Most young people today are obsessed with fame and imitating celebrities. What are your views?
Now, it’s your turn! Try planning an outline for the following topics:
On the other hand, there are topics which are not suited for such a binary approach. Consider questions such as:
Give yourself 10 minutes to do a proper planning. It’s useful to approach the issue at hand by exploring its significance and relevance in different spheres and domains : Education, Ethics or Morals, Technology, Law etc.
Instead of giving 3 different points from an education perspective, why not broaden your scope and look at the issue from not just an educational perspective, but also a technological perspective and an ethical perspective?
This is what makes for a matured, holistic response.
Let’s use the following topic as an example:
Young people changing the world for the better | Young people changing the world for the better |
Education] youth advocates are helping to make education available to girls in less developed countries | [Politics] many youths are politically apathetic |
[Environment] youths are advocating for leaders to change environmental policies | Environment] youths are the primary consumers of fast fashion, which depletes valuable natural resources. |
[Technology] young people are driving social media advancements | [Technology] the younger generation is abusing technology. |
If you run out of ideas, you can also examine two sides of a coin in a single domain. For example, you’ll see that in the example, that for the technological sphere, there are instances of youths making and not changing the world for the better.
Now that the brainstorming is done, let’s put pen to paper and start writing!
You can ask yourself these questions to help you with your intro:
Simply answer these questions + include your thesis. Voila, you have a solid introduction!
Young people are often described as the changemakers of society, the future leaders, and the hope of our world. From advocating for the environment to spearheading social justice causes, the young people of today undoubtedly have the potential to change our world for the better. Having said that, one must question if this potential is somewhat overshadowed by charges of laziness, selfishness, irresponsibility et. cetera that are often levelled, sometimes legitimately I might add, against the younger generation. In this essay, I assess if the actions of today’s youths truly, on balance, lead us to a brighter future by exploring the impact they are making in the domains of education, environment, and technology. |
Students, you must have heard of the PEEL method by now. We introduce the POINT in the first sentence, ELABORATE on the point, then substantiate with EVIDENCE or EXAMPLES , and finally, we round it all off by LINKING back to the point.
It sounds easy enough, doesn’t it?
Each body paragraph should only discuss one main idea , and only one! Introduce the main idea in your topic sentence (the first sentence of your body paragraph), not after you’ve given your example or when you’re wrapping up the paragraph.
A good topic sentence is straightforward and clear .
Here is an example of a coherent and concise topic sentence:
After you have crafted your topic sentence, it’s time to elaborate on your main point. A well-developed body paragraph elaborates by delving deeper into the main point and substantiating with relevant examples or evidence.
For our point on “education”, consider asking and answering the following questions:
a. Your essay must not be example-driven ! It must always be point-driven.
b. Remember to make the link from your examples/ evidence back to your topic sentence. This illustrates the relevance and strength of your evidence and reinforces your main point.
For our example, a coherent body paragraph could look like this:
[ ] In the sphere of education, youth activists are making positive changes by advocating to make education available to girls in less developed societies. [ ] It is because of their efforts that young women formerly deprived of education, due to reasons like patriarchal mindsets, are now able to access learning. [ ] A notable example is the Pakistani activist, Malala Yousafzai, who began her activism by bravely speaking out against the Taliban’s ban on education for girls. Her story did much to raise awareness about the existing barriers to education. She also co-founded the Malala Fund, which advocates for policy changes to prioritize girls’ education globally. Partnering with UNESCO, Malala’s fund has helped over 5,000 girls in countries like Egypt and Tanzania gain access to education. [ ] By giving these girls an education and helping them out of the poverty cycle, activists like Malala are helping to raise global literacy rates and reduce problems associated with poverty. Society gets a chance to benefit from what these young women can contribute to the workforce. [ ] It is clear the tireless efforts of these activists have made significant impact in the education domain. |
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Many students just reiterate the points in conclusion. But that is… you guessed it, boring. Last impression lasts! You want to provide an insight to this issue to demonstrate your maturity of thought. Apart from summarising your points, link your conclusion back to the introduction so that your essay comes a full circle. You can also use a quote or thought-provoking question for readers to make their own conclusion.
Check out this conclusion:I conclude by pointing out that it is unfair to generalise all young people; in every generation, there will be individuals who give that generation a bad name and those who, as this question suggests, make the world a better place. As shown in this essay, many youths in this generation are attempting to make an impact in different segments of society. But whether the efforts of these young trailblazers are, on balance, bettering the world is still a matter of debate. Furthermore, whether these efforts ultimately result in lasting positive changes depends not just on young people, but also on global leaders and international organisations. So perhaps the real question we should be asking is this: how can we, and not just the young people, work together to change this world for the better? |
Students, this is how you tackle a discursive essay. Try applying these tips to one of the topics above!
How to write argumentative essays.
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1. politically discursive art, 2. the problem of parity, 3. the pre-eminence of the objective style, 4. plurality of rhetorical modes, 5. political art in context, 6. artworks and arguments.
Vid Simoniti, Art as Political Discourse, The British Journal of Aesthetics , Volume 61, Issue 4, October 2021, Pages 559–574, https://doi.org/10.1093/aesthj/ayab018
Much art is committed to political causes. However, does art contribute something unique to political discourse, or does it merely reflect the insights of political science and political philosophy? Here I argue for indispensability of art to political discourse by building on the debate about artistic cognitivism, the view that art is a source of knowledge. Different artforms, I suggest, make available specific epistemic resources, which allow audiences to overcome epistemic obstacles that obtain in a given ideological situation. My goal is to offer a general model for identifying cognitive advantages for artworks belonging to distinct artforms and genres (e.g. satire, visibility-raising artworks, caricatures, and so on), in a way that can account for each artwork’s historical and cultural specificity. More speculatively, however, my account also comments on the ancient struggle between philosophy and the arts as competing modes of persuasion, and expands our notion of legitimate political discourse to include a greater plurality of discursive genres.
Gerhard Richter’s portrait of his uncle wearing a Nazi uniform, Uncle Rudi (1965), addresses the subject of intergenerational guilt in Germany; Margaret Atwood’s novel The handmaid’s tale ( 1985 ) critiques patriarchal oppression through a story set in a dystopian future society; Public Enemy’s hip-hop album Fear of a Black Planet ( 1990 ) tackles institutional racism in the USA; Jasmila Žbanić’s film Esma’s Secret (2006) narrates the story of a rape survivor raising her child, broaching this difficult subject in the aftermath of the Yugoslav wars. We can categorize such works as politically discursive art, in the sense that they are recognizably about a political issue: audiences receive such works as contributions to a debate in the public sphere. While in the first half of the twentieth century, the very idea of political content in art had to be defended—for example, in W. E. B. Du Bois’ defence of anti-racist art ( Du Bois, 1926 ) or in Walter Benjamin’s defence of ‘tendentious art’ and the role of the author as ‘producer’ ( Benjamin, 1934 /1999)—in our own time, art has become an undeniably political forum. From TV series to hip-hop albums, from feminist ‘craftivism’ to environmentalist land art, the artist’s licence to display overt political tendencies through her work is hardly in doubt.
Nevertheless, what role such politically discursive art performs may be questioned. For example, should we say that Atwood’s novel merely reflects feminist criticism of patriarchal society, or does it add something to that criticism in a way that a feminist theorist might? Fear of a Black Planet may motivate one to notice the racism experienced in the United States, but does it itself contribute to political discourse about racism in a way that a manifesto might? The question I propose to address, accordingly, is this: can politically discursive art contribute something distinct to political debate on specific topics, or does it simply rehearse positions arrived at in other disciplines?
Before we tackle the question, a brief methodological note is in order. The background to my enquiry will be ideas of deliberative democracy: broadly speaking, the thought that political debate takes place within a public sphere, within which different modes of communication are available to participants. The key question for theorists of public reason in deliberative democracy—such as John Rawls, Amy Gutmann and Jürgen Habermas—is what deliberative norms will ensure outcomes that are both fairly arrived at and are likely to be correct. To establish art’s contribution to discourse, I therefore suggest that we compare political art with argument-driven forms of public debate, which are typically presented as ideal within a well-ordered public discourse. Admittedly, some readers will find this set-up as already too optimistic about the merits of deliberative democracy. Indeed, the connection between art and politics has been much more readily studied within critical theory traditions such as the Frankfurt school and poststructuralism, which begin with a radical scepticism of the public sphere—viewing it as already deeply compromised by unequal power relations and false consciousness—and then posit art as a kind of counterweight to that sphere (the work of Theodor Adorno is perhaps most representative here). To put my cards on the table: the picture I build here will, by contrast, allow for considerable faith in the public sphere in modern democracies, although I hope the relationship between my position and some of the valid worries traditionally expressed in critical theory will become clearer later in the paper.
I begin the investigation by pointing to a related view in contemporary aesthetics—cognitivism about art—in order to formulate the problem of parity between art and non-art discourse. I delineate my view—that art yields discursive knowledge—from views that it yields experiential or practical knowledge. Then, in Section 3, I will offer a case against parity in the political context. Making use of John Rawls’ and Jürgen Habermas’ accounts of public reason, I will construct an argument for the pre-eminence of the objective style of political discourse. In Section 4, I will resist that case, arguing that there are instances where the very attempt to inhabit the objective style may leave us worse off epistemically and that, in those cases, political art can be epistemically superior. I illustrate my argument with two examples in Section 5, before addressing objections in Section 6.
Artistic cognitivism is the claim that art makes available non-trivial knowledge, in a way that is particular to it as art. Several philosophers have argued for cognitivism by pointing out an overlap between artistic and systematic forms of justification: works of art, just like systematic discourse, can provide thought experiments ( Camp, 2009 ), can offer examples of virtue and vice ( Carroll, 2002 ), can encourage inductive reasoning from examples to general conclusions ( Putnam, 1978 ), can appeal to emotions to motivate arguments ( Nanay, 2013 ) and can clarify concepts by offering particular applications for them ( John, 1998 ). We might designate these philosophical efforts as formulating an ‘argument from overlap’: art is a source of knowledge, because artistic devices overlap with methods that we, as philosophers, already recognize as conducive to knowledge. This may be easily translated into a political context. Atwood’s The handmaid’s tale (1985) may be thought of as a carefully constructed thought experiment of a life lived under extreme misogyny; Public Enemy’s Fear of a Black Planet (1990) may be said to conceptually clarify the concept ‘systemic racism’ by giving clear examples of it. By using such legitimate devices of political discourse, each artwork thereby furthers our understanding of the political issues it tackles.
So, art clearly can contribute to political discourse. However, the initial problem that artistic cognitivism sought to address, chiefly in the 1990s and 2000s, was the question of whether art could yield any valuable knowledge at all ( Lamarque and Olsen, 1994 , pp. 324ff, 68, 84–5, 402ff). With that worry by now largely laid to rest, a further problem arises: the problem of epistemic parity between art and non-artistic disciplines. Consider this analogy. You are having a drunken late-night conversation about politics with a particularly brilliant friend. Even though that conversation does not conform to the rigours of academic discourse, it is presumably possible to learn much from it. While desultory and digressive, the conversation might still contain valid argumentation and truthful assertions, even singular moments of inspiration. Still, it is also true that you would have acquired the relevant knowledge more efficiently were your friend not inebriated and could have organized her thoughts more systematically. The worry now is that art is just like your brilliant, drunken friend: overlap does not guarantee parity. Since non-art political discourse has only one aim (to deepen our understanding of political issues), it can absorb any mechanism found in art (such as detailed thought experiments or emotionally forceful examples) and apply them exactly as needed without getting distracted with other aims (such as plot pacing in fiction, or rhyme in hip hop). While the arts may do well, and even very well , at progressing knowledge, there remains a possibility that the arts will always be worse at securing knowledge than theoretical disciplines. This is the problem of parity.
In choosing how we deal with the problem of parity, the cognitivist about art encounters an interesting fork in the road. The first option is to propose that there exist special kinds of knowledge, which art is especially good at securing. Some philosophers have put forward the idea that art offers experiential insights (e.g. Gaut, 2007 , pp. 141–202; Green, 2010 ; Walton 1990 , pp. 25–30, 34–35, 95, 211), or that art yields practical moral wisdom (e.g. Carroll, 2002 ; Gaut, 2007 , pp. 163ff; Nussbaum, 1990 , pp. 148–67). Now, the exact nature of these claims varies from philosopher to philosopher, and some of them can be interpreted as also leaning towards the ‘overlap’ claims mentioned above. But the important point is this: insofar as one insists that experiential and practical knowledge arrived at through art are truly distinct from the more propositional knowledge pursued by argumentation, then it is easy to overcome the problem of parity. Art then reigns over its own realm of non-propositional, non-paraphrasable insight (cf. Nussbaum, 1990 , pp. 4–5), while systematic intellectual disciplines are left confined to their own domain.
