understanding and making meaning from a communication act is therefore dependent on the cultural contexts a work was created in, as well as the contexts of reception. In this way texts are seen as inseparable from the context in which they are created.
60 3.2.5.1. New Historicism
As a reaction against New Criticism’s textual approach is the study of New Historicism, which acknowledges that a text is always “embedded in its sociohistorical context” (Rudd, 2010: 217). The underlying premise of New Historicism is that texts should be analysed in relation to the context it was created in, with the acknowledgement that this can further reveal important cultural history. As such New Historicism explores two simultaneous paths. The first is the practice of analysising texts through the lens of history to understand their contextual elements, while the second is the use of literature to explore history. Just as understanding historical context can reveal material within the text, examining the text can uncover connections to the wider historical context it was created in. Louis Montrose refers to this focus as “the historicity of texts and the textuality of history” (1989: 20).
Often centred on Renaissance literary texts, New Historicism is similar in many ways to cultural materialism (Williams, 1980/2005) and is influenced by the work of Michel Foucault (1974). Two key proponents of new historicism are Stephen Greenblatt (1980/2005) and Louis Montrose (1989) as they both examine how texts are “situated amid the discursive practices and the institutions of the period” (Culler, 2000: 144). These ideas were also explored in H. Aram Veeser’s anthology of essays The New Historicism (1989), which examined key assumptions of New Historicist discourse.
In the arena of children’s literature new historicism “treats literary texts as a space where power relationships are made visible” (Brannigan, 1998: 6). David Rudd explains the importance of this in the study of children’s texts as “children are frequently found on the underside of history, marginalized and appropriated for their signifying potential” (2010: 217-218). New Historicist Mitzi Myers notes that Romantic assumptions of childhood reveal “a culturally conditioned ideology, a tissue of assumptions, preferences, and perspectives, and not a transhistorical, universal body of truth about childhood” (1992: 135). Other influential theorists include Lynne Vallone (1994, 2009, 2011, 2013) and Claudia Nelson (2004, 2007, 2012) who explored social issues to do with gender, class, and age in children’s literature.
However, the postmodern ideas of New Historicism have faced some criticism (Paglia, 1991; Bloom, 1994; Rapp, 1998). Eschewing the notion of a singular truth in favour of
61 plural relativity, a text can no longer be read in isolation as it is always corrupted in some way by contextual factors. In this, New Historicism is criticised as lacking the rigour of more traditional historical approaches. However, New Historicists openly embrace the idea of relativity with the acknowledgement that as history develops, so too will our understandings of literature.
3.2.5.2. Minority Discourses
There have been a number of other approaches throughout the development of literary theory that have focused heavily on contextual issues. Many of these ‘minority discourses’ (Culler, 2000: 145) focus on the notion of ‘otherness’ to examine those who are marginalised and excluded on the grounds that they are considered not normal (Davis, 1995; Keith, 2001). In addition to academic explorations, these themes of difference have been addressed within the pages of fictional stories for various ages (see Simons, 2009; Vallone, 2009; Bradford, 2010; Flanagan, 2010).
A cultural studies approach suggests that texts are the product of a broader cultural collective, and an important aspect of cultural life. In relation to children’s literature, books are seen as product to be consumed much like other artifacts of children's culture (Zipes, 1997; Jenkins, 1998; Mackey, 1998). Margaret Meek (1987) posits that academic studies of children’s literature should situate themselves “within the whole culture of young people” (Benton, 2005: 96). As such, Beach and Freedman (1992) explored the cultural practices of adolescent peer groups, Sarland (1991) how children read texts in relation to other cultural texts, and Bunbury and Tabbert (1989) focused on cross-cultural studies of children’s literature. Contributing to this discussion is the work of Peter Hunt (1991), Perry Nodelman (1992), John Stephens (1992), and Roderick McGillis (1996) who argue that children are often ‘colonized’ by adults who speak for them rather than providing them with a platform to express themselves. Jacqueline Rose (1984) and Karin Lesnik-Oberstein (1994, 2004) also examined the constructed notion of childhood identity as something created by adults to reflect particular ideologies.
In children’s literature a number of theorists have focused on issues to do with race and ethnicity (Bhabha, 1994; Bradford, 2010). For instance, Postcolonial approaches
62 have engaged with the legacy of colonizing activities. Drawing upon Edward Said’s Orientalism (1978), Perry Nodelman’s essay ‘The Other: Orientalism, Colonialism, and Children’s Literature’ (1992) has been a significant example. Despite having a long history as a theme in adventure and exploration books written for children, the application of postcolonial theory in children’s literature has been somewhat limited (Reynolds, 2011). However in Australia, Bradford (1996, 2001a, 2008, 2010) has been actively engaged in applying postcolonial theory to children’s texts, particularly in relation to Australian children’s literature. Current discussions of race, multiculturalism, globalisation, immigration, and related issues are ongoing. Bradford (2001b, 2007) examines issues of Aboriginality, identity, history, and place in children’s literature, Stephens and McCallum (1998) study culture and storytelling, Beverley Naidoo (1992) and Etienne Balibar (1991) explore issues of racism and identity, while Bradford, Mallan, Stephens, and McCallum (2008) look at ideas of ethnicity, multiculturalism, and whiteness.
Sex and gender-based approaches to literary theory (Simons, 2009; Flanagan, 2010) have examined issues to do with gender (girlhood and boyhood), construction of identity, as well as sexual orientation. Studies in children’s literature have focused on how texts contribute to and perpetuate gender stereotypes (Flanagan, 2010), with many noting that stereotypical divides still exist today (Reynolds, 2011: 47). In this Judith Butler’s (1990a, 1990b) conception of gender performativity has been significant, as has Lissa Paul’s (1987) investigation of how boys and girls read (see also Showalter, 1986; Threadgold & Cranny-Francis, 1990).
Feminist theory has transformed Western literary education “through its expansion of the literary canon and the introduction of a range of new issues” (Culler, 2000: 142). Lissa Paul reflects on the history of feminist scholarship to note that “feminist criticism has become an integral part of the landscape of children’s book criticism in the twenty-first century” (2009: 115). A number of scholars have explored the relationship between feminist theory and children’s literature (Myers, 1987, 1992; Paul 1987/1990, 1998, 2005; Vallone, 1990; Clark, 1993; Trites, 1997; Zipes, 1997; Thacker, 2001; Wilkie-Stibbs, 2002). Other studies have built build on R.W. Connell’s (1995) concept of hegemonic masculinity to investigate issues to do with masculinity within children’s literature. Bradford (1998) looks at father-child relationships within picture books, while Pace (1996) focuses on similar themes present in Peter Pan and 63 Hook, Kidd (2000) explores notions of boyhood in the twentieth century, Mallan (2009) and Stephens (1996) examine gender and masculinity in respect to particular texts. Also significant is Stephens’ edited book Ways of Being Male (2002b) which foregrounded representations of masculinity in literature and film.
These discussions have lead onto explorations of Queer Theory and the “productive questioning not just of the cultural construction of sexuality but of culture itself” (Culler, 2000: 146). Studies by Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick (1985), Judith Butler (1990a, 1993, 2004), and Annamarie Jagose (1996a, 1996b) lay the groundwork for queer theory to be further explored in the realm of children’s literature by Maria Nikolajeva (2009). More recently gay and lesbian studies have featured in examinations of Young Adult fiction (Trites, 2000) and in representations of gay parenting in picture books for younger readers. Transgender studies have not been common in children’s texts, but Victoria Flanagan’s (2007) discussion of cross-dressing in children’s media is a significant addition to the discussion.
3.2.5.3. Emerging
According to Rudd (2010), there has recently been a number of emerging theoretical directions in children’s literature. Eco-theory or ecocriticism (Culler, 2000: 146) has seen the foregrounding of environmental themes (Dobrin & Kidd, 2004; Gerrard, 2004; McGillis, 2010: 23), cognitive theory focuses on unconscious human motivations (Zipes, 2006; Nodelman, 2008), and Darwinian theory provides an avenue for examining the evolution of character development within a work (Carroll, 1995, 1999; Dutton, 2004). The latter theory is of particular interest to this study as it draws on Charles Darwin’s notions of evolutionary biology, which will be discussed in more detail in the next section. Additionally, Mallan, Wu, and McGillis (2013) recently provided an account of children’s literature around the world including examinations of ‘flexible literacy’ as a response to new technologies (Hateley, 2013), children’s texts as products of consumption (Mackey, 2013), and even the presentation and signification of food in children’s books (Webb, 2013a).
Regardless of what contextual element is being studied it cannot be denied that the contexts of authors, texts, and readers function as meaningful. Context cannot exist in
64 a vacuum as authors, texts, and readers contribute to the creation of the context they operate in just as the context creates the author, text and reader. With this in mind, it is therefore necessary to consider an approach that accounts for these multiple factors as equally important elements in a systemic relationship of mutual influence.
3.2.6. Synthesis
Although the proceeding discussion has drawn boundaries through the varying theoretical approaches to literary studies, these lines are indistinct at times as each approach is tied to the work of others. While each theoretical approach to literary criticism (and in particular relation to children’s literature) illustrates important factors in the author-text-reader relationship, a perception that only takes account of one of these factors is far too limiting for a full and comprehensive understanding of children’s literature. Instead, the way forward is not isolating unique elements, but examining the author, the text, and the reader in equal relation to one another and the broader (social and cultural) contexts they exist within. This is vital as Nodelman and Reimer explain that “all writing and reading takes place within the context of larger cultural systems of meanings” (2003: 218).
Roderick McGillis echoes this sentiment by claiming that to engage with theory we must be willing “to consider the field in its full complexity and in its relationship to other fields” (2010: 16). Drawing upon Pierre Bourdieu’s (1993; see also Nodelman, 2008: 117-27) discussion of fields “as a particular placing of human action” (McGillis, 2010: 18), McGillis notes that the field of literary theory in general “is not separate from other fields” (2010: 18). More specifically, children’s literature “is not hermetically sealed from either other literature or from the field of cultural production generally” (McGillis, 2010: 14). It is therefore logical that we need an approach to literary criticism and theories of children’s literature that take into account these multiple forces in an equal manner to consider them as components of a system in operation. This mirrors the shift in thinking in communication and media research, and will also be demonstrated below as occurring in examinations of creativity. To draw these together Bourdieu’s discussion of “the set of social conditions of the production, circulation and consumption of symbolic goods” (Johnson, 1993: 9) may be useful.
65 Rather than prioritising authors, texts, readers, or their contexts, Bourdieu suggests that we need to look at “all these things at the same time” (as cited in Johnson, 1993: 9, emphasis in original).
3.3. Creativity and Cultural Production
Throughout history there has been an ongoing disconnection between creativity and research. Creativity has typically been viewed as something mysterious, indefinable and beyond the scope of research. However, creativity is often “not what most people think it is” (McIntyre, 2012a: 1). Inadequate definitions commonly promote creativity as “the use of the imagination or original ideas to create something” (Oxford Dictionary, 2015b: 406) and while this may be a component of the creative process it does not provide a useful explanation of how creativity comes into being and what actually happened when it does.
According to R. Keith Sawyer throughout western history, beliefs surrounding creativity have vacillated between two schools of thought: “rationalism and Romanticism” (2012: 23). This duality is supported and outlined in recent literature (Runco & Pritzker, 1999; Sternberg & Lubart, 2003; Boden, 2004; Negus & Pickering, 2004; Pope, 2005; Sawyer, 2006, 2012; McIntyre, 2012a). Romantic views are often premised on the fear that, much like studying love, there is a risk that examining what happens during creativity will result in its diminished value or dramatic disappearance altogether (Sternberg & Lubart, 1996; Howe, 1999: vii). On the other hand, a rational approach to studying creativity actually invites the critical examination of these cultural assumptions to confront “our cherished beliefs about creativity” (Sawyer, 2012: 33). In doing so, it is possible to leave behind commonsense and empirically unsupportable assumptions about creativity in favour of current rational and evidence- based approaches to creativity.
Throughout time, philosophers, literary theorists, scientists and so on, have contemplated the question of where creativity could be found (Stillinger, 1991). J.P. Guilford’s 1950 presidential address to the American Psychological Association (APA) was a catalyst for empirical research into creativity with his call for a more
66 scientific approach (Guilford, 1950; Feldman, Csikszentmihalyi, & Gardner, 1994; Rothenberg & Hausman, 1996; Mayer, 2003; Mumford, 2003; Pope, 2005; Runco, 2004; Sawyer, 2006, 2012). Since this time there has been a plethora of approaches to studying creativity, but most of these subspecialties have focused on only one element, the individual with their background and biology, the social conditions of production, or the cultural elements influencing the work created, at the expense of others. It is interesting to note this pattern as it corresponds to the communication triad of sender, message, receiver which is also echoed in the shifting approaches of literary theory. What will follow is an outline of where creativity research has been and where it is now. Each of the aforementioned positions will be examined to logically conclude that while they are all necessary they are not sufficient on their own. It is only by looking at a combination of these factors that we can understand creativity in all its complexity.
Taking a rational approach to creativity is important as “if men [sic] define situations as real, they are real in their consequences” (Thomas & Thomas, 1928: 572). This dictum argues that our ideological constructs and perceptions of particular situations affect the way meaning is made and actions are taken, regardless of whether or not this perception is flawed. If one prescribes to Romantic notions of the artist then “gradually a whole life-policy and the personality of the individual himself [sic]” (Thomas, 1967: 42) is shaped by these beliefs, which inevitably affects their actions in the world. Children’s literature scholars Nodelman and Reimer similarly argue that “what people believe to be obvious determines how they operate” (2003: 80) and this has subsequent consequences on a social and cultural scale (Alexander, 2003: 293). As McIntyre explains “if one changes the perspective on creativity it can be argued that a different set of practical actions, theoretical pursuits and eventually a new set of beliefs will spring from the reconceptualization of creativity” (2008c: 2). As such, it is necessary for reasons that will become apparent, to preface a detailed discussion of creativity and creativity research with a few operational definitions so that meaning is unambiguous.
Common to much modern creativity research is the identification of two key components in determining whether something is creative or not: novelty and appropriateness (Boden, 2004; Plucker, Beghetto, & Dow, 2004; Hennessey & Amabile, 2010; Sawyer, 2012). While definitions of creativity may be difficult to pin down “most researchers and theorists agree that creativity involves the development of a novel product, idea, or problem solution that is of value to the individual and/or the 67 larger social group” (Hennessey & Amabile, 2010: 572). An early discussion of this can be found in Stein’s 1953 article ‘Creativity and Culture’ with his conclusion that “the creative work is a novel work that is accepted as tenable or useful or satisfying by a group in some point in time” (1953: 311).
On a general level, novelty refers to something that is new, unique, unfamiliar and/or original. However, much like discussions of originality, this definition is simplistic in nature. Both terms suggest something that is ‘new’ to the world, independent of other ideas, that transcends the boundaries of pre-existing knowledge. But this way of thinking is problematic as creative ideas and products are always based on what came before. Csikszentmihalyi points out that “it is impossible to introduce a variation without reference to existing patterns. Without rules there cannot be exceptions and without tradition there cannot be novelty. ‘New’ is only meaningful in reference to the ‘old’” (1999: 314). Therefore the idea of novelty and originality referring to the conception of something completely new is improbable and a more realistic understanding would focus on how existing material and knowledge is put together in innovative ways. Weisberg (1993) echoes this with his contention that problem solving always involves drawing upon past experiences. In this way novel solutions are established during an incremental process that involves moving away from the initial conception by incorporating feedback on the effectiveness of the proposed solution. In
Fundamental to these ideas however, is the question of how we know if something is creative or not. In order for something to be considered novel or original it must also be assessed as appropriate. According to Csikszentmihalyi these two components are linked. For creativity to occur an individual, drawing upon their understanding of existing rules and practices, produces a novel variation within the content of a particular domain. For this novel variation to be accepted into the domain it is then assessed in terms of appropriateness by key cultural intermediaries (Csikszentmihalyi, 1999: 315). Recent research supports the role of social validation in determining the creative value of a product (Amabile & Tighe, 1993; Feldman, Csikszentmihalyi, & Gardner, 1994; Rothenberg & Hausman, 1996; Sawyer, 2006, 2012; Kaufman & Sternberg, 2010; Plucker & Makel, 2010).
At this stage it is important to note the research that has been conducted with a view to differentiate between ‘ordinary’ and ‘extraordinary’ levels or categories of creativity.
68 This desire to divide the degree to which something is considered creative attempts to determine exactly “how novel a novelty has to be, to be counted as creative” (Boden, 2004: 13). These debates tend to reinforce a division between what is commonly termed little-c and Big-C creativity (Gardner, 1993a; Nickerson, 2003; Piirto, 2004). Generally speaking little-c creativity is the production of novelty that everyone experiences, while Big-C creativity is significant in a wider cultural context. Other terms used include private and social (Harrington, 1990; Milgram, 1990), garden- variety and groundbreaking (Amabile & Tighe, 1993), everyday and eminent (Dacey & Lennon, 1998; Runco, 2007), and primary and secondary (Maslow in Sternberg, 2003). Additionally, Beghetto & Kaufman (2007, 2009) assert the need to deconstruct these categories further to examine mini-c creativity and Pro-c creativity. Mini-c creativity refers to “the novel and personally meaningful interpretation of experiences, actions, and events” (Beghetto & Kaufman, 2007: 73, emphasis in original), while Pro-c refers to “the developmental and effortful progression beyond little-c (but that has not yet attained Big-C status)” (Kaufman & Beghetto, 2009: 5). However, these dichotomous classifications are problematic as they imply that creativity can only be one or the other. Rothenberg and Hausman (1976: 8) note that thinking about creativity in this manner means that it must either be considered something that everyone possesses or only within the reach of extra special genius.
A way to bridge this unhelpful divide is by examining Margaret Boden’s (1994, 2004) discussion of P (psychological) and H (historical) creativity. Boden explains that P- creativity is personal in nature as it refers to an idea that is new and valuable to the individual regardless of how many times others have had the same idea. H-creativity on the other hand refers to an idea that is unique to an individual but also unique in the context of human history. This second category is often difficult to discern as many ideas come from multiple people and places at once. Significantly though, rather than suggesting that these are two different concepts, Boden argues they are intrinsically linked as “all H-creative ideas, by definition, are P-creative too” (1994: 77). Boden’s explanation of this connection is useful in highlighting the similarities between everyday and groundbreaking creativity as one has its foundation in the other. With this in mind it is possible that this distinction is somewhat arbitrary, as if the only difference is historical significance then it stands to reason that the thinking involved in each is the same: creative.
69 3.3.1. Myths about the Romantic Artist
There have been many myths surrounding creativity, with the two most prevalent being the inspirational and the romantic views (Boden, 2004: 14). The inspirational view of creativity is one of the oldest approaches to considering authorship (Burke, 1995) and is often connected with Christian divinity. The idea of inspiration is firmly entrenched in the western Greco-Roman Judeo-Christian intellectual tradition (Albert & Runco, 2003; Sternberg & Lubart, 2003; Pope, 2005; Sawyer, 2006, 2012) whereby creativity is considered the product of divine insight. Stemming from the Genesis creation narrative, whereby the Earth was created ex nihilo, individuals are thought to produce ideas in and out of nothing. This inspiration was seen to come from beyond the individual who was merely considered an empty vessel through which enlightenment was channelled by the gods – the Muse (Plato, 1971; Balin, 1988; Weisberg, 1993; Wolff, 1993; Sternberg & Lubart, 2003), or “by power divine” (Boden, 2004: 14). Throughout history there are many examples of cultural artefacts that are considered to be the product of creative talent, or genius (Albert & Runco, 2003) and many creators who proudly claim they are vessels through which the Muse operates. For instance, Plato described poetry as “divine and from the gods, and that poets are nothing but interpreters of the gods, each one possessed by the divinity to whom he is in bondage” (1971: 220). These accounts are still prevalent in Western culture (Tomasevskij, 1995; Piirto, 2004), as it is inherently difficult to analyse unconscious thought as it occurs during the creative process (Csikszentmihalyi, 1997).
The romantic view of creativity, on the other hand, transfers the attribution of creativity from the divine to the individual. As a reaction against the Enlightenment’s advocacy of reason and rationality, Romanticism’s popularity during the Renaissance emphasised the individual as the sole site of creative conception. This Kantian notion of genius implies creativity is the product of extraordinary individuals using an innate talent (Boden, 2004: 15). As Howe explains, Kant believed “genius was an incommunicable gift that cannot be taught or handed on, but is mysteriously imparted to certain artists by nature, and dies with the person” (1999: 1). This belief is commonly seen in stereotypes of the struggling and reclusive artist who is often portrayed as a mad “quasi-neurotic who channels his near-pathology into a socially permissible path” (Zolberg, 1990: 110). These ideas found further support in the
70 nineteenth century where, following Kant’s belief in the creator’s control of his “freely functioning imagination” (Rothenberg & Hausman, 1976: 29), they were solidified in radical freethinking ideas of self-expression and self-discovery. This focus on the author as controller of meaning has roots in literary theory and can be seen in the Russian formalist discussion of the “individualisation of creativity” (Tomasevskij, 1995: 82). These common views, derived predominantly from Western conceptions of creativity, continue to be widely held (Sawyer, 2012).
3.3.1.1. Genius
One consequence of Romantic thinking was to focus attention solely on the notion of a uniquely talented individual: a genius. As a result, creativity research has been dominated by the view that while some people may be considered talented, “original genius was truly exceptional and by definition was to be exempt from the rules, customs, and obligations that applied to the talented” (Albert & Runco, 2003: 21). This definition emerged during the eighteenth century and has continued to exist as part of the common consciousness (Becker, 1992; Howe, 1999; Albert & Runco, 2003; Pope, 2005; Watson, 2005; Sawyer, 2006, 2012; McIntyre, 2012a).
When considering the notion of genius the term itself is used in multiple ways, which clouds definitive definition. It is often used as an accolade bestowed upon someone to signify their importance, it can refer to an external spirit that provides guidance, and it also refers to outstanding accomplishments and valuable contributions to particular fields (Howe, 1999). What is interesting though, is that the term genius is most often applied to achievements rather than personal characteristics. While it cannot be denied that talent and extraordinary work do occur, Howe (1999) argues that people we ascribe the term genius to are made from the same basic materials as the rest of us. He explains “the fact that they spring from the same flesh and blood as everyone else makes geniuses all the more impressive, not less” (Howe, 1999: vii). What this does suggest however is that the concept of individual genius and all that it entails is probably not the most useful explanation for human creativity.
There have been a number of investigations into the notion of genius. Sir Francis Galton (1892) posited that genius was a biologically based deviation caused by brain
71 degeneration. He examined physical characteristics to hypothesise a link between two abnormal deviations: genius and insanity. Cesare Lombroso (1996) had previously detailed similar physical traits such as height, pallor, and left-handedness and behaviours such as stammering as indications of genius. Freud uncritically accepted these ideas (Petrie, 1991: 4-5) to contemplate a link between genius and insanity. He argued that highly creative people are driven by unconscious motivations and prone to disorders such as schizophrenia, bi- polar, depression and so on. However fellow psychoanalyst Carl Jung counter-argued that art (and by association creativity) “is not a disease, and consequently requires a different approach from the medical one” (1966a: 71). As such Jung’s (1971b) work on behavioural differences and personality types has been useful to the study of creativity. Nevertheless, current research rejects the idea of genius in favour of approaches that account for preparation and conscious effort (Weisberg, 1993, 2006; Gardner, 1993c; Howe, 1999; Feldman, 2003; Negus & Pickering, 2004; Sawyer, 2006, 2012; Runco, 2007, McIntyre 2012a).
3.3.1.2. Rational
Both the inspirational and romantic views are inadequate as rational explanations of creativity. They have prevailed throughout history simply because they are “believed by many to be literally true. But they are rarely critically examined” (Boden, 2004: 14). Victoria Alexander explains this deeply rooted nature as “these ideas shape the conditions under which artists work and underlie our judgments of artistic value” (2003: 293). For instance, within the arena of creative writing “the characteristic effect has been to play down the act of writing itself, as a deliberately learned and practiced craft” (Negus & Pickering, 2004: 3). Instead it is generally promoted that ideas unexpectedly materialize from the ether, fully formed, without the need to edit or revise. If these myths are to be seen as true they suggest that for a writer to be creative they must either sit and wait until their muse inspires them, channel a divine spirit, or recognise their innate talent or genius, as it would be fruitless to try and enhance it.
Unfortunately this way of thinking tends “to view part of the phenomenon…as the whole phenomenon, often resulting in what we believe is a narrow, unsatisfying vision of creativity” (Sternberg & Lubart, 2003: 12). Instead, Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi
72 suggests that to completely understand creativity “we need to abandon the Ptolemaic view of creativity, in which the person is at the centre of everything, for a more Copernican model in which the person is part of a system of mutual influences and information” (1988: 336). As such a confluence approach that accounts for a multitude of elements is necessary (Amabile, 1982, 2010; Csikszentmihalyi, 1988, 1997, 1999; Sternberg & Lubart, 1996; Dacey & Lennon, 1998; Simonton, 1999b; Gruber & Wallace, 2003; Sawyer, 2006, 2012).
The following discussion will examine the literature on creativity research to illustrate a number of key approaches. It will then conclude with an examination of confluence approaches, including Bourdieu’s ideas of cultural production and Csikszentmihalyi’s systems model of creativity.
3.3.2. Biological Approaches:
Examinations that focus on the individual as the source of creativity have often focused on biological factors that can be measured and quantified (see Martindale’s summary, 2003: 137-152). This attitude to the study of creativity is built upon the premise that “exceptional genius must be hardwired in the brain” (Sawyer, 2012: 157) and that a closer examination of the brain should reveal the source of creativity. With a strong individual focus, research on creativity came to be popularised in the academic world in the 1950s following J.P. Guilford’s presidential address to the American Psychological Association. Guilford outlined a conceptual framework for “isolating various traits of intellect and personality that ‘creative’ individuals might possess in greater quantity than others” (Feldman et al., 1994: 4) and this has provided a solid foundation from which other approaches have been built. What follows then is a brief examination of biological approaches to the study of creativity.
3.3.2.1. Genetics
The study of genetics suggests that, “man’s natural abilities are derived by inheritance” (Rothenberg & Hausman, 1976: 12). As such research has been conducted to examine
73 the genetic code present within an individual’s cells in an attempt to find the source of creativity (see Kaufman & Sternberg, 2010). Sawyer (2012: 157-158) explains that this broad belief in genetic differences manifests itself throughout Western society through multiple institutions including media and government.
An important foundational study is that of Galton (1892) who argued that creativity was a hereditary trait transferred through bloodlines from generation to generation. This Darwinian investigation compared the genetic background (including physical traits) of eminent men from a variety of fields along with their families. However, the research was limited as it neglected to consider other contextual social and cultural factors such as nepotism as an explanation for familial success within particular domains. As a result, Galton later broadened his scope to consider additional factors including familial structure and education (Simonton, 2003: 305). Following Galton’s assertion of a “general biological function in genius and by implication creativity” (Rothenberg & Hausman, 1976: 12), others such as Lombroso (1996) made similar connections arguing that genius was a biological inheritance. Several studies have focused on determining heritability of traits with twin studies (Galton, 1875; Barron, 1972) comparing “inter-twin correlations” between monozygotic (identical) and dizygotic (fraternal) twins. However most found no evidence that creativity is a heritable trait (Vandenberg, 1968; Reznikoff, Domino, Bridges, & Honeyman, 1973; Nichols, 1978; Sawyer, 2012: 181).
More recently, a number of researchers have investigated the biology of sex and gender and potential connections to creativity (see Hennessey & Amabile, 2010: 587). Conti, Collins, and Picariello (2001) determined that gender differences in high school students were limited as any disparities may actually be the result of gendered reactions (both taught and expected) to constraining situations. Additionally, research conducted by Lee (2002) among tertiary students concluded that gender did not play a significant role in the creative thinking abilities of students when asked to complete problem-solving and problem-finding tasks.
Neuroscientists (as will be discussed in more detail shortly) argue that while there is a relationship between genetics and mental functions, there is not a one-to-one correlation between genes, consciousness and creativity (Greenfield, 2008). There is a nested hierarchy of brain organisation whereby there are several vital connections in
74 operation between genes and complex brain functions. So while genes are a necessary component of brain function they are not sufficient in themselves to explain complex mental processes (Greenfield, 2008). Instead there is a two-way interaction between the 100 billion neurons present in the brain and the actions people take in the world. The more stimulation and exercise the brain receives from external (and internal) stimuli, the more neuronal connections will grow making them easier targets for increasing inputs so in turn more connections between ideas are made. In this way, the development of the brain is both a reflection of lived experiences and a determining factor in the way humans will respond and react to certain events and things. Nevertheless, as far as current research has progressed, a specific genetic foundation for creativity has not been uncovered (Lumsden, 2003; Reuter, Roth, Holve, & Hennig, 2006; Greenfield, 2008; Sawyer, 2012). As the following research areas will illustrate, although certain genes may relate to general cognitive abilities, there are no specific genes for creativity. Instead some researchers suggest that specific inherited traits may provide an individual with a “genetic predisposition” (Csikszentmihalyi, 1997: 52, emphasis in original) for creativity. So while genetics may encourage the potential for creativity (Runco, 2007), other factors such as an individual’s life experience as well as the social and cultural contexts they exist within must be considered as important influences on creativity.
3.3.2.2. Brain Research
Research into creativity as a brain-based trait became popular due to the Romantic beliefs of the 19th century, including the now largely discredited study of phrenology. More recently, neurobiologists have focused on the relationship between the brain and the mind to examine how creative thoughts develop within the brain. The focus of neuroscience has been to examine the processes that occur inside the brain during moments of creative thinking. Researchers focusing on cognitive neuroscience have used brain-imaging techniques such as functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI) (Howard-Jones, Blakemore, Samuel, Summers, & Claxton, 2005; Limb & Braun, 2008), positron emission tomography (PET) (Bekhtereva, Dan’ko, Starchenko, Pakhomov, & Medvedev, 2001), and electroencephalogram (EEG) (Bekhtereva et al., 2001; Jung-Beeman et al., 2004; Flaherty, 2005) among others, to examine specific
75 sections of the brain and their animation during creative activity (see Sawyer, 2012: 185-207 for a comprehensive overview). While this is an emerging area with more work to be done, these tests are physically restricted, usually consist of verbal or psychometric tests that have been shown to possess limited predictive value, and “the differences in activation reported are never more than 3% above the baseline state” (Sawyer, 2012: 201).
Much early brain research has focused on the idea of “cerebral lateralization” (Csikszentmihalyi, 2003: 330) suggesting that there is a difference in brain function between the right and left sides of the brain. Neurobiologist Roger Sperry (1964, 1969) conducted a significant study in which he surgically separated the two hemispheres of the brain as a form of treatment for severe epileptic seizures. Sperry then presented his split-brain patients with experimental uni-hemispheric tasks. The results revealed that while both hemispheres are anatomically identical, they possess separate (yet complementary) functions. Joseph and Glenda Bogen similarly examined hemispheric independence to suggest that “the hemispheres are not as much ‘major’ and ‘minor’ as that they are complementary” (1969: 194) and that creativity requires a combination of skills from both sides. Sperry’s study consisted of six patients and as the medical field advanced its knowledge of the brain, surgeons recognised the dramatic impact this kind of surgery had on brain function and developed a modified procedure which severed only three fourths of the connection between the two hemispheres (Bogen & Bogen, 1988: 295). As such, these studies were only able to work with a small number of patients (Sawyer, 2012: 160).
Unfortunately this work was oversimplified in the popular media leading to widespread misunderstanding of the bisected brain and (independent) hemispheric brain function (Hellige, 1993; Runco, 2007; Kaufman & Sternberg, 2010). As a result, much of the research in this line has tended to “extrapolate wildly from fairly restricted data until every human polarity is described to hemispheric difference” (Truax, 1984: 52). This was evident during the 1970s where the mainstream media disseminating the simplistic notion that the right side of the brain commanded rationality, while the left side represented creativity. This manifested the misunderstanding that left-handed people are more creative than those with a dominant right hand (Hellige, 1993; Sawyer, 2006, 2012). Other popular examples from this time include Robert Ornstein’s The Psychology of Consciousness (1972) and Betty Edwards’ Drawing on the Right 76 Side of the Brain (1979), which are still in use and form part of the common consciousness today.
In addition to studies that focused on split-brain patients, studies have also been conducted on patients with brain lesions as a result of strokes or head injuries. However, these too are limited as these conditions are relatively rare, which makes the chances of finding someone who is highly talented in a particular domain that has brain damage even smaller (Sawyer, 2012: 161). Nevertheless, such studies include examinations of drawings made by people with left-hemisphere damage compared to those with right-hemisphere damage (Warrington, James, & Kinsbourne, 1966; Gardner, 1975). The general conclusion was that each hemisphere plays a distinct but essential role in drawing. However, as Sawyer notes, “the results of localised brain damage change depending on the creative domain” (2012: 162). Winner (1982: 345) found that as language is generally a localised brain function of the left-hemisphere, writers who suffer lesions in the left-hemisphere never write again, while writers with right-hemisphere damage, although they may experience difficulties in general, they can continue writing. More recently, Zaidel (2005) examined 15 painters and composers with unilateral brain damage and found that they continued to work following their injuries and their individual styles remained recognisable. This retention of skill and style is also evident in published cases of artists with brain degeneration illnesses including Parkinson’s, Alzheimer’s, and other dementia (Sawyer, 2012: 162). These cases suggest that there is no specific localised region within either hemisphere of the brain that controls or specialises in artistic production.
While a few researchers suggest that certain acts of creativity rely on the functional dominance of one hemisphere over the other (Katz, 1986; Hoppe, 1988; Heilman, 2005; Chávez-Eakle, 2007), most conclude that activity within and between both hemispheres is more likely. Joseph Hellige (1993) argues that it is not possible to simply divide brain function into left and right hemispheres as complex mental functions operate through inter-hemispheric collaboration. There are more connections between the two sides of the brain than there are disconnections as is evidenced by the corpus callosum, a thick bundle of between 100 and 200 million neurons connecting the two hemispheres (Sawyer, 2012: 159-160). In this way, recent studies (Hellige, 1993; Boden, 2004; Pope, 2005, Sawyer, 2006, 2012) indicate that characterising creativity as the product of a single hemisphere provides a limited understanding of the 77 creative brain. Instead the components necessary for creativity within a particular domain are located throughout the brain as a whole and creative thoughts are generated through “massive parallel processing” (Hennessey & Amabile, 2010: 574). With this in mind, “creativity requires a constant dialogue between the hemispheres” (Sawyer, 2006: 83). As such, recent research demonstrates that the structure of the brain consists of “complex networks of complementary activity all over” (Pope, 2005: 115) with both hemispheres essential to a creative outcome (Dacey & Lennon, 1998; Martindale, 2003; Runco, 2004; Kaufman & Sternberg, 2010; Sawyer, 2012).
With a monist understanding of the mind/brain duality, neuropsychology seeks to explain creativity by examining the role of neurochemical processes in cognitive function. Recent neuroscientific research contends that the structures of the brain mutate to adapt to environmental influences and external experiences an individual may encounter including family life, education, institutional interactions, as well as social and cultural factors (Greenfield, 2000; Damasio, 2001; Heilman, 2005). This changeability is referred to as plasticity (Greenfield, 2000; Pfenninger, 2001; Sawyer, 2012), and begins during early brain development continuing throughout adulthood. Plasticity refers to more than simple fact learning to examine how “the structure of the brain itself can change” (Sawyer, 2012: 203) over years, but in as little time as a few weeks. Brain imaging studies have shown that trained musicians (Schlaug, 2006; Berkowitz & Ansari, 2010), artists (Bhattacharya & Petsche, 2005), and dancers (Fink et al., 2009) think about their work in a different way to those who are untrained. This reveals that rather than being predetermined by birth or genetics, “neuronal activation can change fairly dramatically in response to environmental influences, experience, and learning” (Sawyer, 2012: 204).
With advancements of technology researchers have been able to examine the creative brain at a neurological level like never before. This can be seen in studies of people who live with brain abnormalities and injuries such as aphasia and dementia (Miller, Boone, Cummings, Read, & Mishkin, 2000; Mell, Howard, & Miller, 2003; Miller & Hou, 2004) as well as theoretical abstractions about the relationship between brain function and creativity (Vandervert, Schimpf, & Liu, 2007). However, much like other disciplinary approaches to creativity, the study of a neurological basis includes mixed results (Bekhtereva et al., 2001) and has not reached a consensus on how best to proceed. Hennessey and Amabile explain that while advancements in technology have 78 provided groundbreaking discoveries “we are not anywhere near the point of being able to image the creative process as it unfolds in the human brain” (2010: 574). In fact, much of the evidence suggests that creative people possess the same general brain structures and undergo similar thinking processes as ‘ordinary’ people do (Weisberg, 1993, 2006; Dacey & Lennon, 1998; Heilman, 2005; Greenfield, 2008; Sawyer, 2012: 204-205). In relation to this research this is significant as an individual’s brain is influenced and shaped by the social and cultural contexts they exist within. The more someone engages within a particular domain, the more their brain will strengthen its connections, which in turn increases the possibilities of idea generation.
3.3.2.3. Intelligence
Another persistent stereotype of the creative individual is that they possess extraordinary levels of intelligence (MacKinnon, 1970; Baer & Kaufman, 2006; Sawyer, 2006). Deeply rooted in Romanticism this belief considers creativity as a measurable mental trait that all humans possessed to varying degrees. There have been various attempts within psychology research to connect creativity with intelligence but as yet there is limited agreement about the correlation between the two (Sternberg & O'Hara, 2003; Runco, 2004; Batey & Furnham, 2006; Hee Kim, Cramond, & VanTassel-Baska, 2010).
J.P. Guilford’s 1950 APA Presidential address outlined the prevalent belief that creativity and the intelligence quotient (IQ) were inextricably linked and could be quantified in order to identify childhood genius. This paved the way for psychometric (pen-and-paper) tests including Alternative Uses and Consequences (Guilford, 1954), inkblots (Sternberg & O'Hara, 2003; Heilman, 2005), and the Torrance Test for Creative Thinking (Torrance, 1962, 1988), which had some limited predictive success. Building upon Guilford’s ideas during World War II, ability testing was conducted for the military in order to predict which individuals might excel at “leadership, innovation or technological inventiveness” (Feldman, Csikszentmihalyi, & Gardner, 1994: 5). But again these have proven limited in their ability to predict creativity. Most current IQ tests are based on the ten-factor Cattell-Horn-Carroll (CHC) theory (Flanagan, Ortiz, & Alfonso, 2007: 18; Kaufman, 2009) which covers both general
79 cognitive abilities as well as specific domain-related abilities. However these tests were unsuccessful in their attempts to measure and predict intelligence, and most current research concludes that while IQ results may correlate with certain types of achievement like grades and job performance, it cannot predict adult eminence or distinction (Sawyer, 2012: 53).
In the early 1960s, Jacob Getzels and Philip Jackson (1962; also Fuchs-Beauchamp, Karnes, & Johnson, 1993) undertook a study of high school students to conclude that the traits of creativity and intelligence were statistically independent. As a result they posited the ‘threshold theory’ suggesting that a certain level of intelligence (an IQ of 120) is necessary for creativity, but anything beyond that threshold does not increase the possibility of creativity (Barron & Harrington, 1981; Baer & Kaufman, 2006; Batey & Furnham, 2006; Sawyer, 2006, 2012; Kozbelt, Beghetto, & Runco, 2010). However this theory has been criticised for lacking supportive evidence (Runco & Albert, 1986; Wakefield, 1991), having limited predictive value (Sawyer, 2012: 53), and it has been suggested that the level of IQ necessary to produce creative works may differ according to discipline (Barron & Harrington, 1981; Sternberg & O’Hara, 2003).
Other studies have investigated the parallels between creativity and giftedness (James & Asmus, 2001; Feist & Barron, 2003; Hennessey, 2004), but Hennessey & Amabile (2010) note that these two notions should not be conflated. Runco (1999) and Winner (2000) suggest the requirements to be a creator differ greatly in terms of skills and personality from those typical of gifted children. According to Sternberg (2001) creativity should be considered in a dialectical relationship with intelligence and wisdom. Gardner (1993b, 1999) argued for an understanding of multiple intelligences, while Sternberg (2003) noted that the skills emphasised within a particular culture inevitably influence that culture’s understanding of intelligence. He argued that this has lead to a disparity in the idea of Western intelligence and that of other cultures. In general, intelligence tests are problematic as a singular measure of creativity, as they tend to only gauge a person’s ability to address problems using specific tactics such as divergent thinking. With this in mind, while intelligence may be a necessary requirement for creative it is not sufficient on its own (Runco, 2007: 7).
Interestingly, while these types of tests attempt to measure a person’s general creativity ability, there is significant research to suggest that creative ability is more
80 likely domain-specific (Hirschfeld & Gelman, 1994; Kaufman & Baer, 2005), that is, expertise and knowledge relating to a specific domain. As will be discussed in detail shortly, a domain consists of a set of everyday practices, symbolic language, and previously produced material, as such domain-specific creative ability involves understanding and operating with a keen foundation of domain knowledge. If this is the case, it is clear why general creativity tests remain unsuccessful (Baer, 1993– 1994). A number of studies including Runco (1989), Conti, Coon, and Amabile (1996), and Baer (1998) looked at products in different domains made by the same people and found only minor connections between them suggesting that creative ability is not identical across domains. Similarly Sternberg (Sternberg & Lubart, 1991, 1995, 1996; Lubart & Sternberg, 1995; Sternberg, 1999b: 304) determined that divergent thinking was domain specific. Recent research concludes that creative activity relies on both a domain-general component as well as a domain-specific component (Amabile, 1983; Creative Research Journal special issue, 11(2), 1998; Kaufman & Baer, 2005). With this in mind it is suggested that further attempts at creative assessment should account for this hierarchical structure by measuring domain-general and domain-specific components in conjunction with one another (Sawyer, 2012).
3.3.2.4. Mental Illness
One very prominent and persistent myth surrounding the mistaken conception of creativity being the result of extraordinary thought processes or biological brain function is the attempt to draw a systematic link between creativity and mental illness. This belief has its origin in the early 1800s, and can be seen in Plato’s (1971) assertion that poets, when they are writing, are gripped by madness. Cesare Lombroso (1891/1984), argued that geniuses were afflicted with certain ‘degenerations’ including physical characteristics such as shortness, hunchbacks, and club feet, as well as issues with stammering, sterility, sleepwalking, and mental illness. However, Lombroso’s theory had minimal empirical support and has since been rejected. Becker (2000) notes that artists within the Romantic movement would assume an unsettled affectation in order to distinguish themselves as true artists and different from ordinary people. This idea was popularised by Freud’s (1900) work on psychoanalysis with its focus on
81 neurosis and primary-process thoughts. As such, this myth of psychopathology has “transformed into a widely held belief that precludes the possibility of total mental health and sanity for the creative genius” (Hennessey & Amabile, 2010: 578) and still fascinates us today. A number of recent studies explore the link between psychopathology and creative behaviour. For instance, Prentky (2001) suggests that particular cognitive styles associated with creativity shared a common biological ancestry with those associated with predisposition to mental illness (see also Cox & Leon, 1999; Abraham & Windmann, 2008). However Chávez-Eakle, del Carmen, and Cruz–Fuentes (2006) suggest that psychopathology is more connected to personality than creativity, while Claridge (1992) notes that affective disorders are more likely to inhibit creativity than encourage it.
The two mental illnesses most associated with creativity are schizophrenia and bipolar disorder. The supposed link between schizophrenia and creativity draws on the ideas of Freudian theory whereby individuals are seen to be driven by repressed desires and often regress to infantile irrationality (Sass, 1992). While these ideas still have roots in Humanist psychology and practices such as art therapy, rigorous research shows that only a small number of schizophrenics engage in creative behaviour so a definitive connection between schizophrenia and creativity has not been found (see Creativity Research Journal special issue, 2001, 13(1); Sawyer, 2012). As Barron and Harrington concluded, “the core characteristics of the creative person…are certainly not those of someone in the throes of a bout with schizophrenia, nor even of the schizotypic personality” (1981: 462).
Attempts to connect bipolar disorder with creativity suggest that manic phases enhance creative insight while normal and depressive phases encourage reflection for evaluation and elaboration (Jamison, 1993, 1995). Dacey and Lennon (1998: 140-144) outline a number of studies that suggest the occurrence of bipolar disorder is higher among those who work within the creative arts. Jamison (1993, 1995) and Andreasen’s (1997) studies found a significant occurrence of depression among writers (almost 50%), with Ludwig (1992) noting that approximately 10% of writers and poets commit suicide. More recently, Kinney and Richards (2007) note an elevated incidence of mood disorders in the fine arts, Gartner (2005) argues evidence of hypomania among successful entrepreneurs, and Kaufman (2005) confirmed that mental illness in Eastern European countries was more likely in poets than other types of writers. However, 82 Ghadirian, Gregoire, and Kosmidis (2001) note that creative ability did not differ in those with bipolar disorders compared to those with other mental disorders.
These ideas have been subject to much criticism. For instance, many of these studies have a problem with source verification. As a number of significant creative individuals thought to have schizophrenia and bipolar disorder are long dead, diagnoses can only be made from historical records sometimes centuries after eminent individuals have died, which do not provide a complete account. Additionally, as Sass (2001: 66) argued in regards to Jamison’s studies, many are too limited in scope while too broad in their definition of affective disorders and as such are self-fulfilling predictions. In this, it must be noted that the higher frequency of mental illness within artistic professions could be attributed to certain expectations common to these professions, for instance drug use in musicians, or reclusiveness amongst writers especially poets (Ludwig, 1992: 351). This pathologising of mental illness is considered within certain circles to be part of the “professional ideology of what it means to be truly creative” (Becker, 2000: 45). Weisberg (2006), following his summary of recent research on creativity and mental illness, notes that instead of accepting the myth that mental illness leads to creativity, it is possible that people are drawn to certain career paths that suit the particular personality characteristics they possess.
While it is acknowledged that mental illness has a limiting and at times devastating effect on one’s ability to function, the notion that mental illness is a portal to creativity and special cognition is a myth that dies hard. This idea “has taken on the status of a cultural myth” (Sawyer, 2012: 164) as evident in mainstream media representations of mentally ill creative characters and the persistent mythology surrounding creative artists. As Rothenberg noted, “The need to believe in a connection between creativity and madness appears to be so strong that affirmations are welcomed and quoted rather uncritically” (1990: 150). A number of researchers have examined how these assumptions have developed (Becker, 2001; Sass, 2001) as well as the flawed logic that they are premised on (Rothenberg, 2006). Runco notes that the area of mental illness and creativity “receives so much study because it is newsworthy” (2007: 152). Nevertheless, the resounding conclusion is that the link between creativity and mental illness remains unconvincing (Weisberg, 1993, 2006; Runco, 2007; Glazer, 2009; Kaufman, 2009; Schlesinger, 2009; Sawyer, 2012). Various quantitative studies have 83 actually shown that the percentage of notable creative individuals suffering from some form of mental illness are statistically comparable to numbers found within the general population (Ellis, 1904; Bowerman, 1947; Juda, 1949; Goertzel & Goertzel, 1962/2004; Post, 1994). As Kaufman warns: “Psychologists who are interested in these areas should make sure they are not glorifying illness, stigmatizing creative people, or generally causing havoc” (2009: 130).
3.3.2.5. Drugs and Alcohol
Biological studies have also concentrated on bio-chemical elements and brain function when under the influence of various introduced substances. While much of the information in the popular press has lead to the common assumption that creativity is often the result of or enhanced by drug use, most studies show that creative performance is negatively affected by this kind of chemical imbalance. For instance, studies on the effect of marijuana on creativity suggest a negative influence on memory, motivation, comprehension skills, and other cognitive tasks key to creativity, (Plucker & Dana, 1999: 609). Yet, some studies are contradictory in their results. Janiger examined the effect of LSD on artists and while they reported “original insights, fresh perspectives and novel, creative ways to express themselves through their art” (1999: 6), when their work was evaluated by an art expert it showed decreased technical ability. While some claim that low cortical arousal, which can be induced through use of marijuana and opium, could be linked to creativity (Heilman, Nadeau, & Beversdorf, 2003; Martindale, 2003), others note that an increase in cortical arousal, induced by cocaine, amphetamines and opiates, can enhance novelty-seeking behaviour, supposedly a prerequisite to creativity (Kandel, Schwartz, & Jessell, 2000).
There have also been a number of studies on alcohol addiction and its effect on the creative process (Ludwig, 1990; Rothenberg, 1990; Piirto, 2002, 2005; Heilman, 2005). For instance, Ludwig (1990) found that creative output was impaired by alcohol for over 75% of his heavy drinking creative artist subjects. He noted however, the complexity of the relationship between alcohol and creativity varied for each individual according to their psychological and motivational issues, levels of drinking, as well as their general level of talent. The persistent belief that creative writers are
84 prone to addiction issues (Heilman et al., 2003) is evident in popular culture, particularly in the West. The saying ‘write drunk, edit sober’, typically attributed to Hemmingway is one particularly popular example. However, this quote conceals the reality of extreme dedication to learning and honing the craft of writing in order to be able to perform it to a high standard (Sawyer, 2006, 2012). This is echoed in Rothenberg’s (1990) study of heavy drinking writers where he notes that the majority did not write while under the influence. He also explained that anecdotal reports of writing under the influence often conform to Western perceptions of a creative writer (Rothenberg, 1990; Plucker & Dana, 1998). This has been demonstrated in other research where placebos have been used and the subjects expected an increase in creativity (Lapp, Collins, & Izzo, 1994; Norlander, 1999).
Nevertheless, research into addiction theory concludes that there is little evidence to suggest that drugs and alcohol enhance creativity (Rothenberg, 1990; Block, Farinpour, & Braverman, 1992; Dacey & Lennon, 1998: 145; Kaufman, 2009). As Kaufman notes, “any connection between drug use and creativity is largely one manufactured in the drug user’s mind” (2009: 124). The inconsistencies in the aforementioned studies demonstrate that research on substances introduced to the brain and their connection to creativity is problematic. While drugs and alcohol do affect brain function (see Greenfield, 2000: 77-96, 2008: 73-78) it cannot be conclusively claimed that they have an affect, either positive or negative, on creativity.
What these studies do suggest is that there is more to creativity than simply an individual’s biology. Biological approaches to creativity undoubtedly provide important information, however they are not sufficient as the sole explanation of creative activity. As Gardner says “you could know every bit of neurocircuitry in somebody’s head, and you still would not know whether or not that person was creative” (2001: 130). Instead it is acknowledged that biological approaches must be considered in conjunction with other methodological approaches (such as those that account for social and cultural influences) to provide a more comprehensive approach to understanding creativity. Cognitive neuroscientist Antonio R. Damasio elaborates saying “it is not possible to discuss the neuroscience of creativity without considering information from a variety of disciplines outside neuroscience” (2001: 59). What follows then is the next layer of the onion to provide necessary information: the psychological approach. 85 3.3.3. Psychological Approaches
The field of psychology has contributed to creativity research through a number of significant approaches (Runco & Pritzker, 1999; Sternberg & Lubart, 2003; Sawyer, 2006, 2012; Kozbelt, Beghetto, & Runco, 2010; McIntyre, 2012a) and while some of these have been connected to Romantic ideology, there are a number that have contributed some ideas of interest. Following a similar path to research in other disciplines, psychological research has tended to focus on individual-centred theories. Especially with the persistent myth is that creative thinking is something undertaken by extraordinary people and is therefore different to general thinking. However this distinction is misleading and ultimately unsupported by scientific research (Boden, 1994; Howe, 1999; Sawyer, 2006, 2012). As Herb Simon (1990) argues, “creativity is thinking; it just happens to be thinking that leads to results that we think are great” (as cited in Amabile & Tighe, 1993: 7). As such, current research advocates a complex approach to the study of creativity, which considers the individual in conjunction with their social and cultural environments.
3.3.3.1. Psychodynamic
The psychodynamic school associated creativity with unconscious thought arguing that a creator is ultimately passive during the creative processes. Typified by the psychoanalytic work of Sigmund Freud (1959), the psychodynamic school examined possible tensions between conscious and unconscious drives. Freud’s work advocated a distinction between two different modes of thinking: primary- and secondary- process. He argued that free-associative primary-process thinking generated ideas and fuelled the artistic mind (Martindale, 2003: 138) while secondary-process thought is conscious, rational, and logical (Evans & Deehan, 1988; Weisberg, 2006), useful when evaluating and elaborating upon ideas. For Freud, the arts were ‘compensatory phenomena’ where artists subliminally reveal their unconscious (and sexually unfulfilled) desires through their work. He posited that the imaginative thinking of artists required the “same mental processes as daydreams, fantasies, and full-fledged neuroses (1907/1989)” (Sawyer, 2012: 82). Freud continued to examine creativity by researching the unconscious effects of unfulfilled sexual desires, childhood trauma,
86 and madness on one’s artistic performance (Collins & Amabile, 2003; Ward, Smith, & Finke, 2003; Negus & Pickering, 2004; Piirto, 2004; Sawyer, 2006, 2012; Weisberg, 2006).
This linking of creativity with mental dysfunction has remained as a common thread throughout creativity research, however most research suggests that there is not a direct correlation between the two (Sawyer, 2006, 2012: Weisberg, 2006). Modern psychoanalysists conclude that creativity most likely involves a balance of primary and secondary thought processes and that maintaining this delicate balance would be difficult “in the presence of mental illness” (Sawyer, 2012: 83).
3.3.3.2. Psychometric
In an attempt to boost empirical research into creativity psychometric approaches emerged seeking to measure creativity in a concrete and quantitative manner. Research was premised on the idea that intelligence was the basis of creativity while tests were devised and conducted to define and measure psychological traits identified as important. In particular, psychometric testing tended to focus on divergent thinking, ease of idea generation, originality, and ability to expand upon the ideas generated (Getzels & Jackson, 1962; Guilford, 1967; Torrance, 1997).
