Subjectivity and Synchrony in Artistic Research: Ethnographic Insights 9783839444474

Table of contents :
Table of contents
Chapter 1: Approaching an elusive field
Chapter 2: Ethnographic field research
Chapter 3: Recounting the field
Chapter 4: Reflections on research dynamics
Acknowledgments
References

Citation preview

Johanna Schindler Subjectivity and Synchrony in Artistic Research

Culture and Social Practice

Johanna Schindler, born in 1986, is a cultural scholar and works as a project coordinator of the long-term research project “Technosphere (2015-19)” at Haus der Kulturen der Welt, Berlin. Previously, she was a curatorial assistant at Kunstmuseum Liechtenstein and a research fellow at Zeppelin University, Germany, from which she also holds a PhD. She has studied in Halle, Paris, and Friedrichshafen, and her research interests include epistemic practices, cultural production, and arts organizations.

Johanna Schindler

Subjectivity and Synchrony in Artistic Research Ethnographic Insights

This publication was kindly supported by WÜRTH Chair of Cultural Production, FUSY, and ZUGS, Zeppelin University, Friedrichshafen. Dissertation of Zeppelin University Reviewers: Prof. Dr. Martin Tröndle, Prof. Dr. Claudia Mareis, Prof. Dr. Wolfgang Krohn Date of disputation: September 18, 2017

© 2018 transcript Verlag, Bielefeld Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available in the Internet at http://dnb.d-nb.de Cover design: Leaky Studio Copyediting: Jaclyn Arndt Printed by Majuskel Medienproduktion GmbH, Wetzlar Print-ISBN 978-3-8376-4447-0 PDF-ISBN 978-3-8394-4447-4

Table of contents Chapter 1: Approaching an elusive field | 7  

1.1   Previous studies and recent developments | 10   1.2   Analytic approach of the present study | 13   Chapter 2: Ethnographic field research | 25  

2.1   Selecting the cases | 26   2.2   Participant observation and qualitative interviews | 34   2.3   Developing case descriptions | 38   Chapter 3: Recounting the field | 41  

3.1   Description of Case A | 41   3.2   Description of Case B | 87  

Chapter 4: Reflections on research dynamics | 137  

4.1   4.2   4.3   4.4   4.5  

Affect theory | 138   Synchronizing practices | 145   Forms of trust | 148   Boundary objects, technology, and trust | 155   Implications for the field | 161  

Acknowledgments | 167   References | 169  

Chapter 1: Approaching an elusive field Is Artistic Research a sign of contemporaneity? (Caviezel & Schwander, 2015, p. 44)

Let me start with an observation. Or better still: with an impression. Artistic research seems to be everywhere. Once you start looking for it, fields that deploy a combination of both scientific and artistic approaches are almost innumerable. They include, to name a few, geography, architecture, urban studies, physics, biology, technology, politics, criminology, design, and medicine. Additionally, artistic research exists in many formats and diverse locations: exhibitions, performances, and sound installations take place in museums, theaters, galleries, and independent project spaces sometimes specifically founded to present artistic research approaches. The regular activities of university research projects, education programs, and artists who work in laboratories and other cooperative research settings often include conferences and symposia. The latter are accompanied by publications such as catalogs, journal articles, edited anthologies, and monographs. Unsurprisingly, the publications and publication formats in the field of artistic research have become almost innumerable. This is also linked to the recent foundation of various online journals. Some of these journals, such as Studies in Material Thinking (launched in 2007),1 are discipline specific, which is why they are difficult to find if searching for simple keywords such as “artistic research.” Journals such as Research Cultures (launched in 2015)2 were initiated to commission trans1

See https://www.materialthinking.org.

2

See https://researchcultures.com.

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disciplinary research contributions in and on the broader field of artistic research. Others were established as independent or institutional peer-review journals based on submissions. The first of these journals was the Journal of Artistic Research, initiated in 2011.3 It maintains a pioneering role due to its database, called Research Catalogue,4 which was established to archive and enable open access to publications in the field. In addition, it encourages contributions from both academic research contexts and artisticexperimental settings. Comparable independent journals are continent. (first issue published in 2011) and Glass Bead (initiated in 2016).5 University-based journals in this field include, for example, activate (launched in 2011); RUUKKU (launched in 2013), which uses Research Catalogue as a storage system and format for its issues; PARSE (first issue published in 2015); and ELSE (first released in 2016).6 Finally, some artistic research projects publish their research output on a specifically designed website in addition to or as a conscious alternative to print versions.7 Most of these journals were founded as open-access platforms. This is not specific to the field of artistic research; rather, one can note a general trend in academia to contribute to the democratization of access to research results. What is noteworthy, though, is that the presentation formats and dissemination strategies of artistic research projects are increasingly individualized and adapted to the content. That is, they are not limited to, for example, an exhibition or an edited volume anymore. In addition to these formats, the participating researchers create online manuals, publish journal articles, and develop festival contributions to reach out to their corresponding peer group. This means that according to the various disciplines involved in artistic research endeavors, specific channels are used and developed to disseminate the research results within various distinct communities, and, hence, to spread artistic research approaches across disciplines. If ubiquity is an indicator for contemporaneity, then Caviezel and Schwander’s question that opens this chapter deserves an affirmative an-

3

See http://jar-online.net.

4

See https://www.researchcatalogue.net.

5

See http://continentcontinent.cc/ and http://www.glass-bead.org/journal.

6

See http://www.thisisactivate.net; http://ruukku-journal.fi/en/; http://parsejournal.com/journal/; and http://www.elsejournal.org/.

7

See, for example, http://windtunnelbulletin.zhdk.ch.

Approaching an elusive field | 9

swer: artistic research indeed seems to be the current mode of research and production in many socially relevant fields. One could also speak of a trend. As such, this is where I would like to elaborate on my impression that artistic research is deployed in so many different ways that it becomes almost indistinct. The various labels used to denote artistic research initiatives tend to blur their content, and the individual projects’ contributions to the field often remain unclear. This not only makes the field difficult to grasp, but it makes an evaluation of artistic research exhibitions, presentations, or publications difficult. The conclusion I draw from this impression does not aim at an increased number of categorical differentiations already so frequent in the literature on artistic research. Taking into consideration the distinction between “research into art and design, research through art and design, research for art and design,” Frayling (1993, p. 5) proposes a predetermined scheme applicable to many different projects in the field of artistic research. Developing Frayling’s typology further, Dombois’ (2009) twodirectional differentiation between “research on / for / through art” as well as “art on / for / through research” (p. 13) provides a qualitative orientation for both artistic and research endeavors in congruence with the prepositions and working modes he lists. These and other definitions can be interpreted as attempts at delineating and clarifying, yet simultaneously homogenizing, the field. Even though some definitions offer qualitative classifications, their determinate character is somehow equivalent to muting the field. These typologies seem to eliminate the necessity of negotiations and confrontations on subjects, theories, terms, and methods. Yet, artistic and academic practices include critical inquiry and constant boundary pushing, moving between different subjects, switching fields and roles, and testing, adjusting, and discarding material, theories, and methods. Both artists and academics pick up current discourses and question inherent categories; put forward hypotheses and new notions that become the subject of discussion, criticism, dismissal, and redefinition; and raise questions instead of providing predetermined typologies, all while addressing varying communities and looking for publication formats that are suitable both for specific content and distinct audiences. Therefore, ongoing negotiations, discussions, and confrontations are and will persist in being characteristic for artistic research projects, that is, especially where several fields intersect.

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Against this background, my impression of artistic research as an omnipresent mode of inquiry and knowledge production evoked the following research questions: How do artistic and scientific disciplines actually work together? What are the topics, practices, politics, chances, and problems at stake? And which criteria can be used to individually and qualitatively evaluate artistic research projects? One approach useful in examining collaborative work in artistic research contexts is that of boundary objects (Star & Griesemer, 1989). Studying a group of museum practitioners with varying professional backgrounds and experiences, the authors found that the joint development of boundary objects such as maps or labels helped in translating between distinct interests and different practices inherent to collaborative work processes (p. 396). Therefore, the research questions underlying my study can be broadened as follows: Which role do boundary objects have in the context of artistic research projects? Which kind of knowledge do they evoke? And which indicators determine the quality of the impact boundary objects have in such research projects? To get a better understanding of artistic research processes, I decided to carry out a long-term ethnographic study based on the above research questions (see “Chapter 2: Ethnographic field research”). The aim of my study is to offer an in-depth perspective on the procedures, potentials, and risks of collaborative artistic research settings. To this end, two exemplary research settings are analyzed in greater detail in “Chapter 3: Recounting the field”: one stemming from the field of digital musical instrument design, and the other from the field of computer-controlled, responsive environments. A look at previous studies on artistic research and at the field’s more recent developments underlines both the necessity and the added value of a long-term ethnographic field study on artistic research environments.

1.1 PREVIOUS STUDIES AND RECENT DEVELOPMENTS This chapter’s introductory quotation is just one question from the EightySeven Questions on Artistic Research published by the Swiss Artistic Research Network (SARN) (Caviezel & Schwander, 2015). Artists, curators, gallery owners, researchers, and art critics contributed to this publication to

Approaching an elusive field | 11

raise questions about the field’s current issues and delineation. The contributors investigate topics that several volumes in the field of artistic research have extensively touched upon over the past decades. Without trying to approach exhaustiveness, these topics include, for example: •

•

•

•

•

•

•

General synopses of the field and its transdisciplinary methods (Badura et al., 2015; Caduff, Siegenthaler, & Wälchli, 2010; Hannula, Suoranta, & Vadén, 2005, 2014; Holert, 2011; Jürgens & Tesche, 2015; Tröndle et al., 2011; Tröndle & Warmers, 2012). The institutionalization of the arts in academia in relation to the artistic PhD (Buck, Hofhues, & Schindler, 2015; Dombois, 2009; Elkins, 2014; Nilsson, Dunin-Woyseth, & Janssens, 2017; Schwab & Borgdorff, 2014; Shanken, 2010; Slager, 2013; J. Wilson, 2018; M. Wilson & van Ruiten, 2014), as well as critical voices toward this tendency (Holert, 2010; Lynen, 2011; Maharaj, 2002; Sheikh, 2009; Steyerl, 2010). The acknowledgment of artistic and aesthetics practices as modes of research and pedagogic methods (Ambrožič & Vettese, 2013; Bippus, 2009; Butt, 2017; Dombois, Bauer, Mareis, & Schwab, 2012; Haas, 2018; Mersch, 2015). More specific foci on embodied, performative practices (Dertnig et al., 2014; Douglas & Coessens, 2011; Fentz & McGuirk, 2015; Johnson, 2011; Klein, 2007; Pakes, 2004; Snowber, 2016; Zembylas & Niederauer, 2016). Concrete examples of artists working in laboratory settings, cooperative research projects, and the distinction between and the complementary aspects of “artistic” and “natural scientific” practices (BridA, Kersevan, Mango, & Pavlica, 2009; Daniels & Schmidt, 2008; Duscher, Sachs, & Schulz, 2017; Eisner, 1981; Maeder, 2017; Puncer, 2008; Scott, 2006, 2010; Witzgall, 2003). The promotion of the arts’ epistemological potential and thence the democratization of knowledge production (Biggs & Karlsson, 2011; Borgdorff, 2010; Busch, 2009; Gibbons et al., 1994; Holert, 2014; Krohn, 2006; Mareis, 2012; Peters, 2013; Schwab, 2015; Stemmler, 2014; Zembylas, 2012). Overviews on epistemic practices in artistic research (Biggs & Karlsson, 2011; Caduff et al., 2010; Schindler, 2015), as well as the

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description and discussion of different forms of implicit knowledge inherent to artistic and academic research practices, such as “prereflective” (Borgdorff, 2010), “experiential” (Biggs, 2004, 2007; Mareis, 2012; Niedderer, 2007; Niedderer & Imani, 2008; Zembylas, 2012), “embodied” (Johnson, 2011; Tröndle, 2012), “sensuous” (Bergen National Academy of the Arts, 2006 onwards), “material” (Zembylas, 2012), and “practical” (Mareis, 2012; Zembylas, 2012). Such a literature mapping cannot but be contested, since most of the publications mentioned above tackle more than just one of the above-mentioned topics. It follows that the methods and theories the authors refer to are very diverse. The discussion about epistemic practices is frequently linked to Polanyi (1983), because he lay an important foundation for reflections upon implicit forms of knowledge. The latter have been thoroughly discussed in regard to both their practical and theoretical implications (see literature mapping above). Publications with a focus on production processes in artistic research settings describe and reflect upon the translating function of boundary objects in reference to Star and Griesemer (1989) (see also “1.2.1 Boundary objects”). Discussions about research practices often stem from experiences of specific research projects. In these cases, Rheinberger (1997) and Latour (2005) are the most frequent references to describe laboratory settings or the interdependence between researchers, the materials they use, and the objects they produce. However, it needs to be stated that in-depth theoretical discussions about the research results are rather unusual. Instead, the reports often state that the projects requested increased project management and communication to strengthen mutual understanding (Damm, Hopfengärtner, Niopek, & Bayer, 2013; Könnemann, 2014). Secondly, the reflections emphasize that exchange about different practices proved to be enriching for the researchers involved (Fentz & McGuirk, 2015; Jürgens & Tesche, 2015; von Borries, 2015). Thirdly, they stress that the combination of artistic and scientific approaches enabled more encompassing and unexpected research results, which they could not have achieved with just one participating discipline (Chandler, 1999; Jürgens & Tesche, 2015; McNiff, 2008; see also the manifesto by Root-Bernstein, Siler, Brown, & Snelson, 2011). The reports sometimes remain on a descriptive level and emphasize that including the arts into the projects provoked aesthetic experiences and sensuous percep-

Approaching an elusive field | 13

tion (Rogers, 2015; Stemmler, 2014). In this context, the similarity between artistic and scientific practices is used to legitimize and affirm the fruitful combination of both (Engler, 1994; Legin, 2013; Mandelbrojt, 1994; O’Riley, 2011; Soto, 1994; von Borries, 2015). In sum, these case studies offer important insights into as well as reflections on methods and practices underpinning artistic research. Their conclusions, however, take an affirmative stance and do not address tensions or conflicts that arose during the research endeavors. Thereby, these conclusions remain superficial and offer only one rather positive perspective. Even though it is not surprising to experience different understandings of research practices and conflicting theoretical standpoints in transdisciplinary research settings, literature on specific artistic research projects does not tackle this issue.

1.2 ANALYTIC APPROACH OF THE PRESENT STUDY Instead of taking an entirely affirmative stance, my goal is to add an analytic layer to the current literature on the field with the help of the following three aspects. Firstly, the observation of various project phases in two different artistic research settings (see “2.1 Selecting the cases”) enabled me to look at what these projects claimed to contribute to the field and to examine whether their goals were in line with their methodological setup as well as the way these projects presented their outcomes. This analytic approach can be described as ecological in that it considers the entanglement of research processes, practices, materials, actors, and the development of boundary objects in relation to their institutional environment. Secondly, I will combine this macro perspective with a micro one, and examine how subjectivity influences artistic research settings. Observing the researchers during my ethnographic study quickly revealed that their individuality and respective backgrounds determined my overall impression of the research projects. More precisely, the researchers’ distinct competences, behavioral patterns, subjective moods, and reactions toward each other predominated the joint practices. At first glance, this might be a rather usual finding in transdisciplinary research groups. However, the mere gathering of different people who are supposed to collaborate over a certain

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period of time does not imply a naturally emerging, common work rhythm. Rather, it is necessary to get accustomed to each other and to become attuned to distinct behavioral patterns, skills, and experiences in collaborative research projects. This aspect has remained undiscussed in the literature on artistic research to date. Therefore, I will thirdly combine three theoretical perspectives that support the analysis of my findings on both macro and micro levels. One of these approaches is the above-mentioned notion of boundary objects. It was originally put forward by Star and Griesemer (1989) to examine heterogeneous research settings. Subsequently, Borgdorff (2012) adapted it to artistic research environments more specifically. Starting with an elaboration on boundary objects’ potential to structure research processes, I will go on to link them with Gibson’s theory of affordance (1986) to examine the material and practical characteristics of boundary objects, which, in turn, afford a boundary object’s uses. The concept is therefore helpful in analyzing how researchers perceive or do not perceive the affordances of a boundary object and in which situations they make or do not make use of them. The combination of the two approaches sustains a thorough examination of organizational structures, as well as of the development processes and potential uses of boundary objects. Both concepts inform the two case descriptions and are therefore introduced below. To carry out an encompassing analysis that integrates organizational aspects of research processes and subjective perception in respect to the examined research settings, I will complement the two theoretical concepts with a third approach from the field of affect theory. The latter is suitable to address how human and non-human bodies in a common environment affect each other. A notion brought forward in this context is affectif (Seyfert, 2012), which is closely linked to attunement (ibid.) and synchrony (Koole & Tschacher, 2016; Wheatley et al., 2012). These concepts are useful in analyzing how various researchers’ individual moods and corresponding behaviors and reactions can be integrated and composed so as to create a research environment in which the researchers can work productively with their distinct competences and disciplinary backgrounds. Following the two case descriptions, an introduction to these notions and the broader field of affect theories serves as a point of departure into the reflections on my findings (“Chapter 4: Reflections on research dynamics”).

Approaching an elusive field | 15

Such iteration between theoretical and methodical foundations, concrete case descriptions, and further theoretical reflections are characteristic of ethnographic research processes. In my specific case, the study is based on the above-outlined research questions. At the same time, I remained open and alert toward aspects that were important to the researchers or that I perceived as predominant during my field research. Hence, the structure of the study mirrors the iterative analytic process in that the theoretical concepts are introduced in different chapters. 1.2.1 Boundary objects Star and Griesemer’s (1989) interest in the management of heterogeneous research settings includes the analysis of the historical work records of the Museum of Vertebrate Zoology at the University of California, Berkeley. A group of researchers, administrators, collectors, entrepreneurs, and conservationists—in short, practitioners with “different visions stemming from the intersection of participating social worlds” (p. 396)—contributed to the institution’s development. The authors’ analysis reveals that the development of boundary objects was one possible strategy to mediate and translate between the heterogeneous interests, methods, and practices involved in the interdisciplinary collaboration. Star and Griesemer (1989) conceive of boundary objects as both plastic enough to adapt to local needs and the constraints of the several parties employing them, yet robust enough to maintain a common identity across sites. They are weakly structured in common use, and become strongly structured in individual- site use. These objects may be abstract or concrete. (p. 393)

The definition stresses the internal heterogeneity (see also Star & Griesemer, 1989, p. 408) and interpretive flexibility (see also Star, 2010, p. 602) of boundary objects: situated between different social worlds, they represent the different interests of these worlds. Therefore, they facilitate individual use and interpretation within each discipline as well as collective meaning making across the intersecting worlds. When they first put the concept forward, the authors developed a nonexhaustive typology of boundary objects. These included modular “repositories” such as libraries, vague “ideal types” such as diagrams, objects with

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“coincident boundaries” such as maps, and “standardized forms” of communication such as labels (Star & Griesemer, 1989, p. 410f.). These exemplary forms of boundary objects are useful on an organizational level: they foster exchange between practitioners from various backgrounds and are supposed to reduce potential tensions that can arise in collaborative work settings (ibid.). However, instead of resolving the tensions, “representations, or inscriptions, contain at every stage the traces of multiple viewpoints, translations and incomplete battles” (p. 413). This finally implies that the functions, meanings, and uses of boundary objects can vary over the course of collaboration. Applications and criticism The openness of the original concept of boundary objects is mirrored in the diversity of its interpretations, but also in the criticism it generated. For example, Fox (2011) addresses the forms of boundary objects. He states that boundary objects as conceived of by Star and Griesemer are located on a representative meta-level only (p. 82). In comparison, his analysis shows that technological objects themselves—as opposed to explanatory descriptions—could work as boundary objects as well (p. 80). Bergman, Lyytinen, and Mark (2007) take a similar perspective in considering boundary objects as too passive (p. 550). In an adaption of the original concept, they suggest that design boundary objects are more active in that they serve integrating stakeholder interests (ibid. and p. 552). However, through focusing on the mediation between producer and recipient, they neglect the fact that boundary objects are jointly developed by the people who simultaneously use them as meaning-making artifacts. Fujimura (1992) discusses the science-sociological scope of boundary objects. In reference to Latour, he criticizes that the constant need to negotiate boundary objects fosters ongoing construction instead of stabilization of facts. The latter, in his opinion, would be a requirement to generate wellfounded, substantiated scientific facts. (p. 174f.) Nevertheless, he acknowledges the “coordination and management of work across worlds” inherent to boundary objects (p. 176) (see also Koskinen & Mäkinen, 2009). While Fujimura considers the discursive need a disadvantage, others emphasize it as the particular strength of boundary objects. G. Wilson and Herndl (2007) analyzed knowledge maps created at a national laboratory. They show, on the one hand, that these maps facilitated the discursive distinction between