To insist on a clear distinction between different domains of knowledge, however, strikes me as unsuitable for the politically discursive artworks. Politically discursive works broach a thesis, a point or a subject that is clearly legible from the purview of other disciplines (it is for this reason that these works have been disparagingly called ‘tendentious’ or even ‘didactic’ works of art). Art criticism around Richter’s Uncle Rudi routinely points to the subject of intergenerational guilt in Germany, and the reception of Atwood’s The handmaid’s tale points towards a critique of patriarchal relations. But such subjects are fully debatable through political science or philosophy. Therefore, if artworks make genuine contribution to our understanding of such subjects, their contribution cannot be of a radically different kind, and must be interrogable by systematic disciplines.
For this reason, I propose to take a different path, and to insist that political art and systematic disciplines are after knowledge of the same kind . The kind of knowledge in question will, to a large degree, be propositional (it will include statements about how the world is, or how it ought to be), but we need not get too caught up in the propositional-practical-experiential distinction, sometimes imported into philosophy of art from analytic epistemology. Two other clarifications are more important. First, by invoking the term ‘knowledge’ in the political context, I mean to assume that some epistemic progress can be made in the realm of politics, although this allows that there may be areas of uncertainty that we shall never fully settle (we may never know what a perfect society looks like, but we now know that feudalism is not it). Secondly, a contrast seems to obtain between discursive propositional knowledge, such as knowledge about the nature of tolerance, and mundane propositional knowledge, such as knowing that ‘it is raining outside’. We can obtain mundane propositional knowledge simply from perception or from testimony. Discursive knowledge , by contrast, is a matter of more complex processes of justification. A subject can be said to have understood more , say, about the nature of patriarchy, if she has considered a greater number of theories and facts, and worked through her conceptual schemas. The knowledge we are after is arrived at by more intellectually exerting routes than simply looking through the window or asking the teacher.
Against this background, we must push our analysis of art further than the 'argument of overlap' did. The task is to address the problem of parity anew, to show that art is not a second-best path to knowledge, and to do so without invoking a distinct sphere of knowledge. In other words, we are back in the midst of Plato’s ancient quarrel between poetry and philosophy in Plato’s original formulation, that is, their quarrel over the same domain—the domain of politics—where what matters is truth, justice and careful thinking (cf. Plato, 2000 , X 607b5–6).
In the analogy above, art corresponded to the intoxicated friend. But that correspondence is not in fact an obvious one. Why should the drunken friend not be, say, political philosophy or political science ?
The anti-art assumption seems to be a natural one to make from within philosophy itself. Especially in analytic philosophy, we have come to value a certain measured style that comprises perspicacious structuring of arguments, clear signposting, definite conclusions, systematic presentation of evidence, elimination of the author’s distinct voice and autobiography, lack of flourishes and digressions, avoidance of ambiguity, and other such stylistic properties. We may call such a style the ‘objective style’ of discourse. We find one manifesto-like defence of it in Timothy Williamson’s Philosophy of Philosoph y:
We need the unglamorous virtue of patience to read and write philosophy that is as perspicuously structured as the difficulty of the subject requires, and the austerity to be dissatisfied with appealing prose that does not meet those standards. The fear of boring oneself or one’s readers is a great enemy of truth. ( Williamson, 2007 , p. 288)
Following this line of reasoning, art would almost certainly count among the enemies of truth; after all, few artists set out to bore their audiences. However, it is not yet clear what exactly might justify our preference for the objective style when we speak of political discourse. After all, discourse that is so boring and unglamorous that nobody has the patience to engage with it would hardly convince anybody. To mount an argument in favour of the objective style, we need to reflect on the proper procedure of acquiring knowledge through a political debate. A suitable philosophical portrait of such a process may be borrowed from democratic discourse theory in its original form; here I shall draw on two best-known exponents, John Rawls and Jürgen Habermas.
While following different political programmes, both Rawls and Habermas have defended the notion of public reason: the idea that the legitimacy of political rules depends not simply on the agreement of actual citizens, but on what would be agreed by suitably idealized rational subjects. For Rawls, only ‘reasonable’ subjects form the constituency of public reason. These are the subjects who can temporarily bracket their own interests, position, substantive opinions or religious views, as suggested by the veil of ignorance of Rawls’ ‘original position’ ( Rawls, 1997 , pp. 769–73; Rawls, 2005 , pp. 22–23, 47–59). Habermas’ early theory of communicative rationality similarly stipulates that those engaging in public argumentation must assume an ‘ideal speech situation’ ( Habermas, 1970 ; for elaboration, see Brand, 1990 , pp. 11, 19–24, 28–29). Here, subjects do not seek to coerce each other’s opinions (what Habermas calls ‘strategic action’) but jointly aim to find inherently good solutions (‘communicative action’) ( Habermas, 1984 , pp. 87–88, 94–96). As with Rawls’ reasonable subjects, the participants in an ideal speech situation weigh different political options impartially, such that ‘the structure of [the participants’] communication rules out all external or internal coercion other than the force of the better argument‘ ( Habermas, 1990 , pp. 88–89). Neither Rawls nor Habermas is primarily concerned with the question of what rhetorical style should be employed under the idealized conditions of political discourse they describe. And yet, the picture they paint tends towards the objective style.
In Political Liberalism, for example, Rawls suggests that reasonable subjects ought to abide by the duty of civility to one another—that is, be willing to explain how their political preferences derive from impartial concerns ( Rawls, 2005 , pp. 217). He also introduces the requirement that they should do so in an accessible way ( Rawls, 2005 , p. 162n28), and elsewhere calls for ‘public occasions of orderly and serious discussion of fundamental questions and issues of public policy’ ( Rawls, 1997 , p. 772, my emphasis). Rawls gives the measured and impartial style in which the Justices of the Supreme Court should ideally give their opinions as an exemplar (2005, pp. 235ff). Habermas, comparably, insists that all forms of public reason be free of the attempt to manipulate the other party, and should in principle be justifiable in the ideal speech situation of giving reasons and yielding to better arguments: ‘Even the most fleeting of speech-act offers, the most conventional yes/no responses, rely on potential reasons’. ( Habermas, 1996 , p. 19; cited in Allen, 2012 , p. 356) For this reason, as one commentator noted, Habermas demands that speakers in the ideal situation should avoid insincerity, self-contradiction and inconsistent use of terms and irony ( Panagia, 2004 , pp. 832–33).
What is here stipulated is a certain match between idealized political subjects and the manner of their deliberations. Reasonable participants in public discourse, as we saw, have a duty to expurgate idiosyncratic epistemic obstacles: their individual biases, their desire for dominating others, and so forth. They affirm this commitment to reasonableness by addressing themselves only to those epistemic obstacles that are indelible and shared: obstacles such as the inherent difficulty of the arguments involved, the unavailability of evidence or the vagueness of shared concepts (these are what Rawls calls the ‘burdens of judgment’; Rawls, 2005 , pp. 56–57). For such obstacles, the objective style of reasoning will be best-suited. The objective style separates the speaker’s idiosyncratic position from the content of her arguments and, by eliminating such features as wilful self-contradiction or lack of seriousness, the objective style is also the most accessible—that is, easiest for other reasonable participants to follow.
This rationalist picture of public reason is, it ought to be noted, no longer as dominant in political theory as when Rawls and Habermas first formulated it. Some proponents of deliberative democracy have become more open to forms of communication that go beyond argumentation, especially when considering the real, rather than idealized, conditions of democratic deliberation ( Polletta and Gardner, 2018 ). The case I intend to formulate for political art is broadly aligned with such developments. That being said, the rationalist model is still at the core of democratic deliberation theory (cf. Goodin, 2018 ) and, even in its expanded format, provides a foil for artistic forms. Art does not fit snugly with its demands: ruminative paintings about guilt do not even offer clear-cut conclusions, and hip-hop albums do not abide by the ‘duty of civility’. So, let us, for now, distil the rationalist model of public reason into an argument for the pre-eminence of the objective genre, and consider the implications such an argument has for works of political art.
The first premise of the argument here is that, at the commencement of any political enquiry, reasonable subjects should aspire to the idealized condition of speech. They should try to reduce their individual epistemic obstacles as much as possible: bracket their biases, but also brace themselves against boredom and distraction. What degree of idealization we should expect of real-life participants can be debated (cf. Vallier, 2018 , §2.4); however, it seems clear that the subjects should aspire to be as impartial and public-minded as possible. Let us call such an aspirational state—the state with the fewest possible epistemic obstacles—the state of discursive rationality. Importantly, the first premise need not stipulate that participants in public discourse should ever actually achieve that state, merely that it is something we should aspire towards. And that seems self-evident: the state with the fewest epistemic obstacles is the one we should aspire towards.
The second premise is that the objective genre is best-suited to a subject in the state of discursive rationality. This also seems plausible. By perspicuously structuring arguments and impartially laying out evidence, the objective style is directed precisely at the remaining, indelible obstacles of any enquiry. The objective style makes no concessions to laziness, or to biases, or to being easily distracted, or indeed to the propensity to be moved by anything other than the force of the better argument. The various features typical of the arts, such as plot pacing, concerns with rhythm or creation of thoughtful aporias, on the other hand, are not directed at the indelible epistemic obstacles—namely, the difficulty of arguments or unavailability of evidence. Precisely those devices that separate art from objective discourse are, then, at best superfluous and at worst distracting.
What follows from these premises—that we should aspire to discursive rationality, and that the objective style is best-suited to that state—is a certain elite position for the objective genre. The reasonable subject and the objective style of discourse are a good fit; they are the model enquirer and the model medium of any intellectual investigation. It may be observed that, in reality, the rhetorical styles in public debates are a lot more mixed (there are, for example, more subjective forms of journalism and more personal modes of public address). But the compass of epistemic prestige in political discourse will point towards the stylistically objective elements, just as Williamson suggests for philosophy in general. There is, then, no parity between objective political discourse (philosophy, political science, serious journalism, and so on) and the arts.
Still, this argument does not imply that the proper attitude of the philosopher towards the arts should be one of disparagement; rather, it should be a kind of patronizing encouragement. The arts, as we saw, overlap with other forms of public discourse. They may therefore serve those public discussants who, due to some circumstantial weakness or disadvantage, cannot quite aspire to the state of discursive rationality (cf. Polletta and Gardner, 2018 , pp. 72–3). For somebody easily bored, for example, Atwood’s gripping narrative in The handmaid’s tale may be a useful introduction to ideas about anti-patriarchy. For somebody daunted by the turgid texts on social justice, rap albums may provide a more engaging way to think through oppressions of racism. Equally, we might say that introductions to philosophy (but not serious texts) may take a literary form, such as Jostein Gaarder’s Sophie’s world (1991) or Timothy Williamson’s own Tetralogue (2015). The arts may, then, play a sort of didactic, kindergartenly handmaiden to philosophy. For discursive knowledge of the highest kind, we must still ascend to the clear-sighted industriousness of the objective style.
Our aim now is to defuse the argument for the pre-eminence of the objective genre. I propose that we take no issue with the second premise: that the objective genre is best-suited to subjects who have already arrived at the state of discursive rationality. I like to imagine such subjects as the souls in Dante’s Paradiso, the non-omniscient but ideally rational beings, who would probably have little use for political art of any sort. I propose that we dislodge the first premise instead and claim that aspiring towards the state of discursive rationality—bracketing one’s biases and so forth—is not always the epistemically best thing to do at the commencement of an enquiry. This may seem counterintuitive, but there is an important ambiguity at work here. If we conceive of ‘aspiration’ as merely ‘the desire to be in’, then we ought to agree with the first premise: the state with the fewest epistemic obstacles is the epistemically most desirable. However, if we conceive of ‘aspiration’ as ‘an attempt to inhabit’, then the premise becomes less obviously appealing. We must ask, in other words, whether, for people like ourselves, there might not obtain situations where the effort of hoisting ourselves up to that exalted position would backfire, create new epistemic obstacles or fail to dispel the ones that exist. We will have to fill in some details here. Who are ‘people like ourselves’? What sorts of beings might stumble and scratch their knees when reaching for the highest echelons of rationality?
Recent social epistemology has pointed out various ways in which epistemic obstacles form part of our social background: injustice may be woven into publicly available concepts ( Fricker, 2007 , pp. 18–27), into our sense of identity ( Stanley, 2015 , pp. 196–201; elaborating on Stebbing 1939 , p. 33), and may be inherent in psychological attitudes like closed-mindedness or dogmatism ( Cassam, 2019 , Chapters 2–4). If we accept that such obstacles are pervasive and recalcitrant, there is a genuine question as to whether taking a deep breath, pointing them out, ‘bracketing them’, and then proceeding with the rigorous objective style is always the optimal way for their overcoming.
