The Art and Science of Innovation: Transdisciplinary Work, Learning and Transgression 3031331311, 9783031331312

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Transdisciplinary Perspectives in Educational Research 7

Lorraine White-Hancock

The Art and Science of Innovation Transdisciplinary Work, Learning and Transgression

Transdisciplinary Perspectives in Educational Research Volume 7

Series Editor Dennis Beach, Education, Högskolan i Borås, Borås, Sweden

​his book series presents and discusses topical themes of European and T international educational research in the 21st century. It provides educational researchers, policy makers and practitioners with up-to-date theories, evidence and insights in European educational research. It captures research findings from different educational contexts and systems and concentrates on the key contemporary interests in educational research, such as 21st century learning, new learning environments, global citizenship and well-being. It approaches these issues from various angles, including empirical, philosophical, political, critical and theoretical perspectives. The series brings together authors from across a range of geographical, socio-­political and cultural contexts, and from different academic levels. The book series works closely with the networks of the European Educational Research Association. It builds on work and insights that are forged there but also goes well beyond the EERA scope to embrace a wider range of topics and themes in an international perspective.

Lorraine White-Hancock

The Art and Science of Innovation Transdisciplinary Work, Learning and Transgression

Lorraine White-Hancock Monash University Melbourne, VIC, Australia

ISSN 2662-6691     ISSN 2662-6705 (electronic) Transdisciplinary Perspectives in Educational Research ISBN 978-3-031-33131-2    ISBN 978-3-031-33132-9 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-33132-9 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. This Springer imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

For Adrian and Holly, Helen and Jack with deepest gratitude.

Preface

What Is This Book About? This book examines how innovation is produced in collaborative, transdisciplinary art-science work. Globally, governments identify innovation as crucial to economic success and wellbeing. The emphasis in Australian Government innovation policies has mostly been on science and technology, with growing acknowledgement of the significance of business organisation and management. Innovation in the arts is recognised at intervals but tends to be linked to creativity. Policies on innovation identify the contribution that ‘creatives’ make to the economy but mostly without considering how creatives and innovation are linked. In this context, questions are raised about the contribution of collaborative transdisciplinary art-science practice to innovation and how innovation occurs. To introduce a new feminist perspective on thinking about innovation, I have used the idea of ‘transgression’. Ideas about transgression and boundaries, particularly those of Donna Haraway, help explain how challenging or transgressing boundaries, including disciplinary boundaries, influence innovation. This book highlights how transgressive practices disrupt established knowledges, moving ways of thinking and doing in new directions. In doing so, the book draws attention to the social and human dimensions of innovation, rather than economics which is so often the focus of attention. I extend the idea of innovation as transgression by drawing on workplace learning research that identifies learning as both a form of work and a practice that unfolds through working in particular workplaces. What is also new about this book is that it draws on organisational and workplace learning literature to reveal how innovation practices become transgressive. This framework suggests innovation is a particular kind of transgressive ‘learning-through-working’ that is contingent on the organisation and culture of workplaces and how transgressive practices are permitted or regulated. Analysis of workplace learning research reveals that three interfacing dimensions make up innovation: (1) workplace environments, (2) the culture-order that facilitates innovation, and (3) learning in practice in authentic workplace settings. vii

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The book examines transdisciplinary art-science practice as a form of work and learning that realises innovation to address the gap in Australian Government innovation policies. I do this by presenting five cases of innovation concerning artists and scientists who work together on transdisciplinary projects. The first case involves the highly acclaimed Australian artist, Patricia Piccinini and her hot air balloons, The Skywhale (2013) and Skywhalepapa (2021). The first balloon prompted much public debate and controversy. Some people saw her as offensive and an ugly waste of public money, and others saw her as highly innovative. These mixed reactions raise the question, what is innovation? The second case is about the German Bauhaus School (1919–1933). The school is a landmark in the history of design as a discipline and design education. But it was also a workplace where teachers and students worked in collaboration with technicians and experts in manufacturing industries to produce and commercialise their innovative designs. While drawing much interest and support in Germany and internationally, the school was also seen to be highly transgressive. This historical examination sheds light on the effects of transgression on innovation long after the school closed. This approach is unlike most studies of innovation which focus on the present. Examining this case reveals some surprising commonalities between the Bauhaus approach to innovation and contemporary thinking about supporting innovation in workplaces and education now. The other three cases involve contemporary Synapse artist-in-residence projects where artists work in collaboration with scientists in their scientific workplaces in Australia. Interviews with participants in each project provide commentaries on the experience of collaboration across disciplinary boundaries. Together, these three cases show how the artists and scientists challenged each other and their work. The effects of the transdisciplinary collaborations challenged taken-for-granted understandings of both scientists and artists and created a space for innovation. While the artists disrupted workplace, disciplinary, and organisational orders, the scientists also challenged the artists ways of thinking and doing. This book shows how learning-through-working becomes transgressive when prevailing cultural and social boundaries are challenged. But innovation only materialises when workplace terms and conditions that resource people and endorse learning-through-working combine with a culture that permits rule breaking. On this basis, arts practice and transdisciplinary art-science practice are under-­ recognised resources in innovation.

Why This Subject Matter? Three critical incidents illustrate my long interests in the topics of this book and how they have been sparked. These incidents were critical to the development of my professional identity and judgement, emerging mostly from my professional background as an artist and designer involved in transdisciplinary projects, and as an art and design educator. With this background in mind, it is transdisciplinary

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art-science practice that is the focus of this book. But the first critical incident is about the genesis of my interest in the idea of innovation. Critical Incident 1  occurred while driving my six-year-old daughter to school one morning. We had stopped at some traffic lights when she read a sign on the front of a nearby shop: ‘The inn…o…va…tive blind com…pany!’, she proclaimed enthusiastically. The way she enunciated every syllable got my attention. I looked at the blinds in the window and they were old 70s style verticals. They would have been innovative back then I suppose, but it was 2005. I started noticing the word ‘innovation’ everywhere. It seemed everyone wanted to be part of the action, including me... I wondered, what makes a company or a person innovative? Does just saying you’re innovative necessarily mean you are innovative? And how do you become an innovator? The ‘innovative blind company’ closed shortly after that fateful drive. But defining innovation and investigating different perspectives of innovation in relation to education became the topics of my Master of Education thesis. I found out that the innovation business is a lot more complex than I expected. So, doctoral studies on the topic followed and now this book. In one sense, the ‘innovative blind company’ lives on and continues to inspire… Critical Incident 2  is about innovation-transgression. Some years ago, I attended a presentation given by the performance artist Stelarc to art and design students who I taught at a large tertiary institute in Melbourne, Australia. The artist spoke about his work relating to body augmentation. Stelarc described his Robot Arm1 performance that choreographed the motions of a scanning robot. An electronic ‘third hand’ was attached to his right arm and cameras responded to sensors attached to the artist’s abdominal muscles and limbs. Stelarc’s own body activated the robot arm and determined the flow of images onto a large screen. During the presentation, one student voiced her opinion that the human body was sacrosanct, a ‘temple’ created in God’s image, and we shouldn’t be fooling around with it – or words to that effect. Stelarc’s work was profane and sacrilegious, she said. She walked out of the presentation, expressing her antagonism towards the artist and his work. Complaints were made to the organisation. A controversy had begun. With a background in art and design, I find Stelarc’s performances highly innovative. This is because they challenge previous assumptions about what it is to be human and the way we define ourselves, in very provocative ways. The reaction of the student to Stelarc’s work was surprising because it seemed that she did not appreciate the innovativeness of the work and appeared shocked by the ‘transgression’ involved in body augmentation. Her comments suggested that she felt the performance had violated her sense of body, its boundaries, and the meanings she associated with it. The debate that followed was really about the nature of

 Or go to http://stelarc.org/?catID=20265. To see more of Stelarc’s work, go to his website by clicking on this LINK or go to http://stelarc.org 1

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innovation and creation, and the relationship between innovation and transgression. This incident suggests that different understandings of innovation, creativity, and transgression are possible and that they may depend on the background and experience, or the ‘standpoint’ of the viewer. Critical Incident 3  is about transdisciplinary work and learning. My interest in working across traditional disciplinary boundaries between science, technology, and art led to a collaborative project with an expert in optics, Dr Phil Wilksch, in the Physics Department of RMIT University (Melbourne, Australia) in the 1990s.2 Dr Wilksch had established a laser holography studio in the Department some years earlier. Our project explored applications of laser holography to wearable objects. The kind of holograms I was interested in making are called ‘reflection’ holograms which are like three-dimensional photographs. This experience gave me an understanding of how artists and scientists can work effectively in partnership to develop innovations. In fact, to complete the project, Dr Wilksch and I depended upon each other in terms of the knowledge and practices gained from our respective disciplinary fields. This experience of the innovative potential of technological, scientific, and artistic collaboration impacts on the framing of this book in that my examination of art-science innovation arises from the standpoint of an arts practitioner respectful of the situated knowledges embedded in various fields of endeavour, and the advantage of diversity in cross-boundary contexts. This collaboration allowed access to the knowledge and experience of an expert that was outside my own field of expertise and training. The collaboration also provided me with access to technology, equipment, and a facility that are rare, expensive, and beyond the financial reach of many individual artists. Access to the facility meant that I didn’t have to buy or build my own laser, then find studio space big enough to house the set-up of all the equipment. The experience of this collaboration extended the boundaries of both our fields. I understood the theory but didn’t know in practical terms how to set up mirrors at the correct angles to capture the objects to be ‘photographed’ with the laser. The whole process of producing an image took several hours! I didn’t know how to determine the timing of the ‘shoot’ or to prepare the glass with just the right density of developing material to reveal the image photographed. Developing the images was not discussed in the texts that I had read on the technique. But Dr Wilksch shared his knowledge of these processes with me. When I first approached the scientist with my idea to create pieces of jewellery that included images of various gem materials, I didn’t know if it was possible. He agreed to collaborate on this project because a holographic image of gem materials that are highly reflective had not been attempted. Dr Wilksch didn’t tell me at the time, but he thought the experiment might not succeed. Sometimes not knowing is far more valuable than knowing! Had I understood the difficulty of the problem, I

 See Coyle, R., & Hayward, P. (1995). Apparition: Holographic Art in Australia. Sydney, NSW: Power Publications. 2

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may not have bothered with the attempt in the first place. Nevertheless, the scientist was curious. The work was risky because the light could have reflected back on the laser and destroyed an extremely expensive piece of equipment. Luckily for me, Dr Wilksch was willing to take the risk and to conduct the experiment … and I’m glad it was his laser… The experiment worked, breaking new ground in art and science.

Why Read This Book? If these stories have piqued your interest, there are more in the following chapters. Those stories are about other people’s ideas and experiences of innovation, crossing boundaries, transgression, and transdisciplinary work and learning. By gathering and exploring such accounts and research on these topics, the book contributes to current debates about innovation in the following ways: 1. Examining how innovation unfolds in transdisciplinary contexts extends research on innovation. 2. The focus of this book is squarely on the human dimension of innovation rather than technical and economic aspects that are commonly given attention in research literature and government policies on innovation. People engage increasingly in collaborative transdisciplinary work, but there hasn’t been much written about people’s experiences of, and the effects of, working and learning in this way. 3. While much has been written about innovation, considering the linkage between transgression and innovation is an original contribution of this book. 4. The book introduces a new feminist perspective on thinking about innovation by using the idea of transgression. 5. Drawing on feminist perspectives of transgression to consider innovation as a kind of transgressive ‘learning-through-working’ also extends research on innovation. 6. One of the big contributions of this book is that it draws on organisational and workplace learning literature to reveal how innovation practices become transgressive. 7. Additionally, this work examines innovation across time and space whereas most contemporary studies of innovation focus on the here and now. Melbourne, VIC, Australia

Lorraine White-Hancock

Acknowledgements

Heartfelt thanks to my husband and daughter for their support, patience, and endurance over the years it took to write and conduct research for this book. Many thanks to the Synapse project partners who generously gave their time to speak to me about their work: Dr Mark Boland, Professor Ian Gibbins, Dr Chris Henschke, Cris Kennedy, Dr Mary Rosengren, and Catherine Truman. Thanks to Catherine, Chris, Mary, and Patricia Piccinini for granting copyright permission to use images of their work in this book. I am also appreciative of the valuable input provided by the Australian Network for Art and Technology management team. With deepest gratitude to Professor Terri Seddon for her wisdom and guidance as the main Supervisor of my doctoral study which informs this book. I have greatly valued her ongoing encouragement and friendship. I have also valued the support, advice, and good humour of Associate Professor Scott Bulfin throughout my time spent at Monash University and beyond. Thanks also to the many people who shared their expertise, wisdom, friendship, and some of the pain throughout my studies and the process of writing this book. Special thanks to Penny Davis, Adrian Hancock, Maureen White, and the independent reviewers for casting fresh eyes over aspects of the draft manuscript and providing valuable feedback. Advice and support from the Springer Nature Publications team has been greatly appreciated. Sincere thanks also to the Series Editor, Professor Dennis Beach, for his valuable feedback and advice on the development of this book as part of the series, Transdisciplinary Perspectives in Educational Research.

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Contents

1

A New Way of Exploring Innovation: Transdisciplinary Art-Science Work������������������������������������������������������    1 Introduction: The Skywhales (Fig. 1.1) ����������������������������������������������������    1 What Is ‘Innovation’?��������������������������������������������������������������������������������    3 Innovation – Transgression������������������������������������������������������������������������    4 What Is ‘Transdisciplinary’?����������������������������������������������������������������������    5 ‘Learning-Through-Working’��������������������������������������������������������������������    6 Aims of This Book������������������������������������������������������������������������������������    6 How Is This Book Organised? ������������������������������������������������������������������    9 References��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������   13

2

 Transgression: A New Way of Thinking About Innovation ����������������   15 Introduction: The Meaning of Innovation��������������������������������������������������   15 Ways of Seeing������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������   17 Situated Knowledge, Standpoint and Boundaries��������������������������������������   18 Transgression ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������   19 Paradigms of Knowledge Production��������������������������������������������������������   20 Perspectives of Innovation ������������������������������������������������������������������������   22 Practice������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������   26 Conclusion: Transgression as an Indicator of Innovation��������������������������   27 References��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������   28

3

Workplace Learning, the Human Dimension of Innovation and Transdisciplinary Work ������������������������������������������������������������������   31 Introduction������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������   31 The Human Dimension of Innovation ������������������������������������������������������   32 Learning-Through-Working����������������������������������������������������������������������   36 Workplace Learning for Innovation ����������������������������������������������������������   39 Learning-Through-Working and Transdisciplinary Practice in Times of Change������������������������������������������������������������������������������������   43

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Contents

Conclusion: Workplace Learning and Three Key Dimensions of Innovation����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������   46 References��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������   47 4

The Bauhaus School: An Historical Account of Transdisciplinary Practice������������������������������������������������������������������   51 Introduction������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������   51 The Organisation and Environment of the Bauhaus����������������������������������   53 The Workplace Culture-Order��������������������������������������������������������������������   59 Learning in Practice at the Bauhaus����������������������������������������������������������   61 Transdisciplinary Practice and Innovation������������������������������������������������   63 Innovation Then and Now��������������������������������������������������������������������������   65 Conclusion: Innovation, Transgression, and Reaction������������������������������   69 References��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������   71

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Environments and Spaces of Innovation in Contemporary Art-Science Work ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������   75 Introduction������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������   76 Physical Spaces: The Organisation and Sites of Synapse Art-Science Projects����������������������������������������������������������������   76 Mental Spaces: Project and Participant Profiles����������������������������������������   81 Innovation in Synapse Projects������������������������������������������������������������������   89 Social Spaces ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������   94 ‘In-Between’ Spaces as Mediators of Learning����������������������������������������   98 Conclusion: Supportive Environments for Innovation������������������������������   99 References��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������  100

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The Culture-Order That Authorises Innovation in Transdisciplinary Work����������������������������������������������������������������������  103 Introduction������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������  103 Critical Incidents: Disciplinary Assumptions, Myths, and Misconceptions ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������  104 The Disciplinary Divide and Maintaining Boundaries������������������������������  110 Knowledge Sharing-Not Sharing ��������������������������������������������������������������  113 Negotiating Boundaries: ‘Boundary Brokers’ as Mediators of Learning������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������  115 Conclusion: Challenges for Transdisciplinary Art-Science Work and Learning������������������������������������������������������������������������������������  118 References��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������  120

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Learning in Practice I: Experiencing Transgressive Art-Science Work ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������  121 Introduction������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������  121 Journeying and Embodied Learning����������������������������������������������������������  122 Artefacts as Boundary Negotiating Objects and Mediators of Learning������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������  126

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The ‘Zone of Discomfort’������������������������������������������������������������������������   128 Conclusion: Learning in Transdisciplinary Art-Science Practice������������   131 References������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������   132 8

 Learning in Practice II: ‘Doing’ Transgression������������������������������������  135 Introduction������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������  135 Re-emerging Identities: The Artist-Scientist����������������������������������������������  136 Innovation-Transgression��������������������������������������������������������������������������  139 Contributions to Expansive Learning in Art-Science Work��������������������   141 Conclusion: Supporting Transgressive, Transdisciplinary Learning in Practice ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������   147 References������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������   148

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A New Perspective on the Art and Science of Innovation: From STEM to Transgressive Working and Learning ������������������������  151 Introduction: Shedding Light on Transdisciplinary Innovation����������������  151 Key Features of Learning in Transgressive Art-Science Work������������������  152 Co-producing Innovation in Transdisciplinary Work��������������������������������  157 A New Model of Innovation����������������������������������������������������������������������  160 Shifting Paradigms������������������������������������������������������������������������������������  164 References��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������  164

Notes������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������  167 Index������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������  169

List of Figures

Fig. 1.1 Patricia Piccinini, Skywhalepapa Launch (February 2021). Skywhalepapa (right) with his companion, The Skywhale (2013) (left). Hot air balloons. Photograph from Drome Studios. Courtesy of the artist�������������������������������������������������������    2 Fig. 4.1 The Wassily chair. Reproduction, originally called the B3 chair and designed by Marcel Breuer, 1925–26. Originally called the B3 chair. Photographed by Lorkan��������������   62 Fig. 5.1 Catherine Truman, The Fine Bones of the Hand, Anatomy Lab, 2011. Photograph������������������������������������������������������������������   83 Fig. 5.2 Catherine Truman, Talking Hands, 2011. Photograph������������������   84 Fig. 5.3 Catherine Truman, Hybrids, 2011. Sculptures. Carved English lime, wood, paint�������������������������������������������������   84 Fig. 5.4 Mary Rosengren, Reimaging Nature: Hidden Visions and Ground Truth, 2011. Exhibition poster�����������������������������������   86 Fig. 5.5 Chris Henschke, LightCurve fraction, 2010. Still from animation�����������������������������������������������������������������������   88 Fig. 8.1

Catherine Truman, Sensate Gloves #6, 2014. Giclée print������������  145

Fig. 9.1

Model of innovation����������������������������������������������������������������������  161

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Chapter 1

A New Way of Exploring Innovation: Transdisciplinary Art-Science Work

Abstract  This chapter identifies the purposes of the book and provides an overview of the key ideas and issues that lie at its heart – ‘innovation’, ‘transgression’, ‘transdisciplinary’ and ‘learning-through-working’. These ideas are illustrated by discussing two works, The Skywhale and Skywhalepapa, created by the Australian artist, Patricia Piccinini. These artworks are hot air balloons developed in collaboration with scientists and technical experts. This transdisciplinary approach generated learning-through-working that pushed the boundaries of hot air balloon technology and design. Piccinini’s balloons are considered highly innovative by some people and transgressive by others. Discussion of the artwork highlights the relationship between innovation and transgression. The chapter then sets out how the book is organised, providing brief summaries of each of the chapters.

Introduction: The Skywhales (Fig. 1.1) The Skywhale and Skywhalepapa are massive hot air balloon-sculptures created by the acclaimed Australian artist, Patricia Piccinini whose work is regarded around the world as highly innovative. Her provocative sculptures and installations have been exhibited internationally from Tokyo to Frankfurt and New York. The artist was also selected as Australia’s representative at the prestigious Venice Biennale in 2003. The Skywhale sculpture was Commissioned by the Australian Capital Territory Government for the Centenary of Canberra celebration and launched into the sky over Canberra in 2013. Skywhalepapa made his debut in February 2021 alongside his companion outside the National Gallery of Australia in Canberra. Both sculptures are great achievements in hot-air balloon technology. Skywhalepapa is over thirty metres tall and The Skywhale is thirty-four metres long, weighing half a tonne. Both balloons are more than twice the size of the average hot-air balloon. The Skywhale took sixteen people seven months to construct, using more than 3.5 kilometres of fabric and 3.3 million stitches and there are 257 colours in the balloon when there are normally less than © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 L. White-Hancock, The Art and Science of Innovation, Transdisciplinary Perspectives in Educational Research 7, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-33132-9_1

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Fig. 1.1  Patricia Piccinini, Skywhalepapa Launch (February 2021). Skywhalepapa (right) with his companion The Skywhale (2013) (left). Hot air balloons. (Photograph from Drome Studios. Courtesy of the artist. The Skywhale was commissioned for The Centenary of Canberra. The Piccinini Hot Air Balloon (2013) was proudly supported by the Australian Capital Territory Government. To see more photographs of The Skywhale and Skywhalepapa on their first flight prior to this public launch, click on this link)

five (Corbett, 2013). Patricia Piccinini collaborated with a range of specialists and experts to help design and produce the works. These facts point to the complexity of the work involved and how the designs extended the boundaries of hot-air balloon science and technology in ways that were innovative. The much-anticipated dawn debut of Skywhalepapa was attended by thousands of spectators at the sold-out event. He was greeted much more favourably by the public, the media, and parliamentarians than his partner, The Skywhale, eight years earlier. Her launch prompted considerable public debate that questioned the sculpture’s appropriateness and value. Much of the criticism related to offending community values and focused on The Skywhale’s ‘strangeness’ and particularly her mammaries. Given these concerns, the cost and ‘value’ of the sculpture were hotly debated by government officials and within the media. What is striking about these criticisms of The Skywhale is the lack of value attributed to the concept, creativity and craftsmanship involved in her production, and for the technological achievement and the innovation of the objects. The critics appear to suggest that public art was all very well, but it should not be too controversial or challenging. However, this conservative orientation does not recognise that when something is new, it may appear strange. Being innovative means challenging established

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norms and boundaries. The Skywhale paved the way for Skywhalepapa, but this only partly explains the very different receptions received by these sculpture-balloons. The Skywhale challenged prevailing aesthetic, social and political norms, and values but it was the context of the sculpture in Canberra that generated so much controversy. Canberra is the capital of Australia and locates Parliament where a conservative Liberal-National coalition held office from 2013 to 2022. While there were dozens of balloons launched at the centenary celebration, The Skywhale got most of the attention. Images of the balloon were widely circulated, and the artist’s ideas reported in the media, arousing much discussion and debate. It was the sculpture that drew global attention to the city and its Centenary celebration, which otherwise went largely unnoticed beyond Canberra. But in Canberra, The Skywhale was charged with dividing the community and dragging the government into a political controversy (Corbett, 2013). While some saw The Skywhale as an ugly waste of money, others saw this sculpture as an ‘innovation’. The Skywhale was innovative and transgressive because it challenged ideas conventionally understood through dualities of nature and culture, creation and creativity, evolution and development, and economic and cultural understandings of value. Discussion of Piccinini’s artwork raises questions about the nature of innovation.

What Is ‘Innovation’? As this brief commentary on The Skywhale suggests, innovations are artefacts that are considered novel relative to established practices, conventions, and norms in particular contexts. But there are multiple meanings attributed to the word ‘innovation’. The Merriam- Webster Dictionary (online) defines ‘innovation’ as “a new idea, method, or device: novelty”, or “the introduction of something new”. Other meanings of ‘innovation’ depend on the context of its use. In business and government policy, innovation is generally seen as a means-ends economic instrument. The end in view is generating value or profit and the means is mostly seen in terms of product development or, less often, as human processes that involve new patterns of thinking and acting. Innovation in business and government policy contexts is commonly defined as building processes and products anew or “creating value through doing something in a novel way” (Cutler, 2008, p. 15). The meaning of innovation in the context of business operations focuses more attention on the human dimension of innovation, particularly the significance of collaboration in innovation (Cutler, 2008). This meaning of innovation builds on Schumpeter’s (1942) argument that change occurs through the creative adaptation of work practices where processes entail ‘creative destruction’ and reconstruction. When transformation pressures in production systems collide with technological opportunities and user needs, people and organisations respond creatively and make change as they learn (Schumpeter, 1942). Building collaboration into workplace organisation and relationships is seen to create a persistent transformation pressure, resourcing workplaces in ways that encourage innovation (Nonaka, 1991, 1994).

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The context of current debates and policy activities around innovation in Australia mostly reference science and technology. But despite the evidence of artefacts like The Skywhale, those debates and policies often do not reference innovation in the arts.1 In recent years, innovation policy investments have targeted STEM (science, technology, engineering, and mathematics), with growing attention to business organisation, management, and school education. At intervals, the arts are recognised as a ‘creative industry’ that has economic returns and, sometimes, creative processes are seen to be central to innovation. But there is rarely explicit acknowledgement of arts practice as a form of work that produces innovation. I understand ‘innovation’ in ways that reference the arts context and see innovativeness in terms of transgressive effects. From this perspective, I define innovation as an effect of work and learning in workplaces where the context permits the transgression of existing practices.

Innovation – Transgression This book addresses the disparity in innovation debates by approaching innovation from the context of transdisciplinary work involving the arts, specifically arts-­science practice. While I speak into policy debates on innovation, the main concern of the book is on the contribution of transdisciplinary art-science practice to innovation. As the example of The Skywhale suggests, transdisciplinary arts-science practice looks beyond the goal of novelty in product development and business processes and, instead, aspires to transgress existing norms and conventions in ways that materialise innovation. The intellectual-practical work of arts-science practitioners uses techniques, skills, available knowledges, and imagination to make artefacts that trouble prevailing practices and conventions. The artefact appears innovative because it prompts a response in those who encounter it, which reveals its transgressive effects. This idea of ‘transgression’ is more than the perception that something is different. Rather, the concept recognises the encounter with the artefact as a particular moment defined by space, time, knowledge practices and relationships. Thinking about The Skywhale, the encounter with the artefact produces an experience and response to difference that rubs up against norms and conventions, which are anchored by patterns of social organisation and established habits of mind. In this way, the innovation or artefact has effects that disrupt established social and cultural  One dictionary defines ‘the arts’ broadly as “certain branches of learning, languages, history, etc. as distinct from the natural sciences” (Allee, 1972). These branches are also commonly referred to as ‘liberal’ arts. ‘The arts’ are also defined as “a group of activities done by people with skill and imagination” such as painting, sculpture, music, theatre, literature (Merriam-Webster Dictionary – online). This definition focuses more on the ‘creative arts’. In this study, when I refer to ‘the arts’, I mean the ‘creative arts’. The ‘creative arts’ is a classification that includes five disciplines: ‘performing arts; visual arts and crafts; cinema, electronic arts, and multimedia; design studies; and the arts not elsewhere classified’. This definition is drawn from the Australian Bureau of Statistics (1998) definition and classification structure of ‘the arts’. 1

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boundaries, which order knowledge and authority. These effects provoke learning and working that can take new directions but only when the contexts for working and learning permit innovation. Under these circumstances, innovative artefacts such as The Skywhale not only disrupt but also negotiate boundaries. The story of The Skywhale highlights the conceptual concerns of this book on innovation and its relationship to transgression and transdisciplinary work and learning. The themes are linked because transgression is closely associated with ideas of boundary-crossing or going against convention in different knowledge traditions. In the post-colonial, socialist-feminist tradition, to ‘transgress’ is typically defined in terms of breaching boundaries or limits such as those imposed by moral codes (Florence, 1998) and requires “movement beyond accepted boundaries” (hooks, 1994, p.  7). bell hooks2 (sic) argues that transgression is crucial to self-­ determination, especially for marginalised groups of people. Haraway (2008) considers interactions across boundaries and how they affect knowledge growth and evolution. This feminist perspective on innovation as transgression offers a new way of researching the topic of innovation. I acknowledge that drawing attention to boundaries between science and art, scientific and arts practices, and scientific and arts professional identities runs the risk of re- inscribing art-science binaries. But I address this risk by focusing on interactions and transdisciplinary work between artists and scientists, how they prompt reciprocal change and produce new, hybrid practices and identities.

What Is ‘Transdisciplinary’? Inter-, trans-, and multi-disciplinary work and learning all involve working and learning across and between disciplines. Working, learning, and moving ideas across and between disciplines are seen to be creative acts (Dillon, 2006). But there is some confusion about these terms and they often seem to be used interchangeably. ‘Interdisciplinary’ involves the transfer of methods from one discipline to another (Dillon, 2006). ‘Multidisciplinary’ involves working in more than one discipline simultaneously. One definition of ‘transdisciplinary’ is that it is concerned with the unity of knowledge (Dillon, 2006). Another view is that transdisciplinarity “solves a problem by transcending the discipline” (Herro & Quigley, 2016, p. 419). Rather than focusing on a discipline to address a problem, “transdisciplinarity involves multiple disciplines but also includes the possibility of new perspectives ‘beyond’ those disciplines” (Herro & Quigley, 2016, p. 419). This way of thinking about transdisciplinarity shares kinship with Haraway’s (2008) consideration of interactions across boundaries that effect evolutionary change. This book shares Herro & Quigley’s definition since the focus here is on interactions and learning-­ through-­working across disciplinary boundaries, and how they can produce new practices, new identities, and innovations.  The author uses lower case letters for her name because she believes that the substance of her writing is what is important rather than who she is (Williams, 2013). 2

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‘Learning-Through-Working’ The idea of ‘learning-through-working’ is a useful lens for understanding innovation and collaborative, transdisciplinary work. The concept builds on Felstead et al.’s (2009) idea of ‘working as learning’, which offers a contextual approach to the study of work and learning, rather than isolating employees as if they are individuals unaffected by contexts. Their research situates workplaces, and work and learning practices in social, historical, economic, and political contexts and shows how these conditions and the structuring of work expand and restrict collaborative learning and innovation. The authors show how dysfunctions and blockages in the system shape patterns of learning at work. They identify ‘expansive’ workplaces where the terms and conditions of work allow and even encourage innovations that run against established rules, conventions, and norms. Sometimes these workplace terms and conditions are ‘restrictive’ but the encounter with blockages or boundaries can also lead people to find innovative ways of solving problems. The preposition ‘through’ in the term ‘learning-through-working’ is deliberately adopted in this book because it implies movement and transition. Workplace learning theorists use a variety of prepositions: ‘learning as working’ (Felstead et  al., 2009), ‘learning at the workplace’ (Illeris, 2003), ‘learning in the workplace’ (Littlejohn et al., 2012), ‘learning for the workplace’ (Quek, 2005) and ‘learning through and for work’ (Billett, 2011). The word ‘through’ foregrounds movement from one space and time to another. It acknowledges that the learner is no longer in the same position as before, once something has been learned. In this book, ‘learning-­through-working’ captures the way learning unfolds with reference to time as a process of working with knowledges in ways that transcend disciplinary boundaries. Drawing on feminist perspectives of innovation as transgressive boundary crossing and as a kind of learning-through-working extends the vast amount of research on innovation since Brown and Duguid’s (1991) ground-breaking article on innovation as ‘learning-in-working’.

Aims of This Book This book aims to contribute to current debates in four main ways. The primary aim is to examine the contribution of arts-science practice to innovation by investigating the nature of innovation and how innovation is produced in collaborative, transdisciplinary work. The core question this book addresses is: ‘What is the contribution of arts-science practice to innovation?’ Three sub-questions help address the main question: 1. What is the nature of workplace learning that generates innovation? 2. What is the work and learning experience of artists and scientists who engage in transdisciplinary work? 3. What supports and constrains learning-through-working in new and transgressive ways in transdisciplinary art-science work?

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Second, I want to speak into current economic and educational debates about productivity and the education and training necessary to encourage innovation in Australia. There have been ongoing concerns about the way Australia’s productivity has flatlined since 2006, as noted in the Australian Innovation System Report of the Australian Government (Dept. of Industry and Science, 2014). In 2014, (then) Australian Chief Scientist, Ian Chubb linked the productivity problem to Australia’s failure to develop a coherent innovation strategy that encourages collaboration in ways that build knowledge to support innovation (2014). He argued that Australia’s performance compares poorly with the US, UK, and EU, which are moving towards comprehensive strategies that connect innovation, education, research, international collaboration, and community engagement. Third, the book aims to address concerns about declining support for the arts amongst professional artists, arts educators and arts organisations. At the same time as I was conducting research informing this book, funding cuts and diversions amounting to $104.7 million or 13% of the Australia Council for the Arts annual budget were announced in the 2015 Federal budget (Winikoff, 2015). During the COVID 19 pandemic between 2020 and 2022 in Australia, many arts practitioners received little or no government funding support, unlike workers in many other industries. Yet Government, business and public support for the arts affects the capacity of the arts industry to generate innovation in Australia. The arguments that I develop in this book contribute to a case for the economic and educational value of the arts and arts-science practice in the contemporary knowledge economy. Supporting this argument, Cutler’s report on the innovation system in 2008 points to the economic contribution of the arts in terms of the (then) $50 billion of cultural goods and services that Australia produced each year. The report also adopted an education argument for developing the creative sectors as a platform for national innovation. Acknowledging the value of arts education in providing the skills for innovation, Cutler advocated the integration of “creativity, cultural studies, the arts and design into curriculum to produce the best innovators” (Cutler, 2008, p. 50). Fourth, this book aims to shed light on the work and learning that enables transdisciplinary arts-science practice to contribute to socially useful innovation. My own experiences of collaborative transdisciplinary work (illustrated in the front matter of this book) sheds light on some of the benefits but also some of the problems and complexities involved in this way of working. Government policy rhetoric, discussed further in Chap. 2, assumes that because collaborative work seems to generate new knowledge, innovation will just happen. But research such as Felstead et al. (2009) and James et al. (2011) suggests that the processes involved are not necessarily that simple, and there needs to be a deeper understanding of work and learning across disciplinary boundaries. There is a need to better understand the processes involved, how innovation happens in transdisciplinary workplace settings, and to interpret what it all means for education, organisations and government policy-making on innovation. Attention to issues and questions addressed in this book stems from my earlier doctoral study (White-Hancock, 2017). This study revealed an emerging body of research on transdisciplinary work and, since the mid-2000s, this research has involved the arts. Some of this research focuses on integrating creative arts with

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science, technology, engineering, and mathematics (STEM) as a means of generating innovation. But there has been little written about people’s experiences and the effects of working and learning in transdisciplinary settings. An extensive review of research on arts interventions in European organisations also concluded that more research was needed “to explore the effects of artistic interventions on artists and the art world” (Berthoin Antal & Strauß, 2013). But my book does not just focus on artists and the arts world, it considers the perspectives of people who engage in transdisciplinary work. I address these gaps in academic literature by shedding light on artists’ and scientists’ experiences, understandings and practices that contribute to learning and innovation through transdisciplinary work. From my involvement in transdisciplinary work, I assume that there are multiple realities which are distinct from each other because they are constructed by people who see the world from different standpoints that are equally valid (O’Toole & Beckett, 2010). In conducting research for this book, I wanted to better understand how innovation happens in transdisciplinary settings and to interpret what it all means for the world of work, education, and government policy-making on innovation. So, it was important to speak to people to find out about their experiences and understandings of the making of innovation through arts and other disciplined practices, such as science. This orientation informed the development of case studies based on interviews with artists and scientists who worked together on projects in scientific workplaces. Interviews informing this book were organised through the Australian Network for Art and Technology (ANAT).3 This network is supported by the Australian Government through the Australia Council for the Arts and the South Australian Government through Arts South Australia. The network was established in 1988 to support artists engaging with science and technology in Australia. In 2004, ANAT established the Synapse Residency Program which funds artists to work on short-­ term (around 12–16 weeks) research projects with scientists in scientific organisations. ANAT organises around four residences per year and three Synapse projects from 2010 to 2011 were examined as cases of innovation. In these transdisciplinary science-arts projects, the artist was a ‘disruptive’ factor in the scientist’s work, where arts practice was an intellectual-practical resource that enabled the scientist to step outside their habitual scientific norms and conventions. But it wasn’t just the artists who disrupted the scientists in this work. Scientists and other project participants also disrupted the thinking and work of the artists. The consequences of these disruptions become visible in the trajectories of the projects and in commentaries by the artists and scientists on their projects and their collaborative experiences. Those interviewed were:

 Interviews conducted as part of the PhD study gained approval from the Monash University Human Research Ethics Committee on 18 August 2011: Project Number: CF11/1479  – 2011000844. Participants have kindly given permission for me to use the images of their artworks that appear throughout this book. 3

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1. Artist, Catherine Truman and Professor Ian Gibbins (then) Head of the Department of Anatomy and Histology, School of Medicine (Flinders University, Adelaide, South Australia). 2. Artist, Dr. Mary Rosengren and Cris Kennedy, (then) Director of the Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organisation (CSIRO) Discovery Centre in Canberra, ACT. 3. Artist Dr. Chris Henschke and Dr. Mark Boland, (then) Chief Scientist at Australian Synchrotron (Melbourne, Victoria). Open-ended interview questions investigated each Synapse project as a ‘trans-­ border workplace’ formed at the intersection between knowledge embedded in the scientists’ and artists’ knowledge cultures. Further questions investigated the artists’ and scientists’ experiences of learning-through-working together, and their reflections on the nature and effects of their transdisciplinary work and learning. Therefore, as noted earlier, the methodological focus of this book is on the human rather than economic aspects of innovation emphasised so often in literature on innovation. This book considers (a) the terms and conditions within workplaces that permit innovation; (b) the people who do that work; and (c) how those people work and learn with innovative effects. For these reasons, I draw on workplace learning research which offers ways of understanding innovation in workplaces. This book uses workplace learning literature in a new way to reveal how innovation practices become transgressive.

How Is This Book Organised? This book is divided into nine chapters. This first chapter has identified the purposes of the book, provides an overview of the key ideas and issues taken up, and the approach adopted for collecting materials informing the book. These elements are elaborated in the eight chapters that follow. Chapter 2 extends discussion of the key concepts that are central to this book, particularly ideas about transgression and boundaries. Chapter 3 reviews some key literature on innovation and workplace learning which highlight the nature of learning that generates innovation. Chapter 4 presents an historic case of transdisciplinary learning, work and innovation, the German Bauhaus school of design (1919–1933) to draw out the connections between theories of innovation discussed in Chaps. 2 and 3 and the concepts of ‘learning-through-working’ and transgression. The Bauhaus chapter uses the benefits of hindsight to grasp the character of transgression and the terms and conditions that produce transgressive knowledge practices. Chapters 5, 6, 7, and 8 discuss the three contemporary Synapse art-science projects. Chapter 9 summarises key findings of this study and suggests what these findings mean for theory building, Government policy on innovation, organisations and education. A new perspective on the art and science of innovation is offered. The following paragraphs elaborate a little more about each chapter.

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Chapter 2: Transgression: A New Way of Thinking About Innovation This chapter shows how the concept of innovation is understood differently in policy and arts contexts and starts to clarify the ideas that frame this book. I use the concept of ‘standpoint’ (Haraway, 1985; Harding, 2004) to understand policy makers’ and artists’ embedded ways of seeing the world that affect their views of innovation. Drawing particularly on Donna Haraway’s ideas, the concept of ‘transgression’ is explained in terms of transgressive practices and how these practices are linked to boundaries, boundary crossing, and innovation. The concept of ‘practice’ links theories of transgression and work as activities which effect or challenge normative conventions and boundaries.

Chapter 3: Workplace Learning, the Human Dimension of Innovation and Transdisciplinary Work Chapter 3 considers the human dimension of innovation by examining the nature of workplace learning that generates innovation. This chapter first examines broad perspectives of innovation in organisations, reviewing literature from the fields of organisational studies, employee-driven innovation and particularly workplace learning. Workplace learning theories rooted in psychological, socio-cultural, and postmodern traditions are examined including influential models such as working as learning (Felstead et al., 2009), knotworking (Engeström, 2001) and Community of Practice (Lave & Wenger, 1991; Wenger, 1998). From this review of literature on the topic, three interfacing elements are found to influence innovation: (1) the organisation of workplaces and their environments (2) the workplace culture-order that authorises innovation, and (3) learning in practice. Reviewing this literature suggests more holistic approaches are necessary to understand the complexities of transdisciplinary work and workplace learning for innovation.

Chapter 4: The Bauhaus School: An Historical Account of Transdisciplinary Practice Chapter 4 examines how innovation occurred in a transdisciplinary workplace by discussing the case of the German Bauhaus school (1919–1933). The Bauhaus school (1919–1933) is an organisation that is well recognised for its innovations. The school is selected for attention because it was a workplace as well as a school and because it was deliberately designed to enable boundary crossing and transgressive practices. The case illustrates the ‘learning-through-working’ concept in a

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transdisciplinary context involving the arts, sciences, technologies, engineering and manufacturing industries. A consideration of this case also offers the benefits of hindsight, which make it possible to see how transgressive knowledge practices emerged and prompted dissent and debate as they rubbed up against conventions. Examining the case relates transdisciplinary innovation to themes emerging from research and theories about innovation. This strategy provides a bridging mechanism between theories and research on workplace learning and innovation (Chaps. 2 and 3) and case studies of people collaborating in contemporary art-science projects (Chaps. 5, 6, 7, and 8). Analysis of the Bauhaus case shows how innovation emerged through the three dimensions of innovation identified in Chap. 3: the organisation of work and workplace environments, the workplace culture-order that authorises innovation, and learning in practice. The retrospective nature of this analysis also shows how innovative practices ran against the prevailing culture-order of the workplace and society, and how the Bauhaus used its boundaries to manage the effects of a critical social order and sustain innovation across time and space. This examination of the Bauhaus reveals striking parallels with contemporary thinking about innovation. For example, guided by principles of holism and integration, the Bauhaus approach precedes current moves towards integrative STEM and STEAM education as means of preparing people for transdisciplinary work. Chapters 5, 6, 7, and 8 focus, in turn, on each of the three dimensions of innovation identified in literature reviewed and examined in the case of the Bauhaus, but in the here and now of Synapse program projects.

Chapter 5: Environments and Spaces of Innovation in Contemporary Art-Science Work The organisation of work and workplace environments where collaborative art-­ science Synapse Program projects took place are examined here. The organisation of the Synapse artist-in-residence program itself, the project participants, and the scientific workplaces where art-science projects occurred are introduced. The ideas behind the three projects are explained. These workplaces were knowledge-sharing spaces where traditional disciplinary boundaries between art and science were disrupted. They are the focus of interest because they act as ‘in-between’ spaces or ‘boundary zones’ where transgressive activity and innovation are likely to be found (Haraway, 2008). Projects are investigated in terms of ‘physical’, ‘social’ and ‘mental’ spaces. Examination of these spaces shows how, together, they established the conditions that supported transdisciplinary work, learning and innovation. However, there were also some constraints.

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Chapter 6: The Culture-Order That Authorises Innovation in Transdisciplinary Work The chapter examines Synapse projects partners experiences of organisational and disciplinary cultures or orders that impacted on their learning and work. Analysis of people’s stories and accounts of ‘critical incidents’ that occurred reveals how project workplaces were tensioned by different discourses and disciplinary standpoints. These differences became visible because of the collaborative work between scientists and artists. Analysis of interviews shows how myths and misconceptions about the disciplines of art and science sometimes affected knowledge building and sharing and how understandings also emerged. Dealing with myths and misconceptions was an important element of collaborative work in Synapse projects. Analysis of these cases also shows how authority relations both supported and restricted transgressive practices and innovation in projects.

Chapter 7: Learning in Practice I: Experiencing Transdisciplinary Art-Science Work Chapters 7 and 8 focus on the ‘learning in practice’ dimension of innovation in Synapse projects. Both chapters examine Synapse project participants’ experiences of what it was like for them to do transdisciplinary, collaborative work in scientific workplaces given the supports and constraints examined in the previous two chapters. Chapter 7 focuses particularly on the learning processes involved in the project participants ‘journeying’ (Dewey, 2005; Eisner, 2008) as they worked in scientific organisations. Accounts of the experiences of art-science work point to the issue of the need to learn how to work in transdisciplinary contexts. The process was not always straightforward and working in these projects was not always ‘smooth sailing’. Negotiating disciplinary and cultural boundaries at times involved challenging emotional work.

Chapter 8: Learning in Practice II: ‘Doing’ Transgression Despite experiencing the ‘culture clash’ on occasion, interesting commonalities emerged between artists and scientists which are highlighted in this chapter. Given these commonalities, Chap. 8 draws out the features of the artists and scientists practices that helped to generate new insights and contributed to learning and innovation in these projects. The chapter also shows how new hybrid identities emerged as a result of transdisciplinary work and collaborative learning.

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Chapter 9: A New Perspective on the Art and Science of Innovation: From STEM to Transgressive Working and Learning The chapter summarises the case made in the book for a new perspective on innovation. This book identifies six core features of workplace learning that encourage innovation. Light is also shed on how people experience collaborative, transdisciplinary work. Six key factors were found to support or constrain transgressive learning-­through-working and innovation in Synapse projects as well as in the case of the Bauhaus. This book identifies the contribution of transdisciplinary art-science work to innovation and how learning is co-produced in transdisciplinary work. Implications for current theory, government policy on innovation, professional transdisciplinary practice and organisations are proposed. Implications for education and emerging forms of transdisciplinary STEAM education are also proposed. Finally, some ideas for further research on innovation are offered.

References Allee, J. (Ed.). (1972). The arts. Webster’s Universal Dictionary (6th ed.). Ottenheimer Publishers. Australian Bureau of Statistics. (1998). Australian Standard Research Classification (No. 1297.0). http://www.abs.gov.au/AUSSTATS/[email protected]/a9ca4374ed453c6bca2570dd007ce 0a4/8E6 36113AE2E40B3CA25697E0018FCA4?opendocument Berthoin Antal, A., & Strauß, A. (2013). Creative clash – Artistic interventions in organisations: Finding evidence of values-added. WZB Berlin Social Science Center. Retrieved June 20, 2022, from https://www.wzb.eu/system/files/docs/dst/wipo/effects_of_artistic_interventionsf Billett, S. (2011). Subjectivity, self and personal agency in learning through and for work. In M. Malloch, L. Cairns, K. Evans, & B. O’Connor (Eds.), The Sage handbook of workplace learning. Sage. Brown, J. S., & Duguid, P. (1991). Organizational learning and communities-of-practice: Toward a unified view of working, learning, and innovation. Organization Science, 2(1), 40–57. https:// doi.org/10.1287/orsc.2.1.40 Chubb, I. (2014, March 18). Science meets parliament. Keynote address to the National Press Club. http://www.chiefscientist.gov.au/2014/03/keynote-­address-­to-­the-­ national-­press-­ club-­for-­science-­meets-­parliament/ Corbett, K. (Writer). (2013, May 23). Skywhale: The Phenomenon. ABC News Canberra. http:// www.abc.net.au/local/stories/2013/05/09/3755688.htm Cutler, T. (2008). Venturous Australia: Building strength in innovation. Cutler & Company Pty Ltd. Department of Industry and Science. (2014). Australian innovation system report 2013. Commonwealth of Australia. http://apo.org.au/node/36450 Dewey, J. (2005). Art as experience. Perigee Books. Original work published in 1934. Dillon, P. (2006). Creativity, integrativism and a pedagogy of connection. Thinking Skills and Creativity, 1, 69–83. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.tsc.2006.08.002 Eisner, E. (2008). Art and knowledge. In J. Knowles, & A. Cole (Eds.), Handbook of the arts in qualitative research: Perspectives, methodologies, examples, and issues (pp. 3–14). Sage. Engeström,Y. (2001). Expansive learning at work: Toward an activity theoretical reconceptualization. Journal of Education and Work, 14(1), 133–156. https://doi.org/10.1080/13639080020028747

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Felstead, A., Fuller, A., Jewson, N., & Unwin, L. (2009). Improving working as learning. Routledge. Florence, N. (1998). Bell hooks’ engaged pedagogy: A transgressive education for critical consciousness. Bergin & Garvey. Haraway, D. (1985). Manifesto for cyborgs: Science, technology, and socialist feminism in 1980s. Socialist Review, 80, 65–108. Haraway, D. (2008). When species meet. University of Minnesota Press. Harding, S. (2004). A socially relevant philosophy of science? Resources from Standpoint Theory’s controversiality. Hypatia: A Journal of Feminist Philosophy, 19(1), 25–47. https:// doi.org/10.2979/HYP.2004.19.1.25 Herro, D., & Quigley, C. (2016). Exploring teachers’ perceptions of STEAM teaching through professional development: Implications for teacher educators. Professional Development in Education, 43, 1–23. https://doi.org/10.1080/19415257.2016.1205507 Hooks, B. (1994). Teaching to transgress: Education as the practice of freedom. Routledge. Illeris, K. (2003). Workplace learning and learning theory. Journal of Workplace Learning, 15(4), 167–178. James, L., Guile, D., & Unwin, L. (2011). From learning for the knowledge-based economy to learning for growth: Re-examining clusters, innovation and qualifications (LLAKES Research Papers). Centre for Learning and Life Chances in Knowledge Economies and Societies. Retrieved March 3, 2013, from www.llakes.org/wp-­content/uploads/2011/07/29.-­James-­Guile-­ Unwin-­reduced.pdf Lave, J., & Wenger, E. (1991). Situated learning: Legitimate peripheral participation. Cambridge University Press. Littlejohn, A., Milligan, C., & Margaryan, A. (2012). Charting collective knowledge: Supporting self-regulated learning in the workplace. Journal of Workplace Learning, 24(3), 226–238. https://doi.org/10.1108/13665621211209285 Merriam-Webster Dictionary and Thesaurus (online). (n.d.-a). The arts. http://www.merriam-­ webster.com/dictionary/the%20arts Merriam-Webster Dictionary and Thesaurus (online). (n.d.-b). Innovation. https://www.merriam-­ webster.com/dictionary/innovation Nonaka, I. (1991). The knowledge-creating company. Harvard Business Review, 69(6), 96–104. https://hbr.org/2007/07/the-­knowledge-­creating-­ company Nonaka, I. (1994). A dynamic theory of organizational knowledge creation. Organizational Science, 5(1), 14–37. https://doi.org/10.1287/orsc.5.1.14 O’Toole, J., & Beckett, D. (2010). Educational research: Creative thinking and doing. Oxford University Press. Quek, A.-H. (2005). Learning for the workplace: A case study in graduate employees’ generic competencies. Journal of Workplace Learning, 17(4), 231–242. https://doi. org/10.1108/13665620510597185 Schumpeter, J. (1942). Capitalism, Socialism and Democracy. Harper and Brothers. Wenger, E. (1998). Communities of practice: Learning, meaning, and identity. Cambridge University Press. White-Hancock, L. (2017). Innovation and arts practice: Work, learning and transgression [Doctoral dissertation, Monash University]. https://doi.org/10.4225/03/58f7fb40074fd Williams, H. (2013). Bell hooks speaks up. The Sandspur (via Issuu), 112(17), 1–2. https://issuu. com/thesandspur/docs/112-­17 Winikoff, T. (2015). ArtsPeak laments real impact of Australia Council cuts. In ArtsPeak. National Association for the Visual Arts. https://visualarts.net.au/news-­opinion/2015/ artspeak-­laments-­real-­impact-­australia-­council-­cuts/

Chapter 2

Transgression: A New Way of Thinking About Innovation

Abstract  This chapter shows how the concept of innovation is understood quite differently in different contexts and from different perspectives. The chapter clarifies and extends discussion of the ideas introduced in Chap. 1 that provide a framework for this book. Different meanings of innovation are illustrated using Government policy debates in Australia over the past three decades and by further examining Patricia Piccinini’s artwork,  The Skywhale. The idea of ‘standpoint’ helps to explain policy makers’ and artists’ embedded ways of seeing the world that affect their views of innovation. Drawing particularly on Donna Haraway’s ideas, the concept of ‘transgression’ is explained in terms of transgressive practices and how these practices are linked to boundaries, boundary crossing, and innovation. Comparing perspectives on innovation shows that artists are more focused on the human dimension of innovation than policy makers. Artists often aspire to make artefacts that question, trouble or transgress established understandings, norms, and conventions. People’s reactions to these transgressive practices make transgressive effects visible and provide an indicator of innovation. Diverse reactions to transgressive practices raise questions about what ‘innovation’ means to different people.