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different competences involved in the examined collaboration. On the other hand, they support identifying oneself with the team’s common interest and motivation (p. 138). The authors conclude that rhetoric oscillation between distinct and joint perspectives along a boundary object executes an integrative function that enables a community of practice to continue with its “shared action” (ibid. and p. 551). Conceiving of common perspectives in a different manner, Carlile (2004) goes as far as to conceptualize jointly developed knowledge as a boundary object. In collaborative projects, “old” knowledge is used to fulfill tasks, while new knowledge is simultaneously acquired and shared between the collaborators (p. 559). This hybrid form of knowledge then serves as a boundary object, that is, as a means to communicate across boundaries (p. 557). A more extensive literature review of studies that use boundary objects as analytic framework was carried out by Akkerman and Bakker (2011). Their review reveals that several studies predominantly focus on a boundary object’s “bridging function” in work and social contexts (p. 134). Despite the diversity of disciplinary approaches in the reviewed studies, Akkerman and Bakker (2011) distill four learning mechanisms and corresponding processes of boundary-crossing projects that were common to the studies they discuss: (1) identification serves learning about the collaborators’ practices as well as about one’s own working habits from a different perspective (p. 142f.); (2) coordination through routinized practices or standardized communication methods fosters the ongoing exchange and movement between different, simultaneous practices (p. 143f.); (3) reflection upon the various practices through explicit, discursive “perspective making” and “perspective taking” ideally leads to enriched standpoints upon which further practices are founded (p. 145f.); and, finally, (4) transformation might lead to the development of what could be called a hybrid, third practice; that is, through the constant explanation of the intersecting practices and worlds, new working methods could be enacted in the long run (p. 146ff.). To fully exploit the learning potential inherent to boundary-crossing endeavors, Akkerman and Bakker (2011) emphasize the following conditions: Firstly, the mechanisms mentioned above need to be accompanied by constant dialogical negotiation to explain and share meaning. Secondly, common meaning making implies neither that intersecting social worlds

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merge nor that boundaries disappear. On the contrary, the authors conceive of boundaries as dynamic and negotiable. Boundaries are a necessary means to enable the formation, understanding, and acceptance of a diversity of practices and perspectives (p. 152f.). Akkerman and Bakker’s literature overview reveals that the studies mainly focused on either the boundary objects’ bridging or their coordinative functions. Accordingly, the cited authors used qualitative attributes such as “positive” and “negative” (see furthermore Allen, 2014; Fox, 2011) as well as “promoting” and “inhibiting” (Fox, 2011), or metaphors such as “bridges” and “barricades” (see furthermore Oswick & Robertson, 2009) to indicate a boundary object’s success or failure in supporting joint work. In response to the variety of conceptual adaptations used, Star (2010) stresses that boundary objects should be considered in their entirety, that is, in regard to their scale and scope. In relation to scale, she specifies that boundary objects “are at once temporal, based in action, subject to reflection and local tailoring, and distributed throughout all of these dimensions. In this sense, they are n-dimensional” (p. 603). Therefore, Star emphasizes once more that boundary objects are most useful on an organizational level, where material and practical processes of a boundary object’s development and specific use—that is, their scope—can be analyzed (p. 604). Development into infrastructures Based on the fact that boundary objects mediate between social worlds but do not necessarily lead to consensus (see above), Star (2010) elucidates the dynamics inherent to the use of boundary objects. As stated above, boundary objects are used as abstract, ill-structured artifacts on a collective level or as concrete, well-structured artifacts on an individual level. Star states: “When necessary, the object is worked on by local groups who maintain its vaguer identity as a common object, while making it more specific, more tailored to local use with a social world, and therefore useful for work that is NOT interdisciplinary” (p. 604f., original emphasis). The oscillation between disciplinary and interdisciplinary work and use can lead to a boundary object’s development into an infrastructure. This is the case “when the movement between the two forms either scales up or becomes standardized” (p. 605). Such frequent, standardized use of infrastructures leads to their being embedded in other “structures, social arrangements and tech-

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nologies” (p. 611). In addition, infrastructures are transparent in that they are repeatedly usable for different tasks, which implies that they are not limited to one event or location. Furthermore, infrastructures reside in the practices of one specific community. Therefore, they inform and shape the community’s work and need to be learned by external people joining this community. Infrastructures are especially visible “upon breakdown” (ibid.), for example when a railway system or computer server temporarily stops working. Consequently, if changes are required, these take time to be developed and implemented. In focusing on a boundary object’s embeddedness in practices, sites, and uses, Star (2010) once more stresses the ecological aspect inherent to the original concept (see also Star & Griesemer, 1989, p. 388). Such an approach first and foremost allows for an in-depth analysis of the boundary object’s emergence and evolution in relation to the material used, the methods deployed, the people involved, and its environment. Secondly, its varying practical uses and epistemic potential can be studied. This implies looking at both its bridging and meaning-making functions as well as at further functions it might develop over time. In addition to such an encompassing practice-based analysis, the importance of constant discursive negotiation within the community of practice as suggested by Akkerman and Bakker (2011) should not be neglected. Boundary objects in artistic research In a discussion on the concept of boundary objects in artistic research settings, Borgdorff (2012) develops the following argument. He states that the material and practices used for the development of a boundary object, the environment in which it is created, and the questions it addresses define a boundary object’s character (p. 119). The artifact as well as the knowledge it evokes can therefore be considered as post- or transdisciplinary: boundary objects in artistic research contexts are not necessarily artworks; neither are they mere representations of results or processes. They are created with the help of artistic methods and can therefore be considered as art to a certain degree. In this manner, boundary objects enable meaning making both in academia and in artistic environments (ibid. and p. 120f.). This implies that boundary objects do not only influence the work processes of artistic research settings. In addition, they are often also used to

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disseminate research results, for example in visual displays, in theater, dance, or music performances, and in sound installations. Therefore, they address both a sensuous and a textual level of perception. In addition to artistic presentation formats, boundary objects are used to make research processes transparent. Practice-based artistic research master or doctoral programs, for example, usually require a written reflection on the final result. This serves to outline the used research methods as well as a broader theoretical contextualization of the practical, artistic part (See e.g. Ambrožič & Vettese, 2013; Leiderstam, 2009; M. Wilson & van Ruiten, 2014). In exhibition settings, research processes are often presented in the form of preliminary studies, drawings, or mappings, which accompany the actual artwork or result. Hence, boundary objects that served as a method during the work process can become a means of interpretation and analysis in staged environments. Bippus (2012) discusses the potential of modifiable laboratory installations as “critical knowledge productions” (p. 118f., original emphasis). As opposed to final artworks, which are to be interpreted, such modular settings artistically stage socially relevant topics. In this manner, they reach beyond the usual public of art experts and stimulate lay people to debate and reflect upon these questions as well (p. 119). Modular settings or installations that combine artistic elements with knowledge-related questions therefore facilitate reflective processes (ibid.). The preceding paragraphs show that boundary objects in artistic research settings have diverse forms, inhabit varying roles throughout the research process, and address several types of recipients. In the field of artistic research, the materiality of boundary objects opens up different analytical perspectives. This aspect is relevant already during the research process— that is, researchers contribute to the development of boundary objects with their knowledge and expertise. Since they create the artifact during the research process, it influences the research setting itself, by altering the procedures, potentially requiring changes in the methods used, and raising new questions. In this manner, boundary objects also impact the types of results, interpretations, knowledge, and presentation formats developed during artistic research projects. The congruence between boundary objects in artistic research settings and the ecological character of Star and Griesemer’s (1989) approach to heterogeneous work settings is difficult to overlook. If the role of boundary

Approaching an elusive field | 21

objects is analyzed in the context of artistic research, it is insufficient to only analyze their mediating function, or to focus solely on their role in the dissemination of research results. Rather, the practices, people, and environment involved in their creation need to be examined. In addition, boundary objects need to be observed over a long period of time. Only then can their varying roles be traced in regard to the aspects that induce changes in their meaning-making function and use. 1.2.2 Affordance A further fruitful approach to research environments based on an ecological analysis is Gibson’s theory of affordance (1986). It has not been discussed in particular regard to artistic research settings. It is, however, helpful in examining the use of artifacts such as boundary objects in relation to their characteristics and environment. Gibson (1986) examines the material and usable components of the environment in terms of what they offer, or “afford,” to fulfill an animal’s needs (p. 127f.). Defined by their material characteristics, affordances are “always there to be perceived” (p. 139). They can be considered stable. In addition, material attributes afford distinct actions. For example, a flat surface affords stable standing, sitting, or the putting of something on it; fruit affords eating, collecting, or the cooking of them; and a cushion affords feeling its softness, leaning back, or laying one’s head down on it. Each person or animal might, however, perceive affordances differently. Depending on their needs, they might make use of them (positive affordance) or not (negative affordance). (p. 137f.) That is, if a person is hungry, she might eat an apple from her fridge. If she is allergic to apples or if the apple is rotten, she will refrain from eating it despite her hunger and the apple’s general edibility. This short introduction reveals that the notion of affordance is helpful in examining in which situations and in what manner a person or animal perceives and uses their surroundings. Applying the concept to artistic research environments proves to be more difficult. While one could say that certain materials and tools have brought forward standardized practices, the specific potential of artistic approaches often lies in disusing or reusing material differently. Paint, for example, usually affords the use of a brush. By splashing paint onto a wall instead of a canvas, using the entire body cov-

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ered in paint to create a picture, or simply exhibiting a closed pot of paint as an artwork, the affordances of paint are expanded. This implies that despite the general stability of material characteristics, their affordances are non-exhaustive. Some might evolve into standardized uses, some might be forgotten over time, others might be substituted, and entirely different affordances will be added. The potential of affordance theory lies in this specific spatialtemporal—or in other words, ecological—perspective. In close connection to a person’s or animal’s needs, affordance theory opens up the ability to analyze the way in which people make meaning of a particular material or artifact available in their environment. A situation might also afford using an artifact contrary to the person’s need, for example, when it is perceived as a threat. Thus, as stated above, this approach can be used to examine when and how researchers develop and make use of boundary objects in different stages of the artistic research project. Gibson (1986) also addresses the affordances of and between people: What other persons afford, comprises the whole realm of social significance for human beings. We pay the closest attention to the optical and acoustic information that specifies what the other person is, invites, threatens and does. … The perceiving of these mutual affordances is enormously complex, but it is nonetheless lawful, and it is … just as much based on stimulus information as is the simpler perception of the support that is offered by the ground under one’s feet. [For other persons] can only give off information about themselves insofar as they are tangible, audible, odorous, testable, or visible. (p. 128 and 135)

Despite alluding to the relevance of senses in human interaction, Gibson does not provide a more elaborate framework for the analysis of bodily, sense-related information. His examples for the perception of the environment are concrete, but the theory falls short of explaining more complex social interactions. In conclusion, the two aforementioned theories are useful in examining the role of boundary objects in artistic research settings. However, the approaches neglect emotive and sense-related aspects. The latter are of particular relevance in heterogeneous work settings such as artistic research contexts. In his discussion on boundary objects in artistic research,

Approaching an elusive field | 23

Borgdorff (2012) states that performances or installation settings address an aesthetic, sensuous level of perception and knowledge generation (p. 120f.). Just as boundary objects have varying roles in different project stages, human senses and emotions are not only crucial for the perception of artistically staged research results, but they already have an impact on the research process. The human and non-human bodies—such as materials and technological equipment—involved in the creation of boundary objects influence each other during the development process; they affect each other. Especially in artistic research settings, bodily, sense-related practices as well as sensuous perception are of distinct importance. The fact that senserelated practices, the creation of boundary objects, and mutual affection influence research processes is mirrored in the two case descriptions in “Chapter 3: Recounting the field.” Before depicting the two cases in detail, I will next outline the methodological setup of my ethnographic study.

Chapter 2: Ethnographic field research

The examination of the above-mentioned research questions is founded on a long-term ethnographic field research setting. Over the course of one year, I observed two research projects carried out jointly by artists, designers, and scientists. One was located at a Swiss art academy (Case A), and the other was a cooperative project between a technical university and an arts university based in Germany (Case B). In both cases, I carried out three field research stays of one to five weeks each. These were organized in accordance with the cases’ respective development. There was a break of at least three months between each of my stays, allowing me to follow different phases of the examined projects. In this manner, I was able to deepen my understanding of the research questions and topics the teams dealt with, their teams’ practices, and the dynamics underlying the projects. The analysis of the two cases combined two qualitative methods. Firstly, participant observation as described in Spradley (1980) enabled a general overview of the two cases and a subsequent focus on distinct aspects. I recorded my observations in field notes according to the procedures described by Emerson, Fretz, and Shaw (2011). Secondly, qualitative interviews with the researchers served to validate my observations and clarify specific questions (Flick, 2007, p. 194ff.). Both methods were applied iteratively during my six field research stays. This setup in each case allowed me to proceed from global insights to a more focused analysis. Furthermore, I carried out interviews with several actors from the field of artistic research. These actors’ professional experience offered different perspectives on my research results and served as external validation. In addition, these conversations facilitated the relation of my specific case analyses back to the broader context of the field of artistic research.

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Below is a more detailed outline of the methodical procedure. The selection of the two examined cases is explained in section “2.1 Selecting the cases.” Afterward, I sketch out the concrete methods and analytic procedure (“2.2 Participant observation and qualitative interviews,” “2.3 Qualitative data analysis”). The final section outlines how I transformed the collected material into detailed case descriptions (“2.4 Development of the case descriptions”).

2.1

SELECTING THE CASES

In accordance with the conceptual foundations outlined in the introductory chapter, three criteria informed the case selection: (1) The project team should comprise researchers from both artistic and scientific backgrounds, who (2) worked together on one or several research questions in the field of artistic research. That is, the examined contents and the methods deployed should be relevant to both the arts and sciences. And (3) the projects should be long-term studies to enable repeated field research stays in different project phases and an iterative analytic process. This implied that the research projects needed to last at least one more year from our first contact onward, and that they should be in a rather early phase of activity. Starting my field research stays during a final project phase would have prevented me from following the project’s development in the long run, and I would have needed to rely on the researchers’ own retrospective reflections. Instead, I aimed to follow the researchers’ procedures in real time. The third criterion thus led to a comparative framework for my research at an institutional level: due to the academic funding system, universities and research institutes are more likely to initiate long-term projects than are independent artists or curator collectives and non-profit art spaces. In the latter case, cooperation occurs in loosely structured associations and develops spontaneously over a shorter period of time. The practices and procedures further differ from academic research in that they are, for example, directed toward the realization of one specific exhibition as opposed to the often multi-site and mixed-method research setup of academic projects. Larger research funding bodies, such as national funding agencies, usually grant a budget that comprehensively covers employee, material, and travel costs, as well as provides for financial resources to invite guests and to or-

Ethnographic field research | 27

ganize a symposium or performance event. The higher education context therefore was a secure source of information for my research. As a consequence of the way the academic environment is structured, the higher education political backgrounds of the selected cases provided a further comparative framework for my analysis. Given that artistic research funding structures in Austria, Germany, and Switzerland differ greatly, my initial goal was to select one exemplary case from each country (three cases in total).1 These funding differences can be summarized thusly: Artistic research in Austria explicitly focuses on artistic production and reflection while being methodologically open. Swiss projects favor applicable research results with the help of artistic approaches. In contrast to this, neither topics nor methods are more specifically defined in German artistic research contexts. A selection of three cases was intended to enable an analysis encompassing (1) the development and role of boundary objects, (2) the researchers’ different disciplinary backgrounds and practices, and (3) a comparison between how the particular political and funding backgrounds of Austria, Germany, and Switzerland manifest in concrete research endeavors. However, the responses from the field (see next paragraph) resulted in the selection of only two cases. One was initiated at a Swiss art academy (Case A) and the other was a cooperative project between a German technical and a German arts university (Case B). The higher education political backgrounds of Switzerland and Germany did indeed offer important insights regarding the development of each case—yet, without revealing any concrete results at this stage, different factors influenced their respective research dynamics to an even greater degree (see the detailed descriptions in “Chapter 3: Recounting the field”). In the following, I briefly outline how I accessed the field and summarize the feedback I received from the projects I had contacted as potential research sites.

1

The focus was also linked to funding practicalities: being based at a German university, I wanted to guarantee a substantial data set while simultaneously keeping the research costs at a reasonable level.

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Access to the field Based on the previously outlined criteria, I carried out an extensive online search for artistic research projects based at universities in Germanspeaking countries. The keywords I used were the English terms “artistic research,” “arts-based research,” “practice-based research,” and “art and science” and their German equivalents “Kunstforschung,” “künstlerische Forschung,” and “Kunst und Forschung.” The resulting research projects involved disciplinary backgrounds from the fine to the performing arts, design, social and natural sciences, and the humanities. Topics ranged from the role of bees in the ecosystem, to architectural modeling, to electronic letterboxes, to the design of cellulose-based jewelry. This approach allowed me to remain open toward the diversity of artistic research contexts.2 According to the information I found during my online search and preparatory phone calls, the majority of the projects were due to end within six months; additionally, some of the institutes had not (yet) planned any further research projects. However, my first inquiry in Germany was immediately successful: one of Germany’s largest technical and one of its most famous arts universities had started an official initiative (called “Initiative A” in the following) to establish collaborative projects between the two institutions, that is, projects at the intersection of the arts and sciences. What would be selected as Case B was mentioned among the research projects Initiative A supported. Since the project met the criteria underlying my methodological setup, Initiative A established the contact between Case B’s researchers and myself in November 2015. On the basis of a short outline of my research interests and setup as well as a short phone call, we agreed on an in-person meeting. The researchers were open to my research endeavor and agreed to my presence as an ethnographer, which led to an initial research stay of five weeks in January 2016. The second phase took place during two weeks in August 2016, the final phase of two weeks occurred in November 2016.

2

I quickly realized, however, that my basic understanding of and genuine interest in the topics of the final cases (computer-controlled environments in Case A and instrument design in Case B) facilitated communication with the researchers prior to and during the research phases. My personal interest in these cases fostered my professional credibility while simultaneously allowing me to ask simple questions that deepened my insights into the researchers’ practices.

Ethnographic field research | 29

In February and March 2016, I contacted twenty-two further projects, out of which seventeen were located in Austria and Switzerland. Despite several personal conversations over Skype, these discussions did not result in concrete cases I was able to include in my research. Consequently, I broadened the search to the international level and contacted twelve more research projects worldwide. As in my initial searches, this included laboratories famous for art-science collaborations, such as CERN in Swizterland and SymbioticA in Australia.3 The researchers’ first replies were usually positive. They stated their general interest in my research, and acknowledged the fact that I would be conducting an in-depth analysis of the field of artistic research. Nevertheless, some were reluctant to accept “an external observer” within their project. Even though I emphasized that my intention was not to evaluate their project but rather to understand their procedures, they denied my research request. Others stated that their research activities were related to frequent, spontaneous traveling, which made any long-term observation difficult. Once more, these positive initial discussions resulted in negative replies. In the end, I found the second case (Case A) through contacts I had previously established. The design and art research institute of a Swiss art academy organizes a colloquium in which I had participated several times. During one of these colloquia, Anna, Nick, and Steve, who composed the team of Case A, presented their project. At the time of their presentation, we discussed that their project might be suitable for my own research endeavor. I contacted Anna in February 2016 to ask which stage of the project they were in and whether they would still be open to me joining them as an ethnographer. This was the case, so a first research phase of three weeks was scheduled for May 2016, the second phase of two weeks for October 2016, and the final stay of one week for December 2016. Given the popularity of the field of artistic research and the myriad projects operating under this label, I had expected a greater number of potential cases to study. The projects I found during my initial search dealt with relevant questions, and their disciplinary compositions suggested promising insights. Yet it was difficult to “transform” them into concrete sites for my

3

For more on CERN, see http://arts.web.cern.ch/collide; for more on SymboticA, see http://www.symbiotica.uwa.edu.au.