One popular avenue of research was to suggest that convergent thinking, finding the solution in one single answer, was aligned with intelligence, while divergent thinking, finding many potential solutions, was an indicator of creativity. Tests were developed to examine divergent thinking and its relationship to intelligence. Research in this area was lead by Guilford’s Structure-of-Intellect model (1967), which influenced a number of subsequent tests including the Torrance Tests of Creative Thinking (1974) and the Wallach-Kogan creativity tests (1965). The tests aimed to identify potentially creative children to streamline their education and enhance their potential abilities. However there were a number of problems with these tests including the possibility that students were influenced by teacher expectations (Wallach, 1988), and that results did not necessarily correlate with an increase in real-life creative output (Guilford, 1970; Cattell, 1971; Baer, 1993). Additionally there is a difficulty in determining whether these tests are specifically measuring creativity or other social traits (Sawyer, 2012:
87 61). After reviewing hundreds of studies, Barron and Harrington (1981) concluded that there could not be a concrete determination of the relationship between divergent thinking and creativity.
Other attempts were made to identify creativity in children using standardised measures such as the Barron-Welsh Revised Art Scale (Barron & Welsh, 1952), the Gough-Helibrun Adjective Checklist (Gough & Helibrun, 1965), the Domino Creativity Scale (Domino, 1970), and the Schaefer and Anastasi (1968) Biographical Inventory Scale. However, attempts to measure levels of creativity with psychometric personality tests eventually abandoned (Nicholls, 1972; Cooper, 1991; Wakefield, 1991; Feist & Runco, 1993; Sawyer, 2006, 2012). While psychometric approaches did not succeed in determining traits unique to creative individuals they were significant in their quantitative attempt to compare subjects on a standard scale (Ward, Smith, & Finke, 2003). More recently theorists have suggested that creativity requires both divergent and convergent thinking to generate, evaluate, and pursue novel ideas (Evans & Deehan, 1988; Csikszentmihalyi, 1997; Sawyer, 2006, 2012).
3.3.3.3. Pragmatic
The pragmatic approach to creativity considers creative thinking as “extraordinary in its capacity to break out of our past experience” (Weisberg, 1993: 68). Predominantly used within commercial contexts, the pragmatic approach consists of practical techniques for teaching and developing creativity. A significant example of the pragmatic approach to creativity is Edward de Bono’s ideas of lateral thinking (1967, 1968, 1977) which consist of generating ideas that break with established knowledge systems. For de Bono, these shifts in perception constitute the creative process. Alex Osborne (1963) extended these ideas by focusing on creative brainstorming and idea generation in a group environment (Nickerson, 2003).
However, a number of studies note that rather than increasing creativity, lateral thinking and brainstorming often inhibit it (Martindale, 2003; Paulus & Brown, 2003). De Bono (1993: x) himself notes that brainstorming is not a useful measure of creativity as it focuses too much on generating outlandish ideas over developing relevant skills. As such, various pragmatic techniques can no longer be supported by
88 empirical evidence (Sawyer, 2006). The pragmatic approach also makes the same mistake that other Romantic views of creativity do. By placing too much attention on the moment of idea generation, it mistakes a singular moment for the whole process of creativity implying that ideas simply appear, unconnected to prior knowledge or contexts.
3.3.3.4. Cognitive
By the 1970s institutional support for studies focusing on the creative personality had stagnated (Feist & Runco, 1993: 280) and by the 1980s the failure of these studies to achieve their goal of identifying creative potential in children had been acknowledged (Feldman, Csikszentmihalyi, & Gardner, 1994). In the interim, psychologists shifted focus away from behaviourism and personality studies to examine the ordinary, everyday mental processes of the mind. This approach was called cognitive psychology and focused on the way people “accumulate knowledge, organise their experiences, and recall memories; how they put their knowledge to work to make decisions and solve problems from the simplest to the most complex” (Ward, Finke & Smith, 1995: 9). In examining brain functions this way it was proposed that creativity stemmed from the commonplace mental processes involved in all activities rather than something radically unique (Simonton, 1990; Ward et al., 2003; Piirto, 2004; Sawyer, 2006, 2012; Runco, 2007).
As such, there have been a number of investigative paths through cognitive psychology. Freud’s (1931) theories on conscious and unconscious processes represent an early attempt to explain the mental processes underlying creative thought. Ideas of “cross-fertilization” (Koestler, 1964: 230) concerned with the connections made between thoughts and ideas have also been of interest. Associationism hypothesises that the more ideas present in one’s mind, the more likely they are to connect and result in a creative output (Evans & Deehan, 1988: 49). Koestler’s (1964) theory of bisociation similarly addressed this to suggest that disparate ideas are unconsciously synthesised into a novel one. These theories however, have been criticised for failing to consider the influence of social and cultural contexts, and for implying that
89 associations are made independent of preceding ideas which has since been shown to be untrue (Weisberg, 1993).
More recent explorations in cognitive research on creativity include Finke, Ward, and Smith’s geneplore model (1992, 1995, 2003), which attempts to combine cognitive phases of idea generation and mental exploration. Treffinger and Selby (2004) used a rubric to determine individual problem-solving styles, while Scott, Lonergan, and Mumford (2005) similarly employed an experiment to compare and contrast different approaches to generating solutions. Kaufman and Baer (2002) utilised anecdotal accounts alongside a case-study methodology “to conclude that the cognitive mechanisms underlying creative performance are domain specific” (Hennessey & Amabile, 2010: 575). While Ward (2001) notes the importance of a holistic enquiry that includes both self reporting and laboratory investigations. In line with Weisberg’s (1993, 1997, 2006) hypothesis, these various theories reject the notion of creativity as the product of an extraordinary mind, arguing instead that creative thinking involves multiple complex mental processes much like any other type of thought process.
The key to theories of creative cognition is the acknowledgement that every idea builds upon those that already exist. As is the case with much of the research on creativity, the literature connecting cognitive processes and creative behaviour is complicated and researchers should be cautious when attempting to explain creative achievement through the lens of a single model (Hennessey & Amabile, 2010: 576). While they provide some insight into an individual’s mental processes, cognitive theories are not a sufficient explanation of creativity without considering the role of external (social and cultural) influences.
Embedded within the ideas of creative cognition is the question of whether or not creativity can be taught (and whether it can be taught as a domain-general skill or should be domain-specific). Unsurprisingly, these ideas have been very popular among commercial enterprise as a way of potentially boosting corporate productivity. Sidney Parnes and E. Paul Torrance were among the first psychologists to posit that creativity could be taught (Parnes, 1993). After 20 years of research Torrance (1972) reported 142 studies demonstrating that training could enhance creativity. Many of these focused on methods such as brainstorming (Osborn, 1963) and staged processes involving divergent and convergent thinking (Perkins, 2000). More recently a number
90 of studies have assessed participant’s creativity before and after training to determine whether an increase would occur, with several finding that creativity levels were indeed raised (Sternberg & Williams, 1996; Ansburg & Dominowski, 2000; Scott, Leritz, & Mumford, 2004). However, these were relatively limited with researchers generally concluding that long-term, continuous education is more effective than singular, short workshops (Nickerson, 2003; Sawyer, 2012) as it builds knowledge, skills, and provides opportunity to evaluate progress and amend any errors (Cropley, 1997). As such, it is generally agreed that while domain-general skills are useful, domain-specific training is the most effective (Jay & Perkins, 1997; Baer, 1998; Dow & Mayer, 2004).
Similarly when it comes to learning, most creativity researchers acknowledge that creativity, while supported by domain-general skills, is primarily domain-specific (Sawyer, 2012: 58-60). As such, a number of researchers suggest that creative learning should be embedded within all subject areas (Craft, Jeffrey, & Leibling, 2001; Gardner, 2007). Formalised school systems are the logical place for this to occur, however as DeZutter (2011) notes most education textbooks fail to illuminate how teachers may foster creativity in their students. So the challenge is to help students move beyond simple memorisation and regurgitation to master domain knowledge so that they may apply what they have learned to creatively solve problems not explicitly taught (Mayer, 1989: 203). Mayer (1984) suggests that student assessment, while accounting for student’s ability to retain facts, should also focus on their capacity to transfer existing knowledge to new problems. As such, he posits that schools should “teach creative learning skills within specific content domains rather than as a separate course in general learning skills” (1989: 204). For interested teachers, a number of researchers have catalogued certain practices and attitudes that assist in nurturing creativity (Torrance, 1965, 1970; Feldhusen & Treffinger, 1980: 32; Sternberg & Williams, 1996; Cropley, 1997; Fleith, 2000; Rejskind, 2000; Piirto, 2004; Craft, 2005: 43–45; Schacter, Thum, & Zifkin, 2006). Many of these skills are analogous to practices associated with good teaching (Kind & Kind, 2007), but focus specifically on student-led teaching whereby the teacher is a facilitator and fellow collaborator in the learning process and the student plays an active role in knowledge building (Sawyer, 2004; Scardamalia & Bereiter, 2006). Sawyer (2012: 415) summarises the diverse literature on this area by concluding that for a person to enhance their creative
91 potential they should continue to build domain-general skills while concentrating on mastering their domain-specific knowledge and skills.
3.3.3.5. Social-Personality
Developing adjacent to the cognitive school were the ideas of social-personality approaches. Moving beyond examinations of an individual’s mental attributes, the social-personality approach considered the relationship between nature, an individual’s inherited composition, and nurture, the broader social and cultural environment an individual exists within. These approaches emphasised that creativity was directly influenced by a number of variables including personality traits, motivation, and one’s sociocultural environment (Sternberg, 1999a; Ward, et al., 2003).
Research into personality traits built upon psychometric approaches in an attempt to identify and isolate particular personality traits as characteristic of creative practice (see summaries in Sawyer, 2012: 63-85; Runco, 2007: 279-317; Feist, 2010). This research was typified in the work of MacKinnon (1965) with his study of professionals including scientists, mathematicians, and engineers as well as more traditional creative types such as writers. MacKinnon (1965) dismissed Romantic notions of creative neuroses to classify three distinct areas of personality relating to creativity: socialisation, complexity of psychological development, and psychological health and adjustment. In addition to personality traits, MacKinnon notes that the “social and intellectual climate in which a child grows up” (1970: 530) is also very important.
A number of researchers have compiled lists of core characteristics thought to be common personality traits in creative individuals including MacKinnon (1978), Barron and Harrington (1981), Tardif and Sternberg (1997), Feist (1998), and Csikszentmihalyi (1997) who summarised that creative people often harbour opposing tendencies and are extremely complex. One prominent study is that of the Big Five model of personality types (Cattell, 1957; Tupes & Christal, 1961; Costa & McCrae, 1987, 1992; Digman, 1990; Goldberg, 1993), which remains a widely utilised measure of personality traits today (Furnham, 2008). The five-factor model identified key clusters of traits including openness to experience, conscientiousness, extraversion, agreeableness, and neuroticism. Of these, openness to experience (which encompasses
92 an openness to fantasy, aesthetics, feelings, actions, ideas, and values) has been most closely associated with creativity (McCrae, 1987; King, Walker, & Broyles, 1996; Carson, Peterson, & Higgins, 2005; Silvia et al., 2008). However, at best this is a partial correlation as there is a significant variation in ability to predict creativity scores (Furnham, Crump, Batey, & Chamorro-Premuzic, 2009; Silvia, Martin, & Nusbaum, 2009), with further studies indicating that these traits are limited in their ability to predict behaviour (Mershon & Gorsuch, 1988; Paunonen & Ashton, 2001). Other studies into behaviour traits have identified a sense of curiosity (Kashdan & Fincham, 2002), levels of self-confidence (Kaufman, 2002), and motivation (Amabile et al., 1993, 1994) as being important for creativity. The notion of intrinsic motivation, where a task is undertaken out of personal interest, satisfaction, and a sense of challenge rather than under strict direction, has been of particular interest. Recently, Prabhu, Sutton, and Sauser (2008) concluded that intrinsic motivation is a stable personality trait with a positive effect on creativity.
While these studies demonstrate some frequency of particular personality traits within creative people, they often presume that creativity is a domain-general trait. However, as has already been suggested, creativity requires domain-specific knowledge and skills, which further suggests that personality traits would also vary across creative domains. Additionally, these studies reveal questions regarding the degree to which personality is innate or contextual and embraced as a result of socialisation. Most recent research suggests that while certain key personality traits may be inherent, how they manifest often depends upon the social environment in which the person finds him/herself (Sawyer, 2012). The concept of ‘goodness of fit’ has been posited as an explanation that brings together an individual’s personality traits with their surrounding social environment (Thomas & Chess, 1977; Carey & McDevitt, 1995; Chess & Thomas, 1996, 1999; McClowry, Rodriguez, & Koslowitz, 2008). Stemming from psychology, and often in relation to parenting young children, goodness of fit refers to the compatibility of a person’s temperament or personality traits with features of their surrounding social environment. Specifically, goodness of fit is about how an individual’s particular trait interacts with their environment and how it interacts with other people within that contextual situation to determine how well matched or antagonistic they may be (Ollendick & Schroeder, 2003: 98). Nevertheless, most recent research concludes that while some observations appear to hold true for some
93 creative people, there are no particular traits that hold true for all (Hennessey & Amabile, 2010: 577; Sawyer, 2012). Regardless, it is interesting to note that these characteristics are “all habits of highly effective people” (Sawyer, 2012: 65) not dysfunctional neurotics, as Romantic myths of creativity would lead us to believe.
While psychological perspectives encourage examination of issues to do with nature and nurture, they are primarily concerned with the individual and therefore limited in their ability to provide a complete understanding of creativity. Hennessey and Amabile argue that while “research into the psychology of creativity has grown theoretically and methodologically sophisticated, and researchers have made important contributions from an ever-expanding variety of disciplines” (2010: 569) they have typically been unaware of advances in disciplines other than their own. A psychological approach is certainly necessary but it is not sufficient as a sole explanation of creativity. Instead moving away from psychologically reductionist (Simonton, 2003) approached towards an interdisciplinary research is required, as “more progress will be made when more researchers recognise that creativity arises through a system of interrelated forces operating at multiple levels” (Hennessey & Amabile, 2010: 571). With this in mind, following a discussion of the individual, it is pertinent to move to an examination that takes into account broader social and cultural influences. The next significant body of research to be examined then is that which shifts focus from the singular authorial individual to account for the role of the audience in determining multiple meanings.
3.3.4. Shift from Structuralism to Poststructuralism
Much of this has been discussed previously in the Children’s Literature section of this literature review. However, it is worthwhile revisiting it in relation to creativity and cultural production. The theories outlined below represent a shift in thinking away from the notion of Authorial intention with its focus on an individual creator with a singular view of the world, towards an examination of the reader’s active role in making meaning with an acknowledgment of the plurality this involves. Advocating for an active audience necessarily prompts consideration about the social aspect of
94 creating meaning and ultimately asks whether audiences might be considered as important participants in the creative process.
Firstly, we must begin with the ideas of structuralism. Structural approaches to creativity propose that to understand surface events one must look at the underlying structures involved. Structuralism seeks to expose these underlying conceptual frameworks in order to make “sense of our cultural and social world” (Fiske, 1990: 115). Three significant figures of this intellectual movement are Karl Marx, Sigmund Freud and Ferdinand de Saussure as each shared “a conviction that surface events and phenomena are to be explained by structures, data, and phenomena below the surface” (De George & De George, 1972: xii). Other structural thinkers included C.S. Pierce, Roman Jakobson, Claude Levi-Strauss, and Roland Barthes who were preoccupied with semiotics and narrative structures. The general premise unifying all structural thinkers, regardless of particular interests, is the notion that the world can be explained through one systematic approach. With this in mind, if the goal is to understand all things, then only one thing must be understood: structure.
Eventually with the introduction of critical theory from Roland Barthes (1977) and Michel Foucault (1977) theoretical perspectives began to seek a way out of structural determinism while shying away from the notion of absolute freedom promoted by phenomenologists and existentialists. The key direction of poststructuralism was its movement away from absolute truth towards understanding and acknowledging the relative aspects of worldly phenomena. In relation to creativity, the poststructuralist perspective suggested that too much weight had been given to individual creators at the expense of the meaning-making (creative) role audiences engage in. This can be seen in Jean Francois Lyotard’s (1984) examination of the collapse of metanarratives in favour of plural narratives; Jacques Derrida’s (1976) discussion of deconstruction and the iterable and infinite regression of meaning in language; and Jean Baudrillard’s (1988, 1994) examination of signs and simulacra in human culture and their free- floating relationship to reality.
As outlined previously in the discussion of literary theory, a significant reaction against individual-focused theories is Roland Barthes’ (1977) famous proclamation of the author’s death. According to Barthes (1977) the concept of the author stems from the 16th to the 18th century with the Reformation and Enlightenment whereby the
95 prestige of the individual was acknowledged as paramount. He suggests that this conception of the author is the epitome of capitalist ideology, which emphasises the individual rather than the object of creation. As such authors were elevated to a god- like status, and their work was considered an extension of them and a means of unlocking their intended meaning. His rhetorical call shifted the dialogue away from person-centred views of authorship and authorial intention to firmly argue that meaning-making as a form of creativity lies within the relationship a reader has with a text (Buscombe, 1981; Stillinger, 1991; Burke, 1992, 1995; Bennett, 2005).
By altering the discourse away from the typical Romantic “glorification of the author” (Burke, 1992: 25), Barthes encouraged a reconsideration of the reader’s creative position when making meaning. Writing is no longer a representational act but a performative gesture, and the resulting text is eternal. Meaning is not restricted by the creator’s single existence in time and space but rather the origin of meaning lies exclusively in language itself and its impressions on the reader (Culler, 1983). The role of the reader is therefore to engage in meaning making and interpret texts on their own merit. Yet this is problematic as isolating meaning within the reading of a text is just as limiting as constraining it to the author’s intention (Bennett, 2005: 18).
Michel Foucault (1977) similarly examined the nature of authorship, suggesting it be re-appraised and redefined in a number of specific ways. He posits that rather than the author themselves being significant; it is the author’s name that serves a useful function. This author-function works as a means of classifying and grouping certain texts together, to create a discursive framework through which to discuss authors’ rights and responsibilities (for instance ownership and copyright), and to assist with how the audience views the work (Foucault, 1977: 153). Foucault also notes that the notion of the author is not necessarily referring to a specific individual, as it can give rise to several simultaneous selves occupied by various subjects (1977: 153). Towards the end of his essay, Foucault argues that the author is not a source of infinite meaning, but rather part of a larger system of beliefs that serve to limit and restrict meaning. He also acknowledges that while the author-function may disappear, it does not mean a return to absolute freedom. He argues that there will always be a ‘system of constraint’ (1977) in place, as one set of limitations will inevitably replace another.
96 Foucault (1974) also considered the notion of discourse as an important poststructural concept. Discourse refers to ways of thinking, speaking and understanding particular events, ideas, and issues that are socially, culturally and temporally specific but dynamic enough to change over time (O’Shaughnessy & Stadler, 2008). For Foucault, discourse is intimately related to issues of social power. He suggested that power is not always negative, repressive and top-down, but instead is “a productive network which runs through the whole social body” (Foucault, 1980: 119).
The pivot in thinking these arguments encouraged was significant. While Barthes and Foucault radically advocated that the reception and interpretation of a text was perhaps more important than the initial creation, the result of these rhetoric arguments was that more attention was given to the active role that audiences play in the generation of meaning. These arguments were therefore a precursor to active audience and reception theories made popular in the 1960s and 1970s (see Holland, 1968, 1975; Bleich, 1975, 1977, 1978; Hirsch, 1976; Iser, 1978; Rosenblatt, 1978; Fish, 1980). Nevertheless, while this shift away from authorial intention produced a poststructural antithesis that considered the power of the reader, this position has proved to be just as problematic in its singular focus. Instead it is important to examine creativity in light of how the producer and the audience both contribute to the cultural production of a text.
3.3.5. Culture
Raymond Williams (1961), key poststructuralist and founder of cultural studies, argued that the focus on the individual producer as the source of creativity should be reconsidered in light of the limitations this way of thinking places on understandings of art. Instead Williams noted that communication, as the creative activity of making meaning, “must also include reception and response” (1961: 29-30). As such, the receiver (using the terminology of the communication triad) must be considered as equally important as the producer. This then lead to the examination of culture as an important component in generating meaning.
The very notion of culture has been contested since the late 19th century definition provided by Edward Tylor suggested that culture “is that complex whole which includes knowledge, belief, art, law, morals, custom, and any other capabilities and 97 habits acquired by man as a member of society” (1871/1920: 1). Culture is conveyed throughout time and space using conceptual symbol systems consisting of patterns of encoded meaning in a similar way to language (Csikszentmihalyi, 1999: 317; Sawyer, 2012: 266). Raymond Williams in his book Culture (1981) outlines the various ways in which culture has been referred to and utilised. Summarising his definitions, it could be said that culture indicates “the whole way of life of a distinct people or other social group” (Williams, 1981: 11) as well as the “artistic and intellectual activities” (Williams, 1981: 13) of that social group. Pluralities of distinct cultures are created as a result of groups of people working, living and pursuing leisure activities together: creating their own way of life. Sawyer echoes this definition saying that cultural creativity is “a creativity of everyday life…[where] novelty is a transformation of cultural practices and appropriateness is the value to a community” (2012: 266). It is an understanding of creativity that focuses on practices rather than products. Sawyer explains that every member of a culture is engaged in reproducing and reinventing traditions and cultural processes through their very existence.
Drawing from communication studies, cultural studies seeks to understand culture as a complex phenomenon by exposing power relationships and their influence on cultural practices, examining social and political contexts, and providing a moral evaluation and commitment to changing the identified structures of dominance (Sardar & Van Loon, 1998: 9). The foundational belief underpinning cultural studies is that “ordinary, everyday culture needs to be taken seriously” (Hesmondhalgh, 2002: 39, emphasis in original). As a reaction to the elitist notions which position popular culture as superior to everyday culture, cultural studies seeks to reject all tacit alignment with top-down models of power.
As such, Hesmondhalgh (2002, 2006) advocates the position of audiences in the creative construction of meaning making, but not to the extent of Barthes’ marginalisation of the author. Instead he argues that ‘symbol creators’ are as important as audiences and supports a cultural industries approach that accounts for both in addition to the economic, political, organisational and social contexts they exist and operate within (2002: 34). Nevertheless, cultural studies has typically focused on the role of audiences as consumers and meaning-makers over the contribution of producers (Willis, 1990; Frith, 1992; Schulman, 1993; Hesmondhalgh, 2002; Toynbee 2003). McQuail (2010: 405-6) explains that in this view texts are read and meaning is 98 constructed through subjective audience perception and interpretation. Audiences are acknowledged as active participants in the meaning-making process, rejecting passive models of audience studies.
The social theorists of the Frankfurt School, including Theodor Adorno, Max Horkheimer, Herbert Marcuse, and Walter Benjamin, were among the first to observe the importance of the ‘culture industry’. The culture industry signified the mass production and commodification of cultural artifacts. These products then functioned as key agents of socialisation to encourage the legitimation and passive acceptance of capitalist ideology (Holt & Perren, 2009). Adorno and Horkheimer’s controversial essay ‘The Culture Industry’ (1944) typify this discussion as they argued that culture had become commodified and lost its “capacity to act as a utopian critique” (Hesmondhalgh, 2002: 15). Adorno and Horkheimer (1944) saw a negative dialectic between high culture and popular culture and strongly believed that popular culture duped people into passively accepting the dominant hegemony of capitalism, which in turn prevented awareness of the alienation and oppression of their lives. They argued that if the working class could be shown the value of high culture they would revolt and throw off the shackles of their oppression. These ideas have been critiqued heavily as they are elitist in nature and tacitly align with top-down models of power. Nevertheless these ruminations were significant in promoting a mode of thinking about popular culture that is still popular today (Hesmondhalgh, 2002: 16).
French sociologists however, rejected the use of the singular term ‘Culture Industry’ in favour of the plural ‘cultural industries’ arguing that rather than being a unified field, cultural industries are contested spaces constantly in a state of flux. This is echoed in recent examinations, which expand the categories of cultural industries (Hesmondhalgh, 2002: 11; Wikström, 2009: 14) as well as providing alternate terms including ‘creative industries’ and ‘copyright industry’. Wikström (2009: 17) argues that the latter is the least ambiguous as it is the legislation of copyright that makes cultural commodification possible. Accompanying this reconsideration of cultural industries was an acknowledgement that industrialisation and technological advances “also led to exciting new directions and innovations” (Hesmondhalgh, 2002: 16). Miège (1989) explained that commodification, an unavoidable a characteristic of cultural industries, also provided the possibility of innovation and improvement.
99 Research that examines the power of culture and cultural industries are important as they influence the work of symbol creators as well as audiences “in bringing about more general industrial, social and cultural change” (Hesmondhalgh, 2002: 23). However, in a similar manner to individual-focused approaches, cultural studies research has predominantly focused on only one element in an attempt to understand creativity: the audience. While this has encouraged an understanding of audiences as creative participants in the generation of meaning, research in this area has tended to prioritise the power of the audience rather than seeing them as having equal power as encoders. Instead what is necessary is an approach that takes into account the complexity of these approaches in a holistic manner.
3.3.6. Sociological approaches
Extending upon these ideas, a sociological approach to creativity acknowledges the multitude of people involved in the production of art and considers the role that social contexts have upon determinations of creativity. The notion of creativity as a collective practice can be connected to Karl Marx’ contention that all art is a social product, and as a result much of the research in this area has concentrated on the social elements to do with the production of art (Wolff, 1993; Tanner, 2003). This is problematic however, as it falls into the familiar pattern of conflating creativity with artistic practice. Instead Arthur A. Berger suggests that the term artist can be more broadly understood as referring to “all those involved with the creation and production of texts” (1995: 146). In this way, the individual creator is seen to operate within the boundaries of a specific institution and this relationship is examined to see how structural constraints may influence creativity (Zolberg, 1990). The individual is important, but they are understood as only one element within a system of social relationships.
Moving away from the belief that cultural items are the product of the lone individual, a number of studies have focused on creativity within groups (see Paulus & Nijstad, 2003; Sawyer, 2006, 2007, 2012; Hennessey & Amabile, 2010). This research acknowledges that groups, teams, and ensembles increasingly play a role in creating products. Sawyer argues that the key to groups performing at their creative peak is
100 “when they share a common set of conventions and knowledge and yet also have complementary sets of expertise; and when the organisation rewards group collaboration” (Sawyer, 2012: 246).
Research in this area has extended to examine organisational-level studies of creativity, which further reject individualist approaches (see summary in Sawyer, 2012: 249-263). An organisation may be conceived of as a ‘community of practice’ where groups of people share their profession and craft with one another (Lave & Wenger, 1991). A community of practice may evolve naturally, but in the case of organisations they are deliberately created with the goal to construct a specific domain of knowledge. While generally a physical entity, with the increase in modern technology a community of practice may be ‘virtual’ (Dubé, Bourhis, & Jacob, 2005) or even ‘mobile’ (Kietzmann, Plangger, Eaton, Heilgenberg, Pitt, & Berthon, 2013). Studies of organisational-level creativity explore the connections between internal operational procedures occurring within collaborative teamwork, institutional structures and workplace culture, as well as external cultural influences such as governance and general market performance (Grønhaug & Kaufmann, 1988; King & Anderson, 1995; Sawyer, 2012). Organisational creativity is therefore seen as an emergent property occurring through the interaction of complex social systems.
When explaining how innovative ideas and products arise from this complex interaction, often as the result of research teams with multiple members, Sawyer (2007) refers to ‘collaborative webs’. Although certain elements of a project may be traced back to specific individuals, the genesis of those ideas can be seen to build on ideas of others (Evans & Sims, 1997; Sawyer, 2007), therefore emerging from a collaborative context that is nested within the entire organisational system (Sawyer & DeZutter, 2009). Sawyer notes that this “long historical path of small, incremental mini-insights that accumulate to result in the emergence of the final product” (2012: 252) is often unclear to consumers as the general public is not privy to this complex organisational system.
Ideas regarding organisational-level creativity provide an important perspective from which to reconsider the problems presented by individualist approaches to creativity. The notion of distributed creativity is useful here as it refers “to situations where collaborating groups of individuals collectively generate a shared creative product”
101 (Sawyer & DeZutter, 2009: 82). As such, when individuals collaborate, the creative process should not be seen as the product of any one individual, but rather as distributed across the members of the group (Sawyer & DeZutter, 2009; Glăveanu, 2014). With this in mind, it is important to consider how individuals work in collaboration with one another in a social and collectivist approach to innovative practice.
This shift towards a social understanding of creativity has been echoed in other disciplines with an increased focus on geographical and historical location, as well as political and economic stability. Such studies include work on national attributes (Candolle in Simonton, 2003), changes to political climate and economic stability (Kavolis, 1964; Sorokin, 1968), and historical factors in periods of creative growth (Simonton, 2003). Even psychological approaches began to take a more holistic attitude to studying the individual with researchers conducting detailed biographical studies of eminent individuals (Goertzel & Goertzel, 1965; Simonton, 1999a: 116- 133).
Drawing from the ideas of Symbolic Interactionists, an important social theorist is Howard Becker (1974, 1982) with his discussion of Art Worlds. Becker (1982) argued that in order to understand the process of art production it is essential to consider not only the system in operation on an artist, but also the work of other participants as a critical part of that system. Becker’s central argument is that art is a collective activity, or creative process, in which many people are involved and that every component of this process shapes the final product. There is a division of labour within each art world where those involved in the core activity (producing art) are designated the title of artist while the rest are considered supporting personnel. Although this division may appear natural it is arbitrary in nature, as it only exists through mutual agreement of those who perform the work (Becker, 1982: 13). Art works, or creative products, are therefore “shaped by the whole system that produces them, not just by the people we think of as artists” (Alexander, 2003: 68). As such, this argument rejects the notion of individual genius in favour of conceptualising creativity as a socially constructed collective activity that is in a constant state of negotiation (Tanner, 2003: 74).
Becker argues that the many people involved in an art world navigate and work within the structures of pre-existing conventions and social contexts in order to share and
102 convey meaning. As such, art is constrained by what existing institutions can integrate and understand and those involved in the production of art adapt to and work within these limitations. This system of constraints that agents work within “make some things possible, some easy, and others harder; every pattern of availability reflects the working of some kind of social organization and becomes part of the pattern of constraints and possibilities that shapes the art produced” (Becker, 1982: 92). Becker encourages an examination of every activity, which must be undertaken in order for a work to appear as a final product (Alexander, 2003: 68). However, he notes that not every task must be done in order for a work to be finished, as “the work will occur in some other way” (Becker, 1982: 5). He also acknowledges that while doing without an element of the process will affect the work produced, it “is far different from saying that it cannot exists at all unless these activities are performed” (Becker, 1982: 5).
Becker’s work is useful as it accounts for both the production and distribution of art as well as the systemic relationships between “creators, distribution networks, art works, and society” (Alexander, 2003: 67). It is also of interest as if the artist is no longer considered an exceptional genius but rather a participant in a collective process of creation, then logic would argue that the other participants who perform ancillary tasks should be acknowledged as contributing to the creative process.
While Becker’s approach in Art Worlds is useful in examining the dynamic ways in which people interact in order for work to be completed, there have been several critiques worthy of consideration. Significant is the work of Vera Zolberg (1990) who notes that Becker’s primary “emphasis on collective action and institutional process, makes artists seem passive to an extreme” (1990: 129). This idea and the subsequent suppression of the role of the artist, is an idea that has been taken to its extreme by literary critics and theorists who rhetorically called for the death of the author (Barthes, 1977). Zolberg also critiques Becker’s explanation of art worlds arguing that his depiction of them as distinct with limited interaction is unrealistic. However, this critique is somewhat of a misinterpretation as Becker explicitly notes “even though everyone involved understands and respects the distinctions which keep them separate, a sociological analysis should take account of how they are not so separate after all” (1982: 36). He also explains that the boundaries of art worlds are fluid as they are determined and maintained by the people within them, and therefore subject to change upon agreement (Becker, 1982: 13). In this way, the operational structure of an art 103 world is evidence of its doxa whereby “the natural and social world appears as self- evident” (Bourdieu, 1977: 142). In this respect it is similar to Csikszentmihalyi’s (1997) discussion of domains merging to accommodate changes in knowledge as they develop. Becker’s argument is also criticised for failing to account for the reasons why someone excels (Zolberg, 1990; Bourdieu, 2003) and why someone might be motivated to participate within an art world (Zangwill, 2002). But later research (Bailin, 1988; Zolberg, 1990; Wolff, 1993) noted that social structures provide the means of identifying and selecting artists, the work they produce, and methods of distribution. Nevertheless, the legacy of Becker’s work is the strong reminder “to be wary of assuming that only one artist is to be credited with a work” (Zolberg, 1990: 132). Instead we must acknowledge the collective process that is involved with bringing things into being (Aristotle, 1960), as without support personnel, much art would not make it into the public sphere.
Another significant sociological theorist is Janet Wolff (1981, 1993) who echoes Marx with her contention that “art is a social product” (1993: 1) and the collective result of the work of all previous history. Wolff (1981) advocated using the term producer instead of artist and argues that the distinction often made about artistic creativity being different to other forms of creativity is entirely arbitrary and unnecessary. Instead she argues that art is manufactured in much the same way as other products are and influenced by the same historic, economic, and social structures (Wolff, 1981).
She explains that while creativity is a collective activity, individual creators operate within an unavoidable set of structures that both enable and constrain their activity (Wolff, 1981: 9). As humans we are “multiply determined - by social factors, psychological factors, neurological and chemical factors” (Wolff, 1981: 20) and rather than limiting our potential, these structures assist “by providing the conditions of action and offering choices of action” (1981: 24). By moving away from Romantic notions of structures as limiting and controlling, they are instead recognised as being “both the product of human agency and the conditions for human agency” (Wolff, 1981: 21). As such Wolff acknowledges the equal importance of producers and receivers and their interaction with social and cultural structures.
Anthony Giddens (1976, 1984) also pursued the interrelated nature of structure and agency (although not specifically focused on creativity). Similar to Wolff, Giddens
104 notes “the realm of human agency is bounded. Men produce society, but they do so as historically located actors, and not under conditions of their own choosing” (1976: 160). For Giddens, social structures are patterns of interaction that exist throughout time and space. These social systems, such as bureaucratic or corporate institutions, are considered structures “that display some continuity over time, but which may also change as time passes” (Haralambos & Holbern, 1995: 904).
According to Giddens, it is necessary to move beyond thinking about structure and action as two separate, opposing forces and instead consider them as a symbiotic phenomenon. He offers a solution to illustrate this inextricable link with his proposal of the term ‘structuration’. This combination of structure and action provides equal emphasis to both concepts in an effort to reflect the duality of structure as “structure is not to be equated with constraint but is always both constraining and enabling” (Giddens, 1984: 25).
Also important to this discussion of sociological is the work of Pierre Bourdieu (1977, 1984, 1990b, 1993). While Bourdieu’s ideas on cultural production will be discussed in further detail presently, this section will focus on his attempt to reconcile theories of agency and structure. Through much of his career, Bourdieu’s central concern was with this relationship. His work contemplated how humans behaved in regulated ways while still believing their actions to be the result of free will. According to Bourdieu agency was not the manifestation of complete freedom, but instead referred to an individual’s capacity to understand and control his or her own actions. Structure, on the other hand, represented the broader organisation of social institutions and cultural norms such as social class, religion, gender, ethnicity, and customs, that agents were inescapably embedded and which unavoidably influenced their actions. Through the negotiation of this relationship, Bourdieu argued that practice and therefore creative production was possible.
Similar to Giddens’ work on structuration (1984), Bourdieu sought a synthesis that would examine and explain “people’s practices and the contexts in which those practices occur” (Webb, Schirato, & Danaher, 2002: 21). A possible solution to explain an agent’s ability to operate within structures was presented in Bourdieu’s concept of habitus. Habitus refers to how and why individuals behave in particular contexts, as it is “the result of a long process of inculcation, beginning in early
105 childhood, which becomes a ‘second sense’ or a second nature” (Johnson, 1993: 5). Bourdieu describes habitus as an intangible “feel for the game” (Bourdieu, 1998: 80), which although developed over a lifetime of socialisation, is often fleeting in nature, as it is both durable and transposable (Bourdieu, 1990b: 53). This accumulated knowledge is unique to each individual and generates a set of dispositions, which in turn influence “beliefs, values, behaviours and attitudes” (Webb et al., 2002: 38). In this way, Bourdieu, rejecting deterministic structural theories, believed that agents were able to construct and reconstruct their worlds.
Structure is therefore an unavoidable and, in fact, necessary component of the human experience. By acknowledging and understanding structural constraints it is possible for individuals to make choices and operate relatively unfettered. Instead of denying possibilities of practice, operational structures are an important element in enabling creativity.
While a sociological approach is necessary to move beyond a solely individual approach, it is also similarly problematic in that it tends to place the emphasis on societal and cultural structures at the expense of individual achievement. Zolberg emphasises this problem arguing that devaluing the author and “amputating initial creation distorts the sociological project of understanding the relations of society and art as much as does ignoring reception” (1990: 114). So what is necessary then is an approach that takes into account the author, the text and the reader within a complex system of contexts. This then leads us to a logical ‘reconceptualisation of creativity’ (McIntyre, 2009) that considers the interaction and confluence of multiple elements.
3.3.7. Reconceptualising Creativity
As the preceding review of literature establishes, there is no firm causal relationship between creativity and one singular variable. Using Hegelian terms, creativity research has focused initially on thesis of individual genius and then moved examine the antithetical idea of social context. While each approach has been significant in developing creativity research and providing useful information about the creative process, alone they cannot adequately account for the complexity involved. In order to bridge this divide the next rational step would be to consider a synthesis whereby 106 “multiple components must converge for creativity to occur” (Sternberg & Lubart, 2003: 10). Research then, as with that in media and children’s literature, is pointing towards a confluence approach that examines personal factors as well as broader social and cultural contexts.
Hennessey and Amabile explain “what we need now are all encompassing systems theories of creativity designed to tie together and make sense of the diversity of perspectives found in the literature” (2010: 590). In this vein there are a number of confluence models that have been suggested as frameworks for understanding the complexity of creativity including the Componential Theory (Amabile, 1982, 1990, 1993, 1996), Evolving-Systems Model (Gruber, 1989, 1997, 2003), Evolution Theory (Simonton, 1999b, 2000), Investment Theory (Sternberg & Lubart, 1992, 1996), Biopsychosocial model (Dacey & Lennon, 1998). Although each of these models is noteworthy, this thesis will examine Pierre Bourdieu’s work on cultural production (1977, 1993, 1996) along side Csikszentmihalyi’s systems model of creativity (1988b, 1990, 1997, 2003) in particular detail. These two theoretical perspectives provide an elegant structure to examine how individual, social, and cultural influences contribute to the cultural production of creative outcomes.
3.3.7.1. Bourdieu
Pierre Bourdieu’s (1977, 1993, 1996) discussions of cultural production can be described as a confluence model as he is concerned with the interplay between the concepts of an individual’s habitus, their cultural capital, a cultural field, and a field of works. For Bourdieu these concepts are the mechanisms that make cultural and creative production possible.
As the notion of habitus has already been outlined, this discussion will be brief. Throughout his career, Bourdieu was concerned with the relationship between structure and agency asking, “how can behaviour be regulated without being the product of obedience to rules?” (1990a: 65). As a possible solution he offered the concept of habitus. An individual’s habitus is a unique practical sense that is developed over a lifetime of enculturation and accounts for preferences and taste, desires, ideas and narratives produced individually and as a shared cultural experience. Bourdieu
107 describes habitus as “the strategy-generating principle enabling agents to cope with unforseen and ever-changing situations” (1977: 72). It is important to understand that habitus is a form of constructed knowledge that “naturalises itself and the cultural rules, agendas and values that make it possible” (Webb et al., 2002: 40). It is a set of dispositions built from the information we glean from the world that generate practices and perceptions, causing us to behave in ways that are unregulated. It is this habitus that allows an agent to operate within structures and move through a multitude of social worlds and contexts. As knowledge is gathered predispositions form which encourage an individual’s engagement with a particular field. While habitus is also cognitive, the embodiment of habitus is called hexis and refers to the signification of how social actors carry themselves. Hexis is revealed in ways of using, moving, holding and presenting the body including walking, gesturing, eating, sitting, physical appearances, patterns of speech and so on. For Bourdieu (1991), the body assimilates personal and cultural history to produce and reproduce history and structures in ways generally unconscious to individual social agents.
As agents do not act in a vacuum, it is important to account for the social relations that structure their behaviour. Bourdieu’s concept of the cultural field refers to structured spaces of “production, circulation, and appropriation of goods, services, knowledge, or status” (Swartz, 1997: 117). A cultural field is a space of continual transformation through the actions of agents and includes all those involved in the production and reception of a cultural product. As such, fields also include “rules, rituals, conventions, categories, designations, appointments and titles which constitute an objective hierarchy, and which produce and authorise certain discourses and activities” (Webb et al., 2002: 21-22).
For Bourdieu, a cultural field is an arena of social contestation “where struggles for dominance take place” (McIntyre, 2012a: 73) both between individuals and between fields depending on their accumulated capital. Actors “struggle to accumulate and monopolise” (Swartz, 1997: 117) the various forms of capital at play within the field. This conflict between agents to “determine what constitutes capital within that field and how that capital is to be distributed” (Webb et al., 2002: xi) means that each field is an arena of contestation. As such fields are in constant flux as they are formed and transformed by the actions of agents. Due to this dynamic nature, a change in position for an individual means there will be a larger change in the field’s structure. 108 David Swartz notes that fields may be considered as “structured spaces that are organized around specific types of capital or combinations of capital” (1997: 117). However a field not simply an institution as boundaries between fields cannot be sharply defined. Bourdieu’s (2000: 130-135) examination of the notion of space is both literal (in discussing the physical spaces in which people act, their relations to one another, and their symbolic significance as seen in the cultural field) as well as metaphorical (in his use of the term ‘social space’ over that of society). Agents operate as members of multiple fields simultaneously, and each field is related to the larger field of social power (Haimes, 2003).
Additionally, a connection can be made between Bourdieu’s field and Howard Becker’s Art Worlds (1982) as they are both describing a place where people work within a discursive framework of specific knowledge structures. Much like Becker’s Art Worlds, a cultural field has “its own laws of functioning and its own relations of force” (Johnson, 1993: 6). However Bourdieu notes that, a field cannot simply be equated to an institution (much like Becker does) as he argues that in addition to the field’s subjective nature, it also has an objective heart that endures.
There are a number of forms of capital an individual may possess including cultural, social, and economic capital. However, while each of these may contribute to one’s cultural wealth, the most significant for Bourdieu is cultural capital (1984). Cultural capital is a form of cultural literacy (Schirato & Yell, 2000) and refers to cultural knowledge, competences or dispositions. Capital denotes “culturally-valued taste and consumption patterns” (Harker, Mahar, & Wilkes, 1990: 1) that have been accumulated over an individual’s lifetime and includes both material items of symbolic value as well as culturally significant attributes such as status and authority. Demonstrations of capital can be seen as the locus point where power relationships are established and resolved within a field. As such, capital has a deep connection to that of the cultural field as the members of a cultural field ultimately determine the taxonomy of capital as well as the value of any particular individual’s capital (Schirato & Yell, 2000).
As the final component in Bourdieu’s confluence approach, the field of works refers to the accumulated cultural work produced to date within a particular field. The field of works includes techniques and codes of production (Toynbee, 2000) as well as “all the
109 goods, material and symbolic, without distinction, that present themselves as rare and worthy of being sought after in a particular social formation” (Harker et al., 1990: 1).
Bourdieu explains, the “heritage accumulated by collective work presents itself to each agent as a space for possibles, that is as an ensemble of probable constraints which are the condition and the counterpart of a set of possible uses” (1996: 235). As such, fields (or spaces) of works present possibilities of action for agents as what is possible is informed and constrained by what already exists. Individuals assert their agency as they engage with the structures of pre-existing works and conventions in order to create novel variations.
When examining the “set of social conditions of the production, circulation and consumption of symbolic goods” (Johnson, 1993: 9) it is important to note the delicate balance between Bourdieu’s field, capital, field of works, and habitus. Johnson (1993) argues that this interplay demonstrates the equal importance of both the individual and their surrounding structures as it is at the nexus of these concepts that cultural production occurs. So in order to understand the creativity of cultural production it is important to examine “all these things at the same time” (Johnson, 1993: 9, emphasis in original).
3.3.7.2. Csikszentmihalyi
Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi’s systems model of creativity (1988, 1997, 1999) is the other significant confluence approach utilised in this research. Csikszentmihalyi argues that rather than creativity residing in the mind of an individual, or the social agreement of an audience, it stems “from the synergy of many sources” (1997: 1). As such, he proposes a systemic process comprising of three components: “a culture that contains symbolic rules, a person who brings novelty into the domain, and a field of experts who recognise and validate the innovation” (Csikszentmihalyi, 1997: 6). It is the interaction of these three equally important and inter-dependent elements in a system of circular causality that creativity can be found. In this way, no one component in the system is given precedence over any other as each “affects the others and is affected by them in turn” (Csikszentmihalyi, 1988: 329). This movement away from a straight ‘transmission’ model of communication (as examined and contested earlier in this
110 Literature Review), towards an approach that accounts for the mutually constitutive relationship among components is necessary to understand the complex and emergent property of creativity. As such the term ‘emergence’ is significant and perhaps more appropriate as it highlights the conceptual combinations of the component parts within a system (also present among nested and overlapping systems) and is a concept that challenges the notion of the individual as sole creative agent.
For Csikszentmihalyi, the domain is the symbol system that is utilised by agents when working in a particular area. The domain is a cultivated cultural experience consisting of customary practices, languages, sign systems, rules, conventions and so on. It is an accumulation of “all of the created products that have been accepted by the field in the past, and all of the conventions that are shared by members of the field” (Sawyer, 2012: 216) and, according to Csikszentmihalyi (1997), the most tangible proof that creativity exists. The domain also represents “a cycle in the process of cultural evolution” (Csikszentmihalyi, 1988: 333), as every contribution added to the domain will augment the store of knowledge available for the next generation of individuals. When an individual has engaged with the domain and produced some novel variation, it is then up to the field to determine the value of the contribution.
The field, according to Csikszentmihalyi, “includes all those persons who can affect the structure of a domain” (1988: 330). These people work within the discursive frameworks of the domain and act as “gatekeepers” (Csikszentmihalyi, 1997: 28) or cultural intermediaries (Featherstone, 1991; Bourdieu, 2000; Negus, 2002). Drawing upon their accumulated knowledge of the domain, members of the field make judgments about the value of novel variations and incorporate promising ideas back into the domain. Sawyer notes that “the field is a complex network of experts, with varying expertise, status, and power” (2012: 216) and while there is always some form of disagreement within a field, there is often consensus regarding “who and what is creative” (2012: 216). So creativity does not reside simply with the individual, it also consists of “social systems making judgments about individuals’ products” (Csikszentmihalyi, 1999: 314).
It is interesting to note that fields operate in a similar manner to Becker’s Art Worlds as they reflect the social organisation of a particular interest group. This similarity is
111 important to note, as well as the connection to Bourdieu’s notion of field, as it appears as each theorist is striving to explain the same phenomena.
While the individual person in Csikszentmihalyi’s systems model plays a significant role in the generation of creative ideas and products, they are not mistaken as the sole locus of creativity. Instead, the person’s role is to produce some variation that will be considered novel and appropriate by the members of the field and accepted into the domain. According to Csikszentmihalyi there are a number of things that could influence a person’s ability to produce novelty including “inherited or learned cognitive flexibility, a more dogged motivation, or some rare event in the life of the person” (1988: 330). Factors that can be ascribed to nature and/or nurture may contribute to an individual’s creative predisposition, but their access to the domain and field also play a significant role in their ability to produce creative work.
There are however, a number of critiques that have been levelled at the systems model. Often the model is misunderstood as beginning with the individual who then interacts with the domain and field (Runco, 2004: 661, 2007: 223). However, Csikszentmihalyi clearly states that “the starting point on this map is purely arbitrary” (1988: 329) as the germination for a creative act can be stimulated by any of the three elements. Each component “affects the others and is affected by them in turn” (Csikszentmihalyi, 1988: 329).
Rob Pope (2005) presents three arguments as a critique of Csikszentmihalyi’s theory. Firstly he argues that the model downplays collective contributions to creativity in order to privilege the role of the individual. This is not an uncommon criticism and could be attributed to the deep foundational knowledge of psychology Csikszentmihalyi writes from. However, throughout Csikszentmihalyi’s work it is firmly acknowledged that the individual is but one part of a greater system and that all three factors of the model must interact to achieve a creative outcome. Much like tinder and air, without a spark there will be no fire. Secondly, Pope contends that inter- domain activity and its resulting “hybrid forms” (2005: 68, emphasis in original) are not addressed in much detail. However, Csikszentmihalyi explains that throughout history there have been significant moments of reformation when “an idea that works well in one domain gets grafted to another and revitalises it” (1997: 88). He uses the example of Freud who invented psychoanalysis by drawing on the ideas from two
112 distinct domains to create a new, hybrid domain that was then recognised and accepted by an emerging field (Csikszentmihalyi, 1988: 331). Thirdly, Pope criticises the model for not addressing advancements that are beyond the general scope of understanding. Csikszentmihalyi explains that as a survival mechanism cultures often reject new ideas as “no culture could assimilate all the novelty people produce without dissolving into chaos” (1997: 41). Additionally, Sternberg (2006: 90) notes that cultures can reject innovative ideas because they find them offensive or threatening.
Weisberg (2006) criticises the model for its discussion of value judgements claiming that it muddles any criteria for assessing creativity. He argues that because “the value of any product can change over time, it means that anything can become creative or become not creative, and can keep switching back and forth” (Weisberg, 2006: 65). This issue of shifting values is interesting as ideas can and do fall in and out of favour, an unfortunate truth perhaps, but it is simply the nature of the world. However, as Boden (2004) notes all historically significant ideas (H-creativity) are always P- creative (personal or psychological) too. So whether or not an idea is socially or culturally noteworthy, it will always be creative to the individual who had it.
3.3.7.3. Comparisons
As we can see, Csikszentmihalyi’s systems model of creativity and Bourdieu’s ruminations on cultural production have a number of similarities that are difficult to ignore. Both discuss the importance of an individual whose ability to act is a result of their biology and environment, or to put it another way, their habitus. Individuals must engage with a field, a dynamic social organisation constantly in flux that operates as a cultural intermediary for the domain or field of works, which includes all of the codes, works, and accumulated knowledge completed on a particular subject at any given moment in time. However, while these similarities are significant, their foundational beliefs provide a slightly different take on the relationship between people within this process. For instance, Csikszentmihalyi represents a functionalist Darwinian perspective while Bourdieu’s ideas have a Marxist conflict foundation. So when discussing the social relations within the field, Bourdieu is more likely to see them as an arena of social contestation where agents struggle for dominance and capital, while
113 Csikszentmihalyi would consider the co-operative nature of these relationships (McIntyre, 2012a). Regardless of these slight variances, both theorists note that all individuals are embedded within particular social and cultural structures and that these structures serve to both limit and enable creative production.
3.3.7.4. Current research
More recently, there have been a number of researchers who have applied creativity models to the investigation of various types of cultural production in the field of communication and media studies. These studies include music education (Barrett, 2005), song writing in contemporary Western popular music (McIntyre, 2003, 2006, 2008a, 2008b, 2008c, 2009, 2010, 2012a), Australian fiction writing (McIntyre & McIntyre, 2007; Paton, 2008, 2009, 2011), documentary film making (Kerrigan, 2006, 2008, 2009; Kerrigan & McIntyre, 2010), Australian journalism (Fulton, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011a, 2011b, 2011c, 2012; Fulton & McIntyre, 2008; Coffee, 2010, 2011, 2014), humour (Meany, 2007, 2010).
Adding to this work, this thesis proposes that when it comes to understanding the creativity and the generation of meaning, considering multiple factors as part of a mutually supportive system is most appropriate. In this way cultural production occurs when an individual draws upon their background and knowledge of existing works to produce a work using the codes and conventions of a particular arena, which is valued and legitimised by a social network. The next section will explore this system in operation to examine how individual, social, and cultural elements interact with each of the others in the system of children’s picture books in Australia.
114 4.0. The Domain of Australian children’s picture books
The confluence models presented by Bourdieu and Csikszentmihalyi describe creative production coming about as a result of individual, social and cultural factors converging. Each of these factors is necessary but not sufficient in isolation. The cultural component of this equation is referred to by Csikszentmihalyi as the domain and by Bourdieu as the field of works or space of works. It is the place where “set(s) of conventions, past works, and standard ways of working” (Sawyer, 2012: 265) present themselves to individuals as an important body of knowledge to understand if they are to produce creative work. As Weisberg notes, creative products are always connected to previous works and ideas, and “in order to produce something new, one should first become as knowledgeable as possible about the old” (1988: 173). Just as language must be learnt before one is able to speak, “it’s impossible to create anything without the shared conventions of a domain” (Sawyer, 2012: 265).
According to Csikszentmihalyi (1997: 37), the domain is perhaps the most tangible proof that creativity exists as it is not a naturally occurring phenomenon, but a unique cultural experience. Made up of existing knowledge systems, the domain comprises “all of the created products that have been accepted by the field in the past” (Sawyer, 2012: 216) as well as the accumulated codes, conventions, techniques, and traditions embedded in these works and the culture they are constructed in. These material goods and “symbolic rules and procedures” (Csikszentmihalyi, 1997: 27) provide the knowledge structure and symbol system an individual must absorb and work within in order to produce novel variations. Furthermore, Bourdieu’s (1993, 1996) notion of the field of works, or more correctly the space of works, suggests that this accumulation of knowledge and material actually presents possibilities of action for individuals. By understanding what already exists, what is already possible, creative producers are presented with opportunities for action that are both constrained and enabled by these pre-existing structures. Also pertinent to this research is Bourdieu’s concept of habitus. An individual’s habitus is acquired through a process of immersion within the knowledge of a domain, a field or a space of works until the individual develops a “practical sense” (Johnson, 1993: 5) or feel for how it operates. Habitus accounts for a person’s cultural preferences and taste, their desires, ideas and narratives produced individually and as a shared cultural experience. Through the development of habitus
115 individuals make choices and decisions that appear to be innate, but are instead the outcome of a lifetime of engagement with a body of knowledge that has become internalised.