Introduction: The Meaning of Innovation In Australia, innovation received limited attention until the 1980s. Prior to that, innovation was mainly associated with developments in science and technology that advanced mostly through the CSIRO – the Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organisation – established in 1926. Limited attention was given to the arts in Government innovation policies. Government policies on innovation promote a particular view of innovation and whose innovation is valued. Political ideology is a key factor in shaping advocacy and responses to innovation in society. Analysis of Australian Commonwealth policy documents on innovation from 1994 to 2004 reveal a paradigm shift in the way that innovation was understood at the time. Creative Nation (Dept. of Communications and the Arts, 1994) considered the arts © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 L. White-Hancock, The Art and Science of Innovation, Transdisciplinary Perspectives in Educational Research 7, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-33132-9_2

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and creativity to be crucial to innovation. However, later policies, Backing Australia’s Ability: An Innovation Action Plan for the Future (Dept. of Education, 2001) and Backing Australia’s Ability: Building Our Future through Science and Innovation (Dept. of Education, 2004) prioritised innovation in business, science and technology with commercialisation potential and economic outcomes as key factors in access to funding. In contrast to Creative Nation, these later policies did not reference the word ‘creativity’, which suggests that policy on innovation became more narrowly focused and exclusive. Tracing these ideas about innovation into actual funding, showed that the arts were poorly funded relative to science and technology and, therefore, less valued in the ‘innovation stakes’. By contrast, innovation in the arts shows a stronger focus on the artefact as a means of communicating and challenging an audience. Patricia Piccinini (2013) explains the benefit she hoped would arise from creating The Skywhale, introduced in Chap. 1, in commentary posted on her website: In many ways, I wanted to create something ‘wonderful’, in the sense of a thing that invokes a sense of wonder. Something ‘remarkable’ – in the sense that you might remark on it. The Skywhale is something that you might not expect to see in the sky on the day that you see it, and it might make you smile or think, or both. I hope she might be the basis of conversations between friends at work or strangers at the bus stop. If she can be a catalyst for conversation, I would be very happy with that.

The comment reveals how Piccinini values and delights in the unexpected. Being exposed to innovative ideas and challenged by innovative practices is seen to be important. The artist emphasises that what is crucial in her practice is engaging the viewer in conversation to prompt a response and challenging people to think about things differently through her artwork. In this way, Piccinini focuses on the social and human impacts of innovation. These different meanings of ‘innovation’ in policy and arts contexts suggest that policy makers and artists have different ways of thinking about and knowing innovation. Despite the political rhetoric of supporting innovation, the policy emphasis in Australia has predominantly been on the technical, organisational, and economic aspects of innovation. Because the visual arts were often perceived as not being about ‘economically useful knowledge’ they were largely excluded from discussions related to the knowledge/innovation economy. Yet artists see the fundamental role of creative arts practice as challenging perceptions, norms and taken-forgranted assumptions that anchor people’s mindsets. There appears to be little policy recognition that arts practice can disrupt people’s habitual thinking and acting in ways that might be significant for innovation. In not seeing how arts practice challenged thinking, policy has also de-emphasised the arts in education contexts. It is this dissonant finding that makes me question the exclusion of the arts from policy related to innovation. From my perspective as someone with an art and design background, measuring a ‘successful’ society based purely on economic grounds is a fundamental flaw in the Backing Australia’s Ability policies of 2004 and 2007. These policies were concerned with Australia’s ability to compete in the ‘race to innovate’, using funding that prioritised science and technology. But these policy strategies could be extended by recognising the human aspects of innovation that were both addressed in the arts and known through studies of innovation in a wide range of contexts and disciplines, including science and technology.

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Ways of Seeing Standpoint theory helps to explain the different perspectives of innovation. Put simply, ‘standpoint’ refers to diverse understandings of the world that are both embedded in societies and experienced from particular social positions. The ‘Situated Knowledge’ thesis of standpoint theory proposes that social position influences our experiences and knowledge of the world (Intemann, 2010). Standpoint theory sets out to explain the perspectives of both dominant and oppressed groups and how they have developed. Revived from the early work of Georg Lukacs (1923), feminist theorists used the idea of standpoint in the 1970s and 1980s to account for the subordination of women through dominant social institutions and to critique the cultures and practices that sustain repressive social relations. Contemporary theorists now argue that standpoint is more than one’s socially located perspective; a standpoint is only achieved through critical reflection on how power structures influence, shape, and limit knowledge production from the ‘top-down’ (Intemann, 2010). Standpoint theorists consider how social institutions shape ‘useful’ knowledge and “what the era can and cannot know about nature and social relations” (Harding, 2004, p. 33). For example, those who sponsor research define what is identified as a significant research problem, and funding is controlled through political institutions so that some research and researchers, rather than others, play a significant role in advancing certain kinds of knowledge (Harding, 2004). One implication of this ‘ordering’ is the way social institutions and disciplines develop, are experienced, and have effects in everyday life. In the natural sciences, researchers such as Haraway and Harding challenge dualisms and boundaries that create hierarchies of knowledge and disciplines. In her early work, Haraway explores boundaries, their ordering effects and how they relate to practices of domination in the contemporary world of politics and science. She identifies and deconstructs dualistic categories, such as, self/other, mind/body, culture/nature, male/female, maker/made. These binary constructions, she argues, pervade Western racist, male-dominant capitalist traditions of science and politics, and systematise social relations as practices of domination. Women, “people of colour”, nature, workers, animals are all constituted as ‘other’ with reference to science-­ based hierarchies (Haraway, 1991a, p.  177). These ideas offer ways of thinking about culture, how it is ‘ordered’ and how boundaries, once drawn, become normalised. So, individuals become enculturated in a particular space, with reference to certain rules that distinguish social institutions. Modern science displaces the subjective human observer when ‘objective’ observational technologies are claimed to produce a more truthful and valid account of the world. But the positivist assumption that science is value-free, or ‘objective’ has long been contested. Theorists such as Haraway (1991b) argue that what counts as official, objective knowledge in science has always been mediated by different social and cultural conditions. Haraway argues that this blindness to context means that science continues “to perform the ‘God trick’ of speaking authoritatively about everything in the world from no particular social location or human perspective at all” (quoted in Harding, 2004, p. 29). Whereas acknowledging that knowledges are always situated in different contexts focuses attention on the terms and conditions

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that produce those contexts, how they are bordered and ordered, the effects on lived experience, and the conceptualisation of objects of study. Following on from the idea of ‘situated knowledge’, the second major proposal of standpoint theory is the ‘epistemic advantage’ of diversity of social position in knowledge building contexts. This is because people from diverse backgrounds have different experiences, different ways of knowing. The experiences of “insider-­outsiders” who have been historically excluded or under-represented in scientific communities has the potential to “identify limitations or problems with background assumptions that have gone systematically unnoticed” (Intemann, 2010, p. 788). The idea highlights the potential of diverse collaborations across knowledge boundaries.

Situated Knowledge, Standpoint and Boundaries I approach this book on innovation from a standpoint that recognises situated knowledge. This means the social organisation of knowledge and the cultural understandings on which it is based create terms and conditions that can encourage or discourage innovation. This understanding of situated knowledge means dealing with the ‘facts’ of a situation by recognising that others from different standpoints may see those ‘facts’ quite differently. The situated knowledge thesis of Standpoint Theory therefore deconstructs the notion of objectivity in science and suggests an alternative perspective on the world that does not reproduce the dualisms and hierarchies that dominate conventional science and politics. Rather than speaking of ‘science and culture’, which highlights the boundaries that distinguish these two social spaces and sets them apart, Haraway conceptualises science as culture (2004). This intellectual move bridges the cultural boundary between science and arts by recognising the boundary zone where dialogue can create links between social orders and contradictory standpoints. Haraway’s ideas offer a useful way of focusing on interaction between artists and scientists rather than boundaries between them. Yet the notion of ‘boundaries’ has been the focus of much research as a way of understanding differences between social spaces. Lamont and Molnár (2002) identify two types of boundaries. First, ‘social’ boundaries demarcate social groups through professions, knowledge, class, ethnic/racial, and gender/sex inequality, through communities, national identities, and borders. Second, ‘symbolic’ boundaries separate people according to their feelings of similarity and affiliation (e.g., omnivores and vegetarians; high culture and popular culture). Well-established sociological traditions focus on boundaries that become fixed and maintain power structures. For example, Durkheim (1965) considered the division of labour and boundaries between the sacred and secular aspects of everyday life. Marx (1948) examined class and labour boundaries, while Weber (1978) considered ethnic and status group boundaries. Foucault (1973) regards boundaries as means of controlling ‘subjugated knowledges’, by disengaging history or local knowledge from the knowledge hierarchy of science. In these contexts, boundary work makes space, territories, and institutions, but also depends on continuous maintenance, and is disrupted by boundary-crossing and things that shift between spaces.

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Boundary-crossing and in-between spaces where shifts occur have been the subject of much research interest since the 2000s. Sassen (2007) argues that the global ‘inhabits’ nation states and organisations. Researchers such as Sassen consider places where the global ‘touches down’ on the local as ‘frontier zones’ or ‘liminal’ spaces. They are spaces such as borderlands, cities, and workplaces where “continuity and change could be observed most intensely” (Dürrschmidt & Taylor, 2007, p. vii). The concept of ‘liminality’ can be traced to the anthropological tradition of Victor Turner (1969) who described this relatively unstructured, ‘in between’ state as one where neither old nor new frames of reference work properly. Earlier, van Gennep (1960) developed the concept of liminality to describe rites of passage and ritual practices in Zambian communities. Liminality characterises the passage through a threshold that marks the boundary between two phases (such as childhood and adulthood), and the transition from one identity to another. The concept is important to this book because liminality describes contemporary societies in transition, very much an aspect of innovation. Dürrschmidt and Taylor investigate liminal spaces or ‘hotspots of transition’ within global cities, such as the Indian call centre. Here, workers are plugged into global communications networks but are disconnected from the local community. Through their investigation of the call centre, Dürrschmidt and Taylor reveal patterns of collective resistance to these changing workplaces. They argue that resistance to change is brought about by the tension between (local) knowledges, histories and identities of workers, organisations, and cultures against global discourses of production, development and management supported by governments and corporations. It is in liminal spaces or boundary zones that evidence of resistance, transgression and innovation are most likely to be found. So, it is the boundaries that create the spaces for learning, action, and transgression.

Transgression By contrast to research that focuses on boundaries as fixed, feminist, and other poststructural research traditions foreground boundaries that are fluid, create permeable surfaces and enable transgression. The idea of ‘transgression’ is associated with movement across boundaries. This movement becomes visible as transgression relative to particular social norms and identities. Post-structuralist ideas about transgression raise questions about ‘normality’, what is ‘normal’, and how it can be challenged (Grosz, 1995). Foucault (1973) considers transgression in terms of power-knowledge relations that are adhered to or rejected as subjected identities resist or challenge established institutional regimes, traditions, systems and ‘truths’. Challenges generally come from “foreign elements”, interventions from outsiders, ‘others’ who are ‘different’ (Foucault, 1973, p.  51). The ‘order of things’ is disrupted when boundaries are crossed. Transgression is also identified as a positive action that is crucial to evolution (Haraway, 2008). Symbiotic boundary-crossing processes bring about change in evolutionary development (Haraway, 2008). Recognising the permeability of

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boundaries means boundaries are not always sharply delineated and it becomes difficult to know where one entity starts and another ends. This fluid notion of boundaries challenges the concept of ‘I’ as a human being that is separate from other life forms, transgressing long established ‘truths’ about ‘humanity’: I love the fact that human genomes can be found in only about 10 percent of all the cells that occupy the mundane space I call my body; the other 90 percent of the cells are filled with the genomes of bacteria, fungi, protists, and such, some of which play in a symphony necessary to my being alive at all (Haraway, 2008, pp. 3–4).

The “trangression of sacred boundaries” in evolutionary processes troubles the idea of ‘human’ and how humans connect to bounded spaces (Haraway, 1997, p. 61). This is a central theme in Haraway’s extensive writing from the time of her seminal essay, ‘Manifesto for cyborgs: Science, technology, and socialist feminism in the 1980s’ (1985).1 The cyborg transgresses boundaries between human and machine, the natural world and the world of science and technology. ‘Cyborg’ describes alternative forms of political and social identity that do not conform to conventional models of identification. Using ‘cyborg’ as metaphor is a way of questioning prevailing categorisations of gender, race, or sexuality. The cyborg world is about conceptualising things as ‘hybrid’ which challenges the theme of ‘purity of type’. This world is one where “people are not afraid of their joint kinship with animals and machines, not afraid of permanently partial identities and contradictory standpoints” (Haraway, 1991a, p. 154). In Western culture, the discourse of transgression is linked to immigration and racial differences on the grounds that transgressive boundary- crossing ‘pollutes’ lineages (Haraway, 1997). Furthermore, Haraway argues that “racial purity fantasies and refusal to accept immigrants as full citizens actually drive policy now in the ‘progressive’, ‘developed’ world” (2016, p.  209). Critics of biotechnology also target the process of transferring genes between species as an “act that transgresses natural barriers, compromising species integrity” or purity of type (Haraway, 1997, p. 60). By contrast, Haraway has long celebrated the transgression of boundaries in terms of “potent fusions” (1991a, p. 154). Responding to recent environmental debates about the planetary effects of anthropocentric processes, Haraway argues that “no species acts alone” in evolutionary processes (2015, p. 159). She calls for a reconsideration of what we call ‘kin’ to include “multi-species assemblages” and interactions which have been fundamental to evolution across vast space-times (2015, p. 160).

Paradigms of Knowledge Production Ideas about cyborgs and transgression offer ways of connecting humans and technology, science and art, and their lineages through potent fusions. But considering the arts as a way of knowing, a form of reasoning or knowledge practice is mostly

 Republished as A Cyborg Manifesto: Science, Technology, and Socialist-Feminism in the Late Twentieth Century (1991a). 1

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downplayed with reference to science in Western culture. The positivist paradigm of knowledge production and processes of inquiry have privileged science as an epistemology that could test and prove propositions, using empirical scientific procedures as a means of generating ‘meaningful’ knowledge. Relative to this paradigm, the arts have been seen to be about emotions and valued for decorative rather than informative qualities (Eisner, 2008). Yet since the 1930s, critiques of positivist science have questioned these scientific processes of inquiry on the grounds that they do not necessarily yield finite facts or certainty. Because ‘knowledge’ is always changing, Dewey (1934/2005) used the idea of ‘journeying’ to describe ways of working that produced knowledge through the arts as well as the sciences. He saw art as more about the expression of ideas and meanings whereas science focused on making definitive and objectively based statements of meaning and forming conclusions. The point is that artists’ ways of working, as much as scientists’, are a valid approach to investigating and knowing the world. The distinctive character of arts practice is linked to what we understand or ‘know’ of the world through taste, smell or look that cannot necessarily be put into words (Eisner, 2008). Tacit forms of knowing were identified in the creative arts, acknowledging informed guesses, ideas and imaginings that were seen to be part of exploratory and creative acts, which cannot necessarily be formally explained (Polanyi, 1967). Words are used to describe or explain what we ‘see’ but, as Berger (1979, p. 7) observed: The relation between what we see and what we know is never settled. Each evening we see the sun set. We know that the earth is turning away from it. Yet the knowledge, the explanation, never quite fits the sight.

The power of the image lies in its form of communication across barriers of language, time, and space, as Tolstoy reasoned (1955). The artist applies skillful understanding of certain materials and techniques to form structures, or representations that echo, or embody, feeling or experience (Eisner, 2008). Objects made by artists can be powerful mediators of human feeling or understanding across boundaries because arts perspectives and practices are grounded in, and speak into, subjective human experience. These ideas about arts practice suggest that artists’ ways of seeing, doing, and knowing are different to those of scientists and policy makers. This is because artists, scientists and policy makers are differently embedded in the world and their situated knowledge means they see innovation and its human dimensions in different ways. In the next two sections, I use standpoint theory and Haraway’s ideas about transgression to draw out different perspectives of innovation in Australian government innovation policies since the 1990s and then illustrate conceptions of innovation in the arts.

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Perspectives of Innovation Creative Nation (1994) was Australia’s first Commonwealth government policy that explicitly addressed innovation. This Labor Party policy acknowledged the significance of the arts and creativity to innovation and economic wellbeing. ‘Culture’ was redefined to include a range of arts practices beyond the ‘high’ arts (opera, ballet, and orchestras). Reframing the arts in economic terms as ‘cultural industries’ conceptualised arts practice, for the first time, as essential to the economy rather than a drain on it. The introduction of Creative Nation lays out the argument for the new policy framework: This cultural policy is also an economic policy. Culture creates wealth. Broadly defined, our cultural industries generate 13 billion dollars a year. Culture employs. Around 336,000 Australians are employed in culture-related industries. Culture adds value, it makes an essential contribution to innovation, marketing and design. It is a badge of our industry. The level of our creativity substantially determines our ability to adapt to new economic imperatives. It is a valuable export in itself and an essential accompaniment to the export of other commodities. It attracts tourists and students. It is essential to our economic success.

Subsequent policies on innovation followed changes of government. The Liberal-­ National Coalition (i.e., a conservative) government led by John Howard from 1996 to 2007 reverted to elitist and exclusionary funding models directed toward the high arts (Hawkings, 2014). Reference to the word ‘creativity’ that so emphatically underpinned innovation in Creative Nation, was absent in policies which followed: Backing Australia’s Ability: An Innovation Action Plan for the Future of 2001 and Backing Australia’s Ability: Building Our Future through Science and Innovation of 2004. In these policies, the word ‘creativity’ is replaced with ‘innovation’, but the silence around ‘creativity’ indicates limited recognition of the arts and the value of creativity for innovation. The return of a Labor Party federal government in 2007 produced a review of the National Innovation System, Venturous Australia: Building Strength in Innovation (Cutler, 2008) and a policy, Powering Ideas: An Innovation Agenda for the 21st Century (Dept. of Industry, Innovation, Science, Research and Tertiary Education, 2009). These developments reinvigorated discussions about the significance of the arts and creativity to innovation in ways that recalled elements of Creative Nation. Cutler outlined the three key aims of the 1994 policy in relation to the arts (2008, pp. 47–50): • Not to “split the creative arts and humanities from the physical sciences”. • To understand and work with the connections between the arts and science, to break down the divide between conceptual/intellectual and artisan/craftsman; and • To integrate cultural studies and creativity, arts, and design into curricula to “produce the best innovators”. This agenda recommended reforms to enhance Australia’s innovation landscape to harness “the innovative spirit we need to nurture in all Australians” (Cutler, 2008, p.

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xviii). The Powering Ideas policy also affirmed the need for a collaborative, creative critical mass of workplace innovation from the ‘ground up’. As Cutler pointed out, many breakthroughs occur incrementally from insights evolving from “learning by doing” within workplaces (2008, p. 48). This argument makes sense given limited growth in productivity noted in the Australian Innovation System Report 2013 despite ongoing government support for collaborative work between science and business for the purpose of innovation and commercialisation to deliver productivity gains (Dept. of Industry and Science, 2014). Australia’s (then) Chief Scientist, Ian Chubb (2014) has also intervened in these debates to highlight Australia’s poor performance on collaboration compared to the US, UK, and EU, where innovation is becoming more integrated with research and learning. According to Chubb, despite imperatives to build Australia as an innovation-­driven economy, collaboration to support innovation has been limited in scale and diversity in Australia so support for STEM through collaboration has not worked as well as anticipated. The implication is that blockages remained in organisations and in the innovation system where measures taken had not worked as well as expected and there was a need for new approaches to innovation. Collaboration is reaffirmed as one of the four key pillars of the  National Innovation and Science Agenda: Welcome to the Ideas Boom policy (Dept. of the Prime Minister and Cabinet, 2015). Yet while there are increased funding incentives for collaborations between research and industry sectors, limitations in diversity tend to persist in this policy. There is acknowledgement of a role for education in innovation and this role relates to support for STEM, and with a focus on digital technologies and literacy. So, science, technology, and commercialisation remain the major focus and there is no recognition of the arts in relation to innovation in this policy. The strategic plan Australia 2030: Prosperity through Innovation (Department of Industry, Science and Resources [DISR], 2017) and the report on the Australian parliamentary Inquiry into Innovation and Creativity: Workforce for the New Economy (House of Representatives Standing Committee on Employment, Education and Training, 2018) continue the emphasis on STEM knowledge and education in supporting innovation. In his foreword to the report of the plan, Bill Ferris declares the need for the strategy: Australia is in a $1.6 trillion global innovation race … yet we are falling behind our global peers, particularly in student performance in science and mathematics, and in business investment in research and development. This is more than a canary chirp in our economic mineshaft: it is a clarion call for national action (Ferris, 2017, p. iii).

The strategy acknowledges that “humanities, arts, and social sciences (HASS) skills that nurture interpersonal skills such as empathy and creativity” are critical twenty-­ first century skills” (DISR, 2017, p. 2). But little is said about how the Government intends to support HASS in the strategy. And despite recognition of the value of STEAM education in developing creativity in the 2018 inquiry, the focus on STEM knowledge suggests that this is the only challenge. How learning and

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communication can be enabled, and what this means for workplace and educational organisation remains unclear, and largely unaddressed. So, the arts and the contribution of arts practice are represented in different ways in these innovation policy and implementation frameworks. They are sometimes completely excluded and, at other times, identified as central to the whole innovation cycle that unfolds through knowledge production, application, and diffusion. The arts have also been identified as a ‘cultural backdrop’ that create a ‘climate of creativity’, justifying the inclusion of ‘creative curriculum’ in schools (Jaaniste, 2009). These arguments acknowledge that a one-dimensional model focused on funding STEM education, research, collaboration and commercialisation is insufficient in supporting innovation. The more holistic way of seeing innovation recognises the significance of organisational practices and workplaces, and the importance of making space for different knowledges rather than privileging science, technology, and business as the only means of advancing innovation. As Cutler suggests, this trajectory situates the arts throughout the innovation framework to better support the Government’s innovation agenda. These arguments also open up debates about how arts practice might be integrated into workplaces to better encourage and sustain innovation. Yet policy makers and artists tend to see innovation quite differently. For example, Patricia Piccinini has long been concerned with the social impacts of innovation. Her work asks direct questions about the impacts of innovation in techno-science. For her 2005 exhibition, Nature’s Little Helpers, Piccinini fabulated companion species to protect the endangered species of Australia, alerting viewers to the dangers as well as the possibilities of bioengineering (Haraway, 2008, p.  287). In Harawayan terms, Piccinini interrogates rather than demonises science and technology. In her essay for Piccinini’s (Tender) Creatures exhibition catalogue, Haraway (2007) writes that she “recognised a sister in technoculture, a co-worker committed to taking ‘naturecultures’ seriously”. For example, Surrogate (for the Northern Hairy-nosed Wombat)2 created in 2004, was designed to bear six baby wombats at various stages of gestation in order to boost the numbers of the endangered marsupials (Piccinini, 2005). People viewing the work were confronted by physical embodiments of, until then, unimagined theoretical possibilities. Given super-real material form, sculptures like Surrogate appear to be incredibly life-like, which makes their possibility appear more plausible. The Skywhale is another reflection on an imagined evolution that is a key theme of her work: Whales … are mammals and should be on land but somehow have adapted themselves to the aquatic world of fishes. But what if those same mammals had somehow evolved to take to the air? (Piccinini, 2013).

 To view an image, click on the link above or go to https://www.roslynoxley9.com.au/artwork/ patricia-piccinini-natures-little-helpers-surrogate-for-the-northern-hairy-nosed-­­ wombat-2004/33:20837 2

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These questions provoked other ideas. The Skywhale’s mammaries were designed that way to reflect how whales are mammals that breast-feed their young, like humans. Because people often do not think of whales as like humans, The Skywhale challenged the viewer to think about things differently: to think about things that were normally taken for granted or not given much thought at all. Reflecting on The Skywhale and the idea of evolution, Piccinini (2013) asks: Is the only difference between ‘natural selection’ and ‘genetic engineering’ the fact that one is slow and the other fast? Could something like The Skywhale evolve ‘naturally’ or would she have to be engineered? And if she could be engineered, would she actually be something people might choose to create? Would that be an OK use of the technology?

The sculpture challenges and blurs boundaries between nature and culture, maker and made, in Harawayan terms. The artist’s work provides a social and cultural lens for considering, among other questions, the ethics, and effects of living in a world that is increasingly driven by innovation in science and technology. However, Piccinini is careful to point out that her interests in evolution and bioengineering are ‘excuses’ for what really drives her creative process, which is her ideas about relationships: What kinds of relationships do we have with the creatures that we ‘share’ the planet with? What kind of relationships might we have with creatures that we might create in the future? How tolerant are we are of beings that are different from those we are used to?

The artist’s emphasis is on social and human aspects of innovation in science and technology that interrogate and challenge institutions that normalise everyday life. While Piccinini interrogates and challenges the institution of techno-science through her work, the institution of art is also fair game. In her commentary, Piccinini (2013) describes The Skywhale as “Art that has strayed outside of Art’s natural habitat”. The Skywhale is: … an artwork that exists very much outside of the context of the gallery space, both literally and on a deeper more structural level … it’s form – the hot air balloon – is itself located very much outside the traditional media associated with art … This is very challenging for a work of art. On one level, it is a challenge faced by ‘public’ art but even more so, because it lacks even the various contextual clues that normally make public art’s ‘art-ness’ obvious. Not only is it outside the gallery space, it is outside the institution of visual art.

By presenting the sculpture in a very public context, beyond the relative safety of the gallery space, the work was exposed to, and elicited, a broader range of community responses. These responses came from those who were not necessarily like-­ minded, or like the gallery-going public. Some politicians were challenged or shocked by the presence of The Skywhale in Canberran airspace because its ‘strangeness’ was confronting. She was seen to have transgressed certain sensitivities and ‘sacred boundaries’. But The Skywhale’s context, in Canberra, was also confronting and transgressive. The same negative reaction did not occur when her companion, Skywhalepapa, was launched in Melbourne some years later. However, standpoint theory suggests the context of the creature with oversized breasts floating over the male-dominated centre of Australian politics may explain, in part at least, politician’s reactions and the

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controversy that followed her Canberra launch. The artists’ creature may have threatened the sanctity of the site of political power in Australian, prompting politicians’ negative reactions. But this response to The Skywhale was in stark contrast to the joy of the unexpected that the artist expressed when presented and challenged with something new or different. These different reactions highlight the different standpoints of artists and policy makers. Yet policy makers control the ‘purse-­ strings’ that determine whose innovation is recognised and supported, and Canberra determines arts policy and a considerable amount of arts funding. In summary, where policy makers tend to focus on technical and economic aspects of innovation, the artist discussed here is concerned with the social aspects and implications of innovation. Innovation in artwork like Piccinini’s involves thinking about and doing things that are different to normal, and in highly imaginative and unexpected ways. Such work is risky because it questions and challenges, and sometimes transgresses, established conventions, practices, norms, and boundaries. This work is valued by some parts of the Australian community but can trouble policy makers whose standpoint is oriented towards economic benefits, and the political effects of arts practice that is highly innovative. This discussion of policy makers and artists approaches to innovation and their practices highlights the idea of practice as an important underlying concept in this book that links activity across domains.

Practice Theories about practice challenge prevailing ways of thinking about human life and social organisation, which have focused either on individuals or social orders, systems, and discourses. Practice theorists consider practices as forms of activity. However, there are different ideas about what constitutes ‘activity’. Some theorists identify practices as human activity, while others, such as Knorr Cetina (2005) and Pickering (2005) consider that machines or objects and nonhumans are also bound to practices. Pickering makes the case for a social theory which recognises that material and human agency constitute one another. This view problematises the idea of the social, challenging traditional (humanist) interpretations as relationships between people, and only people. This view is important because it acknowledges the relationship between objects such as The Skywhale, how they are experienced and their effects on people. There is general agreement, particularly among feminist practice theoreticians, that practices are ‘embodied’ (Schatzki et al., 2005). French theorists such as Pierre Bourdieu and Michel Foucault have been particularly influential in the development of practice theory that focuses on embodied practices. Bourdieu’s (1977) concept of habitus refers to the way the social order is internalised in the human body. Related to the idea of habitus is Foucault’s concept of discipline. Foucault (1977) argues that “the constitution of present-day activity centrally consists in the fashioning of bodies (e.g., their aptitudes) within disciplinary practices” (in Schatzki et  al., 2005,

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p. 11). Practice involves activity that depends on shared meanings and understandings. In this way, practice theorists tend to be concerned with the nexus between body, activity, and society. Wittgenstein (1953) influenced the development of practice theory in his consideration of rules as institutions where rule-following means participation in institutional practices, and how rules are socially constituted and grounded in practices or forms of social interaction. Theories about learning in practice through interactions between people with shared interests or occupations were taken up in the fields of education and workplace learning. Lave & Wenger’s (1991) concept of ‘community of practice’ (CoP) refers to a group of people who share an interest or passion for an activity or interest and learn by sharing ideas and knowledge as they interact. For example, a CoP might be a group of epidemiologists from different institutions around the world who are trying to develop vaccinations for COVID 19, or a group sharing a passion for synchronised figure skating. The concept of CoP was influenced by Lave’s (1988) research on the relationship between human cognition, practice, and the culture and environment where activities take place. The idea was later extended and applied to learning in workplaces by Wenger (1998). More recently, practice is seen to be more “dynamic, creative, and constructive” than theories of practice as rule-following routines, shared meanings and understandings, or embodied skills (Knorr Cetina, 2005, p. 184). Knorr Cetina bases this approach on work in contemporary ‘knowledge-based’ societies where what is ‘known’ keeps changing and practitioners and experts who develop the knowledge base need to keep learning. She considers the “moments of interruption and reflection in the performance of research” as an example of non-routine work that does not draw on embodied skills. This creative form of work practice can be disruptive or transgressive as established understandings and routines are challenged. In this way, the concept of ‘practice’ provides a point of connection between ideas about transgression and art-science practice that can disrupt normative conventions, leading to innovation.

Conclusion: Transgression as an Indicator of Innovation Ways of seeing and knowing innovation are embedded in particular standpoints and practices. The standpoint of policy makers often differs from that of artists because their situated knowledge is different. It is institutionalised in different ways through the bordering and ordering effects of social and symbolic boundaries, which means the transgressions of norms and conventions are both understood and experienced differently. The indicator of innovation in the arts is not the value or profit from product development or business organisation but is revealed through people’s responses to the material artefact and its transgressive effects. I argue that an artist’s way of thinking and working is a form of journeying that produces knowledge and innovation by encouraging transgression of established social norms and practices. This

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standpoint means arts practice is focused on, and by, the human dimension of innovation. Transgression is about challenging established cultural understandings and crossing boundaries that institutionalise social organisation. In this way, the transgression of ‘sacred boundaries’ is crucial to evolution and change. Artefacts are crucial to change processes as they act as boundary negotiation objects. In discussion of the concept of transgression earlier in this chapter, I raise ideas emerging in feminist literature about boundaries as fluid and permeable, rather than hard and fixed. Transgression is associated with movement across boundaries and is a positive action that is crucial to evolutionary change (Haraway, 2008). In this book, I use transgression as an indicator of innovation that manifests when boundaries become a conduit for interaction and communication, rather than division. This is because cross-boundary processes rely on variation, unlikely collaborations, and unconventional or ‘accidental couplings’, to use Haraway’s term (2008). The potential of boundaries for linkage, providing opportunities to bridge spaces, is emphasized. Feminist ideas about boundaries as bridges suggests that interactions between people who have different standpoints and who work together across knowledge fields, organisational and disciplinary boundaries, such as science and art, can contribute to knowledge building, transformation, and innovation. The implication is that extending arts and transdisciplinary practices into a range of contexts such as organisations and scientific workplaces has broad ramifications for the innovation agenda in Australia. To further consider these issues, in the next chapter I examine how arts practice affects workplace learning for innovation. This examination helps to shed light on the terms and conditions that enable collaborative work across knowledge boundaries.

References Berger, J. (1979). Ways of seeing. Penguin. Bourdieu, P. (1977). Outline of a theory of practice (R. Nice, Trans.). Cambridge University Press. Chubb, I. (2014, March 18). Science meets parliament. Keynote address to the National Press Club. http://www.chiefscientist.gov.au/2014/03/keynote-­address-­to-­the-­national-­press-­ club-­for-­science-­meets-­parliament/ Cutler, T. (2008). Venturous Australia: Building strength in innovation. Cutler & Company Pty Ltd.. Department of Communications and the Arts. (1994). Creative nation: Commonwealth cultural policy. Commonwealth of Australia. http://apo.org.au/node/29704 Department of Education. (2001). Backing Australia’s ability: An innovation action plan for the future. Commonwealth of Australia. http://apo.org.au/node/62077 Department of Education. (2004). Backing Australia’s ability: Building our future through science and innovation. Commonwealth of Australia. http://www.budget.gov.au/2004-­05/bp2/html/ expense-­06.htm Department of Industry and Science. (2014). Australian innovation system report 2013. Commonwealth of Australia. http://apo.org.au/node/36450 Department of Industry, Science and Resources. (2017). Australia 2030: Prosperity through Innovation. Commonwealth of Australia. https://www.industry.gov.au/publications/australia-­ 2030-­prosperity-­through-­innovation

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Department of Industry, Innovation, Science, Research and Tertiary Education. (2009). Powering ideas: An innovation agenda for the 21st century. Commonwealth of Australia. http://apo.org. au/node/14475 Department of the Prime Minister and Cabinet. (2015). National Innovation and science agenda: Welcome to the ideas boom. Commonwealth of Australia. http://www.innovation.gov.au/page/ national-­innovation-­and-­science-­agenda-­report Dewey, J. (2005). Art as Experience. Perigee Books. (Original work published 1934). Durkheim, E. (1965). The elementary forms of religious life. Free Press. Dürrschmidt, J., & Taylor, G. (2007). Globlisation, modernity and social change: Hotspots of transition. Palgrave Macmillan. Eisner, E. (2008). Art and knowledge. In J. Knowles & A. Cole (Eds.), Handbook of the arts in qualitative research: Perspectives, methodologies, examples, and issues (pp. 3–14). Sage. Ferris, W. (2017). Foreword. In Australia 2030: Prosperity through innovation. Office of Innovation and Science Australia, Australian Government. Commonwealth of Australia. https://www. industry.gov.au/data-­and-­publications/australia-­2030-­prosperity-­through-­innovation Foucault, M. (1973). The order of things: An archaeology of the human sciences. Random House. Foucault, M. (1977). Discipline and punish: The birth of the prison. Allen Lane. Grosz, E. (1995). Space, time, and perversion: Essays on the politics of bodies. Routledge. Haraway, D. (1985). Manifesto for cyborgs: Science, technology and socialist feminism in the 1980s. Socialist Review, 80, 65–108. Haraway, D. (1991a). A cyborg manifesto: Science, technology and socialist-feminism in the late twentieth century. In Simians, cyborgs and women: The reinvention of nature (pp. 149–181). Routledge. (Original work published as ‘Manifesto for cyborgs: Science, technology, and socialist feminism in the 1980s’. (1985). Socialist Review, 80, 65–108). Haraway, D. (1991b). Situated knowledges: The science question in feminism and the privilege of partial perspective. In Simians, cyborgs and women: The reinvention of nature (pp. 183–202). Routledge. (Original work published as ‘Situated knowledges: The science question in feminism as a site of discourse on the privilege of partial perspective’. (1988). Feminist Studies 14(3), 575–99). Haraway, D. (1997). Modest_Witness@Second_Millennium.FemaleMan_Meets_OncoMouse™: Feminism and Technoscience. Routledge. Haraway, D. (2004). Otherworldly conversations: Terran topics, local terms. In The Haraway reader (pp. 125–150). Routledge. Haraway, D. (2007). Speculative fabulations for technoculture’s generations: Taking care of unexpected country. Retrieved June 23, 2022, from https://www.patriciapiccinini.net/a-­essay. php?id=30. (Original work published 2007  in (Tender) Creatures. [exhibition catalogue]. ARTIUM, The Centro-Museo Vasco de Arte Contemporaneo, Vitoria- Gasteiz, Spain and Des Moines Art Center, Iowa, United States). Haraway, D. (2008). When species meet. University of Minnesota Press. Haraway, D. (2015). Anthropocene, capitalocene, plantationocene, chthulucene: Making kin. Environmental Humanities, 6, 159–165. Haraway, D. (2016). Staying with the trouble: Making kin in the Chthulucene. Duke University Press. Harding, S. (2004). A socially relevant philosophy of science? Resources from Standpoint theory’s controversiality. Hypatia: A Journal of Feminist Philosophy, 19(1), 25–47. https://doi. org/10.2979/HYP.2004.19.1.25 Hawkings, R. (2014, October 30). Paul keating’s creative nation: A policy document that changed us. In The Conversation. Retrieved November 1 2014 from http://theconversation.com/ paul-­keatings-­creative-­nation-­a-­policy-­document-­that-­changed-­us-­33537 House of Representatives Standing Committee on Employment, Education and Training. (2018). Inquiry into innovation and creativity: Workforce for the new economy (Final report). Commonwealth of Australia. http://www.aph.gov.au/Parliamentary_Business/ Committees/House/Employment_Education_and_Training/Innovationandcreativity/ Report_Innovation_and_creativity

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Intemann, K. (2010). 25 years of feminist empiricism and standpoint theory: Where are we now? Hypatia: A Journal of Feminist Philosophy, 25(4), 778–796. https://doi. org/10.1111/j.1527-­2001.2010.01138.x Jaaniste, L. (2009). Placing the creative sector within innovation: The full gamut. Innovation: Management, Policy & Practice, 11(2), 215–229. https://doi.org/10.5172/impp.11.2.215 Knorr Cetina, K. (2005). Objectual practice. In T. R. Schatzki, K. Knorr Cetina, & E. von Savigny (Eds.), The practice turn in contemporary theory (pp. 184–197). Routledge. Lamont, M., & Molnár, V. (2002). The study of boundaries in the social sciences. Annual Review of Sociology, 28, 167–195. https://doi.org/10.1146/annurev.soc.28.110601.141107 Lave, J. (1988). Cognition in practice: Mind, mathematics, and culture in everyday life. Cambridge University Press. Lave, J., & Wenger, E. (1991). Situated learning: Legitimate peripheral participation. Cambridge University Press. Lukacs, G. (1971). History and class consciousness (R. Livingstone, Trans.). MIT Press. (Original work published 1923). Marx, K. (1948). The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte. Foreign Language Publishing House. (Original work published 1852). Piccinini, P. (2005). Surrogate for the Northern Hairy-nosed Wombat [Sculpture]. Retrieved June 9, 2008, from http://www.patriciapiccinini.net/177/41 Piccinini, P. (2013). Six observations about The Skywhale. Retrieved May 7, 2022, from https:// www.patriciapiccinini.net/a-­essay.php?id=45 Pickering, A. (2005). Practice and posthumanism: Social theory and a history of agency. In T. R. Schatzki, K. Knorr Cetina, & E. von Savigny (Eds.), The practice turn in contemporary theory (pp. 172–183). Routledge. Polanyi, M. (1967). The Tacit Dimension. Anchor Books. Sassen, S. (2007). Sociology of globalisation. W. W. Norton & Co. Schatzki, T. R., Knorr Cetina, K., & von Savigny, E. (Eds.). (2005). The practice turn in contemporary theory. Routledge. Tolstoy, L. (1955). What is art? (A. Maude, Trans.). In A. Maude (Ed.), What is art? And essays on Art by Leo Tolstoy (pp. 70–289). Oxford University Press. (Originally published 1897). Turner, V. (1969). The ritual process: Structure and anti-structure. Aldine de Gruyter. Van Gennep, A. (1960). The rites of passage. University of Chicago Press. (Original work published 1906). Weber, M. (1978). Economy and society (Vol. 1). University of California Press. Wenger, E. (1998). Communities of practice: Learning, meaning, and identity. Cambridge University Press. Wittgenstein, L. (1953). Philosophical investigations (G. E. M. Anscombe, Trans.). Blackwell.

Chapter 3

Workplace Learning, the Human Dimension of Innovation and Transdisciplinary Work

Abstract  This chapter explains that although the concept of transgression is a very helpful indicator of innovation, it was never formulated to explain how innovation occurs. For this reason, this chapter turns to literature on the practices that facilitate innovation in organisations and workplaces. Reviewing this literature, reveals three broad approaches to innovation. These approaches have been taken up in the fields of organisational studies, employee-driven innovation, and workplace learning. Three key interconnecting dimensions of innovation are identified from this review. First, the organisation of work and environments within and beyond the workplace can impact on innovation. Second, learning through the direct experience of work can influence innovation. Third, workplace culture-orders support or constrain learning and innovation. This review of literature also identifies learning processes, skills and dispositions that support innovation.

Introduction Reviews and evaluations of the national innovation system in Australia indicate that blockages to innovation remain in the innovation system (Ferris, 2017). These evaluations suggest that processes of innovation may not have been well managed in organisations, and the measures taken have not worked as well as expected. Therefore, there is a need for new approaches that look beyond current models including STEM to understand how research, collaboration and commercialisation combine to support innovation. Seeing innovation in a more holistic way means recognising the significance of workplaces, organisational practices, and different knowledges. This trajectory situates collaborative and transdisciplinary work that includes the arts and sciences throughout the innovation framework. It is a strategy for better supporting the government’s innovation agenda. A more holistic approach

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 L. White-Hancock, The Art and Science of Innovation, Transdisciplinary Perspectives in Educational Research 7, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-33132-9_3

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also raises questions about how transdisciplinary practice that enables productive forms of transgression might be integrated into workplaces to encourage and sustain innovation. Therefore it is the human rather than the economic dimension of innovation in workplaces that is the focus of literature reviewed in this chapter.

The Human Dimension of Innovation Organisational Studies The core problem addressed in organisational studies relates to managing group processes among employees to support innovation. Since the 1990s, this line of inquiry has widened to target collaboration, knowledge sharing and knowledge transfer among employees that are seen to be critical to innovation (Lundvall, 1992, 2006; Glor, 1998). Studies have identified ‘teamwork’ as important to innovation but the characteristics of teams that support innovation are more contentious (Glor, 1998; Amabile et al., 2014). Some authors argue the benefits of teams with diverse skills. These authors caution that teams consisting only of ‘creatives’ could lead to a kind of homogeneity, which could undercut innovation (Glor, 1998). Another line of research has focused on tacit knowledge and the benefits of making that tacit knowledge explicit so that it can be shared (Nonaka & Takeuchi, 1995; Senker, 1993). These ideas about collaboration and knowledge sharing among employees lead to the concept of the ‘learning organisation’. This notion was popularised by Senge (1990) but built on Argyris and Schön (1978) and Drucker’s (1977) earlier work. Learning organisations are understood to be places where people continually engage in dialogue to collectively expand thinking and learning and to see the whole together as a complex environment (Senge, 1990). The idea of a ‘learning organisation’ is conceptualised through Systems Theory that seeks connections and relationships which link small units (individual employees) to the whole (organisation). Drucker recognised the need to make work more productive and the benefits of enabling workers to ‘achieve’ in the interests of both the worker and the organisation. The idea of building a ‘shared vision’ draws from Argyris and Schön’s work on ‘double-loop learning’. Argyris and Schon (1978) critique organisational models that simply reinforce taken for granted values, frameworks, and strategies for dealing with problems in organisations. The authors used the term ‘single loop learning’ to encapsulate the learning spawned by this kind of model. In contrast, they argue that organisations benefit more from learning that involves dialogue and questioning of organisational norms which they call ‘double loop learning’. The authors see this as a more reflexive and creative way of dealing with change. The idea of a learning organisation challenges deficit assumptions about powerless employees who are unable to deal with change and whose lack of vision can only be dealt with in the domain of ‘management’. As a systems model, Senge’s idea of the ‘learning organisation’ can be criticised for its narrow focus on organisations without connection to the broader concept of

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the ‘learning society’ or organisational dynamics in a globalised economy. Yet Drucker acknowledges that institutions do not exist in isolation, rather, “everyone is an organ of society” (1977, p.  40). These debates provided a springboard into research on innovation networks, the systemic nature of innovation (Fagerberg et al., 2005) and innovation ecosystems (Dodgson et al., 2014). Ecological models of innovation emerged in the 2000s in organisational studies literature to explain group processes in social learning systems. For example, Gloor’s (2006) Swarm Creativity model takes its name from the swarming behavior of insects, which features a collective intelligence, self-organisation, and the ability to successfully solve complex tasks, apparently without the need for ‘leaders’. This more systemic approach to understanding innovation has accompanied a reconsideration of traditional organisational models. Gloor argues that organisations will be more innovative if they loosen hierarchies and think of employees as partners. Recent research on highly innovative organisations in the USA also reveals approaches that are less managerial and controlling from the top-down (Amabile et al., 2014). In this model, creativity and innovation are found to occur in complex collaborative settings. Teams and organisations innovate using open-ended, improvisational group processes and social networks rather than through advanced planning by managers. These forms of openness and open access indicate the importance of more porous boundaries in firms that enable movement and collaborative knowledge sharing in and across organisations and networks to support innovation. However, what is problematic about the organisational studies approach is the assumption that people will happily engage with innovation, and it will flourish if the conditions in the workplace and the innovation system are well managed. These approaches foreground management processes that support innovation but focus on the role of employees rather than talking about employees as people, who are expected to engage in these work processes. But why, when, and how do/should people engage (or not) with the ‘shared’ vision of the organisation? These questions about the human dimension of innovation tend not to be addressed in organisational management and development literature. Yet there are some researchers who firmly place employees at the centre of innovation.

Employee-Driven Innovation ‘Employee-driven innovation’ is an emerging field of research that foregrounds, unsurprisingly, on innovation driven by employees. The focus is on how employees learn in particular contexts, and how the organisation of work facilitates their learning (for example Evans, 2012). Employees who work collaboratively to share and build knowledge are identified as an overlooked driver of innovation in organisations (Høyrup et al., 2012). This line of inquiry can be traced to the work of Drucker but, rather than following his organisational management orientation, addresses the importance of letting people “drive themselves” to achieve quality of performance and innovation (1954, p. 304).