To see what I have in mind, consider a few examples; these are gathered from philosophical and political science literature. Political scientists Brendan Nyhan and Jason Reifler have reported on the ‘backfire effect’ in political persuasion ( Nyhan and Reifler, 2010 ). This occurs when a participant in a debate is offered evidence that contradicts her preferred belief; curiously, offering such new evidence can backfire in the sense that the participant then doubles down on her belief rather than revises it in accordance with the new data. Nyhan and Reifler observed this effect in the context of the Second Gulf War, when pro-war subjects, who believed in the existence of Weapons of Mass Destruction (WMDs) in Iraq, were presented with evidence to the contrary. Afterwards, the subjects curiously reported a higher certainty in the existence of WMDs ( Nyhan and Reifler, 2010 , pp. 314–15; analogous findings were established on the left of the ideological spectrum as well). What is curious for our purposes in that the corrective evidence in these experiments was invariably presented in the objective style: as impartial, factual news reports. And yet, such calm, evidence-driven counter-arguments have led the subjects to hold even tighter onto their beliefs, when we would expect them to lower their credence, or for it at least not to change.
To give a different case of how the objective style of discourse may fail us, consider Robin McKenna’s (2019) recent exploration of subjects’ weakened ability to obtain new justified beliefs, when these beliefs are consistent with the subject’s ideological position. For example, McKenna argues that subjects who identify with liberal and environmentalist values are less critical of studies that support the existence of climate change. While climate change, of course, exists, not all reports on all aspects of it will be factually correct, and liberal-environmentalist audiences are more likely to go along, uncritically, with such faulty studies. As a result, we seem less capable of obtaining new knowledge on issues we politically identify with, even if our views happen to be broadly correct ( McKenna, 2019 , pp. 758, 763–65; analogous cases can be found elsewhere on the political spectrum). Again, it seems, the objective, scientific presentation of evidence by itself provides no additional help to our critical faculties. When strong political commitments are in place, it seems that we are only too happy to be led down the route that gets us to the desired conclusion—without applying due critical pressure on the way.
In all these cases we find what Adrian Piper has called the state of ‘pseudo-rationality’: the semblance of rational coherence that we inhabit to justify the beliefs we are committed to ( Piper, 2013 , pp. 289–96, 312–16). Piper’s point, as I understand it, is that such subjects need not engage in deliberate sophistry; they do not merely cynically use arguments to further a point they do not believe in, as Habermas at some point suggested ( Habermas, 1984 , pp. 295ff). In fact, the subjects might quite sincerely attempt to bracket their biases and reason impartially; it is only that by doing so, they still weigh evidence or apply focus in a biased way. Our adherence to the objective style may be perfectly well-meaning, but this does not guarantee that our epistemic processes will proceed impeccably.
If one acknowledges such cases, the crucial question becomes: what, if anything, might help? What would snap a person out of their state of pseudo-rationality? As the examples given above demonstrate, simply trying harder, and more doggedly pursuing rational argumentation, will not always work. In those cases, we might speculate, an interlocutor’s sarcastic remark may make us see that we have sacrificed truth to argumentative rigour. Or, perhaps, a joke, or, a plaintive tone of voice, or, alternatively, creating some healthy ruckus, slamming the table, saying, ‘come on now, I know you are smart, but look at the facts!’. What— if anything —will lead to epistemic progress and acknowledgement of the facts will depend on the specific dynamics of the situation. Anybody who has engaged in protracted intellectual gymnastics over a heated political issue—or even in a debate over whose turn it is to do the dishes—will be, I take it, familiar with this phenomenon to an extent. For a given epistemic obstacle to be noted and overcome, what sometimes needs to happen is a shift from the objective style into another rhetorical mode.
At this juncture, it may be helpful to again acknowledge that great schism in twentieth-century Western political theory: between those who have extolled rational deliberation as the best tool for political emancipation, and those who have treated the objective style itself as irredeemably corrupted by power relations. Rawls and Habermas, as well as most first-generation analytic political philosophers, may be counted within the first camp; ideology-critical traditions, from Theodor Adorno and Jacques Derrida to Judith Butler, within the second. While I do not mean the present paper to spill into the intractable territory of this rift, it is worth pointing out that our discussion at this point allows for a middle path between these extremes: a pluralist position. Sometimes , a sincere aspiration to discursive rationality and the objective style will offer the best available means to overcome social epistemic obstacles. But that need not be universally the case. To dislodge the argument for the pre-eminence of the objective style, we need not do anything as ambitious (and counterproductive) as deconstruct all instances of objective-style thinking. Our criticism of the objective style can confine itself, more modestly but also more precisely, to isolated cases— those where objective-style thinking fails epistemically.
This, I suggest, is the chink in the armour of objective style through which we can address the problem of parity. Attempting to inhabit the state of discursive rationality is not always a good idea. This claim, it strikes me, is modest enough; but if it is true, we still need to take a few more steps to secure parity between artistic and objective genres. We need to demonstrate a sort of match: show that precisely in those cases where objective style fails, artistic devices can help overcome epistemic obstacles. That, if you like, is the general model. But to secure parity with any particular genre of art, or indeed any particular work of art, the discussion must now become more piecemeal and responsive to culturally specific contexts; philosophy must here join hands with history of the arts and art criticism. I will merely offer two, necessarily brief and schematic, illustrations.
To illustrate how parity may be achieved, I will use two examples of politically discursive art belonging to the recent Anglophone popular culture. Due to the United States' status as the global cultural hegemon, these examples do not require much of an introduction, which in a brief philosophical paper will have to be accepted as a somewhat unpleasant advantage of US hegemony. I should also say at the outset that I do not take these to be necessarily the most accomplished works of political art. Indeed, some of their very discernible faults will allow us to show how art participates in the public attempt at reaching discursive knowledge, but may (just like discourse in the objective style) both contribute to and detract from it.
Consider first the satirical works that were popular in the 2000s, such as Borat (2006) and Brüno (2009) created by Sacha Baron-Cohen, or South Park (1997 –) and Team America (2004) by Trey Parker and Matt Stone. These works have an excessive, grotesque, Rabelaisian quality to them. Just as François Rabelais’ Gargantua and Pantagruel disparaged all strata of the sixteenth-century society through grossness and absurdity, these modern satires mercilessly lacerate a variety of political positions and characters. They denigrate both the ideals that their liberal audiences perceive as ‘bad’ (domestic and imperialist forms of US chauvinism), and those they may perceive as ‘good’ (environmentalism, multiculturalism, pacifism). For example, Team America derides US hawkish foreign policy—personified in the disastrously bumbling ‘world police’ taskforce—but it also lampoons the idealist, pacifist option, represented by a gang of dumb Hollywood actors. The primary target of Borat, meanwhile, is certainly the casual chauvinism of some Americans, whose openly expressed xenophobic reactions are shown in the film’s final cut. However, I depart from the interpretations that see Borat as unequivocally subversive of xenophobia (for such an analysis, see Zupančič, 2008 , p. 33). The depiction of the film’s protagonist as promiscuous and crude also channels stereotypes about third-world immigrants, and the film, I think, therefore is also at odds with a more liberal sentiment, which would censor such depictions as offensive. In short, these satires are decidedly non-partisan (and perhaps non-partisan to a fault); instead of picking a side, they denigrate all political positions that dominated the public sphere at the time of their making.
I shall not attempt a more detailed description of such neo-Rabelaisian satires, although one could certainly chart their relationship to other established genres of satire (e.g. Horatian, Juvenalian, Menippean, Dryden-esque and so forth) or to other subversive comedies (cf. Griffin, 1994 ; Zupančič, 2008 ). For now, let us isolate just one artistic feature common to these works: the indiscriminate disparagement of opposing political positions. This feature is not something that we typically find in works written in the objective style, nor can we imagine it being easily imported into it. The objective style generally seeks to put forward one position at the expense of another and to do so respectfully. So, what could be gained epistemically by such an artistic device, by such a flurry of low blows?
The epistemic benefit of neo-Rabelaisian satire should be understood against the specific background of a polarized political space. As we saw in the previous section, subjects who strongly identify with a given position may find the objective style less suitable for the critical revision of their beliefs. Objective-style corrections may backfire, while objective-style confirmations may be accepted uncritically. Whenever such a highly polarized political situation obtains any loosening of the subject’s identification with her political camp may become epistemically useful. Neo-Rabelaisian satire, at its best, achieves just that. Within the world of Team America, the liberal viewer finds it just as uncomfortable to identify with the sanctimonious Hollywood actors as she does with the mindless military interventionists. Borat is perhaps something of a limit case, because here even the political beliefs that are foundational to democracy—such as the belief that xenophobic stereotypes are a bad thing—are temporarily suspended in the portrayal of the protagonist. Now, at a wrong place, at a wrong time, in the wrong hands, this may certainly result in dangerous cynicism, but, at an appropriate moment, neo-Rabelaisian satire can aim at something that the objective-style discourse has trouble with: it can weaken the subject’s over-confidence in their own position. By temporarily softening our attachment to any of the contestant positions in the public sphere, this form of satire can recalibrate the critical capacity needed for the proper processing of arguments and evidence.
For my second (and quite different) example, consider what we may call visibility-raising artworks: works that foreground the experience of oppressed and culturally underrepresented social groups. The recent television series Pose (2018 –) is one such work. The series is set in the ballroom subculture of the late 1980s New York, which was largely run by LGBTQ and gender-non-conforming people of colour. If we think about what epistemic obstacles visibility-raising artworks are up against, one uncontroversial proposal would be: essentialization. This we may define as a tendency to explain somebody’s entire person—their motives, emotions, capabilities and ethos—by reference to a type they are perceived as belonging to. Overtly negative stereotypes are a clear case of essentialization, but essentialization may also inhere in subtler forms of xenophobia; for example, stereotypes that attribute a seemingly positive property, such as a Black person’s ‘sense of rhythm’ or a gay man’s ‘artistic sense’ (cf. Piper, 2013 , pp. 438–39). Edward Said describes this phenomenon succinctly in his study of Orientalism:
[In an Orientalist mindset,] [w]e are to assume that if an Arab feels joy, if he is sad at the death of his child or parent, if he has a sense of the injustices of political tyranny, then those experiences are necessarily subordinate to the sheer, unadorned, and persistent fact of being an Arab. ( Said, 1978 , p. 230)
As an epistemic obstacle, essentialization can lead to various false beliefs about other persons, indeed, with dire political consequences. Adrian Piper describes such essentialization as xenophobia; as she puts it, xenophobia ‘reduces the complex singularity of the other’s properties to an oversimplified but conceptually manageable subset’. ( Piper, 2013 , p. 422).
Objective-style discourse certainly has a role to play in overcoming essentialization, by, for example, showing that stereotypes are empirically groundless. Nevertheless, we may suggest that objective discourse, in its very structure, makes it hard to contemplate individuals in their distinctiveness. Objective discourse must posit abstract groups even as it calls for those group’s emancipation. Therefore, even if one were to well-meaningly say that ‘LGBTQ individuals have faced challenges of such-and-such nature … ’ one already predisposes the listener to view each individual’s singular nature as primarily understood through their membership of that group. Of course, one may attempt to ameliorate that effect by various qualifications within objective discourse (‘ some LGBTQ people have tended to … ’). Note, however, that a format like the television series does not have the problem of positing groups with essential characteristics built into its structure, like the objective style does. In a TV series, we simply follow the fate of individual characters, and are not given a set of theses about them as a social group.
That is not to say that every television series is wonderfully good at this; earlier episodes of Pose are, I believe, less successful at dispelling essentialization. These involve several clichéd, soap-opera storylines, such as the mentor-student rivalry of Blanca and Elektra, so that the only salient feature in an otherwise predictable situation remains the social type of the protagonists. However, as the series progresses, characters increasingly emerge in their individuality. Blanca’s reaction to her HIV diagnosis is particularly complex, evolving from despair, to a sense of purpose and often-employed gallows humour. All this makes Blanca, as played by Mj Rodriguez, stand out as an individual, whose actions the audience cannot simply reduce to that of a ‘typical’ transwoman. If essentialization is an epistemic obstacle that prevents us from obtaining discursive knowledge about other persons (cf. Piper 2013 , pp. 421ff), then the long narrative format of the contemporary TV series, when intelligently employed, carries certain specific advantages over the objective-style discourse about minoritarian subjects.
These examples fill in, I hope, the general from of the argument for parity between politically discursive art and objective-style discourse. In each case, the argument does not require us to represent some kinds of knowledge as exclusive to art alone (the ‘unparaphrasable knowledge’ path); nor does it require a full takedown of the objective style (the critical theory path). Instead, we need to point at specific situations where the objective discourse fails us, where it becomes haunted by spectres of pseudo-rationality, of which dogmatism and essentialization are but two. Whenever this happens, it is to art that we can look for possible corrections.