Within any one culture there are myriad domains encompassing disciplines such as mathematics, cooking, technology, medicine, and literature (Gardner, Csikszentmihalyi, & Damon, 2001). Each domain is “made up of its own symbolic elements, its own rules, and generally has its own system of notation” (Csikszentmihalyi, 1997: 37) unique to the specific work practices. In the broad domain of writing, there are a number of discrete sub domains that encompass various forms of writing styles and genres. For instance, this broad domain includes fiction and non-fiction, all forms of journalism, a variety of genres, as well as work catering to different audience types, and the specific conventions that belong to each of these categories. Each of these sub domains possess distinctive requirements and expectations relating to writing styles, rules of language, storytelling conventions, as well as different cultural artefacts that pre-exist the individual. In relation to this research, the production of Australian children’s picture books encompasses specific rules and procedures as well as a unique field of experts, which affords it the status of a distinctive domain. But it also remains connected to the larger domain of writing for children in all forms (education, entertainment and so on), which is embedded in the domain of writing in general.
Csikszentmihalyi contends that creativity is generated when “any act, idea, or product” (1997: 28) changes an existing domain, and if an individual is to make such a creative contribution they must first understand the structures of that domain (Weisberg, 1988; Bourdieu, 1993; Csikszentmihalyi, 1997; Negus & Pickering, 2004; Sawyer, 2006, 2012; McIntyre, 2012a). According to Csikszentmihalyi (1997: 38) there are three specific ways the domain can aid or impede the production of creative contributions; through the clarity of the symbol system’s structure, the centrality of the domain within the broader culture, and its accessibility to new practitioners. Each of these is important as they aid in understanding the rules and conventions an individual must engage with when creating work for the domain.
Firstly, the clarity of the domain’s structure refers to how well defined and coherent the codes and conventions are for new practitioners to understand. A clear structure
116 with a consistent internal logic reveals the operational construction of a domain and enables individuals to gather past knowledge easily. This accessibility also provides the foundation for assessment as it makes it clear what is considered creative within that particular domain. If this is unclear it can be challenging for an individual to assess whether their work is an improvement on existing works and where it might possibly fit within the domain.
While some domains, for instance mathematics or chemistry, possess a very clear and rigid internal rule structure, the broad domain of fiction writing is typically less refined. This is due to the “subjective appraisal of content and the reliance on personal taste within the field, as well as formal and informal rule systems such as grammar and genre” (McIntyre & McIntyre, 2007: 17). Putting aside subjective taste evaluations for the moment, as they will be discussed in detail in the next chapter, gathering knowledge about formal and informal rule systems is still important in a less rigid domain. For someone wishing to contribute to the specific domain of children’s picture books knowledge of what has preceded him or her is vitally important, as is an awareness of particular elements of written style including the structures of grammar, syntax, and language, along with a familiarity with narrative writing in order to construct engaging stories for young readers.
In relation to this last point, the domain of writing for children has a number of industry specific conventions, particularly in regards to producing picture books, which provide a clear structure for people who wish to contribute to the domain. While many of these stipulations will be discussed in depth further throughout this chapter, it is important that any producer of Australian children’s picture books has prior awareness of the rules and conventions that govern the domain of knowledge. For instance, the standard physical structure of a picture book is 32 pages and its story is told in a linear narrative with simple language and a concise word count generally under 600 words. Illustrated images accompany the written story and most children’s picture books conform to standard sizes and proportions. While many of these features are unwritten rules, they have developed into strict conventions and deviations are uncommon. The prevalence of these industry conventions demonstrates the clarity of the domain and provides a clear logic for the assessment of novel additions.
117 However, there are areas within the domain of children’s picture books that are less established in terms of their structural clarity. For instance, explorations into producing children’s picture books for digital platforms have been increasing rapidly. This foray into new media has lead to a reconsideration of what constitutes the codes and conventions of picture books and as a result traditional rules and techniques are being challenged and redefined. A notable Australian example is the work of Wheelbarrow, a digital publishing studio who specialise in adapting picture books into interactive experiences for tablet and mobile devices. Recent Wheelbarrow apps include The Wrong Book (2012) by Nick Bland which includes elements of sound, narration, and animation, and Rules of Summer (2013) by Shaun Tan which allows an intimate exploration of original paintings accompanied by an otherworldly musical score. At present though, these digital versions are created as complementary companions to the printed product, which highlights their reliance on the traditional industry conventions thereby reinforcing them. So whether they are established or emerging, it is important for producers to comprehensively understand the specific conventions of a domain in order to utilise them to produce novelty.
Secondly, the centrality of the domain within the culture can assist in the production of a creative outcome. If a domain is significant to the broader culture it is easier for those concerned to access resources and contribute to that domain. Over time the centrality of a domain will shift and change depending on the issues that are considered a priority within the culture. Csikszentmihalyi (1999) notes that if a domain increases its significance or becomes more dynamic it is more likely to attract talented individuals, which in turn means creative innovation is more likely to occur and move the domain forward (see also Gardner, Csikszentmihalyi, & Damon, 2001).
Throughout recent history, childhood as a social construct has become increasingly important particularly in relation to studies of literature, media, and communication (Hunt, 2005). Prominent children’s author Gary Crew notes that within Australian literature, childhood has become an arena that “society constructs as being culturally important for its time” (9 July 2007). While the value of researching and representing childhood will continue to evolve, currently children’s media and literature is the subject of academic research, studied at universities, and the recipient of prestigious awards, in addition to being enjoyed by a variety of audiences. While support for the arts is often limited financially, if a domain is central within a culture it is more likely 118 that resources will be directed to it and innovative people engage with it. As such, by gaining knowledge about the centrality of the domain to the broader culture an individual can better produce work that is appropriate to this cultural context.
The significance of the domain of Australian children’s picture books to the national and international cultural sphere can also be seen in the global critical acclaim numerous producers have received. Beloved Australian children’s author Libby Gleeson asserts, “Australia is regarded as a significant producer of picture books” (9 February 2011). Many Australian picture books are distributed internationally with their producers receiving worldwide acclaim for unique work. For instance, the majority of the respondents in this study have worked on books shortlisted for the Children’s Book Council of Australia’s Picture Book of the Year Award with several books honoured or awarded the title. Gleeson’s book The Great Bear (2010) is the only Australian book to ever win the prestigious Bologna Ragazzi Award, illustrator Freya Blackwood won the Greenway Medal for her illustrations in Two Summers (2004) written by John Heffernan, and Shaun Tan was awarded the esteemed Astrid Lindgren Memorial Award in 2011 and an Oscar in the same year for the animated short film based on his book The Lost Thing (2000). Several respondents have been recognised with noteworthy awards such as the Prime Minister’s Literary Award for Children’s Fiction, the Dromkeen Medal, and the Australian Publishers Association Pixie O'Harris Award. Also significant is the establishment of the Australian Children’s Laureate by The Australian Children’s Literature Alliance (ACLA) in 2012. In an effort to promote reading across the field of children’s and young adult literature, the author and/or illustrator appointed is selected for their “significant contribution to the children’s literature canon” (ACLA, n.d.: online) in Australia. To date, the Australian Children’s Laureates include Alison Lester, Boori Monty Pryor (both 2012- 2013) and Jackie French (2014-2015). Jackie French, as part of the national Australia Day celebrations, was named Senior Australian of the Year in 2015 and received a Member of the Order of Australia in 2016 for her continued achievement and contribution to children’s literacy and wildlife conservation. Illustrator Ann James and children’s literature specialist Ann Haddon who both founded Books Illustrated, a centre celebrating Australian children’s literature, were also awarded a Member of the Order of Australia in 2016 for their continued dedication to children’s literature. These examples demonstrate the national significance of Australian children’s picture books,
119 as well as the strong global desire for Australian voices to be heard and shared as a part of the global market.
Thirdly, the production of creative contributions within a particular domain can be affected by how accessible that domain is for new practitioners. How quickly information is processed within the domain affects both the amount of novelty generated and the speed at which those novel variations are accepted and distributed. In general, the broad domain of fiction writing is widely accessible with established channels of support. For instance, various levels of government assistance provide traditional forms of access through “libraries, primary and secondary school English curricula and direct funding of the arts and arts programs” (McIntyre & McIntyre, 2007: 18). This situation demonstrates that the domain of writing in general is supported by a broad community and is accessible to a wide audience of children, teenagers, and adults, as well as current practitioners already working within the domain.
However, at times these traditional forms of support can falter and alternative avenues may emerge that are maintained by particular interest groups. The Queensland Literary Awards is one such example. Following the disestablishment of the Queensland Premier’s Literary Awards (one of Australia’s leading and richest prize for literature) by the State Government in 2012, the Queensland writing community responded to this loss. Through donations, partnerships and many volunteers, the Queensland Literary Awards was established to ensure the continued recognition of creative contributions. The award is now managed by the State Library of Queensland. The continuation of these awards demonstrates the significance of this domain as well as the willingness for people to channel support of several kinds into maintaining its accessibility and availability.
The accessibility of the domain of Australian children’s picture books is also evidenced by the fact that there are no formal educational requirements necessary in order to practice. The easier it is for a practitioner to identify entry points and gain access to the domain, the more likely it is that they will be attracted to producing novelty within it. For instance, the internet has allowed for an increase in accessibility to the domain of children’s picture books as new practitioners have a wealth of information at their fingertips without even leaving their homes. These circumstances
120 can also be seen in the growth of both traditionally produced books in recent years as well as an increase in self-published books. However this does beg the question of how a domain can maintain its integrity if anyone can gain access and practice. For one thing, the number of picture books published through traditional avenues within Australia per year is relatively small and relative to the size of the publishing house. Pippa Masson who has been a literary agent at Curtis Brown since 2001 and has a significant client list of Australian picture book illustrators and authors noted that she is involved in the production of around five picture books per year “which is a reasonable amount” (30 June 2011). Through the thousands of manuscripts that publishers receive every year only a small percentage are deemed worthy of publication. This speaks to the integrity of the domain as only the best work is selected for inclusion. So while certain entry points are easy to identify and access
Building on this understanding of the domain, the next step is to examine how knowledge of the domain’s structures is obtained and employed. Throughout this study participants were asked to reflect on various social and cultural structures and how they might influence practice. In general, the respondents described their knowledge of the domain through identifying particular rules and conventions as well as pertinent previously created work. While these responses will be explored in the subsequent chapter, it is important to note that knowledge of the domain’s codes and conventions is not deterministic in nature; rather the structure of the domain or space of works provides the opportunity for creative work to occur as Csikszentmihalyi (1997) and Bourdieu (1993) have argued. As such, respondents outlined instances of agency when they made choices to operate within the structures of the domain demonstrating the link between agency and structure. What follows then, is an examination of the structures of the domain of Australian children’s picture books along with how particular individuals acquire and utilise domain knowledge in order to produce creative work.
4.1. Agency and Structure within the Domain
Commonsense beliefs about creativity would suggest that the established knowledge and conventions of a domain work to constrain creativity. These myths propose that a
121 “true creator ignores the domain and breaks all of the conventions” (Sawyer, 2012: 265). However, as supported by a review of the current literature on creativity research, this way of thinking is misleading. Instead it is beneficial to consider the codes and conventions of a domain as one would a language system. Although words and grammatical rules are consistent for everyone, it is still possible to use language to create novel ways of speaking and writing. One could even argue that it is these common conventions that “enable the possibility of creativity” (Sawyer, 2012: 332).
Every cultural symbolic system has a set of affordances and constraints. Within the domain of contemporary Australian children’s picture books there are a number of particular structures that producers must engage with. Significant among them is an understanding of the “rules of language” (Csikszentmihalyi, 1997: 238), which enable connection and communication to occur between producers and audiences. This includes structures of grammar, elements of written style, genre codes and other writing conventions that restrict the telling of stories to form them in particular ways and place them within certain contexts. Producers must understand these components of narrative writing in order to construct narratives that connect with a dual readership of adults and children. Further to these conventions, producers of Australian children’s picture books need to know about specific guidelines that affect their production. Some of these relate to the use of language within picture books, for instance employing a simple linear storyline within a small word count using easy to understand yet educationally expansive language. While others relate to the physical structures of the product such as the number of pages used, how those pages are laid out, and the physical size of the book. And others still relate to unwritten rules such as the age of the intended audience, using appropriate themes, ensuring the presence of a young child or child substitute (i.e. a young animal) character within the story for readers to identify with, or using colours within the illustrations. While many might find such constraints frustrating, these conventions and unspoken guidelines provide structures that support producers in their creativity.
Structured codes and conventions are necessary as they enable us to communicate and provide the context within which agents can enact change. As Bourdieu (1996) asserts, the accumulation of creative work and knowledge presents possibilities for action to agents. By understanding the cultural codes and conventions of a particular domain, as well as being familiar with the cultural work completed to date an individual is well 122 placed to recognise possible places for their work to sit. By knowing what already is, they can draw on this knowledge and position themselves to make informed creative decisions. For Bourdieu (1993), it is the interaction between an individual’s agency and the structures they must work within that makes cultural production possible.
Discussions around the concepts of structure and agency have typically been polarised around the issue of “whether to put the central emphasis on social actors or on social structures” (Wolff, 1981: 19). One approach has been to prioritise the influence of structures in directing human behaviour, while the other has been to “argue that humans create society through their own actions” (Haralambos & Holbern, 1995: 903). In the first view structures are seen as having a determining effect on thoughts, behaviours and actions. Whereas the second advocates that agents are free to make choices unencumbered by structural pressures. Both of these positions, one deterministic and the other voluntaristic, are problematic however as they suggest mutual exclusivity.
According to Janet Wolff, “there can be no doubt that any human act is determined. Not only that, but it is multiply determined - by social factors, psychological factors, neurological and chemical factors” (1981: 20). But if humans are implicated in a set of unavoidable structures, how can they operate with the belief that their actions are the result of free will? This requires a reconsideration of the notion of agency. Instead of seeing agency as the freedom from or absence of constraints, it can be argued that agency refers to an individual’s ability to make choices within particular parameters that influence the structural constraints that they exist within (Giddens, 1984: 5; Haralambos & Holbern, 1995: 905). In this way, drawing on the work of Bourdieu, Schirato and Yell note, “practice is simultaneously free and regulated, conscious and unconscious” (2000: 48).
While it cannot be denied that structures are often limiting, and sometimes extremely restrictive, unless someone is physically controlled or forced into action it is unlikely for agents to be completely constrained. Agents always possess the ability to make choices and act upon these choices. While structures may place “limits upon the range of options open to an actor” (Haralambos & Holbern, 1995: 906) they also afford agents the possibility of choice as “what restricts one person enables another to do more” (Haralambos & Holbern, 1995: 906). With this in mind “structure is not to be
123 equated with constraint but is always both constraining and enabling” (Giddens, 1984: 25).
4.1.1. Structure in Australian children’s picture books
It is pertinent to examine the particular structures of Australian children’s picture books to uncover how they both constrain and enable the creative work of producers. While some of these structures are easily observed, many of them are unwritten conventions not found in textbooks or ‘how-to’ manuals. Instead they are gathered through tacit domain acquisition. A number of the following structures were identified as necessary to learn in order to assist in the respondent’s practice.
Traditionally, a picture book consists of 32 pages. When deviations are made from this industry norm it is in page multiples of eight. The reason for this is a production issue due to the way paper is cut and folded after printing: eight pages fold smoothly into a ‘signature’ in order to be bound, with anything greater becoming too difficult to bind efficiently. Picture books for young readers can be smaller at 16 or 24 pages like Baby Gets Dressed (2010) by Katrina Germein, or occasionally longer like Shaun Tan’s The Arrival (2006) at 128 pages. However these longer books are rare and generally created by established producers for older readers. In addition to this, most picture books are printed in a large format with many conforming to a square or rectangular size of 8 by 11 inches (either horizontally or vertically). Additionally, this standard imperial measurement could be read as indicative of the global market for these products.
With regard to the internal layout, picture book pages are either considered as single or double-page spreads. In a standard 32-page book the layout begins with a single page on the right hand side of the book, followed by 15 double-page spreads, with a single page remaining on the left hand side. Endpapers enclose these pages and are glued to the boards inside the cover. The ‘front matter’ of the book, consisting of a title page, a half-title page, and a copyright page, generally takes up the first single page and one or two subsequent spreads. The remaining 27-28 pages (14 spreads and last left hand side page) are reserved for the story. When designing the internal layout of a picture book one important physical structure to note is the placement of the gutter. The gutter 124 refers to the space where the pages fold together. Important text or illustration details should be kept out of the gutter otherwise they risk disappearing from sight. The unwritten rule is to keep these details at least an inch away from the gutter in ‘the safe zone’. Illustrator Rebecca Cool found she had to consciously remind herself of this when starting out. “I also had to think about the gutter and not having hands and heads and anything important in the gutter, and not having hands close to the edge” (18 March 2011).
The remaining story pages often reflect the illustrator’s style or design preferences. Illustrations may appear on one page with text on the page opposite, they may take the form of a full-page bleed where the illustration is spread to the very edge of the page, or they may be a collection of spot illustrations. Sometimes illustrations are contained in a border and illustrators may play with the conventions and have a character break through the boundary. Many picture books contain a mixture of these page designs as can be seen in Mr Chicken Goes to Paris (2009) where Leigh Hobbs uses both full page bleeds and spot illustrations. Equally important is the placement of text so that it can be read clearly. The simplest form is when the text is presented in a simple colour (commonly black) on a plain background. When the text is overlaying a full-page illustration the background pattern is often muted or airbrushed lighter to ensure the text is as legible as possible. In rare occasions the text may be incorporated into the image itself as can be seen in Shaun Tan’s The Red Tree (2001).
For producers of Australian children’s picture books, these physical restrictions are unavoidable constraints. While they may limit the possibilities of choice, at the same time they afford the opportunity for producers to work within, around and outside of these structures. For a book to be considered a picture book these structures must be acknowledged as to create something different would be to abandon the very discipline of the form (Bailin, 1988).
4.1.2. Limiting or Enabling?
A number of the respondents, like Katrina Germein, claimed they were not affected by these structures when working: “I don’t really worry about them when I start writing” (20 March 2011). However some, like Norman Jorgensen, noted that certain structures 125 felt limiting at times. When writing The Last Viking (2011) Jorgensen’s original draft was around 3500 words and had to be edited heavily to under 1000. Jorgensen had to reduce all tangential storylines to leave space for the illustrator, Brian Harrison-Lever, to tell his story:
I can see the reason for it: you’ve got 32 pages and you’ve got to get there. I would have loved to have gone on all these adventures and give it a real lot of texture and added excitement but it just didn’t happen of course. That’s one of the restrictions on picture books that I don’t enjoy at all. (11 March 2011)
However, during the writing of In Flanders Fields (2002) Jorgensen found this same restriction was empowering. “It’s such a simple story that if I’d gone on the tangents it would have just detracted from it and it wasn’t the least bit necessary” (11 March 2011). These contributions seem to suggest that each work has a unique set of issues and structures that an agent must address.
Most of the respondents, when asked about the structures of picture books, suggested that they rarely felt constrained by their limitations. Leigh Hobbs was adamant:
No, I accept them. I accept them as a discipline that is a positive discipline. That there are only 32 pages so I’ve got to be succinct, yeah, it’s like I’ve got a piece of paper a certain size, I accept that that’s the size and I work within it. (19 July 2011)
Freya Blackwood acknowledged that while it was something she had ‘adapted to’, she had become accustomed to “the boundaries within a picture book that I just naturally work like that and whenever I don’t have that I feel a bit lost” (24 January 2012). This view would have been assisted in no small way through her background in design, which meant she was familiar with page layout and design issues before beginning her career as a picture book illustrator. For those that had not been educated in design, like Rebecca Cool, many of the structural particulars of picture books (bleeds, gutters and so on) were learnt through the process of making her first book. While it took some time to adjust to these conventions, Cool eventually “did get the hang of it” (18 March 2011).
126 Several of the respondents referred to the restrictions or conventions of picture books as a challenge to overcome. Freya Blackwood argued that this was something she enjoyed. “I love all those restrictions because it adds to the challenge” (24 January 2012). Similarly Rebecca Cool reflected, “once I’ve done it I feel quite good that I have made it work” (18 March 2011). Interestingly, Hobbs also acknowledged his role in establishing constraints on his work: “on the first page I set the parameters for my world and then they [the reader] enter it” (19 July 2011). In this action he is both limiting the possibilities for this particular story as well as opening avenues of opportunity to explore. These limits are at one and the same time both constraining and enabling.
Reflecting on the constraints of the picture book form, Norman Jorgensen argued that the challenge of working within a strict format naturally produces a creative product as every word is scrutinised until perfect.
If you’re doing a novel you can fudge your way through paragraph after paragraph and no one cares that much, but each word in 600 of them gets looked at. For instance there’s a line in Flanders Fields where I say ‘their minds were damaged by weeks of deafening noise’ and originally I put ‘their minds were destroyed by weeks of deafening noise’ and we had a whole week of emails back and forth between Ray Coffee, my editor, and I over damaged, destroyed, wrecked, ruined. Because they weren’t all destroyed. Lots of guys recovered. Yeah. And they weren’t ruined, but damaged was probably the best one we came up with after. But in a novel you wouldn’t spend a week on one word. But it was an important word in the sentence. (Jorgensen, 11 March 2011)
Kathryn Apel also acknowledged the importance of word choice when writing in the tight picture book form, arguing that the right words “are still beautiful words, they’re not simple words, they’ve still got richness in them” (19 April 2011).
When considering the impact of particular structures on their work, many of the producers indicated that they were a positive influence on their practice. Nette Hilton referred to learning new structures as gaining relevant “knowledge steps” (2 July 2007), and the accumulation of these resulted in her “feeling empowered” (2 July
127 2007). For Leigh Hobbs restrictions produced a clear focus: “I think if there’s too much choice in anything you can waste a lot of time dilly-dallying around…So it sort of squeezes you and forces you to come up with different ways to solve a problem” (19 July 2011). Kathryn Apel claimed that they “can really only enrich your writing” (19 April 2011).
British cultural theorist Fred Inglis argues that we cannot deny that children’s authors “have developed a set of conventions for their work. Such development is a natural extension of the elaborate and implicit system of rules, orthodoxies, improvisations, customs, forms and adjustments which characterize the way any adult tells stories or simply talks at length to children” (1981: 101). As producers of Australian children’s picture books the respondents in this research have developed an understanding of the knowledge, codes and manners of thought unique to their cultural domain and these cognitive acquisitions become internalised over time. Drawing upon this knowledge base, it can be seen that these producers work within the structures of the form to produce novel work by playing with established codes and conventions. Instead of being constrained by the conventions of a picture book, producers are also enabled in their practice to create meaningful work that is relevant to the domain. Structure and agency within picture books should be considered a complementary process as these social agents have the power to shape the structures they operate and exist within and at the same time these structures help shape social agents.
4.2. Domain Acquisition
The majority of these structures are not formally taught; instead they are acquired through immersion within the industry primarily through research, reading and observation, as well as on the job learning. For Karen Collum online research was a natural place to begin: “I learnt the 32 page format, the word count issues, the target age groups, and it just, I suppose my knowledge started small, and then I just built and built and built and built” (19 April 2011). This kind of self-motivated education was not uncommon, with many respondents, like Kathryn Apel, emphasising that their knowledge came through experiential learning. “It’s probably something you can’t
128 necessarily get at Uni, you can get the head-knowledge but until you actually start playing with it...” (19 April 2011).
Much of this knowledge acquisition is developed unconsciously as part of an individual’s habitus (Bourdieu, 1977). Through practice and immersion within a domain of knowledge these individuals have developed a ‘sens pratique’ or a ‘feel for the game’ that leads to actions and reactions that appear ‘automatic’ (Schön, 1983). Two respondents identified this as learning by ‘osmosis’, which resonated with Kathryn Apel who noted, “you do it instinctively and you deal with what feels right” (19 April 2011). When reflecting on this process, Leigh Hobbs explained, “in retrospect I can turn and say ‘well that picture works because of…whatever’. But I don’t think like that when I’m doing it” (19 July, 2011).
Expanding upon these activities, Apel explained that she moved between unconscious and conscious thought during her writing process:
I would write the story first, but then when I go back and I consider it, then I bring those things into my consideration and if it feels like it’s a little bit flat then I think ‘well okay, yeah, here could be why. I don’t have the rule of threes’ or, you know, not every picture book has that obviously. (19 April 2011)
The ‘rule of three’ that Apel is referring to is a narrative device that uses a pattern of three to build tension, which is eventually released following the third repetition. Examples of this can often be found in familiar children’s stories and folktales (Propp, 1928/1968) like The Three Little Pigs and Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Apel acknowledged that knowing and understanding these conventions gave her a “greater awareness” (19 April 2011) when she revisited the work to edit.
For many of the authors interviewed, their writing became more concise with practice. Katrina Germein reflected:
I have found though that the longer I’ve been writing these texts, they just tend to come in often at five hundred words. When I’m writing something it will be between four and six hundred words without me
129 having to try so hard anymore, whereas they used to always start at a thousand words…I’ve trained myself. (20 March 2011)
This was similar for Kathryn Apel who explained this disposition was a result of understanding the relationship between her words and the illustrations. Her “greater awareness of an illustrator’s role” meant that she was conscious about “leaving much more space” (20 April 2011). Apel was referring to another unspoken rule of picture books, that the text should never describe something that is evident in the illustrations; with such limited text it is inefficient and redundant. Additionally, both Apel and Germein noted that their writing was influenced by their knowledge of the field’s preferences. This understanding will be discussed in detail in the next chapter, but as a brief example, Germein spoke about the optimum word length for a picture book. She explained that she “wouldn’t ever submit anything over 600 words” (20 March 2011) as this limit is often specified in publisher’s guidelines, but she also noted it becomes evident when reading picture books. This insight is an acknowledgement of an individual’s habitus development. As a result of absorbing information and knowledge about particular domain structures, an individual uses their habitus to make creative choices.
John Heffernan, reflecting on his educational experience, acknowledged that he would have liked to extend his training in a writing specific field:
I tend to really get the most out of things I do in a training sense… So I think it would have been good if I’d gone somewhere and done a course which said ‘this is what you should do’ and then I could work it out whether I wanted to do it. The great worry is that I might’ve just become a formalistic writer, but I don’t think so. I think I’ve got enough strength to go beyond that. (10 March 2011)
This statement by Heffernan alludes to another creativity myth: that structures result in formalistic work. The common belief is that if form is evident then the ability for that work to be creative is diminished. However, this is a simplistic way of thinking as without form humans would be unable to communicate with one another. All communication is structured in some way. It is important for producers to understand the rules, forms and structures of their chosen industry so they may identify any
130 boundaries and decide whether to work within them or experiment with bending and breaking them. Negus and Pickering (2004) explain that this is a fine line to navigate. Sticking rigidly to a particular form can make the work too familiar to the extent that the audience recognises that nothing new is occurring, while breaking all the conventions of the form results in work that is unrecognisable and inaccessible. There needs to be some tension between these two points in order for the work to be interesting and resonate with an audience.
Some respondents, like Kathryn Apel, reflected on the importance of knowing the rules but also acknowledged their ability to choose how they responded. “I guess I like knowing the rules but it doesn’t mean I’ll always want to follow them. Once you know the rules and you can work within the rules then you can play around with it and stretch them” (19 April 2011). Apel’s comment echoes the adage that suggests that in order to break the rules you need to first know what they are. While many believe that breaking the rules leads to more creative work, Sharon Bailin argues persuasively that “there is not a real discontinuity between achieving highly within the rules of a discipline and achieving highly when it entails going beyond or changing some rules. The latter is, rather, an extension of the former” (1988: 96).
Bailin also notes that when “rules are broken in the course of significant achievement, it is generally by a master of the discipline” (1988: 96-97). This was certainly the case for Shaun Tan’s The Arrival (2006), which as a 128-page wordless narrative broke a number of picture book conventions. However, Tan notes that this book was only achieved after working for roughly ten years in the industry to prove that he could work within the standard structures (11 July 2007). Additionally, many of his publications were with the same publishing house, Lothian Children’s Books as an imprint of Hachette Australia, and the same editor, Helen Chamberlain who has over 37 years experience in the industry. Chamberlain now works as a freelance editor as well as an editor for Windy Hollow Books. Tan’s record of producing successful picture books within the standard structure demonstrated his mastery of the necessary codes and conventions, so when his next work broke these rules it was still accepted into the domain. In fact as previously mentioned, Tan has since been recognised with the Astrid Lindgren Memorial Award in 2011 (the richest award in children’s literature) and an Oscar for an animated short film of his book The Lost Thing (2000).
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4.2.1. Early interests
If a person is to produce creative work, developing an understanding of the domain is fundamental. While it may seem evident, before an individual is able to create a novel work, they must first have engaged with prior work, as well as learned and mastered to some degree the rules and conventions which assist in the production of that work. As Sawyer notes “without first learning what’s already been done, a person doesn’t have the raw material to create with” (2012: 93), nor do they understand what is possible. This knowledge structure is referred to as the domain and the following discussion will examine how an individual accumulates this knowledge.
While learning the structures of a domain often occurs through formal education, initial interactions with domain knowledge can arise in an indirect manner. For instance, children encounter narratives from birth as caregivers recount stories and sing songs to soothe and comfort them (Opie, 2002). In addition to being entertaining, this early and repetitive engagement passively educates children about the form and construction of narratives. As children learn to speak they repeat patterns of speech, common phrases, and the content of familiar tales in the discovery of “how their culture endows experience with meaning” (Meek, 2002: 2). They learn about specific topics and social issues through content, as well as extending vocabulary through engagement with playful language devices such as rhyme and rhythm. This education begins before it can ever be identified and forms a part of an individual’s habitus. However, while this knowledge, once absorbed, appears to be inherent, it is not innate as it does derive from somewhere. This information is to be found within the domain, which precedes the individual as well as continuing well after they are gone.
When asked how their initial interests in reading, writing, and art developed, the respondents in this research noted their attraction began at a young age. While most could not pinpoint a specific moment that revealed this, many felt it had always been a presence in their life. Of the illustrators interviewed, several echoed Rebecca Cool’s memory that she was “always painting and drawing” (18 March 2011). Leigh Hobbs elaborated saying “I just always loved drawing, I can’t remember any details before. Drawing’s been the thing” (19 July 2011). This was reiterated by several authors, such
132 as John Heffernan who recalled, “as long as I can remember I’ve written stories, literally as long as I can remember” (10 March 2011). Jackie French however, reminisced that her desire to be a writer began when she was three and “realised that books were created by human beings” (17 July 2007).
For others, this initial interest was late blooming. Author Kathryn Apel noted that while she had some success writing short stories throughout high school, writing was not something that she had an immediate affinity for. This was partially due to some unskilled penmanship:
Writing has actually been a bit of a curse on my life because I’m not neat and I remember getting hit over the knuckles in grade one and being told that my brother was actually neater than me and he wasn’t good. So I haven’t really had this love of writing, no. (19 April 2011)
It was not until she was working as a teacher and had children of her own that she began to consider writing as a potential career. Interestingly, a negative initial experience in one area did not deter the respondents from enjoying other points of engagement with the domain. While Apel “never had a burning desire to be a writer” (19 April 2011) she did not hesitate to identify herself as an enthusiastic reader consuming “just about anything and everything” (19 April 2011). In fact a number of respondents noted multiple points of interest. Author John Heffernan identified reading and writing as well as a love of theatre: “I’ve always loved plays and books and writing for myself, I mean I've always liked reading” (10 March 2011). Illustrator and author Sally Rippin noted an affection for writing and illustrating: “I’ve always written stories and even from when I was very young I would be writing stories and drawing pictures and making my own books” (1 August 2011).
Although most of these descriptions of initial interests imply they are innate, what the respondents are articulating and attempting to account for is their habitus (Bourdieu, 1977, 1990b). Each individual’s interest in this domain is the result of a long process of enculturation that began before they were even aware of it. This immersion instigated the development of tacit knowledge regarding the symbolic and cultural rules of the domain, a process that continues throughout the individual’s life. In this way an individual’s habitus acts “as a system of cognitive and motivational structures”
133 (Bourdieu: 1990b: 53) that influence subsequent actions and decisions to the extent that they are difficult to unravel. Bourdieu (1990b) notes that this normalised set of dispositions generally functions when uncritically examined, which this research confirms as some respondents found it difficult to trace back their early interests in the domain. Nevertheless, most of the respondents of this research as producers of Australian children’s picture books identified multiple initial domain access points as contributing to the development of their interest. The following discussion will explore the activities of storytelling, reading books as children, writing in childhood, and an early interest in art.
4.2.1.1. Storytelling
At the heart of any society is the very human desire to share stories as a way of making sense of our experiences (Meek, 2002; Barbatsis, 2005; O’Shaughnessy & Stadler, 2005). Constructing narratives through storytelling is a universal and uniquely human behaviour (Fiske, 1990: 1) to the extent that Walter Fisher (1987) suggests we should conceive of ourselves as Homo narrans. This importance is reinforced through this research as a number of the respondents acknowledged that storytelling played a significant role in their lives. For example, Libby Gleeson, whose father was a high school principal, noted that storytelling was a part of her everyday life as way of sharing her family’s history. “Family story is an important part of the family culture…it makes you very conscious about events that shape you” (9 February 2011). For author Norman Jorgensen, storytelling has similarly been a part of his family’s culture. “I had three little brothers so I had to tell them stories to keep them amused all my life, all my young life” (11 March 2011). This also speaks to Jorgensen’s ability to understand and utilise essential narrative components effectively from an early age, which in turn demonstrates his immersion in the domain of storytelling long before he became a published author.
For several of the illustrators interviewed, storytelling, particularly in a visual sense, was an ever-present part of their lives. Illustrator Freya Blackwood recounted that as a child when encouraged by her mother to make cards for people she “could never do anything unless I had a story behind it. In Uni that was the same…for any project that I
134 did, it had to have a story behind it” (24 January 2012). She notes that as an illustrator “it just seems like quite a natural thing to tell stories through pictures” (24 January 2012). This habitual pull to tell stories was echoed by illustrator and artist Rebecca Cool who has often been engaged by others to help visually tell their stories:
I’ve been asked to paint people who’ve died and people with their pet animals and their children doing specific things. So I’ve been illustrating and telling stories in my paintings without kind of realising I was doing it. (18 March 2011)
The respondents in this research absorbed the structures of storytelling from an early age. Barbatsis explains that as children “we listen to the personal stories of lives lived, and we read imaginary tales crafted by gifted writers. We experience stories ‘told’ visually, musically and through gesture and movement as well as with words” (2005: 331). Being immersed in a storytelling culture as children teaches them how to communicate with one another and absorb the commonly used structures of composing and performing an entertaining story. Sometimes this was through listening to adults tell stories, as was the case with Libby Gleeson who noted that while it is not a prerequisite to becoming a writer, it does help “if you grow up in an articulate community, family or community, where talking and storytelling and retelling is significant” (9 February 2011). This process of knowledge acquisition also occurred through the act of reading stories.
4.2.1.2. Reading
Almost all of the participants mentioned that they were enthusiastic young readers and connected this early interest in books with their later interest in writing or illustrating for publication. Several respondents mentioned an avid preoccupation with books and reading material, describing themselves as “a voracious reader” (Rippin, 1 August 2011). Libby Gleeson jovially claimed she read “anything that came between two covers!” (9 February 2011). Karen Collum similarly noted that once she learned, she “just couldn’t stop reading” (3 August 2011).
135 Interestingly several of the same authors were mentioned when respondents reflected upon their childhood reading habits. Classic children’s authors included Enid Blyton (cited by several respondents), Judy Blume, Ezra Jack Keats, Roald Dahl and Quentin Blake, with several significant series mentioned including Nancy Drew, Trixie Belden, The Famous Five, The Secret Seven, and Milly-Molly-Mandy. As they grew into older readers, the respondents reading patterns began to reflect personal interests. Author Norman Jorgensen read adventure tales by Robert Louis Stephenson and Mark Twain. Illustrator Rebecca Cool cites the Bronte sisters’ novels and Virginia Woolf’s Orlando as well as “a lot of ethnic fairy stories: African and things like that” (18 March 2011) among the types of books she was interested in. And both Kathryn Apel and Katrina Germein noted a keen interest in poetry. It is worthwhile noting that many of these foundational reading interests correlated to the work they have produced as adults. For instance, Germein and Apel have both written rhyming picture books, with Apel also writing verse novels for young readers.
There were two respondents who recounted a specific moment in their childhood reading development. The first was Karen Collum who had a clear memory of the moment she learnt to read.
I remember the day in Kinder that all of a sudden the words on the page made sense and I have an image in my mind of this page and it said ball and bat and I could read those. And that unlocked quite a world for me. (3 August 2011)
The second was Sally Rippin who was inspired by reading Jenny’s Hat by Ezra Jack Keats.
I used to look at and study those illustrations again and again…there was something about the way they did their artwork that really spoke to me even quite young. (1 August 2011)
For some, reading was a necessary way of life. Growing up in small country towns with limited options for entertainment meant that at least two authors embraced reading with a passion. Libby Gleeson came from a family that “thought that television was probably not going to be good for your schoolwork. So there was no TV, which meant of course that if you weren’t playing sport or studying or doing whatever, you
136 read” (9 February 2011). On the other side of Australia, Norman Jorgensen experienced a similar childhood:
One of the things to get ahead in a country town in Australia is you’ve got to be good at sport. Or even interested in sport and I had no interest in sport whatsoever so I think I might have retreated into books a bit more than most kids. That’s what happens – your imagination gets fired up by reading other people’s books. (11 March 2011)
Gleeson and Jorgensen both noted that the availability of material was inadequate as they quickly read through the limited offerings at the local school library as well as the town library. Jorgensen explained: “There hadn’t been the explosion in children’s literature like now, when you can go into a school library and it’s bigger than the town library” (11 March 2011). This insatiable appetite for reading was also mentioned by Sally Rippin.
I got to the point where I was just reading my way through my parents bookshelf, and probably two-thirds of the stuff I was reading I had no idea what I was reading, but I would just read anything, all the time. (1 August 2011)
Even those involved in the distribution and reception of Australian children’s picture books noted their long held interest in reading. For literary and illustration agent, Pippa Masson reading “was always a big, big part of my childhood” (30 June 2011). She was “encouraged to read very widely” (30 June 2011) by her mother who would bring home books from the library and read to Masson every evening. Mark MacLeod, children’s literature academic, publisher, author and ex-National President of the Children's Book Council of Australia, was “taught to read early and spent a lot of time alone with books” (3 January 2012). He explained that “the solitariness of reading was part of my life, and I enjoyed its appeal to the imagination” (3 January 2012).
Although the majority of respondents identified themselves as strong readers from an early age, there were a few who were less interested. Illustrator Freya Blackwood acknowledged that although she enjoyed reading, “it wasn’t a forming part of my childhood I don’t think… I mean I always have read, but it wasn’t in the same way as other people” (24 January 2011). Instead Blackwood spoke of her interest in playing
137 music (piano and trombone) as a significant inspiration and pointed out that her “immersion in an art world was more formative than reading” (24 January 2011). Coming from a family of artists (mother and grandfather) this revelation is perhaps unsurprising. It does however, point to the tacit acquisition of knowledge about art, which would prove to be useful in her illustration career later on. John Heffernan also noted that he did not read actively as a child. “I read bits and pieces but I certainly wasn’t an avid reader, you know, I was probably average” (10 March 2011). His reading interest at this time was primarily non-fiction, which has continued to be an interest in adulthood and correlates with the realistic fiction stories he now writes.
When asked to reflect on how this initial interest in reading began, families were the primary source of encouragement identified. Parents were recognised as being the most important support as they represented a key point of access often bringing home books from the library, reading to their children regularly, and as role model readers themselves. Katrina Germein spoke of her parents and step-parents sharing a broad range of material with her: “They all valued reading and books but they had different sort of tastes… having quite a wide range probably was really important” (20 March 2011).
A few respondents recalled specific events that demonstrated this encouragement and support. Karen Collum’s parents bought her “a bed head with a light in it and it was a bookshelf as well so I could actually read at night” (3 August 2011). Norman Jorgensen’s father would regularly buy him books:
They weren’t very wealthy, Mum and Dad, Dad was just a Telecom technician so he never had any money, very much, he had four sons to bring up as well. But he quite regularly bought me Enid Blyton books and they were really expensive in those days, they were three and sixpence which is probably about thirty or forty dollars. Yeah. He’d buy them for me on Thursday night, pay night, not all the time but enough for me to remember it and appreciate it. And I had them all collected for years and years, saved ‘cause they were special to me. (11 March 2011)
This was a significant moment for Jorgensen as it instilled in him a sense of value and respect for books: that they were something to save for and appreciate. As key
138 intermediaries, parents and caregivers are in a privileged position to encourage and support childhood reading. Child readers engage with picture books at a formative developmental stage of life and as such, the books they read play a fundamental role in shaping their cultural and social experiences of the world. Many authors used this immersion in reading as a method to step into writing.
4.2.1.3. Writing
A number of participants cited an interest in writing at an early age. For instance, Libby Gleeson reflected: “I think it’s always been in my head that I would write full stop” (9 February 2011). Katrina Germein was interested not only in the writing of stories, but also the distribution of them. During primary school Germein wrote stories with a close friend and “put out a newspaper for the class” (20 March 2011). While the newspaper did not last, the friendship did and Germein regards it as a “big influence all along because she’s always written as well” (20 March 2011). Several of the illustrators interviewed in this research have also written picture books and spoke of a long-standing interest in writing stories. For Tohby Riddle an interest in reading, writing and art were intertwined: “I was interested in books and art and words and all those things” (27 July 2007).
Many of the respondents spoke about developing an interest in writing through their love of reading. For Katrina Germein the attraction was poetry. “I have always written, so I did used to write a lot of poetry and I would also sit in my room with the door shut and read a lot of poetry out loud to myself” (20 March 2011). Norman Jorgensen’s interest in writing came through his love of reading, especially reading adventure books.
I just wanted to be the eighth member of The Secret Seven or the sixth member of The Famous Five. I think the first thing I ever wrote was revisions of that with me as the extra character. *laughs* (11 March 2011)
Several others acknowledged the significant influence of their favourite books on their writing development. Shaun Tan admitted,
139 I was very interested in writing stories, so I was reading with an eye to writing my own stories and so as a kid a lot of the stuff, I read it now, and I can see it’s very derivative of certain books that I was reading at the time. (11 July 2007)
This is not an uncommon practice in children however, as Meek asserts “stories read to them become part of their own memories. Book characters emerge in the stories of their early dramatic play as they anticipate the possibilities of their futures” (2002: 2). Imitation of this kind is the child developing their habitus (Bourdieu, 1993), as they are absorbing information from other sources to learn how to write themselves.
In addition to reading, school was occasionally identified as providing the opportunity and support for developing an interest in writing. Some, like Sally Rippin, had supportive teachers:
I was fortunate to have a really fantastic art teacher who saw something in me, in the very conservative girls school that I went to, and she would go above and beyond the call of duty and take me to exhibitions in her own time on weekends and she was very inspiring and helped me see art as being a valid, important thing rather than just something you would do if you wanted a slack subject which was kind of the way it was perceived at the school I was at. So she definitely lit the fire. (1 August 2011)
Sometimes this support at school was reinforced in the home lives of respondents, as it was for Katrina Germein:
There was a lot of free writing time at school where I wrote lots of stories. And I do remember writing stories at home as well, especially ones that were sort of scaffolded on the books I had at home. (20 March 2011)
Even literary agent Pippa Masson noted an interest in writing as a child. “I used to write a little bit. I entered things in competitions and won prizes” (30 June 2011). However her interest waned as she grew. “I think it’s because I’m not a very patient person and you need incredible amounts of patience to be a writer” (30 June 2011). This observation illustrates Masson’s growing awareness of writing as dedicated work,
140 which in many ways is a result of seeing her mother’s (Sophie Masson) career develop as very successful author. By witnessing the commitment of a practicing writer, Masson tacitly absorbed information about the realities of an author’s life. This was similarly the case for several respondents with parents who were practicing artists.
4.2.1.4. Art
Parallel to discussions of childhood interests in reading and writing, was the recognition by several illustrators of their interest in art as children. Illustrating was something Sally Rippin began to do “as soon as I could hold a pencil” (1 August 2011), and has continued throughout her life. “I’ve always drawn and I’ve always illustrated as all children do…I can’t remember a time when I haven’t drawn or made little books” (1 August 2011). While Matt Ottley noted that drawing and painting was not particularly encouraged beyond “what most kids do” at school, it did not discourage him as he “knew that’s what I wanted to spend my time doing” (10 February 2011).
Freya Blackwood confessed that her interest and engagement with the world of art was more influential on her life than an interest in reading. As Blackwood’s mother is a painter and jeweller, her father an architect, and her grandfather (Mother’s father) also a painter, it is no surprise that she was immersed in art throughout her childhood.
I guess we were the type of family that’d go to gallery openings instead of going to watch a movie. Or instead of going out to a restaurant or bowling or something, we’d go to an exhibition or something. So that was quite normal. (24 January 2011)
She concedes that this lifelong engagement with the world of art was formative for her practice as an illustrator. “I became much more visually literate…I don’t really understand it, but I think that’s sort of where my skills lie or where my interests lie as well” (24 January 2011). This is an important acknowledgement of her habitus developing throughout her life to the extent that it appears natural. As an accumulation of personal, social and cultural experiences, habitus helps to construct trajectories and decisions that seem both necessary and normal.
141 A common thread through the data was the identification of parents as a primary source of encouragement in developing and supporting an initial interest in art. Several respondents had parents who were practicing artists, which they acknowledged contributed greatly to their understanding of and engagement with art. Matt Ottley noted a strong influence from his mother who painted and father who drew, “so it was pretty much in the family” (10 February 2011). Ottley’s mother, a landscape artist in Papua New Guinea, taught him to use oil paints at the age of four and would occasionally take him on her painting excursions into the bush. Rebecca Cool’s mother (respected artist Maria Cool) would submit her children’s “little drawings and things into Women’s Weekly [an Australian monthly women’s magazine] and we’d win prizes” (18 March 2011). Cool’s mother would also encourage creative practice by ensuring craft materials were readily available. “It was always normal for us to have, you know, art materials around that we could play with and use” (18 March 2011). Freya Blackwood’s mother would similarly alleviate boredom by setting up an art project for her children. “We were always doing strange little projects. Just for us.” (24 January 2011).
For those whose parents were not involved in art, many made an effort to acknowledge and provide opportunities for their children to develop their talents. Interestingly, several of these parents were teachers. Leigh Hobbs’ father was a schoolteacher with “a life long interest in art and music and history” (19 July 2011), which likely assisted in his recognition of Hobbs’ affinity for drawing. When Hobbs was six years old his father gifted him a drawing board and an alarm clock and at 6am Hobbs “was allowed to turn the light on and start drawing” (19 July 2011). Sally Rippin’s mother was also a teacher who encouraged the development of art practice. “Every house that we lived in there’d always be a corner set up with a table with crayons and paper and glue so we always had access to it whenever we felt like we wanted” (1 August 2011). As will be discussed in more detail shortly (Chapter 5: Individual), the identification and encouragement of particular interests as a child is critical to developing a creative career in the future. Someone might possess a particular predisposition towards art, but if this is not identified and encouraged at some point it is unlikely that they will continue to foster it into a career.
What these initial interests in telling stories, reading, writing, and art indicate is a deep connection to acquiring domain specific knowledge from an early age. As children, the 142 respondents of this research experienced this as part of a process of socialisation with parents and educators acting as key intermediaries providing access to information and artefacts. While it cannot be argued that an interest in these activities as a child is sufficient enough to predict that someone will be an author or illustrator later in life, it nevertheless appears to be a necessary component since in order to create anything, an individual must first have been exposed to an example of that work. The data presented here reflects Bourdieu’s (1977, 1993) discussion of habitus, which describes the lifetime accumulation of knowledge as influencing the subsequent cultural trajectories of an individual. It can be seen from the preceding comments that each respondent’s habitus began to form as a child before they could even recognise it as such, and this immersion influenced the decision to even “take an interest in the game” (Bourdieu, 1993: 18, emphasis in original). Over time this process builds and repeats, exponentially increasing the store of knowledge. In addition to being interested in the domain of Australian children’s picture books, it is also necessary to acquire and absorb the content, skills, and conventions of the domain in order to be able to create work that is considered creative.
4.2.2. Developing Skills and Knowledge
For an individual to create novel work as a part of the system of creativity, an understanding of the domain’s rules, conventions and procedures is necessary. This knowledge is acquired through a lifetime of engagement with a particular cultural symbol system and is a constantly evolving phenomenon. As a practice that is both conscious and unconscious, individuals accumulate domain knowledge before they themselves become fully aware of having acquired it. Before the producers of Australian children’s picture books interviewed for this research were able to create their work, they had to first immerse themselves in some fundamental structural systems. Csikszentmihalyi explains that some of “the oldest symbolic systems in the world are those organized around the content and rules of language” (1997: 238), so a deep understanding of the particular language system they will eventually work within is necessary for a creative producer. Starting with a general language system, the cultural producers in this research would also have to absorb information about the general domain of literature, narrowing this down through the domain of children’s
143 literature, into the subdomain of children’s picture books. Much of this knowledge is acquired in a seemingly passive manner through the reading of texts and practice of literacy, as demonstrated in the previous section, to the extent that this knowledge becomes internalised.
While individuals absorb and master the domain, they develop a ‘feel’ for what is necessary for a product or idea to be considered creative. This can be connected to Bourdieu’s (1993) discussion of habitus. For Bourdieu, an individual must develop an understanding of the knowledge, codes and manner of thought unique to their cultural domain before they can “be accepted as a legitimate player” (Johnson, 1993: 8) and make judgements about the creative work being produced. This cultural competence reveals itself as a “practical sense” (Johnson, 1993: 5) and causes practice within the domain to appear ‘intuitive’ (Bastick, 1982) or ‘automatic’ (Schön, 1983).
Interestingly, during the data analysis for this chapter it became apparent that producers of children’s picture books who were in the earlier stages of their careers were more readily able to articulate where their knowledge had come from. It is possible that as early career producers they were deeply immersed in a steep learning curve accumulating previously unavailable knowledge. As this information had only recently been acquired it had not yet been fully internalised as it had for others who had been practicing for longer.
What follows is an examination of how individual agents working within the Australian children’s picture book industry accumulate knowledge of the domain and develop a feel for how it operates in order to inform their own practice. Several processes were identified including developing reading skills as children and adults, through formal education systems, as well as informal training gathered through written material, workshops and courses, on the job learning, and through peer relationships or mentoring.
4.2.3. Reading
Csikszentmihalyi (1997: 51-76), in a study of five creative writers, argues that reading is often the primary way those interested in a domain acquire knowledge. Additionally,
144 reading is a fundamental life skill and as Rippin argued, possibly “the only thing in life that you can’t get by without” (1 August 2011). She emphasised that regardless of life trajectories, “you need to be able to read instructions, drive a car, read the instructions on a label. Reading, you cannot get by without it” (1 August 2011).
Reading, for the purposes of this research, can be defined as using basic knowledge of language to decode and understand a symbol system of written words in order to convey meaning (Appleyard, 1990; Smith, 2004; Coltheart & Prior, 2007). The development of this ability to read and understand language begins in early childhood, before many of us remember. Gleitman, Fridlund, & Reisberg (1999) estimate that a child of two and a half years old possesses a vocabulary of up to 500 words, with a child of four utilising an average of 2000. This skill increases exponentially until by adulthood “every one of us has acquired a sight vocabulary of at least 50,000 words” (Smith, 2004: 196). Not all of this language acquisition is the result of formal teaching; rather it is the culmination of a lifetime of enculturation through techniques such as reading and speaking (Smith, 2004). This heuristic learning develops as part of an individual’s habitus and influences the choices they make in the future.
Sawyer asserts that the most common and important piece of advice writing teachers impart to their students is “to read constantly” (2012: 332). With this in mind, it is interesting to note that Libby Gleeson does just this. “That’s one of the messages I give to kids whenever I’m talking about writing is that reading is incredibly important. I don’t think you can be a writer without being a reader” (9 February 2011). By immersing themselves in literature, interested individuals will develop a deep understanding of the structures of literature and skills required to create their own work. Through this internalisation of domain structures and knowledge, Sawyer (2012) argues that individuals eventually become participants in their own fields. As Csikszentmihalyi explains, “Writers say that you have to read, read, and read some more, and know what the critics’ criteria for good writing are, before you can write creatively yourself” (1997: 47). This concept was reflected in the interviews conducted for this research.
145 4.2.3.1. Reading as Adults
As the previous section acknowledged, many of the respondents in this research embraced reading at a young age. Unsurprisingly, reading has continued to be an important pursuit in their adult lives. For instance, even though literary agent Pippa Masson’s job required extensive reading she also belonged to “a bookclub which makes me read things that I probably wouldn’t read and makes me actually read books that aren’t just work books” (30 June 2011).
As Appleyard (1990) suggests, there are a multitude of reasons why readers read. The respondents of this research identified motivations including reading for pleasure, education or research, escapism, and to expand their knowledge of physical and emotional worlds. For many it was an integral part of their lives. Nette Hilton echoed several other respondents when she explained that books were a way for her to make sense of herself and her experiences of the world.
Books have explained a lot of aspects of life that were a mystery to me...the experiences of those people [in books] were well outside of my experiences but their feelings were the same if you know what I mean? So I could interpret my feelings against their feelings. It gave me ways to think about myself. And I think that’s something that books do for people. They give you a way, they give you a continuum...so you’re able to define yourself. (2 July 2007)
Several respondents expressed their joy at reading children’s literature, and in particular picture books, as adults. Kathryn Apel describes this experience as “a real buzz” (19 April 2011) and maintains a list of picture books to request during library visits. Author Karen Collum also acknowledged a love of children’s fiction (and libraries).