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Models of employee-driven innovation draw from influential theories of collaborative knowledge sharing and building. These forms of knowledge work have been conceptualised in different ways as ‘communities of practice’ (Wenger, 1998) and ‘knotworking’ (Engeström, 2001). A community of practice (CoP) is defined as an informal gathering or network of people who are connected by shared knowledge or experience, and enthusiasm for a joint activity (Wenger & Snyder, 2000). This concept of group learning became significant in the 1990s but also echoes earlier insights. For example, Marx and Engels (1932/1978) wrote about workers who developed “communal interest” and Durkheim (1960) considered the division of labour to be a source of social solidarity and “the foundation of the moral order” (cited in Duguid, 2005, p. 114). But the idea of ‘community of practice’ is nothing new. The idea captures collective groups that have existed for thousands of years, such as classical Greek corporations of metalworkers, potters, masons and other craftspeople, and the guilds of medieval Europe. The concept recognises social and business purposes that cohere participants in the network and as a collective, which also provides a powerful vehicle for the transfer of ‘best practice’ and developing professional skills. The process of working together across disciplinary boundaries to achieve a common goal in organisations is conceptualised as ‘knotworking’ or ‘co-­ configuration’ by Engeström (2001). In his research on healthcare professionals, Engeström theorises how people ‘transfer’ knowledge across disciplinary boundaries or ‘activity systems’ as they ‘participate’ together in their work practices and as ‘expansive’ learning occurs. Engeström’s idea of knotworking stems from Cultural Historical Theory (Vygotsky, 1962/1978) and Activity Theory (Leontiev, 1978). The idea refers to the learning that mediates between subject, object, and artefact. This perspective on learning emphasises the relationships between a society and the activity of individuals who make and use artefacts. But in Engeström’s view, the limitation of Vygotsky’s approach is the focus on individuals as the unit of analysis. Leontiev’s concept of ‘activity’ addressed this limitation of psychological orientation by refocusing attention on complex relations between individuals interacting in social environments, networks, or systems. This perspective identifies how challenges and tensions that arise within or across activity systems are resolved as people cross boundaries and learn. Employee-driven innovation theories concentrate on employees as they relate to organisational processes and the management of innovation processes. These perspectives assume a ‘shared vision’ but do not always acknowledge the effects of broader social, cultural, historical, and political impacts on learning for innovation. They also suggest learning and knowledge are shared unproblematically to the benefit of the organisation, which does not recognise social divisions and the effects of hierarchies and cultural orders either beyond the organisation or within workplaces. But these lines of inquiry do offer a more holistic model that draws together ‘top-­ down’ management-driven and ‘bottom-up’ employee-driven approaches to reveal the ‘co-production’ of innovation (Høyrup, 2012). However, targeting ‘employees’ tends to overlook the characteristics of the people involved and their different standpoints which may conflict with each other in

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organisations and may, or may not, be accommodated or recognised within organisational rules. These frames of reference render transgression invisible. This is because the transgression of ‘sacred boundaries’ and established norms (Haraway, 2008) rests on a personal response that is not easily seen through the lens of organisational, and employee-management practices. The implication is that personal activities in and beyond employment may anchor transgressive practices but their connection to innovation is not obvious.

Workplace Learning Workplace learning research differs from organisational studies and employee-­ driven innovation because it foregrounds learning in workplaces. Historically, learning has been associated with formal schooling rather than work. Governments have tended to emphasise learning through formal schooling and the acquisition of qualifications by children and adolescents. This perspective has long been problematic for theorists such as Dewey (1938) who see learning and ‘knowing’ emerging from a range of contexts that include workplaces. But interest in learning for work and, therefore, workplace learning has become more significant as governments around the world have addressed the challenges of developing capacities for innovation in knowledge-based economies (James et al., 2011). Learning through practical experience at work is now seen to be as important as learning through exposure to teaching that introduces learners to epistemic knowledges in formal school settings. Furthermore, Felstead et al. (2009) argue that knowledge and skills can be developed, shared, adapted, and transformed in workplaces sometimes to the point that formal learning and qualifications are irrelevant to the workplace context. This idea suggests that ‘working’ is a form of learning. From a workplace learning perspective, innovation is sometimes seen as “a simple process of trial and error rooted in experience” while, for others, it a complex process of learning through working (Fenwick, 2003, p. 123). However, there has been little empirical research on the complexities involved in innovative ‘everyday’ practices within organisations until the early 2000s. Since then, a great deal of research has examined the supporting conditions and processes involved in innovative learning. For example, studies have investigated different work contexts within organisations and across organisational boundaries (for example Guile, 2009). Some research has traced learning and innovation through occupations within particular industries (Fenwick, 2004), or regions of economic activity (for example Felstead et al., 2009). Guile (2009, 2012) and James (2012) have conducted research specifically on the creative industries in England. Hager (2011) identifies three key influences that have focused debates on workplace learning since the 1990s. First, theories of workplace learning built on understandings of vocational education grounded in behaviorist psychology. Claiming to be ‘scientific’, behaviorism saw learning in terms of what was observable. This meant learning for work was defined by, and identified through, specific behaviors.

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Tasks were codified and workers could be trained to perform those tasks. But the basic premise of behaviorism failed to consider processes, such as ‘thinking’, ‘understanding’ and ‘knowing’ which cannot be directly observed (Hager, 2011, p. 18). These psychological theories were criticised for being too focused on individual learners without acknowledging the significance of social context, or place, in learning. Seeing learning as an individual activity also encourages the idea of learning as an individually acquired product when, in workplaces, learning often occurs through relationships and in teams. Critiques of the narrow psychological focus on individual learning highlighted the significance of workplaces as contexts or environments for learning. Hager (2011) describes key socio-cultural theories which draw attention to social interactions and conditions in the workplace as the second key influence on workplace learning research. Research on CoP’s (Wenger & Snyder, 2000) and knotworking (Engeström, 2001) shows how the specific organisation, rules and resourcing of workplaces creates ‘affordances’ for learning, to use Billett’s term (2001). Workplaces are also affected by broader economic, cultural, and social conditions that shape the structure of industries and workplaces (Felstead et al., 2009). These broader conditions include historic changes as the world of work is affected by globalisation which make cross-cultural learning more significant than in the past (Seddon, 2008, 2013). These perspectives emphasise the contextualised and social character of learning and how it occurs through processes of participation in workplace activities. Third, Hager identifies the influence of ‘postmodern’ theories on workplace learning research. Actor Network Theory (Mulcahy, 2007) and Complexity Theory (Davis & Sumara, 2006) offer insights into learning that emerges in unexpected and unpredictable ways in rapidly changing contemporary contexts of work. These perspectives highlight learning as a creative process. Such ideas resonate with research on employee-driven innovation that recognises the emergence and effects of increasingly complex environments because of rapid technological development, globalisation, and the world-wide web. These influences on workplace learning trouble the boundaries of ‘work’ and ‘the workplace’ by extending the focus from organisations to investigations of global organisational networks (Lotz & Kristensen, 2012) and comparisons of different national approaches (Fees & Taherizadeh, 2012). While classifying fields of workplace learning research is not clear-cut, these converging influences suggest there can be a relationship between learning-through-­ working and innovation.

Learning-Through-Working The concept of ‘learning-through-working’ is important to this book because identifies ‘working’ as the context for learning and innovation. The concept suggests innovation is an effect of workplace organisation, culture, and learning. This section explains how the concept of ‘learning-through-working’ is developed from ideas of

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‘learning’ as an emergent process that occurs ‘through’ ‘working’ in workplace learning theory and post-structuralist feminist theory. Felstead et al. (2009) consider how learning occurs through everyday ‘working’ practices. By focusing on working as a context, these authors direct attention to the ways in which learning is impacted by a range of social processes and relationships. The Working as Learning Framework (WALF) is an analytical tool which Felstead et al. developed to show how the organisation of work and job tasks are affected by work environments and cultures within and beyond specific workplaces. The ‘expansive-restrictive continuum’ describes how learning can be ‘expanded’ or ‘restricted’ depending on the ways that work is organised as a learning environment. The authors use the concept of ‘articulation’ to explain the ways that networks of social relations are linked on both horizontal and vertical axes of a ‘productive system’ in the WALF. The idea of the productive system is drawn from economic theory that considers political, cultural, and social impacts on economies. Felstead et al. (2009) argue that redrawing boundaries in a workplace with the introduction of new processes, technologies, funding arrangements or structural arrangements at the government or organisational level, has effects on the productive system and on individual workers. From this perspective, learning is seen to be ‘interactive’ at the levels of the individual, the organisation and the region and they can impact on each other in a symbiotic process. Learning is also affected by the degree of ‘discretion’ and ‘trust’ afforded to employees to determine their own work. Felstead et al. (2009) employ the WALF to systematically analyse how learning at work is expanded or restricted by the organisation of work and workplace environments in a range of diverse public and private organisations. The activities and impact of government bureaucrats and management within an organisation relate to the ‘vertical’ context within the WALF. Those who work together at similar levels in an organisation provide a ‘horizontal’ view of the way work is organised and the distribution of learning. This research suggests that working as a form of learning can require and enable innovation. Felstead’s et al. (2009) work informs my examination of innovation in that it provides a way of understanding that learning at work involves complex social interactions. From this perspective, the organisation of work and environments within and beyond the workplace together impact on working and learning that can either support or constrain innovation. Guile’s work focuses more on ‘learning’ in practice or learning by doing that takes place in the changing world of work. He offers a particular focus on the Culture and Creative Industries sector in England (CCI). Guile’s (2009) study shows how disciplinary and experiential knowledges combine to address the need to learn new ‘rules of engagement’ in developing capacities for short-term project work, self-employment, and entrepreneurialism. This intellectual tradition builds on the work of Dewey (2005/1934) who was critical of educational theory, which saw learning as either individual development through the lens of psychology, or as an effect of external forces read through sociology (Dewey, 2005/1934). Instead, Dewey developed a theory of experience that aimed to integrate these two paradigms. Dewey argued that individual learning is situated within a

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community whether it is at school, at work, at home or another social context. What is learned in any community is not just subject content, which is the focus of school-­ based education, but also the rules, norms, standards of behavior and dispositions that support social engagement (Dewey, 2005/1934). Guile (2009) developed case studies of agencies which organised transitional programs of ‘work ready’ experiences helping graduates to gain access to the tightly controlled culture and creative industries sector in the areas of film, performing arts, jewellery design and manufacture. The design of strategies to bridge the boundary between school and work followed Lave and Wenger’s (1991) idea of an ‘integrated learning-teaching curriculum’. These strategies combined formally designed teaching sessions with learning opportunities in authentic workplace settings (Guile, 2009). Such experiences enabled graduates to learn about workplace norms and conventions. This learning was seen to be particularly significant where traditional employer-employee structures were breaking down and ways of defining the ‘workplace’ were expanding and changing; that is, ‘workplaces’ were not necessarily the fixed sites of full-time, long-term work that were once the norm. Guile’s research is important because it suggests how innovation is affected by ‘doing’ work. Direct experience, learning in practice, and access to authentic workplaces and industry practices is critical to this process. Guile’s work also draws attention to the transitional space between disciplinary and experiential learning which can be considered an ‘in-between’ boundary zone. Haraway argues that “in the interconnection of embodied being and environing world, what happens in the interface is what is important” (2008, p.  249). From Haraway’s standpoint, ‘boundaries’ are culturally embedded and socially ordered, but are not impenetrable and can be transgressed or moved ‘through’. Her ideas about boundaries and transgressing sacred boundaries suggest boundaries are crucial sites of innovation. This way of understanding boundaries helps to focus this book on sites of transdisciplinary interaction. Haraway’s (2008) notion that interaction across boundaries is seen to ‘pollute’ lineages also informs this book because it suggests transboundary work may be problematic in discipline-oriented cultures. There may be resistance to transboundary ways of working. Research on ‘embodied learning’, and the influence of feminist and practice theories on this work, have intensified particularly since the mid-2000s and are important to this discussion. For example, Somerville (2006) documented the experiences of workers learning safety at work and then analysed their ‘storylines’. She found that there was little relationship between formal theoretical learning about safety and the ‘embodied’ learning developed through experiences at work. Somerville discusses the example of mine workers who resisted the implementation of (paper-based) ‘safety at work’ theory because it failed to consider their tacit knowledge that had become embodied over years of experience, and which they valued highly. In contrast to textual practices codified in competency-based training programs, mine workers used what they described as “pit sense” to tell them whether their “bodies-in-place” were safe (Somerville, 2006, p.  43). “Pit sense” included “sound, smell, touch … and other senses that have no name such as the sense of the

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heaviness of the air” (2006, p. 43). Somerville’s standpoint recognises embodied learning as a valid way of knowing the world and situates the body at the centre of learning about place, rather than peripheral to it. Three key ideas are taken forward from Somerville’s research. First, the storylines that she examined reveal how learning emerges through the embodiment of practices in ways that either conform to established regulations and norms or disrupt and transgress those culture- orders. Second, specific places are conceptualised as ‘contact zones’ or in-between spaces. The ‘border work’ of place learning in the contact zone comes at a cost because it requires negotiating difference. This work is risky and difficult on an emotional level as power relations are played out. These ideas about the contact zone have implications for this study because power relations add to the complexities of learning and working across disciplinary knowledge boundaries in these kinds of in-between spaces. Third, learning is not fixed, it involves movement and transformation as learning is gained ‘through’ lived, embodied experience and practice, which can generate change and innovation. This section has explained how ‘learning-through-working’ offers a conceptual framework for this book by identifying three key interconnecting dimensions of innovation. First, the organisation of work and environments within and beyond the workplace can impact on innovation. Second, learning through the direct experience of ‘doing’ work  – learning in practice  – supports innovation. Third, learning emerges ‘through’ the embodiment of practices in ways that often conform to established norms and culture-orders but transgressing those normative frames of reference contributes to innovation. I now elaborate on these themes.

Workplace Learning for Innovation The Organisation of Work and Workplace Environments There is broad recognition for the need to design workplaces that promote learning and encourage skills for innovation. But there are diverse views about how work should be organised and what constitutes a supportive workplace environment that encourages innovation. Some of these perspectives are examined in the next few paragraphs. The role of management is seen to be a critical factor in constructing a supportive environment for innovation. How to better ‘manage’ innovation in organisations has been widely debated in business and government policy. Yet there is an increasing body of research on workplace learning which finds Taylorist ‘top-down’ management structures, and practices with excessive levels of control that separate work execution and planning, support the lowest levels of learning, and constrain innovation (for example Høyrup, 2012). Fenwick adopts a similar position, arguing that organisations would be better off focusing on how people’s “messy and restless innovative learning processes” can be better supported rather than “bending

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employees to pre-determined ideas of how people should innovate” (2003, p. 131). Furthermore, top-down managerial styles favour predictable orthodoxy and social conservatism, inhibiting the risk-taking that is argued to be conducive to entrepreneurialism and innovation (Moore, 2004). Top-down approaches differ from flat management structures where workers have a high degree of ‘discretion’ to determine their work. These flatter structures and cultures tend to be more effective in creating an environment that encourages innovation. Research since the 2000s has documented processes where workers learn and actively remake their everyday work practices, identifying employees as critical resources for innovation (for example Billett, 2012; Høyrup et al., 2012). The potential for disruption, chaos and confusion were once considered negative impacts but are increasingly seen as positive environmental factors affecting employee-driven innovation within organisations (Høyrup, 2012). From this perspective, the experience of unexpected and complex situations, change, new problems and discontinuity are seen to be characteristic of environments that support innovative learning. Yet a safe environment is also seen to be needed for learning and innovation to occur. A safe workplace is one that supports employee’s risk-taking because it can be risky to present work that is different. This idea recalls Somerville’s concern about the ‘border work’ of place learning, where negotiating difference involves “risky and difficult emotional work” (2010, p. 43). At the same time, an extensive study of artistic interventions in European organisations shows that the power of these risky interventions “resided in opening up spaces of possibility” (Berthoin Antal & Strauß, 2013, pp.  32–33). These are simultaneously physical and social spaces or environments where employees feel safe to “share even the wildest stories” and to try “different ways of expressing and doing things” (Berthoin Antal & Strauß, 2013, p. 32). The interaction between physical, social, and mental spaces is seen to generate an environment for innovation. In their study of workplace innovation, Heiskanen and Heiskanen define ‘space’ as a “network of relationships, which creates conditions for human action and interaction” (2011, p. 2). ‘Physical’ spaces are defined as material facilities including artefacts and regulatory structures such as “budgets, electronic domains and work schedules” (p. 4). Mental spaces refer to “the world of theory and meanings” and social spaces refer to social relationships (p.  3). The argument is that physical, social, and mental spaces work together in a holistic way to create the conditions for human action and interaction, which can either support or constrain innovation in organisations. Heiskanen and Heiskanen also argue that a discussion of spaces also means talking about boundaries because they locate spaces. According to the authors, physical spaces have boundaries that are often quite visible but social and mental boundaries are often invisible and only become visible when they are transgressed. Høyrup’s (2012) model of employee-driven innovation considers the significance of social interactions in informal physical spaces such as tearooms in workplaces where relationships can be fostered. They are spaces where people are

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working and not working at the same time. This hybrid environment provides the opportunity for a diverse range of people to share ideas and for unexpected learning to occur. Traditional forms of managerial control of work processes are disrupted through informal interactions in these spaces. Beyond the workplace, the way organisations respond to changing and volatile environments is also seen to be important in creating an environment of innovation in organisations (Høyrup, 2012). In times of economic adversity, governments and institutions have called for people to be more innovative. Yet the first cuts in government funding and school curricula typically relate to the arts. For example, states across the USA dramatically cut funding to the arts in response to the ‘global financial crisis’ of 2008: Florida (97%), Ohio (47%), and Arizona (54%) (Nissley, 2010). As Nissley points out, this is despite plentiful evidence that the arts generate innovation in both science and business. These examples are powerful indicators of the broader barriers and cultural ordering that can constrain innovation.

The Workplace Culture-Order Workplace culture-orders support or constrain learning and innovation. Organisational or workplace ‘culture’ is conceptualised in quite different ways in literature reviewed. Hasse and Brandi define organisational culture as “what we do in organisations which teach employees certain cultural values, discourses, emotions, traditions and meanings of artefacts through a process of practice-based learning” (2012, p. 135). Other definitions focus on shared learning or ‘consensus.’ Some theorists challenge the notion of a shared workplace culture altogether (Hasse & Brandi, 2012). Approaching organisational ‘culture’ as the ‘orders’ that ‘border’ work in workplaces suggests ‘management’ is a form of boundary work. Cultural boundary work entails mechanisms for maintaining boundaries and difference such as group classifications and membership (Lamont & Molnár, 2002). Managers order the culture and ‘managing innovation’ orders the work of innovation at government and organisational levels. Felstead et al. (2009) consider how workplace cultures are formed as organisations are governed, creating a discursive order that may have ‘expansive’ or ‘restrictive’ effects on learning and innovation. The discourse of management has pervaded both business and Government domains over the past century since Taylor (1911) developed his ‘scientific’ method of management. This method gained primacy from the 1970s on as business management logics expanded as a result of globalisation and government policies informed by economic rationalism (Alexiadou & Jones, 2001). Ideas about employee-driven innovation challenge the traditional top-down ‘culture-­order’ of workplaces and the discourse of management. Yet the processes involved can be problematic. First, challenging these managed boundaries can reflect and highlight relations of power between practices. Rather than bridging the boundary, power relations can be magnified and reinforced. Second, engaging in

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these challenges is affected by the degree of support or ‘affordances’ from management within an organisation (Billett, 2001). As Hasse and Brandi argue: An innovation is not an innovation until it has been recognised as an innovation in a specific cultural context (2012, p. 133).

Third, reduced funding (due to external events such as the global financial crisis) or profit-driven economic imperatives for outcomes and products can affect the willingness of managers to divest control and take risks, tolerate failure, or allow time for experimentation, particularly in smaller organisations. Paradoxically, these practices have long been identified with innovation enabling cultures (Callan, 2004). These arguments raise questions about who determines what innovations are supported, and why. The ideas discussed here shed light on the work involved in maintaining institutional and organisational culture-orders and on the hierarchies that impact workplace learning and innovation. These ideas also offer a way of thinking about boundaries and disciplinary ordering between science and the arts. Questions are raised about how normative conventions and assumptions can be challenged or transgressed to generate innovation in workplaces, and about the learning processes involved.

Learning in Practice In some organisations management expects employees to rigidly ‘toe the line’, follow rules and workplace conventions. In this kind of workplace culture, researchers argue that some innovations developed by employees in their everyday practices never see the light of day (Hasse & Brandi, 2012). Under these conditions, employees don’t necessarily share their ideas about doing things differently for fear of reprisal. Yet, in some workplaces the terms and conditions of work allow and even encourage innovations that run against established rules, conventions, and norms. This characteristic describes an ‘expansive’ workplace (Felstead et al., 2009). Studies on workplace learning suggest that it is critical to understand the practices, conventions and traditions of a profession, organisation or industry before boundaries can be tested or moved beyond to generate innovation. For example, Guile’s 2009 study shows how interactions with ‘old-timers’ in authentic settings of extended learning, and interactions among people of the same profession from different communities provided exposure to different norms and practices. This way of learning about norms and conventions through extended communities is nothing new. From medieval times in Europe, apprentices completing their training were required to become ‘journeymen’ who travelled to other regions or countries, working with, and learning from master practitioners, and sharing their own knowledge (Rosser, 1997). Journeymen associations or ‘fraternities’ also supported this purpose. Yet some organisations deliberately run against conventional approaches. In Harawayan terms, they transgress ‘sacred’ boundaries and challenge ‘lineages’ in

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contrast to workplaces that emphasise ‘sticking to the rules’ and doing things ‘by the book’. Some organisations develop the conditions for innovation by encouraging transgression, critical reflection and questioning of established practices through experimentation, testing alternatives and risk- taking (for example Ellström, 2010; Høyrup, 2012). Innovation is seen to be stimulated through projects where existing knowledge that seems to offer few insights into a problem encounters knowledge about “unfamiliar landscapes” (Fenwick, 2003, p. 125). These ideas suggest insights and innovations can be developed by people who do not have extensive disciplinary knowledge and could come from people who work beyond the field altogether. For example, the last decade has seen increasing interest in arts interventions in organisations which are seen to foster innovation. Arts-based methods have been used as a pedagogical approach to build learning capacity at individual and organisational levels in companies such as Airbus and GlaxoSmithKline. Such organisations perceive how arts ways of thinking and doing can help employees shift perceptions and look beyond the obvious to develop imagination and creative ideas (Nissley, 2010). These benefits are also reflected in Root-­ Bernstein’s et al study of scientists and their avocations which indicates significant correlations between scientists with interests in the arts “and particular modes of thinking (especially visual ones)” and their professional impacts (1995, p. 115). In their review of 268 publications on arts interventions in organisations, Berthoin Antal and Strauß (2013) identified impacts on strategic and operational areas (productivity, product development and marketing strategy). The review found that arts interventions are also seen to enhance the organisational culture, leadership and working climate. However, positive impacts were more often reported on collaborative ways of working and communication, extending relationships and personal development, and adopting “artful ways of working: dealing with unexpectedness and being open to the new” (Berthoin Antal & Strauß, 2013, p. 12). The authors found that what was most valued by both managers and employees alike in organisations was the discovery of “new ways of seeing and doing things” which impacted on people’s “willingness to act and engage in change” (p. 3). This research on artistic interventions and collaborations in workplaces shows how interaction with ‘outsiders’ can help employees to reflect critically, and question established norms and practices. These interactions can help shift perceptions and encourage new ways of seeing, thinking, and doing which generates innovation.

 earning-Through-Working and Transdisciplinary Practice L in Times of Change The discourse of the ‘knowledge-based economy’ suggests that traditional discipline-­based schooling and education methods are limited by conditions of rapid social change. In a ‘learning economy’, Lundvall et al. (2008) argue, codified discipline-based knowledge is becoming obsolete more rapidly than before. The age

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of globalisation and the world-wide-web means firms and employees must constantly learn and acquire new competencies. So, rather than emphasising ‘knowledge’, it is necessary to focus on learning in the current environment of rapid change. For example, the COVID 19 pandemic prompted the need to learn fast in response to rapidly changing conditions across a broad range of workplaces, and in response, new business models have flourished. New spaces for learning have been developed during the pandemic where the ‘workplace’ has been extended beyond the confines of the office or school to home-based spaces. But as the Secretary-­ General of the United Nations, António Guterres noted in the UN’s COVID 19 response (2021), inequities of access and digital connectivity have also been emphasised, particularly in home-based learning. Changing conditions brought about by the pandemic have surfaced the need to reimagine education globally. Adapting to changing conditions within organisations and industries is seen to require ‘dynamic capabilities’ that involve developing new routines, tools, and processes through collaborative effort (Teece, 2009). Adapting to the conditions of the pandemic has highlighted the need for dynamic capabilities to develop new approaches in workplaces and in extended home-based and on-line work and learning spaces. Høyrup (2012) and Felstead et al. (2009) indicate that confronting tensions and gaps between traditional and new work practices can lead to expansive learning. Where workers are afforded the freedom to build bridges that span gaps between old and new practices, ‘spontaneous’ learning and innovation can occur. Affording autonomy, self-management or discretion to determine one’s work are ways of supporting these learning processes (Høyrup, 2012). These practices require divesting control and empowering employees to participate in the innovation process, but this transgresses the traditional order of top-down management practice. Such conflicting interests point to the complexities involved in developing individual and organisational capacities for innovation. Challenges that arise from changing industry practices or from changing economic, political, social, or cultural conditions and unfamiliar landscapes are shown to lead to outcomes that conform to, or run against, expectations in workplaces. One study of a local Shire Council in England demonstrates how the restructuring of the workplace, determined at the regional level, led to changing work conditions, and expansive learning demands and opportunities (Felstead et  al., 2009). However, despite assumptions of co-operation and collaboration, employees did not necessarily conform to organisational expectations about cooperatively engaging with change. Instead, the 2009 study by Felstead et al. found that the re-organised workplace was characterised by adversarialism and distrust. These effects led to information hording rather than the information sharing that was expected. Interdisciplinary teams and collaborations are seen to be particularly useful and have become commonplace for dealing with complex issues, particularly within industries such as healthcare (Engeström, 2001). Yet, accounts of transgression of boundaries help to explain why transdisciplinary collaboration across more diverse disciplines and industries may be treated with suspicion and resistance when powerful disciplinary knowledge traditions and their boundaries are challenged. As Wenger and Snyder (2000) argue, in work where knowledge boundaries bump up

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against each other, the boundaries are emphasised, brought into sharp focus, at the same time as they are challenged. Gieryn (1983) explains how this disciplinary distance has grown since the industrial revolution, along with increasing specialisation of occupations, and ‘demarcation’ between them. Furthermore, the way we define ourselves, and our identities have long been tied to disciplines and occupations – ‘I am a doctor’, ‘I am a baker’, and so on (Gieryn, 1983). At the same time, the effectiveness of collaboration, teamwork and other group processes rely on knowledge sharing and normative practices. These practices are expected to support innovation in organisations but become contested when strong boundaries are protected (Felstead et al., 2009). In his research on healthcare professionals, Engeström (2001) theorises knowledge ‘transference’ across disciplinary boundaries or activity systems as people ‘participate’ together in their work practices as a means of supporting expansive learning (2001). However, the concept of ‘transference’ of intellectual capability across boundaries is too simple. First, it does not consider the complex social and cognitive processes that take place as boundary crossing is undertaken. Second, the idea assumes that knowledge can be transferred across different contexts and that the context is irrelevant. Yet this is not necessarily the case. Third, Engeström assumes that an individual’s knowledge becomes part of the collective knowledge of an organisation “automatically and unproblematically” (James et al., 2011, p. 22). Yet studies such as Felstead’s et al. (2009) find that people sometimes willingly share knowledge and sometimes they do not. Knowledge transfer and models such as Engeström’s knotworking rely on individuals possessing skills that allow them to span boundaries and switch ‘hats’ when dealing with different perspectives. But models cannot be transferred across industries where a ‘shared object’ or objective, which existed in Engeström’s study, is not present (Bishop et al., 2009). Instead, the ability to share knowledge depends upon mutual engagement in shared practices. Yet as Duguid (2005) recognises, epistemic boundaries formed through practice can also prevent communication across knowledge networks, regardless of good will, because of the difficulties in codifying and communicating tacit knowledge. These arguments highlight the problem of transferring ‘best practice’ across communities by circulating knowledge. In some organisations, teams are constantly changing when members move from task to task and these teams are characterised by weak ties and superficial associations (Sennett, 1998). Under these conditions, it is hard to develop trust. Without trust, knowledge sharing, learning and collaboration are likely to be restricted rather than expanded. Given these issues, it is argued that organisations need to consider not only psychological dimensions of how learning is shared between individuals but also the epistemic-social dimension if they want to ‘capture’ or maximise the knowledge of their workforce (James et al., 2011). These complex processes highlight difficulties in responding to rapidly changing conditions when dealing with different norms and practices is necessary to support innovation through collaboration. Learning and working more collaboratively across knowledge and organisational domains are seen to be important to innovation (Stoimenova et al., 2015). Yet this

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way of working can be messy and emotional work that leads to conflict as different ideas, needs and ways of knowing rub up against each other. For example, while the COVID 19 pandemic generated substantial cooperative and collaborative transdisciplinary effort to address related healthcare and social issues, conflict and distrust have also emerged locally in Australia and globally. Conflict resulted when people were all vying for vaccines at times of shortage. And there have also been plenty of demonstrations by people who have different views about the need for vaccines or lockdowns at all. So, while the global response to the pandemic has been astonishingly cooperative, collaborative and innovative, it has certainly not been the universal experience. Studies examined in this section suggest that communication and problem-solving are necessary skills for interaction and collaboration between individuals and organisations in transdisciplinary work.

 onclusion: Workplace Learning and Three Key Dimensions C of Innovation The human dimension of innovation relates to understanding current organisational and industry connections, rules, and normative conventions through participation in authentic workplace settings, which encourages expansive learning. However, organisations that simply expect employees to stick to the rules are shown to restrict knowledge sharing, learning and innovation compared to those organisations that establish conditions and actively encourage people to cross boundaries and challenge or transgress normative conventions. Psychological and social dimensions of knowledge sharing need to be considered in order to establish these conditions. This is important because sometimes people will share knowledge and sometimes, they will not. Collaborative work is seen to be important to innovation and there is an expectation in many organisations that this will occur unproblematically. But in times of rapid change, distrust can challenge these possibilities. Analysis of literature reviewed  reveals the  relationship between learning-­ through-­working and innovation. Learning-through-working has three interrelated dimensions that impact on innovation. These dimensions entail environmental and organisational conditions, cultural ordering and learning in practice. Learning involves movement and transformation ‘through’ lived, embodied experience. Learning emerges in ways that conform to established norms and cultural orders but transgressing those normative frames of reference contributes to innovation. Critical reflection and questioning of established practices through experimentation, testing alternatives and risk-taking are learning processes that are shown to support innovation. Autonomy, self-management and discretion to determine one’s work and a flat management style are seen to support these learning processes but run against or transgress the conventional top-down order of managing innovation in many organisations. Yet management governs and orders work, workplaces, and the habits of workforces. The workplace is embedded in a space of governing where

References

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institutional and cultural practices of governing are made and re-made through interactions. However, from a post-structural feminist perspective, transgressive interaction between people who work together across knowledge fields, organisational and disciplinary boundaries such as science and art can contribute to knowledge building, transformation and generate innovations. While the research reviewed in this chapter reveals a range of insights relating to workplace learning and innovation, I needed to better understand how environmental, organisational, cultural, and learning in practice dimensions of innovation impact on collaborative, transdisciplinary work. There seemed to be little understanding of how people, rather than the assumed abstract category ‘employee’, experience collaborative, transdisciplinary work and learning. In the following chapters, I expand on these themes and the key dimensions of innovation already identified by (1) examining the case of the Bauhaus School (1919–1933) in the next chapter, and (2) speaking to people who worked together on three collaborative art-­ science projects in Chaps. 5, 6, 7, and 8.

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Duguid, P. (2005). “The art of knowing”: Social and tacit dimensions of knowledge and the limits of the community of practice. The Information Society: An International Journal, 21(2), 109–118. https://doi.org/10.1080/01972240590925311 Durkheim, E. (1960). The division of labor in society (G. Simpson, Trans.). Free Press. (Original work published 1893). Ellström, P. E. (2010). Practice-based innovation: A learning perspective. Journal of Workplace Learning, 22(1/2), 27–40. https://doi.org/10.1108/13665621011012834 Engeström,Y. (2001). Expansive learning at work: Toward an activity theoretical reconceptualization. Journal of Education and Work, 14(1), 133–156. https://doi.org/10.1080/13639080020028747 Evans, K. (2012). Employee-driven innovation and workplace learning: Exploring present realities, future possibilities and enduring challenges. European Lifelong Learning Magazine, (4). http://www.elmmagazine.eu/articles/employee-­driven-­innovation-­and-­workplace-­learning-­ exploring-­present-­realities-­future-­possibilities-­and-­enduring-­challenges Fagerberg, J., Mowery, D., & Nelson, R. (Eds.). (2005). The Oxford handbook of innovation. Oxford University Press. Fees, W., & Taherizadeh, A. H. (2012). Exploring the employee-driven innovation concept by comparing ‘innovation capability management’ among German and Chinese firms. In S. Høyrup, M. Bonnafous-Boucher, C. Hasse, M. Lotz, & K. Møller (Eds.), Employee- driven innovation: A new approach. Palgrave Macmillan. Felstead, A., Fuller, A., Jewson, N., & Unwin, L. (2009). Improving working as learning. Routledge. Fenwick, T. (2003). Innovation: Examining workplace learning in new enterprises. Journal of Workplace Learning, 15(3), 123–132. https://doi.org/10.1108/13665620310468469 Fenwick, T. (2004). Learning in portfolio work: Anchored innovation and mobile identity. Studies in Continuing Education, 26(2), 229–245. Ferris, W. (2017). Foreword. In Australia 2030: Prosperity through innovation. Office of Innovation and Science Australia, Australian Government. Commonwealth of Australia. https://www. industry.gov.au/data-­and-­publications/australia-­2030-­prosperity-­through-­innovation Gieryn, T. F. (1983). Boundary-work and the demarcation of science from non-science: Strains and interests in professional interests of scientists. American Sociological Review, 48(6), 781–795. https://doi.org/10.2307/2095325 Gloor, P. (2006). Swarm creativity: Competitive advantage through collaborative innovation networks. Oxford University Press. Glor, E. (1998). What do we know about enhancing creativity and innovation? A review of the literature. The Innovation Journal: The Public-Sector Innovation Journal, 3(1), article 2. http:// innovation.cc/peerreviewed/creativ7.html Guile, D. (2009). Questioning the simplistic link between qualifications and labour market entry: New forms of expertise and learning in the creative and cultural sector (LLAKES Research Papers). Retrieved March 3, 2013, from http://www.llakes.org/Home/llakes-­research-­papers Guile, D. (2012). Working and learning in the ‘knowledge-based’ creative and cultural sector: Vocational practice, social capital, and entrepreneurability. In D. W. Livingstone & D. Guile (Eds.), The knowledge economy and lifelong learning: A critical reader (pp. 301–316). Sense Publishers. Guterres, A. (2021, December 18). Launch of the policy brief: Education during COVID-19 and beyond: The future of education is here. In United Nations COVID 19 response. United Nations. https://www.un.org/en/coronavirus/future-­education-­here Hager, P. (2011). Theories of workplace learning. In M.  Malloch, L.  Cairns, K.  Evans, & B. O’Connor (Eds.), The sage handbook of workplace learning (pp. 17–32). Sage. Haraway, D. (2008). When species meet. University of Minnesota Press. Hasse, C., & Brandi, U. (2012). Employee driven innovation: From spontaneous idea generation to new collective practices. In S. Høyrup, C. Hasse, K. Møller, M. Horst, & M. Bonnafous (Eds.), Employee-driven innovation: A new approach (pp. 127–149). Macmillan Publishers Limited.

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Heiskanen, T., & Heiskanen, H. (2011). Spaces of innovation: Experiences from two small high-tech firms. Journal of Workplace Learning, 23(2), 97–116. https://doi. org/10.1108/13665621111108774 Høyrup, S. (2012). Employee-driven innovation: A new phenomenon, concept and mode of innovation. In S.  Høyrup, M.  Bonnafous-Boucher, C.  Hasse, M.  Lotz, & K.  Møller (Eds.), Employee-driven innovation: A new approach (pp. 3–33). Palgrave Macmillan. Høyrup, S., Bonnafous-Boucher, M., Hasse, C., Lotz, M., & Møller, K. (Eds.). (2012). Employee-­ driven innovation: A new approach. Palgrave Macmillan. James, L. (2012, March 4). Learning, innovation and economic development: The creative sector in the Birmingham city region [Paper presentation]. Centre for Learning and Life Chances in knowledge economies and societies (LLAKES) conference: Lifelong learning, crisis and social change, London, England. http://www.llakes.org/wp-­content/uploads/2012/10/Laura-­ James.pptx James, L., Guile, D., & Unwin, L. (2011). From learning for the knowledge-based economy to learning for growth: Re-examining clusters, innovation and qualifications (LLAKES Research Papers). Centre for Learning and Life Chances in knowledge economies and societies. Retrieved March 3, 2013, from www.llakes.org/wpcontent/uploads/2011/07/29.-­James-­Guile-­ Unwin-­reduced.pdf Lamont, M., & Molnár, V. (2002). The study of boundaries in the social sciences. Annual Review of Sociology, 28, 167–195. https://doi.org/10.1146/annurev.soc.28.110601.141107 Lave, J., & Wenger, E. (1991). Situated learning: Legitimate peripheral participation. Cambridge University Press. Leontiev, A. (1978). Activity, consciousness and personality. Prentice-Hall. Lotz, M., & Kristensen, P. H. (2012). Moving organizations toward employee driven innovation (EDI) in work practices and on a global scale: Possibilities and challenges. In S.  Høyrup, M. Bonnafous-Boucher, C. Hasse, M. Lotz, & K. Møller (Eds.), Employee-driven innovation: A new approach. Palgrave Macmillan. Lundvall, B. Å. (1992). National systems of innovation: Towards a theory of innovation and interactive learning. Pinter Publishers. Lundvall, B. Å. (2006). One knowledge base or many knowledge pools? (DRUID Working Papers, Series No. 06-8) (pp. 1–29). Aalborg University. Retrieved June 23, 2022, from https://vbn.aau. dk/en/publications/one-­knowledge-­base-­or-­many-­knowledge-­pools-­2 Lundvall, B.-Å., Rasmussen, P., & Lorenz, E. (2008). Education in the learning economy: A European perspective. Policy Futures in Education, 6(6), 681–700. https://doi.org/10.2304/ pfie.2008.6.6.681 Marx, K., & Engels, F. (1978). The German ideology: Part one. International Publishers. (Original work published 1932). Moore, T. (2004, October 20). We’re all entrepreneurs now! The art of risk in an age of anxiety [Paper presentation]. Australian Institute of Arts Management and Melbourne International Arts Festival: The art of possibility: Enabling art in an age of anxiety. Melbourne, Victoria, Australia. Mulcahy, D. (2007). Managing spaces: (Re)working relations of strategy and spatiality in vocational education and training. Studies in Continuing Education, 29(2), 143–162. https://doi. org/10.1080/01580370701403266 Nissley, N. (2010). Arts-based learning at work: Economic downturns, innovation upturns, and the eminent practicality of arts in business. Journal of Business Strategy, 31(4), 8–20. https://doi. org/10.1108/02756661011055140 Nonaka, I., & Takeuchi, H. (1995). The knowledge-creating company: How Japanese companies create the dynamics of innovation. Oxford University Press. Root-Bernstein, R. S., Bernstein, M., & Garnier, H. (1995). Correlations between avocations, scientific style, work habits, and professional impact of scientists. Creativity Research Journal, 8(2), 115–137. https://doi.org/10.1207/s15326934crj0802_2

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Rosser, G. (1997). Crafts, guilds and the negotiation of work in the medieval town. Past & Present, 154(1), 3–31. https://doi.org/10.1093/past/154.1.3 Seddon, T. (2008). CROSSLIFE: Cross-cultural collaboration in lifelong learning and work. Monash University. Seddon, T. (2013). Liquid learning and educational work: Boundary politics in global transitions. Taylor & Francis. Senge, P. (1990). The fifth discipline: The art and practice of the learning organization. Doubleday/ Currency. Senker, J. (1993). The contribution of tacit knowledge to innovation. AI & SOCIETY, 7(3), 208–224. https://doi.org/10.1007/BF01901817 Sennett, R. (1998). The corrosion of character: The personal consequences of work in the new capitalism. W.W. Norton & Co. Somerville, M. (2006). Subjected bodies, or embodied subjects: Subjectivity and learning safety at work. In S. Billett, T. Fenwick, & M. Somerville (Eds.), Work, subjectivity and learning (Vol. 6, pp. 37–52). Springer. https://doi.org/10.1007/1-­4020-­5360-­6_3 Somerville, M., Plunkett, M., & Dyson, M. (2010). New teachers learning in rural and regional Australia. Asia-Pacific Journal of Teacher Education, 38(1), 39–55. https://doi. org/10.1080/13598660903474130 Stoimenova, N., Van Onselen, L., & Valkenburg, R. (2015, May 21). Four guiding factors for facilitators of multidisciplinary collaboration [Paper presentation]. 4th participatory innovation conference, the Hague University of Applied Sciences, the Hague, Netherlands. Taylor, F. W. (1911). The principles of scientific management. Harper & Brothers. Teece, D. (2009). Dynamic capabilities and strategic management: Organizing for innovation and growth. Oxford University Press. Vygotsky, L.  S. (1978). Mind in society: The development of higher psychological processes. Harvard University Press. Wenger, E. (1998). Communities of practice: Learning, meaning, and identity. Cambridge University Press. Wenger, E., & Snyder, W. (2000). Communities of practice: The organizational frontier. Harvard Business Review, 78(1), 139–145.

Chapter 4

The Bauhaus School: An Historical Account of Transdisciplinary Practice

Abstract  This chapter explores how innovation occurred in a transdisciplinary workplace by examining the case of the German Bauhaus school (1919–1933). Examining the Bauhaus makes it possible to relate transdisciplinary innovation to themes emerging from literatures and theories about innovation, discussed  in Chap’s. 2 and 3) in an arts context. But this context also illustrates how the benefits of hindsight surface effects well beyond the school. This helps to clarify how the interrelationships between learning-through-working and transgression are implicated in innovation. The effects of learning-through-working on innovation rest on three interacting dimensions identified – the environment and organisation of work, learning in practice and the workplace culture-order. Analysis of the case shows how Bauhaus innovation rested on the ways it addressed these dimensions together, and how they unfolded through the Bauhaus and Germany in the 1920s and 1930s. This examination suggests that transgression becomes apparent relative to the culture-order of the workplace and the society. Divergent views within the Bauhaus, in Germany, and in the relations between the two produced transgressive practices that generated innovation. The case shows how epistemic diversity produced conflict but also how boundaries were used to manage the social and workplace order. This chapter highlights how the relation between innovation and transgression can become visible through an examination of workplaces across time and space. The chapter also reveals surprising commonalities between the Bauhaus approach to innovation and contemporary thinking about supporting innovation which are relevant to education, particularly transdisciplinary STEAM (science, technology, engineering, arts and mathematics) education, and workplaces today.

Introduction This introduction explains the key reasons for selecting the Bauhaus as a case of transdisciplinary innovation in relation to learning and working.  The following three sections examine how the Bauhaus addressed the three key dimensions of © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 L. White-Hancock, The Art and Science of Innovation, Transdisciplinary Perspectives in Educational Research 7, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-33132-9_4

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innovation. There is then an explanation of how these three dimensions worked together, combining work  organisation, culture and learning in ways that co-­ produced innovation. A comparison of Bauhaus innovation with contemporary ideas about innovation, work and learning follows. The German Bauhaus school is selected for attention as a case of transdisciplinary innovation for four reasons. First, the school can be considered a workplace as well as a design school in the sense that students and teachers worked externally in ‘authentic’ settings within industry to manufacture some of their designs commercially. The Bauhaus approach recognised that learning in practice was as important as theoretical school-based learning. Examining the approach of the school shows how learning in practice in authentic industry-based workplaces required and enabled innovation. Second, the Bauhaus is a landmark in the history of design as a discipline, and in the development of design education that draws together different disciplinary fields of knowledge. Not only did the school produce innovative products, driven by ideas of integration and holism, the organisation of work and learning at the school was also highly innovative. The curriculum and the pedagogical approach of the Bauhaus drew together previously separate fields of arts, crafts, business, mathematics, engineering, technology, and manufacturing industry, modelling current integrative STEAM approaches to education. However, the program met with criticism and resistance at the time, in part, because this approach challenged the established order of academic and vocational distinction between the disciplines. Third, the Bauhaus was deliberately designed to enable collaborative, boundarycrossing and transgressive practices which encouraged innovation. The school provides the model of transdisciplinary art-science practice that inspired developments such as the ‘studio-laboratories’ of the 1960s in the USA (Century, 1999). The case of the Bauhaus illustrates Haraway’s (2008) ideas about boundaries that are culturally embedded and ordered but are not impenetrable and can be transgressed or moved ‘through’. Collaborative learning-through-working within and beyond the school in manufacturing industry enabled this movement. Learning emerged through cross-boundary and transdisciplinary practices that transgressed established norms and cultural orders to contribute to innovation. Some research suggests that the Bauhaus didn’t go far enough in challenging certain cultural orders and an examination of the pedagogical environment reveals patterns of paternalism and gender inequalities at the school (Baumhoff, 2001). But many aspects of work organisation and an environment were created at the school to support people who were expected to challenge the ‘way things were’ in different ways. Fourth, the school emerged at a time of tremendous turmoil and change and can be considered a ‘hotspot of transition’ (Dürrschmidt & Taylor, 2007) and knowledge flow in the period between the two world wars in Germany. The school attracted students, speakers, and visitors from around the world as well as some of Europe’s most prominent avant-garde artists who became Bauhaus teachers. Therefore, this site of interaction can be viewed as a ‘boundary zone’, a ‘liminal’ or in-between space that stimulated innovation (Dürrschmidt & Taylor, 2007). The Bauhaus case illustrates arguments presented by Høyrup (2012) and Felstead et al. (2009) that confronting change and turmoil can lead to new work practices, expansive learning, and innovation.

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Understanding the Bauhaus’ approach to innovation involves examining how the design of the school produced a ‘workplace’ where artists’ learning-­ through-­ working generated new knowledge and innovations. Bauhaus organisation and the environment created at the school are the topics of the next section.

The Organisation and Environment of the Bauhaus Discussion of the organisation and environment of the Bauhaus workplace is intended to clarify the conditions in which the artists worked. This discussion is organised around Heiskanen and Heiskanen’s (2011) ideas about the interaction between ‘physical’, ‘mental’ and ‘social’ spaces that contribute to an environment of innovation (discussed in more detail in Chap. 3). The next section first briefly maps out the historical and socio- cultural context of the Bauhaus. Key ideas and aims that guided the development of the school are also mapped out. Physical spaces include the organisation and management of the school, the curriculum and architectural spaces, and social spaces such as ‘extra- curricular’ activities are then examined in the two sections that follow.

Mental Spaces Bauhaus’ means structure (bau) house (haus). The Bau-haus is described as “the collective work of art – the building – in which no barriers exist between the structural and the decorative arts” (Bayer et  al., 1938, p.  23). The founder and first Director of the Bauhaus (1919–28), Walter Gropius, was an architect working in the functionalist-modernist tradition taken up by the school. The ethos of the school was one of cultural and social integration and of breaking down barriers between school and work, arts, crafts, and industry. In this way, the Bauhaus can be seen as a social endeavor as well as an aesthetic enterprise. Some of Europe’s most prominent artists taught at the School including Wassily Kandinsky (Russia), Lyonel Feininger (Germany and the USA), László Moholy-Nagy (Hungary) and Paul Klee (Switzerland). The school also attracted students globally. Around one third of students were women. This proportion remained consistent from the inception of the School until 1933 (Otto & Rössler, 2019). While admitting female students was a progressive move, the Bauhaus was not the only art school in Germany to do this. As Otto & Rössler indicate, the equality of women was enshrined into law in the constitution of the new Weimar Republic (1919–1933). However, the degree of integration of women into the life and culture of the Bauhaus is considered to be quite remarkable (Otto & Rössler, 2019). In these ways, the Bauhaus narrative can be understood as one of integration of genders and nationalities. On the other hand, some research suggests that the Bauhaus did not encourage women to participate in certain workshops, that few women were in leadership positions or were teachers, and that the School was socially quite conservative (Baumhoff, 2001). But as Otto

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and Rössler (2019) point out, more nuanced, recent understandings of women’s roles at the Bauhaus highlight the talent and creativity of women at the same time as recognising the organisational barriers they faced. The establishment of the school was seen to have been hastened by the economic and social turmoil of post-war Germany, and the need for change (Bayer et  al., 1938). However, ongoing political opposition to the principles and activities of the school precipitated three relocations from Weimar to Dessau in 1925 then to Berlin in 1932 before closing in Germany in 1933 because of pressure from the Nazi Party. The New Bauhaus opened in Chicago by Moholy-Nagy (USA) in 1938. The Bauhaus did not just emerge from the ether. Well before the school opened, the idea of Bauhaus was developing as discourses of collaboration and cultural integration and exclusion were circulating in late 19th and early twentieth century Europe, particularly through the Deutsche Werkbund and the English Arts and Crafts Movement (Naylor, 1985). Established in 1907, the German Werkbund sought co-operation between artists, craftsmen, trade, and industry (Bayer et  al., 1938). Gropius had been one of the Werkbund leaders. The concept of uniting the arts and crafts was foreshadowed by William Morris and unfolded with the Arts and Crafts Movement in the 1880s. However, Morris was not interested in technology, mass production or industry. On the other hand, Werkbund members wanted to synthesise the ‘machine style’ of architecture glorifying technology that had been developed in the USA by architects such as Frank Lloyd Wright and Louis Sullivan and in Europe by Adolf Loos with the ideas of the Arts and Crafts Movement (Bayer et al., 1938). However, the group was unable to integrate the disciplines on a practical level and architects, painters and craftsmen were still individualists working in individual studios in the Romantic tradition (Bayer et al., 1938). Gropius synthesised Werkbund theories in a practical way by first amalgamating the Weimar Art Academy and the Weimar School of Arts and Crafts in 1919. Gropius had been the Director of the School of Arts and Crafts. The amalgamation reflects the first principle of the Bauhaus Manifesto: “the intellectual, manual and technical training of men and women of creative talent for all kinds of creative work, especially building” (Bayer et al., 1938, p. 98). Ideas of unity are rooted in the medieval guilds where artists shared the role of craftsmen. Bauhaus students were called ‘apprentices’ and gained apprenticeship qualifications, and studios were ‘workshops’ in the guild tradition (Bayer et  al., 1938). The aims were to create a new guild of craftsmen that broke down barriers between artists and craftspeople, and to reintegrate the artist into a technological society (Bayer et al., 1938). On the other hand, Baumhoff (2001) argues that there were strong barriers between craftsmanship and ‘handicrafts’ that were gendered female. She suggests that women were directed towards participating in the weaving workshop rather than other workshops. However, Otto and Rössler’s book, Forty-five Key Women of the Bauhaus Movement (2019) profiles the work of key members of the Bauhaus who are mostly omitted from history books. Among them were extraordinary women such as Marianne Brandt who became a significant Master in the metal workshop. Brandt designed some of the most iconic Bauhaus objects within that workshop even while still a student. Under her leadership, this workshop was one of the most successful in producing income for the school (Bayer et al., 1938).