There are a few objections that will hopefully bring my position into sharper relief. Firstly, one might object that there is no necessary link between the artworks I have discussed and their epistemic benefits. Surely, it is possible to imagine an objective-style article that successfully convinces the audiences to be more critical of their own position (my first example) or to behold persons in their singular nature (my second). Indeed, that is true. However, as we saw at the outset of this paper, it seems patently wrong to think that any epistemic shift can be achieved exclusively through either art or through objective discourse. Such exclusivity cannot obtain because objective and artistic discourses overlap. Works of art may sometimes point to general trends or facts, and works written in the objective style may sometimes incorporate satirical turns of phrase, detailed descriptions and so forth. The question here is what epistemic obstacles and benefits tend to inhabit different rhetorical modes. The arts can overcome forms of pseudo-rationality that the objective style suffers from, just as, undoubtedly, the objective style can excise epistemic obstacles that it would be more arduous to remove through the arts.
Another objection may point to the epistemic weaknesses of the individual artworks I have described. Artworks, of course, can create epistemic obstacles as well as offer resources. For example, while the neo-Rabelaisian satires may invigorate our critical capacities, as I suggested, one could certainly protest that they can also weaken our critical capacities with their use of crude stereotypes. With regards to my other example, Pose, I have suggested the series removes the epistemic obstacle of essentialization. But one may protest that I have unduly privileged the epistemic interests of the hegemonic (white, heteronormative) audience when I should have also considered the epistemic interests of the people represented in the series. The epistemic needs of an oppressed group may be quite different from those of the mainstream; as Paul C. Taylor has argued in Black Aesthetics, for example, a positive self-understanding of an oppressed group might depend on creating opportunities for authenticity and belonging, as much as on battling stereotypes and essentialization ( Taylor, 2017 , pp. 132–52).
Such polemical points strengthen, rather than weaken, the case for the cognitive value of political art. Criticisms of specific artworks on epistemic grounds may be justified, but we ought to think of such criticism as analogous to objections and counter-arguments that any philosophical essay is likely to invite as well. Discursive knowledge is rarely settled conclusively in a single contribution, and its goal is not a state of dogmatic certainty that would admit no further objection or thought. Artworks (just as works of objective-style discourse) show themselves to be a part of the cognitive enterprise precisely in virtue of inviting objections or re-interpretations.
Such discursive responses to artworks can be offered through art criticism, but also through the development of artistic forms themselves. For example, certain recent television series perform a similar loosening on their audience’s strongly held, ‘right-on’ beliefs as neo-Rabelaisian satires did in the early 2000s, but they do so by creating morally unsettling, flawed protagonists, rather than by employing crude stereotypes (I here have in mind works like Michaela Cole’s brilliant television series I May Destroy You (2020) ). There is cognitive progress here, in the sense that art now avoids artistic devices, which, on reflection, we think left us epistemically worse off, or unduly muddled the public debate. The correction here is analogous to, say, a shift in the concepts we use in the objective style, or to a shift in arguments we offer.
If artworks can be thought of, in this way, as engaging in a common polemic, this also helps to clarify the difference between attributing discursive knowledge to artworks, as I have done, as opposed to claiming distinctly experiential or practical domains of knowledge for art (see Section 2 above). It seems unlikely to me that the artworks I have discussed impart significant experiential or practical knowledge. For example, we do not go up to victims of political oppression and say ‘I know how it must feel; I have read many novels about oppression’, nor do we consult artworks in preparation for some distinctly practical challenge. If you also find such claims counterintuitive, then it may come as a relief that the current position does not imply them. There is no claim here that some distinct know-how or wisdom is acquired, nor that artworks are substitutes for lived experience. Artworks are simply contributions to a public debate. Those that are best at it will leave their audiences with beliefs better attuned to how the world is, in ways that would not have been possible had those audiences engaged in the objective-style debate alone.
We ought to think, then, of serious political art as much more tightly interlaced with our ‘non-art’ ways of thinking about the world. To achieve a parity between these ways of thinking, I have suggested, we must show how pseudo-rationality rises up in one rhetorical style, and is then met by countermeasures in another. This is the general model; more fine-grained accounts would demonstrate how this works for specific artistic genres or even specific artworks or movements. Acquiring discursive knowledge in a politically changing world is a dynamic process, which requires shifts from objective to artistic registers and back again; indeed, it requires constant reinvention of rhetorical and artistic modes. But while this means that the objective style of enquiry is displaced from its preeminent place in democratic deliberation, philosophers ought not to feel too despondent about it. Public discourse requires a plurality of communicative styles: not a hierarchical procession with the objective style at the helm, but a concert of rhetorical modes that all have distinctive roles to play.
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What could be the place of artistic research in current contemporary scholarship in the humanities? The following essay addresses this question while using as a case study a collaborative artistic project undertaken by two artists, Remco Roes (Belgium) and Alis Garlick (Australia). We argue that the recent integration of arts into academia requires a hybrid discourse, which has to be distinguished both from the artwork itself and from more conventional forms of academic research. This hybrid discourse explores the whole continuum of possible ways to address our existential relationship with the environment: ranging from aesthetic, multi-sensorial, associative, affective, spatial and visual modes of ‘knowledge’ to more discursive, analytical, contextualised ones. Here, we set out to defend the visual essay as a useful tool to explore the non-conceptual, yet meaningful bodily aspects of human culture, both in the still developing field of artistic research and in more established fields of research. It is a genre that enables us to articulate this knowledge, as a transformative process of meaning-making, supplementing other modes of inquiry in the humanities.
In Being Alive: Essays on Movement, Knowledge and Description (2011), Tim Ingold defines anthropology as ‘a sustained and disciplined inquiry into the conditions and potentials of human life’ (Ingold, 2011 , p. 9). For Ingold, artistic practice plays a crucial part in this inquiry. He considers art not merely as a potential object of historical, sociological or ethnographic research, but also as a valuable form of anthropological inquiry itself, providing supplementary methods to understand what it is ‘to be human’.
In a similar vein, Mark Johnson’s The meaning of the body: aesthetics of human understanding (2007) offers a revaluation of art ‘as an essential mode of human engagement with and understanding of the world’ (Johnson, 2007 , p. 10). Johnson argues that art is a useful epistemological instrument because of its ability to intensify the ordinary experience of our environment. Images Footnote 1 are the expression of our on-going, complex relation with an inner and outer environment. In the process of making images of our environment, different bodily experiences, like affects, emotions, feelings and movements are mobilised in the creation of meaning. As Johnson argues, this happens in every process of meaning-making, which is always based on ‘deep-seated bodily sources of human meaning that go beyond the merely conceptual and propositional’ (Ibid., p. 11). The specificity of art simply resides in the fact that it actively engages with those non-conceptual, non-propositional forms of ‘making sense’ of our environment. Art is thus able to take into account (and to explore) many other different meaningful aspects of our human relationship with the environment and thus provide us with a supplementary form of knowledge. Hence Ingold’s remark in the introduction of Making: anthropology, archaeology, art and architecture (2013): ‘Could certain practices of art, for example, suggest new ways of doing anthropology? If there are similarities between the ways in which artists and anthropologists study the world, then could we not regard the artwork as a result of something like an anthropological study, rather than as an object of such study? […] could works of art not be regarded as forms of anthropology, albeit ‘written’ in non-verbal media?’ (Ingold, 2013 , p. 8, italics in original).
And yet we would hesitate to unreservedly answer yes to these rhetorical questions. For instance, it is true that one can consider the works of Francis Bacon as an anthropological study of violence and fear, or the works of John Cage as a study in indeterminacy and chance. But while they can indeed be seen as explorations of the ‘conditions and potentials of human life’, the artworks themselves do not make this knowledge explicit. What is lacking here is the logos of anthropology, logos in the sense of discourse, a line of reasoning. Therefore, while we agree with Ingold and Johnson, the problem remains how to explicate and communicate the knowledge that is contained within works of art, how to make it discursive ? How to articulate artistic practice as an alternative, yet valid form of scholarly research?
Here, we believe that a clear distinction between art and artistic research is necessary. The artistic imaginary is a reaction to the environment in which the artist finds himself: this reaction does not have to be conscious and deliberate. The artist has every right to shrug his shoulders when he is asked for the ‘meaning’ of his work, to provide a ‘discourse’. He can simply reply: ‘I don’t know’ or ‘I do not want to know’, as a refusal to engage with the step of articulating what his work might be exploring. Likewise, the beholder or the reader of a work of art does not need to learn from it to appreciate it. No doubt, he may have gained some understanding about ‘human existence’ after reading a novel or visiting an exhibition, but without the need to spell out this knowledge or to further explore it.
In contrast, artistic research as a specific, inquisitive mode of dealing with the environment requires an explicit articulation of what is at stake, the formulation of a specific problem that determines the focus of the research. ‘Problem’ is used here in the neutral, etymological sense of the word: something ‘thrown forward’, a ‘hindrance, obstacle’ (cf. probleima , Liddell-Scott’s Greek-English Lexicon). A body-in-an-environment finds something thrown before him or her, an issue that grabs the attention. A problem is something that urges us to explore a field of experiences, the ‘potentials of human life’ that are opened up by a work of art. It is often only retroactively, during a second, reflective phase of the artistic research, that a formulation of a problem becomes possible, by a selection of elements that strikes one as meaningful (again, in the sense Johnson defines meaningful, thus including bodily perceptions, movements, affects, feelings as meaningful elements of human understanding of reality). This process opens up, to borrow a term used by Aby Warburg, a ‘Denkraum’ (cf. Gombrich, 1986 , p. 224): it creates a critical distance from the environment, including the environment of the artwork itself: this ‘space for thought’ allows one to consciously explore a specific problem. Consciously here does not equal cerebral: the problem is explored not only in its intellectual, but also in its sensual and emotional, affective aspects. It is projected along different lines in this virtual Denkraum , lines that cross and influence each other: an existential line turns into a line of form and composition; a conceptual line merges into a narrative line, a technical line echoes an autobiographical line. There is no strict hierarchy in the different ‘emanations’ of a problem. These are just different lines contained within the work that interact with each other, and the problem can ‘move’ from one line to another, develop and transform itself along these lines, comparable perhaps to the way a melody develops itself when it is transposed to a different musical scale, a different musical instrument, or even to a different musical genre. But, however, abstract or technical one formulates a problem, following Johnson we argue that a problem is always a translation of a basic existential problem, emerging from a specific environment. We fully agree with Johnson when he argues that ‘philosophy becomes relevant to human life only by reconnecting with, and grounding itself in, bodily dimensions of human meaning and value. Philosophy needs a visceral connection to lived experience’ (Johnson, 2007 , p. 263). The same goes for artistic research. It too finds its relevance in the ‘visceral connection’ with a specific body, a specific situation.
Words are one way of disclosing this lived experience, but within the context of an artistic practice one can hardly ignore the potential for images to provide us with an equally valuable account. In fact, they may even prove most suited to establish the kind of space that comes close to this multi-threaded, embodied Denkraum . In order to illustrate this, we would like to present a case study, a short visual ‘essay’ (however, since the scope of four spreads offers only limited space, it is better to consider it as the image-equivalent of a short research note).
The images (1, 2, 3, 4, 5) form a short visual essay based on a collaborative artistic project 'Exercises of the man (v)' that Remco Roes and Alis Garlick realised for the Situation Symposium at Royal Melbourne Institute of Technology in Melbourne in 2014. One of the conceptual premises of the project was the communication of two physical ‘sites’ through digital media. Roes—located in Belgium—would communicate with Garlick—in Australia—about an installation that was to be realised at the physical location of the exhibition in Melbourne. Their attempts to communicate (about) the site were conducted via e-mail messages, Skype-chats and video conversations. The focus of these conversations increasingly distanced itself from the empty exhibition space of the Design Hub and instead came to include coincidental spaces (and objects) that happened to be close at hand during the 3-month working period leading up to the exhibition. The focus of the project thus shifted from attempting to communicate a particular space towards attempting to communicate the more general experience of being in(side) a space. The project led to the production of a series of small in-situ installations, a large series of video’s and images, a book with a selection of these images as well as texts from the conversations, and the final exhibition in which artefacts that were found during the collaborative process were exhibited. A step by step reading of the visual argument contained within images of this project illustrates how a visual essay can function as a tool for disclosing/articulating/communicating the kind of embodied thinking that occurs within an artistic practice or practice-based research.
Figure 1 shows (albeit in reduced form) a field of photographs and video stills that summarises the project without emphasising any particular aspect. Each of the Figs. 2 – 5 isolate different parts of this same field in an attempt to construct/disclose a form of visual argument (that was already contained within the work). In the final part of this essay we will provide an illustration of how such visual sequences can be possibly ‘read’.