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own research. As outlined above, this was due first to the iterative longterm study I intended to carry out. It was secondly related to the researchers’ hesitancy about an ethnographer’s external perspective on their research. One solution to this problem would have been to adapt by shortening or reducing the research phases in order to instead examine a larger number of cases. The particular strength of this book, however, lies in the depth of the insights I achieved through the repeated research stays. The breaks between these stays facilitated the ability to take a critical distance from the concrete research material. This oscillation between project-related and analytic work deepened understanding of the research topics on the one hand, and on the other, I was able to distill specific characteristics of the projects’ research dynamics. Therefore, my questions and hypotheses became more precise after each stay. Most importantly, only through slowly establishing a closer relationship between the researchers and myself did their openness toward my presence as an ethnographer increase. Because of this level of comfort and trust, they more readily shared their knowledge with me and also addressed more delicate topics, which were substantial for my analysis of the team dynamics. Therefore, even though the number of cases was limited, it simultaneously enabled in-depth qualitative analysis through iterative long-term study. Fact sheets of the two cases A fact sheet of each project shows why the two selected cases were particularly suitable to examining the role of boundary objects in artistic research settings. The researchers’ names are listed in the order in which they are mentioned in the two case descriptions below. To facilitate remembering their academic positions within their respective research projects as well as their disciplinary backgrounds these two aspects are mentioned in the fact sheets, too. These summaries are complemented by a brief overview of the funding structures for artistic research endeavors in the projects’ respective countries.

Ethnographic field research | 31

Case A Goal:

Boundary object: Location: Institution: Duration: Funding: Key researchers:

Further people:

Developing a responsive environment to empirically assess test persons’ behavior in computer-controlled atmospheres The responsive environment (“the setting”) Switzerland, major city (more than 100,000 inhabitants) Media and art research institute of a Swiss art academy (part of a technical college with 10,000 students) Two years Swiss National Science Foundation Anna (senior researcher, media and literature scientist) Nick (senior researcher, media artist) Steve (senior researcher, computer scientist) David (student assistant, computer scientist and programmer) Paul (research fellow at the institute, media scientist) Sarah (director of the institute, designer and cultural scientist) Jason (theater director) Mark (senior researcher at the institute) Lisa (actress) Nina (actress)

In Switzerland, two aspects are noteworthy in regard to the financial support artistic research projects can apply for. Firstly, there are two state institutions that fund artistic research in independent programs. These are the Swiss National Science Foundation (SNF) and the Commission for Technology and Innovation (CTI). The latter supports research-based innovation cooperation between universities and partners in industry. Secondly, Swiss art academies are affiliated to technical colleges. These technical colleges are dedicated to practice-related, applied research and development; they are not designated as universities. This necessitates that artistic research projects and art as well as any of the academic institutes depend on cooperation with national or international universities to award doctoral degrees.

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Case B Goal:

Boundary object: Location: Institutions:

Duration: Funding: Key researchers:

Further people:

Developing digital musical instruments, establishing a new classification system for these instruments, carrying out empirical audience research on the basis of the designed instruments, examining questions of sound spatialization The first digital instrument prototype (“the instrument”) Germany, major city (more than 100,000 inhabitants) Audio communication institute at a technical university (TU) with 34,000 students, media institute at an arts university (AU) with 4,000 students Three years A public foundation that supports local research projects Robert (project initiator TU, sound engineer and musicologist) Daniel (project initiator AU, artist, musician, and composer) Tom (senior researcher TU, musicologist) Michael (senior researcher AU, computer scientist) Mary (research fellow TU, musicologist and cultural scientist) Bill (research fellow TU, cognitive psychologist) Chris (research fellow TU, studio manager with an audio communication degree) John (research fellow AU, musician and sound engineer) Susan (research fellow AU, carpenter and product designer) Lauren (representative of Initiative A, literature scientist and social scientist) Richard (senior researcher, sound engineer who was ultimately appointed professor at an American university and did not participate in the research project)

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The funding situation in Germany can be summarized as follows. The current infrastructure of the German national funding agency Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft (DFG) does not include an independent category for the field of artistic research. The DFG does, however, support graduate schools in this field.4 As such, it fosters the academic institutionalization of the arts, a controversial topic discussed not only in Germany but internationally over the past years (see e.g. an obituary on artistic research by Hornuff, 2015; and a commentary in line with Germany's Higher Education Act: Lynen, 2011). Despite the controversy, this means most German art academies are deemed universities and thus are legally allowed to award doctoral degrees in the humanities. Consequently, universities’ internal research funds can be used for projects that fall under artistic disciplines. For matters of comparison, I shall briefly outline the funding situation in Austria as well. The Austrian Science Fund has become a pioneer in the field with its Programme for Arts-based Research (PEEK). It was established in 2009 and supports mainly university-affiliated research projects. In 2015, eight research projects with a duration of two to three years were funded with an amount between €310,000 and €340,000 each. According to its published mission statement, PEEK supports arts-based research as a non-commercial field that focuses on the production and reception of art (Austrian Science Fund, 2013, p. 3). The overall goal of the program is to foster the field’s professionalization and international visibility (p. 4). Through emphasizing the importance of intersubjective reflection of the artistic and aesthetic practices that the researchers use for their endeavors (p. 3f.), it simultaneously strengthens the institutionalization of the artistic PhD. Similarities and differences between the two cases The fact sheets reveal that both cases meet the three selection criteria of my methodological setup. That is, the intersection between the arts and sciences was mirrored in the projects’ research questions, which required a combination of artistic and scientific approaches. This was moreover mirrored in the team composition: the researchers stemmed from various disciplinary

4

See for example the graduate schools of the Berlin University of the Arts (http://www.dfg.de/foerderung/programme/listen/projektdetails/index.jsp?id=18 8727628&sort=nr_asc&prg=GRK®ion=&wb=&prgvar=).

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backgrounds, including the arts, design, humanities, and natural sciences. Finally, the teams had a period of two (Case A) and three years (Case B) respectively to gain concrete research results, allowing me to complete several research stays. The fact sheets also point to the structural differences between the two cases. First and foremost, they were located at institutions of different sizes. This did not only hold for the comparison between Case A and Case B, but also for the two institutions involved in Case B. Secondly, the number of participating researchers is noteworthy. In Case A, three researchers dealt with one research question, while in Case B, four research topics were distributed among seven researchers (the two project initiators had mainly representative functions). It is important to note the researchers were all employed on a part-time basis. While the research fellows worked almost exclusively on the work related to the two cases, the senior researchers were involved in additional research projects. Since the project descriptions suggested that the researchers jointly developed the above-listed artifacts— the setting and the instrument—I assumed that these two artifacts might function as boundary objects in the examined research settings. I anticipated that they fulfilled a mediating role across the various disciplinary backgrounds involved. In sum, the institutional differences and the researchers’ various disciplines suggested that an analysis of the two projects would reveal relevant insights regarding the organization of artistic research settings. In addition, the two selected cases were suitable for examining the emergent research dynamics and results in relation to the role of boundary objects. The concrete methods I deployed to carry out these analyses are described in the next section.

2.2

PARTICIPANT OBSERVATION AND QUALITATIVE INTERVIEWS

During each of my field research phases, I closely observed the researchers in their offices, workshops, team meetings, and classes in which they were instructors. I immediately recorded my impressions in detailed field notes as described in Emerson et al. (2011, p. 21ff.). Most often I used a pen and notebook and sometimes a computer to describe my observations. When

Ethnographic field research | 35

the researchers were working in a silent and concentrated manner, these observations were recorded in full sentences. In comparison, during official and informal conversations I made quick jottings that captured the most important content and buzzwords. I added drawings whenever useful to facilitate remembering specific details or situations. In both cases, I took pictures of the office spaces. In addition, with the consent of the team members, I took photographs to document a specific work process or spatial setups. For both cases, I assisted the researchers with small tasks such as arranging the fabric of the spatial setting (Case A) and sanding and setting up a mood board (Case B). In this manner, participant observation enabled me to have my own experiences of the work that the researchers carried out (see also Spradley, 1980, p. 54ff.). These experiences confirmed or rebutted observations I had made previously. Furthermore, I frequently asked the researchers how and why they were carrying out certain practical steps, how they made design-related decisions, and in which way they perceived team meetings. The information I gathered in this manner deepened my understanding of the projects’ respective structures, team dynamics, and practical procedures. Each evening after leaving the research settings, I added reflections on my own perceptions, experiences, role, and potential influence on the project. Spradley (1980) termed this process of self-related observation “introspection” (p. 57f.), which enables the researcher to better understand new situations. These reflections were also important due to the fact that ethnographic results are always collages of “multiple truths” and narratives (Emerson et al., 2011, p. 4). In other words, the observations and therefore results always depend on the ethnographer, as all ethnographers come from a distinct disciplinary background that will inform their analyses. Furthermore, their experiences in the field influence their understanding of its dynamics. These personal experiences are complemented by the information gathered in conversations with the actors from the field. Depending on the informant, a different perspective or storyline is added to the ethnographic description. In addition to and as a means to validate my observations, I carried out qualitative interviews. These contained both an interview guideline and open questions evoking narrative elements, as described in Flick (2007, p. 194ff. and 228ff.). More precisely, during the first research stays in Case A

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and Case B, I asked each of the participating researchers the same questions. To increase my understanding of the respective projects, these included, for example, “How and by whom was the project initiated?,” “How do you experience the collaboration among the team members?,” and “What is your main interest in the research field?” Furthermore, questions such as “Please explain the instrument’s technical setup to me,” “How does the responsive environment work?,” and “Which questions do you derive from the instrument/the setting for your future work?” served as a way to examine the team members’ comprehension and use of the boundary objects. My questions also often led the researchers to talk more about their general working situations at the universities. These were the more narrative elements of our conversation. I encouraged the researchers to further elaborate on these matters related to higher education policy in order to better understand the respective institutional background of the cases. In the introduction to “Chapter 2: Ethnographic field research,” I briefly addressed the additional conversations I had with actors from the field of artistic research (who were not involved in the cases). Their expertise in and knowledge about the field’s past and most recent developments served to validate my findings. These actors were Henry, Frederick, Jonathan, and Caroline, all of whom are affiliated with the same Swiss art academy (a different one than that of Case A). The first three of them have been responsible for artistic research projects, and Caroline is a professor and wellknown representative of the field of artistic research. Except for Fredrick, who is German, they all were Swiss. I also interviewed several German actors: Dominic, who has the only professorship for artistic research in Germany; Jason, who is the founding director of an independent artistic research collective based in Germany; Oliver, who is a self-declared artistic researcher who first adapted to and then abandoned the institutionalization of the artistic PhD in Germany; and, last but not least, Max, who is originally from Canada and who works internationally as a researcher, artist, teacher, and designer for various projects. These actors each offered distinct perspectives on artistic research based on their professional experience. Their insights not only served to substantiate my hypotheses, but our conversations also inspired the analysis of aspects I had not immediately perceived as relevant during my field research (see, for example, “4.3 Forms of trust”).

Ethnographic field research | 37

After each of the six research phases (three in each case), I transcribed the field notes and transformed them into more detailed ethnographic descriptions of spatial arrangements, team dynamics, and research processes. In total, these comprised sixty pages in Case A and one hundred and ten pages in Case B. The difference in length can be explained by the fact that my first research phase in Case B spanned five instead of three weeks and that the general complexity of the project required more space in terms of written text. Along with the field notes, I also transcribed the interviews immediately after they had taken place. These writing processes were useful for the qualitative data analysis I carried out after each research stay. To carry out these analyses, I used open coding as described in Emerson et al. (2011, p. 175ff.). In congruence with the aspects that had caught my attention during the observations in the field (e.g., time management, research practices, office spaces, team meetings) and those matters the researchers mentioned (e.g., spatial separation, budget limitations, institutional background), I developed umbrella categories (e.g., working practices) and codes (e.g., etching, reading) that informed the further analysis of the material in its entirety. Going once more through the material collection enabled me to see whether my most vivid memories fit what I found when writing down my impressions in a more detailed manner. Additionally, I was simultaneously alert to new topics that might catch my attention upon revisiting the materials. This not only served preparing the second and third research phases, but working in this manner also substantiated the analytic focus step by step. In summary, the iterative procedure of observing, interviewing, and analyzing firstly enabled me to proceed from a broad to a more focused observation during each of the three research phases in both cases. Secondly, it supported the distillation of recurrent and new topics underlying the projects. These concepts, in turn, supported the development of a narrative for the case descriptions. In order to follow this common thread, I instead turned my attention to refining the topics I had identified in the field notes and interview transcripts.

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2.3

DEVELOPING CASE DESCRIPTIONS

The above-mentioned oscillation between the concrete project work and a more distanced analysis of the material on a conceptual level enabled me to select and focus on several of the listed concepts while discarding others. Faulkner (2009) describes this manner of handling sensitizing concepts as follows: To know concepts is to be armed with a repertoire of (symbolic) resources. To know how to use them is another matter. To know how to improvise on them is the mark of a seasoned ethnographer. That includes the intuition regarding when to deploy, or postpone, or even avoid sensitizing concepts. It means disciplined imagination, knowing when to do things superficially and when not to, and how to pay attention to your elders’ ideas and how to discard them (with reverence and etiquette, of course). In sum, knowledge, use, and shaping of novel combinations of sensitizing concepts is a repertoire for creativity in ethnographic work. (p. 89)

Consequently, the two case descriptions in “Chapter 3: Recounting the field” are collages of the material I gathered in the field. They consist of my field notes, quotations from the interviews I carried out with the researchers, pictures I took, and graphs I made. Sometimes, the field notes illustrate my findings; in other cases, they serve as a point of departure for further interpretations. Therefore, results, excerpts from my field notes, and ethnographic comments are intermingled throughout the following pages (see also Emerson et al., 2011, p. 213). In some cases, theoretical insertions support a thorough interpretation of my observations. This collage-like character also explains the linguistic simultaneity of different temporalities; that is, reports of practical work as well as reflections upon my experiences and role as an ethnographer are written in “ethnographic present” (p. 216), and comments and interpretations appear in past tense. The references used are to indicate locations in the field notes; for example, “field notes phase 3, ll. 810ff.” Overall, a retrospective perspective of the cases I analyzed informs the narrative of this study. As previously touched upon, the descriptions are highly person-bound. That is, they depend on my own impressions as well as on the researchers’ behavior and the information they provided me with. To capture a more inclusive picture of the researchers’ personalities, I refrained from using

Ethnographic field research | 39

designations such as “designer,” “computer scientist,” or “media scientist.” These would have narrowed the readers’ interpretation to the researchers’ disciplinary backgrounds. Instead, the researchers were given fictitious names. While maintaining the “real” researchers’ anonymity, these names simultaneously enhance the readability of the text. The researchers’ fictitious names, their real functions and disciplinary backgrounds have already been listed in the fact sheets in section “2.2 Selecting cases.” It follows that the two case descriptions emerged organically and in accordance with the material I encountered, collected, and analyzed step by step. Consequently, each case follows different structures even though they take up similar topics. A direct comparison between the cases is tempting; however, this would be strongly misleading. The two research projects were distinct in many respects, and consequently merit individual consideration, acknowledgment, and evaluation. My attempt to meet these expectations is outlined in the following sections (“3.1 Description of Case A,” and “3.2 Description of Case B”).

Chapter 3: Recounting the field

In the following chapter, I will provide a detailed description of the two cases. These descriptions shed light on the initiation phases as well as on the further development of the two research projects I examined. The depicted details described, among other things, the project development and institutional embedding, the team composition, the researchers’ individual backgrounds, and their working modes and spaces. These aspects are related to the overall questions guiding my research: How do artistic and scientific disciplines actually work together? What are the topics, practices, politics, chances, and problems at stake? Which role do boundary objects have in the context of artistic research projects? What kind of knowledge do they evoke? And how do they impact the research processes?

3.1

DESCRIPTION OF CASE A

In order to prepare for my first research stay in Switzerland, I had had a Skype conversation with Anna, Nick, and Steve, who composed the team of Case A, and read the funding application that they had sent me beforehand. The project was located at the design and media institute of a Swiss art academy, website of which gives a short summary for each of its affiliated research projects. The main idea behind Case A was to build a space that functions as a computer-controlled, responsive environment and to use it for empirical studies on the perception of control and interaction with that environment (called “the setting” in the following). Before entering the setting, test persons would be equipped with sensors that measured their pulse and breath. As soon as they were inside the space, these data would

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be mirrored in the setting’s appearance, that is, for example, its lighting and sound. After spending approximately fifteen minutes inside, the test persons would be interviewed on their behavior in and perception of the setting. The aim mentioned in the funding application was to carry out the first empirical studies on the notion of atmosphere, which—according to the researchers—had so far only been examined from a theoretical perspective in philosophy and media and literature studies. In further reference to the notion of media ecologies and the increased use as well as influence of (wearable) technologies in our daily life, the researchers wanted to develop three settings: one in the institute, one in public space, and one to in domestic space. Besides two sketches of the initial “environment,” which illustrated the team’s aims in the funding application, I had no visual idea of what I was going to encounter. My research took place within a predetermined period of time. Therefore, I was dependent on the researchers’ presence, activity, and openness in order to collect data. In each of my field research phases related to Case A, I had one to three weeks to take notes, carry out interviews, and to “inhale” as many details as possible of what I encountered in the field. Concerning the institutional structures, I knew that the institute had recently moved into a new building that housed both offices and a so-called lab, which I was curious to see. I had already made the acquaintance of most of the institutes’ researchers during the colloquia the institute regularly organized and which I had participated in. Yet since the institute had successfully acquired external funding for several research projects, a few researchers had recently started working at the institute and I was looking forward to meet them. During the colloquia, I had usually experienced the researchers as ambitious, (self-)critical yet acknowledging, open, and cheerful, so that I expected a similar atmosphere during my research stays. At this point it shall be stressed that throughout the following pages, the term atmosphere is used to denote the mood or emotional tone between the researchers as well as the character of the research environment, that is, the workspaces themselves and the individual or collaborative working modes. The description of Case A is structured as follows. First, I describe my impressions of the research project’s institutional surrounding (“3.1.1 Institutional embedding”). Then, the team composition and the researchers’ motivations are outlined (“3.1.2 Project initiative and team composition”). In

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section “3.1.1 Working practices,” their working practices in the development process of the first responsive environment are sketched. Section “3.1.4 Individual roles” looks at the individual roles the three researchers, media and technology, and empiricism played in the project. Especially since the hard- and software the researchers used played a crucial part in their research, the application of the responsive environment in a theater performance is examined in detail (“3.1.5 The application of the setting”). In light of this performance, I summarize my impressions in the final section, “3.1.6 Summary and conclusion,” and discuss the role of the developed setting in reference to the concept of boundary objects as introduced above. 3.1.1 Institutional embedding To begin, I would like to shed light on several aspects in regard to the institutional surrounding of Case A, which I perceived to be mirrored in the team’s project. The following excerpt from the field notes1 taken on my first day of research offers a first illustrative insight, since on that day I was specifically open and alert toward new impressions. Monday, May 18, 2015. My alarm rings at 4 a.m. I slept badly and am overtired, but getting up early has never really been difficult for me. In the airplane, I take another nap from 6.15 a.m. until landing in Switzerland. The sun is shining, which immediately raises my mood. … I follow the signs leading to the bus into “the city” and stand in line for the ticket machine. … While riding through the city, I try to recognize some of the streets, but am rather lost. I get off at the station and walk toward the orientation maps I already know from previous visits to the city. … Instead of walking from the station to the campus, I decide to take the tram for a ten-minute ride and am happy about this decision, since it would have been quite a distance to walk. Someone I think is an employee of the institute comes in and

1

I translated all quotations from the field notes or interviews from German into English. Square brackets are used to insert further clarifications as well as to differentiate between observation descriptions and self-reflective comments. Capital letters represent strongly emphasized words. Instead of literal translations, I tried to maintain the sense of the direct speech and translated German sayings into their English equivalents, if existent.