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Nevertheless, Bauhaus aims at integration on many levels reflect Cutler’s (2008) more recent call for understanding the connections between the arts and science and breaking down the divides between conceptual/intellectual and artisan/craftsman. Cutler’s call for forming or re-forming these connections was seen to be a means of encouraging innovation in contemporary Australia, as discussed in Chap. 2. Gropius considered it essential to develop an appropriate visual language with which to communicate in a modern technological environment (Bayer et al., 1938). The Bauhaus Manifesto of 1919 proclaimed the “machine to be the modern medium of design” (Bayer et al., 1938, p. 25). The school sought to engage with the machine rather than demonise it, resonating with Haraway’s (2008) ideas. A reductionist, minimalist aesthetic based on simple geometries was well suited to processes of mass-­production and to the ‘new world industrial order’. In the harsh economic climate of post-war Germany, minimalist objects were (theoretically) more economical to produce using technologies for mass-production than highly decorative, hand- made, labour intensive products of earlier movements. For example, Herbert Bayer’s new typography developed from a reconsideration of the signs and symbols of written language illustrates these ideas. in 1925, the bauhaus abandoned capital letters and got rid of serifs and the complicated gothic alphabet employed in german printing where every noun was capitalised. the bauhaus text developed by bayer was used in all later bauhaus publications and posters. bayer explained his rationale: why should we write and print with two alphabets? both a large and a small sign are not necessary to indicate one single sound. A = a we do not speak a capital A and a small a (Bayer et al., 1938, p. 147). bayer argued that much the same results are achieved by not using capitals and it would be much quicker to write. the shift key on a typewriter would be unnecessary. typewriters would be cheaper to manufacture and printing that requires less space and less ink would also be cheaper. the bauhaus book written by Bayer et al. (1938) is easy enough to read despite the lack of capitals and I certainly found this section quicker to type without having to use capital letters!

The ‘new machine alphabet’, as Naylor (1985) described it, replaced the decorative, weighty, closed Gothic script with light, simple lines and open letters and was adopted in all Bauhaus printing from 1925 on. The emphasis is on the underlying structure, light, and space – key elements of the modernist Bauhaus language. Yet this innovative rationalisation of writing and printing apparently caused ‘outraged protests’ (Bayer et  al., 1938) as it challenged normative conventions and transgressed boundaries. The school also challenged conventional organisational boundaries.

Physical Spaces The Bauhaus was organised in ways that collapsed internal boundaries and reduced the hierarchy of management. Consultation and dialogue were key to Gropius’ flat management style which are now also seen to be important to innovation by

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researchers such as Callan (2004). The organisation of the school was frequently revised as a result of student-faculty debate (Bayer et al., 1938). The school’s statutes provided that all decisions relating to internal organisation and teaching were to be preceded by discussion with all teachers, student representatives and the Business Manager who, together, made up the Bauhaus Council (Bayer et al., 1938). Those who were critical were challenged to formulate practical suggestions for improvement thus affording people responsibility for the work of the school and helping to “clarify the problems agitating everyone” (Bayer et al., 1938, p. 172). These decision-making and governing practices were significant in making internal boundaries more permeable and establishing a culture-order within the school. However, they only reached the border of the school, not beyond it into the wider social milieu. Nevertheless, the opportunity to participate in the development of their organisation by shaping Bauhaus policy and curriculum provided a ‘shared object’ between teachers and students, to use Felstead’s et al. (2009) term. This approach helped to develop an environment of trust and respect for different ideas to the extent that students referred to themselves and each other as ‘Bauhaus collaborators’ (Bayer et al., 1938). These affordances empowered students and staff to generated change, reflecting current theories in workplace learning (for example Billett, 2001, 2012). The principles of the Bauhaus were addressed through a range of other organisational mechanisms and resources which helped to create a ‘safe’ though challenging environment for expansive learning and innovation to occur. One of these mechanisms was the curriculum. The Curriculum The curriculum design reveals the underlying gestalt principles of integration and breaking down barriers between the arts and crafts, technology, and sciences. These principles bear some kinship with current STEAM approaches to integrated curriculum in education (for example Radziwill et al., 2015). The second stated Bauhaus principle indicates the importance given to the execution of practical, experimental work which formed the critical foundation of the curriculum from the preliminary course on (Bayer et al., 1938). Experimentation, now seen to be important to innovation (for example Ellström, 2010; Høyrup, 2012), was applied to various materials in second year workshops to test their possibilities and limitations (Bayer et al., 1938). This process of knowing through handling has come to be known in recent research on visual culture as ‘material handling’ (Bolt, 2006) and ‘material thinking’ – knowing the world though physical and cultural materials, including signs and symbols (Carter, 2004). Alongside classes in art theory were studies of materials, tools and technologies, construction techniques, geometry, mathematics and business which provided a broad curriculum for preparing artists to work in an industrial world. Reflecting this more holistic approach to education, students learned to observe and analyse nature as well as the human-made world. Finally, in the last year of the course, building and architecture were studied, though not all students progressed to this stage.

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A less holistic approach to curriculum development is seen by Baumhoff in terms of policies that reveal gender inequalities and barriers for women. The author notes that in 1920 a ‘women’s class’ was established which soon merged with the weaving workshop. Baumhoff saw this development as a way of keeping women away from working in traditional ‘male’ media. Yet the curriculum did incorporate a structure to facilitate collaboration with manufacturing firms. Teachers, students, business managers of the Bauhaus Corporation, factory technicians and manufacturers were all brought into collaborative projects. This work generated artefacts and raised significant income for the school from the sale of objects and designs to industry. In fact, after the exhibition of work at the Leipzig fair in 1924, fifty firms in Germany, Austria, England, Holland, and the USA were buying Bauhaus products (Bayer et al., 1938). Under the direction of Ludwig Mies van der Rohe (1932–1933), the income produced from sales represented 15–23% of the annual budget for the entire school – no small amount (Bayer et al., 1938). Income was divided between the Bauhaus Corporation and the school, which paid the teacher or student who designed the object sold. Rewarding individuals for their efforts is now seen to be a characteristic of innovative organisations (Callan, 2004). The curriculum was an organisational mechanism that provided the framework for a holistic approach to learning and practice. Physical resources such as the design of the school in Dessau also contributed in significant ways to this holistic approach. Architectural Spaces Architectural space was seen to be fundamental to creating an environment that was conducive to expansive learning and innovation at the Bauhaus. Recent research in the fields of design, architecture, and the built environment, as well as in education, has also been concerned with spatial arrangements that influence learning in organisations (for example Storvang & Strømgaard Dalby, 2015). Studies have focused on planning physical spaces for different kinds of users and work activities, including creative collaboration (Nussbaumer, 2014, 2015), on how physical spaces can enable or restrict interaction and creativity (Kristensen, 2004) and transdisciplinary work (Luck, 2014). Storvang and Strømgaard Dalby (2015) indicate how space can be used to generate change by encouraging interaction and fostering new relationships in organisations. Gropius’ design for the Bauhaus at Dessau1 created an environment that supported interaction, boundary-crossing, openness, and flexibility through a range of architectural bridging mechanisms. The reinforced concrete ‘skeleton’ of the buildings supported steel window sashes and large double-glazed windows. These were climate controlled ‘curtain walls’ that employed relatively new technologies. Glass walls allowed light to enter the workshops, bridging barriers between interior and

 Click on the link or go to https://www.bauhaus-dessau.de/en/architecture/bauhaus-building.html

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exterior, man-made and natural environments. The ‘bridge’ (administration offices), as Gropius called it, was situated at the intersection of the auditorium, stage, and dining hall on one side and the technical school wing, laboratory- workshops, exhibition rooms and halls on the other (Bayer et  al., 1938). The term ‘laboratory-­ workshop’ is also a bridging mechanism that spans disciplines, symbolically connecting the arts, crafts, and sciences with the world of work, and emphasises the experimental nature of these spaces. At Dessau, a theatre was incorporated into the school and a theatre workshop added to the curriculum to put into practice the concept of Gesamtkunstwerk – the total work of art – where collaborative, transdisciplinary projects were undertaken. The theatre brought together all the practices, from architecture, set, graphic and costume design, to music and performance. The workshop supported the principle of “common citizenship of all forms of creative work, and their logical interdependence on one another in the modern world” (Bayer et al., 1938, p. 125). The theatre is an example of a liminal space where new ideas flow and intersect, travelling between and linking different disciplines and workshops. The theatre and workshop reflect current ideas of interactive and collective learning across domains (for example Felstead et al., 2009; James et al., 2011). Another important performance space was the stage, sitting between the auditorium and the dining hall. All wall-­boundaries could be removed from the stage area so that spectators could sit on either side, creating a huge space for performances and events (Bayer et al., 1938). Like the theatre, this was a liminal space where new ideas travelled across disciplines and communities. In Harawayan terms, physical and spatial boundaries were treated as porous. Such architectural features can be understood as artefacts that acted as boundary negotiating objects within the school.

Social Spaces The theatre and stage, the canteen and dining hall, student and teacher accommodation, and ‘extra-curricular’ activities can all be considered ‘social’ spaces that supported the development of community. Extra-curricular activities were integral to the school’s holistic approach to learning. An environment that encouraged experimentation and collaboration supporting expansive learning in practice was extended beyond the curriculum to social extra- curricular activities. Concerts, weekly dances, events, parties and ‘Bauhaus evenings’ were regularly organised by students and teachers. These events were not only intellectually and emotionally stimulating – they also offered creative opportunities. Events, performances, and concerts were important to the development of an environment where the freedom to experiment with new forms and risk-taking were applauded (literally!). These ‘in-between’, liminal spaces where people were working and not working at the same time, were seen to contribute to ‘informal’ learning. These spaces also supported interactive and collective learning.

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Bauhaus evenings brought influential visitors (such as Einstein and the composer, Stravinsky) from all over Europe to the school to share their knowledge, keeping teachers and students in touch with the ‘best and newest’ in the sciences, arts and other fields, extending ideas about the community of practice (Wenger, 1998). Bauhaus evenings also brought together townspeople and Bauhaus supporters from beyond the school (Bayer et al., 1938). These events can also be understood as bridging mechanisms between school and the broader community. Teacher and student accommodation were also provided on the school grounds, encouraging a sense of community and unity. Twenty-eight studio-apartments were provided for scholarship students. Accommodation and the canteen were seen to be “vital necessities” providing physical resources at a time of spiraling inflation and poverty in Germany (Bayer et al., 1938, p. 87). Bauhaus organisation and design illustrate the argument that “a sense of embodied connection to place is fundamental to learning place and forming community” (Somerville et al., 2010, p. 42). In terms of workplace learning theory, discretion afforded (Felstead’s et  al., 2009; Billett, 2001) students and teachers in the development and ownership of their environment bridged disciplinary and spatial boundaries within the Bauhaus, supporting expansive and transgressive learning and activity. However, the approach challenged cultural conventions and political orders which impacted on the school.

The Workplace Culture-Order The Bauhaus challenged lineages, in Harawayan terms, in different ways. Within the school, a reduced hierarchy of management was established. Bauhaus members developed a collaborative top-down/bottom-up approach which better modelled ideals of unity. This approach challenged the conventional top-down hierarchy of control of decision-making processes within many organisations, then and now. Established knowledge boundaries and disciplinary lineages were also challenged. However, breaking with the traditions of a discipline was found to be challenging for some students. Before the sculptor László Moholy-Nagy took over the metal workshop at Dessau, it had been a gold and silversmithing workshop making traditional handmade objects – wine jugs, samovars, jewellery, and coffee services using traditional precious materials. But Moholy-Nagy wanted to address social needs using contemporary, industrial materials such as nickel, ferrous metals and chrome plating for making light fittings and electric household appliances. However, he lamented that changing the direction of the workshop “involved a revolution” because the shift in approach challenged the identities of people who saw themselves as craftspeople rather than designer-makers for mass-production (Bayer et al., 1938, p. 134). Yet, there is debate about efforts to challenge established knowledge boundaries and disciplinary lineages in terms of access to, and participation in, workshops. As noted earlier, in Baumhoff view, the development of the ‘women’s class’ and the

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funneling of women into the weaving workshop as a way of restricting women to ‘softer’ workshops away from working in traditional male media. Beyond the school, at regional and national levels, Bauhaus ideas and approaches were seen to be radically socialist and transgressive of normative conventions and orderings (Naylor, 1985). Talk of “art-Bolshevism” that had to be eradicated started as early as 1919 (Bayer et al., 1938, p. 9). Frustration at the “animosity” and “malevolence” of government officials who controlled the school’s funding is evident in a letter written to Gropius in March 1924 by the Business Manager of the Bauhaus Corporation (Bayer et al., 1938, p. 90). The school was also subjected to continual attack by some parts of the media (Bayer et al., 1938). Headlines in the papers talk about the ‘art war’, the ‘menace’ and the ‘culture demolition’ in Weimar, pointing to the controversy that engulfed the school almost from its inception (Bayer et al., 1938). Much criticism of the Bauhaus came from members of the academies and the bourgeoisie who the academies supplied with traditional art and architecture (Bayer et al., 1938). Popular at the time were portraits, historical images, and decorative landscapes in the grand Romantic style. But Gropius argued that the Romantic ideal of the genius of the individual artist, and supported by training in the academies, isolated the artist from the community (Bayer et al., 1938). Furthermore, Gropius did not consider the academic and vocational distinctions that had developed over the century prior to the Bauhaus, encouraged by the State, to be appropriate to the modern world. He argued that the “new spirit” demanded new conditions for creative effort that could productively contribute to the nation (Bayer et  al., 1938, p. 21). From Gropius’ standpoint, power structures influenced, shaped, and limited knowledge production from the ‘top-down’. However, the confusion of the post-war period exposed a divided Germany of extreme factions where anything new was interpreted as “a sign of some ideological program” (Bayer et al., 1938, p. 11). In Gropius’ view, this explained the force of the attack on the school. When the teaching program was attacked and Gropius needed to secure his budget in 1920, the Director acted as a critical ‘boundary broker’, to use Wenger’s (2000) term, as he negotiated his way out of potential financial disaster for the school. He achieved this by arguing that the Bauhaus approach was not unlike some other schools in Germany and Europe, rather than radical (Bayer et al., 1938). In terms of the Working as Learning Framework (Felstead et al., 2009), Gropius as architect was an influential link between the teachers and students at the school and government bureaucrats who allocated funding on the ‘vertical’ axis of the productive system (discussed in Chap. 3). Another example of Gropius’ effectiveness as a boundary broker is his negotiation with the Ministry of Education for the cancellation of tuition fees for Bauhaus students (Bayer et al., 1938). In the difficult economic environment of post- war Germany, this was a remarkable feat and an incredibly valuable financial support for students. In terms of Felstead’s et al. (2009) WALF model, attempts to protect old boundaries established by political and academic elites in Germany were powerful barriers to smooth development of the school. These barriers were challenged by people who gathered at the Bauhaus. However, increasing conflict ultimately led to the closure of the school. These challenges did not stifle innovation at the Bauhaus for

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some time where there was a ‘shared object’ or sense of purpose which Felstead et al. (2009) argue supports collaborative work and innovation. Yet questions are raised about how students learned in such a challenging and confronting environment. The next section examines learning processes and how they were encouraged at the Bauhaus to support transgressive practices that cut across established norms.

Learning in Practice at the Bauhaus Affording students freedom to ‘journey’ (Dewey, 2005), that is to experiment, test the boundaries and challenge normative conventions was a critical feature of the pedagogical approach of the Bauhaus (Bayer et al., 1938). Although some researchers such as Bauhoff highlight the limitations of the pedagogical approach where women’s participation in workshops may have been restricted. Nevertheless, in many ways students were afforded discretion and independence in shaping their learning, rather than being dictated to from above by the ‘all-knowing’ pedagogue. According to Gropius, students were expected to become the architects in building bridges to fill the gaps between contemporary ideas about art and existing manufacturing processes and practices. This approach models contemporary theories of workplace learning where employee discretion and empowerment are seen to lead to learning and innovation (Høyrup, 2012). In many ways, the pedagogical approach of the Bauhaus aimed to empower learners and build knowledge through experimentation, direct and practical experience. The school demonstrated an approach to learning and research that well precedes recent theoretical concerns about arts practice as research (Bennett et  al., 2009) or practice-led research as a valid and distinct form of inquiry and knowledge building (Bolt, 2006). This approach was demonstrated from the very beginning of the Preliminary course where students were expected to conduct practical research, to test the possibilities of materials in order to break away from their traditional use (Bayer et al., 1938). This contrasts with more traditional approaches where students learned and applied established methods and manufacturing techniques which Albers argued “develop discernment and skill, but hardly creative potentialities” (Bayer et al., 1938, p.114). In Albers view, learning through direct experience, material handling or ‘materiality’ and experimentation developed skills of observation, analysis and constructive thinking which empowered students to take the initiative in problem-solving (Bayer et al., 1938). The strategy helped build confidence to make proactive judgements in order to develop innovative and transgressive responses (Bayer et al., 1938). While Albers considered technical skills to be crucial, he also argued that if such training is given in isolation, creativity and invention are hindered (Bayer et  al., 1938). Conceptual and analytical skills were also seen to be critical to innovation. Applying these skills, Bauhaus art students learned that boundaries can be dissolved, illustrating Haraway’s (2008) argument that boundaries between things are less distinct than we think. Students were taught to look at the structures that lie beneath the surface of things, to examine and visually analyse their geometries

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Fig. 4.1 The Wassily chair. Reproduction, originally designed by Marcel Breuer, 1925–6. Originally called the B3 chair. (Photographed by Lorkan, available at https://commons.wikimedia. org/wiki/File:Bauhaus_3_Chair.jpg under a Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license)

through drawing. As teacher Paul Klee explained, this pedagogical approach entailed: …teaching directed toward the essential and the functional, in contrast to the apparent … to grasp the root of things … to recognise the undercurrents, the antecedents of the visible. One learns to dig down, to uncover, to find the cause, to analyse (Bayer et al., 1938, p. 170).

How these theories are applied across disciplinary boundaries is demonstrated by artefacts which act as boundary crossing objects and lenses for understanding learning-­through-working at the Bauhaus. Herbert Bayer’s typography, discussed earlier, and Marcel Breuer’s (1925–6) Wassily chair (Fig. 4.1) typify the Bauhaus design aesthetic that was arrived at by analysing the essential features and underlying structures of objects, stripping away surface decoration characteristic of objects of the Arts and Crafts Movement. The chair is stripped down to the most basic elements necessary for it to fulfil its function. Rather than being handmade, the Wassily chair was produced with less expensive industrial materials and processes. Breuer’s tubular steel chair was inspired by bicycle handlebars, reflecting his contemporary, mechanical, industrial world (Bauhaus-­ archiv, Museum für Gestaltung, The Bauhaus Collection: Furniture webpage, n.d.-b). In these ways, the artefact responds to the aims of the school to meet the needs of everyday life in order to address the economic and social challenges of post-war Germany. Bauhaus artefacts such as the Wassily chair illustrate

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contemporary ideas about how innovations can be developed through the challenges that arise at the boundary and through transdisciplinary work (Felstead et al., 2009). Bauhaus students learned how to mass produce objects designed through working in authentic settings with manufacturing industry, demonstrating to some extent contemporary strategies for transitional learning between school and work (Guile, 2009). Drawing on the Work as Learning Framework (WALF) the productive system extended beyond the school on the horizontal axis. In Harawayan terms, the Bauhaus provides a model that transgressed established boundaries between the world of work (practice) and the world of school (theory). Gropius argued that the school should be absorbed into the workshop (Bayer et al., 1938). This perspective reflects current theories that consider learning-through-working as important as learning through exposure to teaching in formal academic settings (for example Felstead et al., 2009). However, the idea is not unique or new to the Bauhaus and occurred elsewhere in Europe. For example, the ‘factory school’ established by Robert Owen in Scotland in 1814 and the ‘production school’ first established in France during the eighteenth century share some similar ideas (Meyser, 2002). Visits to factories enabled students to learn about conventional and new manufacturing techniques, processes, equipment, and materials. This approach enabled students to design with an understanding of the possibilities and limitations of current manufacturing and to break away from traditional use. The approach expanded learning about the whole design to production process and helped to improve design manufacturability (Bayer et al., 1938). In the past, design plans were simply sent to manufacturers (Bayer et  al., 1938). But the Bauhaus rejected the conventional approach as an inadequate form of communication between designer and manufacturer (Bayer et al., 1938, p. 133). Students learned new ways of communicating for collaborative work that were seen to equip them better for a modern industrialised world. Consideration of Bauhaus artefacts sheds light on the complexity and challenging nature of the school’s extended learning environment where new ways of communicating and a new visual language were seen to be necessary. Innovative artefacts embodying Bauhaus ideas acted as powerful tools for negotiating boundaries and mediating knowledge as they were mobilised across networks and boundaries of time and space beyond the school throughout the western world. Some of these objects such as the Wassily chair (or very similar versions) are still reproduced. This longevity seems extraordinary amid constant demands for newness and innovation over the past century.

Transdisciplinary Practice and Innovation Much of the contemporary research shows how a range of mechanisms support the workplace as borderland by constructing physical, social, and mental spaces that encourage interaction, and collaborative learning and practice (Heiskanen & Heiskanen, 2011). Similarly, Bauhaus work organisation, social environment, culture-­order and learning in practice worked together in ways that co-produced

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innovation. The organisation of the Bauhaus also gave students and staff voice, empowering them to participate and take a pro-active role in shaping learning and the development of the school. Though as Rossler and Baumhoff suggest, women may have participated less than male students in the full range of workshops, hence the workplace culture. Enacting this approach was far from effortless or straightforward. The conception of the Bauhaus “had so many ramifications, that it gave rise to a vast number of problems demanding solutions”, leading to much “spirited discussion” particularly in the early years (Bayer et al., 1938, p. 172). As a boundary zone, the Bauhaus was a site of “multiple, and often contested stories”, in Somerville’s et al. terms (2010, p. 43). The ‘border work’ of place learning in this zone came at a cost because it required negotiating difference. Some teachers such as Johannes Itten left the school because of the conflict (Bayer et  al., 1938). Yet Paul Klee, artist and Bauhaus teacher, drew attention to the symbiotic process structuring the school. The organisational approach encouraged questioning and challenge from diverse perspectives that re-shaped the school-workplace and its practices. As Klee observed: Forces so diversely inspired are working together at the Bauhaus. I approve the conflict between them if its effect is evident in the final product. To attack an obstacle is a good test of strength, if it is a real obstacle (as cited in Bayer et al., 1938, p. 172).

The school’s new pedagogical approaches were also important to co-producing innovation across disciplinary boundaries. Staffing was organised in such a way that artists often taught in workshops that were outside their discipline in order to introduce fresh approaches and thinking (Bayer et al., 1938). Students in each practical workshop were taught by two teachers during the Weimar years. Fine artists worked alongside master craftsmen to develop both technical and conceptual abilities in their students. Prior to this, fine arts and craft were generally considered distinct and taught independent of each other (Bayer et al., 1938). These transdisciplinary interactions expanded learning and extended identities. Some students (including Brandt, Breuer, Albers, and Bayer) carried this new approach to learning into their own work as they became teachers, which meant their students no longer required two separate teachers (Bayer et al., 1938). This ambidexterity developed at the Bauhaus became the model for twentieth century design education where teachers were able to pass on both technical and conceptual skills. Teachers and students also learned through working together with technicians in the manufacturing industry across disciplinary boundaries that marked out the horizontal axis of the productive system that Felstead et al. (2009) describe in their Working as Learning Framework, developing many innovative artefacts. The school initially had the support of government officials at regional level, but the process of making Bauhaus also built instabilities. These instabilities could be managed up to a point by fixing and loosening certain boundaries within the school but were difficult to sustain when the wider political milieu shifted. Then as now, a state of rapid social change produced transitions as economic, political, and cultural boundaries were redrawn. The way organisations respond to such changing and volatile external environments is now seen to be important to innovation (Høyrup, 2012). But innovations also materialised through the Bauhaus methodology that sought to systematise changing economic, social, and cultural conditions. The

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proposition that innovation is an effect of instability and uncertainty raises questions about relations between innovation, time, and space.

Innovation Then and Now This examination of the Bauhaus reveals striking parallels with contemporary thinking about innovation. The school’s approach to innovation was guided by principles of holism, integration, and collaboration.

Transdisciplinary Education The Bauhaus approach precedes and models current moves towards integrative curriculum, particularly STEAM education that connects arts and STEM fields. There has been growing concern that developing skills and talents needed by a changing workforce through traditional discipline-based curriculum may not be a sufficient pedagogy in twenty-first century universities or schools. There are now strong arguments for the need to develop models and methods to help people develop skills and capacities for more transdisciplinary work in the future (Mejía et  al., 2017). Transdisciplinary learning is seen to support the development of skills and capabilities such as communication, intercultural sensitivity, adaptability which are considered to be important for future workforces (Videla et al., 2021). In addition to these skills and capabilities, transdisciplinary learning involving the arts is argued to promote creativity beyond STEM learning (Rahmawati et al., 2022; Videla et  al., 2021). Interest in STEAM education is growing globally. STEAM is well supported in the USA, where the Government’s Congressional STEAM Caucus was established in 2012. At the national level in Australia, the final report of the government’s Inquiry into Innovation and Creativity: Workforce for the New Economy recommended that the National Innovation and Science Agenda explicitly recognise the importance of STEAM education in encouraging creativity and innovation (House of Representatives Standing Committee on Employment, Education and Training, 2018). Supporting these developments is Rabalais’ (2014) large-scale national study which indicates a correlation between arts participation and higher achievement in science and mathematics compared to students who have little or no participation in the arts at school. The study examined academic results from 37,000 graduating twelfth graders from both public and private schools across the USA. Significantly, the correlation was found despite demographic factors including race, gender, and socio-economic status. In all groups, students with the most fine arts credits had the highest mathematics and science scores. The effect of arts participation on female, low SES and Hispanic students was especially large. Rabalais also notes the performance gaps among these groups in STEM subjects. The researcher argues that “integrating arts into STEM instruction may better serve all students regardless of

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learning style, gender, race, or SES … Students least served in current STEM programs have the most to gain from STEAM initiatives” (Rabalais, 2014, p. 63). Given these findings, there is now a need to reconsider the way STEAM, and the arts in STEAM, are sometimes referred to simply as add-ons to STEM. Researchers such as Perignat and Katz-Buonincontro (2019) argue that STEAM should be considered as a pedagogical approach that integrates the five disciplines equally. This integration needs to respect the methodologies of each of the disciplines. But in their review of 44 published articles on the topic of STEAM education from 2007 to 2018, these researchers identify a number of problems relating to the uptake of STEAM education. They found that in a number of articles on teaching STEAM, the creative process of making was considered subservient to products, or the end result. But the authors argue that process, conveying meaning and critique rather than products tend to be more the focus of fine arts education. These processes and methods “are hallmark characteristics of arts education and are shown to improve students’ verbal and non-verbal communication skills, openness to others’ perceptions, understanding of sociocultural dynamics…” among other capabilities (Perignat & Katz-Buonincontro, 2019, p. 40). A century ago, the Bauhaus recognised the need to develop these skills. And there is a correlation between these skills and capabilities developed by arts education and skills seen to be important for future workforces, identified by contemporary researchers such as Videla et al. (2021). Recent research also shows how creativity in arts education is encouraged through “a process of exploration, play, risk-taking, making mistakes, self-­evaluation and feedback” (Perignat & Katz-Buonincontro, 2019, p.  40). One hundred years earlier, Bauhaus curriculum, ‘extra-curricular’ activities and pedagogical methods engaged a similar process. From the preliminary year of the course on, questioning, critical thinking, experimentation, risk-taking, communication, collaboration, valuing diversity and openness were generally encouraged. More may have been achieved had women participated in a broader range of workshops to extend diversity and inclusion. Nevertheless, the curriculum and pedagogical approaches of the School provided an effective model for encouraging creativity and innovation.

The Human Dimension of Innovation Holistic practices developed at the Bauhaus also illustrate an understanding of the human dimension of innovation, which is a particular concern of this book. Recent literature reviewed in Chap. 3 shows how the early focus on processes of innovation shifted from focus on individual and psychological processes towards a broader and more complex understanding of social processes. The Bauhaus, in many ways, demonstrated an understanding of the connection between these processes. The school acknowledged the relational influences on innovation that are addressed in contemporary socio-cultural and postmodern theories of workplace learning. The effects of learning-through-working on innovation at the Bauhaus relied on the ways in which the Bauhaus addressed three interacting dimensions  – the

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organisation and environment of work, the workplace culture-order and learning in practice. The school considered the complex interplay between physical, social, and mental spaces which together created the conditions that supported innovation, as do contemporary researchers such as Heiskanen and Heiskanen (2011). The school also addressed the emotional and creative needs of people who were expected to challenge and transgress boundaries, in a holistic way.

Workplace Environment Bauhaus developed a workplace environment that enabled students and teachers to challenge and transgress boundaries in many ways in order to generate innovation. Contemporary researchers have also considered in different ways what kind of environment constitutes a workplace that encourages innovation. Some theorists argue that a safe workplace environment is necessary (for example Berthoin Antal & Strauß, 2013) while others suggest that conflict, chaos and disruption lead to expansive learning and innovation (for example Soila-Wadman & Haselwanter, 2014). Both influences on innovation were evident at the Bauhaus. Examining the case of the Bauhaus shows how these different theories about the conditions that support innovation are not mutually exclusive. Within the school, the organisation and culture established a safe space for students to meet challenges and to take risks that led to innovation. At the same time, the climate of turmoil in Germany at the time was seen to have enabled the rapid development of the school. The school sought to meet and address problems within that broader chaotic environment.

Workplace Learning-Through-Working Examining the Bauhaus illustrates links between innovative workplaces and workplace learning. Recent research literature also points to these links in different ways and to different degrees. Australian Government policies on innovation have now identify workplaces as significant sites of learning and knowledge building, which are seen to be key to generating innovation (Dept. of Industry, Innovation, Science, Research and Tertiary Education, 2009; Dept. of the Prime Minister and Cabinet, 2015). While these innovation policies acknowledge the roles of workplaces, education, and the arts in innovation, they tend not to acknowledge the links between transdisciplinary and arts practices, innovative workplaces, and workplace learning. In contrast, the Bauhaus recognised and developed these links on a practical level. The design of the Bauhaus produced a ‘workplace’ where artists learned through working with manufacturing industry in authentic settings that generated innovations. Learning about (then) current manufacturing technologies and processes, and work practices was seen to be critical for people who were expected to design artefacts using industrial processes. Understanding how the whole system worked from design to production was seen to be crucial to the development of innovative

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products. Today, there is a growing body of research arguing the importance of more holistic learning across domains to support innovation. The Bauhaus approach is consistent with Guile’s (2009) findings about the need to learn how the industry works as a whole in the contemporary creative arts sector. The Bauhaus case illustrates an approach that empowers learners through direct, practical experience and through exposure to different ways of thinking and doing within the school and beyond it.

Collaboration and Co-producing Innovation Comparing Bauhaus and contemporary thinking about innovation reveals similarities attributed to the importance of collaboration for innovation. Collaboration is recognised in Australian government policies and research literature to be significant for innovation (as discussed in Chaps. 2 and 3). The Bauhaus project also models contemporary theories of collaborative and collective workplace learning that supports innovation (Felstead et al., 2009). Particularly since the 1990s, much research on innovation and the organisation of workplaces has focused on the role of group processes (for example Glor, 1998). The school could have gone further in supporting collaborative effort by encouraging female students to participate in more workshops. Nevertheless, in other ways, the Bauhaus approach models contemporary ideas about co-producing innovation which have emerged amid debates about management-driven or employee-driven innovation (discussed in Chap. 3). The Bauhaus approach to student and staff empowerment through collaborative decision-making reflects the Director’s flat management style, also argued in contemporary research to support innovation (for example Callan, 2004). Furthermore, collaborative, transdisciplinary practices within the school and external networks that the Bauhaus established with manufacturers, scholars, and local communities reflect ideas of openness and access that are now seen to optimise innovation (Curtin et  al., 2011). Transdisciplinary and collaborative learning involving the arts are increasingly seen now to support the development of skills and capabilities which can encourage innovation in workplaces (Berthoin Antal & Strauß, 2013).

Bauhaus Influence While the school’s activities were eventually restricted in Germany, that wasn’t the end of Bauhaus influence (Droste, 2019). Bauhaus artefacts have been exhibited around the world, and Bauhaus members emigrated to the USA, Russia, Switzerland, Israel, and other countries. Though women who participated in the Bauhaus struggled to find work under Nazism and after the war, their influence was significant. Women such as Benita Otte, Otti Berger and Michiko Yamawaki influenced the design of modern fabric and clothing (Otto & Rössler, 2019, p. 10). Otto & Rössler profile the work of architects Katt Both, Lotte Stam-Beese, and Wera Meyer-­ Waldeck. Some female Bauhaus students such as Grete Stern, Florence Henri, Ré

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Soupault, Grit Kallin-Fischer, and Edith Tudor-Hart became acclaimed modernist photographers. Hilde Hubbuch and Ricarda Schwerin opened photography studios in the US and Israel respectively after the war. Moholy-Nagy and other Bauhaus teachers established the New Bauhaus in Chicago, USA in 1938. Teachers also took up positions at prominent universities, particularly in the USA, indicating the significance attributed to the Bauhaus beyond Germany despite its short history. For example, Gropius was appointed Chairman of the Harvard Graduate School of Design. Albers became Chairman of the Department of Design at Yale. Ludwig Mies van der Rohe was appointed Director of the Department of Architecture at the famed Armour Institute in Chicago, to list a few examples (Bayer et al., 1938). The Hochschule für Gestaltung (College of Design) opened in Ulm in 1955, revitalising the Bauhaus methodology in Germany after the war, though much later than in the USA. The school’s first Rector, Max Bill, had been a student at the Bauhaus (Bauhaus-archiv, Museum für Gestaltung: After 1933 webpage, n.d.-a). Ludwig Hirschfeld-Mack, taught art at Geelong Church of England Grammar School in Victoria, Australia during the 1940s and 1950s and is recognised for his influence on art education in Australia (Stasny, 1999). Students of Bauhaus teachers such as Harry Seidler moved their architectural practices to Australia and other countries. Seidler attended Harvard Graduate School of Design under Gropius, was Breuer’s first assistant and was also taught by Albers (Abel, 2006). The little-known influence of the Bauhaus diaspora on art, design and design education in Australia and New Zealand has been recently acknowledged (Goad et al., 2019). The influence of the Bauhaus on Australian life is also illustrated by the recent staging of the exhibition, Bauhaus Now: art + design + architecture – A legacy of migration and modernism in Brisbane at the Museum of Brisbane from September 2020 to April 2021 (Museum of Queensland, n.d.). In these ways, Bauhaus methodology spread globally. American and other cultures saw the Bauhaus as a leader of innovation rather than a degenerate organisation responsible for ‘culture demolition’ in Germany. This movement challenges the idea of closure in Germany and can be seen as a way of moving beyond or transgressing the boundary put before it, by working around it.

Conclusion: Innovation, Transgression, and Reaction The key findings of this case study relate to innovation, transgression, the effects of epistemic diversity, and the impact of culture-orders on the Bauhaus. The connections between these are clear in retrospect. But contemporary research tends only to investigate innovation in workplaces in the ‘here and now’. That research tends not to provide a picture of the way learning-through-working develops and has transgressive effects relative to culture-orders as they unfold over time. This chapter highlights many consistencies between the school’s approach to innovation and recent research on the conditions conducive to workplace learning and innovation. These consistencies across time and space highlight the relevance of the Bauhaus to education, particularly STEAM education, and workplace

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innovation now. The Bauhaus school was innovative because it was designed to enable boundary-crossing and transgressive practices, which are now argued to be crucial to evolutionary change (Haraway, 2008). Contemporary feminist standpoint theory and ideas about transgression also point to the innovative potential of interactions between people who learn through working together across boundaries, highlighting the importance of encountering difference to generate innovation (Intemann, 2010; Haraway, 2008). Bauhaus methodology supported transgressive practices that challenged lineages, in Harawayan terms, cutting across established orders, norms and conventions. Some researchers argue that established orders were maintained to a certain degree in relation to women’s participation, or lack of, in some workshops. However, in many ways, students learned that boundaries could be dissolved or transgressed, reflecting Haraway’s idea of boundaries as porous surfaces. The school’s approach required and enabled transformation as boundaries were transgressed. Drawing from Haraway, this movement involved epistemological and ontological shifts that challenged identities and transgressed ‘sacred’ boundaries. In the process of transgressive, cross-boundary and transdisciplinary work, new, hybrid identities were forged that did not conform to traditional disciplines. This was not always a simple or smooth process, but it was supported by the organisation, environment, and culture of the school. In many ways, the Bauhaus approach created a discursive order, a safe space for transgressive practices, resulting in expansive learning and innovation. The Bauhaus illustrates a case of innovative transdisciplinary practice operating in a borderland. Transgressions at the boundaries and in the zone between different kinds of boundaries – between school (theory) and work (practice), organisational and disciplinary boundaries – enabled innovation when the human dimension was acknowledged and accommodated. Practice at the Bauhaus involved work that required and enabled knowing across boundaries. Transdisciplinary practice at the school can be understood as a skillful labour process that moved ways of thinking and doing in new directions to build new knowledge. As a means of innovation, transdisciplinary practice at the Bauhaus was an activity that offered a distinctive and constructive process for generating new knowledge and practices. When arts, crafts and industry met, aesthetic responses were mediated by materials and technologies. Learning in practice was critical to understanding how these elements worked together. These new understandings resulted in the development of the field of design and new ways of communicating across disciplines. Configuring the three dimensions of innovation, Bauhaus produced a workplace where transgressive practices could be materialised. However, innovation through transgressive activity was only possible while the terms and conditions of work and learning were expansive and conducive to innovation. While Bauhaus activities achieved acclaim and respect in some cultural quarters, transgressions also produced reactions of resistance, even within the school. The school was also vulnerable to the external political order. Bauhaus ideas and practices were seen to be radically socialist and transgressive of conventions and orderings by government officials and members of the academies. The hostile reactions of conservative institutions eventually led to the closure of the school. These effects illustrate Hasse and Brandi’s (2012) argument that innovation is not an

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innovation unless it is recognised as an innovation. What is seen as innovation depends on social positioning and standpoint. Bauhaus transgressions were eventually re-­disciplined, which pressed innovation back towards compliance and conformity. This raises questions about the kind of learning-through-working that enables innovation despite the tug towards conformity. While there is an emerging body of research on the ways in which arts practice contributes to innovation in organisations, there has been a lack of contemporary research on the links between transdisciplinary and arts practice, learning and working which the Bauhaus recognised. Moving forward, insights developed from this case study across time and space inform the next three chapters which analyse interviews conducted with Synapse art-science project participants in contemporary contexts. But these insights also highlight what the Bauhaus case study has not been able to establish: how people experience transdisciplinary practice and transgressive activity that generates innovation. There were only hints in the literature on Bauhaus of conflict and challenges to identities as people engaged in their transdisciplinary work. The next four chapters discuss cases of people who work in contemporary transdisciplinary projects to shed light on the effects of this way of working on people and to better understand the human dimension of innovation.

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Chapter 5

Environments and Spaces of Innovation in Contemporary Art-Science Work

Abstract  This chapter and Chaps. 6, 7, and 8 extend the discussion of workplace learning and innovation but attention is now on contemporary contexts. These chapters examine three specific cases of transdisciplinary, collaborative art-science work undertaken as part of the Synapse Residency Program, managed by the Australian Network for Art and Technology (introduced in Chap. 1). Each chapter is organised around one of the key dimensions of innovation established by the review of research literature in Chap. 3: workplace environments, culture-orders and learning in practice. The workplaces where these collaborative art-science Synapse projects occurred are conceptualised as ‘boundary zones’, ‘hotspots’ (Dürrschmidt & Taylor, 2007) of ‘knowledge flow’ (Sassen, 2007), like the Bauhaus. These are knowledge sharing spaces of innovation where traditional disciplinary boundaries between art and science are crossed. They are the focus of study because they are spaces where interactions across boundaries and transgression, argued to be important to evolutionary development (Haraway, 2008) and innovation, are likely to be found. Interviews were undertaken to better understand the work and learning experiences of people who engage in transdisciplinary, collaborative art-science work and to clarify the supporting features that contributed to innovation in these contexts. The human dimension of innovation is highlighted in this chapter, and the three that follow, by painting a picture of who these Synapse project participants are, the nature of their work and their workspaces. This chapter reveals that freedom, access, and openness were generally characteristic of participants experiences of their project workplace environments. While environmental conditions generally supported learning-through-working in these projects, there were also some constraints on time and access to resources.

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 L. White-Hancock, The Art and Science of Innovation, Transdisciplinary Perspectives in Educational Research 7, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-33132-9_5

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Introduction This chapter is organised around physical, mental, and social spaces that contribute to an environment of innovation. These categories are drawn from Heiskanen & Heiskanen’s, 2011 research outlined in Chap. 3. The chapter examines the ‘physical’ spaces of the Synapse Residency Program, its organisational and regulatory framework, and the scientific workplaces where projects were undertaken. ‘Mental’ spaces are examined in relation to profiles of the three projects, participants, and what is considered to be innovative about projects. ‘Social’ spaces are considered in terms of relationships between project participants and other people in project workplaces. The chapter elaborates on six interviews with partners in three Australian projects: 1. Artist, Catherine Truman worked with Professor Ian Gibbins, (then) Head of the Department of Anatomy and Histology within the School of Medicine at Flinders University, (Adelaide, South Australia). 2. Artist, Dr. Mary Rosengren worked with Cris Kennedy, (then) Director of the Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organisation (CSIRO) Discovery Centre (Canberra, Australian Capital Territory – ACT). Dr. Rosengren also collaborated with CSIRO scientists working with various collections in Melbourne (Victoria) and Canberra (ACT). 3. Artist Dr. Chris Henschke worked with Dr. Mark Boland, (then) Principal Scientist in Accelerator Physics at Australian Synchrotron (Melbourne, Victoria). Further information was also gathered from the artists websites, and blogs about their projects which was sourced from the Australian Network for Art and Technology (ANAT) website. Information about ANAT and the Synapse Residency Program was also gathered from a discussion with an ANAT manager, Ann James (pseudonym used), and the ANAT website beyond the artist’s blogs.

 hysical Spaces: The Organisation and Sites of Synapse P Art-Science Projects  anaging Innovation: The Organisational Framework M of Synapse Projects The Synapse Residency Program only funds artists through ANAT for projects of around sixteen week’s duration though this is a flexible timeframe. The artists partners working in scientific organisations give their time freely. In fact, the interviews revealed that much more time was given by all the partners than was funded. There were elements of passion and good-will extended by all partners. Two key changes to ANAT’s management of the program occurred since the Synapse program was established in 2004. These changes highlight the linkages

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between regulatory (physical) spaces that create mental and social spaces to better stimulate innovation in Synapse projects. These changes relate to the criteria for grant selection and to Intellectual Property (IP) arrangements. In relation to grant selection, project partners – the artist and scientist – were expected to have already developed a working relationship prior to applying for a residency. Joint applications from scientist and artist partners are now required for residencies. This was not necessary in the early years of the Synapse program when ANAT organised the partnerships. James explained that prior engagement with transdisciplinary work demonstrated a commitment to the area and helped to open up lines of communication. She pointed out that because of this change to the selection criteria, there had only been two instances where scientists and their artist partners had been unable to work together. The time required for program managers to pair researchers in the early days was also eliminated. James explained that in her experience the success of collaborative, transdisciplinary work comes down to relationships. Established relationships and open communication between project partners were considered to be extremely important given the short-term nature of projects. Interviewees agreed that they needed quite a bit of time getting to know each other in order to build relationships and understand each other’s ways of working. The second key change to the management of the program related to the establishment of clear IP arrangements because, according to James, this had been an issue at times. Establishing what can be used by the host organisation and what can be used by the artist became a necessary item in the guidelines. She explained that some of the organisations expected the artists to generate organisational materials, such as cards or artwork for brochures. However, this was not the purpose of the projects. James would step in on behalf of the artist if the host organisation’s demands for organisational outcomes became an issue. ANAT’s expectations of projects also reveal an understanding of the linkage between the physical, mental, and social spaces in supporting innovation. Responding to a question about what project partners were expected to do to fulfil their residencies in terms of ANAT’s requirements, artists Truman, Henschke and Rosengren all agreed that ANAT placed few demands for outcomes. However, artists were expected to maintain a blog on the ANAT website to share information openly as part of their contractual arrangements. These blogs track and document the progress of the residencies, some more comprehensively than others. James explained that the artists’ blogs are maintained as an important research repository for the artists themselves as well as for other researchers. The artists’ project partners were expected to provide some resources and organisational supports such as a workspace, computer, and their time as part of their contractual agreements. Rather than focusing on outcomes, residencies were “approached as a platform for testing and informing a more comprehensive, longer-term research project suitable for submission to the Australian Research Council’s Synapse Linkage program” (ANAT, n.d.). Rosengren pointed out that this approach is different to many

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other organisations who do expect certain outcomes in terms of artistic products such as paintings or exhibitions. She explained that: The object of the whole exercise … is to generate enough research to maybe develop another application for research.

From James’ perspective, so much research work is outcomes-driven that time for reflection is short. Having few requirements from ANAT gives people “time to follow their own noses”. James asserted that her organisation and the residency program were driven by the philosophy that: If people knew what they were doing [as a direct pathway to research outcomes], it wouldn’t be called research.

ANAT and James recognised and accepted that some of the research done during residencies could be refined over a period of years before artistic outcomes or products arose. From the artists’ perspectives, having the latitude to ‘free-range’ meant that they didn’t feel pressured to produce objects for ANAT. Truman commented that funding bought the time to reflect and develop work that was riskier. Affording the freedom to speculate and develop their own work was also seen to be critical by ANAT management for innovation in these collaborations. ANAT had a ‘hands off’ approach once the application process was completed. At this level, a flat management structure, argued to support innovation (Callan, 2004; Gloor, 2006) is evident. James saw her role as a facilitator or a catalyst for the projects and only got involved if difficulties arose because, she explained, “nobody likes a micro-manager”. In summary, ANAT played a significant role as an intermediary agency in overseeing funding (from the Australia Council for the Arts, Australian and South Australian governments) for projects, selecting grant recipients and establishing the contractual arrangements and the regulatory framework for the Synapse program. However, ANAT employed a low profile, ‘hands off’, flat management style in managing projects, in a similar way to the Bauhaus, as discussed in Chap. 4. This afforded participants’ freedom, or discretion, in structuring their own work. The grants and ANAT’s approach to their management provided both physical and temporal spaces that supported the development of creative work and innovations. These organisational conditions highlight the interaction between physical, mental, and social spaces that contributed to the development of an environment for encouraging innovation in transdisciplinary contexts.

Synapse Project Sites The three project sites provided workplaces, facilities and architectural spaces that encouraged learning and innovation, as in the case of the Bauhaus.

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CSIRO Dr. Mary Rosengren worked at the CSIRO with scientists and project partner, Cris Kennedy, (then) Director of the CSIRO Discovery Centre. The CSIRO is Australia’s largest scientific research organisation and is host to a number of Australian scientific collections. Rosengren was based at the Discovery Centre which opened in 2000 in Canberra, Australia’s capital city in the Australian Capital Territory (ACT). The Discovery Centre showcases achievements in Australian science and technology through its interactive exhibitions. The first stage of the artist’s work was unlike the other projects in that it took place in several sites where different collections were held both in Canberra and Melbourne and there was no single ‘workplace’. The second stage of Rosengren’s work aimed to utilise contemporary 3D imaging technology at the high-resolution Plant Phenomics Centre on site in the Discovery Centre. The CSIRO Discovery Centre is a contemporary building comprising two floors of glass-fronted working laboratories, gallery spaces and a lecture theatre. In contrast to the open spatial qualities of the ‘public face’ of the CSIRO, there are vast warehouses where the collections are stored. These storage facilities and the storage drawers where biological artefacts are conserved were of particular interest to Rosengren. Access to the physical environment and interaction with the CSIRO collections and the people who work with them were seen to be critical to the project. These facilities are photographed and recorded on Rosengren’s ANAT blog (Rosengren, 2011a). Collections are boxed, categorised, labelled and packed away in these huge facilities. Generally, the artefacts which comprise the collections are not highly visible or accessible to the public. However, seeing the way collections are categorised and maintained in vast but separate spaces provided some insight into the scientific environment and practices that informed the artists’ ideas about ‘re-ordering’ the collections and rethinking their boundaries. Australian Synchrotron Artist Dr. Chris Henschke worked with scientists, particularly Dr. Mark Boland, at Australian Synchrotron which houses a third-generation large hadron collider (particle accelerator) in Melbourne, Victoria. The synchrotron is a huge, round machine about the size of a football field that sits above ground. The machine accelerates electrons close to the speed of light. Light created as the electrons are deflected through magnetic fields is channeled down ‘beam lines’ to be used for research at experimental workstations. The machine is used in many areas of R&D, including physics, chemistry, biology, medicine and drug development, mineral exploration and processing, materials science, agriculture, food processing, manufacturing, new materials, nanotechnology, advanced electronic devices, and sustainable energy. The Australian Synchrotron has hosted more than 4000 user visits annually since opening in 2007 (Australian Synchrotron, n.d.-b user access webpage, 2022).

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According to Boland, the facility operates ‘24/7’ and is a hive of activity and interaction for a global scientific community. Feeling part of environment was important to Henschke. Responding to a question about the environment of the workplace that enabled his collaborative work at Australian Synchrotron, Henschke referred to the architecture of the space: It’s all open and you can wander around and it’s quite aesthetically designed for that kind of facility … gradually sticking up images of my work kind of all around the place, so now I’m sort of almost integrated visually into their whole corporate aesthetic.