First image of the visual essay. Remco Roes and Alis Garlick, as copyright holders, permit the publication of this image under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License
Second image of the visual essay. Remco Roes and Alis Garlick, as copyright holders, permit the publication of this image under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License
Third image of the visual essay. Remco Roes and Alis Garlick, as copyright holders, permit the publication of this image under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License
Fourth image of the visual essay. Remco Roes and Alis Garlick, as copyright holders, permit the publication of this image under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License
Fifth image of the visual essay. Remco Roes and Alis Garlick, as copyright holders, permit the publication of this image under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License
Figure 1 is a remnant of the first step that was taken in the creation of the series of images: significant, meaningful elements in the work of art are brought together. At first, we quite simply start by looking at what is represented in the pictures, and how they are presented to us. This act of looking almost inevitably turns these images into a sequence, an argument. Conditioned by the dominant linearity of writing, including images (for instance in a comic book) one ‘reads’ the images from left to right, one goes from the first spread to the last. Just like one could say that a musical theme or a plot ‘develops’, the series of images seem to ‘develop’ the problem, gradually revealing its complexity. The dominance of this viewing code is not to be ignored, but is of course supplemented by the more ‘holistic’ nature of visual perception (cf. the notion of ‘Gestalt’ in the psychology of perception). So unlike a ‘classic’ argumentation, the discursive sequence is traversed by resonance, by non-linearity, by correspondences between elements both in a single image and between the images in their specific positioning within the essay. These correspondences reveal the synaesthetic nature of every process of meaning-making: ‘The meaning of something is its relations, actual and potential, to other qualities, things, events, and experiences. In pragmatist lingo, the meaning of something is a matter of how it connects to what has gone before and what it entails for present or future experiences and actions’ (Johnson, 2007 , p. 265). The images operate in a similar way, by bringing together different actions, affects, feelings and perceptions into a complex constellation of meaningful elements that parallel each other and create a field of resonance. These connections occur between different elements that ‘disturb’ the logical linearity of the discourse, for instance by the repetition of a specific element (the blue/yellow opposition, or the repetition of a specific diagonal angle).
Confronted with these images, we are now able to delineate more precisely the problem they express. In a generic sense we could formulate it as follows: how to communicate with someone who does not share my existential space, but is nonetheless visually and acoustically present? What are the implications of the kind of technology that makes such communication possible, for the first time in human history? How does it influence our perception and experience of space, of materiality, of presence?
Artistic research into this problem explores the different ways of meaning-making that this new existential space offers, revealing the different conditions and possibilities of this new spatiality. But it has to be stressed that this exploration of the problem happens on different lines, ranging from the kinaesthetic perception to the emotional and affective response to these spaces and images. It would, thus, be wrong to reduce these experiences to a conceptual framework. In their actions, Roes and Garlick do not ‘make a statement’: they quite simply experiment with what their bodies can do in such a hybrid space, ‘wandering’ in this field of meaningful experiences, this Denkraum , that is ‘opened up’: which meaningful clusters of sensations, affects, feelings, spatial and kinaesthetic qualities emerge in such a specific existential space?
In what follows, we want to focus on some of these meaningful clusters. As such, these comments are not part of the visual essay itself. One could compare them to ‘reading remarks’, a short elaboration on what strikes one as relevant. These comments also do not try to ‘crack the code’ of the visual material, as if they were merely a visual and/or spatial rebus to be solved once and for all (‘ x stands for y’ ). They rather attempt to engage in a dialogue with the images, a dialogue that of course does not claim to be definitive or exhaustive.
The constellation itself generates a sense of ‘lacking’: we see that there are two characters intensely collaborating and interacting with each other, while never sharing the same space. They are performing, or watching the other perform: drawing a line (imaginary or physically), pulling, wrapping, unpacking, watching, framing, balancing. The small arrangements, constructions or compositions that are made as a result of these activities are all very fragile, shaky and their purpose remains unclear. Interaction with the other occurs only virtually, based on the manipulation of small objects and fragments, located in different places. One of the few materials that eventually gets physically exported to the other side, is a kind of large plastic cover. Again, one should not ‘read’ the picture of Roes with this plastic wrapped around his head as an expression, a ‘symbol’ of individual isolation, of being wrapped up in something. It is simply the experience of a head that disappears (as a head appears and disappears on a computer screen when it gets disconnected), and the experience of a head that is covered up: does it feel like choking, or does it provide a sense of shelter, protection?
A different ‘line’ operates simultaneously in the same image: that of a man standing on a double grid: the grid of the wet street tiles and an alternative, oblique grid of colourful yellow elements, a grid which is clearly temporal, as only the grid of the tiles will remain. These images are contrasted with the (obviously staged) moment when the plastic arrives at ‘the other side’: the claustrophobia is now replaced with the openness of the horizon, the presence of an open seascape: it gives a synaesthetic sense of a fresh breeze that seems lacking in the other images.
In this case, the contrast between the different spaces is very clear, but in other images we also see an effort to unite these different spaces. The problem can now be reformulated, as it moves to another line: how to demarcate a shared space that is both actual and virtual (with a ribbon, the positioning of a computer screen?), how to communicate with each other, not only with words or body language, but also with small artefacts, ‘meaningless’ junk? What is the ‘common ground’ on which to walk, to exchange things—connecting, lining up with the other? And here, the layout of the images (into a spread) adds an extra dimension to the original work of art. The relation between the different bodies does now not only take place in different spaces, but also in different fields of representation: there is the space of the spread, the photographed space and in the photographs, the other space opened up by the computer screen, and the interaction between these levels. We see this in the Fig. 3 where Garlick’s legs are projected on the floor, framed by two plastic beakers: her black legging echoing with the shadows of a chair or a tripod. This visual ‘rhyme’ within the image reveals how a virtual presence interferes with what is present.
The problem, which can be expressed in this fundamental opposition between presence/absence, also resonates with other recurring oppositions that rhythmically structure these images. The images are filled with blue/yellow elements: blue lines of tape, a blue plexi form, yellow traces of paint, yellow objects that are used in the video’s, but the two tones are also conjured up by the white balance difference between daylight and artificial light. The blue/yellow opposition, in turn, connects with other meaningful oppositions, like—obviously—male/female, or the same oppositional set of clothes: black trousers/white shirt, grey scale images versus full colour, or the shadow and the bright sunlight, which finds itself in another opposition with the cold electric light of a computer screen (this of course also refers to the different time zones, another crucial aspect of digital communication: we do not only not share the same place, we also do not share the same time).
Yet the images also invite us to explore certain formal and compositional elements that keep recurring. The second image, for example, emphasises the importance placed in the project upon the connecting of lines, literally of lining up. Within this image the direction and angle of these lines is ‘explained’ by the presence of the two bodies, the makers with their roles of tape in hand. But upon re-reading the other spreads through this lens of ‘connecting lines’ we see that this compositional element starts to attain its own visual logic. Where the lines in image 2 are literally used as devices to connect two (visual) realities, they free themselves from this restricted context in the other images and show us the influence of circumstance and context in allowing for the successful establishing of such a connection.
In Fig. 3 , for instance, we see a collection of lines that have been isolated from the direct context of live communication. The way two parts of a line are manually aligned (in the split-screens in image 2) mirrors the way the images find their position on the page. However, we also see how the visual grammar of these lines of tape is expanded upon: barrier tape that demarcates a working area meets the curve of a small copper fragment on the floor of an installation, a crack in the wall follows the slanted angle of an assembled object, existing marks on the floor—as well as lines in the architecture—come into play. The photographs widen the scale and angle at which the line operates: the line becomes a conceptual form that is no longer merely material tape but also an immaterial graphical element that explores its own argument.
Figure 4 provides us with a pivotal point in this respect: the cables of the mouse, computer and charger introduce a certain fluidity and uncontrolled motion. Similarly, the erratic markings on the paper show that an author is only ever partially in control. The cracked line in the floor is the first line that is created by a negative space, by an absence. This resonates with the black-stained edges of the laser-cut objects, laid out on the desktop. This fourth image thus seems to transform the manifestation of the line yet again; from a simple connecting device into an instrument that is able to cut out shapes, a path that delineates a cut, as opposed to establishing a connection. The circle held up in image 4 is a perfect circular cut. This resonates with the laser-cut objects we see just above it on the desk, but also with the virtual cuts made in the Photoshop image on the right. We can clearly see how a circular cut remains present on the characteristic grey-white chessboard that is virtual emptiness. It is evident that these elements have more than just an aesthetic function in a visual argumentation. They are an integral part of the meaning-making process. They ‘transpose’ on a different level, i.e., the formal and compositional level, the central problem of absence and presence: it is the graphic form of the ‘cut’, as well as the act of cutting itself, that turns one into the other.
As we have already argued, within the frame of this comment piece, the scope of the visual essay we present here is inevitably limited. It should be considered as a small exercise in a specific genre of thinking and communicating with images that requires further development. Nonetheless, we hope to have demonstrated the potentialities of the visual essay as a form of meaning-making that allows the articulation of a form of embodied knowledge that supplements other modes of inquiry in the humanities. In this particular case, it allows for the integration of other meaningful, embodied and existential aspects of digital communication, unlikely to be ‘detected’ as such by an (auto)ethnographic, psychological or sociological framework.
The visual essay is an invitation to other researchers in the arts to create their own kind of visual essays in order to address their own work of art or that of others: they can consider their artistic research as a valuable contribution to the exploration of human existence that lies at the core of the humanities. But perhaps it can also inspire scholars in more ‘classical’ domains to introduce artistic research methods to their toolbox, as a way of taking into account the non-conceptual, yet meaningful bodily aspects of human life and human artefacts, this ‘visceral connection to lived experience’, as Johnson puts it.
Obviously, a visual essay runs the risk of being ‘shot by both sides’: artists may scorn the loss of artistic autonomy and ‘exploitation’ of the work of art in the service of scholarship, while academic scholars may be wary of the lack of conceptual and methodological clarity inherent in these artistic forms of embodied, synaesthetic meaning. The visual essay is indeed a bastard genre, the unlawful love (or perhaps more honestly: love/hate) child of academia and the arts. But precisely this hybrid, impure nature of the visual essay allows it to explore unknown ‘conditions and potentials of human life’, precisely because it combines imagination and knowledge. And while this combination may sound like an oxymoron within a scientific, positivistic paradigm, it may in fact indicate the revival, in a new context, of a very ancient alliance. Or as Giorgio Agamben formulates it in Infancy and history: on the destruction of experience (2007 [1978]): ‘Nothing can convey the extent of the change that has taken place in the meaning of experience so much as the resulting reversal of the status of the imagination. For Antiquity, the imagination, which is now expunged from knowledge as ‘unreal’, was the supreme medium of knowledge. As the intermediary between the senses and the intellect, enabling, in phantasy, the union between the sensible form and the potential intellect, it occupies in ancient and medieval culture exactly the same role that our culture assigns to experience. Far from being something unreal, the mundus imaginabilis has its full reality between the mundus sensibilis and the mundus intellegibilis , and is, indeed, the condition of their communication—that is to say, of knowledge’ (Agamben, 2007 , p. 27, italics in original).
And it is precisely this exploration of the mundus imaginabilis that should inspire us to understand artistic research as a valuable form of scholarship in the humanities.
We consider images as a broad category consisting of artefacts of the imagination, the creation of expressive ‘forms’. Images are thus not limited to visual images. For instance, the imagery used in a poem or novel, metaphors in philosophical treatises (‘image-thoughts’), actual sculptures or the imaginary space created by a performance or installation can also be considered as images, just like soundscapes, scenography, architecture.
Agamben G (2007) Infancy and history: on the destruction of experience [trans. L. Heron]. Verso, London/New York, NY
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Roes, R., Pint, K. The visual essay and the place of artistic research in the humanities. Palgrave Commun 3 , 8 (2017). https://doi.org/10.1057/s41599-017-0004-5
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Just heard about the term discursive writing from HSC English for Module C?
Whether you’re an expert or beginner at discursive writing, we’re here to help secure a Band 6 for Module C! We’ll break down exactly what discursive writing involves and how to produce a Band 6 discursive writing piece.
Keen to know more? Then keep scrolling!
What is Discursive Writing? What’s in a HSC Discursive Writing Question? How to Write a Discursive Text How to Structure Your Discursive Writing Tips for Discursive Writing Features Should You Memorise Your Discursive Writing Piece for Module C? Discursive Writing Examples Discursive Writing Example Prompt
Discursive writing definition.
NESA defines discursive writing as including: Texts whose primary focus is to explore an idea or variety of topics. These texts involve the discussion of an idea(s) or opinion(s) without the direct intention of persuading the reader, listener or viewer to adopt any single point of view. Discursive texts can be humorous or serious in tone and can have a formal or informal register.
In this article, we’ll be giving you the lowdown on all types of discursive writing.
This encompasses forms such as creative non-fiction, travel blogs, discussion essays, speeches, personal essays and much more!
The purpose behind discursive writing is for you to engage in a deeply relatable, thought-provoking discussion by exploring multiple perspectives on a topic. It is not argumentative nor is it imaginative.
One style of writing you may not be so familiar with in HSC English Module C: The Craft of writing is discursive writing.