I like to keep up with the picture book releases, I mean I can’t afford to buy all of them so the library is my friend. I try and find all of the award winners, even worldwide like the American award winners as well...But I also read a lot of young adult and I like the contemporary young adult novels because I quite like writing that as well. (3 August 2011)
146 This wide taste in reading was echoed by others including Katrina Germein who noted that in addition to reading adult novels, she reads a large amount of children’s fiction “‘cause my kids bring them home” (20 March 2011).
Reading in this way has lead to a familiarity with conventional elements of children’s literature. Germein explains:
In terms of refining different writing styles and especially in writing picture books where you have such a short word count and you need to find the right word, I think being really widely read is obviously a massive advantage and really important. (20 March 2011)
The respondents have absorbed principles to do with language, grammar, story length, and overall narrative construction simply through reading. Most of the time this occurs at an unconscious level, but occasionally producers actively seek this knowledge. Karen Collum revealed that she often read to critically ascertain this information: “I read them from a writer’s perspective trying to work out why it works, why this won an award, why it’s so highly acclaimed” (3 August 2011). Gathering knowledge about picture books through reading contributes to an individual’s ability to produce and evaluate creative work of their own making.
Contrasting this, there were a few respondents whose interest in picture books came at a later stage of life in adulthood. Author and illustrator Tohby Riddle revealed that his interest was sparked when considering working with the form. “I saw some picture books, I hadn’t looked at picture books for a while, you know since, perhaps since I was a child and then I remembered how, how good they were and how powerful they could be” (27 July 2007). This was similar for Mark MacLeod who explained that while reading had always been an important pursuit, his interest in picture books was sparked by teaching.
I needed to read fiction and picture books for my children’s lit classes, but because I was also the co-ordinator of the Australian Lit courses I read a lot of Australian fiction and poetry – as well as the usual critical literature. I loved American fiction and poetry and became very interested in postcolonial literature, so I read in particular fiction and poetry from Canada and India, with a bit from New Zealand. I read some
147 Caribbean, African and Pacific literature, but mostly as a bit of an experiment. (3 January 2012)
As the only anomaly, Leigh Hobbs specifically noted a disinterest in reading picture books.
I sort of feel that I can learn more, as far as my own work goes, by looking at a book about history or the sort of books that I'm interested in. Like reading my book about rhyme, by Robert Hughes, that's the sort of book that would inform the equivalent of Mr Chicken Goes to Paris rather than another children’s book. (19 July 2011)
This is interesting as Hobbs’ particular brand of work is quite subversive and aimed at an audience of primary school aged children who are capable of comprehending this complexity.
In general, many of the respondents reflected that their reading habits aligned with their writing interests. This is unsurprising as it speaks to a lifelong pursuit of domain knowledge, which is critical for a producer. Libby Gleeson explained that while her reading pattern slows when she is trying to write she is “still a fairly avid reader, mainly with realistic fiction which interestingly is what I write” (9 February 2011). Norman Jorgensen’s reading similarly tends to the realistic, “I certainly like historical novels and I tend to read a lot more non-fiction these days” (11 March 2011). This interest resonates through some of his writing, for instance his picture book In Flanders Field (2002), illustrated by Brian Harrison-Lever, tells the story of a young, homesick Anzac soldier during World War I who risks his life to rescue a robin caught in no-man’s-land. Drawing on multiple inspirations this story echoes fictional narratives such as Erich Remarque’s film All Quiet On the Western Front (1929), as well as historical moments such as the Christmas ceasefires between German and British soldiers along the Western Front in 1914. Additionally, many of the illustrations in the picture book are based on real photos that Jorgensen and Harrison- Lever collected during their research. Stemming from his personal interest in history, Jorgensen has developed an extensive knowledge of World War I to the extent that he is “known for being a World War I junkie” (11 March 2011) with people often contacting him with questions and material.
148 A number of respondents noted they enjoyed quite a broad range of reading interests. For Rebecca Cool reading was a regular evening activity that drew on “a wide, wide selection” (18 March 2011) of genres and styles. Although Matt Ottley described himself as “a slow reader” (10 February 2011), he outlined a broad range of reading interests including the classics, science fiction, biography and autobiography as well as nonfiction. He also explained that his interest in reading had changed throughout his life: “I think it’s probably increased as I’ve got older. I’m certainly more interested in nonfiction than I ever was when I was younger” (10 February 2011). Mark MacLeod similarly listed a wide range of reading interests:
Adult fiction and quirky non-fiction. Biographies. Books about language and linguistics. I also read some of my favourite American poets. I read quite a lot of literary criticism. I’ve also read a lot of new age/ spiritual. Self-help books. Plus loads of cookbooks. (3 January 2012)
This well rounded appetite for fiction and nonfiction demonstrates an ongoing engagement in the domain of literature as respondents draw from the knowledge systems they have internalised to make a contribution of their own.
4.2.3.2. Reading in learning how to write
When asked what role they thought reading plays in learning to write, the respondents were adamant there was a substantial connection. Many endorsed Sally Rippin’s strong statement that “you can’t be a writer without being a reader” (1 August 2011). Regardless of their personal reading preferences most noted that reading assisted them in acquiring skills and knowledge that informed their practice. Libby Gleeson was adamant:
You cannot overestimate it! I think it’s enormously important. Because it’s only by reading and seeing how others have done certain things with text that I think you become aware of the myriad of ways in which you can create a story. If you’d never read anything about say a time-slip or a text written in the first person or whatever, then you may not know or imagine that you could do that too. (9 February 2011)
149 Norman Jorgensen passionately agreed:
It’s absolutely vital. Every writer I’ve ever met, and you know how we all know each other, they all read copious amounts, huge amounts…I don’t think you can be a successful writer unless you actually read a huge amount. Otherwise you’ve got no idea what is good and what is bad and how to do it. (11 March 2011)
In this way, the more knowledge gathered the more the practice of authors and illustrators will improve. Sally Rippin explained that as part of a book group, she engaged in a structured critical examination of literary qualities including language usage, sentence structure, character development, pacing, and plot for the purpose of enhancing her own writing. Rippin notes this is “a more conscious kind of study” (1 August 2011) than when she is simply reading for pleasure: although the lines do blur on occasion. Literary agent Pippa Masson agreed that examining “how someone might have tackled a certain narrative structure or this person used third person really effectively” (30 June 2011) contributes to an individual’s ability. “That’s all part of learning how to make you and your craft better than before” (Masson, 30 June 2011).
According to Keith Sawyer, “every successful creative career starts with a long period of training and preparation” (2012: 217). As will be demonstrated, some of this preparatory work occurs through traditional avenues of education and training, but much of this preparation occurs informally and discretely through processes of immersion. Each of these creative individuals has been interested in reading from early childhood; through this lifelong engagement they have been absorbing the unwritten structures of the domain. As such their commitment to reading can be considered as a form of practice and preparation for their careers as authors and illustrators of similar works. Katrina Germein acknowledged this preparatory role that reading takes: “I think it’s really important, but it probably, it would influence the style that you write in and influence the craft of writing and becoming more skilled in the craft of writing” (20 March 2011). From the perspective of someone outside of the writing process, literary agent Pippa Masson agreed. “That’s certainly been my experience with writers that each book gets better, because they’re honing their craft and honing that craft is, part of honing that craft is reading and research” (30 June 2011).
150 Of this connection, Kathryn Apel challenged that it could be expanded to ask, “what role do you think reading takes in everything?” (19 April 2011). She explained:
Reading is the most important thing that a child’s going to learn at school. Because from there they get their knowledge, they get their vocabulary, they get the ability to learn and acquire knowledge throughout the rest of their life and just through reading they get that structure for their writing. (19 April 2011)
In this way reading becomes somewhat of a surrogate teacher where students are able to learn structured information in an informal manner. This notion was supported by others like Libby Gleeson who noted that “wide reading encourages an incredible language development and roots of vocabulary” (9 February 2011) and Matt Ottley who asserted that reading “expands your intelligence” (10 February 2011).
While Sally Rippin acknowledged times where she would “study a book” (1 August 2011) to critically examine its construction, much of her knowledge was acquired “by osmosis, just by absorbing these things that these writers are doing consciously or unconsciously” (1 August 2011). This ‘osmosis’ was also emphasised by Norman Jorgensen who acknowledged that his understanding of literary structures was “from reading other people and paying attention to what I liked and noticing things that had worked well and trying to replicate them” (11 March 2011). As argued, what Rippin and Jorgensen described is the development of their habitus. As Bourdieu (1993) proposed, an individual’s habitus is developed though a lifetime of accumulated knowledge and cultural awareness. This information is internalised to the extent that decision-making responses to situations and events (even unfamiliar ones) appear instinctive or automatic. While the unconscious, internal, and unique nature of habitus makes it difficult to pinpoint, it would be impossible for this knowledge to simply spring into the mind without rational explanation. Noting that “the most crucial aspect of habitus [is] that it naturalises itself” (Webb et al., 2002: 40), this research proposes that through reading, the structures of writing (and to a certain extent illustration) are learned until “It becomes a natural thing” (Apel, 19 April 2011). Using her students as an example of this naturalised knowledge, Apel advised that they were often able to point out stylistic and structural elements of poetry before being taught them. “If you ask a child what a poem is, they can tell you that it’s usually in short lines and it might
151 have space in between and it might rhyme” (19 April 2011). Based on these observations, Apel noted that learning about story and how to convey one is absorbed at an early age from reading other stories. In primary school her students recognised “that beginning, middle, end thing – the earliest little writers usually have it” (19 April 2011). Karen Collum, who also worked as a teacher elaborated:
I think you get your sense of what story is from reading. I think before you even realise, you’re not old enough to be aware that stories have a beginning, a middle and an end, you know there’s a problem, you know there’s a character, and...I don’t see how you could learn to write without reading. Because your very first stories are often mirrors of what you’ve read. (3 August 2011)
She noted that she had also observed this amongst her own children.
Literary agent Pippa Masson, summarises the majority of the respondent’s beliefs when she says reading is “absolutely imperative” (30 June 2011).
You have to be a reader if you want to be a writer. And you know, the same with being an illustrator I think too you have to read widely, you have to know…It’s not just about knowing what’s out there and what your market is and all those kinds of things, ‘cause I mean, that is part of it. But it’s about being interested in the whole world. (30 June 2011)
In this case it can be argued that, through years of reading, producers of contemporary Australian children’s picture books have developed a productive form of tacit knowledge (Schön, 1983) through both conscious and unconscious means. This deep understanding informs their ability to produce work and evaluate its likelihood of being considered creative against all that exists in the domain already.
4.2.4. Immersion in Art
This sentiment, that immersion in the knowledges associated with the form informs activity, was similarly reflected by illustrators when questioned about the relationship between engaging with other people’s art and developing their own understanding of
152 art practice. Leigh Hobbs was firm in his agreement regarding the importance of learning about other people’s art:
Absolutely! Absolutely without a skerrick of a doubt. Because for a start, and I can only talk from my own position, there’s no way I could ever be conceited about anything I ever do because ever since I can remember I’ve devoured books about art and artists. (19 July 2011)
For Freya Blackwood, it was second nature: “It’s something I’ve done all my life without even realising” (24 January 2012).
This kind of habitual learning and engagement with other people’s art was, for some, spoken about with great enthusiasm. Rebecca Cool described it as a love of “looking at other artists” (18 March 2011); Sally Rippin exclaimed that for her “it’s vital” (1 August 2011); Leigh Hobbs referred to it as “sheer enjoyment”. Hobbs expanded on this reaction saying: “I feel a sense of responsibility to stay alive and alert as long as I can so that I can appreciate the marvellous work of others” (19 July 2011).
In a similar manner to reading, engaging with other people’s art was something that began for many in childhood and extended into adulthood. While Blackwood acknowledged that the time she has to attend exhibitions had become limited since having a child, it was an integral part of her childhood:
I think the fact that we looked at paintings every day and that our house was full of them had an impact on me. I think, I mean, I find that my Mum and I and my grandfather all have a similar way of drawing as well. We’re all different people but there’s a similarity there as well. (24 January 2012)
This insight is interesting to note as it could be argued it is evidence of a shared habitus: family experiences and temperaments converging within related social and cultural contexts to produce similar work.
Of the role her prior engagement with art has played in her career, Blackwood reflected: “I must have had an intuitive understanding of things based on what I’d been immersed in” (24 January 2012). As with the discussion on reading, her engagement with art from a young age has lead to internalising an understanding of the codes and 153 conventions of that particular domain to the extent that it feels ‘intuitive’ (Bastick, 1982). Sally Rippin suggested that it was possible to unconsciously learn about art from being surrounded by art, but more so she argued that this is a consequence of simply “being in the world” (1 August 2011).
4.2.5. Formal Education
While it has been seen that much domain knowledge is acquired in an informal manner through reading and absorbing language, there are other direct forms of learning that individuals engage with throughout their creative lives. While some of these are generalist in nature providing a wide range of knowledge and competencies, others provide specific skills and experience as preparation for a particular career. Both forms are important however as “many of the skills acquired through a general education are directly useful in an artist’s day-to-day professional work” (Throsby & Zednik, 2010: 26).
The ongoing research by Throsby and Zednik (2010) on professional Australian artists, suggests that artists follow a range of pathways to equip themselves with relevant knowledge and skills. Unsurprisingly, within this study a variety of arts training was identified as being undertaken by the participants of this research. These included, formal education whereby graduates are awarded particular qualifications, personal research through written texts, non-award study such as workshops and short courses, private mentorship, and finally industry training often developed on the job.
4.2.5.1. Primary and Secondary Formal Education
Formal educational opportunities were identified as an important component of creativity. For most of the respondents in this research, it was during their schooling that they acquired reading and writing skills. This was expected as the principle “function of schools is to pass on domain knowledge to the next generation” (Sawyer, 2006: 60).
In this study, almost all of the respondents were born in Australia and participated in
154 the Australian education system by attended compulsory schooling from an early age. There were three exceptions to this. Freya Blackwood was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, but grew up in Orange, NSW Australia. Matt Ottley was born in the Highlands of Papua New Guinea where he lived for eleven and a half years. Sally Rippin, although born in Darwin, Australia, spent most of her childhood in South-East Asia (Brunei and Singapore), and then lived in England, Perth, Adelaide, and Hong Kong before settling in Melbourne during Year Eight where she finished her secondary studies. This enculturation into the Australian education system continued for most of the participants until they completed their Higher School Certificate in Year Twelve. The only slight variation to this completion process was author Gary Crew who left school at 16 to work as a draftsman. However he completed his matriculation several years later and went on to continue his education as a mature age student. Consequently, all respondents had some experience with the English curriculum in one of Australia’s state or church-run systems in Western Australia, Queensland, New South Wales, Victoria, or South Australia. This formal education included learning how to read, write, and deconstruct language in the study of English prose and poetry. In addition to this, every participant in this research experienced indirect learning through their personal interaction with the English language and the world around them.
However, it is important to note that there were some differences in the formal educational experiences of the respondents in this research given that their experiences spanned several decades, states, and educational systems. For instance, a few of the participants like John Heffernan, acknowledged explicit instruction in English skills and grammar during primary or secondary school. “I was on the end of the period where grammar was still taught, parsing and analyzing and all that sort of thing. So I had that sort of sense” (10 March 2011). Mark MacLeod remembered this time fondly, noting that it has continued to be useful knowledge to have. “I am delighted that both grammar and close reading were important parts of my schooling. They helped me understand why a piece of writing isn’t working, and gave me a range of options for improving it” (3 January 2012). This was not the experience of all respondents.
In the late 1960s, an increasing dissatisfaction with old traditions of teaching English lead to a ‘grammar revolution’ (Bernard, 1999) within the Australian education system. During this time formal grammar education was abandoned under the premise 155 that it did not improve writing ability. Instead education focused on the development of skills through personal experience. Often referred to as the personal growth era (Nay-Brock, 1984; Bernard, 1999), children were encouraged to learn grammar through their analysis of texts rather than by rote. Of this time many agreed with Libby Gleeson’s characterisation that explicit instruction in creative writing was limited at best. “It was just compositions with red pencils through your spelling mistakes. Nobody taught you how to draft or to rewrite and to create characters or structure stories, that sort of thing” (9 February 2011). This ‘personal growth era’ continued until 1994 when the Australian Education Council (AEC) recommended revising the curriculum to incorporate the teaching of functional grammar in conjunction with textual analysis but the already substantial impact could not be reversed with almost three decades of students graduating with limited formal writing skills.
Of this group, however, some were not disappointed. Katrina Germein was happy to avoid formal education in terms of writing structure:
I think I was lucky. I’m a child of the ‘80s so I’m a product of ‘whole language’ [another term to describe the personal experience approach] *laughs* and I’m thankful for it. We didn’t pull apart genre structures to pieces the way they do now, and I think that that’s fortunate. (20 March 2011)
For children in this era, like Germein, specific instruction in genre styles and writing structure was suspended until high school. “It worked for me because I was a child that did have that sort of support and scaffolding at home” (20 March 2011) but she does concede, “if you’re a child that doesn’t come from a background where reading and writing and education are supported and valued those kids need that really clear structure” (20 March 2011).
While the educational experiences of these respondents were quite different, most noted that education contributed to the development of their domain knowledge through both direct and indirect means. However, as will be discussed presently, several other important points of enculturation were also identified as contributing to knowledge and skill acquisition.
156 4.2.5.2. Tertiary Education
In an ongoing survey of Australian artists, Throsby and Zednik assert “formal training by coursework at a tertiary or specialist institution is by far the most important means of training for practising professional artists in Australia today” (2010: 7). Artists in general are highly educated “with 65 percent of them holding a tertiary qualification, compared to 25 percent educated to this level in the workforce at large” (Throsby & Zednik, 2010: 7). Significant for this research is the data that concludes writers and visual artists are the most educated with “the highest proportion of practitioners who have completed a postgraduate diploma or degree (45 percent and 42 percent respectively)” (Throsby & Zednik, 2010: 7). Within this research, 19 out of 20 respondents pursued further education upon completion of high school. At 95%, this level is above the average suggested by Throsby and Zednik (2010). While this research is a case study and does not seek to extrapolate data for wide generalisability, this figure is still quite remarkable.
While the majority completed study at Australian Universities, a number also attended program specific colleges or Technical and Further Education (TAFE) courses. Some sought specific courses in writing or art, but most undertook related programs of which literature, education, or art were a component. This is not uncommon however, as while writers are typically the most educated professional artists in Australia, their formal education in many cases “does not entail specific training in writing” (Throsby & Zednik, 2010: 27). Additionally, a connection can be drawn between the related disciplines of History, Education, Fine Arts, Visual Communication, English, and Business, as they all stem from the Humanities. Seven out of the twenty research participants undertook tertiary study in the field of education, with three more taking up teaching positions after completing alternative qualifications.
While this data gives us only a snapshot of an industry, this last statistic is interesting nonetheless. Creativity researchers, James Kaufman (2003) and Robert Weisberg (2006) have both theorised that certain occupations attract certain personality types. Similarly a number of researchers have examined the notion of ‘goodness of fit’ as a key concept in explaining how an individual’s environment affects the development of their personality (Thomas & Chess, 1977; Carey & McDevitt, 1995; Chess & Thomas, 1996, 1999; McClowry, Rodriguez, & Koslowitz, 2008). When there is accord
157 between a person’s capacities, characteristics, and style of behaving and their social environment, they are more likely to feel comfortable and flourish in their development (Ollendick & Schroeder, 2003: 98). However, as discussed in the previous literature review while some creative people may possess similar personality traits, there are no specific traits that hold true for all (Hennessey & Amabile, 2010: 577). As such it is difficult to speculate accurately on this statistical phenomenon. However, it may be that instead of certain professions attracting certain types of people the profession itself might form certain attributes that apply to writers and illustrators; or possibly a combination of both.
Ann James, Ann Haddon, Gary Crew, and Nette Hilton attended teachers college, which was a prior incarnation of the present Bachelor degree program. Ann James received her Higher Diploma at Melbourne Teachers College and worked as an arts teacher, followed by a stint as a graphic designer and illustrator for the Ministry of Education in Victoria. In 1988, James co-founded Books Illustrated, a centre celebrating Australian children’s literature with Ann Haddon who had been a teacher librarian in primary schools for 18 years. Gary Crew, after a decade working as a design draftsman, enrolled at Queensland University where he completed a Masters degree. He became a high school English teacher and eventually Head Teacher of English, and is now an Associate Professor of Creative Writing at University of the Sunshine Coast. Nette Hilton completed her training at Wollongong Teachers' College and worked in schools around Sydney, settling on her farm in the far north coast of New South Wales in 1983.
Teachers colleges in Australia are now part of the general university offering which is where Kathryn Apel, Karen Collum, and Katrina Germein completed their teaching qualifications. Kathryn Apel studied at the University of Southern Queensland and graduated with a Bachelor of Teaching (majoring in Mandarin Chinese) and a Bachelor of Education Studies. Karen Collum graduated from the University of Tasmania with First Class Honours in primary education. Katrina Germein attended Flinders University in Adelaide and completed a Bachelor of Education (Upper Primary/Lower Secondary) majoring in English with a sub major in Social Science.
Three other participants became teachers after completing alternative degrees. Leigh Hobbs studied art at Caulfield Institute of Technology, which is now Monash
158 University in Melbourne. During this time he was engaged in a studentship, where he received a stipend while studying in return for working as a teacher for two years post graduation. Hobbs went on to work as a high school art teacher for 25 years. Libby Gleeson graduated from the University of Sydney with an Honours degree in History and a Diploma of Education. She subsequently taught in secondary schools, universities and tertiary colleges in Australia, Italy and London, before leaving the profession to write full time. She currently holds the position of adjunct Associate Professor in the Faculty of Education and Social Work at The University of Sydney. Mark Macleod studied linguistics and literature at University with the intention of becoming an English teacher, but began working as a lecturer at Macquarie University when they created Australia’s second university course in children’s literature. Since this time MacLeod has undertaken many different roles in the literary community, including author and publisher, and he is now a Senior Lecturer in English at Charles Sturt University.
Of the remaining authors, John Heffernan, who holds the most tertiary qualifications out of all the respondents in this research, undertook an undergraduate degree at the University of New England in History and English, majoring in Medieval History. He followed this with Honours in Medieval History and a postgraduate Bachelor in Education, before finishing with a Masters in Educational Psychology. Jackie French completed her degree at the University of Queensland studying courses in psychology, philosophy, linguistics, journalism, communication and law. Norman Jorgensen was the only participant that did not undertake study directly related to literature as he completed a Diploma of Business. However this appears to have assisted his career as he has worked as a publisher’s sales representative, a bookstore manager and owner, as well as a contractor for a school book-supply company while writing.
Similarly, almost all of the illustrators interviewed engaged with tertiary education relating to art. Most were analogous to Leigh Hobbs in that they attended some form of art school. Rebecca Cool went to Claremont School of Fine Art (1973 and 1980) and Fremantle College (1985-87), Tohby Riddle to Sydney College of the Arts where he majored in painting and guitar, Matt Ottley studied at the Julian Ashton School of Art in Sydney as well as a year of music composition at Wollongong University, and Shaun Tan graduated from the University of Western Australia with joint honours in Fine Arts and English Literature. Following a slightly different path, Sally Rippin 159 studied Art and Design at RMIT TAFE (Royal Melbourne Institute of Technology Technical and Further Education) for a year before moving to China where she studied traditional Chinese painting at the Shanghai Institute of Fine Art for one year and the Zhejiang Academy of Fine Art for two. Freya Blackwood provided the only slight anomaly as she did not undertake formal study in art or illustration, but completed a Bachelor degree in the related field of Design (Visual Communications) at the University of Technology, Sydney. It was only after a few years working in the film industry that Blackwood returned to the idea of illustration. “I sort of started all over again as an adult” (24 January 2012).
The only participant in this research who did not undertake tertiary education was literary and illustration agent Pippa Masson who began working for literary agency Curtis Brown straight from school and has been employed there ever since. This is not uncommon however, as being an agent is not a degree taught profession.
The respondents in this study were somewhat divided when reflecting on the impact their education had on their careers. Although Libby Gleeson said, “It’s tempting to say no” (9 February 2011) when asked whether that type of study had any relevance or impact on her writing, she acknowledged that:
There may well be some unconscious impact in the sense, particularly in the history, I think it’s interesting that I’ve written one historical novel and certainly that first novel looked a lot at family history. So I think whether it was the historical study I did at University or just a genuine interest in history, I’m not quite sure. (9 February 2011)
For Matt Ottley the educational experience was not an easy one. Although he found the content of various courses “terribly useful” he noted that “It wasn’t the right time” (10 February 2011) for him to engage in formal study. However, as will be explored shortly, Ottley excelled in informal educational settings as a self-directed learner.
Leigh Hobbs however, was positive about the influence of his tertiary education. He noted that during his schooling he was exposed and required to engage in a variety of art practices. “We had to. It’s part of the discipline. And each one of them I found was marvellous because I was basically forced to do things or try things that I’d not thought of before” (19 July 2011). Rebecca Cool echoed this sentiment describing her
160 time at art school as “whole days of life drawing which is like the basis of everything and you learn how to see and I loved it. It was great” (18 March 2011). Sally Rippin agreed that her study helped to develop her practice describing it as “that combination between your natural creative drive and your ability to take those ideas and actually form them into something” (1 August 2011).
Although there may be some discrepancy regarding the extent to which this further education influenced the lives and careers of the respondents, it is fair to say that this form of elective study was generally useful (perhaps even more than compulsory education). Most respondents acknowledged that they learnt requisite skills and acquired broad general knowledge about the domain.
4.2.5.3. Learning as an Educator
Ten out of twenty respondents in this study spent time working as teachers in the Australian education system, with two others (Sally Rippin and Matt Ottley) performing the role of educator in the private sector from time to time. While it is acknowledged that this research is a case study and therefore not aiming for generalisability, this remains a noteworthy finding. As such, it is useful to examine if and how this experience has contributed to the domain acquisition and knowledge of the field (particularly the child audience) for these participants. For most, this teaching experience occurred prior to a public career as a producer of Australian children’s picture books, with a few occurring simultaneously.
As teachers, these producers had been extensively engaged in domain acquisition for many years through their interaction with students. They regularly engaged with picture books through researching for students, creating lesson plans and assignments, as well as undertaking ongoing textual analysis in discussions with their students. Katrina Germein explained:
I was fortunate that in studying teaching and then being a teacher I was sort of immersed in children’s literature. So I think for the genre I write in that probably really helped, just having that there as part of my job and
161 as a part of my study constantly reading more and more children’s books. (20 March 2011)
Kathryn Apel noted that her time in the classroom helped her work on her writing. She explained that she would often write material including poems for her students that connected with the content of their lessons. As an example, she once wrote a poem (Bufo Marinus - What is it?) about cane toads (an invasive species in Australia) for her class that was then published in Pearson's Comet Magazine (Issue 2, 2009). Another time a class poem was performed at an eisteddfod, which prompted Apel to begin “writing poems to perform at the eisteddfod that could then be used by other schools that weren’t specific to us” (19 April 2011). Reflecting on this time Apel noted that the symbiotic relationship between research, teaching and writing “inspired some good writing” (19 April 2011).
For Germein, teaching in a remote Aboriginal community where most children spoke English as a second language and in a class where the age range was from four to nine years old, picture books were an integral part of her classroom practice.
The one thing you can do with one whole group of children at a time is to read them a story and everybody is gaining some language from that, especially when it has images and repetition. So I was reading them a lot of stories each day, which probably did help me to think ‘oh hey, I can write my own stories’. (20 March 2011)
Karen Collum similarly noted the importance of using picture books in the classroom as she regularly read to her students, even when they were in upper primary: “they gained so much out of picture books” (3 August 2011). This kind of usage within the classroom can in turn foster knowledge and engagement with picture books in others. As a university lecturer Mark MacLeod uses picture books in his courses arguing, “I like being able to empower students who are teachers and parents to in turn empower the children in their care” (3 January 2012).
Through their role as educators, these respondents have gathered an extensive knowledge base about a particular domain. In order to teach their students, they had to become familiar with a wide range of genres, literary styles, and writing techniques. Additionally through their extensive lesson preparation each of these participants has
162 read a vast amount of children’s picture books. Ann James noted that this familiarity with children’s media also encouraged a deep understanding of its role in the lives of young children: “Many of us are teachers so we have a real interest in not just the educational side but...having the understanding of the power of story that can affect children's lives” (ABC News, 2016). According to Sawyer (2012), accumulating this kind of knowledge base can help to guide creative producers in sharpening their domain specific skills. Additionally, developing this tacit knowledge can help producers understand what is considered a novel variation in that domain, and predict what various members of the field may value. This insight can also help to hone an individual’s ‘problem finding’ skills (Getzels & Csikszentmihalyi, 1975/2009, 1976) so that they can recognise where gaps in the market exist so that they might effectively position their work to fill that particular need.
4.2.6. Informal Education
In addition to the formal tertiary education that almost all of the respondents of this study experienced, several sought educational opportunities of an informal nature. Training of this kind was undertaken at several points throughout their careers with the goal to supplement skills and knowledge specific to their practice. This autodidactic form of learning is commonly referred to as experiential learning and contributes to an individual’s unique habitus.
Experiential learning is an active educational approach that concentrates on the individual’s firsthand exploration of knowledge as opposed to rote or didactic learning. This emphasis on learning from experience was popularised in the 1970s by David Kolb (1984) who drew significantly from the work of John Dewey (1938). Learning through doing is an inevitable consequence of being in the world, but according to Throsby and Zednik “lifelong learning may perhaps be a stronger reality in the arts than in many other professions” (2010: 28). The respondents in this research extended their education in myriad ways including engaging in research by reading books and material about their profession, learning on the job, and through relationships with mentors and peers.
163 4.3.6.1. Texts
There is a vast amount of general material available to interested parties covering the subject of writing and publication in Australia and worldwide. How-to manuals, radio programs, specialist publications, and online archives of lectures and interviews all explore the lives and books of authors and illustrators. A number of private organisations like the Australian Writers’ Centre run courses on Writing Picture Books and often include content tailored to illustrators as well. In fact, a number of the participants in this research have authored material about the process of writing and illustrating. For instance, Libby Gleeson has written three books including Writing Hannah: On Writing for Children (1999) a study of her writing process, Making Picture Books (2003) following the creation of a picture book from idea generation to production, and Writing like a Writer (2007) to support the teaching of narrative writing to students. Several others share insights about their process and creative lives on their websites including Jackie French who shares tips about writing and publishing, Shaun Tan who posts essays and conference presentations reflecting on illustration, writing, and reading, and Tohby Riddle who has a range of resources available to download about his process when creating picture books.
For a few respondents, like Sally Rippin, gaining information in this manner is simply a part of a lifelong love of “self-learning through reading writing books or looking at art books on different techniques or medium” (1 August 2011). Others, like Karen Collum, specifically mentioned reading such material as a way of gaining knowledge about the process of becoming a writer. “I worked through The Artist’s Way [by Julia Cameron] and suddenly realised ‘this is what I want to do’” (3 August 2011). The internet was also a significant resource for Collum as she was somewhat geographically isolated:
I would be on the internet for hours looking through blogs, looking through any websites related to picture books. And I became fairly savvy I think fairly quickly. It’s hard early on to know whether what you’re reading is accurate or not and that was a real trap, but once you read the same thing enough times you go ‘okay, that’s fair enough’. (3 August 2011)
164 Other books were identified by respondents as being important in learning about the process and life of authors and illustrators. Leigh Hobbs specifically mentioned a Robert Hughes’ book on rhyme (Rhymes for the Times and Other Times (1950)) as being more influential on his work than other picture books. Through reading the work of other authors, or ‘paragons’ as Simonton (1984; also Prose, 2006) calls them, readers can study and interrogate authorial choices relating to language, technique, and content. John Heffernan referred to this as a form of ‘shortcutting’ noting “you don’t find those things out unless you do read” (10 March 2011). Norman Jorgensen spoke about his admiration for the work of John Steinbeck and feeling a sense of awe at its demonstrated expertise. Mark MacLeod reinforced this view saying:
I also think the endless creative possibilities that writers come up with stimulate my own imagination – although sometimes they intimidate me as both a writer and a publisher. While I celebrate someone else’s creativity, I also wonder privately whether I will ever be able to equal it. (3 January 2012)
As these texts have already been accepted into the domain, or space of works, they provide a unique opportunity for those wishing to contribute similarly to engage with masters who may no longer be accessible in any other way. In this way, established works can act as surrogate teachers.
However, several respondents also acknowledged learning from the work of those whose writing was not so impressive. John Heffernan identified that through reading, “you certainly see how you shouldn’t write” (10 March 2011), with Kathryn Apel, Mark MacLeod, and Norman Jorgensen agreeing that reading work they considered sub-standard helped encourage them to polish their own writing for publication. This is significant as it evidences their internalisation of the requirements of the field, which will be examined in further detail in the following chapter.
4.2.6.2. Learning by doing
Learning through doing has been a concept for consideration since Aristotle claimed in 350BC, “for the things we have to learn before we can do them, we learn by doing
165 them” (1908: online). Many of the respondents in this research identified that they had benefited greatly through on the job learning. This coincides with Throsby and Zednik’s (2010) findings in their ongoing study of Australian artists that writers and visual artists often proclaim some of their skills as self-taught.
Literary agent, Pippa Masson began working without any formal training: “here it’s learning on the job really. That’s the most important training I think you can get” (30 June 2011). This situation will also be discussed in the following section regarding mentors, but of this on the job learning Masson notes the benefits of sharing problems and solutions with one another. “Invariably there’ll be a problem that you’ll think ‘oh my god, I’ve never encountered this before’ but someone else will have some advice…So we all are very collegiate in that way” (30 June 2011).
Several authors echoed Kathryn Apel’s assertion that “most of what I learn I’m just sort of picking it up along the way” (19 April 2011). She reflected however that this ability was probably linked to her voracious reading. “Because I hadn’t had any training and yet when I went to write chapter books I knew to leave it with a hook at the end” (19 April 2011). By immersing herself in a particular domain of knowledge, Apel unconsciously absorbed information about narrative structure in order to execute it without thinking. Libby Gleeson similarly reflected on her time writing her first novel Eleanor, Elizabeth (1984). Although she was a member of a writer’s group she confessed that she learned the most “through the doing of it as an adult” (9 February 2011). She says that this experiential learning was “a bit like learning to walk or talk, you know, the act of doing it is what teaches you how” (9 February 2011). This sentiment was much the same among the illustrators interviewed. Rebecca Cool explained that for her, “art is about doing it, not about reading how to do it. It’s about hand-eye co-ordination and practice” (18 March 2011).
When illustrator Tohby Riddle was working as a mailing clerk in a publishing house he spent a lot of time “soaking up all the information [he] could about books and publishing” (27 July 2007). The tacit knowledge he developed lay dormant for years until he began to consider a career in illustration. “I was aware that I’d have more chance of getting published…if I wrote it myself as well as...present myself as the whole package” (27 July 2007). While working in their respective positions, each of these respondents unconsciously absorbed domain knowledge, which enhanced their
166 ability to act and react without conscious thought. This is, once again, evidence of their developing habitus.
4.2.6.3. Peers and Mentors
Historically, writers and artists were given the opportunity to study with a master of their trade. However these atelier relationships are mostly a relic of the past. Now due to the somewhat solitary practice of writers and artists most mentorships are informal and scarce. Within the context of this research the exception to this was Pippa Masson who moved directly into a mentee relationship after graduating high school. As the only respondent to not pursue further education, Masson’s mentorship with the Managing Director of the Curtis Brown publishing house, Fiona Inglis, was identified as the primary way she acquired relevant domain knowledge and skills. “Fiona is a fantastic mentor and she’s a great, very well respected in the industry and she has lots of experiences that you can always draw upon” (30 June 2011). Starting as Inglis’ personal assistant, Masson quickly worked her way into developing her own impressive client list which includes a number of the picture book authors and illustrators interviewed in this research (Sally Rippin, Libby Gleeson, Freya Blackwood, and Katrina Germein). Interestingly, and this will be discussed in the following Field chapter, these respondents all mentioned their relationship with Masson as providing an important form of support and social interaction.
Throsby and Zednik (2010) in their ongoing study of Australian artists noted that 32% of writers and 25% of visual artists had undertaken some form of private tuition or had engaged in a form of mentorship. Several authors and illustrators within this research also identified peer and mentor relationships as an important component of developing their practice. These respondents identified several benefits including personal development whereby a mentor provided encouragement and guidance, gaining technical skills to improve their work, and gathering knowledge of or access to the industry.
Of those who acknowledged the personal nature of their mentorships, mentors often provided encouragement to develop the individual’s practice and offered guidance regarding career trajectories. Illustrator, author, and musician, Matt Ottley noted
167 several “wonderful mentors” (10 February 2011) that supported the development of his talents and career. Ottley considers Rodney Hall, also a musician and noted Australian writer, as “one of the most important mentors” (10 February 2011) he has had. Meeting when Ottley was at University they “instantly became really good mates” (10 February 2011). He also mentioned Ann Carr-Boyd, Australian classical composer and musicologist, as “a wonderful mentor in music and I guess just my life experience” (10 February 2011), along with Lesley Reece who is the Founder and Director of The Literature Centre (formerly Freemantle Children’s Literature Centre). Ottley credited Reece with her extensive knowledge of picture books as being “a guiding force in the trajectory of [his] career in that area” (10 February 2011). Of mentorships in general, Ottley reflected that it was “probably one of the most powerful ways to learn” (10 February 2011). As a student who found tertiary education challenging, Ottley said:
I certainly think that mentorships are probably ultimately more valuable than many other forms of learning simply because it’s one-on-one tutoring really so it’s going to be tailored for your particular way of learning. (10 February 2011)
Several respondents sought mentor relationships as a way to obtain technical assistance and build their skills. These types of mentorships were often formal in nature providing manuscript assessments and feedback on draft work. Kathryn Apel spoke of an important relationship that began when she was writing her first poem, The Catastrophic Cattleman, for publication. The poem was submitted to Margaret Clancy, professional editor and member of the Australian Society of Editors, and they began an ongoing mentoring relationship where Clancy would edit and provide feedback on Apel’s draft poems and manuscripts. During this time Clancy advised Apel on “all of the fundamental parts of punctuation and editing” as well as offered moral support, “we used to talk about everything and anything” (20 April 2011). Apel notes that after some time she had gained enough knowledge about poetry that she began to advise Clancy on certain elements. “It was nice to sort of give back in that respect” (20 April 2011).
Sometimes learning technical skills occurred in more formal environments with workshops or short courses. “I did a short watercolour course a few years back and an oil course I just did to touch up on skills” (Rippin, 1 August 2011). Libby Gleeson
168 explained that when she was growing up “there were no such things as creative writing classes in Australia…no university courses, no community college workshops, nothing like that” (9 February 2011). So instead, Gleeson pursued this knowledge on her own during the 1970s when she lived in Europe writing her first book:
For two years in London I attended a writing workshop at the City Literary Institute where I think I had a real apprenticeship in creative writing, learning how to edit a text, how to structure a piece of work, things like that. (9 February 2011)
It is interesting to note Gleeson’s use of the term apprenticeship here as others too used the term to describe a period of intense learning at the beginning of their careers. For instance, Karen Collum spoke of allowing herself four years before her eldest son began primary school to learn all that she could about the business of writing picture books. “I knew no one. I didn’t have a clue how the industry worked. I didn’t know how agents worked. I didn’t know how to submit. Nothing. I decided to approach it like I would an apprenticeship” (3 August 2011). To assist her in this she attended an ‘Introduction to Writing’ course at the Queensland Writers Centre and read as widely as possible.
At other times informal learning occurred through peer friendships. Of this collegiality Sally Rippin noted:
Sometimes even amongst ourselves we might share an idea. Like Terry Denton showed me how to do really great bleeding with watercolours and I might talk to Elise Hurst…So often I’ll look at someone’s work and just ask them you know, ‘how do you do that?’ and if they’ve got time they might show me or I might go and visit their studio. (1 August 2011)
Interestingly Rippin now works as a mentor for the Australian Society of Authors (which includes illustrators).
For Karen Collum, these peer relationships were especially important when she was starting out as a way to overcome her geographical isolation. Using platforms such as Twitter, and engaging in online communities such as Yahoo groups, Collum found that she was warmly welcomed into the children’s literary community.
169 I’ve actually found that children’s authors…are the most generous people around. They’re happy to share, they’re happy to answer your questions and they’re happy to help you because someone helped them and I hope I’m passing that down too. (3 August 2011)
This desire to give back to the community that supported her through the beginning stages of her journey was repeated by others and speaks to the cyclical nature of peer and mentor relationships.
In a similar vein, some respondents like Freya Blackwood, mentioned mentors who were able to provide them access to the larger publishing industry. Blackwood spoke of the assistance she received from the late artist John Winch in securing her first publication, Two Summers (2004), a picture book written by John Heffernan. Winch had opened an illustration studio called Stuart Town near Blackwood’s hometown of Orange. Through this studio he became friendly with Blackwood’s mother who showed him her daughter’s signature watercolours. He sent the illustrations to one of his contacts, Margrete Lamond, who was working with the children's publishing house Ashton Scholastic. “She loved it, found me a job, and that was that. I was able to by- pass the system a little, and I haven't had to look for work since” (Blackwood as cited in Sorensen, 2010: online). Of this ongoing relationship with Lamond, Blackwood notes “she’s been basically my teacher I guess. So any rules within picture books I’m gradually learning through her” (24 January 2012).
To conclude this section on learning the domain, as the data has demonstrated, the participants in this research, as producers of Australian children’s picture books, have been involved in and absorbing information from the domain of children’s literature since early childhood. As adults, they have extended this knowledge acquisition through activities such as reading and research, education and employment, and relationships with peers and mentors. By accumulating this foundation of knowledge, they came to understand the requirements of successful children’s picture books, even if they were consciously unaware of it at the time. This is important as illustrator and author Shaun Tan acknowledged, since an individual must “understand broader cultural contexts and movements” (11 July 2007) and gain knowledge of the domain’s cultural rules and procedures if they are to operate successfully within it. In developing this tacit knowledge (Schön, 1983) of writing and art, the participants were building
170 their habitus (Bourdieu, 1993) and generating a set of dispositions, which “inclines agents to act and react in specific situations in a manner that is not always calculated” (Johnson, 1993: 5).
4.3. Conclusion
This case study examines the confluence of cultural (domain), social (field), and individual factors in the production of Australian children’s picture books. The data presented in this chapter demonstrates that the domain plays a significant role in the creative processes of producers of Australian children’s picture books. Using Csikszentmihalyi’s concept of domain in conjunction with Bourdieu’s field of works and habitus it can be seen that an individual must familiarise themselves with the symbolic and cultural rules of a specific domain before they can use this foundation of knowledge to create novel work.
Analysis of the data has demonstrated that interest in the domain can be piqued through a producer’s childhood engagement with activities such as storytelling, reading, writing, and art. In this case study these interests were continued into adulthood and became an embedded and enabling part of their work process. Much of this is a result of a lifetime of immersion within a domain of knowledge that is “continuously being transformed by...agents and their practices” (Webb et al., 2002: 50). Additionally, this immersion has occurred in scalable domains of knowledge whereby each area of interest is at once its own discrete body of knowledge, but at the same time a necessary component of a larger entity. As Kerrigan notes, immersing oneself in these scalable domains “is necessary to achieve understandings of the codes, conventions, language and history of those relevant domains” (2013: 118). As such, and drawing on the work of Bourdieu (1977) and Schön (1983) the development of this tacit knowledge allows a producer of Australian children’s picture books to operate with naturalised dispositions embedded in their practices.
This chapter also explored how producers of Australian children’s picture books come to understand and utilise the domain with its prior work, values, behaviours, and important structural conventions to inform their creative practice. While these structural components place constraints on the range of options available, it has been 171 argued that they also ensure the possibility of action by providing the means and context within which agents can enact change. Producers of Australian children’s picture books, while operating within a system of structure, therefore demonstrate their agency as the ability to make decisions within the structures of the domain. By negotiating the relationship between agency and structure (revisited in the Individual chapter) and “calling on a great deal of existing knowledge” (Hilton, 2 July 2007) an individual producer of Australian children’s picture books strives to produce work considered creative within that domain.
In order to be incorporated back into the original cultural knowledge, a product must be acknowledged by key intermediaries within the field who make determinations regarding its cultural value. As the selection criteria of the field plays an equally significant role to that of the domain and individual in the production of creative texts, it is essential to examine the field and what its expectations are in greater detail.
172 5.0. The Field of Australian children’s picture books
Creativity occurs as a result of the confluence of cultural, social, and individual factors. While it is acknowledged that the domain, field and individual “jointly determine the occurrence of a creative idea, object or action” (Csikszentmihalyi, 1988: 329) it is necessary to isolate each one of these components of the system for the purposes of analysis. This should not be read as an attempt to prioritise one element over another as they are intimately related and in continual interplay. Each is necessary but not sufficient by itself in order for creativity to emerge. But it is necessary to understand each component as a whole before it can be understood as a dependent part of a larger system. The previous chapter demonstrated that the domain, as the cultural component of the system, plays a significant role in the creative process as it includes the past works, rules, and conventions an individual must be aware of before they can make a novel contribution. The next chapter (Chapter 6) will examine the role of the individual and their background in the creative process: one that we quite readily accept given the plethora of biographies of and interviews with creative producers. However, the social component in this triad of influences can often be overlooked. This social factor includes all the other people involved in the production of novelty, the people that influence the process in myriad ways and act as key intermediaries along the process to publication. It is this social structure that both Csikszentmihalyi and Bourdieu refer to as the field. With this situation in mind, this chapter will demonstrate that producers of Australian children’s picture books “do not act in a vacuum, but rather in concrete social situations governed by a set of objective social relations” (Johnson, 1993: 6).
The field, as the social component of a systemic model, teaches the knowledge of the domain, assesses new work, and determines whether or not a product is novel and appropriate. If a work meets the field’s criteria it will be accepted into the domain and become available to other members of the field. If a work is not deemed to be a valuable contribution it is likely to be “forgotten and destroyed” (Sawyer, 2012: 214). The social structure of the field works to both “preserve the domain as it is, and…help it evolve by a judicious selection of new content” (Csikszentmihalyi, 1990: 206). Both the domain and field of Australian children’s picture books have unique characteristics that provide structural constraints and enablers for those who work with them. As the
173 ensuing chapter will demonstrate, in addition to comprehending the domain’s symbolic system and conventions, it is equally important to understand the structure of the field as a network of mediators. Understanding these particular structures first will allow greater appreciation for the role the individual plays within them.
For Csikszentmihalyi the “the easiest way to define a field is to say that it includes all those persons who can affect the structure of the domain” (1988: 330). In this way a field is a structured context that comprises the social world. Csikszentmihalyi’s notion of the field is similar in nature to Bourdieu’s (1977, 1993, 1996) concept of the same name and they both share similarities with Howard Becker’s (1982) concept of ‘art worlds’. For Bourdieu those who work within the discursive framework of the domain constitute the field and work to “produce and authorise certain discourses and activities” (Webb, Schirato, & Danaher, 2002: 22). A field has its own logic, goals, institutions, and hierarchies and is developed and maintained through interactions between agents.
There have been a number of terms used to describe the relevant experts that mediate the domain by recognising and validating innovative cultural products, including gatekeepers (Csikszentmihalyi, 1988, 1990, 1997, 2003; Webb, et al., 2002; Abuhamdeh & Csikszentmihalyi, 2004) and intermediaries, cultural (Featherstone, 1991; Bourdieu, 2000; Negus, 2002) or otherwise (Stein, 1963; Hesmondhalgh, 2002; Sawyer, 2006, 2012). However, the term gatekeeper is limited in its assumption that “cultural items simply appear at the ‘gates’ of the media or culture producing corporation where they are either admitted or excluded” (Negus, 2002: 510). This implies a relatively linear and passive role where, as the following discussion will illustrate, members of the field are often quite active in seeking and encouraging the production and reception of novelty. As such, perhaps the most accurate term to be used throughout this study is that of cultural intermediaries (Featherstone, 1991; Bourdieu, 2000; Negus, 2002). Keith Negus summarises the use of the term cultural intermediary by Pierre Bourdieu (2000) and Mike Featherstone (1991) as a “point of connection between the disaffected, educated, bohemian middle class and the upwardly mobile, newly educated working class” (2002: 503). However, moving away from class positions, Negus explains that cultural intermediaries “continually engage in forming a point of connection or articulation between production and consumption” (2002: 503). Regardless of the terminology, these people that constitute the field 174 engage in assessing the novelty and appropriateness of created products and ideas: variations deemed acceptable by the field are included into the domain, while inappropriate variations are rejected.
Csikszentmihalyi (1997) considers the relationship between field agents as an evolutionary process where each member changes and is changed by their interactions with others. In this way the field is a functional whole. However, for Bourdieu (1993) fields are constantly in conflict and can be categorised as arenas of social contestation (McIntyre, 2008, 2012a). He contends that “agents and institutions are engaged in struggle, with unequal strengths, and in accordance with the rules constituting that field of play, to appropriate the specific profits at stake in that game” (Bourdieu, 1993: 88). This struggle for dominance is often seen in pursuit of cultural, social, economic, or symbolic capital. Those that possess the most capital have the ability to influence the field to their benefit. In this way, fields “are continuously being transformed by...agents and their practices” (Webb et al., 2002: 50) and there is an ongoing dispute regarding what is acceptable for domain inclusion and what is not. Resolution can be momentarily gained when a certain field group “manages to impose its own norms and sanctions on the whole set of producers” (Bourdieu, 1994: 60), but the struggle will continue. For example, within this research, there was occasionally a sense of contestation between various field agents. During the publishing process there are times when conflict may arise: between authors and illustrators; between literary agents and publishers over the sale of rights; between authors, illustrators and their editors when finessing the final work for publication. Additionally contestation may occur following a book’s publication, between authors and illustrators when vying for prizes and awards, between critics and expert audiences, and within the broader readership when responding to the final book.
As Csikszentmihalyi (1997, 1999) suggests, contestation may occur between fields as they vie for resources and recognition from larger social systems. This is because while a particular field may operate as a discrete whole, it is simultaneously part of a much larger system. This can be linked to Koestler’s (1975) discussion of holons along with Kerrigan (2013) and McIntyre’s (2013) articulation of the scalability of the systems model of creativity. Within this research, several sites of struggle were revealed between the field of children’s literature and the broader field of writing. For instance, there is competition for review space in traditional media. With newspapers 175 reducing the amount of space allocated to book reviews, there is competition between producers of children’s literature and producers of literature for adults to have their work noticed. This situation also extends to competition within the limited review space for children’s literature as much is dedicated to Young Adult fiction or middle grade novels with little (if any) devoted to children’s picture books. Not to mention that works that are typically reviewed are from producers with established social capital who have a national and/or international profile, meaning that those starting out in their careers are often overlooked. Producers of children’s picture books must also compete with other producers of children’s literature for funding and grants, as well as with producers of adult literature for national recognition and government writing or arts grants. All of these represent mechanisms within the field that determine who rises with recognition and who falls into obscurity.
Another area of contestation is evident in the way that work produced for children is discussed and compared to work produced for an adult audience. Much of this conversation comes from the general public who would be considered in Sawyer’s terms (2006, 2012) an amateur audience, relatively unfamiliar with the particulars of children’s literature. Mark MacLeod, academic, publisher, author and ex-CBCA president, explained:
Many writers for children have in their repertoire of anecdotes the one where someone at a party says, ‘Oh – a children‘s writer?‘ and after several silent beats adds, ‘So are you going to write an adult book one day?‘ The question isn‘t a joke. The fact that tertiary English departments rejected children‘s literature studies for so long (Hunt, 1992, p.6) makes it clear that children‘s books were not regarded as real Literature. (2010: 65)
The participants in this research reinforced this assertion, noting it was not uncommon to be asked whether they had any plans to write an adult book. For author Katrina Germein this question was occasionally posed to her using the phrase ‘real book’. She explained:
It’s not so much how people view children’s literature, it’s a reflection of how people view children, which I think is quite sad. So most commonly
176 if they say ‘real book’, I’ll say ‘well I think children are real people so…I’m probably writing real books already’. (12 April 2011)
This way of hierarchically referring to literature of this type reveals ideological beliefs surrounding the value of children’s literature among the general public, which in turn reflects the standing of children in the broader society.
This persistent but arbitrary hierarchy between books produced for children and those produced for adults extends also into the realm of publishing. At the inaugural Small Press Underground Networking Community (SPUNC) Independent Publishers Conference, Andrew Wilkins of WilkinsFarago (a small publishing company specialising in translated picture books from around the world) acknowledged a general belief that children’s books “should be cheaper than adult books” (9 November 2012). But in the last decade picture books, and children’s books in general, have not moved in price. Norman Jorgensen who in addition to being an author of picture books has worked for many years as a bookseller in schools and bricks-and-mortar stores, argued that this mismatch in valuing of children’s books was strange as children’s books often outsell adult books. Drawing on his experience he explained:
A normal Australian novel will print 3000 copies and sell 1000 if it’s lucky, which is tiny. Kid’s books are 4 or 5 times that. With kid’s books you’ve got this ongoing audience, if you write for 13 year olds for instance every year there’s another 13 year old comes along. Whereas adults are adults for all their lives. (11 March 2011)
While this hierarchical belief structure may appear within the general (amateur) community, most of the respondents in this research echoed Kathryn Apel who suggested it was rare “within the professional community” (20 April 2011) of producers of both adult and children’s literature.
As writers, we all recognise that we each write our own thing. I know that I've always been in awe of anyone who can write more than 4000 words but then those people are often times in awe of me and how little I write. (Apel, 20 April 2011)
So while moments of contention within the field of children’s picture books as well as
177 the broader field of writing exist, they are constantly in flux and do not affect everyone at the same time.