The openness of physical spaces and having room to move about reflect ideas of freedom (Høyrup, 2012) and openness (Curtin et al., 2011) in work practices which both Henschke and Boland felt supported their collaborative work. Putting his artwork around the space helped the artist feel more at home and being more a part of the Synchrotron community. Department of Anatomy and Histology, Flinders University Artist Catherine Truman worked with Professor Ian Gibbins, Head of the Department of Anatomy and Histology, School of Medicine at Flinders University, SA.  This public university was established in 1966. Laboratories within Gibbins’ department engage in interdisciplinary research particularly in neuroscience, cardiovascular and respiratory systems (Dept. of Anatomy and Histology, n.d.). Prior to the interviews, Truman took me on a guided tour of the facilities in the department, including the cadaver dissecting room, a tearoom, an equipment-filled laboratory, and a room filled almost entirely with a massive microscope. In complete contrast to the ‘rabbit warren’ of small, cluttered offices and labs crowded with equipment, the anatomy classroom was surprisingly spacious and airy. Encountering the anatomical models and collections of preserved body parts in display cabinets and glass jars in the anatomy classroom was an environment that I found fascinating but quite confronting. According to Truman, this initial feeling of confrontation was shared by many of the students. Gibbins explained that this space was purposely designed to support students’ learning and wellbeing. This was not a closed, claustrophobic room. Light, air, and space were seen to be key elements in alleviating the discomfort felt by some students, and in providing a positive and respectful space. Like Henschke, Truman and Gibbins pointed out the importance of a positive physical environment for work. Gibbins explained the need to show the students that: This is a positive place. People here have donated their mortal remains … And that’s something to be respected and admired and built upon. In the end, there’s students learning how to save lives using this resource.

The comment reveals an understanding of the relationship between learning and physical spaces. These open and light spatial qualities offered a psychological counterpoint to the confronting nature of the artefacts in these rooms. The idea reflects

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Bauhaus concerns discussed in Chap. 4 about making spaces that supported student learning despite confrontations and challenges.

Mental Spaces: Project and Participant Profiles This part of the chapter builds a picture of the people who engaged in art-science work, their ideas, and the nature of their work. The aims and descriptions of projects, images of work related to them, and brief biographies of the people involved in these Synapse projects are discussed. This examination surfaces the long histories and hybrid identities of those engaging in collaborative, transdisciplinary art-­ science work.

Project 1: Communicating the Body Catherine Truman and Professor Ian Gibbins, Department of Anatomy and Histology, School of Medicine, Flinders University Truman defines her practice as a jeweller and sculptor and “as a maker of objects about and for the body” (Findeis, 2006). She first trained as an art teacher then in jewellery making and is represented in many national and international art collections. Truman is a highly regarded artist and is a former Australia Council of the Arts Fellow (2007–8). The artist has a long history of transdisciplinary art-science work. In 2007 Truman participated in an ANAT funded laboratory called reSkin (Australian National University, Canberra, Australia) which aimed to investigate wearable technologies. Much earlier, in 1990, she was an artist-in- residence at the Museum and Art Gallery of the Northern Territory (Australia). In the interview with Truman, she recounted a conversation she had with a natural scientist at the hospital which fueled her future interest in transdisciplinary work. She asked the scientist to tell her about the essence of his work and he answered: “I name things … if we name something, we know it exists”. He was a taxonomist specialising in nudibranchs – soft-bodied, marine molluscs that have no shell. At the time, I remember being quite shocked. I was both repelled and compelled by his scientific attitude and I was hooked. Since then, I have sought out opportunities to work across disciplines as often as I could.

Most recently in 2022, Truman has undertaken a year-long residency project titled The Arrangements: Assembling Nature at Carrick Hill, an historic manor house renowned for its gardens in Adelaide, South Australia. The aim of the residency is to consider the ways in which the natural world is organised. Some of the images of tree branches posted to Truman’s blog are reminiscent of the human nervous system, linking back to her long interest in anatomy.

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At the time of our interview, Gibbins was a neuroscientist and Professor of Anatomy in the School of Medicine at Flinders University. He is internationally known for his research on nerves that control and communicate between internal organs and has published over 100 scientific papers on related topics. Gibbins holds an Honorary Doctorate from the University of Gothenburg, Sweden and more recently was awarded Emeritus Professor status at Flinders University. Gibbins is also an award-winning poet. Publications include a volume titled The Microscope Project: How Things Work (Gibbins, 2014) and Urban Biology (Gibbins, 2012). He composes and performs electronic music and soundscapes and makes experimental films. Gibbins currently produces award winning video-poems which he defines as “work in which moving images and a poem interact to produce something that is more than the sum of the parts” (Licari, 2019). Gibbins is currently Secretary of the Adelaide Festival of Ideas Board (South Australia). Gibbins and Truman have collaborated on numerous projects. They met through a year-long project called With the Body in Mind in 2007 which brought together different scientists and artists who formed groups based on areas of interest. Gibbins was on the anatomy group as was Truman because of her long interest in anatomy and anatomical collections. For example, the artist spoke at length in her interview of a visit to Florence (Italy) where she saw the wax and wood anatomical models made by the artisan Clemente Susini. Susini worked with anatomist, Felice Fontana in the eighteenth century. The 2007 project culminated in a day-long forum at Flinders University. From that experience, Truman decided that she wanted to see Gibbins in his workplace environment “… to get an understanding of how the body was taught here, what kind of body was taught”. A meeting was arranged and so began their ongoing collaborative work. Truman had spent three years sitting in on Gibbins anatomy classes learning about the work of the laboratories prior to her residency. She came to know researchers, technicians, and students there from this work with Gibbins. Their project aimed to “to build upon their earlier collaborative research activity investigating pedagogical tools, processes and environments that have the potential to optimise the uptake and retention of anatomical learning” for medical students (ANAT, n.d.). The new approaches developed were recognised by the University with a Teaching and Learning Innovation Award. The synopsis of residency grants announced by ANAT for 2011 outlines the justification for the project in terms of the importance of understanding the human body and its representation across a range of disciplines including science, philosophy, and creative arts particularly “for medical students, whose learning about human anatomy is crucial to their future professional work” (ANAT, n.d.). Truman explained what drove the project: We were interested in how the body is learned by medical students, what body is learned by medical students, the role that the instructor plays, also the role that the objects in the room, the teaching anatomy room, play. That kind of led us into a really distinct interest in the interrelationships that occur between students and the tutor as well in terms of learning the body. So, we became fascinated with the role of touch and gesture in learning.

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Fig. 5.1  Catherine Truman, The Fine Bones of the Hand, Anatomy Lab, 2011. (Photograph)

Truman’s research involved observing and documenting what she saw in the anatomy classroom using film, notes, and photographs.1 Figures 5.1 and 5.2 illustrate the kinds of photographic records collected by the artist. She conducted experiments, analysed what she saw and fed this back to Gibbins and others in the department. Truman was fascinated with artefacts such as bones that were used in the anatomy classroom forteaching and learning the body: I talked to the technicians a lot about the way that the students learned, the way that they perceive the students learn through the objects … we really scrutinised the objects for wear and tear and touch.

Nuances in surface textures were observed and documented. This experience informed a series of the artist’s work, Hybrids (Fig. 5.3) which explored the forms of body organs. Particular attention is given to textures, surfaces and imperfections of bone, sinew, and blood vessels. The carving technique used to create these textured objects is a skill Truman learned in Japan from traditional netsuke2 carvers of wood, stone, and gem materials such as jade. This is a technique that she frequently applies to her work and for which she is well known in Australia.

 To see more commentary and images of Truman’s (2011) work on the project, click on this LINK to her ANAT blog or go to http://truman2011.anat.org.au/ 2  Netsuke is a carved ornamental toggle worn at the end of a cord that holds a kimono closed, originally used to fasten a purse or pouch (Encarta Dictionary, no date). 1

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Fig. 5.2  Catherine Truman, Talking Hands, 2011. (Photograph)

Fig. 5.3  Catherine Truman, Hybrids, 2011. Sculptures. (footnote 1 in Chap. 2) Carved English lime, wood, paint

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Project 2: Articulations: True Stories Dr Mary Rosengren and Cris Kennedy, CSIRO, Canberra and Melbourne Rosengren’s initial training was in visual arts  – painting and printmaking at the Victorian College of the Arts (Melbourne), and Sydney College of the Arts. Since around 2004, Rosengren has been working with data projection and sound. The artist’s extensive history of working with scientists and scientific imaging technologies goes back to the 1980s when she worked on remote sensing and plant reflectance data at Lake Mungo (New South Wales) with Dr. Toni O’Neill (Wollongong University, NSW). For her doctorate at Wollongong University in the early 2000s, Rosengren worked with Dr. Sharon Robinson, a plant ecophysiologist whose investigated bryophytes and vegetation that occur in Antarctica. This long interest in the vegetation of extreme environments has led her from the Cairngorm Mountains of Scotland to the Bogong High Plains in Victoria, Australia. Rosengren’s interest in the relationship between art and science practices led her to organise a symposium called Spectra: Images and Data in Art/Science in 2012 and to co-edit a book of the symposium proceedings with Cris Kennedy (Rosengren & Kennedy, 2014). More recently, Rosengren was an adjunct Research Associate with the Institute for Land, Water and Society at Charles Sturt University (ILWS) until 2021. Cris Kennedy worked for twelve years as Director of the CSIRO Discovery Centre prior to our interview. His work involved organising and presenting exhibitions, educational services and seminars, symposiums and lectures for the public, scientists, and researchers. His background is in filmmaking and curatorship. While Kennedy was Rosengren’s project partner and worked with her on the grant proposal, his role in the project was different to the other two partnerships. Kennedy was not a scientist, but he facilitated the smooth running of the project by initiating meetings with a number of scientists, visits to different collections, and by having ongoing discussions with the artist about her progress, requirements, and outcomes. Kennedy was familiar with the artist’s work through an earlier Synapse grant application with the CSIRO in 2010. He invited Rosengren to exhibit her artwork at the Discovery Centre in 2011. Cris has extended his work in community engagement and is now the Director of Visitor Engagement at Parliament House in Canberra, Australia (since 2018). Cris is a film critic for The Canberra Times and since 2002 has been the Director of SCINEMA International Festival of Science Film. Rosengren’s exhibition, Reimaging Nature: Hidden Visions and Ground Truth, (Fig. 5.4), coincided with the commencement of her 2011 Synapse residency. The work included prints, artists’ books, audio, and image projections which provide background to the residency. The Hidden Visions collection of artefacts reflects developments in the study and ordering of nature in biological science since the ecological view expressed by the scientific illustrator/artist/entomologist Maria Sybillia Merian (1647–1717). Ground Truths presents images and sounds of ground cover from extreme environments which are intended to disrupt the space of Hidden Visions by providing a more sensory experience of nature (Rosengren, 2011b).

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Fig. 5.4 Mary Rosengren, Reimaging Nature: Hidden Visions and Ground Truth, 2011. (Exhibition poster)

The 2011 project extended this social concern about the ordering and interpretation of nature.3 Rosengren’s aims for the project were to “investigate and articulate the connections between different aspects of CSIRO research and to extend  To see more commentary and images of Rosengren’s work on the project, click on this LINK to her ANAT blog (Rosengren, 2011a, b) or go to http://rosengren2011.anat.org.au/ 3

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professional thinking about interdisciplinarity and the appraisal of images within science and art contexts” (ANAT, n.d.). Furthermore, the artist set out to see the collections: … as contemporary dynamic things, rather than dusty museological collections of material, which is how in cultural industries we [often] see museum collections.

The first stage of Rosengren’s project involved researching the relationship between the collections which are essentially taxonomic collections by visiting a range of CSIRO biological collections including the soil, insect, fungi, wildlife and plant collections at the Botanic Gardens and the National Herbarium in Canberra. She also visited the wood, wood fungi and air collections which are in Melbourne. Due to organisational changes, the artist experienced some restrictions to accessing or spending more time with some of the collections that she had initially planned. Constraints relating to the organisation and the broader economic and political context are discussed in more detail in Chap. 6. At each site, the artist took photographs and notes about the collections and interviewed the scientists who work with them: … finding out what they’re about, how they work and how they could be connected through the imaging technology.

Rosengren then worked in her own studio. The artist set out to identify how visualisation is used in the collections to connect: … the old science of classifying, ordering, and organising things with contemporary science methods and processes and technology.

The artist was interested in how high-resolution microscopy techniques enable recognition and analysis of minute plant materials and pollen grains taken from animal specimens stored at the CSIRO. The significance of this work is that an isolated specimen can be reconnected with its ecology and environmental history. Rosengren explained in our interview that this may “tease the boundary” between distinct collections of organic material and provide an opportunity to re-image and re-order collections. In this way, Rosengren employs a range of artefacts to negotiate boundaries between collections. Although acknowledging that Rosengren’s aims for the project may be different in some ways, Kennedy explained that his key interest in this residency was in the concept of the ‘artist-scientist’. He explained that the concept can be traced to “the very first day of European science” in Australia. Kennedy referred specifically to the cuttings and sketches of the botanist, Joseph Banks, which were made on the Endeavour voyage (1768–72) from England with Captain James Cook. These artefacts are held in the CSIRO collections in Canberra. Kennedy pointed out that: From that very beginning … [of European settlement in Australia] … there’s this idea of the artist-scientist. And they were almost indistinguishable.

Yet in more recent times, this way of working has been restricted as disciplines became more specialised. In terms of project aims, themes of communication, interaction, making connections across boundaries begin to emerge in interviews with Truman and Gibbins, Kennedy and Rosengren, and are also evident in Henschke and Boland’s project.

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Project 3: Lightbridge Dr Chris Henschke and Dr Mark Boland, Australian Synchrotron Lightbridge was the name of Henschke and Boland’s 2010 project. It suggests a phenomenon (light) that links different environments or bridges boundaries. Part of the project involved determining how Synchrotron data could be imaged. Boland explained that the Lightbridge project was conceived of as: a kind of a portal where the data that’s usually made available for scientists which they carefully plan and then take data and then interpret in a very traditional scientific way, that same data could be made available to let’s say an artist and then they could use their own imagination how they would use that data … the data themselves have certain patterns and harmonics which you can think of as analogous to a musical pattern.

Figure 5.5 illustrates the visual modelling generated by the artist which gives visual form to the patterning of the data. The scientist commented that: The outcome of the project was to expressly use the physics model and software purely for aesthetic reasons … in terms of let’s say the pure geometry of this accelerator that we were modelling … you get this sort of visual aesthetic that it’s kind of difficult from a scientific point of view, but it looked nice.

Boland appreciated the different perspective of the physics model that an artist might offer and that this different way of seeing could potentially generate new insights. Henschke has worked with scientists at Australian Synchrotron, particularly Boland, since undertaking a residency there in 2007. The artist had initially studied physics at the University of Melbourne in the 1980s. He went on to study geology

Fig. 5.5  Chris Henschke, LightCurve fraction, 2010a. (Still from animation. See an animated version of Lightcurve at this LINK. Or go to http://henschke2010.anat.org.au/2017/06/13/lightcurve/)

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and meteorology and then psychology and anthropology followed by filmmaking before dropping out. However, his interest in emerging digital technologies at the time redirected his career and led to his current work teaching experimental film and video within the School of Media and Communication at RMIT University (Melbourne, Victoria). Henschke’s work with Australian Synchrotron was largely computer-based. His first residency at the facility in 2007 was supported by an Arts Victoria’s Innovation Program and ANAT. Henschke had also undertaken a residency at the Conseil Européen pour la Recherche Nucléaire (CERN) in Switzerland prior to the establishment of Australian Synchrotron in Melbourne. Earlier, the artist had been involved in a collaboration with a mathematician from Melbourne University as part of the Arts Victoria Innovation Program. Henschke completed a PhD which included research and collaborative practice at CERN (2013–2017). He has since developed a cross-disciplinary PhD program with Arts at CERN.4 Boland had collaborated on research at CERN and initially introduced Henschke to people at the facility. As Chief Scientist, Boland’s work involved a layer of management and meetings as well as working on a “gazillion projects” at any one time which called for quick responses. Boland completed his PhD in photonuclear research (The University of Melbourne), and he helped to design, commission, build and operate the Australian Synchrotron. He was awarded a Fulbright Professional Scholarship in Nuclear Science and Technology in 2014 to conduct research at the SLAC National Accelerator Laboratory (Stanford University, USA). The scientist’s concern for data sharing is evident in his role (at the time of our interview) as Deputy Director of the Australian Collaboration for Accelerator Science (ACAS). ACAS provides a platform for contributions to accelerator science research efforts through global collaborations (Australian Synchrotron, n.d.-a). Since 2017, Boland has been an Associate Professor in the Department of Physics and Engineering Physics at the University of Saskatchewan (Canada) as well as Machine Director at the Canadian Light Source. The scientist also had a long interest in the arts.

Innovation in Synapse Projects James commented in our phone conversation that all these project proposals were considered to be innovative from ANAT’s perspective for a range of reasons. Common to all three projects was the fact that it was unusual for artists to work in scientific organisations in Australia, particularly the applied research/physics environment of Henschke’s project. In Truman and Gibbins case, a number of modalities of the body were investigated. The project involved thinking through the body and incorporated a pedagogical dimension in terms of teaching medical students

 To see more of Henschke’s work, click on this LINK to his ANAT blog (Henschke, 2010b). Or go to http://henschke2010.anat.org.au/ 4

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about anatomy. Truman had worked with concepts of the body for many years in her practice as a contemporary jeweller and had also been a Feldenkrais practitioner. The Feldenkrais method of mind- body exploration aims to reduce pain or limitations in movement and to improve physical function by increasing self-awareness. Truman took up the practice to alleviate pain and mobility problems resulting from her work. Feldenkrais falls within the field of integrative medicine and is a form of self-education that is experiential, grounded in self-discovery and movement enquiry. James’ perspective was that this alternative approach to understanding the body added another innovative dimension to the scientific, medical context of the project. However, Truman and Gibbins considered the innovations of this project differently to James. For them, the key innovations in their work revolved around interaction and communication. Truman (2011) pointed out that for them, the project was initially about: … medical education and how science perceives the body and how artists perceive the body or communicate the body. It’s about communication.

This study of communicating the body led to the development of new pedagogical methods and practices that have refined the way medical students learn about the body at Flinders University. Truman explained the impact of the work: The actual shifts, the tangible shifts in the way that Ian uses himself in his work and teaches students and the way the students respond is definitely an outcome [of their work together], an ongoing one.

Truman had focused her artist’s lens on the ways that Gibbins used his body to communicate the body to students, resulting in a much more considered and effective pedagogical approach that both interviewees felt enriched students’ understandings of the body. She elaborated on the innovation of the approach: The attentiveness to how experience and touch and gesture and language can enrich and open up, I guess the awareness of that … I think it opens up a lot of potential. The potential is an outcome to me too.

Awareness was considered to be a ‘product’ in the same way as more tangible innovative artefacts such as the new teaching methods developed, or the objects that Truman makes in response to her research. The artist also considered the potential for learning-through-working collaboratively in transdisciplinary contexts to be extremely important to innovation. Truman explained, “the way we have developed our thinking about our own practices” was a very strong outcome of their collaborative work. Expanding on the idea, Truman commented: The developments in the levels of maturity of understanding difference and the potential of a collaboration made up from two seemingly disparate fields coming together – the potential is enormous.

The artist believed that the ability to communicate through shared languages  – through poetry, writing, images, and objects, both scientific and artistic, and through shared earlier experiences was innovative. It was Truman’s understanding that:

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It’s unusual to develop a relationship between a medical educator and an artist in this context.

Gibbins highlighted that that it’s unusual for a scientist to also be a practicing artist as it is for an artist to be familiar with “the way the place works” and with some elements of his medical science practice. Gibbins went on to explain that in the context of the Synapse scheme, what was also innovative was that it was not as technology driven as many other projects. Yet while the project was predominantly about human interactions, these were mediated by an array of technologies and artefacts in the anatomy department which I observed on my tour of the facility (and describe further later in this chapter). Nevertheless, both interviewees considered that their work was innovative because it involved an examination of how technologies and artefacts mediated learning in the anatomy department. From James’s perspective, Rosengren and Kennedy’s project at the CSIRO was innovative in that there were different dimensions that were to be investigated and it was the interconnections between these dimensions that were critical. The artist was investigating how things were situated and represented in science and the interrelationships between bounded categories, enabling Rosengren to understand scientific schemata or taxonomy from an arts standpoint. As she explained: I suppose in terms of the recent tradition of artists working with scientists, it’s possibly looking at not just the methodology but the way in which the technology and the imaging is utilised and valued within both those disciplines. So, this is an attempt to see science differently.

The comment reflects the way that Truman focuses her artist’s lens on the way the body is learned in medical science, on everyday artefacts (such as surgical gloves) and taken-for-granted practices in Gibbins work. Artefacts were crucial to this process of re-viewing or rethinking the everyday and negotiating boundaries between different practices. Kennedy pointed out the anticipated effect of the collaboration on the scientists working with Rosengren: CSIRO researchers are really excited about collaborating on their science and especially with an artist. It really gives them a chance to see their own work in a new light.

Like Truman and Gibbins, both Kennedy and Rosengren considered what was innovative about their project was the idea of art-science collaboration. There was also an anticipation of reciprocal benefits for both artists and scientists in their transdisciplinary collaboration that came from sharing knowledge and exposure to different standpoints or ways of seeing the world. The idea of extending one’s disciplinary boundary to work across two disciplines was considered to be innovative. What became evident from the interviews and an examination of the artists’ ANAT blogs is that all the artists had learned a great deal about the sciences they were working with. And vice versa, the scientists also learned more about the arts because of their work with the artists. However, both Rosengren and Kennedy noted that transdisciplinary work is nothing new; it is a re-emerging field that has a long history, evidenced by the work

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of artist- scientists such as Merrian and Banks (discussed earlier). Rosengren was also careful to point out that she is not alone among her contemporaries in this kind of research: To some extent there’s new knowledge there … But there are lots of researchers looking at the way visual systems work, and the way other disciplines use visual material and visual knowledge, how it functions.

Like Truman, scientific technologies that contributed to knowledge were important to Rosengren’s project. However, the artist’s emphasis was also on understanding how visual language helps communicate information and make sense of the world in science. In this way, from an arts standpoint, the social dimensions of innovation are foregrounded. For Kennedy, the emphasis on the cultural value of scientific imagery was also an innovative aspect of this project: We have scientists who curate our collections and actually produce imagery and who produce data and that data produces imagery … It isn’t always appreciated for its cultural and artistic value; it’s often just seen to have a scientific value. That’s the kind of nexus that we want to explore; what is the cultural, artistic, and scientific value of contemporary science imagery? We want to give back a cultural value to the work that our scientists do. And that’s the angle I want to look at.

Kennedy expanded on his idea of the need to highlight the cultural and social values of science, explaining that while there had been conferences and symposiums of art- science, what they wanted to do was relate that to collections and focus on their inter-relatedness. Rosengren explained that the exhibition she was curating for the Discovery Centre: … connects all those collections … using one particular specimen and its relationship to other elements of the collections. So, if for instance I take a plant and the site where that plant occurs, its relationship to the pollinating insect, okay?

In Kennedy’s view, it was Rosengren’s understanding of the complex nature the CSIRO collections that emerged during the residency and appreciating the kind of cultural value of scientific images, that inspired the concept of their 2012 symposium – Spectra: Images and Data in Art/Science. As Kennedy said: It’s a conversation that we can open up. It’s like well, what’s Australia’s artistic and science community to have?

What has come out of this residency will be shared with a broader community extending beyond the participants and beyond the ANAT blog, as Kennedy put it, beyond “a dot point on the contract for her residency”. Opening up the conversation about science- art relatedness and sharing this knowledge were important innovations. Similarities with the Lightbridge project emerged in what was seen to be innovative in the project in terms of ideas about science-arts relatedness, communication, and interaction. In Boland’s view, the synchrotron project was innovative because it attempted to:

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… open up the data channels that are usually reserved and tightly guarded … to open up an opportunity and to create this environment where people can do completely different things with it, but still use that concept and then come up with their own ideas as to how they want to use that data … So, if you look at a plot you might come away with one thing, but if you have all your representation – audio, visual – you might have a different perception of that and you might notice something different.

Boland also spoke about how an artist’s lens might “capture the side ghosts” or see something new that the scientists missed. Given his position with ACAS, Boland saw potential in how scientific data could be shared and interpreted in an artistic way although this was a sensitive area, as will be further explained in Chap. 6. Henschke’s view of innovation in his project concurred with Boland’s to some degree: Well, trying to get science data and turn it into art, I guess that’s supposed to be innovative.

However, experiencing the interior space of the particle accelerator itself seemed to be of greater significance to the artist. Henschke explained his aim to imagine the space, the architecture of the accelerator from the electrons perspective and this was an important starting point for his work: In terms of Einstein-Rosen bridges5 and sort of pushing the Ricci tensor6 and actually curving, bending the space/time dimension as they do in the machine, to get my head around that was, it still is really difficult … but I did lots of experiments trying to visualise that very thing. Talking about space and architecture, I’m trying to imagine it from the electron’s perspective.

The artist explained his exhilaration at eventually being allowed access to the machine: CH: One time Mark let me into their sort of accelerator green thing all by myself and it’s so dangerous. It’s like, don’t touch anything because [of] all the wires. It’s weird, even when it’s off, it’s still kind of on. So, I’m in the tunnel and my hands were sweating and there were radioactive bits. You had to have a little Geiger counter on you. It’s like wow, this really is, for me that was really crossing over something and pushing it. LWH: The experience. CH: Yes, the experience, which I guess has led, inspired my kind of work. But, as I was saying before, the work itself I don’t feel that if you see it, you’d be like, “Whoa.” LWH: But has anyone done that kind of work with Synchrotron before? CH: Not really, no.

Henschke pointed out that few people, let alone artists, ever got a chance to experience the inside of a synchrotron. It was this experience of the space as a ‘frontier zone’ that was ground-breaking and crossed boundaries for the artist. In the spirit of the pioneer, Henschke went where no artist had gone before… The machine was a mass of wires, cables, and racing electrons but, from Henschke’s perspective, it seemed to have a life of its own because, as he explained, it’s not ‘dead’ just because  Albert Einstein and Nathan Rosen (1935) used the theory of general relativity to propose the existence of ‘bridges’ or ‘wormholes’ that link separate points in space-time (Lindley, 2005). 6  The ‘Ricci tensor’ is a term used in relativity theory that describes the part of the curvature of space-time that influences how matter converges or diverges in time (Chow & Knopf, 2004). 5

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it’s switched off. In this way, the artist’s thinking about the technology, as James acknowledged, extended beyond the creative use of data generated by the machine. Henschke’s thinking also embraced an experiential dimension that involved closer interaction, almost a kind of communion with the ‘machine’. While Henschke acknowledged that his project involved adopting new practices in relation to the technology and in the ways that Synchrotron data was used, the artist considered that another aspect of his work which related to transdisciplinary communication was also innovative: Maybe the more kind of realistic innovation is just trying to work out how to work with these people. And the fact that I haven’t still finished means that maybe I haven’t really innovated enough in that area.

The artist felt that he had not yet succeeded in this endeavour and his efforts at communication with scientists were still the source of some frustration. The comment suggests that while the ideas of knowledge and data sharing sound straightforward, the reality was sometimes quite different. Like Truman and Rosengren, the social space of innovation was emphasised. Henschke’s concern raises questions about what it is like to work in these scientific workplace environments.

Social Spaces The supports that enabled working in scientific environments revolved around ideas of access, freedom, and openness. Access to and interactions with people with appropriate expertise, and access to facilities, artefacts and other resources were critical to these collaborative projects. The character of scientific organisations and the dispositions of scientists who work in them were also seen to be important factors in enabling access. Rosengren commented that: I think it’s the nature of science organisations that they are curious … they’re self- reflective. So, they are very interested in explaining and discussing and critiquing what they do … So very receptive and cooperative and quite happy to engage in consultation and participation.

Curiosity was seen to encourage openness within and between individuals as well as at the organisational level. Supporting Rosengren’s perception, Gibbins described the environment of his organisation, Flinders University, as ‘open’, emphasising participation and freedom of access: I mean, anybody can come here and work here if they’ve got the right credentials and background. So, we have visitors coming all the time. Students come in for short-term projects through to students from overseas, through to visiting scholars … good science is open environment.

Similarly, one of the intentions of Henschke and Boland’s project noted earlier was to “open up an opportunity and to create this environment where people can do

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completely different things” with the data. Openness to sharing data beyond the confines of the Synchrotron facility and beyond disciplinary boundaries was important to Boland. In his view, this kind of open working environment was the platform for enabling new knowledge and innovation. Boland also pointed to the openness of his workplace in terms of academic freedom and freedom of access as critical elements of a good environment for collaborative work: MB: In the fact that the lab runs 24/7 and that Chris often works odd hours. There was just an all-round freedom. LWH: Of access. MB: Of access and of thought. He didn’t clock off at 5.00. I’d get home and I would still think of other things, or I’d shoot off an email. I’d still be working away. Some nights I actually got carried away with trying to nut out some problem and I’d be up till 2.00 in the morning at home just tapping away. And then the ability to – no-one hassling me that I turned up at 11 am the next day, you know, that type of set-up.

Boland valued the discretion afforded him to work his own hours and also elaborated on another aspect of freedom that he valued: It’s the obvious, you know, the academic freedom I guess is the simple word for it where you’re responsible and you obviously have jumped through certain hoops, you’ve done the due diligence with your proposal and you’ve done the management side of things, you’ve pushed yourself and you’ve done your education to get your title and position. Then that buys you that freedom where you’ve demonstrated a certain degree of responsibility to then go out and be irresponsible, so to speak.

The scientist also felt that a good working environment was established with Henschke because they were able to communicate and understand each other: We were aware, we’re not kids, we were aware of the different disciplines and the stereotypes. That knowledge and the ability to understand each other’s background, it just led to a good working environment … I think we had enough of an overlap, so Chris had done some science training and read similar books or some of the popular books and was well-­ versed in the key physics discoveries, and I was well- versed enough in the key artistic movements and pieces and what was going on. I would attend gallery openings that he’d invite me to.

Boland explained that he felt his “willingness to engage and to accept different world views” enabled both to work collaboratively. Similarly, Henschke reported that what he felt he contributed to the project as an artist was his open-mindedness. Henschke also expressed the view that an effective collaborative environment depended on establishing a good working relationship. His view was that access to people with appropriate expertise is essential, but it’s not enough. He explained how important it was in his experience of transdisciplinary work to communicate well: I think that what it ultimately comes down to is the person you’re working with, if you can kind of integrate with their sort of world view and vice-versa, then it’ll work. And if you can’t, it doesn’t matter how much you try … it’s just not going to get over the hurdle. He’s [Boland] … in some ways the most open-minded person I’ve met because I know he’s so rigorously into the whole quantum physics straitjacket very empirical stuff, but then he can also understand how the other side works.

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Elaborated on this point, the artist commenting: … from day one it was easy because he [Boland] sort of got where I was coming from, and I sort of had enough knowledge of physics to sort of get where he was coming from.

However, being able to engage in the conversation necessary for effective transdisciplinary collaborative work was not always a simple process. The artist also spoke of the disciplinary language barrier that he experienced with some scientists which made communication difficult. Both Gibbins and Truman also spoke of the necessity for open channels of communication. Truman emphasised the “burning curiosity” they had about each other’s practices. The artist felt the need to understand the environment of Gibbins workplace at Flinders University: In order to understand the directions that I could go in with Ian, I have needed to know what this environment is. So, I needed to observe these people in the lab, and I needed to understand what the lab did. I do attend the lab meetings once a month.

Open access to the facility enabled the artist to develop ideas about the practices and resources of Gibbins workplace. Truman also sat in on anatomy classes over a period of years before the Synapse project took place: It’s actually immersing yourself, allowing that immersion to occur within its own timing and not forcing it, that you get the most out of something. So, I’ve had to look at that class three years running to be able to think the thoughts that I do now.

Truman needed to be in Gibbins space, to experience the space in order to know something about it. Truman’s comments reflect Somerville’s (2006) ideas about embodied learning as a valid way of learning about place and knowing the world. Truman explained why she devoted so much time to this process: When you’re trying to define what relationship you have with the person you’re working with, you need a lot of time. You need a lot of time just being with each other actually, in each other’s environment … those times when we understood that we were both able and willing to give that quality of time to each other were critical in our collaboration.

These comments highlight how crucial time and direct experience of the workplace were to Truman’s learning and work, reflecting Yates (2007) concern with the temporal dimension of learning. Truman and Gibbins both acknowledged that it took time to develop shared understandings and learning how to communicate and work together, given their different histories and practices. Devoting time to Gibbins also enabled the artist to feel ‘safe’ or comfortable in his workplace. Gibbins had also spent time in Truman’s studio. The alliance sought between the two depended on taking time to understand each other’s work organisation, environment and practices which helped to build trust and respect. In a similar way, Rosengren emphasised: …the need to understand where the organisation is coming from, all the other individuals. You then understand their limitations or expertise or what it is that they’re bringing to the project that you’re not able to bring to it.

Establishing these understandings took time which was a problematic issue in some ways. Discussion with interviewees surfaced some problems relating to time and

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access in projects that were short term and transdisciplinary. For Rosengren, time and access to the collections was limited because of the troubling industrial and political climate of the CSIRO at that time. Recent funding cuts and restructuring left people feeling ‘time poor’ and less inclined to engage in collaboration with those who were external to the organisation. Henschke also found that the scientists could not always help him when he needed it due to their own work demands and ‘doing’ collaborative work was, at times, dependant on different timeframes: I couldn’t really get enough time with the science side of the collaboration. In theory that was a six-month residency, but there wasn’t actually much time where I sat down with the scientists and computer programmers and mathematicians or whatever and got practically creative with them … If they were just [able] to spend a month with me, three days a week, would have been amazing. Instead, we had a few hours here, half an hour there, and then they had to go off and do other things and four months later another day here.

Henschke elaborated on why he thought it was difficult to get enough time with the scientists explaining that: It’s just because they’ve got their real science to do and they’re so busy and I guess their bosses don’t practically give them six weeks off to go and do art projects. So even though on paper it sounds like that’s how it should be, in practical terms it’s never been that way ever since I started there, which is why I’m still there, still trying to finish bloody things.

Rosengren expressed similar experiences of moving into scientific workplaces. While she had found scientists who she had worked with are “usually quite accommodating”, Rosengren was also “respectful that it’s their workspace, and they have another agenda”. She explained: I’m not their work in a sense. I’m something that they’ve agreed to participate in. So, they are pretty – they’re often as time poor and as resource short as artists are. So that’s actually a common territory, I think. They’ve got limited funding for quite particular projects a lot of them. You’re a bit of a distraction I guess too.

Rosengren’s comment revealed other levels of complication in accessing and interacting with people in the scientific workplaces in these kinds of short-term projects. Although agreeing to participate, scientists are also time and resource poor. Rosengren understood that her presence meant that less time was available to work on the science that scientists were employed to undertake at the CSIRO. The interview surfaced the issue of the short-term nature of project work that can impact on access to people and resources. Rosengren explained that the people who she needed to deal with when visiting a collection were not necessarily the people who she had worked with to organise the project: They’ve inherited me with their job. So, it’s not like another project where I’ve had a relationship with a scientist, and we’ve gone and done something, or the project has come out of my connection to them directly. So, I kind of move into their workplace and their – it’s part of their job to maybe accommodate me – but they’re removed from the funding.

The comment highlighted an issue with the organisation of the Synapse program at that time, where scientists were not funded to work on projects and the scientists’ participation was dependent on goodwill. For Henschke, there may have been an expectation or hope of better access to people with expertise, but the reality was

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frustratingly different. Rosengren had a long history of working on transdisciplinary projects and had developed an understanding of these issues from the organisation’s perspective. Rosengren’s approach was respectful and flexible in dealing with issues of time and access to staff and resources in her short-term project. Regardless of issues of time and access that effected the development of working relationships, important hybrid or in-between spaces were identified as providing spaces that helped the artists to ‘fit in’ with organisations and people working in them.

‘In-Between’ Spaces as Mediators of Learning Truman showed me the tearoom on my tour of the facility at Flinders University. I had interviewed Truman in Gibbin’s office, but she pointed out that: CT: He doesn’t work here; he spends most of his time in that centre room on the computer or talking with everybody. Everybody comes there and goes away. That room there is the core of this lab, that simple little space with a microwave that doesn’t work and funny mismatching chairs and a table that’s been put there. When I first arrived that wasn’t there. It’s gradually arrived, and a tablecloth has gone on it, and they sit down and chat. That’s where the workshop bonds, the workshop, the lab – see, I called it a workshop. That’s what we do at Grey Street. We have a kitchen table and a kitchen area and it’s where it all happens.

Yet this social space “where the workshop bonds” was not there before Truman started working with Gibbins. The artist’s intervention had some important impacts beyond the collaborative work itself for those who worked in this scientific space. This was now Gibbins’ unofficial office and was where a great deal of discussion about work took place, much like in Truman’s own group Grey Street workshop (Adelaide, SA). Truman’s comments arose in the context of discussion about how the artist felt she fitted into the scientific environment. While she felt quite comfortable in the department and got along well with most people, she also felt that some of the scientists had reservations about ‘the artist’ being in their space. At that point, she talked about the misconceptions artists and scientists sometimes have of each other. Truman then highlighted the value of the tearoom space for collaborative work in terms of challenging or changing disciplinary myths and misconceptions through: …gentle interactions, daily interactions, particularly in that centre [tea] room. Everybody comes there and goes away. We sit down at lunch time; we do crosswords together and eat and talk.

Perhaps people were less guarded and more relaxed in these informal, hybrid spaces where people were working and not working at the same time (Høyrup, 2012). Henschke also highlighted the importance of an ‘in-between’ space for ‘informal’ discussion and learning:

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One of the most kind of inspiring parts of that or any facility is the bloody tearoom where they had this amazing coffee machine. Everyone just hangs around and basically talks shit out.

The tearoom provided a relaxed, interactive environment that mediated experience between artist and scientists and relationships were built at a personal level. This was a space that supported the openness that Gibbins and Boland spoke about. Common ground between artists and scientists was found and disciplinary boundaries seemed less obvious. Tearooms were sites of intersecting physical, mental and social spaces within the workplace environment (Heiskanen & Heiskanen, 2011). Valuable insights about people and their practices were gained, sometimes quite unexpectedly, in these spaces.

Conclusion: Supportive Environments for Innovation This chapter sheds light on the environment that provided the conditions for innovation and extends understandings of the human dimension of innovation in collaborative art-science work. Physical, mental, and social spaces intertwined to create an environment that supported Synapse project participants in their work together. This examination highlights several salient features of the Synapse program’s organisation that were seen to support and mediate people’s work together. ANAT’s role as the intermediary agency was critical in that it funded, organised, and managed the program. ANAT developed the structure and regulatory framework of the program, the selection criteria for residencies and establishing terms and conditions for project acceptance. ANAT’s ‘hands off’ approach once residencies were granted afforded interviewees the freedom and discretion to conduct their work as they saw fit. Finally, there was little expectation of end-product ‘outcomes’ since the program aimed to support artists in the conduct of their research. These organisational approaches provided space for exploration and experimentation, argued to be important to innovation in literature reviewed in Chap. 3. In terms of the Working as Learning Framework (Felstead et al., 2009), on the vertical axis of the system, these organisational approaches helped to establish an environment that was conducive to expansive learning. Project participants indicated that intellectual freedom and freedom of access to human and physical resources including technologies, other artefacts and data in scientific organisations were critical to their work. The artists also indicated the need for time to develop some understanding of the scientific workplaces where projects took place. Profiles of projects and project partners help to paint a picture of the people who ‘do’ collaborative art-science work. Project participant profiles establish long interests in, and professional histories of, transdisciplinary work and point to identities that are not strictly tied to one discipline or the other. Projects were seen to be innovative because they all involved new ways of thinking about science, working and

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make connections across disciplinary boundaries. Mental and social spaces worked together as the intellectual and creative aspects of projects depended on establishing relationships between scientists and artists. All three partnerships were characterised by respectful working relationships, open communication, and trust, supporting arguments outlined in Chap. 3 about the importance of these features for collaborative workplace learning and innovation. These characteristics contributed to a safe environment for work that involved risk as boundaries were challenged. Informal or in-between spaces (like tearooms) were spaces where physical, mental, and social dimensions of the workplace environment intersected. These were physical spaces of social interaction and learning. They helped artists to ‘fit in’ to their project workplaces and find common ground with scientists. The importance of hybrid spaces of mediation for workplace learning are discussed in the literature to some extent and was evident in the case of the Bauhaus. But these spaces were considered to be incredibly important to both Henschke and Truman in this study. In-between spaces provided opportunities to open up lines of communication, built trust, find common ground with scientists, and break down disciplinary boundaries through ‘gentle’ interactions. Alongside supportive environmental conditions, there were also problems with access to vital resources, and getting enough time to work with the scientists because they were time poor, were removed from the funding or had other work commitments. Orders within and beyond scientific workplaces also impacted on learningthrough-working in projects in significant and sometimes troubling ways. These influences are examined in the next chapter.

References Australian Network for Art and Technology. (n.d.). 2011 Synapse residency program. Retrieved February 28, 2022, from http://archive2019.anat.org.au/program/past-­programs/ Australian Synchrotron. (n.d.-a). Australian collaboration for accelerator science. Retrieved October 4, 2015, from http://www.synchrotron.org.au/index.php/about-­us/ acceleratorscience/acas Australian Synchrotron. (n.d.-b). User access. Retrieved March 2, 2022, from https://www.ansto. gov.au/user-­access Callan, V. (2004). Building innovative vocational education and training organizations. In Australian vocational educational and training: Research messages. National Centre for Vocational Education Research. Chow, B., & Knopf, D. (2004). The Ricci Flow: An introduction. American Mathematical Society. Curtin, P., Stanwick, J., & Beddie, F. (Eds.). (2011). Fostering enterprise: The innovation and skills Nexus – Research Readings. National Centre for Vocational Education Research. Department of Anatomy & Histology, School of Medicine. (n.d.). About us. Flinders University. Retrieved October 25, 2015, from http://www.flinders.edu.au/medicine/sites/anatomy/ Dürrschmidt, J., & Taylor, G. (2007). Globalisation, modernity and social change: Hotspots of transition. Palgrave Macmillan. Felstead, A., Fuller, A., Jewson, N., & Unwin, L. (2009). Improving working as learning. Routledge. Findeis, K. (2006). Luminaries: New work by Six Australian Jewellers (Exhibition catalogue). Jewellers and Metalsmiths Group of Australia – NSW Inc.

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Gibbins, I. (2012). Urban biology. Wakefield Press. Gibbins, I. (2014). The microscope project: How things work. Flinders University Art Museum. Gloor, P. (2006). Swarm creativity: Competitive advantage through collaborative innovation networks. Oxford University Press. Haraway, D. (2008). When species meet. University of Minnesota Press. Heiskanen, T., & Heiskanen, H. (2011). Spaces of innovation: Experiences from two small high-tech firms. Journal of Workplace Learning, 23(2), 97–116. https://doi. org/10.1108/13665621111108774 Henschke, C. (2010a). Lightcurve fraction [Still from animation]. http://henschke2010.anat.org. au/files/2010/09/lightcurve-fraction.mov Henschke, C. (2010b). Lightbridge project: Chris Henschke @ the Australian Synchrotron – 2010 Synapse Residency Program. Australian Network for Art and Technology. http://henschke2010. anat.org.au Høyrup, S. (2012). Employee-driven innovation: A new phenomenon, concept and mode of innovation. In S.  Høyrup, M.  Bonnafous-Boucher, C.  Hasse, M.  Lotz, & K.  Møller (Eds.), Employee-driven innovation: A new approach (pp. 3–33). Palgrave Macmillan. Licari, R. (2019). Ian Gibbins in conversation with Rosanna Licari. StylusLit, 5. https://styluslit. com/interview/ian-­gibbins-­in-­conversation-­with-­rosanna-­licari/ Lindley, D. (2005). The birth of wormholes. Physical Review Focus, 15(11). https://physics.aps. org/story/v15/st11 Rosengren, M. (2011a). Mary Rosengren: Articulations – True stories. Australian Network for Art and Technology. http://rosengren2011.anat.org.au/ Rosengren, M. (2011b, July 24). Reimaging nature: Hidden visions and ground truth. Australian Network for Art and Technology. http://rosengren2011.anat.org.au/2011/07/17/ Rosengren, M., & Kennedy, C. (Eds.). (2014). SPECTRA: Images and data in Art/Science: The currency of images in the studio and the laboratory. Australian Network for Art and Technology and CSIRO Discovery Centre. Sassen, S. (2007). Sociology of globalisation. Norton & Co. Somerville, M. (2006). Subjected bodies, or embodied subjects: Subjectivity and learning safety at work. In S.  Billett, T.  Fenwick, & M.  Somerville (Eds.), Work, subjectivity and learning (pp. 37–52). Springer. https://doi.org/10.1007/1-­4020-­5360-­6_3 Truman, C. (2011). Catherine Truman. Australian Network for Art and Technology. http://truman2011.anat.org.au/ Yates, L. (2007). Embodying education. Educational Philosophy and Theory, 39(7), 772–777. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1469-­5812.2007.374_3.x

Chapter 6

The Culture-Order That Authorises Innovation in Transdisciplinary Work

Abstract  Workplace cultures create a discursive order that may have ‘expansive’ or ‘restrictive’ effects on learning and innovation (Felstead’s et al., 2009). If the aim is innovation, what supports and constrains learning-through-working in new and transgressive ways in collaborative transdisciplinary contexts? This chapter traces how culture-orders were disrupted in Synapse projects in scientific organisations. ‘Social and mental’ boundaries were made visible as they were disrupted or transgressed (Heiskanen & Heiskanen, 2011). The case  of the Bauhaus points to the effects of disrupting culture-orders but only hints at people’s experiences. This chapter draws on interviews with Synapse project partners to shed light on their perceptions and experiences of cultural ordering on their learning-through-­working.  The Critical Incident Technique (CIT) was a particularly useful method adopted to better understand project participants’ perceptions and experiences. The chapter reveals how working on Synapse projects involved layers of complexity beyond project content because participants also needed to navigate organisational culture-orders and disciplinary boundaries as part of their work. The chapter also reveals how significant the artists project partners were in their roles as mediators negotiating smooth(er) passage of project work in their organisations.

Introduction The CIT yielded particularly rich responses that provided remarkable insights into project partner’s experiences. This technique is a well-established qualitative research tool developed by John Flanagan (1954), for the Aviation Psychology Program (APP) of the United States Army Air Forces in World War II. Early studies conducted by APP psychologists investigated the reasons for the failures of

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bombing missions, pilot error, the ‘critical requirement’ of combat leadership, and were used to develop procedures for the selection of aircrew (Flanagan, 1954). CIT has been used in a range of other fields and activities such as accident investigation, and in organisational development to identify effective practices, competencies, and job requirements (Chell, 2004). For example, Kvarnström (2008) used the technique to understand difficulties of collaboration in inter-professional healthcare teamwork. Tripp (2011) applied the CIT as a form of reflective inquiry in the development of professional judgement in teaching. The technique is argued to be a ‘culturally neutral’ method because people give their own accounts and perceptions of an incident, rather than responding to researcher-directed questions (Gremler, 2004). As Gremler points out, unlike traditional surveys, “there is no a priori determination of what will be important” (2004, p. 67). The CIT helped to determine themes or common threads in project partners’ experiences. Critical incidents all related to the effects of disciplinary distance and standpoints. Disciplinary assumptions, myths and misconceptions influenced learning and knowledge sharing in these projects. This effect highlights the paradox of not sharing knowledge in ‘knowledge building’ and ‘knowledge sharing’ organisations and societies.

 ritical Incidents: Disciplinary Assumptions, Myths, C and Misconceptions Based on the Critical Incident Technique, Synapse project participants were asked, ‘Can you tell me about a critical incident that occurred in your collaboration which helped you learn something new’? Responses to this question are discussed in the next three sub-sections of the chapter. First Henschke recounts what I’ve called ‘the hammer threat incident’ which occurred at Australian Synchrotron. Second Truman and Gibbins reflect on ‘the glove dissection incident’ at Flinders University. Then Rosengren and Kennedy recount ‘the soil collection incident’ which occurred at the CSIRO in Canberra. Common threads in project participants experiences revolved around disciplinary assumptions, misconceptions and myths that were both challenging for, and challenged by, artists in their interventions in different ways.

The ‘Hammer Threat’ Incident Henschke was sometimes challenged by the management of Australian Synchrotron, as is evident in his story about a critical incident that occurred in a meeting with a ‘Senior Manager’ [pseudonym] and a ‘Very Senior Manager’ [pseudonym]: There’s lots of critical incidents, but none of them really helped things move forward. And here’s one of those funny anecdotes which might provide a lot really. On my first day of my first residency at the Synchrotron I had a meeting with a Senior Manager and a Very Senior

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Manager of the place … The Very Senior Manager said, like totally serious, “So where’s your easel and your paints, paint brushes?” I was like, and the Senior Manager was like, “Yeah, thisis what you’re going to have to deal with. This is where we’re at”, kind of thing. So, upping the ante I pointed at the giant particle accelerator, and I said, “Well, you’re right in a sense, but that is my paintbrush.” The Very Senior Manager just got bright red in his face and stood up and went, “You’re not going to go anywhere near that bloody thing. If you touch that thing, I’ll come after you with a hammer.” So that’s the introduction. That actually did allow me to realise what I’m dealing with.