Common to both Advanced and Standard English, this module assesses a student’s ability to craft effective pieces of writing in relation to a given audience and purpose.
Unlike the other modules, the focus here is not as much on what you’ve written but more so a combination of what you’ve written and how you’ve written it.
The module takes up approximately 20 hours of course time. It will be assessed in one section in English Paper 2 in the HSC external examination block held in October, through one question containing up to two parts.
Discursive Writing is a new text type to appear on the syllabus in Module C. Let’s take a quick look at a part of the rubric for this module:
Excerpt of Module C in HSC English Syllabus from NESA
From this, we can see that within this module, you will be required to write in four different text types:
Imaginative: This type of writing often takes the form of a narrative and requires you to combine plot, setting and character to craft a short story.
Discursive: We’ll be diving into what exactly this style of writing entails in this guide!
Persuasive: This writing style aims for you to convince the reader of a particular argument or idea. It can be written in the form of an academic essay, personal essay or speech.
Informative: When writing an informative piece, you’ll be informing the reader of a particular topic — these are most commonly written as reports, explanations or descriptions.
For more on the different text types explored in Module C, check out our article !
Here’s an example from NESA’s HSC English 2019 sample paper of a discursive writing question:
As you can see, Section III of the HSC exam paper focusses upon Module C: The Craft of Writing.
The question may ask you to write a persuasive, discursive or imaginative writing piece about a significant idea you have explored in your prescribed text whilst also using a stimulus.
Let’s take a look at another discursive writing question:
The exam question for this section may also be split into part (a) and part (b) — but don’t freak out!
Part (a) will require you to write an imaginative, discursive or persuasive writing piece using the stimulus provided, as well as one technique or stylistic feature used in your prescribed text.
Part (b) involves a reflective statement which will require you to explain how your prescribed text influenced your imaginative, discursive or persuasive writing piece in part (a).
In part (b) you may also be required to explain the literary or stylistic devices you employed in your writing.
Scratching your head at what you should do differently for your discursive writing, check out the key differences below!
Discursive | Persuasive | |
---|---|---|
To engage in a thought-provoking discussion by exploring multiple perspectives on a topic. | To argue a single perspective. | |
Includes an introduction, body and a conclusion. Varied number of paragraphs and paragraph length – you have a bit of freedom here. | Includes an introduction, body and a conclusion. Usually 3-4 body paragraphs, sometimes more. Body paragraphs typically follow a strict PEEL structure and paragraphs are of similar length. | |
Try to strike a balance between formal and informal. You’re writing for an educated audience, yes, but you want your tone to also reflect who you are as a person – so hopefully something a little more friendly and open. | Formal, academic language. Don't write how you would talk. | |
Go for it. | Generally avoided unless the question lends itself well to first person (e.g. something asking you to ). | |
Include it, but you don’t need to conduct the literary analysis you would do in an essay. | Included throughout body paragraphs and analysed following a particular structure (PEEL). | |
Welcomed. | Only include it if it’s part of a quote you’re analysing. |
To get some extra knowledge on the form, here is a good list of the pros and cons for discursive writing!
Pros | Cons |
---|---|
- Has the capacity to be incredibly personal; you can write and explore your own genuine thoughts, opinions and life experiences rather than those that simply look good in an essay. - The intended writing style is one that reflects your own personal voice - not as an author of a story or as an essayist, but your voice as a person. This means that you have the freedom to write both formally and informally, figuratively and factually. It’s up to you! - You can leave it open-ended. | - The amount of freedom you have in this text type can be intimidating. It’s hard to know whether or not you’re doing it right! - This text type is relatively new in the syllabus so you may not have had as much practice in writing it as you would have had with the other types. - I anticipate that, like imaginative writing, this one will also be marked rather subjectively. |
At Art of Smart Education our expert English Tutors can support you with Discursive Writing with tailored tutoring in your home or online.
While there is no single formula or “quick fix” to get a Band 6, there are certain steps you can take to increase your chances!
That said, you won’t jump from a Band 2 to a Band 6 overnight so be prepared to invest time and effort to achieve a Band 6-level result, or as close to it as you can get.
Discursive writing can be tricky. Our tutors here at Art of Smart can help you boost your marks with expert tips and tricks! Check out the K-12 English support we can provide in Parramatta , and all across Sydney!
Let’s start by revisiting the marking criteria for Module C: The Craft of Writing:
So, how might these criteria apply to a discursive piece of writing?
Criterion | How can I address this? |
---|---|
This requires you to use language in a way that addresses what the question is asking you to do, so a good place to start is by breaking down the question itself. Ensure you have read the question carefully. , underlining all key words. Only move on from reading over the question once you are 100% sure you understand it inside out. | |
In a discursive piece of writing, you’ll be expected to write using your own personal voice – not your voice as the author of a story, or your voice as an essayist – your voice as a person. This is what your reader will be expecting and thus, this is what you should aim for to achieve. Momentarily forget everything you know about regular essay writing and let your own voice flow through onto the page, in a way that is authentically you. |
This will ultimately depend on the question so ensure you read it carefully.
Likely, you will be asked to explore a key idea or concern from one of your prescribed texts — either from Module C or another module.
You may take this literally, exploring the idea as it is presented in the prescribed text or instead, you can think laterally and consider how this idea applies to the real world, occasionally bringing in the text — or a related text — as examples.
Note that many of the key ideas and concerns encountered in your prescribed texts are quite broad and malleable , so you can twist them in any way you want.
Tip: Manipulate the Question As the focus here is on unleashing your own personal voice as a writer, it helps to be writing about something you a) are genuinely interested in and b) know a bit about. Manipulate the question as is necessary. Example You might decide to write about power — as it is a key concern in the prescribed text for the Common Module, Nineteen Eighty Four (Orwell) . Power lends itself quite easily to politics but what if you don’t want to talk about politics? Instead, you might write about the psychological power of manipulation or the importance of individual empowerment. As the marking criteria for Module C explicitly ask for language crafted to “address the demands of the question” , it is imperative that whatever you do end up writing about is something that can be related to the question — by both yourself and your marker.
Here are some of our favourite pieces of discursive writing!
You can also trawl through newspapers, magazines and blogs for great examples of discursive writing:
Tip : Also check out TED talks , many of which take on a discursive style and all of which are available to view online for free . Most talks uploaded on TED’s official site also have a transcript so you can not only follow along, but also take note of how the speaker uses language to create meaning. Check out the 20 Most-Watched TED Talks !
While discursive writing is not wedded to a formal structure, it helps to plan things out before you start writing. This can help to avoid confusion or a lack of clarity in your writing.
You’ll want to follow a logical, sequential structure:
Introduction – Catch your reader’s attention and introduce them to your topic – whether explicitly or implicitly.
Body – Several paragraphs in which you explore your topic in greater detail. These can be of varying lengths and the number of paragraphs is up to you.
Conclusion – Sum up your discussion and end on a reflective, thought-provoking note.
Planning your response beforehand — even if it’s some dot points crammed into the corner of the page — allows you to think deeply about how to best organise and present your ideas. For each paragraph, plan what its focus will be and which pieces of evidence you will include.
Evidence is crucial in a discursive response as it adds legitimacy to your discussion and helps to build authenticity.
You may include, but are not limited to, the following types of evidence:
You can but you are not required to. This entirely depends on the nature of the question and how you prefer to answer it.
If you want your response to be focussed on texts, then some analysis may be helpful.
If you’re focussing on broader ideas or phenomena however, perhaps ease up on the techniques for now.
You might be thinking: Module C seems all a bit… unstructured ?
Ironically, if you think that, you’re on the right train of thought! You’ve actually understood the form excellently. It’s natural to find discursive writing a little unfamiliar, considering you’re much more used to writing in a highly-structured essay style.
Discursive writing is deliberately exploratory and personal in nature. Great discursive writer Annie Dillard sums up the form well, noting that discursive writing has “ a structure that arises from the materials and best contains them ”. The discursive writing style is highly personal and effectively you can dictate your own structure.
However, don’t let this freak you out! You can in fact use the vagueness of this form to your advantage.
Authors use literary techniques for a reason. They provide an interesting, more meaningful way of getting ideas across than just stating things outright.
Consider this example from our old mate, William Shakespeare:
“I will speak daggers to her but use none” (Hamlet, Hamlet , Act 3 Scene 2) Cool, right? Shakespeare uses a great metaphor of daggers to convey the sharp hostility Hamlet plans to convey in speaking to his mother. Can’t get enough of it. Let’s consider the same line without any techniques : I’ll speak rudely to her but I won’t actually do anything to physically harm her.
Look, it gets the meaning across and it’s nice and direct but let’s be real — it’s boring. The daggers metaphor captures our imagination and gets us thinking whereas the rewritten, metaphor-less line simply tells us what Hamlet is planning to do, no more.
Slightly random Hamlet analysis aside, techniques such as metaphors will help bring your writing voice to life — and will sure as heck engage your reader, if used correctly.
When reading your prescribed texts, take note of techniques you personally find meaningful. Not just the techniques your teacher tells you to find meaningful but ones that you actually like yourself.
Experiment with these techniques in your own writing. Loved the dagger metaphor we learnt about from Hamlet just now? Have a go at writing your own metaphor to describe the way someone speaks to another . And so on, and so forth.
Don’t just focus on your prescribed texts either. If you’re keen on a Band 6 for HSC English, you should already be engaging in regular wide reading. As you do this, take note of any cool techniques you happen upon, and have a go at creating your own.
Here’s the absolute minimum set of techniques you should be including your discursive writing: Varying sentence structure: write like you’re a human, not a robot! Tone : depending on the formality or informality of the piece, the ultimate aim is to get them so immersed that they don’t feel like they’re reading at all! Nuance: Add in some information that goes against your argument, then disprove it — this actually makes the reader trust your opinion! Here are some fancier techniques you can include to secure that Band 6: A running symbol: especially in more creative pieces, this reminds the reader of your point of view. The symbol should evolve as your point of view evolves Hero’s Journey: to get your reader rooting for your side, implement the hero’s journey. Write your piece as if you’re telling a story: add a call to adventure, challenges and a transformation in your discursive writing! Imagery : Want your reader to feel like they’re not reading? Get them imagining the physical surroundings of your discursive text!
You’ll likely already be doing something similar to this in your classwork for Module C.
If you don’t know your techniques well, check out our handy dandy glossary !
You can write in first or third person for discursive writing however first person is recommended as it allows you to craft a much more authentic and engaging personal voice.
Think of discursive writing almost as an extended, slightly-more-structured stream of consciousness. You’re exploring and bouncing between your thoughts on a particular topic, and doing so through a voice that is inherently and unashamedly yours.
While third person is not necessarily wrong , it runs the risk of your discursive writing reading more like a persuasive essay.
Even if you’re following the best advice on how to write a piece of discursive writing, it’s likely that you’ll struggle to accurately reflect on the quality of your work. You’ve probably heard this before: “HSC English is super subjective.” To a certain extent, this is true!
That’s why we recommend getting personalised guidance from an HSC English tutor who knows the syllabus inside and out. They can point you in the right direction and decipher your teacher’s feedback with you! That way, you’ll be able to move forward knowing that you’re doing the right things.
In previous HSC exams, it was common practice for students to write and perfect a creative writing story, memorise that story word for word, and use it in the exam — adapting when necessary — in the hopes of a Band 6.
It seems to be heading this way with the imaginative writing component of Craft of Writing, with many students already writing and revising a story to be kept as their “safety net”.
While this can have benefits for imaginative writing, it might not play out so well for discursive writing.
The fluidity of discursive writing means that your structure and content are likely to depend almost entirely on what’s asked in the question. As you can’t predict the question, logically it is also difficult to pre-prepare a response.
Rather than rote-learning a discursive piece, it is much wiser to instead practise a range of different Module C questions using a discursive form. Have your teacher — or a tutor — read over your discursive writings and either rewrite them using their feedback, or write new responses, keeping the feedback in mind (or you can also do both).
After all, you might not even be asked to write discursively in the exam! All that time spent memorising for nothing… (same goes for imaginative writing, just sayin’…)
If you’ve already been on the lookout for practice questions, you can find a bunch in this article !
Now that you’re a little more familiar with discursive writing, here’s a practice question:
“I pay no attention to anybody’s praise or blame. I simply follow my own feelings” — Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart Use this quote as a stimulus for a piece of discursive writing that expresses your perspective about a significant concern or idea that you have engaged with in ONE of your prescribed texts from Module C.
Have a go at this question and get feedback from your HSC English teacher and/or tutor.
And in the meantime — you can have a look at our monster list of Module C practice questions so you can practise your discursive writing!
We have an incredible team of hsc english tutors and mentors who are current hsc syllabus experts.
We can help you master discursive writing and ace your upcoming HSC English assessments with personalised lessons conducted one-on-one in your home, online or at one of our state of the art campuses in Hornsby or the Hills!