The field of Australian children’s picture books is diverse and primarily “produced and policed by vast institutional bodies of adults” (Dolin, 2003: 13) that govern what is appropriate to gain entry to the domain. The process of producing a picture book is lengthy and involves several individuals and institutions that make decisions regarding content, style, design, marketing, and the eventual reception of the work. This includes peer authors and illustrators as well as people such as literary agents, editors, publishers, critics/reviewers, booksellers, librarians and educators, and even the general public through their role as audience and consumers. Every one of these people is considered a key cultural intermediary as they “pass judgment on all novelty created to decide whether it will eventually become accepted as part of the culture” (Csikszentmihalyi, 1997: 41).
This research, as supported by a review of the literature, acknowledges the importance of production as well as reception. With this in mind, the field of Australian children’s picture books can be broken into two broad categories: those involved in production and those involved in reception. While it is important to note that these categories are not as distinct as discussing them as separate entities might imply; it is once again a useful distinction to make for the purposes of analysis. The members of the field involved in the production of picture books include, but are not limited to, authors, illustrators, literary agents, editors and publishers, and the people involved in the physical and mechanical print production. The field members involved in the reception of a picture book following publication include, but are not limited to, critics and reviewers, booksellers and retailers, librarians and educators, other field operatives considered experts in children’s literature, as well as the adult and child readers of such texts. These two ‘sides’ of the field are intimately linked in a complex cycle of causality where they influence and are influenced by one another (Csikszentmihalyi, 1988).
The field constitutes a dynamic space where agents are constantly making and re- evaluating decisions and as such, the influence and input of these cultural intermediaries does not occur in a linear fashion. Instead it is highly probable that those involved in reception play a vital role in influencing the production of texts as
178 much as they are important in the receiving of them. Those involved in producing texts must take the reception into account before and during their process, just as those involved in reception are interested in the process leading to production.
Significantly, these people can be categorised as a “field of users” (McIntyre, 2012b: 14) as they interact with the same symbol system to varying degrees. This field is in many ways a network of audiences. Individual authors and illustrators are the first audiences of their own work, this work is then passed to a literary agent or editor who will evaluate it and decide whether to take on the project, it will pass to a publisher and to others within the publishing house who will make determinations about its marketability and published value. At all of these stages of production the work is closely examined by various professional audiences. But the life of a book does not end with its publication; a new range of audiences is introduced. The book may be read and reviewed by critics, booksellers who will determine the placement of the product in their store, librarians and educators who may suggest it to students and use it in their classroom, as well as a range of other field operatives who act as intermediaries between the book and its readers. And last, but certainly not least, is the wide audience of readers that will interact with the published book in a variety of ways. Throughout these stages of reception the work passes through audiences who are both professional and non-specialist enthusiasts/amateurs. Interestingly many of the identified types of audiences as part of the field are a mix of professional and amateur and they often cross these boundaries and shift back again. Regardless, at each of these points of contact intermediaries are making determinations that have the power to affect who may become a creative producer, what they will produce, how it is produced and disseminated, and how it is received by readers.
For creative practitioners, possessing knowledge about how to identify and select the most appropriate field is invaluable. Sawyer (2012: 421-422) advises that if an individual is working within an appropriate field they will likely have a greater chance of being accepted. Additionally, access to a field that welcomes newcomers is important as, “talented young people won’t choose a career if there are no job opportunities, or if the field only accepts only older people” (Sawyer, 2012: 421). Csikszentmihalyi (1999: 324) notes that a field is likely to attract talent if its social values are central to the larger culture, and there is a clear path for them to test out ideas and be rewarded for any success. He surmises: “Any field that is able to attract a 179 disproportionate number of bright young persons is more likely to witness creative breakthroughs” (Csikszentmihalyi, 1999: 325). In this vein, Csikszentmihalyi (1997: 43-44) suggests that there are three main ways in which a field may influence creativity: by being reactive or proactive, by possessing a broad or narrow filter for novelty selection, and through the field’s connection to the rest of society. These can be found within the ways the field of Australian children’s picture books operates as outlined briefly below, and elaborated on throughout the following chapter.
Firstly, a field may be proactive by soliciting, stimulating and expecting novel thinking and production or it may simply be reactive to what it is presented with. It is important for any producer wishing to work within a specific industry to understand whether their field is proactive or reactive. This knowledge can be of practical use as the individual can make informed choices about whether a particular domain is appropriate and how to best target it. As the field of Australian children’s picture books is a commercial enterprise, novelty is necessary to maintain profitability. For instance, publishing companies often publicly solicit new work through open calls for submissions. Due to tight publishing constraints, this can sometimes be the only time authors and illustrators not represented by literary agents are allowed to submit manuscripts for consideration. Open submissions generally result in a large ‘slush pile’ of manuscripts that editorial teams will work their way through until the next open call is announced. A reactive publishing company on the other hand “may utilise services such as Bookscan (2006) to act as filters to assess book buying patterns and commission works in a particular genre” (McIntyre & McIntyre, 2007: 18). Through observations, while some may employ reactive techniques at times, the field of Australian children’s picture books is generally proactive when it comes to soliciting novelty.
Secondly, a field may affect the production of creativity by having broad or narrow filters that control the amount of novelty accepted by the field to then be absorbed back into the domain. In order to stimulate creativity a field may have a wide filter to encourage activity in or involvement with the domain. As a domain becomes more established the field may narrow its filters to limit acceptance to only the best work. Some fields are more conservative than others and filters often adjust over time to ensure they are neither too relaxed nor too stagnant (Csikszentmihalyi, 1997). A filter that is too narrow may starve a domain of novelty and lead to stagnation, but a broad 180 filter may cause a domain to lose credibility if it “is too open and accepts every novelty indiscriminately” (Csikszentmihalyi, 2003: 326). For instance, there is an ongoing discussion about the role of digital publishing and proliferation of self-publishing within all arenas of literature, but also within children’s picture books (Killen, 2012). The accessibility of these avenues to amateurs is alluring, but many fear that the filter for these new opportunities is too broad. However, fields have a way of regulating themselves over time and creative breakthroughs may result in the grafting or splitting of ideas into new domains. While filters within a field may shift, a creative producer would be wise to gather as much information about their specific field as possible. The optimal approach would be to concentrate on a field with filters wide enough to accept novelty but narrow enough to be selective. In these ways, an individual can use specific knowledge to produce appropriate work to be considered for inclusion into the relevant domain.
Thirdly, creativity may be affected by how well connected the field is to the rest of society. A well-connected field is able to build resources and channel support in order to attract new practitioners to produce creative works. Generally, the field of Australian children’s picture books is well connected. Although typically romantic perceptions would have us believe that writing and illustrating is a solitary act, the reality is that this kind of creative work depends on many factors to ensure production. Author Gary Crew acknowledged that people from editors to production teams all played a role in the production of his work: “there are a lot of other people involved. Other people make choices for you” (9 July 2007). For instance, in order to be published, writers need access to economic resources (self-funded or patronage), literary agents (as many publishing houses will not accept unsolicited manuscripts), editors and publishers with access to financial and physical resources (press, paper, distribution and so on), and various professional audiences such as reviewers and booksellers who play a critical role in connecting a reader to a book. In terms of financial assistance, government resources are often allocated to writer’s festivals and writer’s centres and result in a proliferation of mentoring schemes, fellowships, and literary prizes (Moorhouse, 2006). At every stage, members of the field are involved in making decisions that channel support back into the domain. This in turn, affects the daily practice of creative producers. For individuals wanting to make a creative contribution to a particular domain, it is useful to identify relevant resources within the
181 field so that they may be aware of the field’s relationship to the rest of the social system. By appreciating these dynamics, a writer can work this arena of social contestation (McIntyre, 2008c, 2012a) to their advantage.
Analysing the complex interactions between key creative producers within the field, the arena of social contestation pertinent to children’s literature, demonstrates how this social system operates by evaluating and shaping the work and knowledge created. It will become evident in the following sections that successful producers of Australian children’s picture books engage with key field members who support and influence their work. As Sawyer notes, “the most successful creative people are very good at introducing their ideas to the field. They know who the key people are, and they know how the selection process works” (2012: 422).
5.1. The Field of Colleagues and Peers
Within the Australian children’s picture book industry only a small number of books are published every year. These represent the works that the field has deemed novel and appropriate enough to enter the domain. The number of successful manuscripts can only ever be a small percentage of the submissions that literary agents, editors and publishers receive. The competitive nature of this arena means that those who are at the forefront of producing novel variations can be considered a field unto themselves. In this case, authors and illustrators are themselves influential members of the field as they make critical judgements about themselves and their work before submitting it to anyone else.
Of the 20 people interviewed for this research 17 had written picture books; of these, 10 wrote exclusively, while the remaining 7 were illustrators who had also written their own work. Only one respondent worked solely as an illustrator. As creative producers, it has already been established that through their lifetime of engagement with a particular knowledge base, or domain, a cultural competence or habitus (Bourdieu, 1993) is developed. Authors and illustrators of children’s picture books continually absorb this information garnering an understanding of the knowledge, codes and manner of thought unique to their cultural domain. Adding to this ingrained domain knowledge, an individual also learns about “the criteria of selection, the 182 preferences of the field” (Csikszentmihalyi, 1997: 47), which empowers them to make judgements about the creative work being produced, even if it is their own.
As an emerging practitioner, it is often difficult to understand the structure of one’s chosen field. Jackie French reflected upon her experience as an emerging writer: “I found it extraordinarily difficult in the first, probably within the first ten years, really knowing what was expected of me” (17 July 2007). Developing this understanding takes time and occurs through several, often informal, channels. According to Weisberg “very few individuals make a mark in the world without a relatively long commitment to an area beyond their actual training” (1988: 173). Csikszentmihalyi suggests that this process takes approximately ten years of work, an idea reinforced by several respondents. As one example, illustrator Shaun Tan noted that it took almost a decade of published illustration work before he began to be recognised for his unique style (11 July 2007).
While 19 out of the 20 respondents in this study completed tertiary education, the majority noted that their knowledge of the field was acquired informally through experiential learning and interacting with peers and colleagues. Respondents noted that through networking with other creative producers of children’s picture books they learned about the expectations of the job and how to conduct themselves as professionals, they shared tips and techniques in order to develop their writing or illustration practice, and they shared information about how to negotiate relationships with literary agents, publishers and editors. As Sawyer (2012: 421) noted, this exchange of information from experienced practitioners to newer colleagues and peers is an important way of learning about professional and personal expectations. The respondents of this study reflected this learning development, as many acknowledged that their interactions with peers and colleagues were influential in their creative process.
5.1.1. Authors and illustrators as Colleagues
The relationship between authors and illustrators of picture books is often not what one might envision. When reflecting upon their experiences, the respondents in this research noted that there were three types of relationships between authors and 183 illustrators: some had no contact which is standard practice; some had a little; and some more rarely had a great deal of communication between the two parties.
Readers might imagine their favourite authors and illustrators working hand-in-hand to create a final product, but the reality is generally quite different. Most authors and illustrators rarely have contact with one another, with some never communicating at all. An author will write their manuscript and submit it to their literary agent or an editor at a publishing house. Once it is accepted, the editor will commission an illustrator who may take 12-18 months to complete the illustrations. Sometimes authors are shown progress work, but it is not uncommon for an author to see the illustrations for the first time when the first proof of the final book is produced. Generally when proofs are shared at this stage, it is implied that they are close to completion. If communication between the two parties is required at any point it is generally conducted through the editor who will mediate any issues. While there are certainly exceptions (as will be discussed shortly), this is the general operating practice for authors and illustrators when working on picture books.
Starting out in the industry several respondents, like Karen Collum, expressed that it was somewhat of a surprise “how little contact you tend to have with people once you submit a book” (3 August 2011). As an illustrator starting out, Freya Blackwood was surprised at the limited communication between author and illustrator. She noted that this interaction was: “Not as much as I was imagining to be honest. I thought that we would communicate more but I think I had a much stronger relationship with the editor” (24 January 2012). However, they quickly came to understand and accept this as the standard way of working to avoid “an author pushing an illustrator in a particular way” (Collum, 3 August 2011). Katrina Germein explained that the decision regarding how much input an author might have regarding illustrator selection lies with the publisher. “They might ask ‘how do you imagine the illustrations, or what sort of style would you like, do you have any illustrators in mind?’” (12 April 2011). But while an author’s suggestions may be considered, the final decision lies with the publisher. It is not until an author has been in the industry for some time and proven their value in terms of social and economic capital that they may be given more freedom and control in requesting to work with a specific illustrator. Author Libby Gleeson, whose career spans three decades, spoke of this shift throughout her career:
184 “in the past it’s been informed choice, now it’s quite definitely choice” (9 February 2011).
When asked about the relationship between authors and illustrations, every respondent in this research identified trust as essential. Once a publisher has accepted an author’s written manuscript, it is given to an illustrator who completes their version of the story. For newcomers it is often difficult to imagine letting go of the story and trusting someone else to complete the creative vision. However, it is necessary to accept this as part of the doxa (Bourdieu, 1977: 164-169), or tacit operational structure of the field. Interestingly Katrina Germein noted that this arrangement was a welcome relief: “I like it that I just go ‘I’ve worked my guts out on this and now I’m over it, you take it and improve it’” (12 April 2011). Illustrator Freya Blackwood explained that there was a “general understanding that the person who writes is much better at writing than drawing and the person who draws is so much better at drawing than writing” (24 January 2012). Established author Libby Gleeson contended that acceptance of these procedures was a necessary part of being an industry professional as “a picture book is not a one off and you are not the only creator” (9 February 2011).
Echoing this situation, several respondents noted their respect for the authors and illustrators they worked with acknowledging that their “suggestion may be way better than what you came up with in the first place” (Crew, 9 July 2007). Karen Collum similarly spoke of her book Samuel’s Kisses (2011) illustrated by Serena Geddes as exceeding her expectations. “What the illustrator did was so much better than what I could have ever imagined, but there’s that trust or that letting go, you’ve just got to let go” (3 August 2011). Likewise Libby Gleeson shared an anecdote about the process of bringing One Sunday (1988) to publication and the process of letting go as an author to allow the illustrator to bring their perspective to the story:
In the beginning when that was first written, it was written with the absolute intention that the illustrator would show what the daughter was doing and I wouldn’t write that in the text. That was accepted, that’s fine. But I said to the illustrator, who at that stage I didn’t know, ‘I think every page at the dump should have the truck in the middle, the father on the right throwing things out, the daughter on the left gathering things up’. And he looked at me and he said ‘if every page is like that, don’t you
185 think it’ll be a little bit boring?’ and I was totally taken aback. And he suggested he could design the book in such a way that there’d be different dramatic imagery of the father’s intent or the daughter’s intent and all this sort of stuff and I realised that I knew nothing about designing a picture book, much less about illustrating one and I backed right off. I think it was a really valuable lesson. (9 February 2011)
Gleeson noted that this view was not an uncommon perception among first time authors, and has also taken it upon herself to impart this knowledge when teaching aspiring writers.
Lesson number one: your illustrator is your first reader, apart from the publisher, and their response is going to be your illustrations and you’ve got to give them the freedom to be the creative artists that they are. It’s amazing how most first time picture book writers can’t accept that. (9 February 2011)
5.1.1.1. Relationships
Nevertheless, it was acknowledged by a few people that the relationship between authors and illustrators could at times experience friction. According to Norman Jorgensen this was likely to occur when someone began to think of the book as their property more than the others (11 March 2011). He explained however, that the relationship was symbiotic in nature where the text provides important context for the illustrations and the illustrations bolster the otherwise brief text. With regards to this Leigh Hobbs mentioned that working on picture books that someone else had written “was nowhere near as satisfying as illustrating my own books” (19 July 2011). For Hobbs the solution was to stop illustrating other people’s text and move into writing and illustrating his own stories. Regardless of the reason, Karen Collum commented that the way to combat friction was through maintaining one’s professional attitude as “getting cranky when someone doesn’t see things your way may come back to bite you” (3 August 2011). Accordingly most of the respondents agreed that the relationship is a partnership whereby both parties bring a valuable contribution to the whole.
186 5.1.2. Authors and illustrators as Peer support network
Communication and encouragement are also important to members of a field, as validation and support are necessary components of the creative process. Sally Rippin explained that working as an author or illustrator “can be very isolating. You don’t have a water cooler to stand around and bitch about your boss. So you have to get together and do that” (1 August 2011). Since it’s often a lonely pursuit, networking and connecting with other creators needs to be an active consideration. Literary agent Pippa Masson echoed this point conceding that writing in general is “one of those industries where people know people” (30 June 2011) and it is through industry contacts that people often make their way into the business. For Masson’s role as a literary agent, relationship building through networking is vitally important: “That is what we do…we need to know people, we need to know who they are, what they like, all those kinds of things. So relationships and networking is absolutely key” (30 June 2011). Norman Jorgensen similarly joked that due to the small size of the industry many authors and illustrators of picture books know each other quite well. “We go to literature festivals and there’s half a dozen writers at each festival and if you go to enough of them you meet everyone” (11 March 2011).
For cultural producers who typically work on their craft alone, a community of similar individuals is often sought. At some point in their career, most participants in this research belonged to writers groups, critique groups, or other organisations that focused on the production of writing or illustration. The purpose of such groups is for individuals to share work in progress with other practitioners so that they may critique it in open discussion. Kathryn Apel participated in an online critique group consisting of members in several different states that would meet regularly to share their own work and critique published picture books. She explained that having her work assessed in this way helped to hone and define her thoughts. Sally Rippin similarly spoke of the importance of being able to share ideas and have them “validated” (1 August 2011) by her peers:
For me it’s vital. I’ve always had a writer’s group right from the beginning and usually people at about the same stage as I am and then I’ll have one or two friends whose opinion I really trust...So for me it’s fundamental. (1 August 2011)
187 For Libby Gleeson participating in critiques was “unquestionably” (9 February 2011) beneficial and “a very effective way of working” (9 February 2011). Reflecting on her experiences with writer’s workshops when she was just starting out noting they helped her to improve her writing skills: “they can focus in on something that you might have glossed over and encourage you to dig a bit more deeply into it” (9 February 2011). While Gleeson’s participation in critique groups declined when she began having children, she continued to participate in informal critiques with friends who were published children’s authors. This informal continuation indicates how important critique groups are, not just for an author or illustrator’s work, but for the sense of collegial connection they gained. In this regard several participants acknowledged that a significant component of these gatherings was the moral support that they provided. For Katrina Germein this support included learning “how to manage the business of writing” (12 April 2011). She further explained “it has been really important for me to be a part of something bigger than just myself at home on my computer” (12 April 2011).
Katrina Germein also noted that spending time with other authors relieved some of the pressure that can be placed on family and friends. “It is really nice to be around people that do just really get that and they’re not bored, we’re not going to bore each other by going on about writing” (12 April 2011). Norman Jorgensen noted that while it was not absolutely necessary to have friends who are doing the same thing, “it happens because these are the other people that understand what you’re doing and you understand what they’re doing” (11 March 2011).
Through this collegial and social interaction with peers, respondent’s admitted that their understanding of the field of publishing was enhanced. For Sally Rippin peer connections provided critical information about how to operate as an illustrator. She explained that as an illustrator whose main point of connection is through their editor or publisher, they could sometimes be in the dark about what is acceptable and appropriate in terms of contracts or industry norms. She noted that some publishers:
[D]on’t like it if you’re talking to each other about contracts and what you earn and so forth because it gives you more power, you say ‘well actually no, this person gets this and I think I’m of equal weight to them’ or if you’re prepared to fight for yourself. So I think community is
188 important in that way that you support each other, you give each other information and you give each other feedback on your work too. (1 August 2011)
Through sharing information and knowledge through peer relationships individuals learn the operational structure of the field and enhance their cultural and social capital to empower themselves when negotiating with publishers.
Rebecca Cool similarly reflected that through talking to other illustrators she learnt about practices different to her own, especially digital illustration. Sharing this kind of insider information is valuable to peers as it contributes to the store of knowledge as well as encourages individuals to be aware of and try out new techniques. Informal interaction with peers based on a foundation of trust encouraged exploration of new ideas and practices that may not have occurred in more formal settings. As important members of the field, peer authors and illustrators have influenced each other’s practice in myriad ways. Sometimes this was through minor suggestions, but as Libby Gleeson acknowledged these relationships sometimes affected the professional direction of a producer’s career. “Certainly relationships with some of my peers have affected the way I became very involved with, say the Australian Society of Authors, and currently the Copyright Agency where I’m a director on behalf of writers” (9 February 2011).
Talking to other producers about work in progress has other benefits as well. In Western Australia there are a number of prominent writers and illustrators that are interested in, as Norman Jorgensen is, historical fiction so they take great care to be aware of what each other is working on:
We have to keep up with each other to make sure we’re not doing the same stuff. All of us have been mining West Australian history and there’s not that many stories so you let them know what you’re working on so they don’t go and do the same thing. The last thing you want is two books on the same subject coming out next to each other. *laughs*. (11 March 2011)
189 This imperative demonstrates the importance of being familiar with key players in the field as well as understanding the domain in order to create novel work that will be seen as original and creative.
Jackie French, mentioned that she would like to further cultivate her relationships with other writers and illustrators:
I do regret not having other writers around often though to talk with. It’s one of the joys of conferences where you can actually talk to other writers about the process of writing, the process of editing, who’s doing what, what editors work, the problems you’ve had with editors. (17 July 2007)
It is perhaps interesting to note that since this interview Jackie French has been appointed as Australia’s Children’s Laureate and awarded Senior Australian of the Year as part of the 2014 National Australia Day celebrations for her services to children’s literacy and active involvement in promoting reading to children. As such her job has become more focused on interpersonal relationships as she participates as a key member of a community rather than working alone in her study.
As Hooker, Nakamura and Csikszentmihalyi (2003: 231), suggested, increasing social capital through engagement with a social network can improve one’s visibility within the field. This enhanced recognition may have a flow on effect and lead to a boost in reputation and other rewards. All respondents agreed that this informal learning, itself an immersion in the field, was valuable to their writing and illustrating practice. Many also revealed that due to the generosity of others they too engaged in collegial relationships with a view to sharing information with others. Norman Jorgensen explained:
You see some of the young ones starting out and they’re nervous as all hell having to stand up and talk to a group of people and you try and help them out where you can of course, ‘cause you’ve been there yourself…So you do tend to be quite supportive of some of the other writers who are going through what you’ve been through. (11 March 2011)
190 5.2. The Field of Literary Agents
In addition to peers and colleagues, other members of the field are important as they play a role in determining access and providing support throughout the publication process. These key members can act as gatekeepers or cultural intermediaries as they are positioned at pivotal moments throughout the field’s selection process governing the value and appropriateness of work produced.
As one such intermediary, literary agents are an important access point to the field of picture books for authors and illustrators. With the ever-increasing number of authors and illustrators wanting to be published there is a need to filter manuscripts to select what are considered to be the most appropriate and valuable for publication. A literary agent plays a key role in this process as they use their network of industry relationships and considerable knowledge of the domain and field to carefully select and approach appropriate editors on their client’s behalf. As literary agent Pippa Masson noted: “I mean we have a good knowledge of the industry, what’s happening and the people in it” (30 June 2011). In this way they bypass ‘slush piles’, a collection of unsolicited manuscripts, and general submission protocols to get the work directly in front of the right editor. However, acquiring representation by an agent can be difficult as there are many others also competing for their attention.
In general, the industry term for these people is agent, however as the term agent has a particular application within this research referring to anyone who enacts their agency within particular structures, a different term is necessary to avoid confusion. For this original research the term literary agent will be used with the caveat that it refers to those people who represent the publishing interests of both authors and illustrators.
The role of the literary agent is one of gatekeeping with regard to the field’s selection processes. Literary agents generally receive unsolicited manuscripts (and illustrations when dealing with picture books) and use their accumulated knowledge of the domain and field to assess their value and appropriateness for certain publishers. Sometimes they accept completed manuscripts and use their industry knowledge to sell the contract to a publishing house, but they may also accept unfinished work and provide the support necessary to develop the manuscript for submission.
191 In a similar manner to publishers (as will be discussed shortly), access to literary agents is becoming increasingly difficult as more people struggle for representation. It is not uncommon for literary agents to have an unsolicited manuscript pile (also colloquially referred to as a ‘slush pile’) of their own that they must work through. Nevertheless, literary agents are a preferred industry access point as they represent preselected material of a high quality that alleviates the work of editors and publishers. Within Australia many publishers of children’s picture books will not accept unsolicited manuscripts so it has become a necessary step for authors and illustrators to gain the attention of literary agents. Once signed by a literary agent authors and illustrators are granted access to submissions that were previously out of reach. As such, literary agents are a valuable component of the field of children’s picture books.
When it comes to dealing with their clients (the authors and illustrators they represent), the role of a literary agent is varied. Broadly speaking it consists of two distinct elements: managing the business of writing and providing support for their clients. Speaking in 2009 at an Australian Society of Authors (ASA) professional development seminar series, Pippa Masson from Curtis Brown (who was also interviewed for this research) revealed that the typical role of a literary agent “involves giving financial, contractual, social, political and psychological advice” (2009: 5). In light of this claim the roles can be broadly divided into four categories: assistance with contractual arrangement and negotiation, management of sales and finances, career building advice from an expert within the field, and moral support. As a literary agent Pippa Masson explained, “we know what the standards are in terms of contracts, and money and royalties. And then there’s all the backend stuff: you have someone to do admin, paying you, pay slips for tax, all that kind of stuff” (30 June 2011). Masson also acknowledged that while “someone taking money out of your advances and royalties” (30 June 2011) could be perceived as a disadvantage, the percentage paid to literary agents covers the services they provide which inevitably benefit the client. Sally Rippin echoed this understanding, reflecting that when she first signed with Masson as her literary agent she “noticed that drop in what I was earning but very quickly [Masson] easily made up that and more” (1 August 2011). In terms of other forms of support a few respondents noted that the guidance their literary agents provided has shaped their career paths through the selection of particular projects or publishers. Karen Collum was very direct about wanting this type of guidance: “I want someone
192 who is a partner in my career and someone who can, who knows the industry inside and out, and yeah, just be able to help me in that sense” (3 August 2011). For illustrator Leigh Hobbs a certain level of support was especially useful at the beginning of his career. “It was terrific. Margaret [Connelly] was very good too because I really felt she was someone who understood my work and she was wonderfully supportive. In times when I needed a certain sort of moral support it was great” (19 July 2011). For Sally Rippin the “sense you’ve got someone in your court” (1 August 2011) was also important. However, there are some limitations to the types of support a literary agent can provide. Masson says that it is a fine balancing act as “you can give a degree of psychological support but you can’t go into marriage problems or psychological problems” (30 June 2011). While these accounts are a broad summary of the types of support a literary agent may provide, it is worth pointing out that a literary agent’s role is often dependent upon the client, the work, and the climate of the industry. Masson described her role as invariably including:
sending out manuscripts, negotiating deals, checking contracts, all those very admin-y type things, but then on a broader scale we’re there to offer advice and comfort. It’s kind of long term career management: you know, selling rights into other countries, it’s just acting as an intermediary and a representative for the author because I think it can be quite a lonely pursuit being a writer or an illustrator and to have someone on your side you know you can talk to, and know that absolutely the vested interest is in you as a writer, is really important. (30 June 2011)
Of the authors and illustrators interviewed for this research, 7 out of 18 were represented by a literary agent. The same person, Pippa Masson from Curtis Brown in Sydney, represented 5 respondents: Freya Blackwood, Libby Gleeson, Katrina Germein, Tohby Riddle, and Sally Rippin. In a small industry where only a handful of literary agents represent children’s picture book authors and illustrators this number was considered statistically significant, and as a result Masson was a noteworthy person to interview for this research. The other respondents were author/illustrator Leigh Hobbs represented by Nexus Arts, and Mark MacLeod who is represented by Selwa Anthony Author Management Agency. Another author, Karen Collum, did not have a literary agent at the time she was interviewed but was actively pursuing one through targeted submissions. She has since been represented by Rick Raftos 193 Management (however, prior to the time of publishing this research she decided to end this relationship after four years to represent herself). Several of these respondents mentioned that they had previously been represented by other literary agents, but due to agencies closing down and the changing nature of their needs throughout their careers they had changed representation at some point. One author who has been de- identified for privacy reasons used to have a literary agent but the relationship proved unsatisfactory and was discontinued.
Of those without representation, 3 explained they felt a literary agent was not necessary due to their understanding of and involvement in the industry. Author Norman Jorgensen explained that as a result of his time working as a bookseller, he already had well-established relationships with publishers. “I knew the people at Freemantle Press really well. So after they’d published one of my books I just stayed with them. So [having an agent] hasn’t really been necessary” (11 March 2011). Illustrator Rebecca Cool felt similarly confident. Although she had been advised by a publisher to seek representation from a literary agent, after discussing it with some author/illustrator friends who represented themselves she decided against it. She acknowledged that her experience in the art world played a role in this decision: “having been in the art gallery scene where people take 40% plus I thought I don’t need another person to take money off me” (18 March 2011). When asked if this prior industry experience assisted in her picture book negotiations Cool indicated that it affected her notion of loyalty in that she felt it was important to put herself first rather than worry about what everyone else wanted. The third person that declined agency representation was illustrator Ann James who has illustrated over 60 picture books and has run Book Illustrated, a studio and gallery for picture book illustration since 1988. James has also represented children’s writers and illustrators through her role on the Australian Society of Authors Committee of Management since 1996. This extensive industry experience as both a producer and industry representative meant James had many established relationships with publishers and an intimate knowledge of how the field works and was confident to manage her own interests. The others who were not represented did not explicitly address their reasons for this, but appeared to advocate for themselves.
194 5.2.1. Access to picture book literary agent
Literary agents are typically not the most accessible members of the field due to the limited number of them operating within Australia and the large number of submissions they receive. Most literary agencies have websites with contact information or query forms through which they accept general submissions. However due to the size of their unsolicited manuscript or ‘slush pile’, it may be several months before submissions are addressed. And in order for work to be selected from this ever- growing pile it must be outstanding in quality. Literary agents also may receive submissions as referrals from other agencies, writers, illustrators, or association lists, but again much of this work ends up on the ‘slush pile’ for later assessment. Regarding the necessity of these traditional methods of contacting agents Collum acknowledged “there has to be some sort of procedure to cope with the number of people who want to write” (3 August 2011).
Pippa Masson spoke of the difficulty of finding a literary agent within Australia, as the number of agencies is limited with many operating with only one or two employees. She pointed out that the small operating size of most Australian agencies adds to the difficulty of gaining representation, as it is “difficult for them to take on new people as well as look after their existing clients” (Masson, 2009: 7). Masson herself has over 40 clients on her list at Curtis Brown and works hard to divide her time between them. She acknowledged that there were unwritten rules about attending to clients that earn the most money, but for the most part agents must balance their time between everyone to ensure the relationship is being nurtured. With regard to client management, Masson noted a literary agent should strive to “be equal and fair…and not favour people because it just leads to bad things” (30 June 2011).
Masson advised that the best approach for someone seeking representation was to carefully research and target a particular literary agent suited to their work rather than random approaches which often appear naïve and careless.
The best thing for you to do though is to do some research on the agents in Australia. You can find a good and reputable list on the Australian Literary Agent’s Association or the ASA [Australian Society of Authors] website. Look at what each agent represents or who they have on their
195 client list (this is usually accessible via their company website) and target the agent who you think would most suit your genre. Scattergun approaches are often not well received as it doesn’t look like much thought has been put in to the query or submission. Submissions should always be made according to the agent’s submission guidelines and it is often a good idea to call and ask whether they’re accepting material, or the kind of material you’re writing, at that time. Submissions should always be well presented (double spaced is often the best) and it should provide the kind of information that’ll get the agent’s attention such as any relevant publishing history, indication of awareness of the market you’re writing for and any other information that will help the agent potentially sell your material. (Masson, 2009: 7)
While agents tend to prefer being contacted via traditional channels such as online/website queries, posted letters, or referrals from contacts, increasingly they are using social media as a tool to connect with potential clients. However, using less traditional forms of communication requires a degree of caution, as it is easy to make a public mistake. When speaking of their social media use, a few respondents noted several guidelines that focused on being aware of their public presentation to ensure their behaviour was of a professional standard. Karen Collum explained the importance of cultivating a professional public image as “publishers and agents are going to Google you, they’re going to look at your Facebook page, they’re going to look at Twitter, they’re going to find out as much as they can about you” (3 August 2011). If this is the case, then knowing about the preferences of the field and how to behave in an online public forum can only assist with building a professional reputation.
There are a variety of reasons why someone might pursue representation with a literary agent. The respondents in this research identified that one significant motivation was to increase their chances of publication. A literary agent can provide direct access to publishers who typically do not accept unsolicited manuscripts. Several respondents, like author Karen Collum, were open about this bridging relationship noting, “an agent opens all sorts of doors to publishers that otherwise I wouldn’t be able to get” (3 August 2011).
196 Others noted that a literary agent was useful to help guide and expand their career. Sally Rippin was not alone in recognising that her need for an agent developed over time:
I didn’t really feel like I’d need one because of this thing about it being quite an approachable and smallish industry and I have good relationships with all my publishers. It was only when I had quite a wide range of work published with a whole lot of different authors that I did think it would be useful. (1 August 2011)
Leigh Hobbs also noted that his needs had changed throughout his career with a literary agent providing different support at various stages of his development. After a number of successful books, Hobbs shifted his representation away from literary agent Margaret Connolly, the director of Margaret Connolly and Associates, to Nexus Arts who focus on performers and presenters rather than negotiating sales contracts. “I felt that I wanted to take control. I knew I had a terrific relationship with the publisher and the editor of Allen & Unwin and I wanted to, I think wrest control” (19 July 2011). This move also indicated that he no longer needed the support of a traditional agent, rather assistance in developing and managing his speaking engagements.
Interestingly several respondents mentioned the notion of outsourcing tasks as a key motivation for representation. For Karen Collum this allowed for more time to concentrate on writing and spending time with her young family, for Leigh Hobbs it helped him focus on his job as a teacher. Sally Rippin explained that having someone to engage deeply with the industry in a way that she did not have time for was of great benefit:
You can’t keep on top of everything otherwise there’s no room in your head to get your work done, so things like knowing what’s reasonable in a contract, or knowing what’s reasonable to ask for in an advance. Because she represents people from all different publishing houses, then everyone else at Curtis Brown represents another whole range of people, they’ve got that collective publishing experience that then she can pass on to me, then she can negotiate on my behalf and I can continue to have a good relationship with my publisher. Often I’ll approach a publisher on
197 my own and then if they’re happy with the idea then I’ll say ‘Pippa will take it from here’ so I can still keep that initial contact but I don’t have to talk about the business side of things. (1 August 2011)
Literary agents are a significant part of the field as they also constantly make decisions regarding the value of creative work. Pippa Masson argued that to take on a story by a client it was important for her to “fall in love with it” (30 June 2011). “As an agent you have to read it and go ‘my god this is amazing’. And so that’s something that you can’t really quantify” (30 June 2011). This description of an intuitive feel for how something works relates to Bourdieu’s (1977, 1993) concept of habitus. Interestingly Masson notes that this feeling is not entirely personal preference as it is assisted and supported by a professional understanding “of the parameters of what we’re able to sell” (30 June 2011). In this way, literary agents represent an early moment of social validation as they make decisions regarding the creative value of a work that are a balance of personal and professional dispositions. Due to their immersion in the industry, literary agents have acquired knowledge of particular publishing houses and what they consider novel. This sense of what is valuable and appropriate is a part of a literary agent’s habitus developed over time and through their connections within the field. Masson explained that a key component of her job was to be aware of “how good books are constructed but also trends that are happening” (30 June 2011) in order to keep up with an ever changing market. She noted that knowledge about what makes a good book was gathered from multiple sources. “It’s obvious with trends because you see what’s getting published and we know what people are buying because we have relationships with all the publishers and we know what people are interested in and we know what’s selling well” (30 June 2011). Masson acknowledged that it had “absolutely” (30 June 2011) become easier for her to recognise a good story throughout her career. This is evidence of her habitus developing and becoming more refined over time as she acquired a more detailed understanding of the industry.
In this way literary agents act as important gatekeepers by assessing the value of submissions that cross their desks, a role that is reinforced by publishers who rely on them to filter through the abundance of submissions to present only the work deemed suitable. With this responsibility they are a key point of social validation making a determination about the creative value of an author or illustrator’s work. However they are also a dynamic part of the field engaged as cultural intermediaries negotiating 198 relationships with their clients as well as editors, publishers, and other relevant industry players. Literary agents, through their immersion in the industry, have developed a habitus that enables them to forecast trends and make decisions about the future of publishing. With this authority they are able to influence cultural tastes and advise their clients about what is appropriate and valuable in terms of creative production.
5.3. The Field of Publishing
In line with Howard Becker’s (1982) discussion of Art Worlds, there are multiple cooperative connections necessary in the production of any creative work. It is important for an individual to identify who the key players in the field are and how they operate so that they may produce appropriate work and submit it to the correct people. By fostering positive relationships with select decision makers within the field an individual can better position themselves for creative success.
The next component of the field of children’s picture books is the arena of publishing where important decisions regarding the value of innovation are made. Consisting of a range of individuals involved in the production side of picture books, the field of publishing encompasses cultural intermediaries who inhabit publishing houses and their ancillary operatives. Significant for this research, these roles include editors, publishers, members of publicity and marketing departments, book designers, and those involved in the mechanical production of picture books. These field members may influence a book at multiple points during its production from the later stages of the writing or illustration process, to how the work will physically be produced and disseminated to multiple readers.
5.3.1. Editors and Publishers
While each of these people is critical in the production of picture books, as will be discussed shortly, editors and publishers are most likely to be the first access points for authors and illustrators of picture books in the field of publishing. They are often the
199 first people, after literary agents, to “determine whether the innovation is worth making a fuss about” (Csikszentmihalyi, 1997: 41). Authors and illustrators must trust that as cultural intermediaries their editor and/or publisher has internalised the values of the domain and is capable of correctly judging value in relation to the field. It is important to note however that sometimes the role of editor and publisher can merge and be performed by the same person. This generally occurs when the publishing house or children’s department is small. It is also not uncommon for individuals to be employed in one role and move to the other and back again throughout their careers as different opportunities arise. Throughout the following discussion every effort will be made to separate these two roles with the acknowledgement that at times they do blend and merge.
In a similar manner to literary agents, initial access to editors and publishers often occurs through the submission of unsolicited manuscripts. These then enter the ‘slush pile’ to be read and sorted when time permits either by assistants, editors, or publishers themselves. It is not uncommon to have a manuscript rejected at this stage, as most respondents attested, however a few noted that they were asked to submit further work based on the quality of the first. John Heffernan recalled that his first manuscript to Margaret Hamilton Books was rejected:
But she did write back to me and say ‘we don’t want this book but we definitely would like to see your next book’ so that was good. She also wrote a big page of criticism with a comment at the end, ‘I normally don’t bother replying like this, don’t be offended by my criticism but I’m doing it because I think it’s worth doing’. So that was good. That made me think ‘right, I’ve got to do another book’. (10 March 2011)
In order to control the flood of unsolicited manuscripts many publishing houses have restrictions in place that limit submissions to particular types (for instance fiction or non-fiction picture books), or only accept submissions within particular timeframes, or accept submissions only from those with a publishing history or sent via a literary agent. With these restrictions it is increasingly difficult for newcomers to access the field and have their work published. Penguin Books Australia has a dedicated Young Readers Division with a one-week open call for unsolicited manuscripts that regularly receives over 1000 submissions (2015: online). Freemantle Press welcomes
200 submissions from residents of Western Australia and periodically has regular times when they accept unsolicited manuscripts. Working Title Press also accepts unsolicited manuscripts and illustration portfolios within a specific timeframe. While some publishers such as Pan MacMillan Australia and Allen & Unwin run regular submission programs or have submission guidelines on their websites like Hachette Australia, they do not accept unsolicited manuscripts for picture books. Similarly places such as Walker Books Australia refuse acceptance when their ‘slush pile’ gets too large. These restrictions often change over the course of the year according to fluctuations in work process and submission quantities.
Regardless, the publishing industry thrives on novelty and there are several publishing houses that have open calls for unsolicited manuscripts. Scholastic Australia includes four imprints including Omnibus Books that regularly accepts unsolicited manuscripts as well as artist portfolios from illustrators. Publishing houses such as Five Mile Press, Random House Australia, New Frontier Publishing have specific guidelines available on their websites outlining the general process of submission for children’s picture book manuscripts and acknowledge a wait time of several months for a response. Some like Random House Australia indicate this may be as long as 3-4 months and stipulate that they do not offer feedback services. This speaks to the overabundance of submissions that each publishing house receives and the increasing number of people wishing to be published. So while this method of accessing the field is still possible, the opportunities are increasingly limited with most successful applications occurring via submissions from a literary agent.
5.3.2. Editors
For a picture book to reach publication and enter the domain, it must be judged as valuable and accepted by an editor. In this research the term editor refers to those individuals who deal directly with the editing and polishing of a manuscript for publication, which in the case of picture books also includes working with illustrators to ensure their work complements the text. As a significant access point within the field, editors make decisions regarding the novelty of a work and its likelihood of being successful. They examine submissions to determine whether a story is well
201 constructed and suitable for their publishing identity and target audience. An editor is the person an author or illustrator is most likely to have the most interaction with throughout publication as the editing process includes discussions regarding revisions to the text and illustrations as well as preparing the final work for publication according to their publishing house’s guidelines. While it is rare for a picture book manuscript to undergo significant editorial work there may be a need to correct mistakes, address word choice, cut unnecessary information, and revise illustrations before the final proof is agreed upon. As such the role of the editor can vary from project to project as they assist authors and illustrators in the production of the final work.
The relationship between an author, illustrator and editor is built on trust. This factor was identified by all of the respondents in this research. According to Jackie French “when you get a good editor you simply have to trust that, without evaluating, whatever they say is going to be correct and simply go with them” (17 July 2007). Authors and illustrators must trust that their editor has internalised knowledge of the domain’s conventions and is capable of identifying and assessing the worth of a product in line with the field’s values. Illustrator Leigh Hobbs spoke about his ongoing editorial relationship with Erica Wagner, children’s publisher at Allen & Unwin in Melbourne. While he credits Wagner with helping him to develop his voice over the ten books they have completed together, he described her as “a very tough editor but we both trust each other” (19 July 2011).
Norman Jorgensen identified importance of compatibility in the author-editor relationship. Jorgensen shared the “same sort of sense of humour” (11 March 2011) with his first editor Ray Coffee at Freemantle Press, which enhanced their working relationship. When Coffee retired, Cate Sutherland who is the Children’s Publisher at Freemantle Press began to work with Jorgensen. He noted that she “hasn’t got quite the same sense of humour as I have. But she’s very good, an excellent editor and is technically really good” (11 March 2011). Other respondents, such as Katrina Germein, also mentioned working well with an editor who for one reason or other ended up leaving the publishing house. Illustrator Freya Blackwood spoke of changing editors mid-production as being “fairly disastrous” (24 January 2012) as ideas and expectations altered while interest levels diminished. In these situations new relationships had to be negotiated with trust being rebuilt over each new project. 202 Every author and illustrator interviewed for this study identified their editor as providing guidance towards the final work. According to Gary Crew an editor operates as a key connection between the author and illustrator’s different viewpoints: “the editor pulls that together and makes that happen” (9 July 2007). Each field member in this relationship makes decisions that affect the final production of the work. For Freya Blackwood this interaction was of great benefit. “I don’t work well completely alone in isolation…I do need to chat to people and I need to get feedback and bounce ideas off them. I’ve always enjoyed everyone I've worked with” (24 January 2012).
When asked whether the suggestions and feedback received from editors was useful, almost everyone interviewed responded in the affirmative. Jackie French summarised her experience:
Working with a good editor or a good editorial team is one of the most mentally exhilarating things you can possibly do…It really is an extraordinary process working on your own work with a team of people concentrating on it as well and getting it to a higher level than it was before. I can’t emphasise enough actually how superb it is working with very good editors. (17 July 2007)
Katrina Germein reinforced this sentiment acknowledging that editorial changes “only improve the text in my experience” (12 April 2011).
As the children’s publishing industry in Australia is small it is common for people to work regularly with one another and develop friendships. Leigh Hobbs spoke highly of his editorial relationship with Erica Wagner. They began working together in 1992 and produced four Old Tom books for Penguin Books Australia before Wagner left to work as the children’s publisher at Allen & Unwin. Since then they have worked together on many titles including the Horrible Harriet books (2001, 2005, 2012), 4F For Freaks (2006), Old Tom’s Big Book of Beauty (2007), Mr Chicken Goes to Paris (2009), the Mr Badger (2010-2011) series, and Mr Chicken Lands on London (2014). Hobbs explained that from their initial interactions Wagner “seemed to get a sense of exactly, straight off, of what I was trying to do” (19 July 2011) and explained that throughout their various working relationships “the ideas sort of flow” (19 July 2011). He
203 identified that her background as an artist also meant she could speak to his illustrations from a place of understanding as a practitioner as well as a publisher.
Similarly Sally Rippin identified several of her editors and publishers amongst her close friends. She acknowledged that most of the time this was an advantage: “because I think that we can feel quite comfortable with each other and discuss things easily” (1 August, 2011). However this close relationship can, at times, be difficult to navigate when there are disagreements about the work. According to Rippin “it can be tricky…[but] now I’ve got to the point where if it is a tricky thing I can give it to Pippa [Masson] to handle anyway” (1 August 2011).
As with any relationship there can sometimes be tension between an author or illustrator and their editor. According to Norman Jorgensen, this is part of the game. Of his relationship with Cate Sutherland, Jorgensen noted their good-natured tussle:
I do respect her opinion so I do tend to go along with it a lot of the time. But just for forms sake I dig my heels in every so often, otherwise you’ll get pushed around too much. If something’s really important to me she’ll give in as well. So there’s give and take involved. (11 March 2011)
Libby Gleeson noted however that negotiating changes with an editor is par for the course. “Occasionally you have a disagreement about, you know, you take this out or you don’t, but I don’t consider that to be problematic. I mean that’s just part of the professional discourse that you go through” (9 February 2011).
As editors are often operating a publication schedule years in advance, they must juggle multiple books at a time, which can impact their ability to nurture relationships with authors and illustrators. For Jackie French increasing pressures on editors as a result of broad operational changes within publishing houses has a detrimental effect on the work produced.
The major problem I’ve got with editorial work at the moment, is that just about every publishing house is cutting down on staff and cost-cutting and books are getting, well that editors are increasingly pressed to do more work on more books more quickly and so that the editorial process on some books is rushed and everyone knows that it really needs more
204 work but the publishing deadline is three days away and it has to go to the printer and you really can’t do any more on it. (17 July 2007)
However, most editorial experiences were positive and many respondents acknowledged that their editorial relationships provided a better understanding of the field’s preferences and decision-making criteria, which in turn gave them the opportunity to improve their future work. Katrina Germein spoke of her understanding of the editing process and why certain story elements will be excised. “Often something will go just because the picture…makes it so clear” (12 April 2011). Norman Jorgensen also spoke of this situation noting it was due to the restrictions of the picture book form:
You see you’ve got that 32 page restriction of course so you can only get one idea per page, or per double page so it doesn’t leave you much. ‘Cause there will be some double page spreads, so you’re down to about 25 ideas that have to be illustrated. (11 March 2011)
Just as authors and illustrators accept that the physical structure of a picture book is an unavoidable limitation, so must they accept that editing is a part of the publication process. Libby Gleeson was adamant about the importance of editing and the positive effect it had on any manuscript:
I expect to be edited. Oh god yes. Editing is a really important part of the process. If anyone thinks they can write a book and not have it edited I think it’s naïve and foolish because every edited piece I’ve ever seen is much better than the original, my own work included. (9 February 2011)
However, as Libby Gleeson pointed out, due to the compact size of the text to begin with the editorial changes within a picture book are generally cosmetic which is different to editing a novel and the structural changes that may be necessary.
Several respondents noted that at times their editors moved beyond the traditionally critical role where they identify problems and guide improvements, towards a more active and collaborative one. In these cases editors made suggestions that altered the content in some way. For instance, Leigh Hobbs acknowledged that his editor/publisher Erica Wagner sometimes “comes up with ideas for lines, if I’m stuck,
205 that usually they’re so daggy I always insist that they go in the book” (19 July 2011). Sometimes changes were made to significant parts of the story. In Katrina Germein’s My Dad Thinks He’s Funny (2010, illustrated by Tom Jellett) the “original refrain was ‘my dad thinks he’s funny but he’s not’ and then the publisher suggested that we take out ‘but he’s not’ and I think they were right. It’s much more positive without that and it flows a lot better” (12 April 2011). Similarly, in Karen Collum’s Samuel’s Kisses (2011, illustrated by Serena Geddes) a sentence was added to the story. Collum explained that this “helped with the resolution and provided this beautiful double page spread of the kisses filling the shopping centre, which I quite like too…But it is funny when you see it and you go ‘I didn’t actually write those words’, but I understand why they put them there. And it was definitely in keeping with the rest of the book.” (30 June 2011).
This kind of editorial work moves beyond making judgements about the value of a work, to being an active component of the creative process. While a common creativity myth suggests creativity is the product of an individual in isolation (Sawyer, 2012), what these examples reveal is that creativity is a collaborative effort with various people contributing different elements towards a final product. As Pippa Masson explained an editor’s involvement helps make a book “the best it can possibly be. I don’t think they often get enough credit for that either…editors are the ones that really make it, make the book what people love reading” (30 June 2011). When asked whether they considered their editors as part of the creative process, most respondents agreed that their contribution was vital. As Libby Gleeson summarised, editors provide technical fine-tuning and through the “kind of questioning and suggestions they make I think they are part of the creative process” (9 February 2011).
5.3.3. Publishers
When referring to publishers in this research, the term encompasses a number of different people and roles involved in the production of children’s picture books. Although editors have been spoken about separately, they are usually employed by a publishing house, which has an overarching directive and publishing agenda. At the helm of either the publishing company, if it is specifically dedicated to children’s
206 books, or the department, if it is a larger house with several publishing arms, is the publisher. They oversee a network of actors that include those involved in editing, marketing, and the physical production of picture books. The publisher’s role is complex and they are in a powerful position of decision-making influencing the creative system at multiple points. According to John B. Thompson (2005: 24-26) a publisher’s role encompasses six functions: operating as cultural intermediaries; financial investment; content development; quality control; management; and coordinating sales and marketing.
As an editor is generally the public access point for their publisher, the process of submitting to a publisher is much the same. Editors select promising submissions and present them to the larger publishing team at scheduled meetings. The decisions made within these meetings determine whether or not a manuscript will be published, put on hold to be reassessed later, or rejected. If accepted, the editor will work with the author to polish the text and an illustrator will be commissioned to complete the accompanying illustrations within an agreed upon timeframe. Throughout this process the marketing department will make recommendations and devise a strategy for publication to assist with advertising and sales. Once the proofs are completed the book is given to the production department who may address any design issues before printing and binding the book. This entire process may take several years from the submission of a manuscript to the publication of the final picture book, as the schedule must accommodate an illustrator’s availability as well as the publishing house’s already busy production calendar. At every stage there are several individuals who make decisions regarding the content, the appearance, and the work’s value with the publisher at the hierarchical head of this network.
Mark MacLeod described his role as a picture book publisher as occurring largely in the background managing the whole production process:
In some ways publishing is quite lonely, because you work long hours on the text and you put a lot of work into your relationship with the author, and you are traditionally meant to stay in the background, so your work is largely unseen. (3 January 2012)
While MacLeod has embraced numerous roles within the children’s publishing
207 industry, significant for this research is MacLeod’s experience in publishing as the Children's Publishing Director at Random House Australia, and as the publisher of Mark Macleod Books an imprint of Hodder Headline. He acknowledged that his previous work as the National Children’s Book Council of Australia (CBCA) President aligned with “Random House’s agenda” (3 January 2012) and assisted with his appointment, and likewise his status of publisher with a named imprint at Random “was one of the reasons Hodder offered me a job” (3 January 2012). This demonstrates the evolution of MacLeod’s cultural capital. Through every role undertaken in the children’s publishing industry MacLeod built his profile and skillset to the extent that he was considered an expert within the field and offered unique opportunities as a key taste maker (Bourdieu, 1984, 2000) and cultural intermediary.
The relationship between publishers and their authors and illustrators is also predicated on a foundation of trust. According to MacLeod, “honesty and trust are crucial for ongoing relationships in the industry” (3 January 2012). Karen Collum reflected that due to the small size of the publishing industry in Australia “everybody knows everybody” (3 August 2011) so it is important to maintain a professional relationship at all times with these key field members. Collum acknowledged that while an author or illustrator may feel that it is their book, the investment that publishers make is not insignificant. “I firmly believe publishers are looking for the next best book, they want a best seller, they are dying to open a manuscript and go ‘oh, this is awesome. This is what we want’” (3 August 2011). This was confirmed by former publisher Mark MacLeod who noted that “publishers risk a lot of money on a book” (3 January 2012). Literary agent Pippa Masson summarised this relationship:
When it’s just yours and you hand it over it’s your baby, but when you work with a publisher it becomes their baby as well. So you have to do this co-parenting thing that I think is difficult, because there is a lot of ego on both sides. (30 June 2011)
MacLeod reflected on his time as a publisher and the importance of trust in his relationship with authors and illustrators. He noted that knowing “the interests, talents and availability” (3 January 2012) of different people was beneficial in building confidence. He recalled his pairing of illustrator David Mackintosh with author Gillian Rubinstein that resulted in three successful picture books. “If they ‘get’ the text, there
208 is very little you have to do as an editor or art director. They really go for it and come up with inventions you would not have predicted” (3 January 2012). As illustrators often book up years in advance, a publisher may have to wait for their first choice. MacLeod waited four years for Greg Rogers to become available to illustrate Way Home (1994) written by Libby Hathorn, a decision that paid off when Rogers won Australia’s first Kate Greenaway Medal (1994), the UK’s most prestigious award for children's illustration, for his artwork. Alternatively, a publisher has “to be flexible, and able to visualize a text done in different ways by different illustrators” (3 January 2012). While MacLeod acknowledged the occasional single hit with people only producing one picture book, more advantageous to the industry were enduring relationships:
Ongoing relationships allow all those in the production of the book – from the writer to the reader – to change and grow. Having to start all over again with each new publication is tiring and expensive. I am thrilled to be able to look back on writers and illustrators (no names!) who have changed specific aspects of their work over many years because of my coaching. It’s smart and efficient management of talent and investment on both the creative artist’s part and on the publisher’s. So nurturing relationships long term is both wise and rewarding. (3 January 2012)
This appears to be standard practice (although it might be unspoken) as most picture books that are published in Australia each year are from seasoned authors and illustrators. Additionally, subsequent publications are most likely to occur with publishers that already enjoyed a working relationship with an author or illustrator. This was certainly the case with the participants of this research who often preferred to work with a select few publishers rather than start over with someone different.