This did not seem like a safe environment for doing or presenting work that was different. The artist’s introduction to Australian Synchrotron management was a confrontation that highlighted some of the challenges to collaborative art-science work. The Very Senior Manager perceived the need to ‘protect’ or maintain control of the facility. ‘The artist’ was not trusted to work with the machine. Seeing the synchrotron as ‘paintbrush’ was an idea that crossed the line, bringing the boundary between artist and scientist into sharp focus (Heiskanen & Heiskanen, 2011). The Very Senior Manager’s reaction points to the transgressive nature of the artist’s work. The confrontation revealed the Very Senior Manager’s stereotypical view of the artist and what artists do. The assumption was that all artists paint and use paint brushes and easels. This annoyed Henschke, prompting his reaction that the machine was his ‘paint brush.’ The artist’s story revealed that he was as challenged by these misconceptions as by being threatened with a hammer. Henschke’s story illustrates the ‘border work’ of place learning in the boundary or ‘contact zone’ that Somerville et al. (2010) write about, and the cost of negotiating difference. This work involved “risky and difficult emotional work” (Somerville et al., 2010, p. 43) as power relations played out. In contrast to Henschke’s introduction to Synchrotron, the artist recounted his experience at CERN, a facility with a similar function to Australian Synchrotron in Switzerland. Henschke explained that at CERN he was able to crawl around inside the particle accelerator and video it. The following conversation highlights the differences perceived between the two facilities: LWH: So, do you feel they had a different attitude at CERN compared to Australian Synchrotron? CH: Yes, they definitely did. In a sense, it can be summed up like “it’s ours, don’t touch it or I’ll chase you with a hammer”. At CERN because it’s so international and funded not just through one body but from all over the world basically, I think they like sharing it more … They were showing us around, driving us around, look at this, look at that. Bloody amazing.

On one hand Henschke perceived the approaches of the two facilities to access and collaboration with artists and the different management styles as a reflection of different global and parochial funding models. CERN is funded by many countries worldwide and was seen to be very open whereas Australian Synchrotron is funded by the Australian government and private sources and seemed to the artist to be more closed. On the other hand, contrasting reactions to the artist were seen to be culturally embedded. Henschke illustrated this point by describing his perceptions of CERN scientists and an interview he had with one of them.

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The scientists there were very helpful and friendly and really open. Because they live in the middle of Europe, they  – I talked to some pretty high-up dudes there like kind of local Einsteins. They were really open-minded. I did this little interview with one of them, which is another funny story, about art and science. Because I used to teach at VCA [Victorian College of the Arts] I had all these questions from my students to them about the Large Hadron Collider and how that could be used as impetus for a dance piece or music. So, this guy who was a brilliant scientist, he was talking about dance projects and performances and totally got it.

Henschke’s story about the openness of CERN scientists to the arts and different ideas contrasted the reaction of Synchrotron management. The Synchrotron incident was experienced by Henschke as issues of disciplinary and cultural distance, and epistemic power. The Very Senior Manager’s reaction meant that the artist was not afforded the opportunity to conduct his work at Australian Synchrotron effectively at the time. Without the support of management, Henschke’s learningthrough-working was restricted. However, CERN scientists’ reactions and the organisational culture of the Swiss facility had expansive effects on his learning (Felstead et al., 2009). In contrast to Henschke’s troubling experience with Synchrotron management, Truman’s critical incident revealed a very different reaction and a safe environment for presenting work that was risky.

The ‘Glove Dissection’ Incident Gibbins and Truman both talked about ‘the glove experiment’ as a critical incident that occurred in their project because they felt that it transgressed boundaries and challenged conventions in scientific practice. The following incident recounted by Truman highlighted how the artist challenged the assumption or myth of ‘objectivity’ in the world of science. The incident involved a reconsideration of a common artefact used in scientific labs. Truman was interested in the way surgical gloves were used both in the teaching classes and in the laboratory for different purposes. The artist had an idea about putting a surgical glove on her hand, so it was “like a second skin” then removing the second skin to “reveal the true skin underneath”. She asked one of the lab technicians, ‘Ann’ [pseudonym], to dissect the glove from Truman’s hand with a pair of scissors, the way she would normally take skin off an animal. Gibbins didn’t see the procedure that Ann performed. Truman then asked Gibbins to dissect a glove from her hand. The artist filmed both procedures performed by Ann and Gibbins. When the film was played back, it revealed how Gibbins used a different approach to Ann. Truman described how the experiment transgressed boundaries in several ways. The glove work was planned as an artwork that used this [science] culture, as a vital ingredient and I placed myself at the heart of the experiment quite literally – a subject and object. That felt a little perverse and risky – to ask the people whom I had grown to respect enormously – Ian and Ann and all the people who work in the lab to … come along with me in

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the ‘art’ experiment … To come to a place that was quite outside the normal practices of a medical research lab yet utilising some of the standard furnishings of that environment – the instruments, the equipment, and the fine motor skills of the dissectors! So, the experiment carried semblances of what you’d expect to find in that environment but crossed the boundaries in terms of the live subject and implication of physical risk … definitely unconventional behaviour in this setting.

The artist used everyday artefacts (scissors and gloves) of the scientific facility as well as the scientists’ skills and expertise in a completely different way. The idea of cutting into a live subject was not what would happen in this research context which conventionally worked with euthanized laboratory rats or cadavers. Gibbins highlighted what he learned from the experiment by reviewing the film: I didn’t see Ann do it and I did it a completely different way to Ann. The way I did was based on the way I would have done it if it was a real hand. If I was doing anatomy that’s the way I would have actually started, peeling off the skin. So that was interesting, that was fun.

Gibbins revealed that he hadn’t really thought about the differences in the way the procedure could be performed prior to this experiment. This difference in approach was surprising to Gibbins because it revealed individual approaches and subjectivities in the ‘objective’ world of science where consistencies in such everyday procedures are assumed. Truman pointed out, such inconsistencies were “a very, very controversial thing to suggest in a scientific environment”. Yet the artist was able to provide evidence of subjective approaches to the scientists and technicians in a visual way through her film. The experiment illustrates Haraway’s (1991) theory that what counts as official, objective knowledge in science is mediated by different conditions and subjectivities. The experiment was transgressive in the way it challenged taken-for-granted assumptions in everyday scientific practices. The glove, scissors and film artefacts were crucial to mediating understanding about subjectivity and objectivity in scientific practices and negotiating the boundary between them. Presenting the artist’s ideas and conducting her experiments were risky in the scientific environment, yet the work was supported by Gibbins and other staff. Extending the experiment, Truman then played the ‘glove dissection’ film backwards, explaining: They [the dissections] go from being something being violated, and taken apart, and cut, to something being welded back together with tools that you normally can’t perform that act with. So, the seams that she [Ann] cuts in the gloves actually look like she’s welding the gloves back together with the scissors when you play [the film] backwards.

When Truman showed the filmed experiment to staff in the anatomy department, it was greeted with curiosity and excitement. This workplace was a safe environment for presenting work that was different and controversial (Berthoin Antal & Strauß, 2013). Truman’s transgression in Gibbins’ department resulted in expansive learning in contrast to Henschke’s experience. The fact that Gibbins was the Head of Department as well as Truman’s project partner may have had something to do with the level of support Truman received from staff. Rosengren’s critical incident highlights some commonalities with Henschke’s in terms of encountering disciplinary

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assumptions and distance in ways that could restrict learning, although the consequences were quite different.

The ‘Soil Collection’ Incident Kennedy and Rosengren both thought that the artist’s visit to the soil collection at the CSIRO in Canberra was a critical incident in the project because it revealed unexpected insights and a new direction for the project. Kennedy explained that Rosengren came back from meeting with the scientist working with the soil collection saying: “I don’t know what to do. I thought this would be a one-hour conversation and then I could just completely forget about it so I could concentrate on the herbarium collection and the insect collection” which is where her interests go. But it really opened up this whole new area of exploration for her and showed her that what she was thinking about wasn’t plants and insects, it was about complex systems and the complex nature of science.

Rosengren thought her visit to the soils collection would be a quick visit and she almost dismissed the importance of the collection because: Cris had said to me that the soils collection is a whole lot of plastic cups with soil in it. But it was so more interesting than I guess I was led to believe it would be because you’re also dealing with other people’s idea of what’s interesting. People think collections, pretty butterflies, cute animals, … birds with beautiful feathers. So … there’s the expectation that as a visual artist, you’ll have a certain agenda.

The artist went on to explain the problem of these assumptions for her work: So, in your own approach to the subject matter I guess, which is the collections, you’re kind of guided by people who have their own prejudice about what artists are really interested in as well as their own perceptions of what those things are. While indirectly they may see them as important, they may not see them the way you do necessarily.

The problem of being guided by people who have certain assumptions about what would interest the artist is compounded by their own perceptions of the artefacts. This combination of assumptions and perceptions had the potential to censor or limit what the artist was given the opportunity to see, experience and reflect on. Assumptions, myths, and misconceptions of, and about, different disciplines interests and motivations had the potential to divert attention, narrow the focus and restrict learning. Truman made a comment that suggested another layer of complexity to the assumptions people make about disciplinary identity: Everybody has preconceptions about how they’re viewed in terms of what they do. I’m an artist, therefore probably people think I’m Bohemian and all that stuff. Scientists get the same. “I’m a scientist, therefore I’m completely mad and I’m dislocated from the rest of society.”

The comment suggested that perceptions are not just about others or about how others view us but are also about our own perceptions of how others perceive us.

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These perceptions can be based on disciplinary identification, as Land (2010) points out. However, since she had worked with Gibbins and the other scientists in the anatomy department, one thing that Truman said she had learned was that the idea of the ‘mad scientist’ was as much a myth as the perception of the artist as ‘bohemian’. Rosengren also emphasised the issue of disciplinary misconceptions about artists in her interview. The image of art in western culture is really of an individual endeavour. But that’s not necessarily how art is actually created. That’s sort of part of the popular mythology I guess of 20th century art. So big art projects, architectural projects, public sculpture, public artworks are all collaborations between a whole team of artists and architects synching in. So that idea of this person staying in a garret is pretty incorrect I think, or it’s a gross generalisation of what art is. It’s a very limited notion of art as well.

The comment highlighted that a vast amount of artwork is, and has historically been, collaborative and community-based, requiring engagement across a range of disciplines. Despite the history of collaborative and transdisciplinary work involving the arts, the popular perception is that much art is still studio-based where the artist works in isolation in a cold little garret. What is also interesting about this view of artists is that it reflects the perception noted by Truman that scientists are ‘dislocated’ and work in isolation from the rest of society. These commonly held views of people based on disciplinary identification highlight the distance that isolates one discipline from the other. At the same time, Henschke spoke about playing up the role of ‘the artist’. In response to a question about whether it was easy to fit in to the scientific environment, Henschke responded: Look, I guess in one sense my tactic – which I suspect the Senior Manager at the time ultimately understood quite well … was sort of playing the Joker a bit because I realised no matter what I would do they’d be like, “Oh, there’s the crazy artist”. So, I thought all right, I’ll be crazy artist a little bit. I mean, I didn’t really push it that much. But even just going around and taking photos of weird things. They’d be like, “Wow, why are you taking a photo of that? You’re crazy, man,” blah, blah, blah.

The comment illustrates Wenger’s observation that disciplinary identities can be highlighted, brought into sharp focus, in collaborative, cross-disciplinary contexts (2000, p. 232). At times Henschke became what he perceived others expected of him at Australian Synchrotron, even though that was not his usual self. However, he also used his sense of humour to try to communicate as his strategy for getting past communication or disciplinary barriers. The comment sheds light on the complexity of the interplay between the enactment of disciplinary identity and the need to communicate across disciplinary boundaries in this kind of work. In summary, examination of these cases sheds light on the complexities and challenges experienced by artists and scientists in their transdisciplinary work. Analysis of critical incidents highlights the disciplinary assumptions, misconceptions, and myths that expanded or restricted communication, knowledge sharing, learning and transdisciplinary work.

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The Disciplinary Divide and Maintaining Boundaries When asked about their experiences of working in arts-science projects, project partners described their perceptions of disciplinary orderings which impacted on knowledge sharing, collaborative work, and learning. Henschke perceived a powerful disciplinary boundary: I have no illusions I’m not an outsider, but it is, it has been such a great experience to be one of the few outsiders who’ve sort of gained enough trust to be let into this [scientific workplace] – and it really is on a lot of levels it’s a cult because unless you’ve been indoctrinated, i.e., … done your PhD in physics or chemistry or whatever, no-one will ever let you into this world.

For Henschke, the distance between scientists and ‘others’ was vast in terms of language and communication. Language was seen to be a mechanism that maintained boundaries and difference and determined who had membership to the scientific community (Lamont & Molnár, 2002). On further questioning Henschke elaborated: I’m sure they’d say it’s not a cult. But even just their languages that they communicate with is so, it’s like another language. If you’re not in it, you won’t have a clue what they’re talking about. I think ultimately the reason why it’s so important is because, unlike other cults, this cult – I mean, look at this machine – This cult has changed our lives so much on every level all the time.

In this way, the artist expressed his concern for the social impact of science and explains why bridging the communication gap and the disciplinary divide was so important to him. Truman also talked about the language gap between science and arts when the same words have different meanings in different disciplines. Responding to a question about significant artefacts, objects or technologies that enabled her work with Gibbins, Truman explained: CT: An artefact is an anomaly, say a slide of something. If there’s something that’s damaged as a result of the process, you identify that damage as an artefact of the process. That always fascinated me. That’s a scientific term. LWH: But we all use that word differently, don’t we? CT: We do. There’s a big difference there. Whereas I would run with that artefact in my line of thinking, but [to scientists] it’s an anomaly and it’s a place where you can go along a particular line of thought and feel safe and comfortable in it. But suddenly there’s a random act, a chaotic act or something that can’t be explained by art or science and that takes us in another direction.

Truman could relate well to the idea of ‘artefact’ as a space of exploration in her own arts practice. Yet she had learned from working with Gibbins that the word had different meanings that she needed to understand in order to communicate. Without a shared language, confusion and misunderstandings can easily occur in transdisciplinary collaborations. Henschke spoke of other mechanisms that serve to maintain disciplinary distance: They have their own defense mechanisms, … when they [scientists] try and interface with the general public they’re really quite defensive and reactionary because they think everyone laughs at them and stuff. The fact that they are, … if you wanted to get sort of political

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in the words of – who was the guy – Bakunin, scientists are the most despotic and elitist regime of all.

Henschke went on to describe scientists as “gatekeepers who control the world” and who have a unique position of power: They’re the ones holding the keys that can blow up the world literally and/or make it into something totally amazing. So, they’re in this weird position of power and … a lot of them are arrogant because it’s like, “Yeah, we know exactly what’s going on and no-one else does because we know how things work.” But then at the same time they’ve got this weird insecurity about it. So, they don’t like to let other people in because they think they’ll be ridiculed or whatever. I really have sort of felt that very kind of innately.

From the artist’s perspective, the need to maintain epistemic power is revealed in the defensive attitude of scientists. These comments highlight the nature of the boundary work involved in the demarcation of science from non-science, to use Gieryn’s (1983) term, and in defending disciplinary boundaries and ways of knowing. Henschke’s perception may have been a broad generalisation about the scientific community. Yet it was deeply felt and based on his long experience of study and working with, and within, that community. Despite his view that the scientific community was very open and collaborated well, Henschke’s also felt that this openness was not necessarily extended to those who worked beyond the field. For them, access was blocked, doors were shut tight. Replying to a question about how the scientists responded to her being in their space, Truman commented: Probably a varied response. Silence is also a way of dealing with challenge.

Like Truman, Henschke experienced a spectrum of responses to his presence at Australian Synchrotron from “extreme negativity” to total commitment. In between there were a range of responses including dismissal: You’d have some people who’d … go, “Oh yeah, that’s interesting”, and then they’d go, “But it’s kind of stupid,”. So, they were interested but then still a bit, I don’t know if it was reactionary or just … dismissive. Then some people are more like, “Yeah, that’s kind of cool. I can kind of see what you’re doing there”, but not really that passionate about it. The … [next Senior Manager] … was very nice but clinical and sort of went, “Oh yeah, look, I can see that, and it’s nice. Great. Next”. So, he’s sort of into it but not really that much. Then we get some people who, you know, like especially the kind of, the more biology sort of people who are a bit more open-minded in general, they were really into art, and they put some posters up on their walls of what I was doing. So that was good.

The reactions of scientists to the artists’ presence implies a kind of ordering, an attempt to exercise epistemic power by dismissing the artist’s way of thinking and knowing. In contrast, the biologists were seen to be more open to other ways of thinking. The comment raises questions about the (perceived) divergent reactions of those working in different branches of science. While Boland recognised similarities between scientists and artists, his view was that “the artist framework is far more ephemeral” than the scientist’s. Although similar techniques and similar working environments exist, ultimately, they’re poles apart in terms of what they’re trying to achieve or what they do achieve or what comes out of that same approach … The boundary conditions on the science are very different. You

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come up with a certain law that best explains what you observed in a physical experiment and then you can’t really deviate from that, you can’t say gravity points up, whereas in art you can.

The framework that artists work within are perceived as being less grounded, less governed by rules and laws. In Boland’s view, it is also the aims and outcomes that differentiate the two disciplines. The ‘boundary conditions’ that Boland highlighted were seen to be distinctive to each discipline. Truman also highlighted the different boundary conditions between art and science: I don’t know whether we question differently. I think maybe we’re differently accountable for our questioning. The scientific rule says basically if you want to express something I guess you have to express it again and again and again with exactly the same results and therefore it proves a fact. I don’t think we do that so much as artists – I don’t think we have those same restrictions. We have different restrictions. And I’ve learned that through working with different cultures, different levels of history and the weight of history on the choices that you make [affects] how you express something, what you express it with. I’m thinking mainly of working with Netsuke carvers in Japan for a time and working with people who are fourth generation carvers. They have very specific choices to make choices from. I suppose as a white, western, Australian, I realised I had so much choice and that formed who I was as an artist in comparison to Japanese Netsuke carvers. In contrast, I was just thinking I’m really interested in this form of expression that embodies history, that it has so much weight to it in terms of historical value. I don’t have that as an Australian carver. I’ve never formally learned carving. I was just drawn to the intimacy of the engagement with the material and the tools and thought -- hey, let’s go to Japan and ask some questions. Japanese people don’t do that. So, I am aware of the kind of privilege that I have as an Australian artist.

Truman’s comment suggests that while artists may have more freedom than scientists in terms of outcomes, the arts do have their own conventions and norms that are historically and culturally embedded. Questioning norms is one of these conventions in contemporary western art (Berthoin Antal & Strauß, 2013), though this is not necessarily the case in other societies, as Truman learned by working in Japan. What emerged from these interviews is that there were layers of complexity related to different disciplinary and epistemological standpoints that were brought into focus as a result of artists’ collaborations with scientists in scientific workplaces. Different disciplinary languages impacted, at times, on communication. Silence and defensiveness were seen to be mechanisms developed to deal with ‘outsiders’ with different standpoints that were challenging. Such mechanisms served to maintain disciplinary distance and, to varying degrees, influenced knowledge sharing and collaborative work in these projects. Myths, misconceptions, and assumptions about the disciplines of art and science also affected knowledge building and sharing. Yet knowledge sharing is a critical element of the political discourse of collaboration. Problems surfaced in these projects and by critical incidents reported raise questions about how knowledge sharing occurred in these transdisciplinary projects.

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Knowledge Sharing-Not Sharing Interviews with project partners revealed their concern for knowledge sharing between each other and with the broader community. These interviews also highlighted the paradox of knowledge protection in ‘knowledge sharing’ spaces. Rosengren pointed out: It’s characteristic of science that they do collaborative research, that’s the nature of scientific research really, and knowledge sharing is central to it.

Yet when internal CSIRO restructuring and external government funding cuts were experienced in the CSIRO’s Entomology Division, external collaborations were cut which impacted on Rosengren’s work. In terms of the WALF framework, ‘knowledge sharing’ was restricted and became a political tool in response to internal and external pressures (Felstead et al., 2009). Furthermore, Boland talked about sharing knowledge with Henschke as an example of ‘breaking the rules’, or boundary-­ crossing in the project at Australian Synchrotron. He explained that the concept of sharing data was: … a kind of a boundary that scientists wouldn’t cross. But because we started with this information that’s publicly available anyway, then we didn’t really fully cross that boundary. But that’s the concept. The concept was pushing that boundary and saying like, “Well, hey, hang on a minute. Don’t keep all that data for yourself and interpret it in this strict scientific way that’s built on the scientific literature. I want that data and I’m going to interpret it in some artistic way”.

While Boland considered the data sharing concept for the project could be considered transgressive, he was careful to point out that the boundary wasn’t fully crossed. The point to be made here is that Boland’s concern highlights the thorny issue of sharing data in scientific research, let alone sharing beyond the field with people working in other disciplines. As Boland pointed out: There are lots of scientific grids where you would share information either through databases of journals or through data from a large experiment which is shared across many institutes … but that’s all secured and locked down. So, you need username and password, you need to be part of the collaboration to access that. So, we were thinking in terms of having a parallel grid that would tap into that data.

Access to data is limited to those with the ‘right’ credentials. The idea of a parallel grid may sidestep some of the security points. Boland went on to describe future plans: With the right resources, we could take the concept that we have and generate a full-on artist/science web portal interface with far more complicated and dynamic ways of sharing data and tapping into the existing agreements that – the data that I was talking about before that’s so precious … like setting up a parallel artist grid.

So, the project has generated the potential for future project work based on enhanced access to knowledge beyond the physical confines of the Synchrotron space. This was a space with privileged access arrangements which required Henschke to get an

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access card in order to be an official user of the facility, to come and go and log into the computer system. Yet constraints on research and collaborative knowledge sharing and diffusion include current intellectual property (IP) arrangements. There are contradictory principles at play where open-source availability of new knowledge is encouraged but at the same time, IP protection inhibits it. IP arrangements had been an issue for Synapse project participants at times, necessitating the establishment of clearer guidelines by ANAT managers. Gibbins also pointed out some of the ambiguities that persist in relation to contractual arrangements and IP in university settings and in more complex contexts where collaboration between organisations is involved. He explained that: Technically anything I do … under university time and money, the university owns the IP and copyright for. Catherine would own hers. So, when it’s shared it’s actually not an issue. It’s ambiguous under those circumstances, but it’s not an issue, it happens all the time in science and stuff, and people just don’t worry about it because the intellectual property never spins out to anything anyway, so who cares. It’s only very, very rare that you get disputes over rights.

The scientist explained that he was very relaxed about ownership rights in his work with Catherine. Yet Gibbins is employed by the university as a scientist who conducts research, as a teacher and as the Head of Department. In this capacity, the university clearly has IP rights to his work. On further reflection, Gibbins commented: It’s ambiguous to me how much of my sort of creative work is done through university and how much is private.

The ambiguity raised by Gibbins highlights the complex issue of who owns what in collaborative, transdisciplinary work where skills, knowledge and resources are shared across organisational and disciplinary boundaries. The scientist is not employed to produce artworks and most of this work is done outside of the u­ niversity in his own time. Yet the project has approval to proceed at the university which could argue that it owns everything resulting from work conducted there. Boland pointed out the added dimension of complexity involved when one of the partners in a collaborative project is a private company: The technicalities are interesting because we are set up as a private company even though we’re not a private company from the point of view of generating any sort of revenue. It’s just a bureaucratic artefact that we were made a private company. It should never have been in my opinion. We should just be a national research institute or a state research institute … not a proprietary limited listed company. That’s sort of a nonsense … It’s a culture clash If we are a truly public institution that is enriched by engaging across disciplines, then we don’t have anything of a financial return directly other than society as a whole becomes wealthy.

Furthermore, the generic drug issue was exemplified by Boland as one that highlights the problematic issue of private ownership of medicines. MB: Well, if the west can pay for a nicely packaged and marketed one, great, gain back your revenue then. But give the one cent one, without any fancy packaging, to the third

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world so that there’s some sort of, I guess, social justice there. Some sort of making up of the past exploitations or just general human kindness to share. LWH: Share the wealth. MB: Yes, it’s challenging to share.

Boland spoke at length about the issue of ownership of knowledge and it was evident that this was of great concern to him. The scientist highlighted his concern for the social good of research that is compromised by the ‘culture clash’ of publicprivate research institutes that sometimes led to a paradoxical culture of not sharing. In summary, Boland highlights the social justice issue of sharing knowledge, scientific outputs and their commercialisation, and the social and ethical implications of current IP arrangements in the culture clash of ‘public-private’ research. Ambiguities in the ownership of knowledge surfaced in the interviews with both Gibbins and Boland. Despite the rhetoric about knowledge sharing, some knowledge was clearly protected and out of bounds to those beyond the scientific community. These issues may become more contentious as transdisciplinary and other forms of complex collaborations on a global scale become more prevalent and rub up against cultural or organisational rules, laws, and orders. Issues discussed in this chapter so far relate to knowledge sharing (or not), ‘gate-keeping’ disciplinary boundaries, and disciplinary myths and misconceptions that were seen to influence work and learning across disciplinary domains in the projects. Given these issues, questions are raised about how such boundaries were addressed or overcome in the projects.

 egotiating Boundaries: ‘Boundary Brokers’ as Mediators N of Learning All three collaborations experienced obstacles, to some extent, at the organisational level where residencies took place. The artists’ project partners functioned as critical ‘boundary brokers’ to use Wenger’s (2000) term, negotiating safe passage of projects through their organisation’s bureaucracies. For example, the Synchrotron collaborators were pushing the boundaries of what was permissible in terms of access to and use of data, from the perspective of the organisation. Boland had to be sensitive about how the project was presented to management to secure the necessary authorisation to proceed. The scientist explained that the process of getting the Synapse application through his management: …was fairly straightforward because of the way I pitched it. So, I made sure that we didn’t write a proposal that said we’re going to give out data … I knew enough about our management and all the agreements that they have with all the universities and how closely guarded data is – I mean, that’s just solid gold. So, you don’t just give that away. So, I filtered it and reworded the proposal that clearly stated that all we were going to do in this project is access information that’s already available. So, there wasn’t going to be any privacy issues or signing away this, that and the other; it was just using data that’s freely available.

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The sensitivity of the issue of data protection required a level of diplomacy to set up the project with Boland’s own management. He explained: I knew my way through the bureaucracy, and I knew enough about the place to not press the wrong buttons and say the wrong things like ‘give away data’ or ‘access being mandated’.

Boland understood not only the issue of data protection but the personalities, and the ‘lie of the land’ well enough to negotiate the bureaucracy in his workplace. Boland spoke about: …the real project versus the project that you have to put on paper and how that might evolve and leaving room for that to evolve.

The scientist’s understanding of, and sensitivity to, the way his organisation worked and the standpoint of management, and his skillful proposal were vital in enabling the project to proceed. Boland was also the link with Henschke. The scientist was familiar with the artist through a previous collaborative project at Australian Synchrotron and had introduced him to the CERN facility in Switzerland. They had already established a relationship prior to their current project whereas the Synchrotron’s Very Senior Manager apparently had no prior knowledge of the artist before the commencement of the Lightbridge project. While Henschke perceived his confrontation with the Very Senior Manager as an issue of epistemic power, control and disciplinary misconception, the artist also understood that the situation was exacerbated by organisational issues: It was probably because their person who helped organise it had left the week before, so no-one really knew what was going on. Anyway, I walked into this meeting thinking they’d been briefed on it. They had no idea about anything that was going on.

The departure of a key mediator who helped organise the project was unfortunate timing for Henschke, and an issue for projects that are organised months in advance. As James had learned as a Synapse program manager with ANAT, it is important to negotiate with and involve the management at the highest level possible at project sites. In her experience, this support enabled projects to proceed much more smoothly. Regardless of the reasons underlying the ‘hammer threat’ incident, Henschke’s account illustrates the argument that without negotiated support and authorisation, innovative work may never get off the ground, let alone be realised. The story also highlights the important role of mediators or boundary brokers. Gibbins also acted as a boundary broker in the project with Truman in negotiating obstacles. Responding to a question about the set-up of the project, Gibbins commented that he got into trouble with the university because he didn’t quite understand how the Synapse residency was funded. He explained that: Normally applications for funding have to go through the proper university offices … but because this was a grant specifically to Catherine, I decided we didn’t need to worry about going through the office of research and all the rest of it because there’s no money coming into the university itself, it’s all being paid directly to Catherine. But in the end, we had to sign a contract. Having done that, the contract was that we were going to – the university, meaning me representing the university, was going to provide resources and all the rest of it, which I’m allowed to sign off at this level, but I wasn’t actually allowed to sign the contract. But I did anyway. I got into trouble. I told them I didn’t care. That was a minor techni-

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cal glitch, and that’s partly because of the relatively complicated way in which Synapse itself is set up. But that’s not a problem.

While it wasn’t completely clear to Gibbins “in the initial documentation that this sort of agreement was going to be required at the end”, in this case, he saw the university’s rules as restrictive. He didn’t care about getting into trouble with his own management for signing off on the contract. The story illustrates the argument that people sometimes conform to organisational conventions and expectations, and sometimes they don’t (Felstead et al., 2009). Gibbins saw this situation as a minor problem and dealt with it, brokering his way around the boundary by ignoring it. Gibbins had worked with the University for thirty years and he knew the system there well. He knew how far to push the boundaries and bend or break rules to the point where he saw the transgression as a “minor technical glitch”. In Rosengren’s case, her initial experience of the CSIRO was frustrated by Government funding cuts and restructuring within the CSIRO at the time of the residency. This impacted on the artist’s project at the organisational level from the outset. The cuts meant that scientists felt ‘time poor’ and they couldn’t spend time with Rosengren. Kennedy described a meeting that he had organised to introduce the artist and her project to technicians who worked with the collections that became a “gripe session” where people were saying “I just don’t have time for this” and there was “quite a lot of negative energy”. Kennedy’s view was that: CSIRO is constantly in the process of restructuring and pulling funds from certain areas and redirecting them to others. We have six and a half thousand paid staff. So, it’s a big organisation. And it’s constantly changing … [Mary] did get a few positive bites out of that [meeting], it also helped steer her away from certain areas that she was interested in looking at.

At this point, Kennedy specifically mentioned that CSIRO entomology, which manages the Australian National Insect Collection where Rosengren had been very interested in spending time: … It is in the middle of a massive restructure. Staff are very uncertain about their jobs and even the Head of the insect collection … who co-signed this residency grant thing, she’s practically just closed the collection to external people. Because they’ve had so many staff cutbacks and budgetary cutbacks, she said, “Okay, well, that’s fine, all we can do is just maintain the collection and nothing else”, no external collaborations.

In terms of Felstead’s et al. (2009) WALF framework, on the vertical axis of the productive system, organisational restructuring and economic impacts resulted in tensions and internal politics playing out at the departmental level. Nevertheless, like Gibbins and Boland, Kennedy acted as a boundary broker and managed to negotiate with scientists to meet the artist, enabling the project to proceed. Kennedy pointed out that the Head of the insect collection agreed to give some time to Rosengren: She has honoured that. But the staff who are under her, some of them have been resistant to anyone offering anyone time. I do believe in the beginning Mary was very interested in being hands-on and part of the collection and pulling things out, you know, how to use their digital imaging, et cetera. In the end, I think that kind of whole negative aspect helped changed her mind about where she was exploring.

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These scientists had not been involved in the application process and were removed from the project to a certain extent. Although Rosengren knew Kennedy, relationships had not been established between the artist and CSIRO scientists to the extent of the other two projects. In addition, the workplace environment, while not hostile, was challenging because of funding cuts and organisational changes that were taking place beyond the control of CSIRO scientists. These conditions added a layer of complexity to Rosengren’s work. Rosengren needed to approach her project differently because of the tensions described. Internal tensions, while obviously problematic for the CSIRO project partners, led to other areas opening up and a change in focus for the artist. Rosengren spent more time interviewing scientists, visiting and observing collections for much briefer amounts of time than initially intended. She also visited more collections than previously anticipated before going to her own studio to work. Yet Rosengren was respectful of the conditions she was invited into and flexible enough to work around what might have been perceived as limitations. This new way of working led to some unexpected developments in the artist’s conceptualisation of the connection between collections which are examined in the next chapter where the focus is on learning in practice (see the section on ‘journeying’).

 onclusion: Challenges for Transdisciplinary Art-Science C Work and Learning Scientific workplaces examined were generally characterised by their positive approaches to collaborative and transdisciplinary work, openness and freedom of access and thought. In these projects, artists were conducting research that was seen to be questioning, or testing the boundaries of scientific technologies, methodology, classification, and ways of knowing the world. The projects can be described as attempts to “see science differently”, in Rosengren’s words. New insight came from outsiders (Foucault, 1973) who, in these cases, were artists. The scientists interviewed saw the artists’ work as positive activities and were very supportive of them. However, analysis of these cases shows how these workplaces were also, at times, characterised by closure and restricted access to ‘outsiders’. Not everyone shared the Synapse project scientists’ enthusiasm for the artists’ presence in their spaces. The case studies shed light on the discursive hierarchies that impacted on learning- through-working. Critical incidents and other stories recounted in this chapter show how project workplaces were tensioned by different discourses and disciplinary standpoints because of the artists’ interventions. Social and mental boundaries became visible as they were transgressed (Heiskanen & Heiskanen, 2011). Henschke encountered communication boundaries and misunderstandings with Synchrotron management which restricted

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access to important resources in his early work at the facility. He experienced the disciplinary divide as issues of epistemic power and cultural ordering. The experiences of project partners also point to the disciplinary myths, assumptions and misconceptions which can serve to maintain the disciplinary divide and restrict learning in transdisciplinary work. In terms of the Working As Learning Framework (WALF) (Felstead et  al., 2009), an examination of these cases reveals how social, cultural, economic, and political conditions within and beyond organisations affected projects in different ways and to different degrees at the organisational level. Rosengren’s project was impacted by organisational restructuring and government funding cuts to the CSIRO which resulted in restricted access to certain resources within the organisation. Henschke’s ‘hammer threat incident’ illustrates the disciplinary culture clash that also restricted access to resources. These examples illustrated two arguments related to the effects of culture-orders on transdisciplinary work, learning and innovation. First, innovation was to some extent dependent upon the affordances of managers who ordered work in their organisations. Second, Henschke’s critical incident shows how his work was not recognised as innovation by management at times. Without recognition or the affordances of management, Henschke’s work and learning were, at times, restricted in his early work at Australian Synchrotron. On the other hand, Rosengren’s experience reveals how organisational tensions and constraints did not necessarily restrict learning and innovation. In this case, internal conflict and tensions created by external conditions provided opportunities for expansive and transgressive learning-through-working. These conditions led to a change of direction and a new, more holistic way of conceptualising the collections. New insights and learning were stimulated through exposure to ‘unfamiliar landscapes’, consistent with Fenwick (2003) and McGrath’s (2001) findings. Within the organisations, project partners Gibbins, Kennedy and Boland dealt with blockages and problems. As critical boundary brokers, they helped to smooth tensions and enabled artists’ work to proceed. They all negotiated, mediated, and enabled the projects through their knowledge of management processes and personalities, how to ‘pitch’ arguments and knowing how far to bend the rules or push the boundaries of acceptability. Analysis of accounts of project work in these cases support Felstead’s et al. (2009) and Wenger’s (2000) ideas about the important role of boundary brokers in mediating cross-boundary work. Despite the support of boundary brokers, the clash of disciplinary standpoints sometimes led to challenging situations and tensions as attempts ‘to see science differently’ interrogated the norms and conventions of scientific practice. Challenges to the artist’s thinking and ways of working also surfaced in these transdisciplinary projects. Given these challenges, questions are raised about how and what people learned through working in these contexts, and what supported them in their transdisciplinary work. These questions are addressed in the next two chapters.

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References Berthoin Antal, A., & Strauß, A. (2013). Creative clash – Artistic interventions in organisations: Finding evidence of values-added. WZB Berlin Social Science Center. Retrieved June 20, 2022, from https://www.wzb.eu/system/files/docs/dst/wipo/effects_of_artistic_interventions_ finalreport.pdf Chell, E. (2004). Critical incident technique. In C. Cassell & G. Symon (Eds.), Essential guide to qualitative methods in organizational research (pp. 45–60). Sage. Felstead, A., Fuller, A., Jewson, N., & Unwin, L. (2009). Improving working as learning. Routledge. Fenwick, T. (2003). Innovation: Examining workplace learning in new enterprises. Journal of Workplace Learning, 15(3), 123–132. https://doi.org/10.1108/13665620310468469 Flanagan, J. (1954). The critical incident technique. Psychological Bulletin, 51(4). https://www. apa.org/pubs/databases/psycinfo/cit-­article.pdf Foucault, M. (1973). The order of things: An archaeology of the human sciences. Random House. Gieryn, T. F. (1983). Boundary-work and the demarcation of science from non-science: Strains and interests in professional interests of scientists. American Sociological Review, 48(6), 781–795. https://doi.org/10.2307/2095325 Gremler, D. (2004). The critical incident technique in service research. Journal of Service Research, 7(1), 65–89. https://doi.org/10.1177/1094670504266138 Haraway, D. (1991). Situated knowledges: The science question in feminism and the privilege of partial perspective. In Simians, cyborgs and women: The reinvention of nature (pp. 183–202). Routledge. Original work published as situated knowledges: The science question in feminism as a site of discourse on the privilege of partial perspective. (1988). In Feminist Studies 14(3), 575–99. Heiskanen, T., & Heiskanen, H. (2011). Spaces of innovation: Experiences from two small high-tech firms. Journal of Workplace Learning, 23(2), 97–116. https://doi. org/10.1108/13665621111108774 Kvarnström, S. (2008). Difficulties in collaboration: A critical incident study of interprofessional healthcare teamwork. Journal of Interprofessional Care, 22(2), 191–203. https://doi. org/10.1080/13561820701760600 Lamont, M., & Molnár, V. (2002). The study of boundaries in the social sciences. Annual Review of Sociology, 28, 167–195. https://doi.org/10.1146/annurev.soc.28.110601.141107 Land, R. (2010, July 1–2). Threshold concepts and issues of Interdisciplinarity [Paper presentation]. Third Biennial Threshold Concepts Symposium, University of New South Wales, Sydney, Victoria, Australia. McGrath, R. (2001). Exploratory learning, innovation capacity and managerial oversight. Academy of Management Journal, 44(1), 118–131. https://doi.org/10.2307/3069340 Somerville, M., Plunkett, M., & Dyson, M. (2010). New teachers learning in rural and regional Australia. Asia-Pacific Journal of Teacher Education, 38(1), 39–55. https://doi. org/10.1080/13598660903474130 Tripp, D. (2011). Critical incidents in teaching (classic edition): Developing professional judgement (1st ed.). Routledge. https://doi.org/10.4324/9780203802014 Wenger, E. (2000). Communities of practice and social learning systems. Organization, 7(2), 225–246. https://doi.org/10.1177/135050840072002

Chapter 7

Learning in Practice I: Experiencing Transgressive Art-Science Work

Abstract  This chapter and Chap. 8 are both concerned with what is involved in ‘doing’ art-­science work, given the challenges to transdisciplinary work discussed in Chap. 6. The focus is on ‘learning in practice’ as a key dimension of innovation identified in literature reviewed in Chap. 3 and explored in the case of the Bauhaus. Both this chapter and Chap. 8 aim to shed light on what supports and constrains learning and transgressive practices in collaborative art-science work. These chapters continue to reflect on interviews conducted with artists and scientists who worked together on Synapse projects, extending the consideration of critical incidents recounted in the previous chapter. This chapter sheds light on how artists and scientists learned from and with each other, and on the complex learning processes and dispositions involved in their transdisciplinary work. These processes were not always straightforward and working in these projects was not always ‘smooth sailing’. Negotiating disciplinary and cultural boundaries sometimes involved challenging emotional work.

Introduction This chapter focuses on the learning processes involved in the project participants’ ‘journeying’ (Dewey, 2005) as they worked together  in scientific organisations. Learning through the body, or ‘embodied learning’ (Somerville et al., 2010) and the role of artefacts as boundary negotiating objects and mediators of learning in practice are explored. Learning how to deal with challenges, confrontation, conflict and the ‘zone of discomfort’ sometimes experienced are also examined. Project partners’ experiences of doing art-science work point to the issue of the need to learn how to communicate and work in transdisciplinary contexts, and that this can be a complex process.

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 L. White-Hancock, The Art and Science of Innovation, Transdisciplinary Perspectives in Educational Research 7, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-33132-9_7

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Journeying and Embodied Learning The first part of this section examines the ‘journeying’ of participants  in their Synapse projects – a concept that John Dewey first referred to in his book, Art as Experience, in 1934. This is an insightful approach to learning in practice, also discussed in relation to the Bauhaus school. This examination shows how journeying contributed to expansive learning and innovation in Synapse projects.

Journeying Henschke explained that in his original Synapse grant application he proposed to produce prints and animations but had no idea what they would turn out like but: …as it was happening it would just sort of self-manifest. But sort of in between I felt very lost, and I don’t know what I’m doing, let’s just take it wherever, here and there….

This process of journeying involved having some initial ideas but allowing them to evolve or change and emerge from the process itself. Henschke illustrated the point with a story about a presentation he gave at a physics conference at Monash University at the end of his first residency which influenced the way his work proceeded in a powerful way: It’s terrible because I was just perhaps a bit too casual about it. I’m just showing bits and pieces and I was … halfway through, which doesn’t usually happen, and then suddenly I went, “Oh my God, I’m telling a roomful of scientists about Einstein. What kind of madness is this?” I actually kind of froze up and I just went, “Oh yeah, okay, thanks, that’s enough,” and kind of ran away and then felt really bad. But then later on I talked to people, and they were like, “That was a good talk.” I thought it was totally ridiculous. But then it was only after that really kind of crushing moment, I think the next day I was like, No, it’s all wrong. I’ve got to push it in a totally different direction. In almost a state of despair I started playing around with this different way to work and suddenly it was like, “This is exactly like what they’re doing”, and suddenly it all came about, this sort of technique for – it’s hard to explain without looking at a picture of it. But, yes, just kind of analysing little slices of the images in a way that the scientists would break up the data. So, in a sense I was kind of using their process as a metaphor for my process. Then suddenly I was getting all this great stuff which I hadn’t thought of before. And it was only through that moment of despair, “This is ridiculous, what am I doing?” that I … went, “Look, try anything. Hey, what about this? Look, it works.”

Experiencing despair about the direction of his work was not a bad thing. It was an important motivator that led to “playing around” or experimenting with a different way of working and a new direction emerged from the process. This new direction drew connections between scientific processes and Henschke’s own process which added another dimension to his work. Consistent with Fenwick’s (2003) research on innovative entrepreneurs, Henschke’s learning-through-working involved intuition, improvisation and integration of seemingly unrelated concepts and processes. For Gibbins, the ‘glove dissection’ experiment discussed in Chap. 6, generated new and unexpected insights into his own work practices. Gibbins explained that from his perspective, the experiment was:

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…all to do with protection I suppose but in very different contexts. That was something I really hadn’t thought about – the subtleties of that, from my point of view. I didn’t think she [Truman] had particularly either.

Truman explained that she often worked intuitively but this was a planned experiment, where some aspects of the experiment were considered. What followed was an unplanned idea about replaying the film and then playing it backwards at high speed for the scientists. From her perspective, “this was an experiment in reversing the violation – the cut, the exposure”. By manipulating time and motion, the film conveyed another dimension of what could be seen. The story illustrates Berger’s (1979) argument about the power of the image lying in its form of communicating ideas or experience in ways that words cannot. Truman explained how this improvised experiment influenced the next phase of inquiry: It was so gratifying to find that everyone embraced this experiment of mine and seemed to actually enjoy the experience. It was the catalyst for some interesting discussion amongst the crew especially as we all gathered to see ‘the rushes’1 and discovered the quite different sensibilities of the forward and reversed footage together.

The artist’s journeying led to learning that involved three distinct processes. Firstly, rational processes of planning, critical reflection and analysis as Truman devised the experiment and she and the crew reviewed the film. Truman explained how she and Gibbins would often review film footage and photographic images the artist had taken of anatomy classes or of scientists and technicians as they worked. This is a process that Truman said she had employed many times in her research. Secondly, learning proceeded in an intuitive manner with the unplanned experiment. Thirdly, learning was interactive. Photographs, video, and sound recordings were important to project partners for later reflection and interpretation. This would sometimes draw their attention to things that had gone unnoticed at the time of the activity and the collaborators would find themselves saying: Wow, look at that!

Reflection on the images then influenced the next experiment or experience and future work. As Gibbins explained: That triggered the writing that I’ve done so far … and switching the focus very clearly onto the hands as a way of mediating experience. That changed the focus of what I thought our outputs might be from the project, that’s for sure.

These excerpts reveal how the artist’s journeying was mediated by artefacts, leading to expansive learning (Felstead et al., 2009), new directions and to some surprising and unexpected outcomes for both artist and scientist. The experiment was integrated into Gibbins work on a project based on what he called “my shorthand, a show on hands and how you use your hands to understand the body”. Performances or readings with sounds were planned, including a piece called Manipulandum which is about “an object that’s the tool, the thing being manipulated”. Casting a fresh eye over the surgical gloves as taken-for- granted artefacts in the scientific  ‘Rushes’ are raw, unedited film footage.

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workplace and using them for a purpose other than intended, generated a new line of inquiry and further innovative work in Gibbins writing. The focus of Truman and Gibbins work on the body, hands and gesture also effected Gibbins’ pedagogical methods and practices. The way Gibbins used his hands and gestures in his teaching became more pronounced and refined. Truman’s work also took new directions. The artist went on to develop work about the hands and touch as mediators between human and machine, “between seeing and doing”. Truman and Gibbins experiments and discussions illustrate how learning proceeded as a symbiotic process (Haraway, 2008), and how knowledge was shared and co-produced horizontally across knowledge domains to generate new insights. The artist observed and learned from the scientists and technicians and vice versa. Truman employed processes of reflection, intuition, experimentation, and reported her results back to the scientists in the form of the film, which generated dialogue and new insights for artist and scientists. This transdisciplinary collaborative approach contrasts ideas about innovation as a vertical process from the top-down in organisations, employee-driven from the bottom-up (Wenger, 1998) and top-­down/bottom-up models of co-production (Høyrup, 2012). Truman and Gibbins’ approach extends ideas about horizontal processes of innovation in workplaces by crossing organisational and disciplinary boundaries (for example Guile, 2009, 2012; Fenwick, 2011). Like Truman and Henschke, Rosengren’s ideas evolved as her journeying took her in new directions which led to unexpected and expansive learning. Kennedy explained that what was going to come out of their residency: …is completely different to what she [Rosengren] went in saying might come out of it.

He thought that this was the point of the Synapse grant process. From his perspective, the unexpected was expected. How can you say you’re going to do a residency and then these X, Y, Z artworks are going to be the end result? I think that’s non-organic and counterproductive to the point of an artist-in-residency. So, I really appreciate that Mary has evolved her plans. As almost with each successive interview she’s done with a researcher here, it’s almost evolved at the end of every discussion.

Kennedy put emphasis on the organic development of learning and the evolution of ideas. Rosengren’s focus certainly shifted because of her visit to the soil collection and what she learned from the scientists. She explained how her interests changed and the soil collection was: …so much more interesting because of the problematic of it not being … a highly visual object. A soil collection is conceptually a very different thing because it’s more of a phenomenon. It doesn’t have a boundary usually in your mind … It’s a different type of collection in that you can have an insect in a tray or an animal in a box or some eggs or some objects that are very easy to isolate … it doesn’t have distinctive form in the way some of those other things have. And it’s more connected to weather and to coal geography. So, it’s connected to land systems.

The comment reveals a flexible approach and openness to new ways of thinking about the collections. Central to Rosengren’s learning from the project was the idea that soil links ecologies. Of overriding importance for her was the conceptualisation of the material as boundary-less. What she intuited and theorised because of her

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visit to the collection was that the CSIRO soil collection mediates the plant and insect collections. As outlined earlier, Rosengren’s early goal for the project had been “to look at the relationship between the collections”. After exposure to the soil collection, a more nuanced aim of the project became: …to rewrite the collections or rearranges the position of material in the collections and rearticulate the relationships between different species.

Like Truman and Henschke, Rosengren’s journeying and her learning involved intuition, improvisation, reflection, interpretation, and integration of this new idea into her research work. The approach of both artists is consistent with Fenwick’s (2003) findings about learning processes that generate innovation. The artists’ journeying was a process that allowed ideas to evolve and enabled expansive learning. Openness to different ways of thinking about the CSIRO collections and flexibility in the organisation of her work were valuable capacities and dispositions that enabled the shift in direction and unexpected, expansive learning. Expansive learning and an innovative conceptualisation of the collections occurred despite the financial and political conflict that challenged the project and because of it, reflecting the Bauhaus experience.

Embodied Learning Artists’ commentaries also highlight embodied learning as an important aspect of their practices. Direct experience of, and interaction with, the artefacts and the people who work with them in authentic settings (Guile, 2009) enabled Rosengren to make the intuitive leap in her thinking about how soil linked disaggregated CSIRO collections and ecologies. Henschke wanted to experience the inside of the particle accelerator to ‘feel’ the space. From his standpoint, understanding the machine emerged from the senses. He wanted to situate his body at the centre of learning about place, reflecting Somerville’s et al. (2010) ideas. Truman also spoke of the centrality of embodied learning to her practice. Drawing on the Feldenkrais technique, Truman’s work with Gibbins emphasised learning the body through the body. The following comment came up in response to an unplanned question about artists who influenced her as Truman’s interview evolved. CT: Louise Bourgeois has always been an influence because she has followed her intuition on a very deep level and used the materials to express that beyond aesthetics, way beyond aesthetics. She just comes through the materials and the forms, and she’s used people to make things for her. But it’s like they become a conduit between her and a final form. So that’s been an influence I guess or a fascination. LWH: Or perhaps the question should have been, what influences you? It doesn’t have to be a who. CT: Yes, well, that way of thinking influences me, and the Feldenkrais way of thinking has influenced me. But it’s kind of the way that I’ve thought since birth really. Another artist is Vija Celmins … Way back she did some drawings of the surfaces of the ocean. They’re enormous drawings where she just starts off in one corner and methodically and slowly draws this ocean surface that unfolds and unfolds and unfolds. I actually got to hear her talk when I was doing a residency in Rome … She talked about her embodiment of the

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7  Learning in Practice I: Experiencing Transgressive Art-Science Work process, her immersion in the process, her becoming a part of everything in that process; the paper, the pencil, the ocean and the doing all at once. And that’s the way that I work. And that’s the way that these students learn about the body in the classroom.