Feel confident tackling Module C with personalised tutoring support in Mosman or HSC English support in Hurstville !
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By hrag vartanian.
Photo by Aram Jibilian
As the emerging field of art and technology continues to garner media attention, the critical dialogue around the work remains uneven and underdeveloped. While various academic programs profess to teach art writing, they continue to champion an old formula that has not evolved and has yet to incorporate the tools of 2st-century culture. And while artists and audiences adapt, the majority of journalists, critics included, have yet to embrace the same tools of photography, memes, audio, video, and multimedia. Foundations, academia, museums, and other institutions should embrace a broader notion of discourse driven by media and art professionals, and not only academics, dedicated to innovative approaches.
University art writing programs still privilege longform writing in an impersonal and analytic style that is largely unread by anyone but the faithful. This type of writing is reinforced by traditional writing prizes, foundation grants, and academic committees, which invalidate other forms of writing during hiring processes. This reliance on traditional print-like media, rather than more contemporary and digital forms, makes writing about these works appear staid, esoteric, and uninteresting to the general public.
While many more conventional contemporary artists have embraced the tools of technology, creators who fully integrate technology still face obstacles, one of which is a lack of art criticism and critical dialogue. Criticism serves as an arbiter of “taste,” appealing to the patron classes who buy art or visit art institutions. Today, that has shifted as audiences are more fluid and broad, encompassing a wide range of types and media consumption habits. Criticism’s slowness to adapt is exacerbated by the fact that many art market-focused or -supported print publications rely on academics and graduate students, while supplementing words almost exclusively with gallery- or museum-approved press images that show work in a noncritical light. These types of writers often idealize and romanticize art as something detached from its financial realities, while being uninformed about or uninterested in more underground and emerging forms that do not receive institutional support and approval, or challenge the orthodoxies of the field.
Online journals, even if they write extensively about art that embraces technology, have also been slow to embrace the challenge. As Charlotte Frost, Karen Elio, and Keiko Suzuki, authors of Art Criticism Online: A History , have pointed out in one of their more interesting insights, these online journals, which they curiously distinguish from blogs, “have become the establishment when it comes to art and cultural criticism. Partly this is because they have been cautious about the real benefits of web-based art discussion.”
That aversion is partly reinforced by the majority of accredited academic programs that devalue innovative forms of writing and discussion that are both accessible and public-facing. A variety of funding sources is required to encourage this while seeking a broad impact for the work. Art-focused foundations, such as Creative Capital, have attempted to support blogs and other online forums as part of their annual grants, but their funding has been limited and has either targeted small, localized projects that are clearly unsustainable or those that have reproduced the same exclusionary tactics and values of the commercial art world that is embraced by conventional arts institutions. One project, for instance, created a very long-form text-only blog with no hyperlinks, which has since been archived by Rhizome at the New Museum. Funders also often support graduate student projects, and thus reinforce the romanticized notions mentioned above. This is in contrast to more public-facing art writing projects, such as Artblog in Philadelphia and Art F City in New York, that need annual—and not one-time—support to continue efforts while sustaining themselves.
Conversations that influence society and the arts need to be sustained (and sustainable), embracing continuous and constant discourse that doesn’t lionize one-off supposedly “authoritative” articles that are more often read in grad seminars than by the public. Like technology itself, which permeates our lives, conversations that tackle art and technology need to be multifaceted, digital native, and changing, reflecting a thought process that evolves, reflects, absorbs, and synthesizes new information rather than relying solely on text-based analysis. This drip approach is what makes social media particularly well-suited to the constant stream of information many people now produce and consume, and is part of the reason social media continues to dominate information flow and networks today.
A lack of media and digital literacy is one of the obstacles, as many art writing and art programs do not support those forms of literacy. During a recent lecture at Chautauqua by Dr. Erika Wong , the U.K.-based scholar and artist pointed out that art programs often shun social media as an unreliable source rather than embracing and teaching it as part of a larger curriculum. Considering the recent role of social media in our politics and culture, this is concerning. An example of this disdain for social media was echoed by Johanna Burton — then New Museum’s Keith Haring director and curator of education and public engagement, and currently the director of the Wexner Center for the Arts. During a curatorial symposium in 2018, she shared that she has never engaged with social media and is not interested. This raises questions as to who those who shun social media are actually engaging and listening to other than the donors, curators, and administrators—who are almost all white and affluent in the United States—who dominate institutional settings.
One case study that may help illuminate the challenge is the way that critical discourse has treated the appearance of memes . While not traditionally seen as part of “contemporary art'' and culture, the emergence of memes, particularly in the 21st century, is now being embraced after years of being ignored by various elites in the mainstream. The 2016 U.S. presidential election campaign proved to many people that nontraditional media such as memes have political power.
Back in 2011, An Xiao Mina wrote about “ social media street art ” for Hyperallergic, which I edit. Riffing off the recent success of street art during the influential 2008 Obama presidential campaign, she noticed how users of the Chinese microblogging site Sina Weibo wielded images during moments of national crisis (such as national or human-made disasters) as a form of artistic dissent. During the same period, contemporary artist Ai Weiwei was actively using memes to engage in creating subversive images that evaded official Chinese censors, often using sunflower seeds, “grass mud horse,” and even images of people holding their legs like rifles with the words “京城反恐系列” (Beijing anti-terrorism series). “Grass mud horse” is a Chinese meme and symbol for defiance on the internet.
Mina was also briefly at Ai Weiwei’s studio, and she found that the art community was largely unwelcoming of writing about this type of work, particularly since it had not reached art galleries and museums and was not being taught in colleges and universities. “In the early 2010s, it was hard for me to find art world venues to write about the phenomenon of memes as political expression in China, as much of the art world was focused on Ai’s traditional sculptural and video work,” she noted in an interview for this essay. “I was interested in exploring the internet, culture, and power and found early opportunities to do this in a limited number of art venues. I then began writing about this in civic technology spaces.”
Her experience mirrors many others’ experiences around critical dialogue and new forms of art that embrace technology outside of the strict confines of the academy. In the case of Ai Weiwei, the memes have now become crucial parts of our larger understanding of his oeuvre, but the language around this work is reduced to more traditional conversations rooted in older Western art historical forms and images rather than within a larger media and social discourse.
In 2019, Mina went on to write Memes to Movements: How the World's Most Viral Media Is Changing Social Protest and Power , which was widely praised by those in a post-2016 world as a way to understand memes. Writing in the Atlantic , Megan Garber characterized Mina as a “digital-culture scholar,” encapsulating work in a manner that echoes many of the artists and projects featured in this current National Endowment for the Arts report, Tech as Art: Supporting Artists Who Use Technology as a Creative Medium . Garber wrote, “Memes, participatory and productively remixable, tap into the deep desire for storytelling—and for story-receiving—that is such a profound part of being human.” In her book, Mina wrote, “memes allow us to more quickly develop the visual and verbal language around which movements organize.” This is of particular interest to the creators in the field of art and technology, who are fully engaged in innovative approaches that respond to new realities.
Mina began her career as an artist and an innovator in social media art—she was the first commissioned artist by the Brooklyn Museum for its 1st Fans Twitter feed—and an early adopter of crowd-sourced art, such as Kickstarter. But while she has found support at the Berkman Klein Center for Internet and Society at Harvard University and elsewhere, the art community has provided little support for her work. Many of these projects outlined in the report often receive press in non-art-focused publications. Most art publications, including many academic ones, focus on art market or art market-adjacent works that have established systems of circulation and commerce. This echoes their financial support structures, which can often be commercial art galleries and art foundations.
The lack of market and auction track records for most of the art being discussed in the National Endowment for the Arts’ report points to similar non-market dynamics, as these makers function outside the traditional commercial art market for various reasons. This lopsided ecosystem is certainly influenced by the current state of inequality in society, in which the wealthy institutions and companies dominate media attention through press agents and marketing departments pushing out related content, including art writing. The digital artists who succeed in the market-based gallery system are often engaged with artificial scarcity to maintain the aura of the art object and step away from the qualities that make the technology unique: its easy circulation and reproducibility.
While the commercial art system is not the only network in the art community, it tends to dominate art discourse because of its patronization of magazines through advertising and press trips, and because academics often contribute to their in-house publications and catalogues. There is a growing trend at major blue-chip art galleries to create in-house publications, such as Ursula at Hauser & Wirth and Gagosian at Gagosian gallery, that do not offer any negative reviews and support their sales priorities. A large number of writers for most of these art publications and catalogues are graduate students or academics, who often infuse their words with theoretical constructs that turn off general readers and laypeople, and raise serious questions about the independence of academia from the art market. These same people regularly appear at large corporate art fairs where sales dominate any other discourse, even if panels and talks offer an intellectual veneer to the brash commercialism of the event.
Similarly, art forms and practices such as networked photography, installations for festivals, and other projects that reject the traditional market model or system—which is often antagonistic to collectives and other non-traditional forms of art-making—suffer from the same issues. They have found support and traction in startups, corporations, or even universities (though rarely in art or art history departments). But the discourse in more traditional art media and scholarship channels doesn’t always situate the work in the dynamic history of art and technology without falling back on conventions that elevate the established canon that continues to underrepresent non-European, non-male, and non-object-based histories of art.
It is crucial that the art community expand the discourse not only to ensure that more diverse voices enter the field, but also to reflect the changing atmosphere in which art is being created. Art writers and critics must be engaged in art in order to accurately reflect the new waves of creators who often reject established forms to create new worlds that contain us all.
Hrag Vartanian is an editor, art critic, curator, and lecturer on contemporary art with an expertise on the intersection of art and politics. He is the editor-in-chief of Hyperallergic , which he co-founded in 2009 in response to changes in the art world, the publishing industry, and the distribution of information.
Welcome to the comprehensive guide on discursive passage writing specifically designed for Class 11 students. Mastering the art of discursive writing is a crucial skill that will not only enhance your language proficiency but also help you excel in exams and beyond. In this guide, we will unravel the key components and techniques to craft engaging and persuasive discursive passages.
Discursive writing is an expressive and versatile form of writing that allows you to explore an argument from multiple perspectives. It requires critical thinking, research, and a firm grasp of language to effectively convey your ideas and opinions. Whether you are preparing for your board exams or simply aiming to improve your writing skills, this guide is here to support you every step of the way. Throughout this article, we will dive deep into the structure of discursive passages, the importance of research and evidence, effective language usage, and strategies to present your arguments persuasively. By the end of this guide, you will have the tools and knowledge to craft compelling discursive passages that stand out from the rest. Get ready to unleash your writing potential as we embark on this exciting journey into the art of discursive passage writing. Let's begin!
A passage where the writer rambles from topic to topic is called a discursive piece of writing. The adjective discursive is often used to describe a speech or writing that tends to stray from the main point, but the word can also have almost the opposite meaning.
A discursive passage includes argumentative, interpretative and persuasive text. such passages may include opinions or feedback. It allows students to arrive at a conclusion though reasoning and understanding rather than intuition. It presents a balanced and objective approach towards the subject being discussed.
Passages of this kind are analytical. Sometimes the author presents his views with great depth of reasoning or force of argument with the intention of convincing the reader to his point of view. Such texts have great persuasive power.
Discursive writing expresses opinions. It can be argumentative, i.e. may give reasons, explanations, or explore cause and effect relationship. Passages of this kind are analytical. Sometimes the author presents his views with great depth of reasoning or force of argument with the intention of convincing the reader to his point of view. Such texts have great persuasive power.
A discursive passage is a type of writing that discusses a topic from different angles. It's like a conversation in writing.
Example : A discursive passage on "The Importance of Exercise" might talk about its health benefits but also discuss potential risks like injuries.
Building Critical Thinking : Learning to see different sides of an issue helps you think better.
Example : You'll learn to evaluate the pros and cons of a topic like "Is Social Media Good or Bad?"
Improving Language Skills : You get to learn new words and how to make good sentences.
Example : You might come across words like "advocate" or "detrimental" and learn how to use them.
Exam Preparation : These passages often come up in exams, so knowing them well helps.
Example : You'll find questions asking you to summarize a discursive passage or state its main point.
Argumentative : Tries to convince you of a viewpoint.
Example : A passage arguing that recycling is essential for the environment.
Expository : Explains a topic in detail.
Example : A passage explaining how solar panels work.
Descriptive : Describes something so you can picture it in your mind.
Example : A passage describing a peaceful countryside setting.
Introduction : Tells you what the topic is about.
Example : "Today we are discussing the effects of climate change."
Body : Discusses different viewpoints.
Example : One paragraph talks about the science behind climate change, another might discuss political debates around it.
Conclusion : Sums up the points and may offer an opinion.
Example : "While there are differing views on climate change, the scientific evidence is strong."
Read Carefully : Understand each line.
Example : If the passage is about climate change, notice if it talks about causes, effects, or solutions.