As a result of the young target audience, children’s literature has traditionally consisted of “books which are good for children and most particularly good in terms of emotional and moral values” (Lesnick-Oberstein 1999: 16). The decisions to publish this kind of material have typically been made by adults in positions of power (Bunbury, 2002: 844; Winch et al., 2006: 393). It is no surprise then that publishing houses have unique identities or agendas based on their individual “construction of
209 childhood” (Crew, 9 July 2007) that they wish to promote, and books are chosen in accordance with those guidelines. If a submission is not aligned with the interests of the publishing house then it is highly unlikely that the picture book will be published. As the most common reason for rejection is that a submission is not right for a particular publishing house, it is necessary for authors and illustrators to research and equip themselves with relevant information to ensure they are submitting to the appropriate people. Katrina Germein emphasised this noting that it was important to know “what sort of things those particular publishers publish because even just all being picture books it doesn’t mean that they all fit kind of in that same box. With different publishers having a different bent” (12 April 2011).
While Libby Gleeson explained that authors and illustrators “tend not to deal very much with publishers because they’re running the whole show” (9 February 2011) there were moments when significant interactions occurred. Several respondents began their careers submitting to publishers directly. Speaking specifically about Requiem for a Beast (2007) Matt Ottley recalled:
I took that to just about every publisher under the sun and everybody rejected it because it was not a format that anyone could neatly slot it into. It was not for a particular age group that anyone could neatly slot it into. And if they decided that it was going to be marketed as a YA [Young Adult] book, and fuck, no YA audience is going to be interested in classical music, but I finally found Helen Chamberlain who was publishing through Lothian books and she took it up and championed it and the feedback from YA audiences has just been amazing. (10 February 2011)
It is interesting to note here that Helen Chamberlain has become known in the industry as a publisher that advocates for unusual books and has also worked with a number of other respondents including Shaun Tan, Kathryn Apel and Gary Crew. In a broader sense however, this example demonstrates that each publishing house has its own preferences and will only select work that aligns with this directive. It is important for potential creative producers to know this in order to target work to the right place with an author or illustrator at times consciously creating different work for different publishers.
210 The experiences respondents had with their publishers were largely positive. However it was acknowledged by some, like Katrina Germein, that there could occasionally be “a little bit of tension” (20 March 2011). Sometimes this arose if a publisher preferred to work directly with the author or illustrator instead of negotiating with their literary agent. However Germein explained that it was possible to balance this preference by working closely with the publisher on the project but passing any contract work to her literary agent Pippa Masson. In this way, she was able to develop and maintain her relationship with her publisher and ensure she was also covered contractually. As a publisher Mark MacLeod noted that he had experienced authors attempting “to play one publisher off against another” (3 January 2012) in order to have their manuscript accepted. But as the picture book industry is close knit, he explained that a single phone call to the other publisher would quickly verify or disprove the information. He suggested that best practice was to “simply tell me the truth” (3 January 2012).
Interestingly, most of the respondents who mentioned negotiating disagreements with publishers or editors were illustrators. This is possibly because their contacts are prolonged, sometimes lasting 12 to 18 months depending on production schedules, while the author’s interaction is of less duration. Freya Blackwood noted that any disagreements regarding illustration work are usually resolved “very politely” (24 January 2012). Speaking of her relationship with Margrete Lamond, the Publisher at Little Hare (an imprint of Hardie Grant Egmont), Blackwood conceded: “I’ve often found Margrete’s suggestions are generally right. I find it just completely on the ball. There might be one or two things I’m not sure about, but it always…she can win a few times *laughs*. That’s all right” (24 January 2012). This response again speaks to the importance of trust in the relationship. Rebecca Cool recalled times when suggestions were made regarding the content of her illustrations that she did not agree with. On one occasion “they wanted small trees in the horizon and with the way I work there’s a completely flat picture plane and everything on the picture plane is, there’s no horizon, there’s no things going off into the distance” (18 March 2011). As this alteration would have required a dramatic revision of her style she kept working without making the suggested changes and it was never addressed again.
Sally Rippin reflected that differences in expectations were a natural part of working with others:
211 Look there’s always disappointments and things like that. Often the disappointments happen at a higher level because the thing that people forget to acknowledge is that a publisher works within a team. I’m on my own so I can make any decision I want, whereas the publisher has to represent a publishing house so you know, they have to represent marketing, and they have to represent sales and all these people. So individually they can be very creative people that are really crazy about your ideas and would probably be doing them themselves if they were given half the chance, but they then have to represent a big company that has to earn money. So you know, then those kind of creative things get that weight pressed on them and unfortunately it’s the publisher or the editor that has to pass it on to the creator. So it’s not an us or them, it’s more a sense that everybody has a role, and in the best case scenario we’ll work together and the best thing that comes out of it is a good book that does well. (1 August 2011)
In this sense each of these cultural intermediaries is connected in some way as they all work as part of a functional or systemic whole.
5.3.3.1. Marketing
Another important component of the field of publishing is the marketing team responsible for the product’s eventual advertising and distribution to the public. As Jackie French asserted, the marketing surrounding a book will inevitably influence its future life and saleability: “A book can be good but come out with the wrong publisher, in the wrong format, or even targeted towards the wrong audience and [will] totally fail even though the book itself is very good” (17 July 2007). Gary Crew posits that there is often a lot of pressure on marketing and sales people to succeed. “If the author makes a mistake and no one buys their books then whoopdy-do, but if the people in sales and marketing make a mistake and don't sell any books they get the sack” (9 July 2007).
Anecdotal reports from picture book authors, illustrators, and literacy specialists suggest that a publisher’s marketing department will often forgo publishing an early
212 career author or illustrator (or even a mid-list one) in favour of releasing work by well- known creators. This is often driven by fiscal considerations as a well-known author such as Jackie French or Shaun Tan is more likely to make a profit than someone who is lesser known or new to the field. Generally this conservative approach is about ensuring a return on investment, as it is easier to predict the sales targets of a well- known producer than to take a risk that an unknown will sell at all. This is further evidence that an individual’s cultural capital is a significant factor in their success as the more social capital they hold, the better chance they have of translating it into economic capital (Bourdieu, 1984).
At the inaugural SPUNC Independent Publishers Conference in Melbourne in 2012, Tye Cattanach from Penguin Publishing spoke about the importance of making good decisions regarding marketing and publicity (9 November 2012). This was echoed by Mark MacLeod who noted that “publishers who have strong relationships with booksellers and educators have a great advantage” (3 January 2012). Cattanach further explained that as audience members were often time poor they invested trust in publisher’s recommendations and correct suggestions would ensure repeat business. This indicates that the field of children’s publishing is an interconnected network with various members interacting with one another at various points in the system.
As part of the structure of a publishing house, decisions relating to the commercial aspects of the business are sometimes seen as in conflict with and constraining of an individual’s creativity. For instance, Kathryn Apel recalled that when working on This Is The Mud (2009) she received the cover proof two weeks before the print deadline to find that the title of the book had changed without her knowledge. After being informed it was the result of a decision by the marketing department “and they know their job and it was best just to go with that” (19 April 2011), Apel sat with the decision for a few days but could not reconcile herself with it. She explained:
I guess to me a title is kind of like the ultimate short story and some people are quite blasé about their titles, but I never come by my titles easily and I always feel that they’re right for that story. And I tried to find another title that was right and it wasn’t and I ended up writing this one page long justification as to why This is The Mud is really the only title for this book and I just said could you please take this to the marketing
213 department so that they could see why this is the title. (19 April 2011)
This negotiation was mediated by Apel’s publisher, Helen Chamberlain, and was eventually resolved with the story published under the original title, demonstrating that setting up the relationship between commerce and creativity as being wholly constraining on an individual’s creativity is somewhat reductive. Instead, the relationship is one of complexity (Negus & Pickering, 2004), as while commercial requirements may limit an individual’s choices they also enable opportunities for creative practice. For instance, having a clear idea of a target audience will ensure the product will cut through a crowded marketplace to reach its intended readership. Speaking about this issue, Nette Hilton remarked that the marketing department often insisted upon specifying a tight age bracket: “is it going to be 8-10s or 10-12s? I mean people will be that specific with you” (2 July 2007). Reflecting on these types of restrictions Hilton noted:
In the beginning it was limiting [but] I guess I am pretty empowered now because of that journey [because] the fact that I was limited in what I had to do really did push me very hard to come up with the goods. (2 July 2007)
5.3.3.2. Mechanical Production
Once a children’s picture book has been approved for publication, the next set of field members involved are those engaged in mechanical production. Authors and illustrators rarely interact with mechanical producers, but they nonetheless play a significant role in the field as they facilitate the production of texts. As part of a productive network these people make decisions regarding the manipulation of production technology to ensure that the books produced are of an acceptable standard. Author Gary Crew acknowledged that these people while largely “unsung” (9 July 2007) are no less important than commonly identified field members such as editors and publishers:
The real people who make books are those in the bowels of the earth. We need to remember the people who make paper, the people who do the
214 binding, the people who drive the forklift, who put the books on a palette, who package cartons of them to send off. Without those people I would not have a literary life. (9 July 2007)
Similar to Becker’s (1982) discussion of Art Worlds, Crew suggested that even though the decision to publish has previously been made elsewhere, without the support of the production team the manufacture of books would result in vastly different products. For instance, if books require “innovative printing techniques publishers are not equipped for” (Becker, 1982: 27) it is unlikely that the book will be published in the first place. The shape and size of the book, the 32 page length, whether it will be hardback or paperback, and high-quality colour printing are all important structural components that need to be considered in the mechanical production of a picture book. These format constraints affect individual authors and illustrators, as they need to be understood in order for practitioners to work within them, or negotiate their way around them. For instance, some respondents while adhering to the physical constraints of a picture book, spoke of experimenting with using different material to suit the style of certain stories. When Sally Rippin was illustrating When It Is Time (2004) and What Makes Me Me (2005) (both written by Stacey McLeary and set in Japan) she used Japanese rice papers and Japanese calligraphy in an attempt to “give it some feel of authenticity” (1 August 2011). In these instances, any deviations from standard production protocols must be appropriate to the particular project and are generally only granted to authors or illustrators with significant cultural capital.
Critically acclaimed author and illustrator Shaun Tan, for example, has been able to utilise his reputation to negotiate various production conventions. Following roughly ten years of work in the children’s publishing industry, which demonstrated his mastery of the standard structures, Tan produced the picture book The Arrival (2006). Presented in a graphic novel style with an unconventional and entirely wordless story arc, The Arrival (2006), at 128 pages long, broke many conventions. However The Arrival (2006) did not begin as a groundbreaking work. The first draft was a simple story of a man arriving in a strange city and did not include any of the creatures Tan has become known for. The decision to increase the page numbers was the result of Tan negotiating with his publisher Helen Chamberlain (at Lothian) who in turn consulted with the production team to ensure it was possible. Interestingly, this demonstrates the extent of his cultural capital (Bourdieu, 1986: 243) at this point in his 215 career. While this book breaks the standard conventions in a number of ways, it still adheres to regular production guidelines with the number of pages divisible by 8 to ensure smooth printing and binding. This adherence is in line with Sharon Bailin’s (1988: 96-97) argument that it is necessary to observe some conventions of a discipline otherwise what is created will be so different as to be inappropriate.
As this discussion evidences, there are several groups of people involved in the production of a picture book that influence the final outcome of a product. Editors make important contributions to content, publishers financially invest in and support the work throughout the production process, marketing teams provide a plan to achieve a successful product, and mechanical producers regulate the physical production of the final work. Each of these field members is part of a productive network engaged in assisting the production of a book and it distribution to a final readership. Additionally, while publishing companies are commercial institutions consisting of various people that make decisions about the production of a picture book, they do not simply dictate the terms of creativity to authors and illustrators. Individual creators are able to exercise their agency within the particular commercial and economic structures of this field to create novel work.
5.4. The Field of Audiences
As communication and meaning making involves both production and reception, it is equally important to consider those people engaged in the reception of a product and how they contribute to the system of creativity. Moving away from communication theories that focus on either the producer or receiver as the source of creativity, the systems model encourages the examination of both producer and receiver as equally important to the creative process. Csikszentmihalyi suggests, “what we call creativity is a phenomenon that is constructed through an interaction between producer and audience” (1999: 314, emphasis in original). The audience’s acceptance of a picture book is vital to its success for if a book is rejected, then no amount of marketing or persuasion will assist its eventual inclusion into the domain. Audiences are therefore considered active participants in making meaning and play an important role in the success or failure of a creative product.
216 It is important to note that within this research the term audience will be used to refer to the broad range of cultural intermediaries who are receivers of a created product, process, or idea. This includes individuals involved in both production and reception, as they are all recipients of a picture book at some stage. To distinguish the final group of people (children and adults) who purchase and read the created product the term reader or readers will be used.
Significant field members involved in the reception of a picture book include critics and reviewers, booksellers and retailers, librarians and educators, other field operatives considered experts in children’s literature, as well as the general readership of adults and children. This “field of users” (McIntyre, 2012b: 14) comprises of various audiences both professional and non-specialist enthusiasts/amateurs who act as intermediaries between the book and its readers. They make determinations regarding the value of the work produced, its dissemination and how it will be received by the broader readership. As Sawyer notes, the audience of any cultural product is a critical component of the field as the “ultimate test for a creative work is whether or not it’s accepted by a broad audience” (2012: 218).
According to Sawyer, every audience is comprised of multiple levels of experience and engagement that depend on how connected each audience member is “to the creators who work in the field” (2012: 218). At times the distinction between audience types is clear. For instance, there is a significant difference in the role and abilities of adult editors and child readers. One is a key cultural intermediary professionally engaged in producing picture books, while the other is a member of the public with notably lesser world experience and reading ability. But at other times the boundaries between audiences may be transcended. For instance, an adult bookseller may be a professional purveyor of children’s books, but they may also be an amateur writer, or inexperienced when it comes to a particular type of picture book, or as a reader to children. Regardless, all strata of an audience are important as together they contribute to the complex field of children’s picture books by making decisions about and stimulating the production of such work. By understanding the specifics of certain audiences, writers are more likely to produce work appropriate for the field.
217 5.4.1. Professional Audiences
Key experts in the field of Australian children’s picture books include critics who provide public commentary and review, booksellers both in stores and within schools, librarians and educators, as well as other field operatives considered experts in children’s literature. Each of these expert groups make judgements regarding the value of creative products and their decisions have multiple effects. An endorsement from these cultural intermediaries can catapult a picture book from being relatively unknown to a household name. Picture books that are given the stamp of approval by critics and media quickly rise to the top of buying lists for booksellers, educators, and parents. As gatekeepers these individuals contribute to a picture book’s public visibility and play a crucial role in connecting books with their readers.
5.4.1.1. Critics and Media Commentary
As a professional audience, critics are part of the system of judgement that make decisions about the creative value of a product and influence its reception with their authoritative opinions. Critics and the media commentary they produce provide social validation for a product and their choices and opinions can affect audience perceptions of a work as well as sales. But this influence does not only operate in a single direction. In many industries, critical media feeds back into the production process as regulators of new ideas, products, and through disseminating information to audiences as can be seen in the field of Australian children’s picture books.
Typically critical book reviews in Australia occur in the mainstream media. In the late 1980s to the mid 1990s Mark MacLeod, for instance, regularly appeared on television shows such as The Midday Show (on the commercial Nine Network) and Review on ABCTV (Australia’s national broadcaster) as a reviewer of children’s books. Currently however, most, if not all, televised book reviews are for books with an adult audience. Shows such as First Tuesday Book Club and Jennifer Byrne Presents (also on ABCTV) showcase new Australian publications as well as revisiting world classics. This diminishing focus on children’s literature has also been reflected in the review space of national and suburban newspapers.
218 Reviews of children’s literature occasionally appear in Sydney Morning Herald, The Australian, and Australian Book Review, with picture books reviews occurring even less frequently. The majority of picture book reviews tend to appear in magazines like Magpies, Viewpoint and Reading Time. However, as Libby Gleeson explained “the reviews might only be a one paragraph content description and that’s not a review. So I think the contribution of reviewers in this country is very, very limited” (9 February 2011). Additionally, much of the review space allocated to children’s literature tends to prioritise material for an older audience such as young adult fiction or middle grade novels. In the early 1990s Pausacker and Wheatley examined Australian newspapers and the percentage of space allocated to book reviews (Nieuwenhuizen, 1994: 304- 305). While 30.5 percent of space was apportioned to adult fiction, the column inches for children’s literature was significantly smaller with young adult titles (arguably the largest component of children’s review space) allocated only 1.9 percent of review space. Within this limited space, it is perhaps unsurprising that even less attention is paid to picture books. What these statistics demonstrate is a clear bias towards adult fiction, and as Mark MacLeod argued, “there is no reason to think that the situation has improved for local publishing; quite the reverse” (2010: 27). Interestingly this reduction in review space does not seem to correspond with a decrease in sales or a decline in interest as anecdotal discussions with participants suggest children’s publishing is experiencing a steady upturn contrary to the rest of the publishing industry.
This is not to say that mainstream media reviews of children’s literature have no impact but since children’s media is so often overlooked and under-represented in mainstream media, it is unsurprising that alternative or online media has become a popular avenue for reviews and general discussion. Largely these sites are maintained by interested adult readers and in Australia include websites such as Kid’s Book Review, Children’s Books Daily, The Book Chook, My Little Book Room, and sales websites such as Readings and The Little Bookroom. While reviews in newspapers are limited, and alternative sites have sprung up to fill this void, a number of significant journals publish reviews written by school education departments with a school audience in mind. Norman Jorgensen explained that these reviews have a clear influence on purchasing decisions within schools:
219 An awful lot of school librarians buy their books based on reviews, they just go through the review books like Magpies and Reading Time and that sort of thing and just go tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, depending how good the reviews are. So I think they’re very important to sales. (11 March 2011)
Importantly, when asked to reflect on the role or value of critics and media operatives in the creative process, Leigh Hobbs acknowledged that popular opinion would be to “scorn and say how reviewers aren’t important” (19 July 2011). Cool acknowledged that even with many positive reviews a negative comment is often difficult as “you always remember the bad thing” (18 March 2011). Of one such review she recalled, “the reviewer said it was too colourful, and I thought ‘hello! It’s a children’s book!’” (18 March 2011). Leigh Hobbs agrees saying that “if you get a bad review you can be really thrown by it” (19 July 2011).
However, most of the respondents’ experiences with reviews of their work have been positive. This is not surprising as the children’s literature industry in general is quite encouraging. One example that demonstrates the influence of a reviewer on the creative process is the interaction between author/illustrator Leigh Hobbs and acclaimed critic Maurice Saxby over Mr Chicken Goes to Paris (2009). After receiving a positive review from Saxby in which he referred to Mr Chicken Goes to Paris (2009) as a masterpiece, Hobbs and his publishing team at Allen & Unwin decided to incorporate it into the endpapers of the paperback edition.
Opposite the title page now there’s a view of Mr Chicken with his back to us reading a newspaper and up the top it says ‘Mr Chicken is a masterpiece says Maurice Saxby’ and underneath it’s got ‘Mr Chicken was finding his new found fame difficult to keep from going to his head’. (Hobbs, 19 July 2011)
This action signifies how important it is for a work to be validated by someone who is ‘in the know’ rather than the general readership. Hobbs noted it was a joy to receive a positive review, “I mean Maurice’s one was a ripper; I was thrilled to bits to get that” (19 July 2011). Using review quotes in this way, in subsequent work and/or in promotional material, the value of critical opinion is reinforced. This example also
220 demonstrates an ongoing interaction between members of the field that is at times subtle and unexpected.
5.4.1.1.1. Children’s Book Council of Australia
The Children‘s Book Council of Australia (CBCA) is one of Australia‘s most powerful cultural institutions and the CBCA’s annual Book of the Year Awards aim to uphold standards of literary excellence. Prominent Australian critic Maurice Saxby who was instrumental in the establishment of the CBCA noted the organisation’s “aims have been twofold: to encourage children to read while pointing them to literature of quality; and to promote the publication of worthwhile literature for children” (as cited in Smith & Hamilton, 1995: 7). Since its conception the Book of the Year awards have had significant impact on sales for all titles on the short list. It is seen as a marker of quality and as MacLeod explains:
An endorsement from the Children‘s Book Council can have a direct influence on the income of all those involved in the production and distribution of a book, as well as a less tangible, but potentially more important, influence on the reading experience of thousands of children. (2010: 5)
Eight out of the 18 authors and illustrators interviewed for this research have won major CBCA awards (some multiple times): Gary Crew (1994, 1995), Libby Gleeson (2002), Norman Jorgensen (2003), Matt Ottley (2008), and Shaun Tan (1999, 2007, 2014) won Picture Book of the Year; Freya Blackwood (2007, 2011, 2012, 2013) illustrated four books that won Book of the Year: Early Childhood; Shaun Tan won Book of the Year: Older Readers in 2009; and Libby Gleeson with Ann James (1997) and John Heffernan (2002) won Book of the Year: Younger Readers. In addition several others including Sally Rippin, Rebecca Cool, Jackie French, Ann James, Leigh Hobbs, Nette Hilton, Tohby Riddle have been Honoured and Shortlisted multiple times, for a number of these awards.
Two of the respondents have served as part of the executive team for the Children's Book Council of Australia. Ann Haddon is an executive member of the National Council, and was President of the Victorian branch, and Vice President of the National CBCA Executive in 2007 and 2008. Mark MacLeod served as both President of the
221 NSW Branch (1986-1988) and National President of the Children's Book Council of Australia (2005-2006). Of these appointments MacLeod noted that his media profile was advantageous to the Council as “publicity for children’s books was always hard to get (still is)” (3 January 2012). He acknowledged the significance of the awards throughout the field of children’s literature:
Each year, from about 400 titles overall now that are entered, a short list of up to 6 titles in each of the 5 categories is published four months before the winners are announced on the third Friday in August, at the beginning of Children‘s Book Week. By the time of the announcement, publishers have booked advertising space, parents have bought the short listed books, libraries have bought multiple copies and displayed them, adults and children have read them, teachers have planned units of work around them, booksellers have had time to reorder and publishers to reprint, and producers and literary editors have had time to promote them by guessing which of the titles might win. (2010: 24)
An example that demonstrates the significant influence of the Children’s Book Council of Australia (CBCA) as well as media coverage and reviews is the critical reception of Requiem for a Beast (2007), by author, illustrator, and composer Matt Ottley. After winning the CBCA Picture Book of the Year Award in 2008 and being described by Lesley Reece, the director of the Fremantle Children's Literature Centre as “one of the great books of this century” (Reece as cited in Sorensen, 2008), Requiem for a Beast (2007) generated much controversy. Many libraries, schools, bookshops, and parents use the CBCA award list as an informal purchasing guide and several were surprised to find the book was aimed at an older audience: the story contains mature content including a graphic illustration of a bloodied axe, two references to suicide and five incidences of the f-word. After enjoying a large number of sales, the book was quickly returned en masse. As Ottley himself explained Requiem for a Beast (2007) has “notoriously become the most complained about book for young people in Australian history” (as cited in Coughlan, 2009).
The Lu Rees Archives at the University of Canberra documented the controversy by collecting 40 clippings of Letters to the Editor from regional and suburban newspapers. Many of the reviews and media coverage focused on the book’s offensive
222 language and racially motivated violence with a number of Australian newspapers calling for censorship and a reconsideration of what constitutes appropriate material for children. The media printed quotes out of context and inaccurately portrayed a handful of obscenities as the general discourse of the text to imply that the book was intended for young child readers. In addition coverage misrepresented the author’s intention as an endorsement of his characters’ opinions rather than offering a critical engagement with the book’s themes.
This situation illustrated the problem of uncritically using the CBCA list as a marker of appropriate children’s picture books to inform purchasing decisions. While the book received critical condemnation, Ottley acknowledged that media furore eventually “turned it into a bestseller” (10 February 2011) as the prolonged public discussion made the work highly visible and encouraged further sales with the book receiving serious critical acclaim.
What this debate reveals is that the field is rife with internal disagreements among experts as well as amateur audiences, the degree to which most criticism and media commentary influences the sale of Australian children’s picture books may be limited. However, as part of the social system that makes judgements on the value of work produced, critics and media operatives remain important. Cultural institutions such as the Children’s Book Council of Australia similarly act as key gatekeepers and cultural intermediaries within a contested field of evaluation. Through their engagement in the social structure, these field operatives have the ability to influence the exposure of and discourse surrounding a particular work, the way a publishing company may present a book for sale, as well as impacting the purchase of books by readers, and the continued creative practice of authors and illustrators. As such, they are an important component in the social validation of Australian children’s picture books.
5.4.1.2. Booksellers
As another node in the network of audiences, booksellers play an important role in the life of a picture book by making decisions that influence the visibility and success of a book. In a session at the inaugural Independent Publishers Conference in Melbourne (2012) called ‘Meet the Booksellers’, a number of prominent Australian Booksellers
223 spoke about the role of the bookseller in the lifespan of a book. According to Martin Shaw, Books Division Manager at Readings Carlton it is imperative for producers to think of the “bookseller as the first consumer of a title” (9 November 2012).
As key intermediaries, booksellers are a fundamental point of connection between authors/illustrators and their audience(s) and can affect whether or not a book will reach its desired market and sales target. A bookseller’s role is varied, but predominantly involves selling books to appropriate audiences. While the most prominent booksellers are those employed by physical stores, many booksellers are unseen working directly with schools and educational operations to provide them with the latest publications. If audiences are connecting with picture books in other settings including libraries, schools, homes of acquaintances and so on, it is reasonable to assume that somewhere in that process a bookseller was involved.
A bookseller can be an important advocate for a particular producer or product. During the Requiem for a Beast (2007) controversy independent children‘s booksellers familiar with the book supported Matt Ottley by continuing to hand-sell the book to appropriate customers. If a bookseller enjoys a particular book or producer they might encourage authors and illustrators to appear in their shops or speak at local schools. They will promote a product the best that they can to ensure it is connecting with the right audience. In recognition of this cultural capital that booksellers possess, they are sometimes approached for their endorsement of particular books which may subsequently be used as a sales and marketing tool. Conversely, if they feel so inclined, a bookseller can make it difficult for people to find and access a particular book. So the relationship producers of Australian children’s picture books have with booksellers may be beneficial in determining the success of a book.
Bricks-and-mortar bookshops can often be the first place that a reader will encounter a picture book. These retailers construct the bookselling environment to consciously influence the experience of children’s literature that shoppers may have. Within Australia, there are a number of significant bookshops that focus on children’s literature. The first to stock only books for children was The Little Bookroom in Carlton North, Victoria, which opened in 1960. The Children’s Bookshop in Beecroft, NSW was established in 1971 and is the second oldest specialist children's bookshop in Australia, but they do cater for an adult audience too. Clay’s Bookshop in Potts
224 Point, Sydney (now called Macleay Bookshop) has been around since the early 1950s, and occasionally appears in Australian literature and memoirs. Its original owner, Miss Norma Chapman, was renowned for her shambolic bookshop and deep knowledge of stock and literary trends. In more recent years a number of independent bookstores have revealed themselves to be significant players in the bookselling industry including Pages and Pages in Mosman NSW, Gleebooks with multiple locations in Sydney, and Readings books which has several stores around Melbourne. In an increasingly global marketplace, where readers can purchase books from a plethora of online retailers, the bricks-and-mortar store must compete fiercely. They need to be competitive with an overseas market so having items in stock, and ensuring those items are sought after is fundamental to capturing sales as purchasers can easily go elsewhere.
Most of the respondents could recollect a positive experience within a bookstore. Mark MacLeod, for instance, spoke of his first experience visiting The Children’s Bookshop in Beecroft, Sydney. “I went inside and was bowled over by the enthusiasm of the owner and her mother – Robin Morrow and Beryl Moncrieff. They seemed to have read every book in the shop and their enthusiasm was catching!” (3 January 2012). Encouraged by this enthusiasm, MacLeod became a regular customer claiming that he “had rarely experienced such individual attention from a retailer” (3 January 2012). He similarly recounted his experience at Clay’s Bookshop in Potts Point, Sydney around the same time, as being a catalyst for extending his interest in picture books:
The shop was tiny and books were stacked on the floor and practically falling at you out of the shelves. This meant that browsing was a sort of adventure or process of discovery; it also meant that when you often could not find the book you were after, you had to ask Miss Chapman. She always knew where it was – or why it wasn’t! One day I rang a publisher to ask whether one of their books was still in print, and they told me to ring Miss Chapman. This was before the common use of computers. Miss Chapman told me the book was out of print, and I asked her on my next visit how she came to be such a source of information. She pulled a sheaf of catalogues out from under the counter. ‘This is tonight’s reading when I go home,’ she said”. (3 January 2012)
225 This description demonstrates the important role that booksellers play in encouraging engagement with children’s literature, and it also speaks to the deep engagement many have with the industry. Through years of reading and selling titles, they have developed a unique knowledge of the domain and field of children’s literature as part of their habitus.
It is clear that one of the significant decisions that booksellers make is in regards to the placement of books within their stores. If they choose to feature certain books in a prominent position, they are more likely to be seen and purchased by readers. Most bookstores have particular shelves or tables where carefully selected books are strategically placed and care is taken to balance high profile books or new releases with artisan options. Jon Pages at the SPUNC Independent Publishers Conference in Melbourne explained that these displays are purposefully constructed to capture the attention of potential readers (9 November 2012). At his store, Pages and Pages, there is a general rule to displaying books that prioritises books staff have been reading and are familiar with, followed by bestsellers, and finally books that attract a smaller audience. This illustrates that booksellers play a key role in attracting an audience with the visual elements of book placement.
In addition to operating from bricks-and-mortar stores, booksellers may also travel to schools to pitch and sell to them directly. Norman Jorgensen, who in addition to being an author has worked for many years as a bookseller, describes his function as a school bookseller as that of a funnel, channelling appropriate books towards target audiences. Speaking generally about children’s literature, Jorgensen said:
There’s two and a half million books in print at any one time which is an enormous number. But if you’re selling them into schools then they’ve only got an hour or so to look at the ones you’ve got so it’s up to you to funnel them down to the best 200 that you can. (11 March 2011)
This ability to narrow down such a wide selection of choices to the most appropriate comes from a deep understanding and immersion within the domain of children’s literature. Booksellers have developed their habitus, their sense of what will work, over years of experience, which allows them to make appropriate decisions regarding which books to show to which readers.
226 Booksellers are key tastemakers within the field of Australian children’s picture books. If a bookseller endorses a particular product over another there is a much higher chance that it will be picked up in schools and sales will climb. On the other hand, if a book fails to gain their attention it is unlikely, when faced with so many options, that a bookseller will promote it. This has a direct impact on the number and type of books children will be exposed to within a school setting.
5.4.1.3. Librarians and Educators
Educators are also a key point of access within the field as they are in contact with children on a regular, if not daily basis. Teachers, teacher-librarians and librarians select picture books for inclusion within their curriculum, courses, and libraries and also make decisions about books they deem inappropriate, to be excluded from these arenas. It is not surprising that children’s books are aligned with the school syllabus, but in recent years picture books have been used in high school level studies as well as in primary school curriculum. As such, librarians and educators are key decision makers that inform school purchasing choices and school book-orders have had a direct impact on increasing sales. Often these gatekeepers rely on traditional marketing approaches such as catalogues and critical reviews, especially those in Viewpoint and Reading Time, as social media access is often banned in schools, even for employees. If information regarding new and appropriate books is not presented to key gatekeepers while they are at schools it is a missed opportunity because often these people lack time and energy outside of school hours to pursue this kind of information.
Several respondents identified school librarians as important field members as they play a key role between child and book. Specific to this research, Norman Jorgensen’s wife works as a school librarian and Ann Haddon worked as a primary school teacher- librarian for 18 years before starting the Books Illustrated gallery and studio in 1988 with Ann James. During her time as a teacher-librarian Ann Haddon was instrumental in establishing the Junior School Library at Yarra Valley Grammar School. As cultural intermediaries, librarians guide student reading and encourage students to connect with appropriate material. This position of power also extends to other educators. While working at Macquarie University, Mark MacLeod (as the picture book specialist) was
227 involved in the initiation of Australia’s second university course in children’s literature. After a few years he was the course co-ordinator and is now a Senior Lecturer researching and teaching various aspects of children’s literature. MacLeod explained his philosophy as an educator:
Inclusion is important to me, so I try to set texts that will challenge students’ habitual perspectives. While I am aware of literature’s role as ‘social engineering’, the sheer entertainment value of reading is important to me. I worry that in aligning books so closely with education we may have turned off some potential readers. (3 January 2012)
Sally Rippin described schoolteachers and librarians in general as “a huge supportive community” (1 August 2011) and acknowledged their integral role in the life and success of a picture book. “They’re the people who hold the torch for us, they’re the ones that mean that we’re still here and thriving and getting a hold of our books, and we’re getting to meet the kids and so, yeah, they’re fantastic” (1 August 2011). As a consequence of this support, Rippin mentioned that it was important for her to do school visits, not just to earn a living or engage with children, but to give something back to the teachers and librarians that supported her throughout the years.
Rippin also spoke about her friendship with particular librarians. She acknowledged that their support was instrumental in getting her first book, Speak Chinese, Fang Fang! (1996), published. She said she “showed it to some friends who were librarians who said ‘you know you should really think about getting this published’. And so with their help and their support I started sending off ideas to publishers” (1 August 2011). The book was picked up by Omnibus Books and won the Children’s Book Council Crichton Award for illustration in 1997. For Leigh Hobbs one of his closest friends, Kirsty Elliot, is a primary school librarian. He identified her as an influence on his creative process when he recalled a shared conversation over afternoon tea and champagne in Paris, which lead to the germination of Mr Chicken Goes to Paris (2009). In these examples, it is clear that librarians are a key part of the field of children’s picture books and their input and validation as part of the social network is sought after.
228 However, librarians and educators can also operate as gatekeepers only allowing a narrow or select type of books through into their libraries and classrooms. It is often claimed that many do not want ‘edgy’ books in schools although young people want to read them (Hateley, 2014). Following the controversy surrounding Requiem for a Beast (2007) anecdotal evidence emerged suggesting that the book, if stocked at all, is generally held behind the library counter away from general browsing to only be accessed with permission as a ‘teacher only resource’ (Hateley, 2014). This demonstrates the power that these gatekeepers wield in ultimately determining whether or not a book may reach its intended audience.
In a similar vein, Katrina Germein acknowledged a growing “concern about school libraries, a massive concern about the place of literature in schools” (12 April 2011) among teachers and librarians, as well as creators of picture books. Anecdotal stories from teachers, including Kathryn Apel, tell of occasions where school libraries cull their collections, discarding large numbers of books. Norman Jorgensen also expressed concern that due to the cost of picture books (with the average hardback at $25) “the market tends to be schools unfortunately, schools and libraries” (11 March 2011). This only places more emphasis on the power that librarians and educators have in determining the success or failure of a book. But Germein says that ultimately “we’re still producing really high quality books so they’re there for people that want to find them” (12 April 2011).
Although the relationship between field members can be fraught with difficulty at times, developing successful and mutually advantageous relationships is beneficial. Professional audiences such as critics and reviewers, booksellers, and librarians and educators make important decisions about the worth of published work. Validation from these members of the field can increase a picture book’s chance of success as they play a key role in connecting books with readers, and their feedback to producers may influence the making of subsequent work.
5.4.2. Amateur Audiences: Readers
As the final, but no less significant, component of the field of Australian children’s picture books, readers constitute an important point of social validation of a creative 229 product. While children’s literature in general is uniquely “defined in terms of the reader rather than the authors’ intentions or the text themselves” (Hunt, 1990: 1) the audience of readers can be broadly segmented into children and adults. As both adults and children are the intended readers of picture books (Melrose, 2002, 2011), the dual audience is a structure that producers of picture books must acknowledge. Picture books must stand up to multiple readings by this dual audience so producers “need to give adult readers and their young listeners a story that will stay with them” (Paul, 2009: 18). Together as cultural intermediaries both sets of readers play a role in determining the commercial success or failure of creative products (Sawyer, 2012).
Adults, as “parents, grandparents, teachers, and librarians, who read out loud to children” (Paul, 2009: 16), are important gatekeepers occupying positions of power as they select and purchase picture books for children. With this buying power, adult readers influence the financial success of a picture book by determining whether it will reach its target market (Scutter, 1999: 4-6). Tye Cattanach, Marketing Manager at Penguin Books, advised at the SPUNC Independent Publishers Conference in Melbourne that when promoting books for a child audience two marketing strategies should be employed: one to child readers and the other to adult decision makers (9 November 2012). Of this second group, Cattanach acknowledged that their purchasing power made them influential gatekeepers and noted that at times a manuscript may be rejected because it was considered to be too edgy to get past these gatekeepers. This is of interest as not only does it demonstrate the publisher’s engagement with their potential readership, it also reveals the power and influence that adult readers have over the production and reception of published work.
Several respondents in this research identified their parents and other adults in their lives as key gatekeepers. For instance, Norman Jorgensen recalled his father regularly bought him expensive books as a child, which he credited as teaching him about the financial and emotional value of such items. Jorgensen’s Aunt was also heavily involved with Magpies magazine and “into literature in a great way” (11 March 2011) often sending him books to read. Katrina Germein similarly recalled her parents and step-parents introducing her to a wide range of literature at an early age. In having adults in their lives that valued literature, these respondents were granted access in ways that others sometimes are not. As a university lecturer, Mark MacLeod noted that part of his teaching future educators and parents involved emphasising “the need to 230 listen to the child’s choices, and realise that they may be quite different from your own” (3 January 2012). In this way he acknowledged the important role that such adults play in the selection and provision of picture books and highlighted that the child reader’s preferences should be considered.
As Nodelman and Reimer assert, “the process of making literature meaningful includes children” (2003: 27). For the child reader, their experience of picture books is often mediated from an early age as they are read to on the laps of parents and caregivers. While there is often a gap in comprehension between the adult and child reader, even children too young to read by themselves can enjoy the experience of being read to in spite of their inexperience with strange language or unfamiliar worlds (Nodelman & Reimer, 2003: 16). In fact, it is the nexus between the two readers that encourages understanding as the adult reader plays a key role in illuminating meanings for the child reader.
While adults are powerful gatekeepers in channelling picture books they deem appropriate for children, there is evidence to suggest that a child can still assert their preference when it comes to the kinds of books they want to read. As Renkema asserts “an addressee is not just a receiver of the message; in fact receivers are active, cooperating participants in the communication” (2004: 46). Literary agent Pippa Masson explained, “the child is the ultimate discerning customer aren’t they, because they are not really influenced by anything else but the words and the pictures so you have to get them, you have to get them in to enjoy it” (30 June 2011). For instance, most participants in this research noted their fondness for reading as a child. They recalled preferences for particular types of stories, genres, authors, and illustrators and as discussed in the previous chapter, these early inclinations appear to have influenced the work they have since produced.
According to Sawyer (2012), readers (as fans and connoisseurs) may influence the creator’s process and outcome in a myriad of ways: as an imagined audience for the creator to consider as they are drafting the work, through direct and indirect feedback, through their interactions with authors and illustrators at school talks and writers festivals, through sales and as creators of meaning in their own right through their engagement with a text. When asked about the importance of readers when writing or illustrating, most of the respondents in this research agreed that their readers were a
231 factor in their creative process. As such it is important for producers of Australian children’s picture books to foster collegial relationships with their readers.
Interestingly readers may influence the production of a picture book during its initial stages of drafting and editing. As Sawyer notes, readers may “have an influence on the creative process, even if the creator is alone in a room in the woods” (2012: 219). An author or illustrator may conceptualise their readers, either known or unknown at this stage, and form their work to appeal to this group. Australian critic Barbara Wall asserts her conviction that adults “speak differently in fiction when they are aware that they are addressing children” (1991: 2-3). By having an audience in mind, whether specific or general, an author or illustrator is able to make decisions about their work’s content and whether it is appropriate.
Libby Gleeson mentioned that her ability to consider an audience had developed throughout her career in subtle ways. Reflecting on her first book, she acknowledged that an audience was not part of her consideration. However it is something she considers now as being a published author “makes you more conscious of your audience, because you know you’ve got one” (9 February 2011). Similarly for Sally Rippin, developing an understanding of readers has become easier throughout her career as she has become “more disciplined” (1 August 2011). “Usually I have a rough idea of an age group I think, because that then determines the language that I use, the content of the story” (1 August 2011). This also extends to the role of the literary agent, as Pippa Masson from Curtis Brown acknowledged the importance of keeping an audience in mind with any projects she works on “because then we know the right person to send it to in the publishing house” (30 June 2011).
Illustrator Leigh Hobbs was conscious in his consideration of his audience:
I always have the audience in mind, always. But I don’t write to the audience if that makes sense. I write, and this probably sounds like a cliché, but I write and do the books according to my own sense of what works and what doesn’t. (19 July 2011)
This sense is an articulation of Hobbs’ deep understanding of cultural conventions regarding what is ‘right’ for particular stories and readers. According to Pierre Bourdieu (1993) this habitus is the result of cultivated knowledge of overarching
232 structures accumulated over an agent’s lifetime to the extent that it appears to be innate.
Several respondents stated that they did consider a specific readership when writing. Katrina Germein for instance said of her drafting process: “I know I’m writing for children and I guess that’s there in my subconscious, but no I’m not really focused on any commercial value at that point” (20 March 2011). However she acknowledged it was more a consideration when editing. “I might tweak a few words or something if I think ‘oh gee, that’s not going to go down well’ but not really at the start” (12 April 2011). As will be discussed in the next chapter (Individual) different types of thinking are required at different stages of project.
While a few participants initially said they did not have an audience in mind when they were working, most were able to articulate a broad understanding of their audience. For instance, Rebecca Cool joked, “I just hope everybody” (18 March 2011). In a more specific approach, Karen Collum mused:
[My] audience would be probably in the school setting where I imagine a teacher reading, probably with maximum distractions around and whether my book can sustain their interest for that five minutes. I do have in mind too the applications for the book, like whether a teacher would be able to use it in a curriculum type context and all of that. (30 July 2011)
Collum’s identification of this dual audience of adult teacher and child students reflects her experience as a teacher using picture books as a learning tool in the classroom. This contributes to her habitus and gives her a deep understanding of her potential audience in order to create appropriate and novel work for them.
Furthermore, even though these authors or illustrators may not actively consider their readership when creating their work, the resulting product of this work has been deemed appropriate for an adult and child audience and judged to fit the structures of the domain. What this shows is that for most producers of Australian children’s picture books, their lifetime of engagement with the domain and field has lead to a seemingly innate sense of what is appropriate for a particular readership.
233 When Matt Ottley was asked if he kept an audience in mind when working he replied “No. Absolutely not” (10 February 2011). However, upon reflection Ottley suggested it was important to have people acknowledge the work that he does:
And I think any creative artist is spinning you bullshit if they say it’s not. You know? Of course you do the stuff for other people to acknowledge otherwise you’d be sitting in a cave somewhere doing it and you’d get very bored, very quickly I think. (10 February 2011)
This statement suggests that there is some thought given to who will eventually receive the work. Ottley also revealed a fear others alluded to that thinking about a specific readership would hamper or constrict the work in some way. However, he recalled that his mentor Rodney Hall, novelist and ex-chair of the Australia Council, advised him to “never, ever play down to your audience and I’ve always born that in mind” (10 February 2011). This was echoed by several other respondents who spoke of their imagined audience as being their ideal reader self.
As evidenced in the previous Domain chapter, producers of Australian children’s picture books are often engaged and critical readers from an early age. As readers they have absorbed the conventions and structures of the form, and through their engagement with the field they have come to understand its preferences. In this, as an audience themselves, these producers occupy a unique position where they are members of the field of readers. Several respondents identified that they worked with either themselves in mind, or someone like themselves as their ideal reader. Freya Blackwood described her work as “really self indulgent a lot of the time” (24 January 2012) explaining that it is important that her work satisfies her own interest before considering its reception by anyone else. In writing or illustrating the type of picture book they themselves would want to engage with, these producers are still operating in a similar manner to those who have a broader audience in mind as both are shaped with a view to appeal to a particular type of reader. Norman Jorgensen was definite in his identification of himself as his ideal reader. He explained:
It’s usually me as a 13 year old, 13/14 year old. I try really hard to remember what it was like then and so I’m writing for myself. I think if you try and write for anyone else you won’t know them well enough to
234 be able to do it properly. I used to say I write to keep myself amused and I think that’s actually true. It helps knowing that you’ve got a reasonable chance of being published. I don’t think I would write if I knew no one else was going to read it, in fact there’s no point in that. But people do don’t they? Yeah, so I have myself in mind when I’m writing and hopefully there’s a lot of other 14 year olds just like I was. (11 March 2011)
Jorgensen’s comment illustrates that when writing for a reader in his own image he is able to access his own tastes and preferences as an exemplary. It is also interesting that Jorgensen echoes Ottley’s words here in his acknowledgement that he creates work to be received by the public. This recognition speaks to how embedded his understanding of a potential audience is as it lies at the very heart of his desire to create work.
5.4.2.1. Reader Feedback
There are a number of ways that producers of Australian children's picture books interact with their actual audience and gain valuable feedback from them. This works to help a producer understand the readers of their work and, depending on the feedback given, it can also influence the production of future work. The two most common forms of feedback the respondents received were through fan correspondence and author/illustrator talks at schools or public forums such as writers festivals.
Occasionally a picture book author or illustrator may receive fan mail from readers. Most of the time this is from adult readers on behalf of themselves or the children they read with. Rebecca Cool has received numerous “emails from mothers saying ‘I read it every night to my children’” (18 March 2011). Freya Blackwood was sent a similar email from an adult reader “who said she bought Maude and Bear for someone but she ended up keeping it. *laughs* So that was lovely” (24 January 2012). Even a publisher may receive this kind of communication as Mark MacLeod recalled:
I have been rewarded by the many children and adults who say they were inspired to read, read more or read a particular author, because they were
235 encouraged to do so by me. I never expect it, so I am always surprised and delighted to hear it. (3 January 2012)
Of the respondents who received this kind of feedback, many agreed that it was a welcome form of social validation.
A few respondents mentioned testing their ideas out on readers, but due to their typically young age it is often difficult to get constructive feedback with some authors testing their work on their own children. Karen Collum explained she “did read Small and Big (2015) to my eldest son and he was very quiet, and so were my twins, so I thought that was a good sign” (3 August 2011). Sally Rippin also occasionally tested her work on child readers:
I think it’s really important to test your work out on kids as well and so sometimes I might have something I’m working on and I can read to an audience, more often than not it will be a finished piece that I can read aloud and I can really learn from where it works and where it doesn’t work by seeing that immediate reaction from the children. (1 August 2011)
While online communication allows for almost instantaneous interaction between a producer and their reader during any stage of the creative process, communication between picture book authors and illustrators and their child readers is relatively limited. All of the respondents in this research had an online presence through publicly available websites and social media, and many of these websites include illustrated images and biographical material for children to use in school projects. However due to the age and comprehension skills of child readers these communication and feedback tools are limited in their reach. It is highly unlikely that a child will be researching their favourite author or illustrator until they are in school. As such much of the material on the respondent’s websites is aimed at adult readers or older child readers as they include tips for writers, teachers notes and lesson plans, reviews and essays.
The other common way that authors and illustrators interacted with and received feedback from their audience was through public talks at schools and festivals. While Katrina Germein explained that on a wider level any contact with children has proved
236 useful to her practice, Kathryn Apel acknowledged that her background as a teacher made her more inclined to do author talks with her experience in the classroom helping to tailor her presentations to suit the students. Apel explained that working with children in this way “inspires and excites [her] to share that passion with them and to get them excited about reading and literacy” (20 April 2011).
Leigh Hobbs suggested that his 25 years as a teacher assisted him with doing author/illustrator talks in front of large groups of children. Of one particular presentation at the Sydney Writer’s Festival in front of hundreds of students, Hobbs reflected “you couldn’t do that if you’d not been a teacher, well I couldn’t have. I was able to get up and say ‘righto, this is what I want you to do, we’re gonna draw Old Tom now’ and they just did it” (19 July 2011).
For Norman Jorgensen, performing in front of children was something that took a while to get used to.
To start with I didn’t like doing them but I found, I’ve been testing my stuff out on the kids, reading aloud to them and seeing what sort of reactions I get. So that’s been really useful. You see when they laugh or when they sit there wide-eyed in total silence and they’re my audience so getting close to them is important. I’ve actually been enjoying it a lot more than I used to. I used to be a bit nervous about it. A middle-aged man standing up talking to small children. *laughs*. (11 March 2011)
Jorgensen identified this immediate feedback as a key outcome of author/illustrator talks. Speaking about a story that was still in development, Jorgensen recounted reading it to a group of students at a school talk:
It’s about a mining disaster and a small boy waiting at the top of the mine for his Dad to be rescued from a flooded mine. I’ve been reading that aloud to the kids and I’ve been getting such great response to it. Again there’s a joke at the end of that and I wasn’t sure because it’s such a sombre story, that I thought it may be inappropriate to have a joke in. But it actually works really well because it suddenly lightens up the end of the story. Until I’d read it to classes and classes of kids I wasn’t sure how
237 important it was. So that [obtaining feedback] is a vital part I think. (11 March 2011)
Literary agent Pippa Masson also agreed that children’s feedback can be invaluable for authors and illustrators, if not brutally honest. She noted that “a lot of children’s writers have a pretty realistic view of the way that children respond to them” (30 June 2011).
Additionally a third form of reader feedback through online reviews from parents (and sometimes children), is gaining popularity with the increase in access to and use of technology. These generally appear on the websites of online retailers and differ from the feedback mechanisms mentioned above. Primarily this is because they do not intend to directly communicate with the authors and illustrators who produced the content of the books; rather they are aimed at other readers (generally adult parents and teachers) to influence their decision-making when considering a purchase. Interestingly some sites (for instance The Little Bookroom) include online reviews from child readers, however they are predominantly for middle grade novels and Young Adult fiction rather than picture books as the target audience for picture books is often too young to articulate and write complex reviews. As such, while this is an interesting mechanism for feedback to certain members of the field, these reviews were not mentioned by participants of this research as playing a significant role in the production of future work for authors and illustrators of children’s picture books.
5.5. Conclusion
As Keith Sawyer asserts, “creativity is always identified and judged within a social system. The social system includes complex systems of social networks (the field) and complex languages and systems of convention (the domain)” (2012: 228). With this in mind, this chapter has demonstrated that members of the field of Australian children’s picture books interact in myriad and complex ways. As an industry as well as a network of intermediaries, the field of Australian children’s picture books supports the writing and illustration of picture books throughout the publication process to ensure the final work connects with its desired reader. This includes authors and illustrators as peers and colleagues who are a part of their own field, literary agents, editors and 238 publishers who work with authors and illustrators to produce a final product, as well as the field of professional and amateur audiences which includes critics, booksellers, educators, along with child and adult readers. Each of these field members are influential in the life of a picture book as they make decisions about and stimulate the production and reception of cultural objects.
As a network of audiences, each point of interaction within the field passes judgement regarding the production of new creative work and as a result influences the careers of producers. Kerrigan (2013) notes that fields, as with each element of the systems model, are scalable (see also Sawyer’s nested audience model, 2012: 218). This is evidenced within this chapter when authors and illustrators make judgements about their own work, as they are functioning simultaneously as individual field members while also as a component part of a much larger system in operation. Kerrigan explains, “it is this variable which contributes to them being empowered to exclusively judge ‘novelty’ against their own dynamic criteria” (2013: 121). It is therefore imperative that a producer of children’s picture books engage with and understand both the domain of knowledge as well as the field of social users to create work that is considered novel and appropriate. Appreciating the structures and selection processes of the field will help producers navigate the difficult terrain within the arena of social contestation. As Karen Collum remarked: “This is a tough industry and if you want to play in this industry you have to understand the rules of the game and you’ve got to be prepared to abide by them to a certain extent” (3 August 2011).
Additionally, the field of Australian children’s picture books is a network of support as it is able to channel resources toward individuals within the system to provide time and financial resources to producers to assist in the creation of their work. Relationships within the field of Australian children’s literature are constantly in flux and interactions between field members occur at several points throughout the publication process. In general these were positive in nature as Ann Haddon pointed out: “What's amazing is how everyone works together in the children's book industry in Australia, which is quite unique, it doesn't happen in a lot of other countries” (ABC News, 2016). As such, collaborative relationships are formed where several field members work together as intermediaries and creative agents on the production of a picture book.
239 The field of children's picture books can affect the domain in a variety of ways, from literary and illustration agents accepting clients, to editors and publishing houses taking on particular types of work to be included which other producers will then draw on, to more significant acts that can be considered ground breaking such as introducing new styles of work, or breaking established rules to produce radically different objects. Each individual also makes judgements regarding the value and appropriateness of work created throughout the production process all the way through to the book’s reception by its readers. Agents, editors and publishers decide which work to champion and choose to publish work that reflects their particular ideological agenda. Professional audiences such as critics, booksellers and educators make decisions based on their own personal interests as well as the knowledge of the domain and the field’s general preferences. These opinions filter through in determining which books are promoted over others, which books are connected with what readers, and may also impact the production of current and future work. As an amateur audience the child and adult readers of picture books are no less important in the field as they are often the point at which a book’s success will be finally determined. If the broad readership does not accept the decisions that have made a picture book what it is, then it is unlikely that the book will enjoy a long life being read and re-read through generations. As can be seen, all of these field members affect the structure of the domain, which is constantly evolving. This complex system reveals how important the field and the domain are in the creative process, while also illustrating the nonlinear emergence of creativity that occurs through interactions among equally important components within a system. The combination of these connections is greater than the simple sum of its parts and each element is changed during these interactions so that the emergent property is difficult to trace back to a singular event or process.