These comments reveal how important the embodiment of practice and the process of ‘doing’ was to Truman. This approach influenced the way medical students learned anatomy at Flinders University where the role of touch in students’ learning about the body was emphasised. The approach recognises how learning emerges through the senses and the embodiment of practices, and embodied learning as a valid way of knowing the world, as argued by Somerville (2006) and Yates (2007). Truman and Henschke’s learning processes involve transformation as learning was gained through lived, embodied experience, which generated innovation. Project participants’ experiences examined in this section also highlight the how interacting with materials and artefacts contributed to learning.

 rtefacts as Boundary Negotiating Objects and Mediators A of Learning It is impossible to talk about learning processes involved in these projects without talking about artefacts (objects) because they are so fundamentally interconnected. Truman had made films in the anatomy laboratory documenting Gibbins and technicians “skills in dissection emphasising their manual dexterity”. She explained that one of these technicians, Ann (pseudonym), had no formal training: She’s been trained through her experience of the lab and the research  – has incredible knowledge about the subject … She’ll dissect through a microscope, which is not easy to do, let me tell you, you know, a mouse spinal cord and separating out the nerves … I’m constantly saying to her, “You’re so skilled, Ann. It’s unbelievable the level of skill you have.”

Learning from her observations, Truman was developing work for an exhibition that was: … influenced by this place – what is that edge between the natural and the unnatural? I often think about how we embody the equipment that we use, for instance. When I filmed Ann working on the microscope, she was the microscope. There’s no two ways about it. She became that microscope and the microscope became her. And that’s the flip side that I’m – I’ve always thought along the lines of how we become mechanised and how hard-edged technology can be and how impervious it can be. But if you shift that line a little bit and think about how the machinery can embody the organic, how can it shift – how can we not only build our bodies around it to make it work better but to design things better. It’s not new thinking but it is new in terms of … what we’re learning in that room and the objects that we learn from. They’re not your normal bits of technology.

Truman had great respect for the skills and knowledge of the scientists and technicians working in the anatomy department which influenced how she took her learning forward to develop new work. Furthermore, Truman commented: … This is another thing I’ve learned from Ian – he knows the equipment inside out. He can take it apart and put it back together and he can develop new things that make it work better. If something breaks, he knows how to fix it, he knows how things work. That’s a huge

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advantage I think because if you want to see something better you’ve got to know how it could happen.

Truman recognised and respected the way Gibbins learned about the technologies he was working with and enhanced those technologies in order to negotiate the boundary between what was possible and what was not, and to ‘do’ his scientific work better. Technologies for visualising scientific data were also integral to Rosengren’s project. As she explained, the collections all use imaging for analysis as well as data management. Rosengren emphasised how images and different forms of visualisation are utilised to help develop and manage the CSIRO collections. Interaction with the facility and collections revealed the layers of complexity related to the documentation of collections. Rosengren explained the different roles of imaging technologies used in CSIRO science which were of interest to her: Spectroscopy [is used] to analyse the soil, there’d be images resulting from the analysis of soil. There would be images related to the data that’s collected about its composition or there’s images that relate to mapping … The management of all that information about all those specimens is data visualisation essentially.

The artist had intended to use the CSIRO’s spectroscopy technology to generate imagery in the second stage of her project. This was to be done after our interview had taken place. However, I am unsure whether she gained access to the equipment because tensions within the organisation (that Kennedy described in Chap. 6) may have steered Rosengren away from using it. So, on the one hand, organisational tensions led the artist to shift direction resulting in unexpected and expansive learning. On the other hand, some opportunities for learning and creating may have been restricted. Central to Henschke’s project were the particle accelerator, the data generated by it and computers for generating imagery. Boland also spoke about how learning proceeded, and ideas evolved on their project using imaging and other technologies: Often that would be around a whiteboard sketching things out or on a computer terminal where I would have figured out some technology or some software and I would say, “Take a look at this, Chris,” and then he would sit down and dabble with it and look at it from his point of view.

Henschke learned from Boland and the comment also reveals Boland’s expectation that the artist, from his standpoint, would ‘dabble’ or ‘play’ with and interpret the data in a different way to him. Visualisation and interpretation of synchrotron data were significant elements of Henschke’s work. However, as discussed in Chap. 6, working with the programs and data generated by the machine was dependent upon the availability of technicians and scientists who could/would spare time to work with the artist. The initial denial of access to the particle accelerator – Henschke’s ‘paintbrush’, the tool he was expecting to use – created a dilemma for the artist, restricting learning rather than supporting it in his first residency. For Henschke, learning processes and opportunities to ‘dabble’ or ‘play’ and work on the project were fragmented and frustrated at times because of restricted access to technologies and expertise.

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In Truman and Gibbins’ case, the gloves were artefacts that acted as ‘boundary objects’, to use Wenger’s (1998) term, negotiating boundaries and mediating learning as they were mobilised across disciplinary knowledge boundaries in the scientific workplace. The film of the reverse-cut of the glove was also an artefact produced by the artist which was a powerful mediator of ideas between Truman and the scientists. This artefact provided ‘evidence’ of the different scientific sensibilities and subjectivities in taken-for-granted, everyday scientific practices. Like Rosengren, Truman also talked about the role of imaging technologies in science and in her work with Gibbins, explaining that what she had learned was that: Science was more about the technology of how we can see things more clearly. By that I literally mean how we can place things in front of our eyes so that we can understand better. So, all the technology that gets developed in science is about that; simply for a human being to lay their eyes on something and then understand it … I’ve been down in the microscope room on several occasions with Ian. He’ll be jumping around the room, this dark room with this machine that takes up the whole room which is the microscope, and Ian will be saying, “Nobody’s ever seen anything like this before. It’s so exciting”.

Truman recognised the value of new ways of seeing the world of science because it opens up new possibilities for research and the opportunity to learn something new. There was a kinship between artist and scientist in their attempts to see things in a new light. So far in this chapter, journeying and embodied learning as approaches to knowing the world have been examined. Learning through interaction with artefacts and people working in scientific organisations was seen to be critical to these processes but was problematic in some instances. Restricted access and problems with transdisciplinary communication and disciplinary misconceptions and were experienced. These issues raise questions about how the challenges of working in scientific workplaces were negotiated.

The ‘Zone of Discomfort’ Learning how to work with people from other disciplines is a process that was reported to be extremely important by all the artists. However, this process receives little attention in the research literature reviewed. Learning to work across disciplinary boundaries in scientific workplaces required emotional and intellectual labour from the artists, supporting Somerville’s et al. (2010) line of reasoning. Truman’s case highlighted the time it took to establish lines of communication and a level of understanding about Gibbins’ field and his workplace that enabled their work together. While Truman generally felt very comfortable in Gibbins workplace, the confrontation that she experienced in the labs where vivisection was performed as a matter of routine was extremely troubling to the artist: I understand all the ethics and the need to experiment, for instance, on animals. Emotionally I just cannot handle it … Sometimes in lab meetings hearing about people’s research I can find myself listening and being fascinated with the procedure and the way of thinking and

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the questions that drive the research and questions about the bigger picture of the research, for instance, but the actual methods, methodology of basing it all on animal vivisection, I cannot go there. So, I can find myself being interested in those things that this project is all about and then suddenly feel like I just can’t sit still, my heart beating fast.

This comment highlights ideas about the ‘border work’ of place learning, where negotiating difference involves “risky and difficult emotional work” (Somerville et al., 2010, p. 43). The comment also reveals a clash of standpoints and the deep dilemma that some aspects of Gibbins practice presented to the artist, despite Truman’s “burning curiosity” about his work. Gibbins practice was particularly confronting to Truman’s personal ethics and to her identity. Transgressing personal boundaries, putting herself into what she describes as “challenging situations” for “the promise of learning something new”, is a recurring element of Truman’s practice to the point where she said she didn’t know what her ‘comfort zone’ was anymore. However, having to deal with confrontation was a critical part of doing this kind of collaborative work. The artist’s way of dealing with the conflict she experienced was to step back and respect the scientific approach of the workplace that she was invited into, even if she didn’t agree with every aspect of that approach. Rosengren also highlighted the confronting environment of her first artist-inresidence project at a train depot in Melbourne: That was going out of a comfortable studio or an uncomfortable studio where I was making artwork for exhibiting in art galleries in Sydney to working, suddenly planted myself in a train maintenance depot … but that was a very confronting situation … It was a completely alien environment. It was a heavy industrial environment. It was all males, 600 men. The women in the office upstairs had never been into these workshops much. I don’t think some of them had ever been in there … So, what was really confronting is what is your art, what’s the value of it in a wider context, what’s the value of cultural production as opposed to the sort of production that was going on there.

Taken out of the relative comfort of her own studio, where she produced artwork in a more conventional way in the early 80s, Rosengren was confronted by a work environment, practices and values that were so ‘foreign’, the workplace was described as ‘alien’. Not only was the gender imbalance and the masculinity of the work environment confronting, Rosengren was also forced to reconsider the value of cultural work in society and confront her identity as ‘artist’. Like Truman, despite the confrontation, Rosengren said that what she had learnt about working in workplaces with different work cultures was the need to respect the conditions of the workplace she was moving into. Henschke highlighted a confrontation with the Synchrotron Senior Manager that also revealed the challenges that arose in opening communication channels across disciplinary boundaries: They’d actually come around and see that I could, at least, be very banally useful in providing them with some pretty pictures for their annual report… covers … So, they also commissioned me to do this big mural for their front entrance, which years later that’s still going on, it still may or may not happen. But I was showing the … [Senior Manager] … some examples of stuff, including Marcel Duchamp’s classic piece ‘Nude Descending a Staircase’. I’m saying, “Look at it, it’s beautiful. It’s a hundred years old. It’s very space and time through the movement. The …

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[Senior Manager] … was like, “That’s a load of rubbish. It’s not anything. It’s just dumb shapes.” I was like, “No, it’s not. It’s a beautiful classic picture.” Anyway, we ended up having an argument and he called me an idiot and I told him to ‘eff off’.

The Senior Manager did not understand just how relevant Duchamp’s (1912)2 work is to Australian Synchrotron and accelerator science. A synchrotron accelerates electrons (through space) at almost the speed of light (time). The artist’s idea of referencing the painting was particularly appropriate because the ‘nude’ descending the stairs represents motion through space and time, which are also fundamental elements of accelerator physics. The confrontation may also indicate that the lack of respect for the artist’s idea was an issue of clashing standpoints. Henschke’s story highlights how his workplace was tensioned by different discourses and cultural understandings that resulted from his intervention. Yet he hoped that some connection or learning to understand each other might result. What Henschke said he did learn by working on transdisciplinary projects was more about problems with communication and: how to work with these people.

The hammer threat incident and the Duchamp story reveal the level of frustration the artist experienced with the disciplinary language barrier that made communication with some scientists and managers at Australian Synchrotron difficult. Asked how he experienced working outside his comfort zone in the Synchrotron space, Henschke explained that “sometimes it would be really sort of exciting and then other times it would be really depressing”. Responding to my question about how he dealt with these difficult aspects of the collaborative work, the artist explained: CH: It was that classic W curve that psychologists talk about when people are put into weird social situations. At first, you’re really excited, wow, this is great, it’s amazing, and then after a few weeks all of a sudden like you just drop and you go, “This is ridiculous. What am I doing here? I shouldn’t be here, I’m not a scientist.” Then you sort of get reinspired and go, “Yeah, I can do this”. And then you get really depressed again at the end because you haven’t really done anything and then finally you sort of resolve it. So, it really was a rollercoaster and it just depended on day-to-day things … But the thing that would often cheer me up in those moments because I’d go up to some of these guys, the ones I could communicate with like Mark, and I’d go, “I don’t know what I’m doing here. This is crazy. What’s it got to do with me? I don’t understand it. I’ve got no idea where I’m going, what I’m doing.” They said, “That’s how I feel every day when I come in.” LW: That’s how I feel doing a PhD too. CH: Exactly. It’s like, “What am I doing?” But the knowledge that you share that kind of bewilderment and suffering with them even sort of helped in the difficult moments.

Henschke’s response signifies the psychological and social dimensions of learning and working in what he described here as “weird social situations”. The psychological “rollercoaster” from excitement to depression, bewilderment and confusion was  Duchamp’s ‘nude’ is not a realistic representation of the human body. The body is reduced or simplified to an abstract, geometric series of planes and lines. The ‘nude’ is depicted on each tread of a staircase as it descends, like a series of still photographs. When viewed together, a sense of motion is created. To view the image, click on the link above or go to http://www.philamuseum. org/collections/permanent/51449.html 2

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reconciled by finding common ground, sharing experiences at an emotional level, and opening up. These approaches provided crossing points which enabled communication and helped the artist to meet challenges, span boundaries and move on. Rosengren also spoke about establishing common ground as a means of fitting in to the workplace by acknowledging that scientists are as time and resource poor as artists. Gibbins and Truman also pointed to the benefits of finding common ground. Truman felt that reading some prose to a group of scientists including Gibbins was a critical catalyst for the development of their collaborative working relationship. She had written the piece called A Morning’s Anatomy after observing one of Gibbins classes: I read it to Ian in particular. He didn’t react all that much, but since then, I discovered that it was the first time that those kinds of things had been reflected back to him. And we just took off from there. We really found a lot of relationships based on that piece of writing actually.

Truman’s prose is about how Gibbins’ interacts with his medical students. The piece mulls over the artefacts (real and artificial brains) and technologies for teaching and learning the body, and how Gibbins uses his own body in the process of engaging students who follow “his dance” around the classroom. The reading provided a point of connection that opened lines of communication, established a relationship, and set in motion a long and innovative conversation between scientist and artist. Henschke and Truman’s stories shed light on both psychological and social processes that take place as boundary-crossing is undertaken and as boundaries are challenged or transgressed, as James et al. (2011) argues. Confronting different standpoints, work practices and ethics, and experiencing the ‘zone of discomfort’, these artists all encountered some kind of conflict doing transdisciplinary work. Intellectual and emotional energy was required as an ‘outsider’ in these workplaces. Truman found the practice of vivisection in Gibbins’ work confronting; Henschke found accessing some of the technology and the disciplinary culture clash challenging, and Rosengren described the environment of her first ‘artist- in-the-community’ project at the train depot as ‘alien’ and confronting. Where Henschke’s work was impacted negatively by conflict with management at Synchrotron, Rosengren’s and Truman’s stories of confrontation illustrate Høyrup’s (2012) theories that conflict does not necessarily restrict learning or innovative work. However, the artists all had to learn how to deal with conflict and confrontation that challenged them at epistemic and ontological levels.

 onclusion: Learning in Transdisciplinary C Art-Science Practice Learning in practice and innovation emerged in Synapse projects when interaction occurred between artists, scientists, and resources in scientific organisations. These cases indicate certain conditions that supported the work involved. For the artists,

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learning occurred through processes of ‘journeying’ and through lived, embodied experience. Therefore, access to expertise and resources such as the CSIRO collections, the synchrotron and medical artefacts was critical to negotiating boundaries and mediated artists and scientists learning in scientific workplaces. Learning about scientific conventions and practices was also critical to the artists’ learning. Access to scientific settings over time enabled artists to see science work in a new light and in ways that challenged conventions and practices and was sometimes transgressive. Artists’ journeying involved risk-taking, experimentation and play, adopting an approach or an attitude of not knowing, and not being outcomes-driven. Cases examined also demonstrate how intuition, improvisation and integration of concepts and processes that seemed unrelated, were significant to the artists’ learning in practice and innovation in Synapse projects. These ‘messy and restless’ learning processes required freedom to ‘roam’ and minimal interference from managers. Where freedoms and access were restricted, as Henschke’s case reveals, space for expansive learning in practice could be restricted. However, the artists project partners played critical roles as boundary brokers mediating access within their organisations and smoothing the way for projects to move forward. Henschke, Rosengren and Truman all spoke of learning about how to work and how to communicate in transdisciplinary environments as an important part of their collaborative work. Rosengren and Truman noted the need to establish an understanding of the workplace environment and adopted a respectful attitude toward the people who work in these spaces, their workplace conditions, and their practices. The artists and scientists all spoke with immense respect for each other’s deep disciplinary knowledge, skills, and practices. For example, Henschke explained how he depended on the skills and knowledge of the scientists and technicians at Australian Synchrotron to help him with his work, and Boland would sit up late at night figuring out some problem on the Synapse project. Henschke’s learning about the processes that Synchrotron scientists used influenced the development of his artwork. Truman’s commentaries reveal her deep respect for the skills of dissection and the knowledge and use of the microscopes of the scientists and technicians who worked in Gibbins department. Learning about these skills and practices influenced Truman’s later work. Artists and scientists learned from and with each other in these projects. Finding common ground and shared experience at a personal level helped enable artists and scientists learning through working together.

References Berger, J. (1979). Ways of seeing. Penguin. Dewey, J. (2005). Art as experience. Perigee Books. Original work published in 1934. Duchamp, M. (1912). Nude descending a staircase (No. 2) [Painting]. Philadelphia Museum of Art, Philadelphia, PA, United States. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/51449.html Felstead, A., Fuller, A., Jewson, N., & Unwin, L. (2009). Improving working as learning. Routledge.

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Fenwick, T. (2003). Innovation: Examining workplace learning in new enterprises. Journal of Workplace Learning, 15(3), 123–132. https://doi.org/10.1108/13665620310468469 Fenwick, T. (2011). “Social responsibility” in the workplace: Conjuring, unsettling, and folding boundaries. Pedagogy, Culture and Society, 19(1), 41–60. https://doi.org/10.1080/1468136 6.2011.527120 Guile, D. (2009). Questioning the simplistic link between qualifications and labour market entry: New forms of expertise and learning in the creative and cultural sector (LLAKES Research Papers). Retrieved March 3, 2013, from http://www.llakes.org/Home/llakes-­research-­papers Guile, D. (2012). Working and learning in the ‘knowledge-based’ creative and cultural sector: Vocational practice, social capital, and entrepreneurability. In D. W. Livingstone & D. Guile (Eds.), The knowledge economy and lifelong learning: A critical reader (pp. 301–316). Sense. Haraway, D. (2008). When species meet. University of Minnesota Press. Høyrup, S. (2012). Employee-driven innovation: A new phenomenon, concept and mode of innovation. In S.  Høyrup, M.  Bonnafous-Boucher, C.  Hasse, M.  Lotz, & K.  Møller (Eds.), Employee-driven innovation: A new approach (pp. 3–33). Palgrave Macmillan. James, L., Guile, D., & Unwin, L. (2011). From learning for the knowledge-based economy to learning for growth: Re-examining clusters, innovation and qualifications (LLAKES Research Papers). Centre for Learning and Life Chances in Knowledge Economies and Societies. Retrieved March 3, 2013, from www.llakes.org/wpcontent/uploads/2011/07/29.-­James-­Guile-­ Unwin-­reduced.pdf Somerville, M. (2006). Subjected bodies, or embodied subjects: Subjectivity and learning safety at work. In S. Billett, T. Fenwick, & M. Somerville (Eds.), Work, subjectivity and learning (Vol. 6, pp. 37–52). Springer. https://doi.org/10.1007/1-­4020-­5360-­6_3 Somerville, M., Plunkett, M., & Dyson, M. (2010). New teachers learning in rural and regional Australia. Asia-Pacific Journal of Teacher Education, 38(1), 39–55. https://doi. org/10.1080/13598660903474130 Wenger, E. (1998). Communities of practice: Learning, meaning, and identity. Cambridge University Press. Yates, L. (2007). Embodying education. Educational Philosophy and Theory, 39(7), 772–777. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1469-­5812.2007.374_3.x

Chapter 8

Learning in Practice II: ‘Doing’ Transgression

Abstract Continuing on from Chap. 7, this chapter also considers what is involved in ‘doing’ transdisciplinary art-science work by drawing on the interviews with Synapse project partners. The focus here is again on ‘learning in practice’ as one of the three key dimensions of innovation. This chapter shows how artists’ interventions in scientific organisations presented opportunities that challenged ideas about the ‘disciplinary divide’. Striking commonalities between artists and scientists were discovered by working together. These relationships challenge historically, socially, and culturally embedded myths about differences between people who work in art and science disciplines. Finally, the chapter points to the ways that artists’ interventions and transgressive practices led to innovations through collaborative work and draws some conclusions about what supported that work.

Introduction The collaborative art-science methodology of Synapse projects enabled examination and questioning of taken-for-granted assumptions, everyday work practices and beliefs in science and art. The collaborative approach sometimes resulted in acts that were seen to be transgressive as disciplinary traditions, norms and standpoints bumped up against each other. Interrogating and blurring boundaries and orderings were central to the innovative and transgressive aspects of the Synapse projects examined. These interviews surfaced the idea and the tradition of the artist-scientist. The chapter elaborates on these issues and how transgressive, transdisciplinary work contributed to expansive learning and innovation in projects.

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 L. White-Hancock, The Art and Science of Innovation, Transdisciplinary Perspectives in Educational Research 7, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-33132-9_8

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Re-emerging Identities: The Artist-Scientist Striking commonalities between these artists and scientists emerged from an examination of cases, particularly in terms of shared sensibilities, overlaps in the ways they think and in their methodologies. Gibbins said that what he learned from his partner as someone coming from a different disciplinary background was that: There’s even less difference than we thought.

This was striking because literature reviewed tends to focus on disciplinary distance (for example Snow, 1959; Gieryn, 1983) and ‘culture clash’ (Berthoin Antal & Strauß, 2013) rather than commonalities. Interviewees also spoke of what they considered to be myths about their difference. These interviews surfaced the idea and the tradition of the artist-scientist. For example, Gibbins had been a practicing artist before he started working with Truman. Truman had spent three years sitting in on anatomy classes that Gibbins taught at Flinders University and became familiar with some of the science to the point that the medical students would sometimes ask her questions about the material they were learning. Boland spoke of the creative approaches of scientific research. He also expressed interests in drawing and painting which were influenced to some extent by his mother who was a practicing artist. Henschke had studied physics for three years at undergraduate level, as well as other scientific disciplines. Rosengren’s (2011) blog indicates a level of knowledge about the areas of science she was investigating, particularly in relation to the CSIRO’s botanical collections. In each interview, I found myself asking: Who is the artist? Who is the scientist? There is a long tradition of transdisciplinary and collaborative work between artists and scientists which were referred to by project participants as influential to their own work. Rosengren spoke of her interest in the work of the Swedish botanist-­ physician-­zoologist, Carl Linnaeus (1707–1778) who collaborated with the botanist-­ illustrator Georg Ehret from around 1735–36. Kennedy also highlighted the work of Joseph Banks (1743–1820), the English botanist-illustrator who took part in Captain James Cook’s voyage from England to Australia on the Endeavour (1768–1771). Truman commented on the influence of the Italian sculptor Clemente Susini (1754–1814) on her work. Susini made anatomical models in collaboration with the Italian scientist-academic Felice Fontana in the 1770–90s. Kennedy pointed out that in the tradition of art-science practice: The scientist was an observer, would often sketch, and those sketches, those artworks, they form a part of the science, but they also have their own separate and distinct cultural value, their own artistic value. There is as much exhibited these days in art galleries as in scientific museums.

These comments draw attention to the history of blurred disciplinary boundaries and the recognition of re-emerging forms of transdisciplinary work across cultural and institutional boundaries. Not only did artists historically contribute to, and produce, documents that were part of textual accounts of the natural world, scientists’

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work is now also found in sites that are usually reserved for works produced by visual artists. Project partners noted similarities in methodological approaches between artists and scientists in terms of research, planning, observation, experimentation, interpretation of data and documentation. Gibbins explained that: Truman is very interested in process. She writes everything down in documents, whereas I don’t care, I just do it. And we spent so much time documenting the entire lab stuff that if I don’t have to elsewhere, I don’t.

Yet Truman and Gibbins shared similar approaches to recording their work. Rosengren and Henschke also documented their work to use as resource material for later work. Truman explained that she had taken thousands of photographs and filmed some of the lab processes. Some of these records are documented on the artists’ blogs on the Australian Network for Art and Technology (ANAT) website. Rosengren explained her intention to make work that could be used as a projection and a podcast from material gathered in the CSIRO research visits including interviews, other documentation, and audio-visual material. The concept for an exhibition is the inter- relationship of one specimen to other CSIRO collections such as soil, insect, and plant. Rosengren intended to: … find representative objects that can be put in an exhibition space, but also find all the associated documentation that’s connected to those things, whether it’s numerical, visual, mapping, all the things that have gone into describing it and that assessment.

Both artists and scientists carefully documented their observations for later analysis. Boland explained his understanding that while there are different intentions and outcomes between artists and scientists in their work, there are other similarities in methodological approaches: There are certain beliefs and principles and rules that you have to stick with … scientists are working in a framework where the fundamental philosophy is that there is an underlying truth that you’re nutting out, and then in order to discover that, you can’t go down a linear path. You have to be creative and go all over the place to find the trapdoor that will lead you into the next … there’s a certain framework or certain mystery that you’re trying to unravel as a scientist that requires similar techniques as an artist.

Boland described his ‘suck it and see’method as common to scientific practice and indicated that not knowing also drives a great deal of scientific research. This creative and open approach is like that of Gibbins. In Truman’s view: Ian is willing to not absolutely define the details of something. He’s willing to leap into the deep end, to drive a question with another question and not necessarily need to find out the categorical answers. I think that’s what makes him an artist  – that’s why he’s able to write poetry.

From Truman’s perspective, the emphasis on questions rather than answers defined Gibbins’ creative approach to his scientific work. In Gibbins’ artwork, this approach is exemplified in his film, Not Absolute: With My Eyes Closed (2009), which uses

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sound in such a way that makes words indistinct, reflecting this idea of not defining things clearly, absolutely. Insights into common approaches to problem solving and thinking processes shared by artists and scientists emerged from a tearoom conversations Henschke had with a scientist. The scientist unexpectedly told the artist that “I do my best thinking when I’m not thinking at all”. Henschke elaborated: Ultimately in scientific research as well as art it becomes this intuitive thing. [The scientist explained], “I just have a hunch and it’s usually the right way. If I think about it too much I don’t get anywhere. I have to go off and watch TV or do something different and not think about it and then the answer will just pop into my head.” [Henschke replied], “That’s like what I do.” So, it was through that playful [interaction] that I managed to get some really deep stuff out of them in a way that normally they probably wouldn’t dare let on.

Henschke’s story revealed similar approaches to problem solving and the role of intuition in the working processes of both artists and scientists. Again, the question arises: Who is the artist? Who is the scientist? The artist was elated with his discovery of common ground as well as understanding that the scientist had admitted to what might be considered an ‘unscientific’, unobjective approach that relied on “hunches” and intuition. The tearoom was the space that mediated experience between artist and scientist. Unexpected and surprising insights into other disciplinary practices were gained and perhaps more willingly shared between people in this informal setting. The story is consistent with research on the significance of hybrid or in-between spaces in workplaces where unexpected learning can occur when informal networks meet socially (e.g., Høyrup, 2012). Truman and Gibbins, Henschke and Boland’s experiences of working together showed them that distinctions between artists and scientists are sometimes really blurred. The three cases reveal similarities in learning processes and methodological approaches between artists and scientists in terms of research, planning, observation, experimentation, interpretation, integration, and documentation of data. Alongside these ‘rational’ learning processes, the ‘suck it and see’ approach or ‘not knowing’ was common to both scientific and arts research methodology. Similar approaches to problem solving that relied more on creativity, ‘hunches’, and intuition than logic or a linear cognitive approach surfaced in these interviews, which are consistent with Fenwick’s (2003) study. These similarities in approach blur disciplinary distinctions between art and science and challenge cultural ordering that privileges scientific ways of knowing over others. The collaborative art-science methodology was innovative in an institutional culture that tends to favour disciplinarity. Collaborative art-science work in scientific workplaces surfaced commonalities in the approaches, dispositions and identities of artists and scientists. This innovative methodology also enabled examination and questioning of taken-for-granted assumptions, everyday work practices and beliefs in science and art. The collaborative approach sometimes resulted in acts that were seen to be transgressive as disciplinary traditions, norms and standpoints bumped up against each other. The suggestion is that what is innovative can be closely related to what is transgressive in these projects.

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Innovation-Transgression Interrogating and blurring boundaries and orderings were central to the innovative and transgressive aspects of the Synapse projects examined. What was considered to be innovative about all these projects by participants is the idea of art-science collaboration and interaction. At the same time, interactions between the disciplines sometimes resulted in transgressed boundaries in different ways. The work of all three artists was seen to be innovative because it involved new ways of looking at and thinking about science, its practices, conventions, and as a way of knowing the world. There was a perception among the artists’ project partners that reinterpreting science through arts practice and from the artist’s standpoint was innovative because this helped the scientists to see their work in a new light. Truman’s intervention in the Anatomy Department was innovative because it influenced the adoption of new methods for teaching and learning the body for medical students. The innovation is linked to the artist’s experience of the Feldenkrais technique, an ‘alternative’ way of learning about, understanding and healing the body. Truman’s approach to learning was developed through experience in her own arts practice and situated the body at the centre of learning, rather than peripheral to it. The alternative approach informed the dominant medical approach, extending established methods for teaching and learning the body. The emphasis in the education of medical students had been on training the mind to learn about the body. Whereas Truman’s approach shifted the focus somewhat to include learning the body through the body. The innovation transgressed a sacred disciplinary boundary in challenging the epistemic authority of scientific knowledge and ways of knowing over ‘non-science’. Artists were also using scientific artefacts to negotiate boundaries in innovative and transgressive ways in these projects. According to Boland, the concept of the Lightbridge project was both innovative and transgressive because it pushed the boundaries of what was permissible by the organisation and the scientific community in terms of access to data which he described as “a kind of a boundary that scientists wouldn’t cross”. Data sharing beyond the field was a sensitive area for the collaborators in terms of dealing with Synchrotron management. Regulating access to data can be understood as an issue of maintaining control over knowledge and protecting knowledge boundaries. Both Truman and Gibbins talked about the ‘glove dissection’ experiment as one that they both felt was innovative, crossed boundaries and was transgressive. This was because Truman’s experiment with everyday artefacts (surgical gloves) challenged taken-for-granted practices and assumptions about objectivity in the medical context. The idea of subjectivity in ‘objective’ science was seen to be transgressive by the artist. Rosengren also expressed concern about the notion of scientific objectivity or ‘truth’ in the visual representation of natural phenomena in science. Her interests lie particularly in the relationship between the tools and techniques of visualisation and the different ways they are employed by artists and scientists: While the development of botany and other sciences can be linked historically to the use of visually accurate images and universally accepted graphic conventions, for artists and scientists,

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digital tools and techniques of visualisation offer very different possibilities for observation and experience. They reveal a paradoxical relationship between visual accuracy and truth (Rosengren, 2012).

The artist described at length on her blog the different approaches of scientists in interpreting scientific conventions of representation. Rosengren compared examples of how the same type of specimen such as corticoid fungi is drawn differently in different countries around the world. Some scientists use detailed rendering techniques to describe the material. However, Rosengren explains how Heino Lepp, a mycologist working with the Australian National Herbarium’s cryptogam collection, magnified parts of the fungi which were reduced to shapes that “float informally across the drawing interspersed with hand-written annotations describing different features” (Rosengren, 2012).1 Rosengren’s comparisons show how ‘truth’ and ‘accuracy’ in science can be quite subjective. While Rosengren and Truman’s shared interest in challenging this notion of objectivity in science was seen to be transgressive by Truman, this was not quite the way Rosengren saw it. While she believes that the research she was doing was unique and was generating new knowledge, she did not feel that there were instances of transgression or ‘breaking rules’ in their project and neither did her project partner. Like Rosengren, Henschke initial response to my question about instances of transgression in his project was that he did not feel that there were any. Yet he did feel that his work had broken new ground. On further prompting Henschke recounted his experience of the interior of the particle accelerator. Initially he had been threatened with a hammer if he transgressed and went anywhere near the machine; it was a forbidden zone, out of bounds. Yet it was the artist’s (eventual) direct experience of this space as a frontier zone which he believed was ground-breaking and crossed boundaries because being there, inside the machine, enabled a new perspective of the space. For Henschke, the space was far more than a source of data for scientific experiments. Imagining the inside of the synchrotron from the electron’s perspective, the artist’s short film Lightcurve fraction (2010a) seems to capture the life-­ force of the machine. The artist gives visual form to the ‘body’ of electrons that race through the space, making the invisible, visible. The internal space of the machine is enlivened through Henschke’s filmic representation which captures the electrons’ look, movement and sound or ‘voice’. As Henschke pointed out, even when the machine is off, it’s still on, as though it has its own life independent of the scientists who made it. Interpreted in this way, Henschke’s innovative work transgresses boundaries as the embodiment of the synchrotron life-form blurs distinctions between ‘living’ and ‘non- living’. While the work in these projects involved questioning, testing, highlighting and redrawing boundaries, it was not necessarily seen to be transgressive by all project

 To see these images, click on this link: fungi (frogs) and pheromones or go to Rosengren’s blog on the ANAT website at http://rosengren2011.anat.org.au/2012/03/fungi-frogs-and-pheromones/ 1

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participants. Nevertheless, in Harawayan (2008) terms, project participants spoke of work and learning that involved challenging and transgressing ‘sacred’ boundaries.

Contributions to Expansive Learning in Art-Science Work Analysis of Synapse cases shows how artists and scientists working in collaboration beyond their respective disciplines in scientific settings contributed to expansive learning and innovation. So, what can be said about the contributions of artists and scientists to learning and innovation in these projects?

Deep Disciplinary Knowledge and Experience Projects would not have been possible at all without the extensive disciplinary knowledge and experience of both artists and scientists and mutual respect for their respective practices.

Not-Knowing Like the artists, scientists involved in Synapse projects were creative and interested in creatives and creativity. As Boland explained, ‘suck it and see’, non-linear methods and not knowing drive a great deal of scientific research, as in the arts. In Boland’s experience, unravelling a mystery in science requires similar techniques as an artist where “… you have to be creative and go all over the place to find the trapdoor that will lead you into the next …”. This creative and open approach is like that of Gibbins. Truman’s appreciated how the emphasis on questions rather than answers defined Gibbins’ creative approach to his scientific work, and how this approach also makes him an artist, enabling him to write poetry.

Disrupting Usual Ways of Thinking and Doing Artists’ interventions disrupted the scientists’ usual ways of thinking and working but the scientists also challenged the thinking and work practices of the artists. For example, Rosengren’s early encounter with workers at the train depot challenged her identity as ‘artist’ and prompted a questioning of assumptions about the value of artwork as ‘production’. Henschke’s idea to use little slices of images in a similar way to the process the scientist’s used for breaking up data led to a new direction in his work.

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Culture of Collaboration As Rosengren and Truman pointed out, many artists work collaboratively, contrary to popular mythology but the culture of collaboration and knowledge sharing within the scientific community also emerged as a key support for learning in these projects.

Artefacts Artefacts developed by scientists such as the CSIRO collections, the synchrotron, microscopes and medical artefacts in the Anatomy Department at Flinders University were also crucial as boundary negotiating objects and to activities that enabled learning for both artists and scientists.

Capturing the Side Ghosts In Synapse projects, artists’ work involved challenging, transgressing, highlighting, or redrawing different kinds of boundaries and orderings. This transgressive standpoint of the artists contributed to knowledge building. The artists’ partners all felt that artists looked at things through a different lens which generated new insights and helped scientists to see their own work in a new light. For example, Boland explained that he wanted to share data that is interpreted in a strictly scientific way and build on scientific literature with people outside the field, particularly artists. The scientist believed that gathering different representations of data, including aural and visual, might surface something that the scientists had not seen: So, in that sense, the artists are kind of capturing the side ghosts and tapping into what the scientists are doing and enriching that.

Boland’s use of the term ‘side ghosts’ suggests that which is hidden, existing in another dimension of time-space, not generally visible. The idea suggests that artists can help to make the invisible visible because of their different ways of seeing and interpreting the world of science through their arts practices and their disciplinary standpoint as the examination of Piccinini’s work also revealed. Artistic representations of scientific data can act as important boundary negotiating objects in terms of communicating ideas to a broader public.

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Making the Ideas of Science Visible Henschke pointed out that artists can make innovative contributions in their work with scientists by enabling people to visualise scientific concepts: Art serves as an illustration or sort of creative play with what they’re [the scientists] doing, which gets other people into it in a way that looking at big equations and whatnot sort of didn’t work.

Henschke’s understanding was that art can help interpret and communicate science in a unique way, as do STEAM advocates such as Wertheim (2013). This idea was not lost on the marketing managers at Australian Synchrotron who asked the artist to provide artwork for their Christmas cards, Open Day, and the annual report. However, there has also been a considerable amount of work generated from these projects which has communicated the artists’ work with scientists to broader audiences, and years beyond their participation in Synapse residencies. Examples of this extended work include an animation called Lightcurve (infrared arc) developed from Henschke’s Synchrotron residency was shown at the prestigious Powerhouse Museum (Sydney, Australia) as part of the ISEA 2013 International Symposium on Electronic Art (Henschke, 2013b). As part of the conference, the artist also exhibited an animation, Lightbridge (Machines Studies), at the College of Fine Arts in Sydney in the Point of View exhibition which aimed to question understandings of place, representation, and perspective (Henschke, 2013c). At the same conference, the artist presented a paper, Aspects of the art/science equation – media art meets high energy physics (Henschke, 2013a). The paper draws on the artist’s experiences of working at Australian Synchrotron and CERN in Switzerland, arguing that formal and methodological correlations can be found between the two disciplines  – art and science. In his paper, Nature of/and the Apparatus, presented at the 5th Transdisciplinary Image Conference in 2018, Henschke reflects further on his practice-based research and collaborative work at CERN. This research led to the production and exhibition of a series of audio-visual artworks that engage with the aspects of particle physics (Henschke, 2018). The artist writes that from ongoing “interactions with both physicists and apparatuses, I have produced artworks which express and question the limits of, and relationships between the subatomic and macroscopic universe, and the tensions and connections between art [and] science” (Henschke, 2018).The comment points to the threads connecting the artist’s work over many years and his ongoing commitment to communicating the outcomes of his transdisciplinary art-science work. Henschke’s work illustrates Jaaniste’s (2009) argument about the arts as social innovation. Henschke’s rare position working in particle accelerator facilities led to interpreting, communicating and mediating awareness of new developments in particle physics, and the social ramifications of these developments, to a broader audience. Henschke wanted to respond to the expected announcement of the discovery of the Higgs Boson particle at the time of our interview. This was a discovery that was expected to change the world in a big way, like the internet. So, the artist organised

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a symposium, Colliding Ideas: Arts, Society and Physics to pose a question about the discovery of the Higgs Boson: What does this mean for the rest of us? (Henschke, 2012).

The comment points to Henschke’s concern for social relations with science and the social consequences of scientific innovation. In organising the conference, he opened up the development to public discussion. This contribution to discourse is of value in a world where scientific and technical innovations occur with great speed but are sometimes developed in knowledge-protected or even quite secretive environments, isolated from public scrutiny and debate. Work generated by Truman and Rosengren since their residency is also abundant. For example, Rosengren and Kennedy organised the SPECTRA art-science conference at the CSIRO (Canberra, 2012), and the artist projected large images of her work on the walls of the CSIRO during the conference. Rosengren and Kennedy have edited a book on art- science: SPECTRA: Images and Data in Art/Science (2014). The artist has continued her interest in vegetation in extreme environments. Until 2021, Rosengren was an adjunct Research Associate with the Institute for Land, Water and Society at Charles Sturt University (Australia). Her recent focus has been on the Bogong High Plains and developing a global peatlands project involving art-science partnerships. Truman and Gibbins participated in a panel presentation about their collaborative work at the Driving Forces: The Role of Artists and Designers in Interdisciplinary Research Conference at the Australian National University, Canberra (2014). The ongoing interest of both Truman and Gibbins in microscopes led to their collaborative exhibition, The Microscope Project, in Adelaide, South Australia in 2014. Truman had commented at some length in our interview on the importance of microscopes and other equipment to their (then) current collaborative work. Objects produced for the 2014 exhibition were largely made from, or related to, decommissioned microscopes from Gibbins’ department. The project was dedicated to the interaction between artists, scientist, and microscopes (Truman, 2014). Taken out of their original context, deconstructed and re-assembled, these scientific objects were given new life. The work reflects Felstead’s et al. (2009) findings that artefacts are sometimes used in ways other than intended to develop innovations. Related to the project, Gibbins also wrote and produced images for a book of poems, The Microscope Project: How Things Work (2014). Truman contributed illustrations to this book. Building on ideas about human-machine interactions, microscopes, and hands as mediators of experience developed during her Synapse residency with Gibbins, Truman designed a piece for the 2014 exhibition called Sensate Gloves #6, (Fig. 8.1). The piece bears kinship with the photograph, Talking Hands, taken by the artist in her 2011 research with Gibbins (see Fig. 5.2 in Chap. 5). Truman explained the concept for the piece: We are curious beings, led by what we see with our eyes and feel with our hands. Touch bridges the gap between seeing and doing … The microscope augments our sight and to a certain extent our touch, so we can pursue a line of inquiry. I wondered then, where

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Fig. 8.1 Catherine Truman, Sensate Gloves #6, 2014. Giclée print

do we begin and end our interactions with these miraculous machines? I began with the space in between (2014, p. 37).

The artist touched hot thermoplastic with a gloved hand and drew out filaments until they thinned and broke. The filaments “bridge the distance, extend my touch, become like smoke in the light…” responding to the movements of Truman’s hand (Truman, 2014, p. In this way, Truman interrogated boundaries by considering ‘spaces in-between’ human and machine, seeing and doing. After departing from his full-time commitments at Flinders University, Gibbins has focused more on his poetry and electronic artworks. His video-poems have been shown in many international festivals and received wide acclaim, winning several awards including the Film and Video Poetry Symposium (Los Angeles, USA) award with Dog Daze (2018). In an interview, Gibbins explained the connection between making the video-poem and his work as a neuroscientist which involved working with state-of-the-art microscopes where imaging was core to that work (Gibbins, 2021). These examples show how ideas and work continued to evolve over time. These cases demonstrate how arts practice can help to make the ideas of science visible and accessible to people who are not scientists. Artists can engage public discussion and debate about science and the consequences of science and use a visual language to convey sometimes complex ideas. From the perspectives of project participants, art practice helps to translate, interpret, and communicate abstract scientific concepts in unique ways and in ways that words and formulae cannot. Seeing things from a different viewpoint, capturing the ‘side ghosts’ as Boland put it, also generated new insights. Collaborative work on the project with Henschke also impacted Boland personally and professionally in unexpected ways, affording him freedom to think in a different way.

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Freedom to Think Differently Mulling over my question about what he learned from working with Henschke as someone coming from a different disciplinary background, Boland explained: Maybe it’s opened up my mind, but how do you measure that or how do you really feel that? So maybe I am thinking more creatively now and maybe I am striving more for excellence. Maybe I’m more uncompromising now given that experience with Chris … it gave me this freedom to think in a different way rather than – because the main things that sort of come at you that dominate are the sort of management things, you know, budget, is it on time? So, that’s the sort of constant hum in your ear – that sort of puts you on a certain path. Then to be able to step away from that and just not have that weighing on you, that changes the way you operate.

Taken-for-granted, institutionalised work practices, norms and processes embedded in Boland’s workplace were brought into focus. The artist had disrupted Boland’s usual pattern and approach to work, which the scientist found inspiring: It inspired me because that’s the way I like to work and try to work on certain things. But I hadn’t picked his project as being one of those ones [among] the gazillion projects I was working on.

The comment suggests that Boland didn’t initially expect that the artist’s work and his intervention would be of such consequence to him. The comment also suggests that it wasn’t just “the artists that’s informed by the scientists”, as Boland had commented earlier. He expressed the view that working with the artist had helped him to become more open- minded and inspired him to the point that he would find himself tapping away on his computer at 2am ‘nutting out’ a problem on his project with Henschke. Management imperatives had driven the scientist to work in a certain way along a certain path and this is likely how much scientific work, as well as much work in any field, is done. What Boland valued about his work with Henschke was that it afforded him freedom from weighty management constraints which enabled him to think more creatively. And as he explained, this is how Boland likes to work. He was released of the pressure of achieving outcomes for budgetary reasons and was then able to approach his work differently. But Boland, a person who dealt with quantifiable data in his research work, found it difficult to measure the value of this approach. The following excerpt reveals how figuring out Henschke’s approach to work helped him learn something new which also helped the project move forward: It was not so much a technology or an idea, it was just an understanding of Chris’ way of working where I suddenly realised okay, I was – at certain moments I was more just wanting to push the thing along and make all sorts of compromises, whereas Chris was uncompromising. He was like, “No, I don’t care about that trivial thing. We need to get the best, the latest. It needs to look good. It needs to be good.” So, at that point I realised okay, he really strives for excellence, and … I got the sense that he couldn’t care less whether the thing got done either on time or at all or if he had to pay back the money or anything, it was just this has to be excellent.

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Boland seemed surprised by the artist’s approach and his apparent lack of concern for deadlines or funding. However, once he felt that he understood Henschke’s way of working which wasn’t seemingly dictated in this project by the timeframes and budgets that so often pressured the scientist, he changed his own approach. No longer did Boland propose quick fixes to get outcomes from Henschke, or suggest: Okay, this we’ll do. This works here, this works there, boom, boom, boom, get on with it, which sometimes you have to do just from a technological point of view or for satisfying some other criteria.

While the need to work to certain timeframes and budgets was acknowledged, understanding Henschke’s approach opened a window for the scientist that let in ‘fresh air’ and enabled him freedom to think and work differently. Boland reconsidered management imperatives that drove daily activities and the need for outcomes which have the effect of restricting creative thinking and forcing compromises. The artist generated insights for the scientist about how his work was done and provoked a rethinking of his work practices. However, confronting different work practices and ethics, the artists all encountered conflict in their transdisciplinary workplace environments on occasion. The challenges of transdisciplinary work sometimes involved negotiating disciplinary differences, myths, and misconceptions, as discussed in Chap. 6. Yet Chap. 7 highlights how experiencing the ‘zone of discomfort’ and dealing with conflict and confrontation as boundaries were challenged or transgressed, were part of the learning process in these projects. Despite some challenges, analysis of these cases surfaced surprising and unexpected ideas which forced me to question assumptions, including my own assumptions, about artists and scientists not necessarily being able to ‘talk to each other’ very well. In these cases, ideas and knowledge flowed in ways that transgressed tightly controlled disciplinary boundaries or lineages. This process depended on the people involved having open and respectful dispositions and relationships. One of the really valuable contributions that arises from these art-science collaborations is that they presented the opportunity to challenge disciplinary myths through everyday interactions. The analysis of cases challenges assumptions about the distance between the arts and science. Distinctions and boundaries between artists and scientists are really blurred in some ways. Analysis of these cases also brings into sharp focus re-emerging, hybrid artist-scientist identities and the re-­ emerging tradition of transdisciplinary art-science work.

 onclusion: Supporting Transgressive, Transdisciplinary C Learning in Practice Certain conditions were necessary to support the transgressive learning processes involved in innovation in these projects. This book highlights the commonalities between artists and scientists in methodological approaches and creative approaches

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to problem solving. Despite the commonalities, and willingness to engage in collaborative work, learning how to work together was a critical factor in enabling transdisciplinary work and was seen to be an innovation in itself. This learning was not always easy or successful because the work involved negotiating and sometimes transgressing social and mental boundaries as different standpoints were encountered. Emotional labour was required of artists at times to deal with challenging aspects of the scientific environment and practices. Time and effort were needed to open lines of communication and to find common ground across disciplinary boundaries. Respectful and trusting relationships between project partners were seen to be critical to collaborative learning-through-working by project participants. As several project participants pointed out, the success of these collaborative transdisciplinary projects came down to the people who work together and openness to each other’s ‘world views’, or standpoints. When these conditions came together, transgressive practices unfolded, and innovations resulted through collaborative work. The implications of this way of learning-through-working in arts-science collaborations for innovation are presented in the final chapter.