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sits next to me with his travel bag, but I don’t talk to him because he is not getting off at the same station as I am. Luckily, the mobile data on my phone is working, so I quickly find the way and walk six minutes toward the bright, white glass building of the academy. … There would have been a tram station directly in front of the building. A map at the main entrance points to the institute’s location on the third floor. … I enter the building through two sliding doors, which are open, and step into a white, shiny hall. At the white, movable info desk on the right, a woman is accepting packages from a mail carrier. I cross the approximately ten-meter-wide hall, going past three screens displaying today’s schedule and menu, and step into another white space with three elevators on the left. Each of them is marked with a letter (A, B, C) and is operated through an iPad. … On the third floor, I arrive once more in a white shiny space with a screen displaying the schedule and menu again. To my right, there is a white door, which is closed; I take the glass door to my left and enter a black hallway. The contrast is huge. Despite the daylight coming in through several windows, the hallway is very dark. Paul, who was indeed sitting next to me in the tram, enters the hallway from a different door. We say hello, shake hands, and introduce ourselves. … He shows me around the—at least to me—new open-plan office space with white walls, which includes six “islands” of two to three white desks, three large, probably noise-cancelling curtains that simultaneously provide some privacy, aluminum book shelves, plants, a fruit basket on the sideboard opposite to the entrance door. … Paul and I go into the kitchen area to get coffee. Walls and furniture are black again; small signs saying “trash,” “stuff,” “cool” designate the trash, cupboards, and the fridge, which I think is somehow cool. … Paul then shows me around the media lab with its various “work islands” and a number of black tables arranged for classes, colloquia, and other larger group meetings. Orange plastic chairs are placed next to them. Again, large, anthracite and probably heavy curtains serve to separate the desks from the rest of the huge space. The lab is also painted black, but several white painted cardboard room dividers, orange sofas, turquoise boxes in the aluminum shelves [figure 1], and three window façades opening up to a nice panoramic view on a park and the wider area introduce some light and color … At approximately 10.15 a.m., Nick passes by; I reintroduce myself and we talk about their project, today’s schedule, and my research with low voices, because a class is taking place at the other end of the lab. Nick is very friendly, open toward myself, we smile a lot, and engage in an exchange about my field

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notes, the possibility of taking pictures, etc. I feel immediately comfortable and welcome. Nick and I go back into the office. … He offers me a seat at the team’s “desk island” in the office [figure 2] and says that I could also use the phone and screen on his desk. (Field notes phase 1, ll. 1ff.)

Figure 1: Detail of the lab space

Figure 2: Detail of the open-plan office

Quite obviously, an academy of art and design does not simply move into a new building. It adapts the interior design and equipment of both working and public spaces—that is, the offices, auditorium, library, performance or exhibition spaces, and cafeterias—to its needs. Consequently, the spaces I encountered appeared to be consistently designed. Yet a newly constructed building is never perfect, no matter how well thought through it is. For ex-

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ample, at the beginning of my field research, the temperature control of the entire building still required readjustments; more than once we found ourselves sitting in the office freezing. A famous recurring topic among both employees and students were the elevators; most of the time, only two out of three were working, and they usually took a long time, causing people to wait, arrive late for classes, and miss trams. However, they were an easy topic with which to strike up conversation with other people, winking with a smile or initiating a guessing game about which elevator would arrive first. A more important—and my personal favorite—imperfection of the building was the main entrance. Especially on windy days, the space in between the two automatic sliding doors would create a sort of vacuum so that one had to forcefully pull the first door open with a lot of effort to exit the building. Again, this was a topic everybody laughed about, rather than complaining about “ill-constructed” or “malfunctioning” doors. Among the institute’s employees, complaints about such “designerly details” were audible time and again. For example, several researchers commented on the orange plastic chairs, which were uncomfortable to sit on during longer team meetings, symposia, and workshops. A second topic was the often busy, loud open-plan office space, which resulted in the researchers’ being considerate about their colleagues and leaving the office when colleagues were holding group meetings or phone calls. While these are two examples of the building that could not be easily changed in the immediate, the researchers solved a third problem regarding the spatial configuration of the lab. White cardboard room dividers had been installed in the lab and painted white the week before I started my research to “better structure the space” (cf. field notes phase 1, ll. 138f.). They had an additional noise-cancelling effect, insulating each working group in quite an effective manner. This brief description provides evidence of the institute’s critical awareness of the spaces it occupies. While this aspect shall not be overemphasized, it nevertheless shows that in the face of a problem, the researchers looked for or actively developed a solution. They did not simply accept the spaces they were offered; neither did they spend much time on complaining. Rather, they inhabited, productively adapted, and designed the spaces according to their needs step by step. I would like to briefly address one more feature of the lab space. Figure 1c shows that the “work islands” of the various research projects affiliated with the institute were closely located next to one another. Most of the

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makeshift walls of these work islands were partially open; that is, when passing by, one could watch people doing their work or engaging in discussions, and see whether they had, for example, rearranged pictures on the cardboard wall. In contrast to this, the researchers in Case A had transformed their lab space into an enclosed setting (see the images in “3.1.3 Working practices”). Their colleagues working in the lab would have needed to enter the setting to test the responsive environment and to experience the changes the researchers had implemented. In relation to the open institutional culture I just described and given the spatial proximity between the work islands, one could have expected an ongoing, naturally occurring dialogue between the institute’s researchers about the progress of their different projects. However, this proximity instead resulted in the projects’ inscription into the “daily picture,” thus escaping individual attention and awareness. Even though each researcher knew about the general research topics of their research fellows, they were obviously busy with their own tasks and did not know about the specificities or current phases of each fellow researcher’s project. Only when the researchers directly approached each other or officially presented their research during the biweekly colloquium did the colleagues exchange in greater detail the insights they had gained, the challenges they were encountering, and what exactly they were working on. I am emphasizing this aspect to show that spatial proximity does not immediately lead to mutual exchange. Rather, the researchers need to show their curiosity, approach their colleagues, and ask them about the current state of their research. This kind of exchange is highly dependent on the individual researchers’ activities.2 A final characteristic of the institute shall be mentioned. During nearly every single one of my visits to the institute prior to and during my actual field research phase, the institute’s mission based on the idea of “critical practice” was discussed among the researchers. Each research project of the institute was composed of a team of researchers from various disciplines,

2

In juxtaposition to the tight spatial configuration in Case A, the two initiators of Case B came from entirely different universities. Therefore, the project’s offices were dispersed across the city. The researchers in Case B used the spatial distance between their workspaces to explain their lack of knowledge about their fellow researchers’ work.

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including design, media studies, cultural studies, computer sciences, and sociology, and additionally combined artistic with scientific approaches and practices. Even more importantly, “criticality” and “critical (research and artistic) practice” were inherent to the projects and were emphasized at each of the events the institute organized (cf., for example, field notes phase 1, ll. 729ff.). As would be expected, each researcher affiliated with the institute was familiar with its “critical spirit” and identified with this approach to artistic research. This was mirrored in the overall atmosphere of the institute, which I perceived as ambitious, helpful, communicative, open-minded, and cheerful. It is thus not surprising that the researchers in Case A enacted the same research dynamics in their own specific project, as Nick and Steve had been affiliated with the institute for approximately ten years and Anna had joined them in 2013. They had been working in and with the institutional mindset for several years. Hence, one could say Anna, Nick, and Steve had a “spiritual” point of departure for their team, which implies that they did not need to develop an entirely new project structure and work environment for their newly composed team; rather, they had a pre-existing role model they were able to build upon. Before examining in which manner this manifested in their work practices, I will provide a short overview of the team composition and the general research idea of Case A. 3.1.2 Project initiative and team composition The composition of the team in Case A proceeded as follows. Media artist Nick and computer scientist Steve had already been working at the institute for several years and had carried out several research projects in the fields of augmented, mediated, and virtual reality. They had developed the idea of carrying out research on responsive environments. Sarah, the institute’s director, had met media and literature scientist Anna at a conference and discussed this project idea with her, since Anna had published several books and texts on atmospheres. Following this conversation, Anna joined the institute as a senior researcher on a part-time basis in the fall of 2013 and developed the research project further together with Nick and Steve. The three started writing the funding application for the Swiss National Science Foundation in January 2014 and submitted it in March. Since Anna was the only one of them who holds a PhD and having published several articles re-

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lated to their project, she took on the role of the main applicant. This provoked disagreement between Anna and Nick, who would have liked to act as the applicant for external funding on the one hand and who was reluctant about the project responsibilities on the other (cf. interview 1 with Nick, ll. 160ff. and 590ff.). He stated that in the beginning, he was afraid of the possibility that Anna might be appointed professor at a different university, and subsequently transfer the entire project as well as the funding to the new institution. But after having clarified this conflict, Anna and Nick continued working on a harmonious basis (ibid.). The team received the funding approval in September 2014 and started working in February 2015, with the first intense phase in April 2015 (ibid. and interview 1 with Anna, ll. 246ff.). I joined the team as a field researcher in May 2015, only three months after the project had officially started. It is notable that Nick’s “fear” became true at the end of 2015, when Anna was appointed professor at a German university. But even with her move to Germany, the project remained at the institute, and the three continued working together on the project being discussed here as well as on the funding application for the follow-up project (cf. field notes phase 3, ll. 85ff.). It is furthermore noteworthy that the budget was not approved as requested. The SNF only granted 25 percent of the amount the team had applied for. This did not result in a smaller team, since the three researchers were involved in other projects and employed on this research project on a part-time basis only. Instead, the duration of the project was shortened from three to two years and the research aims were adapted significantly. For example, an initially planned exhibition and conference were dropped, and the technological equipment for the setting was always chosen and used against the background of the reduced budget (cf. email from Anna, April 10, 2016). Still, as planned, Anna, Nick, and Steve started to develop a computer-controlled spatial setting in the institute’s lab. Test persons could enter and control or interact with the setting with help of sensors that measured their physical reactions (breathing, heartbeat, movement; for a more detailed description, see section “3.1.3 Working practices”). As stated earlier, the researchers’ aim was to create two further iterations of this initial setting: one that could be tested and interacted with in a public space and one to be transferred into domestic spaces (cf. interview 1 with Anna, ll. 135ff.). The latter was designed to be used for a long-term

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examination of the inhabitants’ behavior in and perception of an apartment, which, for example, adapted its lighting according to the test person’s mood with the help of the same sensors the researchers had already used in the pilot setting. A fourth person who played an important part in Case A was programmer David. He was responsible for the entire software and technology setup. He was employed as a student assistant with a fixed number of working hours dedicated to the technological development of the research setting. He usually did not take part in any theoretical discussion, for example on project-related publications; he did, however, participate in the practical workshops that involved preparing a theater performance, which took place during my third research phase. During my second field research phase in October 2015, two further student assistants joined the team on various occasions to further develop both the initial setting and two more “work stations.” The latter were based on a pneumatic system as well as on the visual-haptic perception of latex and were supposed to be integrated into the setting as “irritations” meant to distract a test person from the environment’s basic functioning and interaction design (cf. field notes phase 2, ll. 180ff.). To this end, Anna, Nick, and Steve also collaborated with a company experienced in the construction of sensor-based objects. In accordance with their remaining budget, they commissioned the company to develop ideas on and concrete prototypes of, for example, inflatable, unstable floors (Cf. field notes phase 1, ll. 1171ff.). Individual research interests In the previous paragraphs, it has already become obvious that the team structure of Case A developed in regard to the common research interest in responsive environments. The researchers’ take on this topic was diverse and can be specified as follows. Nick had been working on media art projects related to interaction design and immersion for several years. He had used technology such as skin conductance as well as motion- and eyetracking sensors to develop virtual- and augmented-reality settings. With the research of Case A, his aim was to transfer these experiences to a physical space, in which interactive, affective environments could actually be experienced in person (cf. interview 1 with Nick, ll. 37ff.). He stated that in his previous projects, he had staged his ideas with the help of technology to evoke an intense aesthetic experience for the audience. These projects were

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artistic projects, and their main goal was not—as he said—to generate knowledge (ibid., ll. 299ff.). The interviews he carried out with the audience after their participation sometimes even revealed that the participants did not understand the initial aim of the project, which he experienced as frustrating (ibid.). In the research framework of Case A, he was interested in carrying out fundamental research within a setting in which evaluation3 in a physical space predominated an artistic endeavor; his aim was not to create art (ibid., ll. 182f. and 210ff.). A topic linked to Nick’s personal aims reappeared during my third research phase, when he told me that he was still bothered by not earning the credits of the project—neither in the form of a PhD nor in the function as funding applicant (cf. field notes phase 3, ll. 372ff.). He added that he had had quite a fight with Anna after having sent an email to Sarah—the institute’s director—to express his discontent about this situation, and that Anna had “fired back at him” (ibid.). He stressed that they discussed the situation once more and established a friendly working basis, that “it’s really relaxed, there is no ego trip going on” (ibid.). Tellingly, the topic of a PhD arose again when Anna was appointed professor at a German university from April 2016 onward. Instead of fearing Anna’s departure, he saw the opportunity of carrying out a PhD during the follow-up project of Case A with Anna as a supervisor, since she would then be employed at a university legally allowed to award doctorates4 (cf. field notes phase 3, ll. 365ff.). Like Nick, Steve had been working in the field of mediated interaction and virtual reality for the past fifteen years (cf. interview 1 with Steve, ll. 33ff. and 182ff.). During my field research, he was, among other things, involved in a project on informal communication interfaces and media technologies in companies. His motivation was to develop an interactive

3

Anna, Nick, and Steve used the term evaluation to describe the tests they carried out with the setting. Each evaluation consisted of a test person being equipped with sensors, a short introduction to the project, the actual time they spent inside the setting, and a subsequent qualitative interview about the person’s experiences.

4

As described in section “2.1 Selecting the cases,” Swiss art academies are affiliated to technical colleges, which are not allowed to award doctoral degrees. Therefore, even if the main research project is located in Switzerland, the art academies need to cooperate with international universities to award PhDs.

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setting with a team of researchers and to test his own as well as other people’s behavior and their perception of control in such an environment (ibid., ll. 154ff.). Both Nick’s and Steve’s interest in the broader research field as well as their motivation and idea to initiate the concrete research project on responsive environments dated back several years. This also holds for Anna, who had been working on the notion of atmosphere and its corresponding theories for several years prior to the project’s initiation. She stated that aesthetic atmospheric experiences had been discussed from an abstract perspective only (cf. interview 1 with Anna, ll. 98ff. and 345ff.). Hence, her specific interest in the research project was to contribute to this merely “philosophically analyzed field through empirically testing an atmospheric setting with wearable technologies” (ibid.). She wanted to practically investigate the change in perception of one’s own corporeality in a computer-controlled environment and was interested in designing a concrete hands-on situation in which corporeal experience could be evaluated (ibid. and field notes phase 3, ll. 494ff.). As stated above, David was part of the research team from its inception, and his function was defined in hindsight to his education and profession. That is, he joined the team as a programmer and IT expert. Hence, his motivation to participate in the project was not genuinely linked to the research field. Rather, he was interested in using and adapting existing technological equipment to the project’s needs (cf. field notes phase 1, ll. 586ff.) and in developing both hardware and software from scratch in accordance with the researchers’ aims (cf. field notes phase 2, ll. 52f.). In this manner, he automatically developed and spontaneously contributed his ideas about the design of the setting, thereby influencing its form and function, which the other team members acknowledged to a high degree (cf. field notes phase 1, ll. 556ff., field notes phase 3, ll. 491ff.). Concluding remarks on the project development In summary, Anna’s, Nick’s, and Steve’s motivation to initiate the project was genuinely content related. They were all driven by their curiosity for immersion, perception, and behavior in computer-controlled responsive environments. Furthermore, they were highly motivated to design such an environment themselves, that is, to develop the setting’s characteristics and methodological setup according to their research endeavor. Instead of the

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need or wish to enhance individual career prospects with the help of the project, Anna, Nick, and Steve shared a strong interest in the field of technology and atmospheres. They were moreover open to their colleagues’ perspectives and to learning from them. Their mindsets fit together well. In addition, they benefited from and oriented themselves along the already existing research approaches and work dynamics at the institute, and did not have to create their own, entirely new work environment. This was first and foremost mirrored in the atmosphere between them, which I perceived as very cheerful, direct and critical, yet open, acknowledging, and selfreflective. One can speak of a generally harmonious team composition. The three researchers laughed very often, made jokes, and obviously enjoyed working together (cf. field notes phase 1, ll. 465ff., ll. 688ff., field notes phase 2, ll. 259ff., field notes phase 3, ll. 396ff.). In addition to their shared focus on content, Anna, Nick, and Steve had a common notion of artistic research, which they used to denote their research process. This notion included various aspects. Their artistic research approach allowed them to: a) analyze a question they would not be able to examine in the same manner in their individual disciplines; b) proceed in a methodologically less strict, yet serious, coherent, and well-founded fashion; and c) explore several settings without the need to follow a predetermined “master plan” (cf. interview 1 with Nick, ll. 210ff., interview 1 with Steve, ll. 452ff., and interview 2 with Anna, ll. 31ff.). This last aspect in fact allowed them to develop ideas and a consistent line of argument for a follow-up project and the corresponding funding application (cf. interview 2 with Nick, ll. 230ff., interview 2 with Anna, ll. 202ff.). Finally, the three researchers agreed on the fact that they: d) carried out work in an artistic mode without producing art (cf. interview 2 with Nick, ll. 300ff.). Rather, through artistically designing the computer-controlled spatial setting they were able to explore the test persons’ behavior in and perceptions of computer-controlled atmospheres. One can say that the artistic approach consistently informed the methodological setup of Case A. Despite artistically staging their research, Anna’s, Nick’s, and Steve’s academic interests outweighed the role of the aesthetic experience. Yet, the test persons’ individual experience of the setting served the empirical foundation of the researchers’ theories on, for example, atmospheres, computer-controlled environments, immersion, media ecologies, and the influence of technologies on our daily life. In each of the

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above-mentioned fields, Anna, Nick, and Steve presented their project and specific artistic research approach; in accordance with their respective disciplinary backgrounds, they sought out information technology–related (Steve) or media science–related (Anna) conferences and media arts events (Nick) to which they could submit a contribution. They did so especially during my third research phase. At this point, they had already achieved presentable outcomes and the project was slowly approaching its end. As a result of this research, they were able to present their project at, for example, the International Symposium on Electronic Art and the HumanComputer Interaction International Conference (cf. email from Anna, April 10, 2016, and field notes phase 3, ll. 907f.). Through taking an unambiguous stance on the relation between the arts and sciences in their specific research setting, the team increased their project’s credibility and potential acceptance in different scientific, academic, and artistic communities. Third and finally, the similar mindsets of Anna, Nick, and Steve were mirrored in their joint work; I perceived them as an experienced team. Let us now therefore take a closer look at how they put their research endeavor into practice. 3.1.3 Working practices The main workspaces in Case A was the tiny, triangular “control station” visible in figure 3a below and the approximately 25 m2 space where the responsive environment of approximately 15 m2 was setup (figure 3b). Anna, Nick, and Steve usually referred to the environment as “the setting” (cf. field notes phases 1, 2, 3). While the aluminum frames spanning the entire lab had been installed before the project, the three researchers had added one circular and one square-shaped element for their specific purposes. In addition, Steve used the hallway-like space of the lab, which had previously been empty, to test their idea of inserting so-called irritations and sculptural objects into the overall setting (cf. field notes phase 1, ll. 314ff.). He created a separate tunnel-shaped element from the same fabric they used for the main setting and blew wind into it with the help of a fan (figure 3c).

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Figures 3a–d: Lab spaces of Case A. Working corner (a); responsive environment setup (view from behind the fan) (b); further testing (c); actors rehearsing their texts for a theater performance (d).