With this complex network of structures in mind, it is now necessary to examine the individual component of creativity. Exploring the individual’s role in the creative process will reveal how producers of Australian children’s picture books negotiate and work within various social and cultural structures to create work that is read and enjoyed by both adult and child readers.
240 6.0. The Individual
Throughout history, conceptions of creativity have most commonly focused on the individual as the source of creativity. As Csikszentmihalyi explains we are used to thinking “that the idea begins, like the lighted bulb in the cartoon, within the head of the creative individual” (1988: 329-330). As a review of the literature revealed, concentrating on the individual alone leads to an insufficient understanding of the complex nature of creativity. It is equally important though to resist leaping to the opposite position, typified by poststructuralist perspectives (Barthes, 1977; Foucault, 1977), in an attempt to “deny the individual any credit” (Csikszentmihalyi, 1997: 46). The contribution of the individual to the creative process should not be diminished or downgraded, as “it cannot be said that art works give birth to themselves by some parthenogenetic process” (Zolberg, 1990: 114). Instead the individual must be considered as an equally important component among several.
The decision to examine the individual’s role in the creative process after analysing the domain and field should not be read as a sign that the individual is less significant. For this research it was necessary to elucidate the structural components of the domain and field before turning to an examination of the creative agent’s role within this landscape in order to fully comprehend their complex interaction. As established in the discussion of the domain, the materials and knowledge systems that individuals engage with have “existed long before the creative person arrived on the scene” (Csikszentmihalyi, 1988: 329-330). Similarly, the field of experts necessary to assess a creative contribution for inclusion in the domain also pre-exist the individual. An understanding of these two structural components demonstrates that the individual can no longer be seen as the Romantic central figure in the creative process, but rather as an agent who operates and makes choices within broader social and cultural contexts (Csikszentmihalyi, 1988).
Within the system of Australian children’s picture books there are a number of individuals at work. As the previous Field chapter established, certain members of the field including literary agents, editors, publishers, and other significant audience groups possess levels of agency as they contribute to making decisions that affect the production and reception of children’s picture books. While this is significant, the following chapter will focus primarily on the agency of authors and illustrators as they 241 move through their process of creating picture book manuscripts and illustrations. Drawing on previous research, analysis of the individual’s contribution to the creative process will include discussion of biology and personality, as well as the individual’s personal background. The respondents in this research reflected on the impact of particular physical or psychological traits on their work, as well as environmental and biographical factors such as their childhood, family, and education.
However, as this examination is based on each participant’s own experiences and recollections and not strict scientific testing, it is relatively confined in its scope. Nevertheless, biological and environmental factors are unavoidable structures that influence the individual’s work in a similar manner to cultural (domain) and social (field) structures. It is important to note at this point that these are not wholly deterministic in their influence as an individual is able to enact their agency to make choices within structural constraints. Drawing on the work of Giddens (1984, 1993, 1998) and his discussion of structuration as the symbiotic relationship between structure and agency, this research examines how biological and environmental factors can be both limiting and enabling for an individual. In this view, echoed by Bourdieu (1977, 1990b, 1993), individuals as social agents have the power to shape social structures at the same time as those structures shape social action.
In concert with this discussion, this chapter also explores the personal work practices of authors and illustrators in the production of a picture book. By examining their workflow through the various stages and schedules of idea generation and research, to drafting and final editing, the data will reveal the various cultural and social contexts these individuals must understand and negotiate in order to complete their work for submission. In combining this research into individual action/personal practice with an examination of biological and psychological traits, the ensuing chapter seeks to provide a comprehensive contribution to an understanding of the complex system of creativity in Australian children’s picture books.
The individual’s role in the creative process is to produce a novel variation in the domain of knowledge, which is then assessed and validated by the field. According to Csikszentmihalyi (1997: 52-54), there are several ways in which an individual might be predisposed to creativity. This may be through their specific genetic predispositions or biological conditioning, their personal experiences, and their access to both the
242 domain and field. By examining both sides of the ongoing nature versus nurture causality dilemma a more thorough understanding of the emergent nature of creativity can be gained.
Firstly, every person possesses a unique set of biological structures and while these genetic conditions are not the sole cause of creativity, they do play some role in influencing the life and work of an individual. For instance there are several personal qualities or abilities that a person may possess which encourage the propensity of creative action (Csikszentmihalyi, 2003: 329-332; Sawyer, 2012). With regard to personality traits MacKinnon (1970, 1978) noted intelligence, independence of thought, and openness to experience as significant to an individual’s creativity with other studies supporting this view and adding, among others, flexibility in problem solving, perseverance, and self-confidence (Barron & Harrington, 1981; Tardif & Sternberg, 1988; Feist, 1998). This suggests that while there may be some attributes common to creative individuals, they are complex beings that often possess a range of sometimes-conflicting tendencies (Csikszentmihalyi, 1996, 1997). Nevertheless, while cognitive abilities and personality traits are not the driving force of creativity they do play a role in predisposing someone to work within a particular domain. For instance, an individual’s articulacy (verbal fluency) can affect their ability to understand and use language for complex communication: certainly a useful trait for an author or professional communicator such as the participants in this study. Another example is one’s level of motivation, as without this, time spent acquiring domain knowledge in order to generate novelty would be laborious and unsatisfying (Csikszentmihalyi, 1997, 2003). As much of the production of a picture book is undertaken by one person at a time and can take years between the drafting of a manuscript to its final illustrated publication, motivation appears to be an important and necessary trait to possess.
Additionally, individuals may have particular sensitivities unique to them that aid their ability to produce. For instance, a musician may be born with sensitivities to sound that give them an advantage and predispose them to creativity within the domain of music (Csikszentmihalyi, 1997; McIntyre, 2003). Within this research, author, illustrator and musician Matt Ottley spoke of having synesthesia, a neurological phenomenon where stimulation of one sense leads to the involuntary stimulation of a secondary sense (Cytowic, 2002, 2003, 2009). Ottley noted that thinking about a story’s character often leads to him composing music to capture the right atmosphere, 243 which then enables him to see and illustrate the image of the character (10 February 2011). He explained that these auditory and visual connections are cyclical as they influence and build upon one another. While this particular neurological peculiarity is an essential part of Ottley’s creative process, it cannot be said that it is the root cause of his creativity as he was the only participant that identified as being a synesthete. So while biological and personality factors are certainly important to consider, we must avoid the mistake of thinking that creativity is a strictly individual trait, as if this were the case “then one would expect every creative person to exhibit more or less the same characteristics” (Csikszentmihalyi, 1990: 206).
Secondly, an individual’s personal experience with their environment also plays a role in pre-disposing them towards making variations in the domain. These include factors to do with nurture such as familial influence, sibling position, social class, and education as they contribute to an individual’s cultural capital (Bourdieu, 1986). Many respondents in this study identified familial support and encouragement as a significant factor in their decision to pursue their career in writing or illustration. Additionally, economic and social factors often have an effect on an individual, as do attitudes to learning, opportunities for support and access to the field. Other noteworthy factors include learning opportunities through formal education as well as informal channels such as mentors and secondary resources (Csikszentmihalyi, 2003: 328-329). Many of these issues will be examined in greater detail in the following chapter. But it is pertinent to remember that while personal background is an unavoidable factor in one’s creative life, it is “certainly not sufficient [in and of itself] for a person to make a creative contribution” (Csikszentmihalyi, 1997: 1).
Thirdly, as mentioned in the preceding chapters, the domain and field are necessary components in the production of creativity and as such an individual’s access to them is important. Immersing oneself within the domain and its particular knowledge systems is crucial to identify where novel variations can be made. Without this access an individual will not learn the necessary codes, conventions, rules, traditions, and prior work that the field has deemed creative, and will not be familiar with what it takes to be creative within that domain. This is similar with regard to field access. Socialisation into the field whereby one understands who the key intermediaries are and comes to internalise the field’s values and preferences, is necessary in order to know what the requirements and expectations are of that particular field. Without this 244 knowledge it is unlikely an individual would be able to make a novel variation worthy enough of being accepted by the field back into the domain.
Each of these components (the domain, the field, and the individual) is inextricably linked and equally necessary in a systemic explanation of creativity. The individual is able to internalise this creative system including the knowledge of domain and field structures in order to operate as a creative producer. This internalising is necessary as Csikszentmihalyi contends that, “a person who wants to make a creative contribution not only must work within a creative system but must also reproduce that system within his or her mind” (1997: 47). This situation is reflected in Bourdieu’s (1993) concept of habitus as a learned set of dispositions that allow us to act and react in various structured contexts. It is through habitus that individual’s engage with and work within the structures presented to them in order to produce innovation.
It is therefore useful to examine how an individual’s personal background, both biological and experiential, influences their creative participation. By viewing these in relation to their individual work process and their engagement with the social and cultural components in the system, a more complete understanding of creativity will be provided. With this in mind, the following chapter will examine the choices that individuals make and experiences they encounter within these pre-existing structures.
6.1. Personal Background: Biology and Experiences
According to Csikszentmihalyi while “it is true that behind every new idea or product there is a person, it does not follow that such persons have a single characteristic responsible for the novelty” (1997: 45). As the literature demonstrates there are innumerable studies that focus on genetics and biology, personality and cognitive ability, as well as educational and family backgrounds. While similarities between individuals can occur, it does not stand that every individual deemed creative possesses the exact same biological traits or personal background elements. As individuals working within the same domain of Australian children’s picture books, there were some similarities among the respondents in regard to personalities, education levels, and life experiences. However, there were equally significant differences in family structure, educational experiences, and career trajectories. 245 Nevertheless, while this research rejects the notion of universal traits for creativity, it does suggest that common elements do play some role in an individual’s creative life as they impact their ability to access both the domain and field. In this way, the individual’s biological and personal background is considered of equal importance to the field and domain in a systemic explanation of creativity.
The following section focuses on the individual’s personal background, which includes both their genetic heritage as well as personal experiences with family, education, and other social factors. By examining biological factors in conjunction with personal experiences the relationship between structure and agency will be explored to consider how these structures both constrain and enable creative activity. Through this process a more complete picture of how the individual contributes to the system of creativity will be garnered.
6.1.1. Biology
Drawing upon the current literature examining creativity and genetics, it has been concluded that creativity is not a heritable trait (Lumsden, 2003; Greenfield, 2008; Sawyer, 2012). While biological influence cannot be entirely dismissed, it is not solely responsible for individual attributes and abilities. Instead, as Csikszentmihalyi (1997) suggests, it is possible for individuals to possess a genetic or biological predisposition in a particular domain, which can act as a blueprint for creative possibility. For instance, Csikszentmihalyi suggests that it can be “easier to be creative if one is born with a physical endowment that helps to master the skills required by the domain” (2003: 329). He argues that it is possible for people to possess particular genetic sensitivities to things like colour and sound which may incline them towards an interest in visual art or music. Through these sensibilities an individual “will become more deeply interested in sounds and colours, will learn more about them, and thus [be] in a position to innovate in music or art with greater ease” (Csikszentmihalyi, 1997: 52). As an example in this research, Mark MacLeod noted that as a publisher his “ear for speech and interest in phonetics turned out to be useful in coaching writers with their characters’ dialogue” (3 January 2012). With this situation in mind, it can be argued that people with particular sensitivities might be more likely to achieve highly
246 within certain domains when compared to those who do not possess such sensitivities. However, as McIntyre (2003) points out, while some people may possess unique physical traits that contribute to their creative ability, others may possess traits that are a significant disadvantage (Csikszentmihalyi, 1997), and will most likely fall into the category of being ‘normal’.
Paton (2008) notes in her study of Australian fiction writers, the possibility that specific traits such as good posture or hand-eye coordination may be cultivated over time with training. Illustrator Rebecca Cool echoed this in her description that art was “about hand-eye co-ordination and practice” (18 March 2011). This formation of a “scholarly habitus” (Paton, 2008: 115, emphasis in original) is part of a bodily discipline developed throughout childhood. According to Megan Watkins (2005: 549) children are enculturated into such activities as holding a pen and sitting at a desk and this extends into adulthood where writers and illustrators become adept at working at a computer for prolonged time periods. In this way, Bourdieu’s notion of habitus is also present in an individual’s behaviour, operating “at the level of the body” (Webb, Schirato & Danaher, 2002: 115) as they unconsciously incorporate, produce, and reproduce history through their corporeal form. Bourdieu (1979, 1991) explains this notion as bodily hexis: the way in which our bodies and bodily dispositions are produced as a result of the world we engage with and inhabit. For Bourdieu the body is “open to the world, and so capable of being conditioned by the world, shaped by the material and cultural conditions of existence in which it is placed from the beginning” (2000: 133-4). Hexis is a manifestation of personal and genetic development as much as it is the product of a collective engagement with social and cultural behaviours (Webb, et al., 2002: 115). As such, appropriate ways of behaving have been developed over each participant’s lifetime to the extent that this has become an ‘unconscious’ part of their person.
Within this research, there were several respondents who spoke of physical and biological issues that had some effect on their ability to produce work. For instance, Matt Ottley identified himself as having synesthesia, where the stimulation of one sense causes spontaneous perception in another (Baron-Cohen & Harrison, 1996; Cytowic, 2002, 2003; Cytowic, & Eagleman, 2009). He spoke of having an auditory and visual connection whereby thinking about a character causes him to “invent a piece of music and very, very quickly from the music that I’ve written comes the 247 image of the character” (10 February 2011). Interestingly, illustrator Freya Blackwood also mentioned a connection between multiple senses noting “when I play the piano it’s also visual for me” (24 January 2012). While this connection between visual and auditory senses is significant and an advantageous ability for these two respondents, it is not in itself sufficient for creativity as it is not a universal trait. Additionally, further contributions from these participants identified other variables (such as family members who were artists) as important influences for a creative outcome.
A few respondents identified experiencing physical and biological disadvantages that were overcome, yet still impacted their creative process at some point during their lives. Author Gary Crew, noted a childhood medical condition and the affect the resulting physical limitations had on his development:
I think my temperament, or personality, or character, was shaped by physical circumstances…from the age of nine ‘til about the age of thirteen I was hospitalised a great deal…It made me very bookish and not a physical sporty person. (9 July 2007)
Jackie French, one of the most prolific writers in this study, openly discussed her struggle with dyslexia. As an ambassador for children’s literacy French publicly acknowledges the paradoxical nature of her condition:
It's extraordinary. It means I can read and digest a couple of books a day. It means I can do an extraordinary amount of research. It means I work extremely quickly. It does mean I can juggle ideas very quickly. It does mean I cannot spell. (2009: online)
French acknowledged that she had developed strategies for managing her dyslexia including drawing on the expertise of her editor (17 July, 2007).
Nine participants mentioned some form of physical activity as important to their process. Matt Ottley explained practicing martial arts was important to his workflow as “apart from an amazing physical condition, is really good mental training as well” (10 February 2011). Rebecca Cool, Libby Gleeson, and Sally Rippin noted that walking was important for exercise and clarity of mind, with Kathryn Apel explaining, “you can almost feel this tension inside just uncoiling and unravelling” (19 April 2011).
248 Katrina Germein and John Heffernan mentioned running, while Leigh Hobbs and Freya Blackwood spoke of gardening and playing with or walking their dogs. However, those that did not mention physical activity were not regarded as any less creative. As such, while there may be physical factors that affect an individual’s creative practice, there is no conclusive evidence to suggest a physical or biological component to creativity.
Numerous studies have also examined the personality of creative individuals focusing on diverse and often antithetical personality traits, which are complex and often paradoxical (MacKinnon, 1965; Barron & Harrington, 1981; Amabile, 1983; Gardner, 1993a; Csikszentmihalyi, 1996, 1997; Sternberg & Lubart, 2003: 8; Abuhamdeh & Csikszentmihalyi, 2004; Sawyer, 2012). While every individual possesses some of these qualities and often falls to one side of the antithetical divide suggested by Csikszentmihalyi (1996, 1997), importantly those considered creative possess the ability to adapt and modify their personalities quickly to different situations.
The participants in this study were asked to reflect upon which of their personality traits contributed to their success and their answers identified some commonalities believed to be important to the creative process. The most predominant attribute identified by six out of 20 participants was persistence or determination. Matt Ottley acknowledged his “dogged determination and an ability to concentrate for a very long time” (10 February 2011) were beneficial to his success and work practice. Norman Jorgensen referred to this as his drive to “never give in” (11 March 2011). However traits of determination, persistence and perseverance are not exclusive to authors and illustrators as these were also identified as important for success by other field operatives, such as Pippa Masson, throughout this research.
Openness to experience was identified as being important to five of the participants. Libby Gleeson acknowledged that she was “a fairly relaxed and open sort of person” who was “quite open to new ideas and things” (9 February 2011). Mark MacLeod noted he had become “open to more risk-taking” (3 January 2012) with regard to his writing, while Sally Rippin went so far as to suggest that openness was “the key to creativity” (1 August 2011). She explained that it was important as a creative producer “to be open to the world, and opened emotionally as well” (1 August 2011).
249 Five participants also identified confidence as a key personality trait. Katrina Germein categorised her personality as containing a “sort of a confidence in myself and a contentment with my own life” (29 March 2011). Leigh Hobbs suggested that this confidence “comes from something inside” (19 July 2011), while Mark MacLeod noted that his confidence had improved throughout his career. Interestingly the participants who mentioned confidence as important also noted the opposing tendency for self-doubt. This is unsurprising as it aligns with Csikszentmihalyi’s suggestion that creative people often “harbor opposite tendencies on the continuum between extroversion and introversion” (1997: 65). The life of an author and illustrator requires a certain degree of self-confidence and a self-belief in order to persist, but at the same time that is often a vulnerable position. Hobbs suggested that because authors and artists tend to work in isolation they “really do have to have a degree of arrogance or be pigheaded to keep going” (19 July 2011), and he also noted that self-doubt was a common bedfellow. “One of the things you need for self-discipline and drive is to push past that roadblock which is self-consciousness and self-criticism and if you can survive that, the self-consciousness and criticism can be a positive thing” (19 July 2011).
Pippa Masson says that for her career as a literary agent, diplomacy, consideration for others, stubbornness, and affability are key personality traits. Additionally, an aptitude and interest in helping people has assisted her throughout her career: “to be a good agent I think you naturally want to help people and want to make people happy and supported” (30 June 2011). This ability to “get on well with people” (3 January 2012) was echoed by Mark MacLeod, author and educator who has also been an editor and publisher where he found that being “methodical [and] attentive to detail” (3 January 2012) was important. Other traits mentioned were a “good sense of humour” (Jorgensen, 11 March 2011), being an “an optimistic person” (MacLeod, 3 January 2012), “curiosity” (Gleeson, 9 February, 2011), with several echoing Jorgensen’s identification of feeling grateful and appreciative of the opportunities afforded to them.
One interesting point in a discussion of personality is Henningham’s (1997) proposition that personality might be shaped by one’s occupation (similar in some respects to Kaufman (2003) and Weisberg (2006) who posited that certain personality types are attracted to specific occupations). Although this contrasts with a number of other studies (Ruffner & Burgoon, 1981; Costa, McCrae, & Holland, 1984), it does 250 suggest a need to consider personality not as fixed and stable, but subjective and malleable. Keith Negus asks “do we have a core personality or ‘nature’ that remains unchanged over time or do we take on, acquire or simply make up and adopt new characteristics throughout our life?” (1996: 99). The most likely answer is that we possess a combination of both: a core personality that is adaptable and flexible allowing us to navigate the complexity of the world. This is in line with recent research that confirms that while certain personality traits may be inherent, how they manifest is dependent on the social environment a person operates within (Pope, 2005; McIntyre, 2012a). McIntyre explains, “the biological precursors for creativity… may simply be just that – avenues for setting the right environment for acts of creativity to occur in” (2012a: 39). This supports Csikszentmihalyi’s contention that “creative individuals are remarkable for their ability to adapt to almost any situation and to make do with whatever is at hand to reach their goals” (1997: 51). It is possible then to argue that the subjects of this research have been able to adapt their personalities in order to operate within the systemic social, cultural, and personal contexts of Australian children’s literature.
While there may be similarities evident in the personalities of producers of Australian children’s picture books, it is impossible to specify any traits as exclusive to creativity. As Hennessey & Amabile explain some observations “seem to be true of at least some creative people but not necessarily all of them” (2010: 577). Due to the wide-ranging nature of physical and personality traits, one variable cannot adequately explain the full complexity of creativity.
6.1.2. Background
An equally important component of an individual’s life is their personal background, which includes experiences with “familial influence, sibling position, social class and educational opportunities” (McIntyre, 2007: 6). Much like discussions of biological factors, the personal background of an individual may be a contributing factor in their creative abilities. For instance, the environment a child is brought up in plays a role in influencing a child’s competency and aptitude for particular interests. Summarising research into childhood learning and language development, Bransford noted that
251 “children’s biological capacities are set into motion by their environments” (2000: 95). So while a child may possess particular sensitivity toward language, if their environment does not provide experience or encouragement in that particular domain, it is unlikely the child will become an accomplished wordsmith.
As a person’s background is part of a complex combination of factors leading to creativity, it is useful to examine the personal backgrounds of participants in detail. But it must be noted that an individual’s creativity cannot be ascertained by focusing only on one element. As such, the following discussion examines the background of the respondents in this study as a necessary but not singularly sufficient component in the creative process.
6.1.2.1. Childhood and Family Environment
There is no one type of background that is more or less conducive to creativity. This diversity demonstrates the difficulty in generalising individual factors relating to creativity. The participants in this research came from a wide variety of backgrounds and categorised them in a number of ways. Most were born in Australia and spent their school years attending Australian schools. Family structure was diverse with participants coming from two-parent, single-parent, and blended families. Some were only children, while others had siblings, and there was a range of elder, middle, and youngest children. A few respondents noted childhood trauma, but even those that did recounted a generally supportive environment.
Interestingly many of the respondents grew up in rural or regional areas of Australia, and the minor geographical isolation that they experienced appeared to have encouraged an interest in reading from an early age. Norman Jorgensen reflected on his childhood growing up in Broome and several other small towns in Western Australia explaining that as he was uninterested in sport he “retreated into books a bit more than most kids” (11 March 2011). Similarly Mark MacLeod who grew up on the Central Coast of New South Wales in a household without a television noted that “by then the solitariness of reading was part of my life, and I enjoyed its appeal to the imagination” (3 January 2012). While several others described themselves as bookish, almost all of the respondents recalled being active children with a love of the outdoors.
252 Playing a variety of sports, riding bikes and roller-skating, swimming in pools and at the beach, family picnics and camping trips, and playing with siblings and friends, were all mentioned as favourite childhood pastimes. Katrina Germein reflected on the connections between her childhood and her writing practice: “I tend to write a lot about the natural environment, and the weather, and just being outside. And I think that would be strongly from my childhood” (29 March 2011).
A few respondents reflected on how significant places in their childhood influenced the work they had since created. For instance, although Sally Rippin spent time in several countries throughout her childhood she recalled that living in Asia was especially significant. She noted that there was “a part of me I think that was very formed by that time” and acknowledged that “it comes out very strongly in my work” (1 August 2011). Speaking about specific books like The Rainbirds (2006) and Race for the Chinese Zodiac (2010), Rippin said “it’s very easy to tell that I've studied painting in China” (1 August 2011). Similarly, Matt Ottley who grew up in Papua New Guinea acknowledged the influence of that time on his book Mrs Millie’s Painting (1997): “there’s a lot of imagery from my childhood in that book” (10 February 2011).
6.1.2.1.1. Trauma
A common depiction of the artist, in line with prevailing creativity myths, suggests that artists must “suffer in order to demonstrate the sensitivity of their souls” (Csikszentmihalyi, 1997: 73). In this vein, a number of studies have been conducted on childhood traumas (Dacey & Lennon, 1998; Pirrto, 1998, 2002; Feldman, 2003) to examine the connection between traumatic events and creativity. Jane Pirrto (1998, 2002) found in her study of creative writers that 60% of her participants had at one point experienced some form of childhood trauma. However, others (Csikszentmihalyi, 1996; Mockros, 1996) have noted that stable and less dysfunctional childhoods can also nurture creativity.
A number of participants in this research identified moments of childhood trauma. Jackie French (2009, 2011) has spoken about fending off several attempted assaults from her mother’s criminal ex-boyfriend when she was 15 and moving out shortly after. Gary Crew experienced a serious medical condition during his childhood, which
253 resulted in him being hospitalised for lengthy periods of time over several years. Shaun Tan has spoken about how growing up half-Chinese in suburban Western Australia in the 1970s included experiences of racism which added to his sense of ‘other’ and a disconnection from any solid cultural identity (Tan, n.d: online). John Heffernan moved interstate to live with his brother during the last years of high school to avoid his parent’s fighting. Of this experience however he reflected: “They say authors have to have bad things happen to them and that’s a pretty minor bad thing, my god. With the things that happen to people, my life’s been just a charm” (10 March 2011). While the articulation of these events demonstrates their significance in the lives of each participant, none suggested that they were the defining characteristic responsible for their creativity. Instead trauma is simply one element of a complex tangle of important factors.
In fact, most of the participants recalled their childhoods were relatively stable using terms like “normal” (Cool, 18 March 2011) and “ordinary” (Collum, 3 August 2011) to describe their experiences. Karen Collum grew up in Launceston, Tasmania and recalled that life with her parents and two brothers was happy with “lots of support, lots of love” (3 August 2011). Norman Jorgensen referred to his childhood in Perth as “a real middle class Australian background, so there’s no great trauma to draw on…no great angst or suffering” (11 March 2011). Similarly Leigh Hobbs described his surburban childhood: “Dad was a teacher, Mum was a dressmaker and it was a very ordinary, safe, secure Australian 1960s childhood I had. It was great” (19 July 2011). Hobbs credits his vivid imagination to this security in his home life suggesting that because he felt so safe for he was able to explore extraordinary worlds in his mind. Interestingly, although Gary Crew experienced some personal health issues, he recalled his childhood growing up in Brisbane as an “absolutely classic 1950s childhood in a big country town. It was just fantastic. It was like something out of a Ray Bradbury childhood: playing down the creek, all those things” (9 July 2007).
Instead of suggesting that creativity is the result of childhood trauma, it could be argued that most individuals experience a range of negative and positive incidents throughout their lives. If this is the case, then perhaps creative individuals are more likely to be encouraged to redirect these experiences into creative outcomes (McIntyre & McIntyre, 2007: 17). Evidence to support this contention came from Nette Hilton
254 who summarised the range of participants’ childhood experiences when she reflected on her own background:
I have a good source of discomfort and happiness and sadness and fear and jealousy and rage and all of those emotions that would’ve come from a multitude of sources, which can be used in a different place. So to do something in a book that calls for great fear, a fear of a moment, or a fear of a deed, or a fear of an act, or a fear of an act being done to you I think you can go into the place in yourself where you suffered fear and write to it. (2 July 2007)
6.1.2.1.2. Family Encouragement
In this research most of the participant’s families provided access to the domain and field by encouraging interests in language, reading, and art. This encouragement is significant, as “being raised in an environment where there is natural access to the domain and encouragement to participate in it seems to be very important” (Feldman, 2003: 174). In fact Csikszentmihalyi suggests that this access plays a significant role in an individual’s potential for creativity.
Several respondents spoke about the value of reading, literature and education in their families as being shaping forces in their lives. Libby Gleeson’s father was a high school principal and she noted that in her family education, “literature and reading were always really highly valued” (9 February 2011). Katrina Germein also mentioned the importance of reading in her childhood, demonstrated by her parents and step- parent reading her a wide range of material. She noted “all of the adults in my life valuing reading and spending time that way…was really important” (29 March 2011). This situation was significant as Csikszentmihalyi (1997: 47) suggests reading is fundamental in learning how and what to write, as well as providing a solid foundation for being able to evaluate acceptable standards of the field. John Heffernan spoke about his family’s “Irish background of storytelling” (10 March 2011) and of learning about story through listening to his grandfather’s tales. His Mother’s uncle was a published poet and Heffernan cites reading his poems as influencing him regarding the precision and economy of language poetry requires.
255 Five out of 18 respondents grew up with a parent or relative who was involved in the creative arts in some way. Pippa Masson’s mother Sophie Masson is a prolific fantasy and children’s author. When asked whether her mother’s involvement in writing shaped her interest in the industry, Masson said “Yeah, absolutely. I think for me it felt that it was just kind of preconceived that I would end up in publishing in some form. Just because that’s what I grew up with” (30 June 2011). Matt Ottley’s mother, a landscape artist in Papua New Guinea, taught him to use oil paints around the age of four and would take him on her painting excursions into the bush. Freya Blackwood grew up with both mother and grandfather as painters and she acknowledged that it allowed her to envision the reality of life as an artist. And both author Sally Rippin (whose mother was a teacher) and illustrator Rebecca Cool (daughter of artist Maria Maddren Cool) noted that their mothers encouraged their creative practice by setting tasks and ensuring craft materials were readily available to them. While it is significant that these participants had relatives in similar industries this is not evidence of heritability of creative traits, as others without these particular personal histories are considered equally creative. Instead these family members were able to encourage creative work through the provision of access to the domain, and in some cases the field, which is vital in producing a creative outcome.
Other respondents noted that their parents, while not artists themselves, identified their interest in reading, writing, and drawing as important and encouraged them to develop their skills in these areas. For instance, Leigh Hobbs whose father was a schoolteacher with “a life long interest in art and music and history” (19 July 2011) organised a drawing board for his son to draw in bed when he woke early. “When I was a little boy he saw how much I loved to draw, he was terrific like that, you know, always got me paper and things” (19 July 2011). Norman Jorgensen’s parents requested that he be accelerated into a higher reading group, which indicated their awareness of his interests and abilities. They also regularly purchased expensive books for him to read which Jorgensen “saved ‘cause they were special to me” (11 March 2011). Katrina Germein similarly mentioned an uncle who worked in a bookshop that would send her “really nice books and that was really special” (29 March 2011). This kind of encouragement and provision of access for child readers is especially important because it is difficult for them to pursue on their own.
256 6.1.2.2. Education
As was examined in the Domain chapter, most of the respondents attended school in Australia as part of the private or public education system where they studied language use through the English curriculum. As exceptions, Matt Ottley and Sally Rippin both spent several years in other countries before returning to complete their high school education in Australia, and Gary Crew left school at 16 but eventually completed his education as a mature age student. Regardless, they all were taught skills relating to spelling, punctuation, and grammar, and engaged in indirect learning about language through their experiences in the world.
6.1.2.2.1. Direct Learning: Teachers
Teachers were identified as important intermediaries as they often played a role in identifying talent and supporting student interest in writing and or art. Some teachers engendered an interest and love for reading by regularly reading to the class. For Mark MacLeod it was a primary school teacher who “would come into the classroom after lunch and just read us a poem or a story he loved without comment. It was never a lesson and we were not asked to analyse the text. It was simply for pleasure” (3 January 2012). For John Heffernan there were two influential teachers. The first was a Maths teacher who would occasionally read to his students during class: “he’d just whip out this book, whatever it was, and read a piece and it might be some raunchy bit *laughs* from some sort of rather awful novel or it might be a fantastic piece from Shakespeare” (10 March 2011). The second was Mr Caine who “made history come to life” (10 March 2011) and identified the quality in Heffernan’s stories even though his spelling and grammar was substandard. In class one day his teacher read his work “and said ‘oh that’s beautiful’ but atrocious grammar and atrocious spelling and blah blah blah, but he said ‘it’s very good’ and ‘you should work on it’” (10 March 2011). Heffernan credited this moment as encouraging him to consider writing more seriously.
In addition to reading to the class, one of Germein’s primary school teachers provided opportunities for the class to write stories and make books “without a lot of pressure on us that they were going to be marked” (29 March 2011). Kathryn Apel’s Grade 7
257 mentor recognised that her “writing was good… she actually took our poems and submitted them to this national competition” (19 April 2011). Apel also encountered positive reinforcement when studying at University:
We had to write a children’s book and then write activities for it, for a language/literacy component of our thing and I got top marks for my, I got full marks for my picture book and I was the only one who did. So that kind of stuck in my head. (19 April 2011)
That these participants could articulate these moments demonstrated their significance for them. These memories suggest an early interest in the domain, and also through their teacher’s encouragement, reveal access to the domain and field at formative stages of their development.
This was similar for the illustrators interviewed as Freya Blackwood recalled her University life-drawing lecturer was “quite encouraging about me drawing” (24 January 2012). And Sally Rippin mentioned that several of her art teachers approached her mother “at parent teacher nights [saying] ‘you should really encourage your daughter to keep up with art’ and so she did” (1 August 2011). This direct recognition from her teachers helped her mother to recognise and encourage her interest in art to the extent that she enrolled her in extracurricular classes.
6.1.2.2.2. Indirect Learning: Influences
As most of the respondents in this study embraced reading at an early age, they were able to speak of other writers and artists from whom they drew influence for their own practice. This articulation is also demonstrative of their deep engagement with the domain. For instance, Norman Jorgensen’s literary interests heralded from the British adventure-writing tradition to include Robert Louis Stephenson and Mark Twain. Jorgensen reflected that these English adventure stories had a profound influence on his own work as he has dedicated himself to writing similar stories that reflect an Australian setting (11 March 2011). Kathryn Apel similarly identified Lynley Dodd with her Hairy Maclary books as her most significant influence. “She really impacts on me because she’s got this beautiful rhythm and this joyous little story happening
258 and they’re so funny. But they’ve got big words, and I guess that’s very much where I'm coming from” (19 April 2011). Matt Ottley joked that his “list is huge” citing artists such as Renaissance Dutch painter Johannes Vermeer and American abstract painter Jackson Pollock, and musicians such as Beethoven and Romanian György Ligeti, and writers Rodney Hall and Markus Zusak. Ottley also mentioned two picture book authors as being important influences: Margaret Wild and Danny Parker. The latter Ottley met when Parker was the director of theatre studies at Hale College in Perth and directed a performance of Requiem for a Beast. The two have since worked on three books together. Interestingly these influences can be seen in the work that these authors and illustrators produced.
A few participants noted more personal influences. Several of the women interviewed cited children as a significant impression on their work as they provided a key point of engagement with the field as a potential audience member. Freya Blackwood said that her understanding of children as an audience came from having her daughter: “It’s been quite amazing actually, going from having no understanding of children at all to having one in my life all the time… I mean I understand now what kids like” (24 January 2012). Additionally, being a parent has given Blackwood a unique incentive to produce great work. “The day I produce something she wants me to read to her every night, I'll have really made it” (as cited in Sorensen, 2010). This was echoed by Sally Rippin who explained that “being around little children meant I was constantly exposed to picture books, so that heightened that interest for me as well” (1 August 2011). But this influence from and engagement with the field was not confined to their own children. Rebecca Cool cited children’s art as holding a particular interest, and Katrina Germein, who has worked with children in a variety of roles, acknowledged their influence on her practice “a lot of what I write now is influenced by the children that I know now so it doesn’t all come from my upbringing or my childhood” (29 March 2011).
Within this research, the data demonstrates that producers of Australian children’s picture books cannot be separated from their biology or personal histories. As Matt Ottley explained:
You can’t really disentangle someone’s background from their creative work…I look at my work now and I can see yeah, it’s all an expression of
259 the sort of sum of my experiences and I think that’s true of everybody. I don’t think it’s possible for a creative artist of any sort to separate themselves from their life experiences in terms of their work. (10 February 2011)
As it is difficult to determine a singular personal variable that applies to every creative individual a more complex explanation is sought. Instead, an individual draws upon elements of their personal background to acquire knowledge and familiarise themselves with the cultural symbol system of their relevant domain. In doing this they also learn about the expectations and requirements of the field and are better equipped to make a creative contribution. With these acquisitions in mind it is necessary to examine the creative process the individual undertakes to make these connections possible.
6.2. Individual Practice
As evidenced, by drawing upon personal background, engaging with a domain of knowledge, and having some understanding of the field, an individual may make their contribution to the creative process through generating ideas and shaping them into creative work. Graham Wallas (1976) and others (Bastick, 1982; Csikszentmihalyi, 1997; von Oech, 2005) have considered the creative process as a staged progression moving from preparation to incubation to illumination and finally to verification. While Csikszentmihalyi warns that staged processes can be misleading in their simplicity, they do “offer a relatively valid and simple way to organise the complexities involved” (1997: 79-80). It is important however, to remember that these stages are not always linear as they “typically overlap and recur several times before the process is completed” (Csikszentmihalyi, 1997: 83). Nevertheless, at certain times particular distinctive activities often take place. Examining the creative process of authors and illustrators of Australian children’s picture books will elucidate these phases from idea generation, through stages of research and preparation, to drafting and editing and demonstrate the recursive nature of the creative process. Additionally, it will become evident that creativity is not simply an internal individual trait, but
260 rather a social and cultural activity as individuals are connected through their workflow to the field and domain.
6.2.1. Idea Generation
Commonsense beliefs about creativity often misattribute the process of idea generation as the entirety of the creative process. This can be traced back to Romantic assumptions that consider the appearance of ideas the result of either divine inspiration or extraordinary genius (Weisberg, 1993). This unfounded belief is so prevalent that an industry of training programs (Osborn, 1963; de Bono, 1993) in brainstorming, divergent and lateral thinking, and conceptual blockbusting abound, all seeking to increase the frequency of ideas and thus enhance creativity. This misunderstanding is unsurprising however, as idea generation appears to be mysterious with thoughts often arriving unbidden, yet relatively well formed. Curiosity about what happens at this moment prevails in common discourse, particularly in the domains of writing and art where authors and illustrators are often asked to articulate where their ideas come from. As will be demonstrated shortly, the answer to this question does not lie in Romantic mythology, but instead in the interaction between individuals and their social and cultural contexts.
At the heart of romantic ideology is the fear that ideas are elusive and limited in number. However, many of the respondents in this study noted abundant idea generation citing personal observations of and interactions with people and places as fertile ground for story ideas. Norman Jorgensen noted that his idea generation often involved having unrelated ideas and then “you start to put two of them together and something else comes from it” (11 March 2011). Some, like Shaun Tan, mentioned keeping notebooks or sketchbooks to capture some of these moments and the ideas they generated. In this way Tan explained that he was always collecting ideas that would eventually coalesce into a story:
I often will start a book without realising that I've started one. It will just emerge from my sketchbook and usually over the course of many years. A story like The Red Tree, I can’t pinpoint when that started and it’s the same with The Arrival, it’s just an idea that was kicking around for years. 261 I would do little drawings, I didn’t fully understand how they worked in terms of narrative but I felt that there was a strong sensibility about them. (11 July 2007)
Others, like Norman Jorgensen, were open about drawing stories from their own lives. “I’m just describing myself and the things that happened to me and people ‘round me and sometimes I exaggerate them a fair bit” (11 March 2011). This last point is significant as the respondents who mentioned taking inspiration from their own lives also noted that there was always an element of fictionalising involved. In these instances real experiences provided the initial idea, but as the stories developed they were enhanced with fiction.
In direct contrast with the romantic idea that one must wait for the muse to strike, a number of respondents mentioned their conscious attempts to generate ideas. This also reinforced Sawyer’s (2012) contention that writing (and it could equally be said of illustrating) is the result of deliberate thinking. For three respondents writing was a way of generating ideas as well as evaluating and elaborating on them. Sally Rippin explained: “I just sit down and start writing. Until the story comes to me and often I might have a few goes” (1 August 2011). Similarly Norman Jorgensen said, “I sit down to tell a story and then usually most writers say what if this happened, what if that happened? I usually say what can go wrong?” (11 March 2011). Prompting himself in this manner often lead to more ideas and more questions which helped to flesh out a full manuscript. Interestingly illustrator Freya Blackwood also mentioned using writing as a way to generate ideas:
I don’t draw to start with…I write notes on a manuscript that I’ve been sent, I write my thoughts. Because I don’t enjoy drawing, therefore I get to the drawing later. Drawing’s a bit painful to start with. So I like to write as much as I can about it before I start. (24 January 2012)
As this quote demonstrates, picture book authors and illustrators draw inspiration from a range of personal, social, and cultural influences from the world around them. Additionally, as they are in the business of generating ideas, they employ strategies to record and actively produce them.
Ideas were occasionally derived directly from specific social influences. This occurred
262 as a result of the individual’s engagement with various Australian children’s picture book field members. For instance, some mentioned keeping records of overheard conversations or interesting phrases that they would incorporate into their work. A few, like Kathryn Apel, mentioned participating in writing challenges with the goal to write a certain amount in a particular timeframe. Apel explained that while the outcome of these challenges did not always result in a published manuscript they did cause an increase in her idea generation. “You are actually looking, you’re taking more notice of things that are around you – how could I write this into a story?” (19 April 2011). Leigh Hobbs recounted a clear example of field idea generation when recounting the story of how Mr Chicken Goes to Paris (2009). It came about during afternoon tea following a visit to the Louvre with a school-librarian friend:
She said ‘what about Mr Chicken coming to Paris?’ ‘cause I’d made up the character. And I sat down and did a couple of little sketches, you know, one of him climbing up the Eiffel Tower, you know, each drawing had about 4 lines in it and I realised I couldn’t stop. (19 July 2011)
As these examples demonstrate, picture book authors and illustrators often derive idea inspiration from the broader social structure. In this way the field of Australian children’s picture books (professionals and amateurs) can be considered a significant generator of ideas.
Equally, the domain may initiate ideas for individuals. By being familiar with the domain of children’s literature and the cultural works available, authors and illustrators are able to recognise any gaps in knowledge where their work might fit. In this respect reading was identified as a significant way to generate ideas. For Leigh Hobbs reading history triggered his imagination: “it just sort of floods my brain with ideas” (19 July 2011). Similarly John Heffernan identified a strong connection between his writing and reading practices. “Whenever I’m reading anything, I’m always at the back of my mind thinking ‘oh, that’s a good idea for a story’ and so I rarely read these days without a little pad near me or something” (10 March 2011).
A number of respondents mentioned that they became familiar with the domain of children’s picture books and gaps in the literature by reading to their children. Some noticed that books they wanted to read had either not been written or were difficult to
263 access so they created stories to fill this gap. For instance, Nette Hilton was looking for a book to help her daughter overcome her dislike of going to school and although she thoroughly researched the domain, she found that “there was no book” (2 July 2007) that suited her needs. This encouraged her to use her experience and knowledge to produce her own picture book. Similarly Kathryn Apel found herself wanting to read stories to her sons that reflected their experiences growing up on a farm and “not finding any books that our country kids in Australia could really relate to” (19 April 2011) she set out to write some. These examples show that the domain is also a significant generator of ideas, revealing again that there are multiple ways that ideas are generated through interaction with individual, social, and cultural influences.
6.2.1.1. Insight
Many of the participants noted that they experienced moments of idea generation while they were engaged in unrelated activities. Some spoke of this occuring during physical exercise such as walking, running, gardening, martial arts, and interacting with pets. Katrina Germein listed a few common places that others also identified: “sometimes it will be those moments in the shower or just when you’re going to bed and you’ve turned the computer off” (29 March 2011). Three connected these moments of insight with sleep: Rebecca Cool mentioned “that half-waking half-sleeping time” (18 March 2011); Libby Gleeson spoke about waking from a dream with the idea for The Great Bear (2010); and Sally Rippin suggested that she can occasionally “go to bed with the problem and sometimes wake up with the solution” (1 August 2011). While the notion of ideas appearing spontaneously in one’s sleep is generally romantic conjecture, when asked to reflect further these participants echoed Rippin’s explanation that what was occurring was “allowing that unconscious mind to work” (1 August 2011). Wallas (1926) described the moment of clarity or sudden insight that individuals experience as illumination. He suggested that while it may appear to arrive from the ether, it is instead the result of “unconscious mental exploration” (Wallas, 1976: 70) that occurs during an incubation period where knowledge and problems are not consciously considered. This aligns with Csikszentmihalyi’s (1997) suggestion that ideas generally appear once a person has acquired sufficient knowledge of their specific domain or field. Additionally, it must be acknowledged that observation and engagement with the
264 social world also have some influence (direct or indirect) on subconscious processes. As such, this form of idea generation is just as influenced by social and cultural factors as others.
Rather than waiting for a spontaneous solution to present itself, many of the respondents spoke of consciously using these unrelated tasks to subconsciously work through problems. Katrina Germein mentioned that whenever she was feeling blocked she would “just go and lie in the sun and I normally find that brings the solution” (29 March 2011). Sally Rippin explained: “I might just have the idea or the problem in the head and then just go for a long walk and try not to even really think about it but just to become it” (1 August 2011). According to Kathryn Apel, this ability is something developed throughout one’s career. “I used to just sit there and sit there and I’m not leaving this computer until I get it right and I’d have these headaches…whereas now I know I will eventually get it right so just walk away” (19 April 2011). Most of the participants agreed with Rebecca Cool who said that taking a break did not have to be lengthy to be useful: “I go for a walk ‘round the house or something and have a drink or whatever and come back” (18 March 2011).
Occasionally a few respondents used romantic language to speak about moments of insight. For instance Rebecca Cool referred to it as “the magic of art” (18 March 2011), Karen Collum described it as feeling “like sometimes picture books arrive heaven sent on a golden platter and it’s my job just to write them down” (3 August 2011), and Norman Jorgensen acknowledged common writer parlance that referred to the “extra person sitting beside them” (11 March 2011) that helped with ideas (a muse). However, when asked to further reflect on what they thought happened during those times their answers were far less romantic. According to Karen Collum these moments occurred “because there’s a lot of thinking that goes into it beforehand” (3 August 2011). This point was reinforced by Sally Rippin and Katrina Germein who both spoke of spending time, sometimes months, thinking through their stories before committing to writing them down. Norman Jorgensen explained that these moments of insight were his subconscious drawing up ideas from his accumulated knowledge bank.
In our lives we’ve read so many books and seen so many films and had so many conversations, heard so many jokes, you can’t remember them
265 all and they get pushed further and further back and sometimes I think they seep into the top of your consciousness and you retrieve them. The older you get, the more it happens and that’s because you’ve had so many more experiences. (11 March 2011)
Taking this into account, it is evidenced that idea generation is not simply a product of the individual alone. Instead ideas are developed through an individual’s engagement with the social and cultural context they exist in and are subject to a variety of influences.
6.2.2. Research
As the previous section indicated, while it may sometimes appear that ideas spring from nowhere, there is much preparatory work that underpins an idea. Wallas (1976) spoke of the importance of preparation in the creative process as individuals often immerse themselves in some form of research. In this manner, research is a form of domain acquisition that occurs both prior to the writing process but also during. In addition to acquiring domain knowledge about how to operate as an author or illustrator, most respondents identified spending time accumulating specific information relating to the content of their work through their engagement with cultural artefacts, people, and their surrounding environment.
All of the participants mentioned conducting some form of research with many admitting it was an integral part of their work. Some, like Freya Blackwood, said it was the starting point of their process. “I generally find researching things is the best way to go because then at least you’ve got visual material to look at” (24 January 2012). Shaun Tan also explained that his process began with a “systematic assemblage of material” (11 July 2007). Nette Hilton mentioned that collecting material was “quite a conscious thing that I do” (2 July 2007) and John Heffernan reflected that it was deeply embedded in his practice: “I tend to spend a lot of my time researching” (10 March 2011).
Interestingly some respondents claimed that researching was a definitive component of their identity. For instance, Jackie French said, “there is probably no dividing line
266 between my life and the research…I’m what you would call a mental omnivore. I spend most of my life in unconscious preparation for what I am going to write” (17 July 2007). Similarly Gary Crew acknowledged the intricate relationship he has with research: “I'm an Associate Professor now so it’s part of my life to do that and work with people who do that” (9 July 2007). Much of Crew’s work, picture book and otherwise, is based on historical material:
I just like research so my ideas usually come from a source: that could be a crime, or could be historical, or it could be environmental, it doesn’t matter…I like research so most of the books are based on truth. (9 July 2007)
Norman Jorgensen noted that his work involved “a huge amount” (11 March 2011) of research to the extent that he is now regarded as an expert in World War 1 history.
According to Libby Gleeson the level of research required “depends on the story” (9 February 2011) with Sally Rippin adding that, “some books require more research than others” (1 August 2011). Although the necessary material varied according to each project, it was not uncommon for picture book authors and illustrators to engage with secondary and primary research. Secondary research generally involved printed resources such as books on history and other topics, letters and journals, memoirs and biographies, and general fiction from public and academic libraries as well as personal collections. Also identified were multimedia artefacts such as the internet, electronic databases, photographs and maps, as well as material produced for film, television and radio. Both Rebecca Cool and Sally Rippin described researching animals for book illustrations and as many were unable to be viewed in person, the internet and secondary research material became a valuable resource. This helped to bring a level of authenticity to the work, especially when portraying different cultures, as well as ensuring the finer details were correct. While John Heffernan described the experience of writing My Dog (2001) as one where the words flowed easily, he also acknowledged that he researched material for it “oh I’d say, close to a year before I even wrote it. I found out everything about Yugoslavia…I just collected more and more information and particularly photographs, lots of things about it” (10 March 2011).
267 The respondents in this study also mentioned conducting primary research through interviews with relevant people, travelling to and exploring specific sites, general observation, and documenting this material through sketches, photographs, and notes. Although many of Libby Gleeson’s stories for older readers required secondary research at various libraries examining historical artefacts and analysis, her picture book research was generally less formal.
It might be simply as a research of talking, if you’re writing about kids now for example, it might just be going to talk to people or I might just observe people…So that’s research, but it’s not Mitchell Library research. (9 February 2011)
For a number of Freya Blackwood’s books this research actually involved physically visiting certain places. With Two Summers (2004, written by John Heffernan) Blackwood explored rural NSW, and for The Man From Snowy River (2004, written by A.B. ‘Banjo’ Paterson) she visited Kosciuszko National Park. With Look a Book (2011, written by Libby Gleeson) she “went out to the tip to photograph stuff” as well as “driving around to find decrepit houses” (24 January 2012). These activities were similar to Norman Jorgensen’s research for The Call of the Osprey (2004) when he and Brian Harrison-Lever visited boatyards “taking photographs there and wandering around and talking to people who were doing it and just getting the feel for it” (11 March 2011).
The participants agreed that when conducting various types of research more ideas emerged which suggests the generative and recursive nature of the creative process. Research may occur in a preparatory phase before the story is drafted or illustrations are planned as a way of exploring ideas or simply as a consequence of being interested in the world. On the other hand, research may occur after initial draft stages are complete to verify and elaborate on particular content. What is most likely is a combination of both where research is employed throughout the entire creative process as a strategy to generate ideas as well as evaluate and elaborate on them, inevitably prompting further research when necessary.
When asked to reflect on when their research phase occurred in their creative process, most of the respondents agreed with Norman Jorgensen who noted that it “happens all
268 the way through” (11 March 2011). Freya Blackwood acknowledged that it was often dependent on the type of story being told, varying with the work’s particular requirements and “how thoroughly I’ve done it to start with” (24 January 2012). For Rebecca Cool the recursive nature of research meant that she was often “not that keen on doing the preliminary drawings because I don’t really feel that you work it all out then” (18 March 2011). Shaun Tan echoed this recursive development describing his process as “circular in the sense that you keep going back to the start all the time...I’ll often be halfway through a painting and I’ll go back to my references or start again” (11 July 2007).
The articulation of this process of idea generation and research as recursive can be aligned with Csikszentmihalyi’s (1997) suggestion that people often experience a number of smaller insights, rather than a single, all-inclusive one. As Sawyer explains, “unlike the mysterious insight of our Western cultural model, these mini-insights are usually easy to explain in terms of the hard conscious work that immediately preceded them” (2012: 138). This affirmation supports current research, and the assertion of this study, that creativity is an emergent process arising from the interaction of multiple but equally important components (Csikszentmihalyi & Sawyer, 1995; Pope, 2005; Runco, 2007; McIntyre, 2012a) with various stages overlapping and reoccurring throughout the entire process.
6.2.3. Conditions for Work
In contrast to romantic myths that suggest creativity is an uncontrolled phenomenon, the data from this research supports a rational explanation that considers creativity to be the result of deliberate hard work. Authors and illustrators of Australian children’s picture books identified the importance of approaching their work with a businesslike degree of commitment and discipline. While the amount of time they could dedicate to their practice varied according to whether writing or illustrating was their sole form of income, even those who had to balance other obligations were dedicated in their commitment.
269 6.2.3.1. Schedules
Many of the participants in this study spoke of having a structured schedule with a set number of hours that they spent working on their writing and illustration projects. These hours were often interspersed with breaks for meals, exercise, errands, social activities, and rest. Some noted a preference for working in the morning, others in the afternoon, and while most chose to finish their day before dinnertime, a few worked into the evening. There was a wide variation in the set hours and number of days that they worked, and many noted that when approaching a deadline their schedule was likely to change dramatically.
Author John Heffernan described his regular working schedule as “almost probably boringly” (10 March 2011) routine working from 8am to 6pm most days. He noted however that this encompassed a variety of tasks including writing, reading, research, planning, and time for “just sitting and thinking” (10 March 2011). Illustrator Rebecca Cool works most days from 10am to 4pm, noting the afternoon is often “when it kind of all comes together somehow” (18 March 2011). She also acknowledged that the regular schedule helped to improve her practice: “if you’re doing it every day you’re getting better and better at it” (18 March 2011). Even those, like Matt Ottley, who denied having a regular work schedule generally attempted to begin working “early in the day” (10 February 2011).