Take Notes : Write down key ideas.
Example : Jot down important statistics or arguments.
Think Critically : Ask yourself questions about the passage.
Example : Do you agree with the author? Why or why not?
Plan Ahead : Think before you write.
Example : Make a list of points you want to cover.
Be Clear : Use simple words.
Example : Instead of saying "utilize," you can say "use."
Balance Views : Show more than one side of the issue.
Example : If writing about fast food, mention both its convenience and health risks.
Being Biased : Show all sides.
Example : If writing about a political issue, present arguments from both sides.
Going Off-Topic : Stick to what you're supposed to talk about.
Example : If your topic is "healthy eating," don't start talking about exercise.
Poor Structure : Keep a clear beginning, middle, and end.
Example : Don't jump from one point to another without good flow.
Look for samples in textbooks, or online resources. Practicing with these will help you get better.
By understanding these elements, students, parents, and teachers can gain a richer understanding of discursive passages, not just for exam success but for better thinking and communication skills.
DISCURSIVE PASSAGE SAMPLE
The Impact of Social Media on Today's Youth
Social media has become a big part of our lives. We use it to stay in touch with friends, to share moments, and even to catch up on news. But have you ever stopped to think about how it's affecting young people?
Let's start by talking about the good stuff. Social media can be a great tool for learning. Many students use platforms like YouTube to help them understand tricky topics. There are tons of educational videos out there, and they can make studying a lot more fun. Plus, social media can help you stay connected with your friends, even when you can't see them in person. You can chat, share pictures, and keep up with each other's lives, all at the click of a button.
But it's not all good news. Social media can also have some negative impacts. One of the biggest issues is how it affects our mental health. Scrolling through Instagram or Facebook can make you feel like everyone else has a perfect life. This can make you feel bad about yourself, and over time, it can even lead to anxiety or depression.
Another issue is that social media can be a big distraction. When you're supposed to be doing homework or studying, it's easy to get lost in your feed. Before you know it, you've spent an hour watching funny videos, and you haven't gotten any work done.
Then there's the issue of privacy. Everything you post online stays there forever. You might think it's fun to share pictures from a party, but what happens when a college admissions officer or a future employer sees it? Even if you delete it later, someone could have already taken a screenshot. You have to be really careful about what you share.
So, what can be done to use social media in a balanced way? First, it's important to set some rules for yourself. Maybe you can decide that you won't check your phone during meals or when you're doing homework. You can also set a time limit for how long you can use social media each day. There are even apps that can help you keep track.
Parents can play a role too. They can talk to their kids about the dangers and benefits of social media. They can also set rules, like no phones at the dinner table, to help everyone use social media in a healthy way.
Teachers are also a key part of this. They can guide students on how to use social media for educational purposes. For instance, they can suggest useful YouTube channels for learning new topics. Teachers can also discuss topics like online privacy and cyberbullying in class, to make students more aware.
In conclusion, social media is a tool, and like any tool, it can be used for good or bad. It has the power to help us learn and stay connected, but it can also make us feel bad and waste our time. By being mindful of how we use it, and by setting some simple rules, we can make sure that we're using it in a way that's healthy for us.
Certainly! Here are some questions that can go along with the discursive passage "The Impact of Social Media on Today's Youth." These questions are designed to help Class 11 students think more deeply about the topic, and they're also easy for parents and teachers to understand.
What are some of the positive ways social media can impact young people, according to the passage?
Describe the negative effects of social media on mental health as mentioned in the passage.
How can social media serve as a distraction for students?
What concerns does the passage raise about privacy and online behavior?
What roles can parents play in guiding their children's use of social media?
How can teachers contribute to a better understanding of social media among students?
What are some of the suggested ways to use social media in a balanced manner?
Do you agree with the passage's view that social media is a tool that can be used for both good and bad? Explain your answer.
What personal rules would you set for yourself to ensure a healthy use of social media?
What additional points, not covered in the passage, do you think are important to consider when discussing the impact of social media on today's youth?
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Some people believe that traveling is a valuable experience; others say it is a waste of time and money. discuss both views and give your own opinion., more and more companies allow their employees to work from home or “remotely” rather than going into an office each day. do the advantages of this policy outweigh the disadvantages, some people believe that unpaid community service should be compulsory part of high school programes. do you agree or disagree, schools should not force children to learn a foreign language. to what extent do you agree with this statement.
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The filmmaker talks about the inspirations for the characters in “Megalopolis” and “The Godfather,” and responds to recent allegations.
By Manohla Dargis
Reporting from Cannes
The first time that Francis Ford Coppola had a movie in competition at the Cannes Film Festival was in 1967. He was 28 and the movie was “You’re a Big Boy Now,” a neo-screwball studio comedy about a young guy trying to cut loose from his parents. Coppola made it while he was in film school at the University of California, Los Angeles, and it became his master’s thesis project. A month after the festival, he began directing his first big-budget studio film, “Finian’s Rainbow.” It flopped. He then poured some of his savings into a low-budget studio movie, “The Rain People.” It flopped. The next film he directed was “The Godfather.”
Coppola, now 85, was back again at Cannes last month with the epic fantasy “Megalopolis,” a big-screen dream that he has nurtured for more than 40 years. It’s his first movie since “Twixt” (2011), a little-seen horror tale about a genre novelist who says he wants to make something personal. It’s a plaintive refrain that Coppola has voiced repeatedly throughout his career. However celebrated he remains for the studio films that he has directed, Coppola is and has always been an unequivocally personal filmmaker, one whose love for the art of film has recurrently put him at odds with the industry and its media mouthpieces.
Given Coppola’s history of independence and specifically his record of great financial risks (as with “Apocalypse Now”) and sometimes staggering losses (“One From the Heart”), it was no surprise that much of the initial chatter about “Megalopolis” wasn’t about the movie per se or the sprawling ensemble headed by Adam Driver. Rather, much of the pre-festival talk was about how Coppola had helped bankroll it with “$120 million of his own money,” a phrase that was reflexively repeated in news reports. Even at Cannes, where the word “art” is used without embarrassment, money keeps an iron grip on both minds and movies.
By the time the festival opened on May 14, though, the talk about “Megalopolis” had changed course dramatically. That day, The Guardian published a long article on it. Much of the story was based on anonymous sources and was dedicated to gripes from crew members about Coppola’s methods — “‘Has this guy ever made a movie before?’” the headline read — echoing complaints that have dogged the filmmaker throughout his career. More alarming were the allegations that Coppola had tried to kiss female extras during production. In response , one of the executive producers, Darren Demetre, said he “was never aware of any complaints of harassment or ill behavior during the course of the project.”
A FEW DAYS AFTER “Megalopolis” had its premiere at Cannes, I walked under a canopy of clouds to a ship docked near the festival’s headquarters, to speak with Coppola. The yacht belonged to an Italian-Tunisian distributor and Coppola was, as he put it, “mooching” as assorted relatives, friends, colleagues and support staff buzzed around him. He looked tired, and while that’s normal for many attendees at the world’s largest film festival, it was hard not to think that grief had taken its toll, too. On April 12, Eleanor Coppola , his wife of more than six decades, died. On May 18, his longtime collaborator Fred Roos — a producer on numerous Coppola family films, “Megalopolis” included — also died.
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Discursive (adj) [dis-ker-siv]: talking or writing about things that are not highly organized. moving from topic to topic without order. passing aimlessly from one topic to another. SYNONYMS: rambling, digressive, erratic, long-winded. Think of discursive as a BLEND of expository and argumentative because it uses elements from both:
3. For and against essay. Write it as a debate with opposing opinions. Describe each viewpoint objectively, presenting facts. Set the stage for the problem in your discursive essay intro. Explore reasons, examples, and facts in the main body. Conclude with your opinion on the matter.
This will help you organize your thoughts and arguments effectively. Clear Introduction: Start with a concise introduction that provides context and grabs the reader's attention. Clearly state your thesis or main argument. Well-structured Paragraphs: Divide your essay into paragraphs that focus on specific points.
1. Introduction: Hook: Begin with a captivating hook or attention-grabbing statement to engage the reader's interest. Contextualization: Provide a brief overview of the topic and its relevance, setting the stage for the discussion. Thesis Statement: Clearly state the main argument or the purpose of the essay.
Start with an introduction to the topic. Discuss each essay question in a single paragraph. Begin each paragraph with a powerful issue sentence. Paragraphs with one point usually followed by a counterpoint paragraph. Its style is general for essays as the reader should understand what you stand for.
Planning. Use previous chapters to explore your chosen topic through concept mapping (Chapter 18) and essay outlining (Chapter 19), with one variance; you must include your proposed claims and counter claims in your proposed paragraph structures. What follows is a generic model for a discursive essay. The following Chapter 27 will examine this ...
The points you use while writing a discursive essay need to flow smoothly so that readers could see a logical organization of the work. For this, you can use transition words that'll make your paper easily readable and crisp. For example, if you want to list some points, opt for such words as firstly, to begin with, secondly, lastly, finally ...
By mastering the art of writing a discursive essay, you can effectively convey complex ideas and contribute to meaningful discussions on various subjects. What's different about writing a discursive essay. Writing a discursive essay differs from other types of essays in several ways. Here are some key differences to consider when approaching ...
Your essay is structured in a manner that argues towards this stand. When writing an argumentative essay, your goal is to persuade, to convince the reader to be in support of your stand. Discursive: you are not required to take an explicit stand on the issue. In other words, you do not need to pick a side. You may choose to pick a side; that ...
Tone. The discursive essay is a formal essay that requires a formal tone. This means that you'll write in third person point of view to evaluate arguments and express your opinion. You'll also need to use formal word choices to keep the tone of your essay in check. In other words, don't write this:
Tips for Writing a Discursive Essay. Discursive Essay A discursive essay is an article that talks about a topic that is controversial in nature. This type of essay intends to present the issues both sides of the argument. However, it is important that the writer also explain why he has chosen to side with one argument and provide the logic ...
Don't know what a discursive essay is? Do you know what the differences between a discursive and persuasive essay are? Don't worry. In this article, we explain what discursive writing for Year 12 Module C: The Craft of Writing is and give you a step-by-step process for writing a discursive essay.
1. Politically Discursive Art. Gerhard Richter's portrait of his uncle wearing a Nazi uniform, Uncle Rudi (1965), addresses the subject of intergenerational guilt in Germany; Margaret Atwood's novel The handmaid's tale critiques patriarchal oppression through a story set in a dystopian future society; Public Enemy's hip-hop album Fear of a Black Planet tackles institutional racism in ...
Past Titles: Descriptive Essays In TEXT 2, William Trevor mentions 'the art of the glimpse'. Write a descriptive essay based on a variety of glimpsed moments. (2013 Theme: Story-telling) '…the dust and seep of the city…' Write a descriptive essay about twenty-four hours in the life of a town or city. (2011 Theme: Mystery)
In this article, we use topic modeling to systematically explore topics discussed in contemporary art criticism. Analyzing 6965 articles published between 1991 and 2015 in Frieze, a leading art magazine, we find a plurality of topics characterizing professional discourse on contemporary art.Not surprisingly, media- or genre-specific topics such as film/cinema, photography, sculpture ...
Obviously, a visual essay runs the risk of being 'shot by both sides': artists may scorn the loss of artistic autonomy and 'exploitation' of the work of art in the service of scholarship ...
discursive practices that are especially meaningful to members of the art world and take . ... Philosophizing Art: Selected Essays. Berkeley: University of California Press. de la Fuente E (2007 ...
Tip #4: Get Personalised Feedback on Your Work. Even if you're following the best advice on how to write a piece of discursive writing, it's likely that you'll struggle to accurately reflect on the quality of your work. You've probably heard this before: "HSC English is super subjective.".
In a discursive piece you are expected to discuss a given topic and present an argument related to it. There are two basic types of discursive essay. Firstly there are persuasive essays in which ...
Writing in the Atlantic, Megan Garber characterized Mina as a "digital-culture scholar," encapsulating work in a manner that echoes many of the artists and projects featured in this current National Endowment for the Arts report, Tech as Art: Supporting Artists Who Use Technology as a Creative Medium. Garber wrote, "Memes, participatory ...
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Welcome to the comprehensive guide on discursive passage writing specifically designed for Class 11 students. Mastering the art of discursive writing is a crucial skill that will not only enhance your language proficiency but also help you excel in exams and beyond. In this guide, we will unravel the key components and techniques to craft ...
Studying art in school also improves students' performance in other subjects, because it is easier for multi-skilled students to learn new things. ... Thus, my following essay will explain the merits and demerits of this trend, I personally believe that it's has more drawback than benefit. 6. band. In the future all cars, buses and trucks will ...
On May 18, his longtime collaborator Fred Roos — a producer on numerous Coppola family films, "Megalopolis" included — also died. Yet if Coppola looked weary, he didn't sound like he was ...