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At the start of my first day of research, one panel of white, lightweight fabric was hanging from the outer aluminum frame. In the afternoon, we spent approximately two hours cutting several lengths of cloth and arranging them both on the frame and on the floor, discussing where and how to put them, and adding further layers to create passages as well as closed spaces. Each of the three researchers contributed their ideas and thoughts on the setting’s design (cf. field notes phase 1, ll. 152ff.). The reason why I said “we” above is that in my role as an ethnographer and participant observer, I had offered my assistance for practical work. The researchers themselves had also asked if I was able to help, so that I could complete small tasks during my observations and our conversations such as neatly arranging blankets and several layers of fabric on the setting’s floor. On the second day, Nick and David developed an initial technical setup (cf. field notes phase 1, ll. 223ff.), and on the afternoon of the third day, we spent a few more hours on refining the arrangement of the fabric, for example adding several layers of blankets to upholster the floor (cf. field notes phase 1, ll. 420ff.). In the late afternoon of that day, the setting already resembled the state displayed in figure 3b. Technical setup Test persons were supposed to enter the setting either from the left or the right side. Before entering the space, they were equipped with a chest belt including two sensors to measure the speed and depth of their breathing as well as their movement (cf. field notes phase 3: ll. 393ff.). A pulse sensor attached to the finger measured their heartbeat. At the beginning of the project, the sensor was connected to the chest belt through a cable, which did not allow for undisturbed movement. Because of this, the researchers subsequently used a wireless sensor-sender construction. The data were transferred to a computer in real time through a sender integrated in the chest belt. With the help of previously programmed mappings, the data provoked changes in the color and brightness of the setting’s lighting to mirror the heartbeat, in the motion of a fan to reflect the breathing rhythm and movement visually, and in the activation of a subwoofer as well as wind sounds that imitated the pulse and breathing sonically. One fan was inserted at the front of the setting, as viewed from the angle in figure 3b. A second fan was installed in the setting’s center on the aluminum frames below the ceiling. Speakers and spotlights were located both on the

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setting’s floor and up on the aluminum frames, creating a surround sound. The test persons were supposed to move around the fabric or to sit down in the enclosed center underneath the inner aluminum circle; Nick considered it important that the test persons “calm down and recognize the connection” between themselves and the environment’s response (cf. field notes phase 1, ll. 229ff.). To this end, they later added turquoise cushions suggesting that the test persons should take a seat. During my second research stay, Steve, Nick, and Anna discussed the effect of these cushions—which I perceived to be in strong contrast to the otherwise white setting—on the test persons’ overall impressions and comments in relation to Gibson’s theory of affordance. Since the team ultimately considered the cushions too strong in their affordance for sitting down, they exchanged them with white pillows (cf. field notes phase 2, ll. 26ff.). Throughout my three field research phases, David and Nick met several times to develop the technical setup, including to refine the data mapping using the programming software Max Patch, the sensors’ measurement sensitivity, and the so-called main engine that visually represented the data gathered (cf. field notes phase 1, ll. 464ff. and 1431ff., field notes phase 3, ll. 455ff.; figure 5a below). It is remarkable that David actually constructed the sensors they used. Working from preexisting sensors they had bought, he manually altered them by, for example, soldering so that the three researchers could use a wireless kit for the evaluations with test persons (cf. field notes phase 3, ll. 309ff., 470ff.; figure 4 below). David stated that he was proud of this construction, since the sensors they used were specifically adapted to their needs and not available on the market (cf. field notes phase 3, ll. 467ff.). Usually, Nick asked David to map the biofeedback data to the lighting and sound according to his ideas or the audiovisual designs he, Anna, and Steve had decided to install (cf. field notes phase 1, ll. 564ff.). Still, he was open to David’s suggestions regarding the connection between the data and the effects, such as concrete sounds or the fans’ reaction time (ibid.).

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Figures 4, 5a, b: Wireless chest belt with sensors (4); screenshots of the main engine (5a) and of the “evaluation viewer’s” presentation mode (5b).

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Much like the responsive environment, the technical setup evolved step by step. An excerpt from my field notes illustrates how David and Nick proceeded: Thursday, May 21, 2015. 10.45 a.m. David is sitting behind the computer in the lab space, using mouse and keyboard to program sound and lighting patches. I stand behind him and closely watch the computer screen. David mainly uses shortcuts, making new patches pop up on the screen, which is difficult to follow. Nick switches between sitting next to him and rearranging the fabric on the setting’s floor. David suggests the following combinations for a mapping: light reflects the heartbeat, the lighting’s color changes according to the frequency. Furthermore, it could be combined with the color: the setting could be white in the beginning and become colorful as soon as the person starts breathing. While talking, he programs the mappings he suggests. Nick puts the sensor on to stimulate the setting; David thinks that the reaction is not yet nuanced enough. Nick says that green would nicely reflect vegetation and that white mirrors a sort of extinguished state. He adds, “the setting comes to life and only then the color becomes visible, I like that.” 11.30 a.m. David is continuously programming. From inside the setting, Nick instructs David on changes to be implemented. The subwoofer emits very low sounds, reminding Nick of the body and about which he comments, “Beautiful!” David changes further sounds without talking or asking whether Nick agrees. Suddenly, there is a sound explosion: wind, subwoofer, and further sounds are emitted all at the same time and very loudly. David explains: “there is no mixing desk to switch the sounds off, since it is all digitally programmed … something must have been wrongly connected.” He solves it and it is calm again. … At 12.45 p.m., David and I close the curtains to darken the lab space and to better see the setting’s color. David says that the intensity of the color could be increased. Nick is still wearing the sensors to test the setting’s reactions. He asks David to program a wind sound circulating with the help of the speakers installed underneath the upper aluminum scaffold. The circulating sound drowns the fan’s material sound, which Nick is happy about. I go into the middle of the setting. Seeing the flickering light and the different colors, I think that it is a beautiful way to perceive another person’s body. However, the intensity of the color is still somewhat weak. As if he had heard my thoughts, Nick states for the third time that the colors’ intensity could still be increased. He asks whether it would take

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David a lot of effort to change it. David immediately increases the intensity. Nick says, “Perfect!” (Field notes phase 1, ll. 564ff.)

As the excerpt reveals, David suggested connections between the data and lighting or sounds through rapidly programming patches and altering existing mappings. Oftentimes, he did so without previously asking Nick for his opinion. If necessary, he altered them according to Nick’s instructions. Nearly each time they met, Nick valued David’s input and work through statements such as “perfect,” “I like it,” or by calling David a “virtuoso” (cf. field notes phase 1, l. 265f., 565ff.). Also, they laughed very often and enjoyed developing the setting further. At the end of my field research, the mapping of the biofeedback data was setup as follows (cf. field notes phase 3, ll. 458ff.). As already stated above, the setting’s color, sound and movement were connected to the test person’s heartbeat, breathing, and movement. A lower heart rate resulted in colder, bluish colors; a higher heartbeat frequency produced warm colors such as orange, red, and pink. Additionally, a flickering white light imitated the rhythm of the heartbeat and a subwoofer reproduced its beating sound. The breathing intensity was mirrored in the saturation of the color. Deep inhalation produced strong colors, while shallow breathing resulted in grayer color nuances. At the same time, the fan on the floor produced wind according to the breathing rhythm and volume, so that the fabric started moving in waves or was even inflated when a test person inhaled and collapsed when they exhaled. The second fan installed on the ceiling above the inner aluminum circle moved in circles, so that the inner layers of the fabric started moving as well. In addition, the speakers located around the setting emitted a windy surround sound. During my third field research phase, a motion sensor had been added and mapped with a distorted sound reflecting the test person’s movement. It was audible only when the person was moving and increased its tempo the faster the person moved (cf. field notes phase 3, ll. 393ff.). Further development After finishing the practical work on the first day, Anna, Nick, and Steve sat down on the red sofa and chair in their “working corner” to discuss their ideas on the setting’s further development (cf. field notes phase 1, ll. 168ff.). Similar to my impressions during the previous afternoon, I per-

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ceived their participation in and contributions to the discussion as equal; they also seemed to agree on the aspects, which still needed improvement. For example, in regard to the setting’s form, Steve stated that “the large lengths of fabric are nice, because they create a closed surface … it’s wide; when going through, it becomes narrower and then closes. I think that’s intriguing,” and Nick emphasized that “the spatial effect is good” (ibid.). However, he wanted to “break the form” (ibid.), and Steve said that he could “imagine a corridor of parallel lengths of fabric” (ibid.). Steve then added that “the damped acoustic was intriguing,” which Anna confirmed by saying, “You automatically start to whisper” (ibid.). With the academy’s research day approaching the following week, Anna asked the others about how they should present the setting to the audience: “A cocoon? That would be comprehensible” (ibid.) This idea was congruent with their wish to add a “border” to the space to create a truly “closed environment” (ibid.). They also agreed on the idea of starting with a mono-causally linked, “simple, and clear setting, which can soon and quickly be evaluated, and which we can use as a basis for further funding applications,” as Anna stressed (ibid.). Furthermore, Anna asked, “What is the effect when it starts moving? As for now, we’re thinking about a static state” (ibid.). This question encouraged the three researchers to start testing the fans they had bought. They wanted to integrate the fans into the setting to imitate the test persons’ inhaling and exhaling rhythm as well as intensity. Another excerpt from my field notes illustrates Anna, Steve, and Nick’s work with the fans and fabric. Now they are trying the fans: we roll the fabric up and fix it on top of the fan so that the air it produces can inflate the space underneath the fabric and create a bubble. However, the lengths of fabric are pulled toward the inside. Instead of inflating, the fabric moves in waves; it only arches a little. Nick sits in front of the computer and tries to imitate his breathing through moving the controller up and down manually with the mouse. The fan reacts too slowly; the breathing rhythm does not correspond with the wind the fan generates. … Anna, Steve, and Nick realize that the fan’s effect is too small if it solely blows into the setting from the front and outside. … They substitute the fabric with a large piece of plastic foil from their material stock. They state that the cheap material makes “intriguing sounds” and creates “nice waves,” but Steve, Anna, and Nick unanimously prefer the organic, soundless waves the fabric produces. Furthermore, they conclude

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that the fan’s reaction speed is too slow to mirror breathing; its effect cannot be controlled in a sufficiently detailed manner. (Field notes phase 1, ll. 196ff.)

It is first of all noteworthy that Anna, Nick, and Steve were similarly active in terms of immediately testing the setting’s characteristics and refinement. While they took their time to discuss their ideas on its design and technical improvements, their discussions always resulted in a question they could proceed from or concrete tasks; they always seemed to have achieved certain progress. Secondly, it is remarkable that their demands regarding the responsive environment’s design, its technical setup, and material appearance were all in line with one another. The above excerpt from my field notes illustrates that Anna, Nick, and Steve all liked the fabric better than the painting foil. They had similar aesthetic preferences. Thirdly, their shared mindset also became manifest in the three researchers’ expectations from their overall methodological procedure. For example, during the first six months of their research project, they decided to postpone assessing the influence of physical measurements in the domestic space. The sensors’ general sensitivity and accurate measurement had to be improved before they could actually evaluate the biofeedback data they had gathered (cf. field notes phase 3, ll. 111ff. and 309ff.). Therefore, they had to postpone the use of the sensors in private households. In this kind of experimental setting, reliable biofeedback data would have been particularly crucial to developing hypotheses.5 Hence the decision to postpone this part of the project’s overall goals was made consensually and in congruence with the research project’s organic development. Collaborative and individual practices Shortly after my practical experiences on my first day in the field, I carried out interviews with the researchers. On this occasion, Nick reflected upon the team’s joint working experience in general. Furthermore, he referred to the realization of the first setting, which I briefly described above and

5

During my field research, the researchers mainly analyzed the interviews they had carried out with the test persons and used their statements for their publications (cf. field notes phase 2, ll. 114ff.). The data analysis was postponed and to be returned to at a later point in time.

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which is illustrated in the following quotation from the interview. Square brackets are again used for clarifications and ethnographic comments. It was great that Anna did not only deal with the theoretical [aspects], but that she also got onto the scissor lift. … In the beginning she said she wasn’t creative … and I appreciate this a lot. I also liked writing together with her—the funding application. I have previously worked with … theoreticians—they [correct] every sentence if you’re not that eloquent. With her, it is really good. It flows into each other. … Of course she takes care of the theoretical basic elements, while we are more installing things (laughs), which makes sense. But I really enjoyed writing together with her, I’d say. And it’s great if you can help each other out. (Interview 1 with Nick, ll. 201ff.)

Nick’s statement supports my perception of the three researchers as an experienced team. They listened to each other’s contributions, took them seriously, and discussed whether and how these ideas could be put into practice. In our first interview, Anna commented on their collaboration in a similar manner. Well, it’s not as if they were only the practitioners, and as if I were thinking and they were doing. Not at all. (Laughs) On the contrary: we jointly conceptualized and wrote the funding application and the contribution for ISEA, a conference on Crete. Even though—well, it’s always a little problematic with Steve, because he always does things at the last minute so that Nick and I were mainly in charge. Steve is more the discursive type. In the beginning, this really bothered me, because this somehow evokes the impression of an imbalanced involvement. In the meantime, I realized that Steve works in a covert manner. He makes up his own mind, then does and tests things. … I eventually got used to that. Sometimes, you need to somewhat—push him— which, I believe, is a reason why we are working out so well at the moment. We learned to leave everyone be in his peculiarity. … But this can also change again; there might be another situation in which it gets a little more confrontational. We’ll see. But I think overall—in the meantime we have been working together more than a year—we have [established] a relatively good foundation of trust. At least that’s what I’m hoping. (Interview 1 with Anna, ll. 291ff.)

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While this quotation once more confirms that Anna, Nick, and Steve were aware of their individual backgrounds and working styles, Anna referred to the necessity to develop mutual trust and respect. In this context, she described Steve’s working practice as “covert.” This expression jumped out at me when I reread the interview. During my field research, I noticed that Steve’s work often proceeded in an invisible manner. For example, I left the office and lab spaces in the evening and was surprised to see an inflatable tube the following morning, up and running in the lab as if it had already been installed in the very same spot for several days (cf. field notes phase 1, ll. 546ff.). The same holds for the project’s collaborative Pinterest board, which they used to compile an online collection of images that inspired the setting’s design: according to the email notifications I received between May 30, 2015 (the date I registered for the project’s board) and May 30, 2016, Steve posted 650 pictures on the project’s board—at every conceivable time, day or night, during the week as well as on weekends. He was the only one who actually used this research tool. Since Steve developed experiments according to his own schedule, he was highly active in the background. Furthermore, because he did not explicitly announce his next steps, his working processes often remained invisible. One afternoon, I entered the lab and was again surprised to see Steve watching the movements of painting film, which he had installed above eight small, horizontal fans he had previously attached to the wooden box next to the responsive environment (cf. field notes phase 3, ll. 35ff.). On this occasion, I took the following field notes: He stands underneath the painting foil and looks up for several seconds, then goes back to the shelf, leans against it, and looks up into the opposite direction, the one into which the air flows. He says it’s like a sail. Now he climbs onto the third step of the ladder and fiddles about at one corner of the box. He sighs; the adhesion of the fan has loosened. It’s approximately 2.30 p.m. [I had already watched him for 15 minutes.] He dims and regulates the airflow several times with the help of a controller; this dimming down leads the foil to collapse. Twice he says that this is funny. He then adds that the foil collapses more quickly than it inflates. He plays with the controller, watches, watches, and watches. “The air is stronger on the sides,” he says, “only a very thin layer is directly underneath the material, and if you hold your hand up, you can barely feel the air, only at the

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very back a small breeze is perceptible. The wave movement looks different at the end of the material.” (Field notes phase 3, ll. 57ff.)

Through carrying out this material test, he gained personal, material knowledge. I wondered whether he used the findings he talked about—the collapsing speed and airflow strength—to put forward hypotheses he could then test in further experiments. On a different occasion, when Anna, Nick, and Steve were discussing the changes the two student assistants had carried out in the setting, I took the following notes on Steve’s comments. Steve suggests decreasing the distance between the white fabric and the latex. He stated that the general impression was more diffuse where the fabric was not directly hanging in front of the black latex. He furthermore suggests mapping the ceiling with a different effect. The vertical space is independent, “one would probably like to differentiate between walls and the tunnel.” (Field notes phase 2, ll. 77ff.)

At least in the situations I just described, Steve’s results remained somehow intangible to people other than himself. He formulated insights, but did not proceed with further conclusions or practical consequences. Despite describing Steve’s practice as “covert,” Anna valued the efforts he put into researching technological equipment and the project’s general infrastructure (cf. interview 1 with Anna, ll. 333ff.). Nick evaluated Steve’s contributions as “beautiful” and “important” for the progress of the setting (cf. interview 1 with Nick, ll. 201ff. and 527ff.). Both of them were conscious about the nature of Steve’s practice and eagerly acknowledged the quality of his results. The above quotation from my interview with Anna reveals that she was conscious about Nick’s, Steve’s and her own peculiar characteristics, selfcritical toward her perception of Steve’s behavior, and alert in regard to potential changes of social interrelations within their team. Her description also reveals that the development of trust, respect, and acceptance depends on an individual’s personality. These are subtle aspects underlying each team member’s personal constitution, which consequently inform their interactions with each other. The fact that Anna, Nick, and Steve were open toward each other and agreed on many aspects was certainly helpful in developing mutual trust and acknowledgment. Nevertheless, and as I previ-

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ously addressed, there was also an issue surrounding project responsibilities and credits, which had caused an argument between Nick and Anna at the beginning of the research project. In this context, it became obvious that even though similar mindsets do not eliminate the emergence of conflicts, they are helpful in solving them. As the next chapter shows, a further helpful aspect is a clear-cut understanding of roles, which clarifies the distribution of tasks and responsibilities among team members. 3.1.4 Individual roles In addition to their different working practices, Anna, Nick and Steve played distinct roles in their team. Congruent with the funding application, Anna was the official project leader. She assumed this role and moderated the team’s theoretical discussions as well as organizational meetings, among other things, and she insisted on further technical and design-related developments to be carried out, decisions to be taken, and tasks such as research on potential conference contributions or edits to their current publication (cf., for example, field notes phase 1, ll. 465ff., field notes phase 2, ll. 170ff.). She was also the most active and known academic among the three in that she not only initiated several of their publications but also was, for example, invited to organize a conference panel on responsive environments. Anna and Nick jointly prepared and carried out project presentations at several of the academy’s events, which I participated in during my field research phases. During these presentations, Steve usually remained in the background and sometimes joined the discussions that followed (cf., for example, field notes phase 1, ll. 363ff.). Steve spent a lot of time on research; for example, he looked for adequate technological equipment, extensively experimented with inflatable tubes, and searched the Internet for other art projects that had used inflatable objects and could inspire their own project (cf. field notes phase 1, ll. 314ff.). As stated earlier, he was the only one who continuously and frequently pinned pictures on the Pinterest board the team had created at the beginning of the project. Nick took on a cultural managerial role, especially when he wanted to proceed with the setting’s design. In these cases, he actively encouraged Steve and Anna to develop their ideas further: “You [Steve] would need to shows us [Anna and Nick] what you have in mind and tell us what you need, how we can help you. The setting is ready to be evaluated, then we can proceed and

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look at different points” (cf. field notes phase 1, ll. 830ff.). Or he actively pushed the others by saying, “We need to do the next step” (cf. field notes phase 1, l. 465). He sometimes commented on this role with the phrase “my project management feeling is telling me …” (cf. field notes phase 1, ll. 1116f.). Even though both Anna and Nick actively directed the three researchers’ work, the above statements reveal that Anna was more present in her role as project leader responsible for maintaining an overview. This became especially apparent in the manner she moderated team meetings. Three aspects might explain Anna’s considerate fulfillment of her role. Firstly, she was officially responsible for the project management, since she had been the main SNF funding applicant. Secondly, she was aware of their limited time frame; depending on the tasks needing to be done, she usually travelled to Switzerland from Germany on a biweekly basis and stayed for three to four days. Due to their involvement in other projects, Steve usually spent three and Nick approximately four days per week in the lab. Even though they set a loose schedule for their respective attendance at the lab, these plans were of course sometimes upset by unexpected events. Given the limited timeframe, Anna might have aimed at driving the project further in the best possible manner. Therefore, she steered their discussions toward agreements on further steps or tasks on the one hand. On the other hand, she insisted on spending most of their time on joint work on the setting as well as on personal and professional exchange. It might, thirdly, also be linked to her career: even though Anna’s interests were genuinely content related, she was the only researcher in the team aiming for a higher academic position. Over the course of the project, she was involved in several application processes and might have felt a particular pressure to maintain her good reputation (see quotation below). While Steve’s and Nick’s ambitions and expectations were mainly project related, the added value Anna could gain from the research project potentially could serve her academic progress. This could also explain why she explicitly assigned herself the task of constantly “CRITICALLY assessing what we are actually doing” and to “keep an eye on our methodological precision and seriousness” (cf. interview 1 with Anna, ll. 359ff.). In her opinion, the field of artistic research often lacked scientific respectability, because “the artistic” was predominant (ibid.). Another explanation for her insistence on “being critical” might be found in Case A’s institutional embedding. As

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outlined above (see “3.1.1 Institutional embedding”), the notion of critique was not only incorporated into the institute’s title, but it was central to its activities and an integrated part of its self-image. It is furthermore noteworthy that in addition to the three researchers’ awareness of their roles, they were self-assured in their own viewpoints. For example, in a conversation Anna and I had on the notion and use of artistic methods in the context of Case A, she claimed that in addition to her teaching experience, she had built herself “a reputation to lose” (cf. interview 2 with Anna, ll. 374ff.), which is a German saying to express one’s fear of losing that reputation. She stated she was “too academic” (ibid.) to use the notion of artistic research as a carte blanche for inaccurate research (ibid., ll. 365ff.). On the contrary: You need to treat the data in a responsible way. Of course you interpret them, but you need to make the procedure transparent. This is where I see a problem with many artistic research projects. … And THIS is where I insist, it [the interpretation of data] needs to be well founded. Even if it did not work out as planned … one can state the reasons why or say, “We are not sure which conclusions we can draw [from these data].” This is nothing dreadful. Rather, it has a positive effect: it makes it self-evident that we don’t produce senseless babble—this wouldn’t be Nick’s or Steve’s [modus operandi] either. And it is a lucky coincidence that none of us is engaged in sensationalism. (Interview 2 with Anna, ll. 367ff.)