For some, their writing or illustration work was scheduled around other commitments. As Norman Jorgensen still works as a bookseller his writing schedule must be accommodating. “So I can find myself writing from three ‘til seven and four hours seems to be more than enough, especially if you’re only doing 600 words” (11 March 2011). Jorgensen explained that while he tried to write every day he had to be flexible as “some weeks it’s very light on. Other weeks, especially in the school holidays, I’ll absolutely pour into it” (11 March 2011). This flexibility was mentioned by a significant number of respondents, especially in relation to deadlines. Several reinforced Leigh Hobbs’ statement that when under deadline “I just work until it is done whether it’s night or day” (19 July 2011). Freya Blackwood even acknowledged that the pressure of a deadline could be motivating. “I find pressure is fantastic for actually working properly during the day too…if I don’t have a deadline I’m quite lazy” (24 January 2012). Libby Gleeson’s schedule had changed over time to
270 accommodate other commitments, activities, and deadlines. She explained that as she had progressed throughout her career she no longer worked at night or on weekends. “These are things you do when you’re trying to create a life and a career. But now I figure, you know, I’m getting older and I will work the hours that suit me” (9 February 2011).
For others, their work schedule was less structured. Much of this was due to taking on the bulk of household and family responsibilities and in these cases regular hours were often difficult to maintain. Many of these respondents mentioned that as they worked around their commitments they utilised smaller portions of time rather than waiting for extended opportunities. For instance, Freya Blackwood worked on her illustrations for Harry and Hopper (2009, written by Margaret Wild) one day a week for four months. With a young child at home for most of the week, Blackwood said of her time to work, “I guess I just try and cram as much in as possible” (24 January 2011). This sentiment was supported by Katrina Germein who also mentioned her writing practice included “just putting it in where I can” (29 March 2011). With this restriction on time, it was unsurprising that a few respondents mentioned sacrificing sleep in order to carve out time to work. Germein noted her preference for working in the morning “because there’s no one up early and the TV is on in the evening so that distracts me” (29 March 2011), while for Karen Collum being able to work in the morning helped her to “feel like I’ve had my fill for the day and then I’m ready to be Mum for the rest of the day” (3 August 2011).
Elaborating on the difficulties of maintaining a regular work schedule when pregnant or raising children, Sally Rippin recalled:
[I] was determined that I was going to not let this part of myself disappear into motherhood. You know motherhood is such an absorbing thing as any mother will tell you, but I just wanted, needed to stay in contact with my self, which was this creative spark. So I became very disciplined, doing all the stuff that needed to be done while he was awake, and then he would have these two-hour naps in the day and I would write a short story. (1 August 2011)
271 She noted that this self-discipline continued as her children grew and, while a growing family has its own challenges, she claimed she has become “quite good at training myself to use the time that I have really well” (1 August 2011). Flexibility in one’s work schedule was therefore necessary as it “changes all the time” (Germein, 29 March, 2011) to adapt to their family’s developing needs.
While most of the respondents who articulated their struggle to balance their domestic life with their writing or illustrating were women (which possibly parallels issues within the larger culture), familial disruption was also mentioned by some of the male respondents. For instance, John Heffernan noted that he did not work evenings when his wife was home. However, the impact of children was not really discussed, and interestingly most of the men interviewed for this research were childless at the time or had adult children no longer living at home. Nevertheless, a common thread that was revealed throughout participant interviews was that regardless of the amount of time they could dedicate to their practice, they were determined to fit it in where they could.
6.2.3.2. Optimum Conditions
To support their business-like commitment to work, the respondents in this study reflected on certain conditions that assisted their process. A few joked that their routine was made possible by morning “hit of caffeine” (Gleeson, 9 February, 2011) or “50 million cups of tea” (Ottley, 10 February 2011) throughout the day. However, most identified that the optimum conditions for work included a quiet workplace, uninterrupted time, and a stable mental headspace. And as Sally Rippin recognised sometimes these were “very hard to come by” (1 August 2011).
Six of the 18 authors and illustrators mentioned their desire for silence or a quiet atmosphere when working. Several of these were mothers who found it difficult to concentrate when their children were around. For instance, Freya Blackwood often worked on her illustrations when her daughter was asleep, noting that otherwise “it’s just too distracting” (24 January 2012). She further explained that as drawing required her full concentration she often had “to wait for the right time when I’m not distracted” (24 January 2012). Similarly Karen Collum preferred to work in silence, but
272 acknowledged that since having four young children she could manage to work if they were awake, “but preferably if they’re occupied” (3 August 2011).
A few of the illustrators mentioned their preference for working in solitude as well as silence. Freya Blackwood elaborated:
I hate anyone else being near me. I hate company. I hate anyone being in the room…I like my own space. I’ve got a studio out the back and I feel incredibly comfortable out there, it’s a space where no one else goes, it’s just mine. (24 January 2012)
Rebecca Cool agreed saying it was important to have “no one interrupting me or nothing else that I need to do that day” (18 March 2011). Gary Crew reflected that interruption was one of the perils of working from home as people made the mistake of thinking that “because you are at home, obviously it’s a hobby and it’s not very important and obviously they can interrupt you” (9 July 2007).
A number of respondents made conscious decisions to change location in order to concentrate on a particular project. By creating some physical distance from their domestic responsibilities, they were able to limit their distractions and give their work the uninterrupted time it needed. For some it was as simple as taking their laptop to a café or library, for others this required some extended time in an entirely different location. For instance, Sally Rippin explained that occasionally when working to a deadline or requiring some solitude to concentrate on her work, she has “gone away, say up to Varuna [a writing retreat] in the Blue Mountains, or somebody’s beach house or something to get really, really focused” (1 August 2011). As a more permanent solution Rippin was setting up a studio next door to her house so she could “kind of be away” (1 August 2011). Illustrators Rebecca Cool and Leigh Hobbs, with authors Gary Crew and John Heffernan also mentioned having work studios separate to their houses, while others like Shaun Tan, Tohby Riddle, Ann James, and Freya Blackwood had annexes within their homes dedicated to their art practice. Most of the remaining respondents were authors who wrote from either dedicated offices or communal spaces within their homes. Regardless of the physical space allocated, most agreed that it was important to dedicate some space to segregate their work from their home life.
273 In addition to having a quiet workspace free from interruptions, a number of respondents indicated that time played an important role in their productivity. As Katrina Germein explained, different tasks required different blocks of time:
I can use the ten minutes here and there to just do a quick bit of editing…I’ll write down ideas for a new draft but to actually start drafting or to go on with a draft that’s still really a work in progress I would need at least an hour. Ideally I like a three-hour block and then have a quick break. (29 March 2011)
Interestingly some of the more senior respondents like Shaun Tan and Sally Rippin mentioned that the longer they had been in the industry the less time they had to dedicate to each picture book. Rippin explained that as each book was produced it “carries a certain amount of administrative stuff” (1 August 2011) which includes answering emails and fan letters, organising speaking engagements and interviews, and general accounting that compete with the limited time available to work on their projects. When reflecting on the necessary conditions to produce good work, Rippin summarised that most of the issues to do with quiet space and uninterrupted time required the support of others.
The only thing that I need is some support, which I do have fortunately with my partner…we’re very understanding of us both having that thing where we just need to occasionally shut ourselves off and not be a partner or a parent for three hours. (1 August 2011)
While romantic conceptions of the creative artist paint a picture of someone possessed and most likely suffering from some form of mental illness, the respondents in this research agreed that this was far from the truth. Many of them acknowledged that to be productive they required a positive mental frame of mind and when they experienced times when this was not the case their work suffered. When Libby Gleeson’s father died she found it difficult to work: “After the death of my father I couldn’t write creatively for about six months… your emotional life can have quite a deep effect on your capacity to be open and creative” (9 February 2011). Similarly Rebecca Cool openly identified that she does not work when tired or sad: “I just find that really hard to do” (18 March 2011). She recalled a recent incident involving a proposed coal mine
274 near her Margaret River community: “I was too shocked to paint for, I don’t know, a couple of weeks, about three weeks or so…I just couldn’t focus on anything and you need to kind of focus and be relaxed at the same time” (18 March 2011). Cool acknowledged that this was in opposition to romantic conceptions of artists as tortured by their emotions, as did Matt Ottley:
You know, there’s this sort of myth that when artists are kind of angsty and going through bad periods that they’ll do their work, well I think that is utter crap. I just don’t think that’s real because, you know, doing your work is, it’s like the equivalent of fine motor skills but in your brain. You’ve really got to be in a fine tuned space to do the work well and if you’ve got a lot of raw emotion hammering around inside your head, you know, it’s just impossible. (10 February 2011)
Ottley reflected that in order to work he requires “something that is often very elusive and that’s a stable life…It sounds trite but it’s actually important. I need a sense of stability for my work to be really chugging along well” (10 February 2011). In order to achieve this, Ottley regularly incorporated physical exercise into his work schedule. “It kind of recharges the batteries… I find my work flows a hell of a lot more easily if I am taking an hour out, usually around the middle of the day and doing that” (10 February 2011).
What these descriptions demonstrate is that authors and illustrators of Australian children’s picture books approach the work that they do with a business-like commitment and require, as many other professionals do, quiet workspaces, dedicated periods of time, support, and a positive mental frame of mind in order to produce the work that they do. This is in direct opposition to romantic notions of creativity and reinforces the rational understanding that confluence models such as Csikszentmihalyi and Bourdieu provide.
6.2.4. Planning
While ideas are fundamental to a creative outcome, the experience of having an idea is not the sole component of the creative process. Ideas must go through a process of
275 development to give them shape and form beyond the conceptual stage and turn them into a tangible product. Csikszentmihalyi (1997: 83) drawing on the work of Wallas (1976) suggests that this involves two processes: evaluating the initial ideas and elaborating on them through conscious refinement. Authors and illustrators of Australian children’s picture books draw on their knowledge of the domain and field to evaluate and elaborate on their ideas in a number of ways to develop their characters and stories into publishable work. This development and planning stage may be lengthy depending on the nature of the project, but generally due to the short size of picture book manuscripts, it is rare for authors to dedicate too much time to planning, preferring to simply begin drafting their first draft. Similarly, as illustration involves complex work that takes time to produce, most illustrators limited their planning to rough sketches before moving on to forming their final submissions. That is not to say however that producing words and illustrations for picture books occurs without some thoughtful planning.
Several of the authors interviewed mentioned thinking deeply about their story before committing to writing their first draft. Karen Collum explained:
The first drafting happens in my head. I might write down a snippet if I think I’m going to forget something but often the actual flow of the full 500 words I actually have stored in my head and then when I write it’s just a matter of almost transcribing that. (3 August 2011)
Norman Jorgensen similarly acknowledged that due to the nature of a picture book “they’re actually like short stories so you know exactly where it’s going to go, the end is close by and you’re just aiming towards it” (11 March 2011).
A few, like Jorgensen, spoke of making brief notes about plot, content, and characters to be considered in greater detail later. Jorgensen recalled that after hearing a song on the radio, the idea for In Flanders Fields (2002) was sparked:
I just pulled over to the side of the road with my notebook and said ‘there’s trenches, there’s a robin caught on the wire, it’s Christmas’ – that sort of outline. Then when I got home I typed it up into a proper sequence and then kept doing it and doing it until we had the polished finished version. (11 March 2011)
276 This preliminary planning acts as an evaluative stage where the initial idea is tested and if deemed workable elaborated into an initial draft.
Some illustrators also spent time planning and developing their ideas. Freya Blackwood makes a rough storyboard with preliminary sketches at the beginning of her process. This is a time saving device, as she is able to “[sort] out how everything would work in a really rough stage. Because I really only like drawing something in detail once otherwise I find you try and draw it again and you get a very different result and it’s not as nice” (24 January 2012). Similarly Shaun Tan often produces rough sketches and drafts, but he reinforced that they were not formal plans as the final work often changed throughout the illustration process. Regardless of how it occurred, it was clear that there was a stage where respondents shifted from the idea generation phase into transforming their ideas into drafts.
6.2.5. Drafting
As noted in the Domain chapter, the authors and illustrators in this study had been immersed in the domain of Australian children’s picture books as children and as adults. As readers and producers they had acquired a reasonable knowledge of the domain and field, which lead to a tacit understanding of how to operate within these structures. Although the common discourse surrounding writers and artists often includes notions of mystical inspiration, the respondents of this study were rational in their discussion of their creative process. In fact, many referred to it as conscious and deliberate work that involved discipline and activity. While these two concepts regarding the process of creative work appear at odds with one another, a connection can be drawn using Csikszentmihalyi’s (1998) concept of flow, discussed in detail shortly. Jackie French’s response echoed a number of other participants in her suggestion that writing was at times “hard mental work” (17 July 2007). She elaborated:
It would be lovely to think that it really just depends on inspiration shooting through the universe that does it but it’s not. In the end it is basically the more work you give it, the harder you work, the better you
277 are able to concentrate, the better the piece of work is going to be and that is invariable. (17 July 2007)
Libby Gleeson explained that “it’s important to have an idea” when she begins a new story, but she does not “plan deeply” preferring to “embrace uncertainty” as it “may lead you to all kinds of other possibilities” (9 February 2011). This flexibility to adapt is important and was mentioned by several other respondents as a component of their initial planning and drafting stage. As Csikszentmihalyi found in his study of writers this is not uncommon as “the work evolves on its own rather than the author’s intentions, but is always monitored by the critical eye of the writer” (1997: 263). This point was further evidenced by Gleeson who noted that while she does not write outlines, she often writes “a whole series of drafts” (9 February 2011). Katrina Germein also acknowledged that the process of writing a picture book involved “lots of revision” (29 March 2011) and although the first and last drafts are often similar, a lot of thought goes into polishing the manuscript for publication. Norman Jorgensen mentioned having “23 different versions of In Flanders Fields” (11 March 2011) as he originally started with 3000 words eventually reducing them to 1000. This reduction occurred several times, as the writing process does not end when the manuscript is accepted continuing with necessary editing as the illustrations develop.
While some illustrators created roughs of their work to block out the general shape of the book in order to gain approval from their publisher, much of this work was unpolished, with most preferring to spend more time on their final drafts. However a few mentioned that certain illustrations were drafted several times before being selected for inclusion into the final work. Freya Blackwood explained that “there might be quite a few different versions of a page and I’ll choose one” (24 January 2012). Leigh Hobbs was quite open about this part of his process as he endeavoured to achieve a sense of effortlessness in his illustration style while admitting that sometimes this required a lot of work. “There’s very little room for getting it wrong” (19 July 2011). Speaking about a particular illustration in Mr Chicken Goes to Paris (2009) that depicts Mr Chicken swinging on a bell inside Notre-Dame Cathedral, Hobbs admitted: “I must have done that 35 times and I couldn’t get it right: to have him swinging on the bell and to get the sense of the interior of the tower and to get Yvette there” (19 July 2011). Interestingly Hobbs also noted that he experienced times where his illustrations were perfect the first time around appearing in his books 278 unchanged from the initial sketches; although most efforts fell somewhere in between these two extremes.
6.2.5.1. Flow
As mentioned earlier, Csikszentmihalyi’s (1998) discussion of flow is a way to bridge the two competing discourses surrounding creative practice. Flow is often described as a form of autotelic experience where people become so deeply involved in their work that they lose track of time, forget everyday concerns, and are oblivious to environmental distractions (Sawyer, 2012: 78-79). It is the intensity of this all- consuming experience that is often categorised as divine inspiration, but as Csikszentmihalyi (1998) asserts flow is almost impossible to achieve without preparatory work and knowledge garnered through research and experience. In this way, flow can also be associated with Bourdieu’s concept of habitus. It is similar to the intangible “feel for the game” (Bourdieu, 1998: 80) of habitus that is the result of a lifetime of knowledge gathering and cultural awareness, which is internalised to become an instinctive, or near automatic response to decision making. According to Csikszentmihalyi (1998) flow is achieved when the level of skill the individual possesses is equal to the level of challenge presented by their goal. This situation results in a complete absorption in the work and is often described as the peak experience of life as it results in a supreme sense of enjoyment when the levels of challenge and skill are finely balanced. One is stretched to achieve and is operating at their peak.
It is not uncommon for an author or illustrator to experience a state of flow where they feel as though “someone else is doing all the work” (Jorgensen, 11 March 2011). This sentiment was echoed several times throughout this study, with Jackie French explaining:
There are times when the story flows so easily and so clearly that you are almost terrified that this is a book that you have read before and you’re simply remembering and writing as fast as you can, almost as though there’s a television set in your mind and you’re simply just scribing what there is. It just flows with no conscious decision and I wish I would be
279 capable of typing ten times as fast and thinking ten times as fast just to get it down. (17 July 2007)
For others, like Katrina Germein, it was a more peaceful experience where “you just sort of feel like that’s what you’re meant to be doing, that nothing else is important” (29 March 2011). In a similar manner, Sally Rippin likened it to meditation. “Your heartbeat slows down, you might have some music playing in the background, and you go very, very quiet…I’m just in this peace and I’m just creating this piece in my own tempo” (1 August 2011).
Most respondents acknowledged that they had experienced episodes in their work process where they had lost track of time. Karen Collum became familiar with this experience when songwriting in her early 20s while living with Chronic Fatigue syndrome:
I discovered that when I sat down to write a song, for however long I was focused on writing that song, and it could be 2 or 3 hours and I would not even know that that time had gone, I didn’t have any pain. And as soon as I stopped my pain would come back. (3 August 2011)
She noted that writing was similar. For Katrina Germein:
Nothing else matters for a while and you’re not really aware of other things and you’re not distracted, you’re not thinking about what’s for dinner or anything like that, you’re completely lost in the work and in the writing and that’s when time can get away from you and it doesn't feel like you’ve been there for two hours. (29 March 2011)
Libby Gleeson also experienced these times, but reflected further on their occurrence noting it was often “because it’s reached a point in the story where I’m completely confident of what has to happen next and how to express that” (9 February 2011). Gleeson’s comment reinforces the notion that achieving flow involves preparation and is often the result of conscious and directed work (Sawyer, 2012). Karen Collum also noted this state “when it’s actually happening, it’s hard work. I mean it’s good, good hard work” (3 August 2011).
280 Others said that their ability to experience flow was dependent on the type of work they were creating. For instance, Kathryn Apel explained that writing a story in rhyme was often difficult: “you’re trying to find the right words for it and that can be hard work” (19 April 2011). Freya Blackwood noted that there was a difference in her ability to achieve flow when painting rather than drawing, while Sally Rippin acknowledged a difference when writing or illustrating. Katrina Germein spoke of switching between conscious and unconscious thought in different stages of her writing process. She noted that while drafting “it does sometimes feel like it wasn’t actually you” (29 March 2011), whereas she was more conscious when editing “I’m really aware when I’m reading it out loud and changing words, that’s a really different sort of process” (29 March 2011). Gary Crew also referred to it as an internal systemic process: “shifting from the conscious to the process, shifting from thought to process, from thought to doing, from thought to action” (9 July 2007).
Freya Blackwood noted that being able to get into flow was a rare luxury since having a child as it meant she had to work to a particular schedule. “If I’m on a roll there’s nothing I can do, I’ve got to give up. Then you come back a week later to start and you’re not there” (24 January 2012). Sally Rippin also reflected that while these experiences were “amazing” they were:
…very hard to fit in with daily life you know. If you’ve got to think ‘oh I’ve got to pick my son up at 3:30’ there’s only so much you can lose yourself in that because you don’t want him to be waiting out the front of school in the rain for a couple of hours because you’re deep in your thing. (1 August 2011)
It was interesting to note the different expectations that the respondents had of themselves in this respect, as it was only women who mentioned this difficulty of balancing family with being able to ‘indulge’ in moments of flow. That is not to say that this situation is only something that affects women, just that those were the respondents who chose to discuss how they balance their parenthood with their creative practice. This could also be indicative of how the issue of parental work is assigned and discussed within the larger culture in which the domain of children’s picture books is nested.
281 Regardless of how often it occurred, the respondents noted that being in flow was an enjoyable experience. “I love it, absolutely love it” (Jorgensen, 11 March 2011). This response is unsurprising as Gardner, Csikszentmihalyi, and Damon contend that “few things in life are as enjoyable as when we concentrate on a difficult task, using all our skills, knowing what has to be done” (2001: 5). Echoing the words of Csikszentmihalyi (1990) several participants described flow as an optimum experience in their lives when they were “working at full capacity” (Collum, 3 August 2011). For Freya Blackwood, “it’s sort of as though you’re working at your peak or something. You’re actually functioning in the way you’re supposed to. Yeah. It’s sort of like your perfect existence” (24 January 2012).
During flow, an individual becomes swept into undertaking the task for its own sake and it is the pursuit of this experience that motivates individuals back to their work over again, even when tired. The respondents in this research supported this conditioning. Karen Collum explained: “that feeling is what draws me back time and again. I crave the next time I get to be in ‘the zone’ and experience a state of creative timelessness where I’m operating at my peak” (2011: online). Leigh Hobbs described being in flow as “completely seductive” (19 July 2011) referring to it as “the thing that hooks you and you go back for more” (19 July 2011). “That zone is the four, five percent out of a hundred percent in the process for me of creating art, or whatever you want to call it, that I hunger for. Because that's when you’re completely unselfconscious” (19 July 2011). Hobbs’ contribution supports Csikszentmihalyi’s contention that during flow “self-consciousness disappears” (1991: 71) as an individual is completely absorbed in the task at hand and unable to worry.
Matt Ottley was the only respondent already familiar with Csikszentmihalyi’s concept of flow. When prompted to reflect on his ability to achieve flow, Ottley explained it:
…comes down to technique. If you have your technique well enough honed so that you’re not having to think about it. So for example, in drawing you know how to produce a certain quality, thickness, density of line, not having to swivel your hand around and try different approaches to get that…you can just get lost in the thing itself without worrying about how your body is doing it. (10 February 2011)
282 Matt Ottley and Sally Rippin both noted that one’s ability to achieve flow increased through practice. “If you want to be better at anything you have to practice: so drawing all the time, writing all the time, reading all the time. I think it’s a balance of both of those things” (Rippin, 1 August 2011). As Negus and Pickering explain “effort becomes effortless” (2004: 18).
6.2.5.2. Writer’s Block
In contrast to flow there are the times when the work feels constricted and trickles to a stop. This is often referred to as writer’s block and although the term is typically applied to writers, the concept affects most people involved in creative production. Writer’s block appears to be a commonsense phenomena but it is rarely critically examined. In a similar manner to mistaking having an idea as the whole creative process, the notion of writer’s block is linked to the romantic idea of divine inspiration. In this way it is seen as a temporary loss of ability resulting from lack of inspiration. However, the participants in this study rejected the notion that writer’s block was the result of not being in control of one’s own process preferring to consider it as a problem that could be overcome rationally.
One significant study into writer’s block is that conducted by neurologist Alice Flaherty (2004) who examined the phenomenon from a brain function perspective to conclude that it is not solely a product of the brain. Rather than being a biological disorder, writer’s block is also influenced by a lack of skill or preparation, negative self-perception, and environmental factors. The respondents in this study reinforced the position that writer’s block was often a manifestation of these factors.
Libby Gleeson acknowledged that while she experienced times where she was unsure what to write, writer’s block was a romantic notion to provide “an excuse not to write. It’s an excuse to have a day off” (9 February 2011). In a similar manner Norman Jorgensen reflected that for him writer’s block “just means I’m not in the mood” (11 March 2011), with Tohby Riddle suggesting that “when you’ve got writer’s block you kind of push yourself at the wrong time to write” (27 July 2007).
283 Several of the respondents out rightly rejected the notion of writer’s block suggesting that it was an indication that more work needed to be done, particularly in the research and preparation phases. As a creative writing lecturer, Gary Crew was adamant that:
writers block is an invention of those who have not done their research. The only reason you could have nothing to say is because you’ve done no work to say anything about...You overcome writers block by actually doing something. (9 July 2007)
Jackie French reiterated this assertion stating:
I think writers block is a lovely convenient way of explaining why you haven’t done any work for the past three years. I think when you can’t think what to write next, it is really your subconscious telling you that what you have written is drivel. That you’re on the wrong path, that you haven’t done your work, you haven’t done your research, you haven’t done your plotting or your planning and to throw it out and start again. (17 July 2007)
As mentioned previously, several respondents acknowledged that they were unable to work when certain environmental factors (from family interruptions to emotional worries) impinged on their process. In these cases, the problem needed to be resolved or given time to abate before they were able to move forward with their work. Somewhat related was the identification that negative perceptions of self-doubt were also a significant factor that contributed to writer’s block. Kathryn Apel described this as “a personal pressure” (19 April 2011), which as Karen Collum noted sometimes lead to agonising over a sentence or a single word. Leigh Hobbs mentioned that being self-conscious was his “enemy because it starts to thwart what I’m doing…and it starts to dry up” and the only way to overcome it was to “try and ignore it and thunder on” (19 July 2011). What these comments suggest is that creative people sometimes push forward with their work even when it is difficult and they are feeling unmotivated or uninspired. This situation demonstrates that work can be accomplished irrespective of whether an individual achieves flow or not.
Regardless of how creative blocks occur, the effects are very real. When asked to reflect on how to avoid or overcome writer’s block, all agreed that the answer was to
284 do something else, whether that was to work on a different project or something completely unrelated. As Tohby Riddle explained:
There are definitely times when it’s just not happening and it’s probably a better idea to just take the day off or take more time off and just regenerate or allow for a fallow period that is necessary. I learnt to trust that at the end of those periods you often have a great burst of creativity. (27 July 2007)
For Libby Gleeson a solution was reading, for Norman Jorgensen it was gardening, and for Leigh Hobbs it helped to “clean up the ink that I’ve probably spilled everywhere” (19 July 2011). Hobbs also reflected that allowing himself to take a mental break from his work was a skill that had taken time to develop: “I used to roll my sleeves up and go into battle trying to write, but I’ve learnt that that’s anti productive. It’s easier said than done to actually tear yourself away, but you have to do it” (19 July 2011). Interestingly both Rebecca Cool and Katrina Germein said that they rarely experienced an inability to progress on their work, but if they ever felt ‘stuck’ they would switch to a different medium or project and keep on working. Having multiple projects to work on concurrently was a strategy that many respondents employed.
There was also a general consensus that revisiting research was a productive technique to get oneself out of their creative block. This could be, as Nette Hilton suggested, through re-engaging with the domain through literature on writing or art. “What I do is I madly go and drop myself into masses of how to write books: How to write mysteries, how to write romance, how to write this, how to write that...and I would just start writing again” (2 July 2010). Or, as was more likely, extra research might focus on the particular project at hand, demonstrating that the process of drafting is deeply connected to the process of research as they constantly inform and support one another.
285 6.2.6. Editing
As Sawyer suggests “the first draft provides necessary raw material, but it’s not anywhere near a finished product; it still requires the hard work of evaluation and elaboration” (2012: 321). Once a children’s picture book story or illustration has taken shape it must be revised and honed until it is ready for publication. Consequently, editing is an essential component in an individual’s creative process. This stage was identified by the respondents of this study as integral to the process, with Jackie French explaining, “the more you work on a book the better it’s going to be” (17 July 2007).
Some participants relished the editing stage. For John Heffernan revising was “almost the most exciting part of writing a book” (10 March 2011) as he enjoyed the process of reading over his work with a critical eye. This was similar to Katrina Germein: “I actually really like the redrafting, like I love the condensing of words” (29 March 2011). However, not everyone felt so positive about this process. For Norman Jorgensen:
The only part I don’t like is the revision and the rewriting. Shortening sentences, lengthening them and putting the commas in the right place, and taking them out again and putting them back in again. I find that a bit tedious. (11 March 2011)
However he did concede some pleasure in being able to improve on his first draft.
Some of the authors, like Kathryn Apel, mentioned that they edited while drafting. This was necessary for certain types of stories such as rhyming narratives, as changing one or two words often meant rewriting other sections to fit the rhyme scheme and maintain rhythm. A few illustrators mentioned revising their illustrations. Rebecca Cool mentioned her preference for making changes directly on the canvas. In this manner if something needed to be changed she did it as she went, sometimes she would turn “the canvas upside down and then just paint, do another picture on the top” (18 March 2011).
However, most revised their work over a number of separate drafts. Casting a critical eye over the work they had created, these respondents evaluated their work and made
286 changes accordingly. This demonstrates the scalability of the systems model in operation as these individual field members were able to draw on their internalisation of the field’s requirements in order to make these critical changes, while still operating as a component of the larger social structure. Some of the authors did mention the need to cut their initial drafts down to the industry acceptable length of 500-600 words. With shorter pieces of work such as picture book manuscripts, the text is under constant revision with an eye to refining different elements either as the same evolving draft or multiple rewrites. In relation to these revisions Libby Gleeson explained that some sections may remain untouched while others may have been rewritten and worked over many times. This self-editing process makes an important contribution to the work before it is submitted. Subsequently, experience and knowledge of the domain increased the ability of authors and illustrators to identify the components of their work that needed attention before submitting it to others.
Consideration of the field also plays an important role in the revision and editing practices of Australian children’s picture book authors and illustrators. Often the contemplation of their readership had some influence on how they shaped their work. Whether this imagined reader was a professional involved in production such as their agent or editor, or involved in the consumption of the final work as a member of their target audience, knowledge of the field meant they could edit their work appropriately to increase their chances of recognition and acceptance within the publishing industry.
Katrina Germein mentioned knowing “that an adult will be reading the book” (12 April 2011), while Gleeson noted that being published multiple times made her “more conscious” (9 February 2011) of audiences. Sally Rippin explained that as she has progressed in her career as an author and illustrator she has become “much more aware perhaps of my audience” (1 August 2011). Similarly John Heffernan explained that he had come “to realise over the years you’ve really got to allow for the fact that the reader has to be credited with some intelligence and usually a lot more than you” (10 March 2011). In these statements these authors were acknowledging both the existence of their audience and their audience’s ability to understand. As many of them noted, this meant they were able to make judgements about what their audience needed to know and edit unnecessary material appropriately.
287 Most of the participants had participated in critique groups at some point during their careers. Others mentioned that they shared work with trusted friends or family members for analysis and assistance with the editing process. These critical readers were able to view the work with an outsider’s perspective to provide valuable feedback. While some noted critiques were occasionally difficult to hear, most agreed that their work was better for the feedback and advice they were given.
6.2.6.1. Decision Making
By internalising the preferences of the field and understanding its criteria for evaluation, individuals are better equipped to make decisions regarding the creation of novelty. A significant example of this is their ability to decide whether an idea is valuable or not and how to pursue it to completion. As Csikszentmihalyi explained, individuals who absorb the criteria of a field are able to “choose the most promising ideas to work on, and do so in a way that will be acceptable to one’s peers” (1999: 332). As previously discussed, this seemingly intuitive ability is the result of familiarity with both the domain and field to the extent that it appears to be a naturalised component of their habitus (Bourdieu, 1993). Several respondents confirmed this when reflecting on how they determined a workable idea from an unworkable one. Most of the respondents agreed with Gleeson’s comment that “a lot of it is intuitive” (9 February 2011), while Rebecca Cool admitted “I don’t know…something just tells you” (18 March 2011), and Norman Jorgensen claimed that “it determines itself” (11 March 2011). These responses reinforce the idea that these acknowledgments have become a naturalised component of their work process, as they are no longer able to pinpoint specific origins.
In an attempt to speak more rationally about this ability to judge good work from bad, Gleeson explained that sometimes ideas quickly become untenable while at “other times you get an idea and you think ‘this has got a really powerful, primal sort of feeling about it, that I really want to write’” (9 February 2011). This observation was reinforced by Katrina Germein who noted, “sometimes you don’t know until you try and write it. So I mean, some ideas seem really fantastic and then you just can’t get them right on the paper” (29 March 2011). In these situations several respondents
288 identified that it was important to be able to walk away and “abandon it” (Rippin, 1 August 2011). As Shaun Tan explained:
When you spend too much time staring at the same set of words or staring at the same picture you actually lose the ability to judge things. So you can’t tell good from bad anymore after a while and that’s when you have to leave it and do something else and come back to it. Then it can be blindingly obvious that what you were doing was a load of crap and you’re surprised that you didn’t see it at the time. (11 July 2007)
When asked if it had become easier to identify what does and does not work, almost everyone agreed with Leigh Hobbs who said, “yeah I think so. That's something from experience. But I don’t really think that any project gets easier” (19 July 2011). Libby Gleeson elaborated that the more she practiced, the more she could trust her instincts:
I’m more confident with the decisions that I make and I can certainly pick a crappy text much more easily than I could when I was, 20/30 years ago. I think I understand how story works a lot better now than I did when I started. (9 February 2011)
She acknowledged that this ability was a result of her practice but also came through teaching creative writing workshops for 20 years. “It does leave you very conscious of picking and critiquing quality work as opposed to work that isn’t going to make it” (9 February 2011). This comment reinforces Bourdieu’s concept of habitus as an intuitive “feel for the game” (Johnson, 1993: 5) that is acquired over a lifetime of immersion in a domain and field. While it may appear intuitive it is actually built on accumulated experience and knowledge.
This situation was also the case when deciding on the point where work was considered finished. Some, like Freya Blackwood, Leigh Hobbs, and Rebecca Cool suggested it was a case of whether the work felt ‘right’. Most of the respondents agreed that this was difficult to be completely confident about, but that there was often a point at which they felt compelled to move on. For Katrina Germein this point was “when I really don't want to read it again” (29 March 2011), while for Karen Collum it was when any changes required were “very insignificant” (3 August 2011). Germein also noted that she had developed this skill throughout her career. “I guess I’m
289 probably better at judging that now. At knowing that it is finished rather than thinking it’s finished when it’s only half-baked” (29 March 2011). Rebecca Cool concurred, “I suppose you understand everything more the longer you’ve been doing it” (18 March 2011).
For some it was not necessarily a case of knowing how to finish, as it was having limited time and needing to submit work for a deadline. Reflecting on this constraint, Sally Rippin recalled a saying “any piece of art, you know painting or piece of writing, is never finished, just abandoned. I can’t remember who it was that said that. So eventually you’ve just got to stop” (1 August 2011). With this necessity in mind, another consideration that authors and illustrators of Australian children’s picture books must learn is when to submit their work to the appropriate people.
Early in an individual’s career it can be tempting to submit straight away as they are full of excitement, however as most of the respondents identified it was important to wait some time before submitting to agents, editors, and publishers. Norman Jorgensen echoed a few others when he noted the benefit of returning to his work:
a few months later you find, it’s as if someone else wrote it. It’s a big surprise and I love that. It’s like reading it for the first time. So the glaring errors you’ve made stand out at you and you’re quite willing to change them, because when it’s fresh you tend to read over them and you know what’s going on in your mind and they’re not as obvious. (11 March 2011)
Again this situation was also limited to the time available for the respondents as not every project had enough time to be set aside and reconsidered. However, as Freya Blackwood explained, “it’s always better to put it aside and sort of look at it and think about it” (24 January 2012).
As this research shows, the creative process an individual undertakes is iterative and recursive as creativity does not occur in a singular moment in time, but at several points where multiple factors converge. Once the manuscript or illustrations for a picture book are accepted the process continues, looping back on itself to accommodate particular feedback (with more research or different ideas) until it is polished enough for publication. What this description demonstrates is that while
290 authors and illustrators of Australian children’s picture books may often work for extended periods of time in solitary conditions, their creative processes remained connected to social and cultural spheres. They engage with their accumulated domain knowledge and interact with certain field members who influence the work created and make decisions about its novelty and value once completed. What this situation shows is that throughout the various stages of their creative process individuals engage with and are influenced by the domain and the field again demonstrating the systemic nature of creativity.
6.2.7. Conclusion
As Keith Sawyer asserts, “we can’t explain creativity if we persist in thinking it’s a trait of individuals” (2006: 134). While creativity does have an individual component, it is more complex than the individual alone. However, this statement should not be misconstrued as implying that the individual is not valuable in an understanding of creativity. As this chapter evidences, an individual’s contribution to creativity is not simply a result of divine inspiration from a mythical muse or inherent genius (Boden, 2004). The respondents in this study clearly rejected this notion with Libby Gleeson commenting that “it’s a bit of a romantic idea of creativity that it all just somehow is bestowed upon you and you respond” (9 February 2011). Instead, an individual’s creative contribution can be seen as both the product of an individual’s personal background including their biology and life experiences, as well as the result of deliberate and at times difficult work.
As the literature shows, much research into creativity has focused on identifying individual characteristics in an attempt to provide a satisfactory explanation for creativity (see Runco, 2007: 279-317; Sawyer, 2012: 63-85). Current research into biology and genetics, as well as personality traits and cognitive abilities conclude that while there are similarities between creative individuals there is no universal trait that applies to everyone. This is also the case with research into the personal experiences of creative people that examines the influence of family variables and educational environments as necessary but not sufficient factors in creative output. The data from this original study supports this literature, as although there were some parallels in
291 respondents’ personalities, home environments, and educational experiences there were equally a range of differences. These results support current creativity research that suggests a systemic explanation of creativity is the most apt to accommodate its complexity.
This research has also examined how authors and illustrators of Australian children’s picture books, with their variable personal backgrounds, produce their work. The data presented in the discussion of the individual’s creative workflow suggests that the creative process is often deliberately planned and contains multiple points of creative action when various factors converge. Typically the creative process for an author or illustrator of Australian children’s picture books involves stages of preparation with idea generation and research, routine work schedules and optimal conditions, as well as planning, drafting and editing before submission. Throughout these iterative and recursive processes, authors and illustrators remain connected to cultural and social contexts in their ongoing consideration of the domain and field. By engaging with their relevant domain an individual acquires necessary knowledge as well as an operational understanding of important codes and conventions. Csikszentmihalyi (2003) also suggests that creativity is a social practice. At several points throughout their workflow, the participants noted their understanding of the broader field of children’s literature and at times actively considered their various audiences to assist with forming their work in the most appropriate manner. In these ways, knowledge of both the domain and field lead to the development of habitus whereby authors and illustrators of Australian children’s picture books were able to make various decisions about the value and workability of their ideas while polishing them for publication.
As such, this research considers creativity to be a complex interaction of social, cultural, and individual components that converge to “produce a novel variation in the content of the domain” (Csikszentmihalyi, 1999: 315) deemed worthy by the field. Both Csikszentmihalyi’s systems model and Bourdieu’s notions of cultural production provide a way of dispelling romantic ideas of individual creativity to consider the individual as an important part of a complex system. While an individual, with their background and biology, is necessary, they are not sufficient on their own. They are simply one of several important elements in the system of creativity in Australian children’s picture books that together “jointly determine the occurrence of a creative idea, object or action” (Csikszentmihalyi, 1988: 329). 292 7.0. Conclusion
From the preceding analysis it can be seen that creativity is an emergent property arising from the convergence of multiple factors. Elucidating the nonlinear process of emergence by examining the inter-dependent creative contributions within a domain, field, and individual a comprehensive understanding of how creativity occurs can be gained. As discussed, previous examinations have attempted to isolate biological and psychological traits, commonalities in environment or experiences, or considered it the result of social and cultural influences. While each approach reveals necessary information regarding the creative process, they are limited in their isolation. Creativity is a complex phenomenon that must embrace an explanation encompassing these various elements and their systemic interaction. As such, confluence models incorporating individual, social, and cultural elements provide the most useful way of explaining the complexity of the creative system. Using the theoretical frameworks provided by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi and Pierre Bourdieu, this thesis has examined the systemic nature of creativity within the structure of Australian children’s picture books.
Australian children’s picture books are the unique product of a number of individuals’ personal work processes and their interactions with the domain and field. The data collected during this research revealed particular similarities and patterns within these complex interactions. It was found that the practice of writing and illustrating children’s books is bound by particular structures that affect the production of texts, but that individuals have the ability to make choices within these structures. It is vital then that individuals acquire operational knowledge about relevant cultural and social structures so that they may learn how to negotiate their engagement with these structures to successfully produce their work. This finding supports the contention that producers of Australian children’s picture books work within a dynamic system of cultural, social, and individual social influences to produce creative work. It is also concluded that these three components are equally important to a creative outcome, as each one is necessary but not sufficient in isolation.
Although systemic models of creativity have been employed with regard to other spheres of creative activity, this is the first time an investigation of the system of Australian children’s picture books has occurred. It provides a comprehensive account 293 of the interaction between creative individuals and their social and cultural contexts within this system to make an original contribution to the store of research on creativity and Australian children’s picture books. Drawing on a range of pre-existing studies that provide necessary supporting material, this thesis concludes that creativity cannot be explained by isolating elements from one another. Rather the only sufficient explanation is one that accounts for multiple components converging.
The remainder of this concluding chapter addresses the central questions identified in the introduction, outlines the implications of this research, and provides a number of suggestions as to further research directions that would support and expand on the explanation of creativity in the production of Australian children’s picture books given throughout this thesis.
Central questions.
The preceding examination of the systemic nature of creativity in the Australian children’s picture book industry has provided evidence to address the questions proposed in the introductory chapter. Drawing on Cobley’s (1996) key communication question of how messages are created, in conjunction with Csikszentmihalyi’s query regarding where creativity can be found, the data gathered during this research project has addressed the central inquiry of what happens during the creation of messages in the Australian children’s picture book industry.
It was revealed that various picture book producers engage in domain acquisition from an early age through interests in storytelling, reading, writing, and art. Each of these interests continued to be cultivated into adulthood in various formal and informal ways. This immersion within a particular knowledge system allowed these individuals to develop an operational knowledge, or habitus, regarding relevant prior work as well as structural codes and conventions. While the domain’s structural constraints may be seen as limiting, they are also revealed to be enabling as they ensure the possibility of action by providing the means and context for agents to make decisions within these structures. As such, the analysis of the domain concludes that producers of Australian children’s picture books actively negotiate their agency within the structures of the domain.
294 As a key component of the creativity process, the field of Australian children’s picture books was identified as consisting of a number of important intermediaries. These field members all contributed in some way to the production, evaluation, and/or reception of cultural products. By analysing the interactions between authors and illustrators as peers and colleagues, as well as their interactions with literary agents, editors, and publishing houses, the data revealed how those involved in the production of a picture book can influence the final outcome of a product. Similarly, the research identified a range of audiences (professional and amateur) engaged in the reception of a product as important contributors to the system of creativity. Consequently, the research demonstrated how various producers interact within the system of Australian children’s picture books, as well as how authors and illustrators operate within a system of external influence to produce a final creative outcome.
Finally, the individual’s role in the creative process was considered. An examination of biological and psychological factors in conjunction with personal experiential background revealed both distinct similarities and differences among the participants. These factors were acknowledged as contributing to their ability and inclination to produce work, which led on to a detailed examination of the work practices of authors and illustrators. This examination revealed that rather than waiting for inspiration to strike, the work of these individuals was the result of a conscious and deliberate process, which was at times difficult. Tracing their practice through various stages of idea generation and research, routine work schedules and optimal conditions, drafting, and editing, it became clear that these individuals were engaged in an iterative and recursive process that was deeply connected to the cultural and social contexts of the domain and field.
To summarise these various questions, the primary inquiry within this research was to examine how individual producers of Australian children’s picture books interacted with cultural and social structures in their creative process. The general conclusion is that as producers of Australian children’s picture books, authors and illustrators draw upon their personal backgrounds and engage with a domain of cultural knowledge and a field of social intermediaries to produce their work through a deliberate and rational process. Consequently, to appreciate how creative work is produced within the children’s picture book industry it was necessary to understand how an individual’s
295 personal background influences their creative process as they learn about and participate in the cultural and social structures of children’s literature.
Implications
Drawing on the confluence approaches of Csikszentmihalyi and Bourdieu, this thesis has examined how producers of Australian children’s picture books interact with cultural, social and individual structures. By reconceptualising creativity in this way this project adds to the store of knowledge in both creativity and children’s literature research. As such, there are a number of implications for the findings of this research that relate to education, professional practice, and public policy.
Firstly, there are clear implications for reconsidering creativity in a rational context that affect the way creative production of children’s picture books is taught and learnt. As evidenced within this research, most education around writing and illustration focuses primarily on domain acquisition. While this is certainly important, as it provides the necessary foundational knowledge of prior works and an understanding of the particular rules and procedures required to produce creative work, it is not sufficient in isolation. Instead, as this research demonstrates, domain knowledge needs to be supported by an understanding of the relevant field. As the social system that evaluates novelty and regulates the structure of the domain, understanding how the field operates as a system of judgement is invaluable to individuals wishing to make a creative contribution. It is suggested then that education (not to mention the general discourse) around writing and illustration should include material to assist students in navigating the social structure of Australian children’s picture books. This is especially necessary within this industry as much of the writing and illustration work is conducted by individuals who have limited contact with each other and broader field members.
While there is a plethora of ‘how-to’ information available, material relating to who important field members are, what roles they play, and how to access them is limited. Yet, as this research demonstrates, knowing who the key cultural intermediaries are and how to connect with them is as significant as knowing how to write or illustrate. Increasing this knowledge would assist individuals in understanding who their key
296 audiences are (professional and amateur) which would result in the creation of thoughtfully tailored work that would more likely be accepted by the field. With this in mind there is scope to examine education programs (both public and private) that focus on writing and illustrating for a child audience. A content analysis of these could establish the extent to which information about the field is imparted and when combined with interviews with staff, students, and key field members it could reveal how field knowledge could be better integrated into educational programs and learning outcomes.
Secondly, a reconsideration of what happens during the creation of a children’s picture book has implications for professional practice. A rational approach to understanding creativity and the creative process can see authors and illustrators move beyond common creativity myths, to instead be proactive in developing their creative practice. In acknowledging that creativity is the result of active work, romantic notions of inspiration that suggest creativity appears from nowhere are rejected. Instead, as the data demonstrates, creative work is produced by individuals who are actively engaged in making decisions and negotiating their agency within various social and cultural structures. As with any type of production, the work that is produced is always connected to the traditions and work that has come before. It is an individual’s task to draw upon the frameworks of knowledge the structures of the domain and field provide while ensuring their work retains a sense of novelty. This situation reveals that individuals operate in a system of constraint that both limits and enables what they produce and while structures do affect an individual’s agency, each individual through their choices and actions also affects the structures they work within (Giddens, 1984).
With this outcome in mind, the rational explanation of creativity presented within this research introduces a number of implications for professional practitioners of Australian children’s picture books. On an individual level, the cultivation of optimal conditions and disciplined work habits to assist the stages of idea generation, research, drafting, and editing could be prioritised. In addition to a focus on personal work practices, an understanding of the relevant domain and field is essential for successful creative production. Building knowledge acquisition into one’s practice can be beneficial for developing skills and networking. The more an author or illustrator can learn about the domain and field, the more they will be able to produce appropriate material identified as creative. As Csikszentmihalyi explains, by developing an 297 understanding of creativity as a systemic process, individual agents can “enrich the culture and...learn from this knowledge how to make [their] own lives directly more interesting and productive” (1996: 10).
Finally, this research has wider implications of a political nature as a reconceptualisation of creativity as a rational and systemic process involving three equally important components requires reconsideration of the way individuals, domains, and fields are supported on a broader scale. It is clear that issues to do with creativity are of significant interest to future planning. Discussions of creative industries, the creative economy, as well as questions of creativity and innovation (McIntyre, 2011: 9) are increasingly prevalent. Within Australia, the Australian Research Council outlines its strategic vision as “Research for a creative, innovative and productive Australia” (ARC, 2014: online) as an investment in the economy. Therefore, it is necessary to examine how creativity operates from a rational position and evaluate how improvements can be made to ensure a future which values and appropriately encourages creative innovation. As an example from within a specific cultural industry, this research project identifies several areas of the system of creativity presently in operation in the Australian children’s picture book industry as areas for improvement. While these suggested improvements align with the components of the systems model it is also necessary to note that even minor changes in one area will affect the system as a whole.
Within the domain the area identified as offering the most potential for improvement is in increasing public exposure of picture books to both children and adults. While the Federal Government already funds important programs such as the Australian Children’s Laureate whose mission is to “promote the transformational power of reading, creativity and story in the lives of young Australians, while acting as a national and international ambassador for Australian children’s literature” (ACLA, n.d.: online), there is always scope for expansion either through Government or private institutional support. As rates of reading for leisure among children are falling (Thomson, Bortoli, Nicholas, Hillman, & Buckley, 2011; ABS, 2012; Dickenson, 2014) it is essential to examine how this problem can be rectified. This issue is significant as, “reading for pleasure has been revealed [in a 2002 OECD report] as the most important indicator of the future success of a child” (Clark, Woodley, & Lewis, 2011: 7). As such, suggested growth would include increasing reading programs, 298 encouraging the study of picture books throughout all levels of Australian education, and an increased presence in mainstream media (i.e. review space). Additionally, as the data indicates, there is a hierarchical belief among the general public that considers literature produced for a child audience as somehow less important than that created for an adult market. Instead it should be made clear that while the domain of children’s picture books is a discrete entity, it is also nested within the broader domain of literature and as such they are part of a larger system in operation. It is suggested that some of the measures outlined above could assist with raising the profile of children’s literature to be considered equally significant as adult literature.
Within the field, suggested improvements revolve around channelling support for producers within the Australian children’s picture book industry. This support could be through increased government funding for authors and illustrators or incentives directly targeted at publishing houses to support the production of Australian titles. As the picture book industry within Australia is relatively small, yet the cost of production for a picture book is higher than traditional paperback printing, financial incentives could help to sustain the publishing sector and support the production of more high quality publications. As McLean and Poland found in their review of subsidies to Australian publishers, funding in this manner was “essential to the continued existence of many small publishers” (2010: 3) and often provided an incentive to publish “literary titles that they might otherwise have not published” (2010: 3). These suggestions within the domain and field would also affect and influence the individual’s capacity to produce within this system. There is room to partner with various significant bodies for further research to investigate the feasibility of these potential solutions.
Suggestions for Future research
Taking into account the implications of this research there are a number of ways in which further research could apply a systems approach to Australian children’s picture books. As this thesis focused on the production of contemporary picture books with participants who are currently active in the field, there is scope to apply a systems view to an historical study. This would be particularly useful to examine issues to do with
299 creativity through high profile cases to determine whether a rational understanding of creativity holds throughout time. For instance, one such study could investigate the cultural belief that considers creativity as aligned with Romantic notions of Art while in conflict with work crafted for commercial purposes. A significant time in the development of Australian children’s picture books occurred during the depression era when female picture book illustrators often worked as commercial artists to support their families. At this time in Australia, several significant illustrators supplemented their income through commercial work including May Gibbs, Ida Rentoul Outhwaite, Dorothy Wall, and Elisabeth MacIntyre. However this work is often considered less significant than other forms of artistic practice and is rarely mentioned in academic and general literature. It would be worthwhile examining whether the creative processes these women undertook in their work, artistic and commercial, were one and the same and indicative of the systemic interaction between domain, field, and individual this original research has revealed.
Further research could also be conducted through comparative studies to test the validity of a systems approach to the creation of children’s picture books. This could accommodate two different streams of research. The first would be a comparison of picture book industry operations in other cultures to see whether the approach advocated in this research applies in different cultural contexts on an individual, social, and cultural level. The second would be to compare the description of systemic creativity within children’s picture books advocated in this research to other domains of children’s literature (such as chapter books for early and middle grade readers or young adult fiction) to determine whether similar patterns are present. These types of comparative studies would help to determine whether creativity changes according to the particular domain, and variances could reveal areas where modifications could be made to improve or simply adjust creative outcomes either in a broad application or specific to each domain.
Finally, as this research spanned a number of years, several significant advancements occurred within Australian children’s literature during this time that could be subject to further research. In particular, the use of digital platforms (apps and eReaders) increased in prevalence since the beginning of this project. While this is a phenomenon that has emerged at a societal level, it will inevitably shape the domain of children’s picture books and its literacy practices as usage increases. Although some are 300 concerned that these are a threat to traditional publishing (Killen, 2012), others are embracing this new technology creating companion publications for picture books in a digital format (i.e. Wheelbarrow). Additionally, authors and illustrators have embraced social media (Facebook, Twitter) as an integral and interactive part of their practice, using it as a publicity tool to connect and communicate with their audiences. Changes in arenas of cultural production are not uncommon as without them a domain would stagnate and die. However, changes also affect the structure of the field as they determine whether or not the change will be accepted into the domain. As these changes are still emerging there is scope to examine how picture books are produced for digital platforms and to consider similarities and differences when compared to traditional publishing technologies. An exploration of creativity as a dynamic system in operation would identify how the conventions of the domain are adapting to changes and how individuals and fields are responding.
To conclude this thesis, a rational approach to the study of creativity “requires us to look critically at our own cultural assumptions about how creativity works” (Sawyer, 2006: 33) and confronts “our most cherished beliefs about creativity” (Sawyer, 2006: 33). Utilising the confluence approaches of Csikszentmihalyi’s systems model and Bourdieu’s notions of cultural production in a case study of Australian children’s picture books, the data collected revealed significant interactions between individuals and their social and cultural structures.
Analysis of collected data answered the questions identified in the introductory chapter to conclude that creativity within the Australian children’s picture book industry occurs in the confluence of cultural, social, and individual factors. Creative products are a result of convergence between an individual’s personal background including their unique biological traits and life experiences, with a domain of knowledge and a social field of validation and judgement. As such, this research has demonstrated that creativity within the Australian children’s picture book industry is an emergent property arising from systemic activity. In doing so this study builds upon prior research and contributes to contemporary analysis that supports a rational explanation of creativity and cultural production.
Reconceptualising creativity in this way has implications for the production of creative products. Individuals’ actions can no longer be seen as free from all constraints, as
301 they necessarily operate within structured social and cultural conditions that while limiting their range of choices, also provide the space for possibilities of action. Under a systemic understanding of creativity, an author or illustrator of Australian children’s picture books is an active agent who, through a long period of inculcation, absorbs the codes and conventions of the domain as well as the operational structure of the field to make a variation in the domain’s content. This contribution, often in the form of a manuscript or illustration, is presented to field constituents who, as cultural intermediaries, make a determination regarding the value of the work. If deemed novel and appropriate, the work is accepted back into the domain. This research has shown through exploring various picture book producers, that if this procedure is followed it is realistic to anticipate a creative outcome. While this description may appear to present a linear narrative, it is worth reiterating that this is merely for the benefit of elucidating a complex process. As the preceding research demonstrates the process of creativity is multi-directional in nature and creative contributions arise as an emergent property of the various interactions between multiple inter-dependent components of a system. Through this comprehensive and encompassing understanding of the creative process, cultural producers of Australian children’s picture books can be proactive and work to increase their productivity, both as individuals and as social agents.
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