References Berthoin Antal, A., & Strauß, A. (2013). Creative clash – Artistic interventions in organisations: Finding evidence of values-added. WZB Berlin Social Science Center. Retrieved June 20, 2022, from https://www.wzb.eu/system/files/docs/dst/wipo/effects_of_artistic_interventions_ finalreport.pdf Felstead, A., Fuller, A., Jewson, N., & Unwin, L. (2009). Improving working as learning. Routledge. Fenwick, T. (2003). Innovation: Examining workplace learning in new enterprises. Journal of Workplace Learning, 15(3), 123–132. https://doi.org/10.1108/13665620310468469 Gibbins, I. (2009). Not absolute: With my eyes closed [Video]. Gibbins, I. (2014). The microscope project: How things work. Flinders University Art Museum. Gibbins, I. (2018). Dog Daze [Video Poem]. YouTube. Retrieved May 24, 2022, from https://www. youtube.com/watch?v=08DGU0BSsgo Gibbins, I. (2021, August 13). Filmmaker Interviews: Ian Gibbins – Dog Daze [Video]. https:// www.youtube.com/watch?v=MuICl_wlDXo Gieryn, T. F. (1983). Boundary-work and the demarcation of science from non-science: Strains and interests in professional interests of scientists. American Sociological Review, 48(6), 781–795. https://doi.org/10.2307/2095325 Haraway, D. (2008). When species meet. University of Minnesota Press. Henschke, C. (2010a). Lightcurve fraction [Still from Animation]. http://henschke2010.anat.org. au/files/2010/09/lightcurve-­fraction.mov Henschke, C. (2010b). Lightbridge project: Chris Henschke @ the Australian Synchrotron – 2010 Synapse Residency Program. Australian Network for Art and Technology. http://henschke2010. anat.org.au Henschke, C. (Conference Convenor). (2012, July 8). Colliding Ideas: Arts, society and physics public symposium. RMIT University, Melbourne, VIC, Australia. Henschke, C. (2013a). Aspects of the art/science equation – Media art meets high energy physics. In K. Cleland, L. Fisher, & R. Harley (Eds.), Proceedings of the 19th international symposium on electronic art (pp. 1–4). University of Sydney, Australian Network for Art and Technology and ISEA. http://hdl.handle.net/2123/9633

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Henschke, C. (2013b). Lightcurve (infrared arc) [Animation]. In synapse: A selection (group exhibition), Powerhouse museum, Sydney (June 7–16). Part of Resistance is futile: The 19th international symposium on electronic art. Sydney, NSW, Australia. Henschke, C. (2013c). Lightbridge (machines studies) [Animation]. In Point of view (group exhibition), Kudos Gallery, College of Fine Arts, Sydney (June 5–15). Part of resistance is futile: The 19th international symposium on electronic art. Sydney, NSW, Australia. Henschke, C. (2018). Nature of/and the Apparatus. In Transimage 2018: Proceedings of the fifth international conference on transdisciplinary imaging. University of Edinburgh. https://doi. org/10.6084/m9.figshare.6104678.v1 Høyrup, S. (2012). Employee-driven innovation: A new phenomenon, concept and mode of innovation. In S.  Høyrup, M.  Bonnafous-Boucher, C.  Hasse, M.  Lotz, & K.  Møller (Eds.), Employee-driven innovation: A new approach (pp. 3–33). Palgrave Macmillan. Jaaniste, L. (2009). Placing the creative sector within innovation: The full gamut. Innovation: Management, Policy & Practice, 11(2), 215–229. https://doi.org/10.5172/impp.11.2.215 Rosengren, M. (2011, November 12). Mary Rosengren: Articulations – True stories. Australian Network for Art and Technology. http://rosengren2011.anat.org.au/ Rosengren, M. (2012, March 25). Fungi (frogs) and pheromones. Australian Network for Art and Technology. http://rosengren2011.anat.org.au/2012/03/fungi-­frogs-­and-­pheromones/ Rosengren, M., & Kennedy, C. (Eds.). (2014). SPECTRA: Images and data in art/science: The currency of images in the studio and the laboratory. Australian Network for Art and Technology and CSIRO Discovery Centre. Snow, C. P. (1959). The two cultures and the scientific revolution. Cambridge University Press. Truman, C. (2014). Catherine Truman: Artist’s statement. In F.  Salmon (Ed.), The microscope project (Exhibition catalogue) (pp. 36–39). Flinders University Art Museum. Truman, C., & Gibbins, I. (2014, March). Creating questions through interdisciplinary practice and research [Paper presentation]. Driving forces: The role of artists and designers in interdisciplinary research Conference. Australian National University, Canberra, ACT, Australia. Wertheim, M. (2013, December 6). The heart of innovation: Why we must integrate creative arts and design with STEM (Science, Technology, Engineering and Mathematics) [Audio podcast episode]. Swinburne Leadership Institute, Swinburne University. https://commons.swinburne. edu.au/items/091b6bd2-­638b-­49e7-­8cbb-­3b024d75c998/1/

Chapter 9

A New Perspective on the Art and Science of Innovation: From STEM to Transgressive Working and Learning

Abstract  The purpose of this book is to shed light on the contribution of transgressive transdisciplinary art-science learning and work to innovation. While a great deal has been written about innovation in workplaces, it is generally situated within particular industries such as health services or within organisations or disciplines. There has been little research on the terms and conditions that support or constrain collaborative work and learning across disciplinary domains. To address these gaps, accounts of artists and scientists who worked together in scientific workplaces were gathered. Based on these individuals’ experiences, this approach shed light on the human dimension of innovation and what it’s like to work collaboratively across disciplinary boundaries. This book gives voice to artists and scientists because people who are less heard in the innovation debates. The case studies presented here have helped to develop theory about the contribution of art-science practice to learning and innovation. Furthermore, light is shed on the nature of workplace learning that generates innovation and what supports and constrains learning-through-working in new and transgressive ways in collaborative art-science work. In doing so, this book moves beyond the narrow emphasis on STEM as the means of generating innovation in transdisciplinary education and in workplaces.

Introduction: Shedding Light on Transdisciplinary Innovation ‘Learning-through-working’ is a significant concept used in this book because it emphasises movement and transition in learning that builds new knowledge and innovation in the workplace. ‘Transgression’ is a particular form of ‘learning-­ through-­working’ and a means of innovation. It assumes that established boundaries are porous and suggests boundaries are, in practice, boundary zones where movements in knowing and doing unfold as knowledge flows across disciplinary domains. This book focuses on interaction between artists and scientists, and their practices. Interaction stimulated reciprocal development and change in Synapse project

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 L. White-Hancock, The Art and Science of Innovation, Transdisciplinary Perspectives in Educational Research 7, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-33132-9_9

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collaborators, pointing to the way learning re-emerges as hybrid forms of arts-science practice and identity. This book considers creative art and science collaborative work but other kinds of transdisciplinary collaborations could also be investigated. Art-science has been the focus of the book for several reasons. Firstly, my professional background is in art and design, and I have some experience and on-going interest in art-science collaborative work. Secondly, with a background in the arts, I was challenged by the idea of innovation only being realised through a narrow focus on science, technology, and business. Thirdly, it was this relative marginalisation of the arts in much Australian government policy on innovation that prompted me to embark on the research behind this book. Collaborative, transdisciplinary art-science workplaces became the sites of this investigation of innovation. Case studies were compiled using data gathered from in-depth interviews with Synapse project partners. This approach made it possible to explore participants’ perceptions of their own lived experiences and offered insights into the work and learning that occurred in cross-boundary art-science collaborations. However, the small dataset means research findings cannot be treated as representative. It is reasonable to expect that more interviews would provide a broader range of responses and perspectives for analytical consideration. However, the quality of the study scaffolding this book is enhanced by the comparison of three contemporary Synapse cases as well as the case of the artist Patricia Piccinini. In addition, the case of the Bauhaus in Chap. 4 is an historical analysis which used the possibility of hindsight to trace the emergence of transgressive, transdisciplinary practices that enabled innovation. Contemporary research tends to investigate innovation in workplaces in the ‘here and now’ and often does not provide a detailed picture of the developments or effects of transgressions and their relation to culture-orders, which makes innovation visible. Analysis of the Bauhaus case reveals interconnections between the three key dimensions of innovation identified in the review of literature in Chap. 3. These understandings refined the key dimensions of innovation and were then applied to cases of contemporary art-­science practice in Synapse projects in Chaps. 5, 6, 7, and 8.

Key Features of Learning in Transgressive Art-Science Work The Nature of Workplace Learning That Generates Innovation This book reveals a relationship between learning-through-working and innovation. Workplaces are significant sites of learning, knowledge sharing and knowledge building which generate innovation. This relationship between learning, working and innovation is identified in Australian Government policy on innovation (Dept. of Industry, Innovation, Science, Research and Tertiary Education, 2009) and in literature reviewed in Chap. 3. However holistic understandings of workplace learning are necessary to support innovation in contexts where globalisation and changing work environments, such as those resulting from the COVID 19 pandemic,

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increasingly emphasise collaborative work across cultural domains. This book identifies six key features of workplace learning that generate innovation: 1. Learning-through-working has three interrelated dimensions that either enable or constrain innovation: environmental and organisational conditions, cultural ordering, and learning in practice. These dimensions need to be considered together to better foster innovation. While the need to design workplaces that promote learning and encourage skills for innovation is recognised, there are diverse views about how such work should be organised and what constitutes a workplace environment that encourages innovation. Some theorists argue that a safe environment is necessary because it is risky to present work that is different while others argue that chaotic situations also lead to innovation. Heiskanen and Heiskanen’s (2011) research shows how physical, mental, and social spaces in workplaces together create an environment that can generate or restrict innovation. 2. Innovation is affected by ‘doing’ work. Direct experience and learning in practice, and access to ‘authentic’ workplaces and industry practices is critical to this process. Understanding organisational rules, conventions, practices, and broad industry-wide connections, through participation in authentic workplace settings encourages expansive learning (Guile, 2009). It is useful to understand ‘the rules of the game’ of a profession, organisation or industry before conventions and boundaries can be tested or moved beyond to generate innovation. 3. Learning emerges in workplaces in ways that conform to established norms and cultural orders but transgressing such normative frames of reference contributes to innovation. Some workplaces with particular organisational, social, and cultural features can sustain and manage the disruptive effects of transgression. Organisations that establish conditions and actively encourage people to challenge or transgress normative conventions supports learning, knowledge building and innovation. Organisations that simply expect employees to stick to the rules restrict knowledge sharing, learning and innovation. 4. Collaborative work and knowledge sharing support expansive workplace learning and innovation. However, there is an expectation in many organisations that this will occur unproblematically, and in times of rapid change, distrust challenges these possibilities. The human dimension of innovation relating to psychological and social processes of knowledge sharing and learning needs to be considered in order to support innovation in workplaces. This is important because sometimes people will share knowledge and sometimes, they will not (Duguid, 2005). Individuals play a role in making organisations by conforming, or not, to organisational expectations and conventions and in contributing to innovation. 5. Learning that emerges through experience and the embodiment of practices can be significant to innovation. However, many organisations prefer textual practices codified in competency-based training as the primary source of supporting employee learning and knowledge building. Some employees reject these textual practices when management fails to consider tacit knowledge gained through practical experience and embodied learning. Acknowledging both forms of learning can encourage knowledge building and innovation in organisations.

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6. Managers and employees both play significant roles in innovation. Management can either support or constrain innovation as it governs and orders work, workplace learning and the habits of workforces. Employees are a significant source of innovation as they learn from each other through direct, lived experience. However, engagement in innovation processes among employees is affected by the degree of support or ‘affordances’ from managers. Conventional management imperatives to order or control work from the top-down can also restrict employee learning, initiatives, and innovation (Høyrup, 2012).

Experiencing Collaborative, Transdisciplinary Work A feminist perspective recognises that knowledge comes from somewhere (Harding, 2004) and centres attention on strategies for communication and inclusion. This approach gives weight to the perspectives and direct experiences of participants in transdisciplinary, collaborative work. But these perspectives and experiences tend not to be considered in literature reviewed. This study contributes to knowledge by documenting how artists and scientists encounter different disciplinary standpoints, and how those encounters prompt novel practices and inspire insights and opportunities for transgressive learning. This pattern of learning-through-working had productive effects as the activities of Synapse project participants emerged, at times, through conflict and challenges. Generally, artists felt welcomed into scientific workplaces by scientists who were described by the artists as curious, accommodating, and open. At the same time, artists reported experiencing some skepticism about them being in scientific workplaces and some people were dismissive of the artists. The Critical Incident Technique described in Chap. 6 was a particularly effective tool for understanding people’s experiences of working in transdisciplinary spaces. Critical incidents reported by Synapse project partners all related to organisational or disciplinary culture-orders and shed light on challenges involved in transdisciplinary work. Challenges revolved around encountering different standpoints, work practices and ethics. For example, Henschke described incidents of confrontation with certain managers and despair at the ‘culture clash’ he experienced on occasion as an ‘outsider’ artist in a scientific environment. The ‘soil collection’ incident illustrated Rosengren’s concerns about the problem of being guided by people who hold certain assumptions about things which would interest an artist, which were compounded by these people’s own perceptions of the CSIRO collections. She understood that this combination of assumptions and perceptions had the potential to restrict what she could see, experience, and learn. Rosengren described the environment of her first ‘artist-in-the-community’ project as ‘alien’ and confronting, challenging her to think about the value of her art practice as production and her identity as artist. For Truman, the taken-for-granted scientific practice of vivisection were deeply, ethically troubling. Project workplaces were tensioned by different discourses, cultural understandings, and the unfolding effects of artists’ interventions and collaborative work. Interactions between artists and scientists working in the ‘boundary zone’ were

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described as inspiring by Synapse project participants but could also be very troubling as standpoints and practices collided and identities were challenged. Critical incidents and other stories revealed that learning-through-working in new and transgressive ways sometimes required a great deal of intellectual and emotional energy in order to negotiate tensions and different standpoints. For example, Henschke described the psychological ‘rollercoaster’ from excitement to depression, bewilderment, and confusion he had to deal with. The work of collaborating is not always easy or successful, highlighting the importance of how this way of working needs to be supported.

 upporting and Constraining Transgressive S Learning-Through-Working This study suggests that innovation is an effect of work organisation and the workplace environment, culture-orders within and beyond workplaces, and learning in practice. The interactions between these key dimensions established the conditions that either supported or constrained learning and innovation in transdisciplinary Synapse projects. Within these dimensions, six key factors were found to influence transgressive learning-through-working and innovation in projects: 1. The organisation and regulatory framework of ANAT’s Synapse program provided the opportunity, or space, for transdisciplinary work, where different ways of seeing and doing came together. Projects afforded the artists time and funding to work on their projects and enabled access to expertise and artefacts in scientific workplaces. ANAT did not micro-manage projects and placed few demands for ‘outcomes’ since the aim of the Synapse program was to support artists in the conduct of their research. This approach is rare in the contemporary outcomes-­ driven economic environment. But given the learning and innovations resulting from the projects, it is an approach that could be better utilised in organisations that want to encourage innovation. Project participants indicated that time, access, and the ‘hands off’, flat management approach (within organisations as well as ANAT) afforded them freedom to ‘free-range’, to ‘journey’ and to structure their work as they saw fit. However, this study also found that at the organisational level where projects took place, time and access to resources and expertise were not always available to artists. Synapse projects brought together physical, social and mental spaces, to use Heiskanen and Heiskanen’s terms (2011), that contributed to an environment of innovation. ANAT’s organisation of projects and regulatory mechanisms developed an environment that supported the artists’ journeying and allowed space for exploration and experimentation, learning and new transgressive work. In this way, environmental, culture-order and learning in practice dimensions of innovation were found to be closely interrelated in their effects on innovation. Henschke’s case shows how learning was temporarily restricted when these dimensions did not come together.

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2. Both a safe environment and conflict within and beyond organisations can support transgression, learning and innovation. These environments are not mutually exclusive. Examination of Truman’s case shows that a safe workplace environment was one that supported her in trying different ways of expressing and doing things. Her creativity, experimentation and risk-taking were supported. On the other hand, Henschke’s case revealed how instances of hostility by some managers restricted his learning and work at times. The Working as Learning Framework developed by Felstead et al. (2009) is useful in accounting for organisational and broader social, economic, political, historical, and cultural conditions and orders that supported or constrained learning and innovation in the projects. Rosengren’s case shows how her project was impacted by internal organisational restructuring resulting from (external) government funding cuts to the CSIRO, which restricted freedoms, access to staff and time working with collections. Yet despite tensions, and perhaps because of them, project participants found ways of moving forward and generating innovations. In Rosengren’s case, apparent constraints led to the exploration of new directions and unexpected, expansive learning. Rosengren’s experience supports research that suggests contexts with characteristics that support learning and innovation can include turbulence, change and conflict (Høyrup, 2012). 3. Knowledge sharing across disciplinary domains encourages transgressive learning-­through-working. Encountering different ways of thinking and doing can promote new understandings and insights about established practices, norms and conventions, and taken-for-granted assumptions in organisations. Knowledge flows and emergent practices can lead to innovation. However, openness and knowledge sharing were restricted at times in projects because of conflicting standpoints, communication barriers, organisational orders and in Rosengren’s case, because of economic and political influences beyond the CSIRO. 4. Recognition of diverse knowledge practices encourages learning-through-­ working in new and transgressive ways, and innovation. This book shows how artists’ and scientists’ standpoints, ideas and artefacts can help negotiate boundaries and sometimes transgress established understandings, norms, and conventions. These transgressive practices challenge organisations when established ways of thinking and doing are questioned. While Truman’s transgressive practice was greeted with enthusiasm in Gibbins’ workplace, Henschke’s ideas received quite a different reaction on occasion, which restricted his work. Innovation needs to be recognised and authorised by those who manage organisations and by the institutions that organise and order work, as Hasse and Brandi (2012) argue. 5. Learning how to work together across disciplinary boundaries was considered to be an innovation in its own right, given the challenges of working through disciplinary differences. Learning through collaborative work in projects doesn’t just happen, unproblematically. Time and effort are needed to develop effective working relationships. The success of these projects rested on respectful and trusting relationships between project partners, where they accommodated each other’s standpoints. There is little research on learning how to work together across disciplinary boundaries. Yet this book shines a light on how the social and

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psychological dimensions of learning-through-working in transdisciplinary contexts are both significant and require attention if innovation is the aim of governments and organisations. 6. Three key factors mediated the three dimensions of learning-through-working and innovation: • Hybrid or in-between spaces such as tearooms mediated environmental and culture-order dimensions of innovation in Synapse projects. The significance of informal spaces in workplaces is discussed in the literature to some extent. But this study shows how these places provided physical, social, and mental spaces of interaction where informal networks met. Interaction led to unexpected learning and helped to break down disciplinary boundaries. • Boundary brokers Gibbins, Kennedy, and Boland negotiated, mediated, and enabled the projects. Their knowledge of management processes and personalities, how to ‘pitch’ arguments and experience in knowing how far to bend the rules, helped to push the boundaries, or helped smooth the path for projects to proceed within their organisations. ANAT was also a critical broker mediating between government and project participants, providing resources and developing regulatory arrangements that supported artists through their learning in practice with scientists. • Artefacts such as the CSIRO collections and documents, the synchrotron data and medical artefacts were central to projects. They served as boundary negotiating objects, and focused discussions and activities that enabled learning. These six supporting factors in transgressive learning-through-working in Synapse art-science projects were all evident at the Bauhaus, suggesting a consistent relationship between these factors and innovation across time and space.

Co-producing Innovation in Transdisciplinary Work Collaborative, transdisciplinary art-science practice itself is innovative in an institutional culture that tends to favour disciplinarity. This book highlights the ways in which artists and scientists collaborated to contribute to innovation. Artists and scientists learned from, and with, each other in Synapse projects. This book offers five main findings about the contribution of the art-science collaborative learning-­ through-­working to innovation. 1. Art-science collaborations can help to break down the disciplinary divide by: • challenging disciplinary myths and assumptions through everyday interaction and communication. Interventions tested assumptions, including my own, about artists and scientists ‘not being able to talk to each other very well’. Despite their different standpoints and disciplinary languages, the study shows that ideas and knowledge often flowed in ways that transgressed tightly controlled boundaries (Haraway, 2008).

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• drawing attention to the commonalities and connections between the fields of art and science despite distance and isolation that have emerged as an effect of industrialisation and disciplinary specialisation. While different aims and outcomes emerged, some striking similarities between artists and scientists and their practices were also revealed in terms of dispositions and research methodologies. Examination of these interventions highlighted the idea of the artist-scientist and the long and re-emerging traditions of transdisciplinary and collaborative art-science work. Case studies established Synapse project participants long histories of this way of working. This study shows how disciplinary boundaries between artists and scientists are really blurred. Time and time again throughout the process of conducting the research behind this book I found myself asking, ‘who is the artist?’ and ‘who is the scientist?’ 2. Scientists and artists working together can encourage people to think and work more creatively, as Boland’s commentary suggests, by disrupting usual patterns of thinking and doing, and established norms, and conventions in workplaces. People’s reactions to these transgressive practices, illustrated for example by Henschke’s ‘hammer threat’ incident, make these transgressive effects visible. Art-science collaborations demonstrate in practice the effects of encountering difference to generate innovation proposed in theories of transgression. Seeing science from an arts standpoint, and vice versa, can generate new insights for artists and scientists in two significant ways: • Transdisciplinary collaborations can encourage examination and questioning of taken-for-granted assumptions and beliefs. Truman’s case illustrates how the artist’s experience of alternative (Feldenkrais) medicine may have helped to refocus Gibbins’ teaching practice. The alternative approach shifted the mainstream medical approach somewhat from teaching and learning the body by training the mind, to learning the body through the body. And Rosengren’s encounter with workers at the train depot led to her questioning the value of artwork as production. Scientists and their practices also challenged the thinking and work of the artists in ways that could sometimes be transgressive. The cases examined provide examples of how working with scientists challenged the artists identities, ethical values, and raised questions about their own work and work practices. The suggestion is that encountering different work practices and values in transdisciplinary work has the potential to disrupt disciplinary ways of seeing, thinking and doing, whatever the field. • Transdisciplinary collaborations with ‘outsiders’ can prompt a questioning of taken-for-granted assumptions about how and what work is done in a workplace. For example, Henschke’s process-focused (rather than outcomes-­ focused) approach to his work prompted Boland to question the logics of management that tended to dominate his work with demands for outcomes. 3. Certain learning processes in arts and science support transgressive practice and innovation. Cases indicate that artists’ learning in practice involved journeying, questioning, experimentation and play, testing boundaries and ‘not knowing’. These processes were also encouraged and developed through the pedagogical

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approaches of the Bauhaus. Consistent with Fenwick’s (2003) research, intuition, improvisation and integration of concepts and processes that may seem unrelated emerged as characteristics of the artists’ learning-through-working. Learning by doing, experiential learning and the embodiment of practices (Somerville, 2006) were critical to the artists’ development. Learning-through-­ working with materials and artefacts were also significant. The study shows that many of these processes are also common in science. As Boland explained, ‘suck it and see’, non-linear methods and not knowing drive a great deal of scientific research, as in the arts. So, methodologies used in the arts and science can be quite similar. But as Boland also indicated, aims and outcomes are quite different in art and science work. Furthermore, the arts in Western societies tend to be less governed by laws and rules. Challenging or transgressing conventions, rules and taken-for-granted understandings are important to arts practice. 4. Transdisciplinary art-science work can contribute to social innovation as well as the innovation economy. Since such collaborations can encourage people in organisations to think more creatively about their work, there are implications for developing innovations which have both social and economic effects. For example, Truman’s work with Gibbins led to new ways of teaching and the learning the body for medical students which enhanced the quality of medical education. This has consequences for professional medical practice and for broader community wellbeing. The effects of this collaborative work also point to potential economic benefits for the healthcare system. Furthermore, through exhibitions, public forums and conferences, artists and scientists have engaged public discussion about the social relations of science and social consequences of scientific innovation (Henschke), about the connections between the arts and sciences, and the idea of the artist-scientist (Rosengren, Kennedy, Gibbins, and Truman), highlighting and challenging social and cultural boundaries. 5. Art-science collaborative work can help make the ideas of science visible. Cases studied demonstrate how arts practice can help to translate, interpret, and communicate sometimes abstract scientific concepts in new and unique ways, and in ways that words and formulae cannot. Encounter different disciplinary standpoints prompted novel practices, new insights, and opportunities for transgressive learning. This book has closely examined the boundary zone where interactions between artists and scientists prompted mutual change and co- produced hybrid practices and identities that transgressed established patterns of work and learning. In other words, the human dimension of innovation is tensioned between continuity and change. As both artists and scientists said, the knowledge work that generates innovation is a kind of art, where individuals can sometimes develop novel practices of working and learning which bridge boundaries by being informed by the other. Much innovation was co-produced in cases examined across time and space from the Bauhaus to the work of Patricia Piccinini and in the Synapse projects. These findings point to the value of transdisciplinary collaboration for innovation. The collective power of transdisciplinary learning and practice is revealed in this book.

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A New Model of Innovation A new model of innovation and implications for theory, government policy on innovation, for workplaces and education are summed up in this section. Areas of future research are also suggested.

Rethinking Innovation and Implications for Theory Theories of innovation in the field of work and learning studies are becoming more holistic in orientation, considering complex social, psychological, and environmental influences. Yet these theories tend to focus on particular disciplines and specific industries. Examining how innovation unfolds in transdisciplinary contexts extends research on innovation. While these literatures identify collaboration as a means of increasing innovation at work, they often gloss over the human dimension of innovation and how it is embedded in specific workplace practices of learning-through-­ working. This book contributes to knowledge about innovation by examining the human dimensions of innovation rather than technical and economic aspects that are commonly given attention in literature on innovation. Collaborations in transdisciplinary contexts are targeted because these projects constitute ‘workplaces’ that operated as boundary zones. In this book, the experiences of people who work in transdisciplinary art-science collaborations, in these boundary zones, are examined which troubles research premised on a single discipline or workplaces organised by a specific industry. This book contributes to knowledge by examining innovation in different workplaces across time and space whereas most contemporary studies of innovation focus on the present. Applying the Critical Incident Technique in a new context, to explore innovative examples of arts-science practice, contributes to research in the fields of workplace learning and innovation as well as arts-science practice. This strategy addresses gaps identified in research on innovation in terms of knowledge about the experiences and effects of transdisciplinary work on people. Applying the technique also produced a complex picture of innovation as an effect of transgressive practices that unfold through the interplay between workplace organisation, culture-order and learning-through-working. Considering innovation as transgression offers a new way of thinking about innovation. Considering the linkage between feminist perspectives of transgression and innovation is also an original contribution of this book. Drawing on feminist perspectives of transgression to consider innovation as a kind of transgressive ‘learning-through-working’ also extends research on innovation. This book sees innovation as an outcome of collaboration that is contingent on the intersecting dimensions of innovation in workplaces. The making of innovation revolves around the design of work and work environments, the ways in which

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learning-through-working can be supported, and ways of governing workplace culture and authorising innovation. I represent this analytical synthesis as a model that can be used to systematise further research into the human dimension of innovation (Fig. 9.1). This representation places transdisciplinary practice at the centre of innovation. This intellectual move differs from Australian government policy and most models of innovation discussed in Chap. 2. ‘Arts-science practice’ refers not just to the professional knowings and doings of artists and scientists, but the way artists and scientists and their professional preparation can provoke transgressive learning-­ through-­working. Under certain terms and conditions of work, arts-science practice offers novel ways of navigating established disciplinary knowledges and organisational authority to produce innovation. The intersecting relationships between the key dimensions of innovation are mediated by artefacts, hybrid spaces, and boundary brokers. The model suggests more holistic approaches to innovation require further research on these mediating processes that are organised through agencies such as ANAT and programs such as Synapse. Such research should also include a much broader range of arts-science collaborations in Australia and internationally. This would test the robustness of the findings of the small-scale study that informs this book. Documenting the range of projects and outcomes resulting from arts-science collaborations in workplaces in Australia could usefully inform further research on innovation.

Fig. 9.1  Model of innovation

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 ethinking Innovation and Implications for Government Policy R on Innovation This book expands ideas about innovation in Australian Government policy and can inform future policy directions. The book shows how learning-through-working in Synapse projects produced innovations, suggesting that government policies should better support and resource this kind of collaborative transdisciplinary practice. Acknowledging the need for a paradigm shift to enhance innovation in Australia, and ‘the innovative spirit we need to nurture in all Australians’ (Cutler, 2008), means policy should be more inclusive of people who enable innovation rather than narrowly prioritising the fields of science, technology, and business. A more coherent innovation strategy that encourages collaboration in ways that build knowledge means recognising the role of the arts in innovation. This book indicates the benefits of arts-science collaborative work in scientific organisations. Yet government policy shows little recognition of the contribution of the arts to innovation, and what recognition exists has tended to remain at the level of rhetoric. Better resourcing and supports through policy initiatives are needed for the arts to extend their contribution to the Australian Government’s innovation agenda. Funding for programs such as the Synapse residency program and organisations like ANAT can expand collaborative, transdisciplinary research and work involving the arts. The sixteen-week timeframe of Synapse projects was highly valued but should be extended. As Henschke pointed out, it was barely enough time to get to know the organisation, its people and how things work, let alone do much research. Artists and scientists all contributed much more time than was funded. Projects would be enhanced by: • longer durations (for example six month or year-long residencies), • funding that recognises the artists’ extensive professional experience. Grants are modest for a sixteen-week commitment, and • the extension of funding to scientists, rather than presuming they will give their time freely to support the partnerships, could provide more time for collaborative work.

 ethinking Innovation and Implications for Workplaces: R Building Capacity for Innovation The intervention of artists in scientific workplaces is shown in this book to have innovative effects which have implications for organisations. Innovation was supported by three interrelated factors – the workplace environment, the ways in which work was ordered and learning in practice. These spaces were mediated by boundary brokers and agencies, artefacts and hybrid spaces. Organisations and managers can better support and build capacity for innovation by recognising how these key dimensions and mediating effects can enable or disable innovation.

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There are complex psychological and social processes involved in transdisciplinary collaboration. Given the challenges, there is a need to further investigate and develop models and methods to train people for effective transdisciplinary collaborative work. While this book argues for collaborative, transdisciplinary approaches to innovation in workplaces, conformity can also result from teamwork that stifles innovation. Transgressive practices support innovation but encouraging this approach to innovation also challenges organisations that focus narrowly on conformity to established codes and practices. Time and space for experimentation, risk-­ taking, journeying and ‘not knowing’ emerged as important characteristics of learning-through-working and helped to develop innovations. The point is that innovation through Synapse projects rested on knowledge building processes rather than outcomes-driven organisational management.

 ethinking Innovation and Implications for Education: R STEM-­STEAM and Transgression Cutler’s report in 2008 argued for the development of the creative sectors as a platform for national innovation, and for arts education in providing skills for innovation. The findings of research presented in this book also point to the need for transdisciplinary education through activities that help build respect for different ways of knowing and doing. The implication is that art(s) education should be extended as a curriculum that incorporates transdisciplinary collaboration to help produce the best innovators. The arts can help to make the ideas of science, and the social implications of scientific and technological development, visible and more public. Such visibility can enhance students’ learning through STEM education in schools and suggests there is value in extending STEAM education as a way of better supporting innovation. Funding cuts to art(s) education that have prevailed in recent years just don’t make sense in an innovation-driven economy. Rather than seeing the arts as some kind of ‘add on’ to STEM education, more work needs to be done to develop integrative teaching methods that honour the STEAM disciplines and their respective methodologies equally in the design of curricula. There is also a need for research on different curriculum models that have already been taken up and the outcomes of those models. And rigorous research is required on ways of implementing STEAM curricula, as well as supports and constraints to implementation given the discipline-based curricula that dominates education, particularly in secondary schools, in Australia. I am not suggesting that disciplinary knowledge should be watered down in schools in total favour of transdisciplinary curricula. On the contrary, this book shows how artists and scientists relied on each other’s deep disciplinary knowledge and experience in order for projects to proceed effectively. Nevertheless, STEAM education offers great potential as a means of developing skills and capacities needed for transdisciplinary work and innovation in future workforces.

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Shifting Paradigms The use of the concept of ‘transgression’ in this book, drawn largely from feminist literature as a lens for considering transdisciplinary practice, is a distinctive contribution to research on workplace learning. Recognising transgression helps to extend thinking about innovation and how innovation can be better supported through transgressive practices. Questioning normative practices and transgressing ‘sacred’ boundaries should be seen as positive and productive processes when they encourage innovation. This book highlights the value of transgressive practices and the transgressive standpoint of artists because these ways of seeing and knowing the world can contribute to innovation in collaborative, transdisciplinary work. The book shows that innovation is not restricted to the domains of science and technology but also occurs in the arts. Artists can contribute to scientific workplaces by enhancing the collective power of transdisciplinary art-science learning-through-working. Yet arts contributions to innovation can only occur with authorisation and support from government, within organisations, and with recognition of innovation in the arts as innovation. So, what is the Australian community to have: narrow support for privileged fields of endeavor, or a paradigm shift towards nurturing ‘innovative spirit’ and collective engagement in innovation?

References Cutler, T. (2008). Venturous Australia: Building strength in innovation. Cutler & Company Pty Ltd. Department of Industry, Innovation, Science, Research and Tertiary Education. (2009). Powering ideas: An innovation agenda for the 21st century. Commonwealth of Australia. http://apo.org. au/node/14475 Duguid, P. (2005). “The art of knowing”: Social and tacit dimensions of knowledge and the limits of the community of practice. The Information Society: An International Journal, 21(2), 109–118. https://doi.org/10.1080/01972240590925311 Felstead, A., Fuller, A., Jewson, N., & Unwin, L. (2009). Improving working as learning. Routledge. Fenwick, T. (2003). Innovation: Examining workplace learning in new enterprises. Journal of Workplace Learning, 15(3), 123–132. https://doi.org/10.1108/13665620310468469 Guile, D. (2009). Questioning the simplistic link between qualifications and labour market entry: New forms of expertise and learning in the creative and cultural sector (LLAKES Research Papers). Retrieved March 3, 2013, from http://www.llakes.org/Home/llakes-­research-­papers Haraway, D. (2008). When species meet. University of Minnesota Press. Harding, S. (2004). A socially relevant philosophy of science? Resources from Standpoint Theory’s controversiality. Hypatia: A Journal of Feminist Philosophy, 19(1), 25–47. https:// doi.org/10.2979/HYP.2004.19.1.25 Hasse, C., & Brandi, U. (2012). Employee driven innovation: From spontaneous idea generation to new collective practices. In S. Høyrup, C. Hasse, K. Møller, M. Horst, & M. Bonnafous (Eds.), Employee-driven innovation: A new approach (pp. 127–149). Macmillan Publishers Limited. Heiskanen, T., & Heiskanen, H. (2011). Spaces of innovation: Experiences from two small high-tech firms. Journal of Workplace Learning, 23(2), 97–116. https://doi. org/10.1108/13665621111108774

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Høyrup, S. (2012). Employee-driven innovation: A new phenomenon, concept and mode of innovation. In S.  Høyrup, M.  Bonnafous-Boucher, C.  Hasse, M.  Lotz, & K.  Møller (Eds.), Employee-driven innovation: A new approach (pp. 3–33). Palgrave Macmillan. Somerville, M. (2006). Subjected bodies, or embodied subjects: Subjectivity and learning safety at work. In S. Billett, T. Fenwick, & M. Somerville (Eds.), Work, subjectivity and learning (Vol. 6, pp. 37–52). Springer. https://doi.org/10.1007/1-­4020-­5360-­6_3

Notes

Sources and details of images used in this book are listed below: Chapter 1 Fig. 1.1 Patricia Piccinini, Skywhalepapa Launch (February 2021). Skywhalepapa (right) with his companion The Skywhale (2013) (left). Hot air balloons. (Photograph from Drome Studios. Courtesy of the artist. The Skywhale was commissioned for The Centenary of Canberra. The Piccinini Hot Air Balloon (2013) was proudly supported by the Australian Capital Territory Government) Chapter 4 Fig. 4.1 The Wassily chair (originally called the Model B3 chair) [Chair]. Reproduction, originally designed by Marcel Breuer (1925). (Photographed by Lorkan (Own work). Reprinted in accordance with Creative Commons license CC BY-­SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-­sa/3.0), via Wikimedia Commons. https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Bauhaus_3_Chair.jpg) Chapter 5 Fig. 5.1 Truman, C. (2011). The Fine Bones of the Hand, Anatomy Lab [Photograph]. http://truman2011.anat.org.au/ Fig. 5.2 Truman, C. (2011). Talking Hands [Photograph]. http://truman2011. anat.org.au/ Fig. 5.3 Truman, C. (2011). Hybrids [Sculptures]. http://truman2011.anat.org.au/ Fig. 5.4 Rosengren, M. (2011). Reimaging Nature: Hidden Visions and Ground Truth [Exhibition poster]. http://rosengren2011.anat.org.au/ Fig. 5.5 Henschke, C. (2010). LightCurve fraction [Still from animation]. http:// henschke2010.anat.org.au/files/2010/09/lightcurve-fraction.mov

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 L. White-Hancock, The Art and Science of Innovation, Transdisciplinary Perspectives in Educational Research 7, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-33132-9

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Chapter 8 Fig. 8.1 Truman, C. (2014). Sensate Gloves #6 [Giclée print on German etching paper]. In Salmon, F. & Reece, M. (Curators). The Microscope Project. [Exhibition catalogue]. (p. 37). Flinders University Art Museum, Adelaide, SA, Australia.

Index

A Activity Theory, 34 Actor Network Theory, 36 Affordances, 36, 42, 56, 119, 154 Airbus, 43 Albers, J., 61, 64, 69 Amabile, T., 32, 33 ANAT, see Australian Network for Art and Technology (ANAT) Apprenticeship, 54 Artefacts, 3–5, 34, 40, 41, 57, 58, 62–64, 67, 68, 79, 80, 83, 85, 87, 90, 91, 94, 99, 107, 108, 110, 121, 123, 125, 126, 128, 131, 132, 139, 142, 144, 155–157, 159, 161, 162 and change processes, 28 Articulations: True Stories, 85–87 Artistic interventions in organisations, 40 Artist-scientist, 87 The arts definition, 4 Arts and Crafts Movement, 54, 62 Arts practice as research, 61 Australian Government innovation policy, 22 Australian Innovation System Report, 7, 23 Australian Network for Art and Technology (ANAT), 8, 76–79, 81–83, 86, 87, 89, 91, 92, 99, 114, 116, 137, 140, 155, 157, 161, 162 Australian Synchrotron, 79–80 Australia 2030: Prosperity through Innovation, 23 Authentic workplace settings, vii, 38, 42, 46, 153

Aviation Psychology Program (APP), 103 B Backing Australia’s Ability, 16, 22 Bakunin, M., 111 Banks, J., 87, 92, 136 Bauhaus, 10–11 architectural bridging mechanisms, 57 architectural spaces, 57–58 collaborators, 56 Corporation, 57 curriculum, 56–57 diaspora in Australia, 69 evenings, 58 influence, 68–69 laboratory-workshops, 58 as a liminal space, 52 Manifesto, 54, 55 and the new machine alphabet, 55 paternalism, 52 and political opposition, 54 theatre, 58 transgression, 70 Bayer, H., 53–64, 69 Berger, J., 21, 123 Bernstein, M., 43 Berthoin Antal, A, 8, 40, 67, 68, 107, 112, 136 Billett, S., 36 Boland, M., 9, 76, 79, 88, 92, 95, 111, 113–115, 137, 139, 141, 142, 146, 158 Border work, 39, 40, 64, 105, 129

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 L. White-Hancock, The Art and Science of Innovation, Transdisciplinary Perspectives in Educational Research 7, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-33132-9

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170 Boundaries, 2 as bridges, 28 definition, 18 as fluid and permeable, 28 as sites of innovation, 38 and transgression, 19 Boundary brokers, 60, 115, 157 Boundary-crossing, 19 Boundary-less, 124 Boundary negotiation objects, 28 Boundary zone, 11, 18, 19, 38, 52, 64, 151, 154, 159, 160 Bourdieu, P., 26 Bourgeois, L., 125 Brandt, M., 54, 64 Breuer, M., 62, 64 C Capturing the side ghosts, 142, 145 Chaos and innovation, 40 Chubb, I., 7, 23 Collaboration, 32 Collective power, 164 Colliding Ideas: Arts, Society and Physics, 144 Commonalities, viii, 12, 107, 136, 138, 147, 148, 158 Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organisation (CSIRO), 15, 76, 79, 85–87, 91, 92, 97, 104, 108, 113, 117–119, 125, 127, 132, 136, 137, 142, 144, 154, 156, 157 Communicating the body, 81–85, 90 Community of Practice (CoP), 27, 34 Complexity Theory, 36 Congressional STEAM Caucus, 65 Conseil Européen pour la Recherche Nucléaire (CERN), 89, 105, 106, 116, 143 Cook, Captain J., 87, 136 Co-operation and collaboration assumptions of, 44 Co-producing innovation Bauhaus, 68 Correlations between scientists avocations and professional impacts, 43 Cost of negotiating difference, 105 COVID 19, 27, 44, 152 Creative arts definition, 4 Creative Nation, 15, 22 Critical Incident Technique, 104, 154, 160

Index Cult, 110 Cultural Historical Theory, 34 Cultural production, 129 Culture clash, 12, 114, 115, 119, 131, 136, 154 Culture-order, 12, 41–42 Cutler, T., 3, 7, 22, 24, 55, 162, 163 Cyborg, 20 D Data sharing, 89, 94, 113, 139 Department of Anatomy and Histology Flinders University, 80–81 Deutsche Werkbund, 54 Dewey, J., 12, 21, 35, 37, 61, 121, 122 Disciplinary identities, 109 Disciplinary myths, 12, 98, 104–109, 115, 119, 136, 147, 157 Discipline and practice, Michel Foucault, 26 Disciplines and occupations, 45 Discretion, 37, 40, 44, 46, 59, 61, 78, 95, 99 Disruption, 40, 67 Diverse knowledge practices, 156 Double-loop learning, 32 Drucker, P., 32, 33 Duchamp, M., 129, 130 Durkheim, E., 18, 34 E Ecological models of innovation, 33 Einstein, A., 59 Eisner, E., 12, 21 Einstein-Rosen bridges, 93 Embodied learning, 38, 121, 125–126 Embodied skills and Knorr Cetina, K., 27 Employee-driven innovation, 10, 33–36, 40, 41, 68 Evolutionary processes and Haraway, D., 20 Expansive learning, 6, 34, 37, 41, 42, 44–46, 52, 56–59, 67, 70, 99, 106, 107, 119, 122–125, 127, 132, 141–147, 153, 156 Expansive-restrictive continuum, 37 Experiencing collaborative, transdisciplinary work, 154–155 F Factory school Owen, R., 63

Index Feldenkrais, 90, 125, 139, 158 Felstead, A., 6, 35, 37, 41 Feminist perspective, vii, xi, 5, 47, 154 Fenwick, T., 35, 39, 43, 119, 122, 124, 125, 138, 159 Ferris, B., 23 Flanagan, J., 103 Fontana, F., 82 Foucault, M., 18, 19, 26, 118 and transgression, 19 Freedom, 44, 58, 61, 78, 80, 94, 95, 99, 112, 118, 132, 145–147, 155 of access, 94, 95, 99, 118 to think differently, 146–147 Frontier zone, 93, 140 Fuller, A., 6, 35, 37, 41 G Garnier, H., 43 Gatekeepers, 111 Gender imbalance, 129 Gesamtkunstwerk total work of art, 58 Gibbins, I., 9, 76, 80–82, 90, 91, 94, 96, 106, 114, 116, 122, 123, 127, 131, 136, 137, 144, 145 GlaxoSmithKline, 43 Globalisation, 36, 41, 44, 152 The ‘glove dissection’ incident, 106–108, 122, 139 Gropius, W., 53–55, 57, 58, 60, 61, 63, 69 Guile, D., 35, 37, 38, 42, 63, 68, 124, 125, 153 Guterres, A., 44 H Habitus, 26 The ‘hammer threat’ incident, 104–106 Haraway, D., 5, 17, 19 accidental couplings, 28 and kinship, 20 purity of type, 20 Harding, S., 10, 17, 154 Heiskanen, H., 40, 153 Heiskanen, T., 40, 153 Henschke, C., 9, 76, 79, 88, 89, 93, 95, 104, 109, 110, 116, 122, 129, 130, 138, 140, 143, 146 Holism, 11, 52, 65 Høyrup, S., 33, 34, 39–41, 43, 44, 52, 56, 61, 64, 80, 98, 124, 131, 138, 154, 156 Human-machine interactions, 144

171 Hybrid, 5, 12, 20, 70, 81, 98, 138, 147, 152, 159, 161, 162 identities, 12, 70, 81 Truman, 83 Hybrid/in-between spaces, 157 I In-between spaces, 157 Information hording, 44 Innovation definition, 3–4 ecosystems, 33 enabling cultures, 42 in government policy, 15 Inquiry into Innovation and Creativity: Workforce for the New Economy, 23 Integration, 7, 11, 52–56, 65, 66, 122, 125, 132, 138, 159 Intellectual Property (IP), 77, 114, 115 Intemann, K., 17 Interaction, 18, 27, 28, 38, 40, 43, 46, 47, 52, 53, 57, 63, 78–80, 87, 90, 92, 94, 100, 125, 128, 131, 138, 139, 144, 151, 157 Interdisciplinary definition, 5 Itten, J., 64 J Jaaniste, L., 24, 143 Jewson, N., 6, 35, 37, 41 Journeying, 12, 21, 27, 118, 121–125, 128, 132, 155, 158, 163 Journeymen, 42 K Kandinsky, W., 53 Kennedy, C., 9, 76, 79, 85, 87, 92, 117, 124, 136, 144 Klee, P., 53, 62, 64 Knorr Cetina, K., 27 Knotworking and Engeström, Y., 10, 34, 36, 45 Knowledge, 4 protection, 113 tacit knowledge, 32 transfer, 32, 45 Knowledge-based economy, 43 Knowledge boundaries, 18, 28, 39, 44, 59, 128, 139 Knowledge flows, 156

172 Knowledge sharing, 32–34, 45, 46, 104, 109, 110, 112–115, 152, 153, 156 Kvarnström, S., 104 L Large Hadron Collider, 106 Learning, 4 economy, 43 in practice, 37, 42–43 organisation, 32 Learning how to work together, 156 Learning-through-working, vii, xi, 9, 36, 39, 151, 160 definition, 6 Lightbridge Henschke, C. and Boland, M., 88–89, 92, 116, 139, 143 Lightcurve fraction, 140 Liminality, 19 Liminal spaces, see Space Linnaeus, C., 136 Lukacs, G., 17 M Making the ideas of science visible, 143–145 Management and innovation, 39 Manipulandum, 123 Marx, K., 18, 34 Merian, M.S., 85, 92 Microscopes, 80, 126, 128, 132, 142, 144, 145 Moholy-Nagy, L., 53, 54, 59, 69 Multidisciplinary definition, 5 N National Innovation and Science Agenda, 65 National Innovation and Science Agenda: Welcome to the Ideas Boom, 23 National Innovation System, 22 Nature’s Little Helpers and Piccinini, P., 24 Naturecultures, 24 Netsuke, 83, 112 Nissley, N., 41, 43 Not Absolute: With My Eyes Closed, 137 Not knowing, x, 132, 137, 138, 141, 158, 159, 163 O Open environment, 94

Index Open-minded, 95, 106, 111 Openness, 95, 125 The ‘order of things’ and Foucault, M., 19 The organisation of work and workplace environments, 39–41 Organisational culture, 41–43, 106 Organisational studies, 32 Outsider, 18, 19, 43, 110, 112, 118 P Pedagogical methods, 66, 90, 124 Piccinini, P., viii, 1–3, 16, 24–26, 142, 152, 159, 167 Pit sense, 38 Positivist paradigm, 21 Power relations, 39, 41, 105 Powering ideas, 22 Practice definition, 26 Productive system, 37, 60, 63, 64, 117 Psychological ‘rollercoaster, 155 R Respectful, x, 80, 97, 98, 100, 118, 132, 147, 156 Restrictive learning, 6, 37, 41, 117 Rethinking innovation implications for theory, 160–161 implications for government policy, 162 Ricci tensor, 93 Risk-taking, 40, 46, 58, 66, 132, 156, 163 Root-Bernstein, R.S., 43 Rosengren, M., 9, 76, 77, 79, 85, 87, 91, 92, 94, 96, 97, 108, 109, 124, 129, 136, 137, 139, 144 S Safe environment, 40, 100, 105–107, 153, 156 Schumpeter, J., 3 Science and culture, 18 Science as culture, 18 Science, technology, engineering and mathematics (STEM), 4, 8, 11, 13, 23, 24, 31, 65, 66, 151–164 ‘Scientific’ method of management, 41 Seddon, T., 36 and cross-cultural learning, 36 Shifting paradigms, 164 Situated knowledge, 17, 18, 21, 27 Skywhale, viii, 1–5, 16, 24–26, 167

Index Skywhalepapa, viii, 1–3, 25, 167 Social boundaries, 18 Social spaces, 153 The ‘soil collection’ incident, 108–109 Space Bauhaus architectural space, 57–58 Bauhaus theatre as a liminal space, 58 definition, 40 hybrid, 41, 98, 100 in-between, 19, 39, 52, 98, 100, 138, 145 liminal, 58 mental space, 40, 53–55, 81–89 physical space, 40, 53, 55–58, 76–81 social space, 18, 40, 53, 58–59, 76–78, 94–100 Specialisation of occupations, 45 SPECTRA Images and Data in Art/Science, 92, 144 Standpoint theory, 17, 18, 21, 25, 70 STEAM, 11, 13, 23, 52, 56, 65, 66, 69, 143, 163 STEAM education, 11, 13, 23, 65, 66, 69, 163 STEM, 163 Strauß, A, 8, 40, 67, 68, 107, 112, 136 Studio-laboratories, 52 Subjectivity, 107, 128 Susini, C., 82 Swarm Creativity, 33 Symbiotic boundary-crossing, 19 Symbolic boundaries, 18 Synapse Residency Program, 8, 76 Systems Theory, 32 T Tacit knowledge, 32, 38, 45, 153 Taken-for-granted assumptions, 16, 158 Teamwork, 32, 45, 104, 163 Tearooms, 40, 80, 98–100, 138, 157 Technoculture, 24 Technology, vii, x, 1, 2, 4, 8, 15, 16, 20, 23–25, 52, 54, 56, 79, 87, 91, 94, 126–128, 131, 146, 152, 162, 164 Time and space, xi, 11, 63, 69, 71, 157, 159, 160 Tolstoy, L., 21 Transdisciplinary, 1–13

173 definition, 5 learning, 52–53, 65 skills for transdisciplinary work, 46 Transference and Engeström, Y., 45 Transformation, 3, 28, 39, 46, 47, 70, 126 Transgression definition, 19–20 of ‘sacred’ boundaries, 28, 35 Transgressive learning-through-working supports and constraints, 155–157 Truman, C., 9, 76, 80, 81, 83, 89, 96, 98, 106, 108, 110, 112, 123–126, 128, 131, 136, 139, 144 Trust, 37, 45, 56, 96, 100, 110 Turner, V., 19 U Unexpected learning, 138 Unwin, L., 6, 35, 37, 41 V van Gennep, E. liminality, 19 Venturous Australia, 22 Vivisection, 128, 129, 131, 154 W Wassily chair Bauhaus, 62 Weber, M., 18 Wenger, E., 10, 27, 34, 36, 38, 44, 59, 60, 109, 115, 119, 124, 128 With the Body in Mind, 82 Wittgenstein, L., 27 Working as Learning Framework (WALF), 37, 60, 63, 64, 99, 113, 117, 119, 156 Workplace culture-order, 41–42 Workplace learning development of, 35–36 Z Zone of discomfort, 121, 128–131, 147