Some of the aspects Anna mentioned—such as academic responsibility and transparent working methods—correspond to the standard criteria of good research. However, the field observation in the first chapter of this book revealed that such clear-cut statements, which clarify a research projects’ standpoints, aims, and contribution to the scientific or artistic fields, persist in being an important desideratum in the context of artistic research. In this sense, Case A might present itself as an example of this and contribute to the field’s clearer delineation. Like Anna, Nick also took a distinct stance on the research procedure. For example, he underlined the fact that they were not creating art in both interviews we carried out, as the quotation below demonstrates.

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Well, I can manage, as an artist, let’s say, not to have this ambition [to create art]. Ten years ago I could not have taken it so coolly (laughs). … I think that Steve has fewer artistic ambitions; he is more interested in the experiment, which is very good—even though I am slowly discovering the media artist in him. That is very nice. (Interview 1 with Nick, ll. 527ff.)

His professional background might provide an explanation for this attitude. As a media artist, he is often involved in exhibitions and other artistic projects that are designed to evoke an aesthetic experience for the audience. However, several of his previous projects did not fulfill his own expectations, because the audience did not understand his intention (cf. interview 1 with Nick, ll. 299ff.). As a consequence, he might have felt the need to clarify his aims and to express strong statements that the audience is able to interpret. In regard to artistic practices in the context of their research project, Anna and Nick shared a standpoint, which the following quotation illustrates. All the time I would stand up for this project and state, “NO, we are not creating an artwork. We’re experimenting. Of course, we are designing, but the aesthetic impression is not our primary goal.” That is, you need to differentiate between “artistic” and “aesthetic.” “Artistic” rather alludes to the processual, experimental, abstract—detached from everyday situations, as we have also claimed in our essay. It [the setting] is NOT a closed aesthetic appearance that wants to be perceived as art. So “artistic” definitely is ambivalent. It can imply freedom in comparison to the sciences, but it can also imply constraints related to demands from the side of design and art. (Interview 2 with Anna, ll. 348ff.)

This statement emphasizes once more that especially Anna and Nick promoted a clear stance on the role the arts and design played in their research endeavor. They used artistic practices to develop their setting, but the research process as such was not directed toward the production of art. Since both Anna and Nick considered it important to advance the field through “going one step further and thinking beyond existing theoretical models,” they formulated clear-cut statements to promote their research results, which enabled them “to be bold and claim something in the form of hypotheses” in their publications (cf. field notes phase 2, ll. 228ff.). However, the above statement only implicitly addresses the role of scientific methods

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in their research process. Recalling the research aims Anna, Nick, and Steve formulated—namely, developing a spatial setting with artistic means to empirically test the perception of computer-controlled, responsive environments and to offer the first empirical insights into the notion of atmospheres—leads us to examine the influence of technological equipment on their project’s empiricism. The role of media and technology When I described the technological setup of the setting, I only briefly mentioned that Nick and David had developed a “main engine,” which visualized the biofeedback data the researchers gathered. Anna, Nick, and Steve referred to this newly developed tool as the “evaluation viewer” (cf. field notes phase 2, ll. 361f.). It illustrated the test person’s data in real time during each evaluation (see figure 5a above). The evaluation viewer had two different purposes. In figure 5a, each of the connections and mappings David programmed is illustrated, along with a timer, which indicated the duration of each evaluation. A further visualization mode provided a more detailed insight into the patch that regulated the connection between a test person’s breathing and the saturation of the spotlights’ color. These two visualizations allowed especially David, the programmer, to keep track of the setting’s functioning and the sensors’ accuracy. The “presentation mode” (figure 5b) was used during a theater performance that a theater director developed with the support of the three researchers, which was carried out in the lab during my third research phase.6 It pictured only the results of the various mappings, that is, the setting’s response to the test person moving inside. For example, it indicated the breathing and heartbeat curves, the heartbeats per minute in numbers, the color of the setting, the color saturation, the volume of the wind sound, the frequency of the fan generating wind, and the duration of the evaluation or performance. The first purpose of the evaluation viewer was thus technical and instrumental in its nature, whereas its second purpose had an aesthetic character. The tool served the researchers in both generating knowledge and staging their results for an audience in real time.

6

The application of the responsive environment in this specific context is analyzed in the following section, “3.1.5 The application of the setting.”

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With such a useful and thoroughly developed tool at hand, which was specifically designed for and adapted to their needs, I kept wondering why Anna, Nick, and Steve did not fully exploit its benefits for further data analyses. In terms of empiricism, they followed their second, qualitative approach and carried out interviews with each test person. On the basis of these interviews, they developed hypotheses and published them in several articles. One can thus without a doubt say that they achieved their aim of contributing to an empirical foundation of the perception of computercontrolled environments and to broadening the notion of atmospheres. However, they neglected an important part of the data they gathered, which could have provided further support for their hypotheses, especially given the fact that David had already insisted on considering the data analysis during the development of the setting and its mapping (cf. field notes phase 1, ll. 589ff.). One could ask whether or not this gap in the use of the evaluation viewer resulted from a lack of competence within the team of Case A. In one of our interviews, Anna stated that they focused on the analysis of the interviews they had carried out following each evaluation because this was what she was “most used to” (cf. interview 2 with Anna, ll. 183ff.). A researcher more experienced in the evaluation of quantitative data could have filled this gap and used not only the instrument in its entirety but also the collected data in a more encompassing manner. A further question in this context is related to the sensor-based nature of the project. More precisely, one could ask whether the physical data measured could actually be analyzed in a quantitative fashion. From my observations of Anna and Nick testing the setting and of the various test persons using the setting, as well as from my own experience inside the setting, I could tell that the sensors’ measurement quality varied. While Nick’s heartbeat, for example, was usually very well mirrored both in lighting and sound, the effects were rather diffuse when I was inside the setting (cf. field notes phase 1, ll. 895ff., field notes phase 2, ll. 243ff.). In our first interview, Nick stressed his awareness of the differences in the measurements and the implications of this for the data analysis: Well, the calibration is done per person, so to speak. … My chest, for example, is extreme[ly girthy]; it doesn’t work that well with small, thin people, because the sensor requires a certain tension. … The two centimeters the rubber band needs

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to stretch—it just doesn’t work that well. But with the heartbeat, the frequency, the system needs to show: OK, you are at approximately 60 [beats per minute] and then it’s only about the deviation. But for this specific person, it’s calibrated and then it works. … You can compare the deviation with that of a different person, with different ranges maybe … you can compare the basic curves. (Interview 1 with Nick, ll. 396ff.)

With this explanation of the sensors’ responsiveness, Nick confirmed that the spatial setting they designed proved to be highly individual and subjectively perceived. Despite Anna’s statement about the perception of the setting as an artwork not being their goal, its aesthetic impression was nevertheless central to the evaluations. The test persons’ individual perceptions of the environment were indeed related to sensuous aspects underlying the quality of their immersive experience. Obviously, the three researchers were aware of this fact and analyzed the interviews they carried out accordingly, namely, based on qualitative methods (cf. interview 1 with Nick, l. 389). When I asked them about their idea of analyzing their data with the help of quantitative methods, Anna, Nick, Steve, and also David mentioned that the sensors’ measurement was too inaccurate to use the data for detailed analyses. Anna stated more pointedly: What do these biofeedback data TELL us AT ALL? And is [the equipment] we have sufficient to see whether the conclusions we draw are true? Yesterday, N [a test person], whose heartbeat was constantly above 120, and who said herself that she had a tendency for palpitation—those things obviously need to—well, we can’t say, “She was constantly excited.” It would be PRESUMPTUOUS7 to draw this conclusion. So we maybe need to use THIS [information] to tell what [kind of further equipment] we need to present more convincing interpretations of these data. (Interview 2 with Anna, ll. 209ff.)

In this context, the argument Anna, Nick, and Steve put forward was of a strategic nature: on the one hand, they focused on the development of hypotheses based on their qualitative data to demonstrate the progress and results they were able to achieve. On the other hand, with the evaluation

7

In German, Anna used the term “vermessen,” which literally means “mismeasured” in English.

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viewer and the qualitative data at hand, they would be able to apply for further funding by saying that they needed more time and budget for the technical refinements, which a more detailed data analysis would require (cf. field notes phase 3, ll. 111ff., interview 2 with Anna, ll. 182ff.). This line of argument was sound and comprehensible. Yet, one could critically state that the sensors’ inaccuracy was a recurrent topic from the beginning of the project up until its use in the context of the theater performance (cf. field notes phase 3, ll. 309ff.). Keeping in mind that Anna, Nick, and Steve were using sensors David had partly manufactured himself, one could assume that a person with a different kind of expertise, perhaps in tandem with more experience in quantitative data collection and analysis, would have solved this matter and pushed the project in another direction. It is self-evident that a project proceeds in congruence with its financial resources and the competences at hand, and that the priorities in terms of most promising research questions or technical issues to be dealt with are set accordingly. If a topic or problem persists in being this important, however, it is certainly beneficial that the prioritization be reevaluated. Concluding remarks on the individual roles In the preceding paragraphs, I examined the individual roles Anna, Nick, and Steve enacted. On the one hand, these roles were on a project management level since they were, for example, connected to the moderation of meetings and strategic decisions. On the other hand, they were related to the design of the setting and contributed to the setting’s current form and functionality. I furthermore analyzed the parts that artistic practices, empiricism, and technological equipment played in the context of the team’s research. These were closely connected to the methodological setup Anna, Nick, and Steve had envisioned. Consequently, these aspects strongly influenced the setting’s development as well as the progress and results the three researchers achieved.8

8

At this point, references to Bruno Latour’s actor-network theory (2005) and Hans-Jörg Rheinberger’s experimental systems (1997) immediately come to mind. The interdependence between human and non-human actors, media and technology, and material in the design processes of the setting as well as during the research processes is the most obvious connection to these theoretical ap-

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In this context, the setting’s central role in the research project merits further attention. The researchers’ joint work revolved around the development of the responsive environment, and in accordance with their disciplinary backgrounds as well as working modes, Anna, Nick, and Steve each contributed to its design. The setting served as a mediator across their disciplines, generating universally valid knowledge on the one hand and allowing the three researchers to derive individual research questions as well as insights from it on the other. It therefore seems legitimate to interpret the setting as a boundary object as originally conceived by Star and Griesemer (1989): In conducting collective work, people coming together from different social worlds frequently have the experience of addressing an object that has a different meaning for each of them. Each social world has partial jurisdiction over the resources represented by that object, and mismatches caused by the overlap become problems for negotiation. … management of these scientific objects—including construction of them—is conducted by scientists, collectors and administrators only when their work coincides. The objects thus come to form a common boundary between worlds by inhabiting them both simultaneously. (p. 412)

On the basis of the setting, Anna, Nick, and Steve got used to each other’s working modes and negotiated their individual interpretations. It had a meaning-generating function, as described by Star and Griesemer. However, I will postpone the detailed theoretical reflection on this topic until section “3.1.6 Summary and conclusion,” where I will engage in an in-depth discussion of the setting’s role as a boundary object in the context of Case A. In the following section, I would like to point to the thematic background of the research project and how it was recontextualized during a theater performance.

proaches. Applying them as analytic frameworks, however, would imply looking at the entanglement of various actors on a systemic meta-level only. To maintain an analytic focus on research practices, the setting is analyzed in its role as a boundary object.

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3.1.5 The application of the setting The room had already noticed that you were out. When your heart stopped beating over here, it immediately changed the number of meals ordered from the kitchen. Quotation from the performance script, field notes phase 3, ll. 1021f.

During the first two of my field research phases, I observed the development process of the setting. Anna, Nick, and Steve designed it to examine how humans perceived computer-controlled responsive environments and to draw conclusions in the broader framework of media ecologies and atmospheres. Congruent with their research aim, Anna, Nick, and Steve used the setting for internal, non-public evaluations with test persons. These evaluations and the interviews that followed them mainly served the three researchers in formulating first hypotheses and technically and aesthetically refining the setting. During the third research phase, the setting served a different purpose: it was applied in a theater performance, which took place in the lab in December 2015. As the above quotation from the script suggests, the performance presented and evoked utopian ideas on our future ways of sustainable living in close relation to the opportunities and risks the daily use of (wearable) technology implies. Theater director Jason developed a series of performance events; one of them took place in the lab and in close connection to the different research projects affiliated to the institute. Jason and Mark—another researcher from the institute—first organized a workshop of four days in the lab that combined theoretical input on cybernetics, real-life examples of self-organized living communities, and rehearsals for the performance. At the end of the week, three performances of sixty minutes and thirty to forty visitors each were carried out. On the first workshop day, Jason introduced the context of the performance as follows. Tuesday, December 15, 2015. At 10.35 a.m., Jason explains that a meeting with Anna and Nick resulted in the idea to guide the audience into the lab with the help of the freight elevator, and to find a way to present the projects that can be

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found in the lab. Downstairs, it will be suggested to the audience that they will enter a climate dome above the city, i.e., the lab. … The interviews of “the atmosphere setting” were transformed into a script, which two actresses [Nina and Lisa] will perform. The audience stand around the setting, the actresses will be inside, the biofeedback data will be visualized on a projection screen. (Field notes phase 3, ll. 135ff.)

It is first of all noteworthy that the setting was performed as an atmospheric model through the professional actors who used it as a stage set. As Jason stated, several excerpts from the interviews Anna, Nick, and Steve had carried out were transformed into dialogue; the scriptwriter wrote only one of the conversations set inside the setting herself (cf. field notes phase 3, ll. 793f.). On the basis of the interview transcripts, the actresses thus performed and illustrated “their” perception of the space and the connection between the biofeedback data and the environment’s responses. During the workshop week, Anna, Nick, and Steve expressed their curiosity about the setting’s reuse and application several times. On the day the performances took place, programmer David stated that he was surprised and “fascinated by the installation,” as he had not expected a stagelike setting (cf. field notes phase 3, l. 1103). Anna and Steve were keen on observing an artistic, applied perspective on the setting, which they had originally designed for “pure research” (cf. field notes phase 3, ll. 922ff.). In more specific relation to data visualization, Steve addressed the differences between information technology-projects and research projects such as theirs. While the former “simply present data” (cf. field notes phase 3, ll. 612f.), to adapt the visualization of the graphs and the volume of the sounds to the requirements of the theater performance, David programmed a “theater patch,” among other modifications (cf. field notes phase 3, ll. 443f., 466ff.). The “presentation mode” illustrated in figure 5b was slightly adapted, in that, for example, a slide control was added to control the volume of the sound (see further description below). Adapting the setting The following quotation from the field notes I took during the first rehearsal provide an impression of the actors’ and theater director’s questions regarding the setting as well as information about which of the setting’s aspects they requested to change.

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Tuesday, December 15, 2015. At 7.25 p.m., Nick and I get back to the lab; it is now dark and dim. Only the setting, which Jason calls “the atmosphere,” gives some light. Two of the actors lie and sit in front of the setting. The stage design assistant, the other two actresses, and Jason sit inside, their heads bent over their scripts. [figure 3d above] … At 8 p.m., the actresses and Jason stand behind Nick, who is at the desk and explains how the setting works. Both actresses are wearing the chest belts and sensors on their fingers. … Nick explains that there are three axes measuring the motion activity, which Lisa [one of the actresses] then orally describes and simultaneously imitates with “up-down,” “right-left,” and “head banging” movements with her entire body shaking, so that we all laugh. … The finger sensor is ripped off. Nick thus suggests Lisa to move more carefully and not to pull too strongly on her finger. While fixing the sensor on her finger again, Nick says that the data are fuzzy and inconsistent. We laugh again because Lisa moves a lot; she jumps up and down, gets her pulse up to 130, and moves her arms around wildly to activate the three axes at the same time. Nick says that the heartbeat often drops out and still needs improvement, but that it is not that important for the show, rather for the analysis. … Nina deeply inhales, holds her breath, holds it, holds it, holds it, and suddenly the data are measured again despite her still holding her breath. The setting emits a loud, seemingly uncontrolled wind sound, and the fan almost goes crazy. Nina says, “The system can’t go any longer, it exhales.” … Lisa asks about the connection between the biofeedback data and the changes in the setting’s color. Nick thinks for a minute and then explains that exhaling reduces the colors, inhaling revives them. These things could be adapted, he says. Then he takes off his shoes, goes inside the setting and puts the fabric back on top of the fan so that it can inflate [during the performances, this part is not going to be used]. “It’s all a little chaotic in here, we still need to neatly arrange this.” [This is not going to happen, the setting will be used as it is now. The public is not supposed to enter the setting; they will watch its reactions from the outside.] Nina asks whether one can switch between the two sensors while the two actresses are inside of the setting, which Nick confirms. Jason asks how this will be mirrored on the projection screen … and adds that he would like each sensor’s data to be mirrored separately and only one at a time. Nick replies that someone would need to be sitting at the desk to switch the screens, but he thinks it would be okay to stage this as “a researcher supervising the whole setting.” Jason asks whether the wind sound could be switched off, which Nick tries but doesn’t manage to do. Instead, he

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switches the entire sound patch off. Jason notices that the light has turned green and asks whether this could be used in a more performative manner. Nick says that everything can be adapted. Jason replies that he doesn’t want to change but to integrate it. … Nina and Lisa play the entire scene inside the setting once. Everyone is excited. Further changes to the setting will be carried out tomorrow morning. Jason states that he likes the setting without the “sound carpet.” Nick says that “it was OK” and suggests using the heartbeat sound only. Jason: “Was that turned off just now? We DO need that one indeed!” … At 8.30 p.m., the actors continue rehearsing in one of the boxes, and Nick and I go home. Jason states that he would like to “work only here, it’s great” and Nick says, “the theater groove is cool.” (Field notes phase 3, ll. 388ff.)

This rehearsal revealed a shift of focus from the setting’s originally intended use to its application during the performance. Design-related aspects like the neatly arranged fabric inside the setting or the inflatable fabric parts became entirely unimportant because they were not visible to the audience. The enclosed character of the space Anna, Nick, and Steve had created through arranging several lengths of black and white latex fabric was transformed as well: Anna and Nick took down these pieces of fabric so that the audience had the impression of being able to see inside the space. It remained a half-clouded view, however, since the remaining white fabric was only semi-transparent (cf. field notes phase 3, ll. 602ff.). In this context, Steve had suggested carrying out visitor interviews to gain insights into their perception of the environment and its functionality. The three researchers abandoned this idea in the end, since they only had a limited amount of time—approximately fifteen to thirty minutes between the performance events—to ask visitors for their consent and opinion (cf. field notes phase 3, ll. 919ff.). Anna, Nick, and Steve did, however, carry out interviews with the two actresses and the theater director. They asked them to comment on their general impressions when working with the setting and about how their behavior changed when they knew how the chest belt worked (cf. field notes phase 3, ll. 1053ff.). Furthermore, the use of sensors was essential for the performance in a different manner than it was for the evaluations. Instead of, so to say, “passively perceiving” the setting’s response, the actresses were rather keen on knowing how they had to move in order to actively control the sensors as

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well as the setting’s reactions. Its appearance had to match their dialogue to convey the content to the audience both visually and orally. Obviously, the actresses’ actual physical data still needed to be measured accurately. Therefore, they had to learn how to wear the belts and the finger sensors, and how to activate them according to their bodily constitution. For example, David explained that the actresses had to talk to activate the sensor’s calibration (cf. field notes phase 3, ll. 995ff.). Otherwise, they risked the system “going crazy,” as happened in the excerpt above when the setting generated loud sounds and strong wind at the same time without anyone stimulating it. The sensor needed twenty seconds to adapt itself to the corresponding person’s breathing each time it was triggered, as Anna, Nick, and Steve had to explain several times (cf. field notes phase 3, ll. 756ff., 786f.). David added that when the actresses moved during the performance, the chest belt could slide down or alternatively they might wear it too tightly (ibid.). On this occasion, I remembered the explanation Nick gave in one of our interviews: he had said that the sensor needed two centimeters to stretch and measure correctly, which did not work well with thin people who wore the belt tightly (cf. Interview 1 with Nick, ll. 396ff.). After several rehearsals, one of the actresses told Anna that she had “breathed like crazy” but that nothing had happened and that she had tried to influence her breathing and pulse in connection with the script, but that it had hardly worked (cf. field notes phase 3, ll. 1062ff.). David once more thought that she had worn the belt too tightly (ibid.). This time, however, the reason was different. When the actresses prepared for the first performance on Friday evening and put on the belts just as the elevator with the first visitors was about to arrive, I took the following field notes: Nina would like to loosen the belt and put it down a little. “It would make a lot of things easier, if it were a little lower down,” she says, and adds, “oftentimes, actors breathe into the abdomen. Now it’s much better.” She states that it doesn’t disturb her that much anymore, it doesn’t move anymore, that she has more freedom, and that she can move better. Anna says: “And you feel comfortable! Great, we have never had such a well-responding signal before. We’ll leave it like this!” (Field notes phase 3, ll. 1094ff.)

Firstly, these notes hint at the fact that actors need comfortable equipment to be able to concentrate on their performance. Anna had also asked the ac-

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tresses to wear socks inside the setting so that their shoes would not get caught in the fabric (cf. field notes phase 3, ll. 1012ff.). But since the actresses had only a little time to change their clothes between scenes, they instead wore plastic overshoes during the performances, which they could take off quickly when they left the responsive environment. Secondly, the field notes reveal that different breathing methods require individually adjusting the chest belt to achieve accurate data. This applies both to the performance setting and to the evaluations the three researchers carried out. Test persons who, for example, sing or play an instrument might also be used to breathing into the abdomen instead of the chest. Future test persons should thus be asked about their breathing habits before entering the space to ensure optimal data measurement. In regard to the setting’s appearance, Jason was content with the lighting and adjusted the theater piece’s dialogue accordingly. For example, instead of just mentioning that “the light changed,” the actresses explicitly described that “the room turned pink” or “there are warmer colors.” The theater director only asked for changes in the different sounds and volume the biofeedback data generated. A further paragraph from my field notes illustrates his requests; square brackets again serve to provide clarifications. Jason asks for silence. Then he asks Nina to go inside the “jellyfish” [he means the very center of the setting, where test persons usually sat down] and to talk into a different direction. He says the volume is too high, then it’s better, he would like the heartbeat to be louder. Anna transmits his request to David, who is sitting at the desk and changes the sound patch. … Jason still wants it to be louder. He says that the low frequencies are only a little present. He asks: “When does the ‘atmo’ start [reacting]?” He would like the heart to be loud, but the atmo [the fans, the wind, and distortion sounds] to be lower; “the wind was quite loud in comparison.” He asks the actresses to run dramatically … then he asks David to turn down the distortion sound [which is mapped to the movement data]. David goes back to the desk. Jason states that he doesn’t want it to “be too loud,9 [because] then the audience needs to be quieter.” … Anna confirms that she prefers a quiet and low sound, because [the audience] then needs to see whether they are actually able to hear it. … Discussion about whether all the sound could be turned

9

In German, he used the saying “Stoff geben,” which is equivalent to “being showy or dominant.”

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down at one specific point of dialogue to emphasize the pulse more. Anna goes back to the desk and asks David to perform the change. He adds a volume bar in the presentation mode with which Anna and Nick will be able to switch the volume during the performances. (Field notes phase 3, ll. 984ff.)

Again, the setting’s original functionality, namely the direct and homogenously loud connection between the biofeedback data and sound, was aesthetically staged. Through emphasizing the heartbeat and using it as the dominant sound, the setting’s reaction was adapted to address the audience, who was not wearing any technological equipment, on a sensory-perceptive level comparable to that of the protagonist inside the setting. In this manner, the audience was “sensuously” guided through the content of the performance and through the different connections between the data, lighting, and sounds. They needed to watch and listen closely; the vibrations the subwoofer generated offered a further sensation. It is noteworthy that the data visualization proved to be a stronger attractor than the setting during the performances. When the audience arrived in the lab, the dimly lit responsive environment was closer to the elevator on the right; the bright projection screen was a bit further way, opposite the elevator. During the first minutes of each performance—the scene in and around the setting lasted approximately ten minutes—many visitors first looked at the screen and then turned to the setting to make out movements through the semi-transparent fabric and to listen closely to the conversations. Since I did not have the opportunity to talk to the visitors after the performances I cannot state their perspectives on why they were drawn first to the screen. However, Gibson’s notion of positive affordance (1986) provides an explanation. Considering that the elevator’s sliding doors opened up the view into the darkened lab space, the bright screen immediately afforded their attention. In addition, the data were displayed in real time and therefore constantly in motion. This resulted in many visitors approaching the screen to look at them.

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Enacting the setting A final aspect that changed when the setting was applied in the performance is related to Anna’s and Nick’s roles.10 Instead of just introducing a test person to the general research context and activating the setting, they enacted the role of researchers who controlled the setting. During the rehearsals as well as during each of the three performances, either Nick or Anna was sitting at the desk, concentrating, their head bent over the script or looking toward the computer screen, changing the volume at the designated part in the script (cf. field notes phase 3, ll. 1015ff., 1032ff.). Anna stated that she had a little stage fright (cf. field notes phase 3, l. 725) and that she was even a bit nervous and checked whether the sound was working correctly once more before the first performance started (cf. field notes phase 3, ll. 1100f.). Nick spit three times over Anna’s shoulder to wish her luck, which both of them laughed about, and was generally very relaxed (cf. field notes phase 3, ll. 1101f.). Both of them had fun actively participating in the performances and obviously enjoyed the theater atmosphere. I only briefly had the opportunity to talk to the actors. One of them stated that they enjoyed working with and in the setting, but they would have liked to have more time to work on the scripts; only one week to prepare for the performances was too little (cf. field notes phase 3, ll. 1121f.). Over the course of the workshop week, I perceived the actors as interested in the overall topics of sustainable-living strategies and wearable technologies. When they were working with the setting, they were serious and committed on a professional level. Furthermore, they were personally curious about how the sensors functioned and were dedicated to learning how to control them. Obviously, they also gained technical and personal knowledge through wearing the sensors, as a final quotation below illustrates. Just before the first performance, I took the following field notes: Friday, December 18, 2015, 7 p.m. The first performance is about to start. Nina is sitting on one of the red sofas, waiting for the audience to arrive. She is wearing the white, semi-transparent jumpsuit, the overshoes, and the chest belt. The lab is dark except for the lamp on the desk illuminating the “control corner,” and the setting’s softly flickering light is already reflecting Nina’s heartbeat. The only au-

10 Steve was absent on the day of the performances, so he did not witness the setting’s application or change his role in this context.

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dible sound is the subwoofer, imitating her heartbeat too. She says, “My pulse is never this high when I’m sitting on the sofa. This is like an open book!”

Each time the setting was used, the technological equipment the researchers had integrated played a crucial role in the insights they gained. In the evaluations, data collection served the purely academic aim of knowledge generation. Anna, Nick, and Steve were dependent on the sensors’ accuracy and sensitivity to collect a set of valid, reliable data on the basis of which they could put forward hypotheses. Contrary to this, data collection and visualization in the applied setting served addressing the audience. The two actresses controlled the sensors and therefore produced the setting’s appearance in connection with their dialogue. They staged and enacted the setting to confront the visitors with ideas on sustainable self-organization and common-living strategies based on wearable technologies and simultaneously tackled the issues of personalized data, control, and dependence on integrative, wearable technologies. Hence, through watching the performance, the audience could derive various forms of knowledge. Firstly, they could gain abstract insights into the subject of human-computer interaction, the daily use of wearable technologies, and data storage. Secondly, they could gain concretely tangible knowledge through the performance’s examples of human-computer interactions, such as the registration of a community member’s absence and the subsequent response in a reduced quantity of prepared food for a shared meal, or the registration of a community member’s sickness and the immediate, automatically processed ordering of the necessary medication. Last but not least, the knowledge the performance generated was subjective and sense related, because the visitor gained this knowledge through watching and sensuously experiencing the performance, that is, through listening to the dialogue, watching the setting and the projection screen, and sensing the light, sound, and vibrations. 3.1.6 Summary and conclusion In retrospect, it is noteworthy that Anna, Nick, and Steve developed the responsive environment, carried out evaluations, and applied the setting within a period of seven months. Even though the application did not take place in a domestic space as originally intended, the broader thematic framework remained as originally conceived. The implications of wearable technolo-

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gies for sustainable-living communities were examined in the context of a public theater performance. In addition, the three researchers prepared several publications and participated in national and international conferences before, during, and following my research stays. One can say that they achieved a high research output. Several aspects explain why I perceived the atmosphere among the three researchers as productive and constructive during nearly each of my research stays. One of them was the limited amount of time the researchers had at their disposal for their research. Due to the reduced budget, which resulted in two instead of three years of research, and due to their involvement in further projects, they tried to use their time efficiently. On the one hand, because of this each meeting or discussion ended with questions and tasks to proceed with. On the other hand, the team postponed strategic decisions such as postponing the quantitative data analysis and the examination of wearable technologies in a domestic space for a potential follow-up project. A second reason for their relatively quick progress was their individual motivation and interest in the subjects of computer-controlled environments and atmospheres. Anna, Nick, and Steve were highly driven to develop the setting in order to put forward hypotheses on the test persons’ general perception and behavioral patterns in the setting. This, in turn, can be related to the research and group dynamics underlying their team. In the beginning of “Chapter 3: Recounting the field,” I outlined the institutional embedding of Case A and showed that the institute’s openness, critical self-reflection, and its solution-oriented and practice-based approaches to research were mirrored in the atmosphere of Case A. Through their affiliation to the institute, Anna, Nick, and Steve could build upon an institutional environment for their own specific research project. The latter provided a framework within which the three researchers could productively use their different interests, approaches, and competences. This also fostered their oftentimes harmonious and cheerful way of working together. Their shared mindsets were furthermore reflected in their clear stance on the role of artistic research in their research project. They not only agreed on using artistic practices to develop the setting but also promoted the fact that instead of producing art, their aim was to carry out empirical research on the perception of computer-controlled responsive environments. Even though they had to get used to each other’s individual working modes, these peculiarities did not evolve into conflict situations. Rather, Anna, Nick,

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and Steve respected and integrated their specific interests and practical or theoretical expertise into the project structure. Each of them enacted a distinct role and acknowledged the others’ individual contribution to the project. Therefore, they could focus fully on the design of the setting and their research. It is noteworthy that, in the end, they contributed to the artistic production process of the theater performance described above. The theater director used their setting as a point of departure for the discussion of the chances and risks wearable technologies imply for sustainable, self-organized living strategies. The setting’s role was equally central to Anna, Nick, and Steve’s research, in that it structured their work, and to the development of the theater performance, through providing a thematic framework. Both projects and the people involved revolved around the setting. As I have already suggested, it is appropriate to interpret the setting as a boundary object, a concept that Star and Griesemer (1989) describe as follows: Boundary objects are objects which are both plastic enough to adapt to local needs and the constraints of the several parties employing them, yet robust enough to maintain a common identity across sites. … They have different meanings in different social worlds but their structure is common enough to more than one world to make them recognizable, a means of translation. The creation and management of boundary objects is a key process in developing and maintaining coherence across intersecting social worlds. (p. 393)

The description of Anna’s, Nick’s, and Steve’s individual roles and working methods revealed the setting’s mediating and translating function in their project. Through jointly developing an artistically staged responsive environment, they got to know each other’s interests in the setting and acknowledged their distinct contributions to its development. They could approach it from their individual disciplinary backgrounds while simultaneously using it as a common point of departure for the readjustment of their interview questions or the further technical and aesthetical refinement of the setting itself. Similarly, the meaning they derived from the setting was both personalized or related to their individual disciplines and universally valid, which was mirrored for example in the hypotheses they put forward. Hence, the setting’s interpretation as a boundary object in the context of Case A’s research is unambiguous.

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In sum, the setting served to, so to speak, “horizontally” mediate across the different disciplinary backgrounds involved in the performance—actors, theater directors, media artists, computer scientists, media scientists, and cultural scientists. The performance added yet a further layer: in its specific context, the setting’s functionality was artistically staged to communicate socially relevant ideas to an audience. In other words: “These coincident boundaries, around a loosely-structured, boundary object, provide an anchor for more widely-ranging, riskier claims” (Star & Griesemer, 1989, p. 410). This time, the artistic interpretation of the boundary object during the performance served as a translator between the setting and the audience, allowing for “more widely-ranging, riskier claims” on the broader topic of computer-controlled atmospheres in relation to our future ways of living. Through this structural and interpretative enrichment, the performance did not serve only as a means of communication across disciplines. Rather, through simultaneously being a research tool and an aesthetically perceivable entity, the performance served as a means of communication between an enclosed research community and a broader audience. Already, the performance’s development process was insightful for the participating actors and researchers. The actual theater event then transferred parts of their research interests to the audience, who simultaneously became acquainted with an unconventional way to carry out research and to apply academic knowledge. One could even say that through artistically staging and enacting the setting, the research community’s research processes and insights were translated to an audience who would otherwise not have been able to access the knowledge generated in the context of the research project. In this manner, the performance offered a sensuous experience of research processes and methods, through which the audience gained personalized knowledge. The relation to the broader theoretical context of wearable technologies and sustainable self-organized living furthermore enabled the audience to acquire generalizable knowledge. As a tangible yet textbased entity one could aesthetically experience and thereby comprehend through different senses, the performance enabled subjective sensuous approaches to the topic and offered overarching socially relevant ideas at the same time.

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3.2

DESCRIPTION OF CASE B

Before entering the field of Case B, I imagined its project structure and organization. Its goal was both to develop new digital musical instruments and to carry out research with these new instruments as well as on related topics such as the perception of electronic music, the spatialization of sound, and performance aspects related to digital musical instruments. My expectations were based on the previous knowledge I had gained from the project’s website and publications. Because of the broad range of aspects the researchers wanted to touch upon and especially due to the research team’s size, I expected regular meetings. The entire team comprised seven researchers from seven different disciplines: musicology, cultural studies, cognitive psychology, audio communication, product design, computer science, and sound engineering. In addition, most of them had experience designing and/or performing with digital musical interfaces; four researchers also had an acoustic musical background. Alongside these seven researchers, there were two project leaders and four external advisors. Therefore, I expected frequent meetings both with the entire team and in smaller project-related groups. This presumption was also based on the fact that two universities initiated the project, which meant the involved institutes were located in various buildings each across the city, sometimes with a distance of several kilometers between them. As a layperson in the field of electronic music and digital musical instruments, I was curious to see and listen to different instruments. I was looking forward to watching researchers from various disciplines during their joint work on new instrument prototypes and to observing how they developed ideas and realized them. The production process of the first digital instrument (called “the instrument” in the following) that the team developed was documented online in detail, both visually and through written text. This documentation’s aim was to outline the different steps of the instrument’s construction so that people who were not involved in the research project could rebuild the prototype. I learned that this bellow-based instrument consisted of three parts: a wooden box on the bottom, which was tied to the thigh; an upper hand part, also made from wood, which was strapped to the hand; and a black latex bellow, which connected these two parts. The hand part included a joy-

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stick for the thumb and four buttons so that each finger could be used to play the instrument. There were microphones in the lower part and LEDs as well as light sensors inside the bellow, which contributed to the soundsynthesis process. In the videos the researchers had recorded during the first performances, I could hear that pulling and pushing the bellow up and down produced airy sounds; that pulling the bellow up, shaking, and bending it quickly sounded as if a helicopter was in the space; and that pushing the buttons while simultaneously pushing the bellow down emitted tonal, harmonic sounds. Each time one of the researchers, who had not only created the instrument but also performed with it, moved the bellow of their instrument, it became illuminated from the inside (see figures 6a and b below). It was furthermore clear that the instrument existed in two versions, one for right- and left-handed musicians each. The researchers sat on a chair while playing the instrument together; cables on the ground connected each instrument to a notebook computer set up on the floor. This was the first—and until the end of my field research, also the only—instrument prototype three researchers of Case B jointly designed from scratch. Therefore, I had expected its role in the project to be central and the reaction of the entire team to be positive or at least critically praiseful and constructive. This expectation was also due to the fact that the instrument seemed to be a perfect fit with my research questions. On the one hand, I was looking forward to uncovering the interplay of various disciplines and expertise involved in its production process. The online documentation showed that, for example, practical, material, and technical knowledge was necessary to unite the prototype’s different components. On the other hand, the instrument seemed to be the boundary object par excellence in the context of Case B. It was at the same time sufficiently concrete and complex11 so that the various disciplines involved could generate knowledge about, for example, its functionality and performativity and derive further research questions on sound synthesis and audience perception, among other topics.

11 Star and Griesemer (1989) state: “Their boundary nature is reflected by the fact that they are simultaneously concrete and abstract, specific and general, conventionalized and customized. They are often internally heterogeneous” (p. 408).

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Figure 6a, b: Susan (a) and John (b) rehearsing in the studio using the redesigned version of the instrument.

I was going to be proven wrong. Without wanting to pre-empt too many insights that I will cover in later sections, I found that the instrument’s function was not as uniting as I had expected. Instead, the division between the two institutions that were involved in the research project was made manifest in this artifact. Because of this revelation, I will start the description of Case B with how the common research project between researchers from the arts academy and the technical university was initiated (“3.2.1 Project development”). Afterward, the research processes and group dynamics of Case B are examined in regard to the researchers’ diverse backgrounds as well as to several aspects mirroring the institutional division (“3.2.2 Research dynamics”). This includes the researchers’ individual motivations to join the project, their workspaces, and their working modes and time management. These aspects, in turn, influenced the team meetings and collaborative research and development processes of the instrument prototypes. Consequently, they also had an impact on the researchers’ reactions to “the instrument”; these are examined in “3.2.3 The role of the instrument.” In the same section, the instrument’s role as a boundary object is discussed in light of Gibson’s notion of affordances (1986). Finally, I will summarize

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the results of my analyses and conclude with hypotheses about the development of Case B as well as about the role of the instrument in the research project. 3.2.1 Project development In “Chapter 2: Ethnographic field research,” I briefly mentioned that researchers from a German technical university (called “TU” in the following) and a German arts university (called “AU” in the following) participated in the research project of Case B. Their structural differences are noteworthy. With almost 34,000 students, including more than 6,500 international students, the TU is one of Germany’s largest traditional universities. In its forty bachelor and sixty master degrees, it puts a strong focus on engineering subjects. In comparison, the AU works with a small body of 4,000 students. The latter are individually selected via strict admission procedures that are customized to the artistic program of study (fine and performing arts, music, architecture, media arts, and design). The AU is one of the few arts academies in Germany that is allowed to award doctoral degrees and has full university status. Given that both are such important and traditional institutions, one can ask how projects spanning such established institutions are developed. In Case B, several aspects contributed to the project’s initiation: Robert, head of TU’s audio communication department, had thought about a research project on the design and dissemination of new digital musical instruments (cf. interview 1 with Robert, ll. 35ff.). He participated in a brainstorming event organized by Initiative A, which the universities created together to ignite interdisciplinary research projects across the two institutions (ibid.). It organizes thematic events to connect researchers from both universities who are interested in similar subjects. In the case of more concrete project proposals and corresponding conceptualization phases, Initiative A supports the researchers with advice on potential funding sources and reviews the applications. Alongside Robert, other researchers from both AU and TU took part in this brainstorming event, and as AU professor for generative arts Daniel explained:

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[The] people who were part of this brainstorming pool … thought about the fact that I am also dealing with these aspects. [They] had known me from other contexts and asked me whether I would be interested [in such a project]. Because I was the person most closely related to the topic at AU. So the thing fell into my lap without me being part of the development phase. This is how it originally developed. (Interview 1 with Daniel, ll. 75ff.)

During the interview, Daniel used the phrase “the thing fell into my lap” in a somewhat humorous manner. But in taking it seriously, the sentence reveals that Case B was a hybrid construction. Departing from the original idea to create a research project on digital musical instruments spanning the two institutions, a more or less equal number of researchers from TU (four researchers) and AU (three researchers) were brought together. As such, Case B had a strong university-political foundation: besides the project’s research goal, its initiation and successful completion served to legitimate Initiative A’s existence as what could be called a “research incubator.” When the Case B project was developed, the fairly young initiative was still fighting for recognition within both AU and TU. This seems paradoxical in light of its cross-institutional origins. Yet, considering the two universities’ individual institutional traditions, their varying interests in Initiative A’s functions and in collaborative research projects appear less surprising. Lauren, a representative of Initiative A whom I interviewed, differentiated between the following interests of TU and AU (cf. conversation with Lauren, ll. 23ff.), which I then classified as strategic and content related (see table 1).

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Table 1: Different interests in Initiative A stemming from TU’s and AU’s institutional backgrounds. TU

AU

a) Strategic interests

• Stronger profile in comparison to two similarly large, competing universities in the city

• Strengthening status as a university, thereby emphasizing a unique selling proposition (USP) in science and research • Integrating alumni through projects (3rd cycle)

b) Content related interests

• Openness toward new ideas and perspectives • Integrating/discussing aesthetic and designrelated questions • Looking for inspiring conversation partners for direct exchange

• Finding new topics

Table 1 illustrates that AU’s interests in Initiative A were of a rather strategic character. Its goal was to generally foster research within its institution to legitimize its status as a university (cf. conversation with Lauren, ll. 21ff.). Only through offering qualifying positions to academics can this status be maintained. In comparison, TU was trying to access new content through collaboration with AU (ibid.). Its main aim was to increase its competitiveness with two further important universities in the same city. As outlined above, one of Initiative A’s main activities is providing information on funding institutions likely to support research projects jointly undertaken by TU and AU. In this context, Lauren compared the two institutions with David and Goliath: while the acquisition of external funding was paramount at TU (Goliath), she stated that AU, by contrast, was negligent in dealing with this topic (David) (ibid.). Consequently, connecting

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these two universities implies identifying similar research interests, managing different competences, and accommodating distinct expectations as well as needs. Despite Initiative A’s activating function, it is obvious that both Daniel and Robert had a genuine interest in the research context of Case B. Moreover, Daniel and Robert already knew each other through classes they had jointly held at TU’s department of audio communication (cf. interview 1 with Robert, ll. 44ff.). The brainstorming event Initiative A had organized merely served to reconnect them. On this basis, Robert was the main funding applicant and project leader on the side of TU, and Daniel was his equivalent on AU’s side. TU researcher Tom and AU researcher Michael also contributed to the writing process of the funding application. They served as project leaders who actively contributed to the research project, whereas Robert and Daniel took on representative functions. They submitted the application to a foundation that finances local research projects at the end of 2012. Initiative A provided administrative support during the application process. This did not include financial support or any further official project monitoring. Initiative A later organized several events and invited the team of Case B to present its research project and first results (cf. interview 1 with Daniel, ll. 86ff.), which also included performances with the instrument. It is noteworthy that the foundation approved 60 percent of the requested amount for a period of three years (cf. field notes phase 1, l. 1321). Due to the reduced budget, the position of coordinator, who was supposed to handle the administrative work between the two parties, was never filled. However, as expected, the project still started in fall 2013. I accompanied the team as a field researcher from January 2015 onward, that is, after the first year of collaborative work had passed. Since I was living close to the two institutions, I could adapt my presence in the various working sites according to the researchers’ tasks and meetings. I thus spontaneously switched between the spaces, events, and people I observed within the predetermined duration of my field research phases. Project structure and further development Before meeting the researchers in Case B for the first time, I had looked through their website and blog in detail and also read one article they had

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published on the genesis of the first instrument prototype. The article also elaborated on their joint working practices. Nevertheless, at the beginning of my field research, it took me a while to understand the project structure. That was probably also due to my previously discussed expectations, which differed from what I encountered in the field. Especially after reading the collaboratively written article, I had thought that the researchers from both institutions worked together closely most of the time. Along with researchers being separated according to institutional alliances, during my very first days of field research I learned that the five so-called work packages of the research project, which are listed in table 2 below, also informed the team composition. Table 2: Project structure of Case B and distribution of the five work packages.

• • •

TU Systematization of hybrid electronic musical instruments Empirical research on the interaction of gestures and sound Musical instrument and spatial sound control

• •

AU Design of new musical instruments Open development

As shown in the table, the TU researchers carried out three work packages. The other two work packages were located at AU. Robert and Daniel organized the team of seven researchers according to their disciplinary backgrounds. At TU, musicologist Tom and musicologist/cultural scientist Mary collaborated on the systemization project. Mary also developed an exhibition on hybrid musical instruments and their historical development. Cognitive psychologist Bill carried out empirical audience research, which Tom also supported. Chris, who holds a master degree in audio communication, examined different manners of sound spatialization. At AU, computer scientist Michael, sound engineer John, and product designer Susan jointly developed digital musical instruments. The production processes were documented in an online manual to enable the reconstruction of these instruments. Along with developing instrument prototypes, Susan, Michael, and John also gave a class to fulfill the “open development” work package,

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for which they taught and accompanied students in the design of instruments. The students developed ideas and publicly presented their instruments at the end of each semester. According to the funding application, this work package aimed at the development of open-source software to enable easy reconstruction of the prototypes as well as their commercialization. It was supposed to integrate researchers from both TU and AU. However, on the side of TU, the team composition did not turn out exactly as initially planned: engineer Richard was, among other things, supposed to cooperate with the AU team on the design and development of digital musical instruments. However, Richard ended up being appointed professor at a university in the United States. When musicologist and cultural scientist Mary subsequently applied for the position, she was—in accordance with her previous research and education—appointed to participate in the first work package (systematization) from April 2014 onward (cf. field notes phase 1, l. 2075). This meant that Susan, Michael, and John developed the instruments mentioned in the funding application on their own. In addition, the entire team of Case B was involved in the organization of a symposium and corresponding publication on current perspectives on digital musical instruments. Both the exhibition opening and the symposium were planned to take place in fall 2016, and were to act as closing events for the entire research project. Hence, both events were recurring topics during my field research stays, and particularly during my second field research phase in the second half of 2015, when the symposium and edited book became important tasks for the entire team. At the end of 2015, the TU researchers experienced a change within their team: Tom was appointed lecturer at a university in the United Kingdom, and would start his new professional obligation in January 2016. Despite his ongoing involvement via Skype and email, Mary and Bill had to finalize their parts of the project mainly on their own in the remaining ten months of the project. Furthermore, Bill left the team in the middle of 2016 due to personal reasons. One could therefore say that the TU team split into three “one-man working units.” In addition to Chris, who had been working independent from any of his TU and AU colleagues from the project’s beginning, Mary and Bill worked individually in the last year of the research project. A similar development occurred with the AU team. By the end of 2014, Susan, Michael, and John had designed three versions of their first instru-

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ment prototype and played it together in public. When I joined them as a field researcher in January 2015, they were working on its second iteration, which they played at several national and international performances during the first six months of 2015. In the second half of 2015, they shifted to focus on individual research questions. These were linked to their distinct interests in the broader research context of Case B: John continued working mainly on the instrument by developing and testing additional playing modes and sound; Susan carried out a long-term study on improvisation in dance and design to create two new instrument prototypes; and Michael developed what he called “sketches” (cf. interview 2 with Michael, l. 245), which involved composing a performance set of several digitally modifiable sound sources such as a cymbal and his mobile phone. He played these sketches during the team’s later rehearsals, while the other two used their versions of the instrument. Overall, one could say that the previous group of researchers in Case B splintered into loosely connected one-man working units. At TU, Mary, Bill, and Chris continued working on their individual research questions, which stemmed from the separate work packages, without Tom’s support, when he left for the UK. At AU, Susan, Michael, and John developed individual research questions within the same work package, namely the design of digital musical instruments. The symposium served as a cohesive element. Based on the original division of these project structures, disagreements were almost inevitable. Despite this fact, it is noteworthy that the researchers in Case B achieved international visibility with their project from the second year onward. The TU researchers presented papers at international conferences such as the International Computer Music Conference, the Conference on Interdisciplinary Musicology, and the International Symposium on Computer Music Multidisciplinary Research. The AU researchers usually connected paper presentations and performances with the instrument, for example at the International Conference on Live Interfaces. The instrument was even awarded the third place at an international musical instrument competition. Furthermore, the Center for Art and Media Karlsruhe, an internationally renowned institution in its field, invited the team of Case B to organize a weekend-long festival on hybrid instruments in 2016. In addition, Susan, Michael, and John (AU) performed at various interna-

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tional festivals such as the PNEM (Platform New Experimental Music) Sound Art Festival and NODE+CODE. In the following section, I examine the ways in which the researchers managed their individual as well as common work. 3.2.2 Research dynamics I have already above addressed the hybrid construction of Case B. Originally initiated as a cooperative project between AU and TU, the distinct traditions of the two universities clearly marked Case B’s development. The project’s development was further affected by the fact the team comprised seven researchers from seven different disciplines. Putting together such a diverse team implies that there is no one single institutional culture or research dynamic to build upon. Rather, the researchers are confronted with a number of different disciplinary traditions, working patterns, and personal habits. In Case B, the diversity was mirrored in the researchers’ motivations for working on the project; in the spaces they used; in their working modes, time management, and approaches; as well as in their team meetings and collaboration in the context of the main research project. These aspects are further explored in the following paragraphs. Some of the descriptions are complemented by interpretive comments, which are meant to better guide the reader through the condensed research material. The next several paragraphs provide a comprehensive overview and conclusion on Case B’s research dynamics. Individual motivations It is self-evident that the researchers of Case B shared interests in the field of digital musical instruments and their design, classification, and perception. However, their distinct career paths also strongly influenced their motivation for joining the team. First of all, it needs to be stated that the researchers in Case B were employed in various part-time positions: 25 percent (Tom, Chris), 50 percent (John, Susan), 65 percent (Mary, Bill), and 90 percent (Michael).12 Parttime contracts are common for research projects, which often offer qualifi-

12 TU researchers Tom and Chris were employed in further TU-related positions and dedicated less time to the research project.

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cation positions for both early-career and more established academics. This was the case for TU researcher Tom, for example. He aimed at qualifying himself as a professor with the help of, among others, paper publications in the context of Case B. As stated above, he was during the project successfully appointed lecturer at a university in the UK. AU researcher Michael never explicitly communicated the wish to push his university career further. In our conversations we did, however, address the possibility of using the articles he published in the context of Case B for a publication-based postdoctoral career (cf. interview 2 with Michael, ll. 450ff.). TU researcher Mary wanted to gather more work experience in a research context while at the same time finalizing her PhD. Even though she did not finish the writing process in her initial time frame, because her work on Case B proved to be more time-consuming than planned, she managed to make substantial progress. In comparison, AU researcher Susan had been working in a design office beforehand and seized the chance to take a better-paid position, which also offered her the opportunity to continue working on her research interests (cf. field notes phase 2, ll. 293ff.). TU researcher Chris was mainly motivated by his work on sound spatialization. It is noteworthy, however, that he ultimately spent little time on the research project due to his professional obligations as a studio manager. In our second interview, Chris stated that his literature research had enabled him to clarify basic questions and that he had “developed initial ideas on the direction in which the instrument design could go” (cf. interview 2 with Chris, ll. 268ff.). Finally, three researchers wanted to do their PhDs during the project. These were Bill from TU, supervised by Tom, as well as Susan and John from AU, with Michael as a potential supervisor. Bill proceeded with his research from the beginning. Together with Tom, he had carried out audience studies on the perception of electronic music and prepared two articles for publication. During an informal meeting with the project team in May 2016, Bill told me that he had abandoned his PhD project. Among other things, this was due to a conflict of interests arising between him and Tom. According to Bill, Tom had insisted on publishing a further article on a topic Bill wanted to abandon. The conflict had worsened over the course of one year, with both sides feeling increasingly pressured: Tom needed the publication because he was applying for several professorship positions; Bill did not see any further potential in the data they had gathered on the topic (cf. interview 1 with Bill, ll. 536, and field notes phase 1, ll. 3315ff.).

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In the end, Bill resigned from his position as a researcher on Case B after Tom had already left the project. He told me that instead, he was looking for a job in the electronic music business. In comparison, Susan had talked about doing a PhD from the beginning, but only developed a research project in the second half of Case B. Her doctorate encompassed three studies for the design of further instrument prototypes. In the remaining time of her contract with Case B, she carried out one of these studies and published one article about it. Since she had too little time left, she did not carry out her research on the project in the framework of a PhD. The case of the third potential PhD candidate was different. John had thought about but never started his PhD, which can be explained as follows. In the specific case of AU, neither Susan’s, Michael’s, nor John’s jobs were defined as qualification positions. On the contrary, their contracts specifically stated that the positions were not supposed to qualify any of the three employees for a higher academic degree (cf. interview 2 with Michael, ll. 435ff.). When asking about what I perceived as a paradox, Michael explained to me that in his opinion, AU had a traditional art school political stance on research (ibid.). On repeated occasions, we discussed AU’s higher education policy—a topic Michael especially was preoccupied with. The following excerpt from my field notes summarizes one of these discussions with Michael and illustrates his perspective in more detail. 13

Michael states that for quite a long time, AU was known as an art school dedicated to the education of artists, which was anchored in the traditional disciplines. Then, the musicologists started carrying out research, which is why the institution is allowed to call itself a “university.” But still today, the term “school” is predominant. Both research and artistic research are undesired endeavors. Instead of an artistic PhD, graduates are awarded with the classic “DPhil.” This is also the reason why these two [Susan and John] are unable to do their PhDs. … AU consciously decided not to adapt or succumb to the academic system, which is why it remained on an educational track. (Field notes phase 2, ll. 803ff.)

13 During our discussion, Michael used the German term “Hochschule,” which is usually translated to “university” or “college” and applies to higher education institutions. In the context of art academies, “art school” is the most adequate translation.

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Michael considered the fact that AU did not support their further qualification one of the main reasons why Susan and John did not carry out PhD research over the course of Case B. He claimed that if a contract envisaged a PhD, one did not need to take “the decision on WHETHER OR NOT” to start a dissertation project, but rather “You just need to think about WHAT you’d like to do your research on” (cf. interview 2 with Michael, ll. 459ff.). Furthermore, he self-critically stated neither having sufficient experience himself to provide consultancy for two PhD projects nor to substitute Daniel, the AU project initiator, who would have been more experienced but more strongly focused on teaching than on research (ibid). And finally, Michael cautiously expressed doubts regarding Susan’s and John’s “academic socialization.” Michael stated that neither AU nor the fields John and Susan were educated in provided a context in which academic research was actually part of the daily work. That is, they did not have an academic role model to offer orientation or support during a three- to five-year-long research project (ibid., ll. 459ff.). These first paragraphs already reveal that the diverse motivations underlying participation in Case B sometimes resulted in tensions. These were perceivable on a group level in the case of conflicts, as well as individually. Personal goals, self-criticism, self-expectations, and the preoccupation with certain topics also result in affected states of the inner self, whether negative or positive. Consequently, very different atmospheres during each of my research stays marked my impressions of Case B. Sometimes, the atmosphere was particularly heated or tense, and in other cases they concentrated and productive. The following elaborations on Case B’s research processes and spaces illustrate these impressions in greater detail. Spatial separation Due to the different locations of TU and AU, the offices of Case B were spread across Berlin. Five kilometers lay between the two main offices the TU and AU researchers used for their work. It took me twenty minutes by bike to get from the AU office to Tom’s office at TU, where team meetings most often took place when they were held at TU. Furthermore, the offices at TU were separated between two buildings. Mary and Bill shared an office in the main TU building, and exactly one floor below their room was Tom’s office, which could be reached through a staircase. Chris’s and Rob-

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ert’s offices were located on the TU campus across the street. From Mary and Bill’s and Tom’s offices in the musicology department, it was a tenminute walk to Robert’s and Chris’ offices in the audio communication department. Several of the AU workshops Susan used for her work were located near the main TU building, so she arranged her schedule according to AU internal and overall Case B meetings. The etching and wood workshops John used, as well as the studio the AU researchers rehearsed in, were located in the same building as John’s, Susan’s, and Michael’s office. Tellingly, the distance between the institutions was a recurring topic during my entire field research, which nearly spanned one year. For example, in January 2015, when Susan frequently switched between the workshops and office, she stated being “annoyed by going back and forth” and that she didn’t like the rush. “I will arrive just on time for the class,” she commented on a Tuesday morning around 10 a.m., after having spent one and a half hours discussing the latest development of the instrument with her former diploma supervisor (cf. field notes phase 1, ll. 486f.). Even more tellingly, the discourse did not change over the course of that year. On repeated occasions, nearly every researcher mourned the absence of possibilities for spontaneous, informal meetings and exchange due to the separation of their locations. To quote only a few, Chris (TU) reported that the contact between potential collaboration partners within the team had “fallen asleep” (cf. interview 2 with Chris, ll. 519ff.) and Susan (AU) stated that “one did not really notice what the others are working on” (cf. interview 2 with Susan, ll. 314ff.). She added, “it would be much easier if we were sitting next door—or in the same office—and could see each other for lunch, since that’s when the most interesting things happen, during breaks” (ibid.). This is also related to something Michael (AU) had said, regarding “formalized meetings, during which the maximum achievement is accepting each other’s positions” (cf. field notes phase 2, ll. 100ff.). Along the same lines, Michael further reported that it had taken him nine months to understand that Mary and Bill were not working in the same building as Robert (TU), and he had “simply assumed that was the case” (ibid.). Finally, John (AU) said that it would make sense to discuss the integration of sound spatialization into the instrument with “them” (TU researchers), but that it was really difficult due to the separated locations of the two offices (cf. interview 1 with John, ll. 253ff.).

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One further characteristic struck me in regard to the separated locations: the physical distance was mirrored in the terms with which the researchers designated their team members. Frequent expressions the TU researchers used were, for example, “AU people” (“AU-ler” in German, cf. interview 1 with Tom, l. 137, interview 2 with Mary, l. 348), “the/our AU colleagues” (cf. interview 1 with Bill, l. 50, interview 2 with Mary, l. 60), “the AU friends” (cf. interview 2 with Chris, l. 422), and “our AU research partners” (cf. interview 2 with Bill, ll. 126f.). “On the TU/AU side” was a frequent phrase at both institutions (cf. interview 2 with Michael, ll. 104 and 196, interview 1 with Daniel, l. 16, interview 2 with Mary, l. 107, interview 1 with Bill, l. 345), and John sometimes alluded to the TU researchers by saying, “those guys over there” (cf. interview 2 with John, l. 439). These phrases emphasized the institutional divide inherent to the project. At the same time, expressions such as “the scientists from over there” (cf. interview 2 with John, ll. 260f.) or “they are artistic staff members” (cf. interview 1 with Bill, l. 321) fed into what could be called a professional divide. Even though this divide can clearly be linked to the institutional traditions, I perceived it to be inscribed in the corresponding researchers’ personal viewpoints. I would therefore go so far as to call this a mental barrier underlying Case B. The differences between the two institutions were also manifest in their architectural surroundings. Workspaces During the second week of my field research, Mary and I had agreed on meeting for a coffee to discuss the organization of their and my research. Tuesday, January 20, 2015. At just before 11 a.m., I arrive at TU, a huge, grey office building. We had agreed on meeting at the information desk, so I wait there and am curious to see which direction Mary will come from. To enter the foyer, one needs to pull open two of the six relatively heavy double doors, which makes entering the building difficult. Stepping into a grey-brown hall, opposite the entrance there are three elevators. Between the elevators and the double doors a wide staircase is placed perpendicular to the entrance. Behind it, a hallway leads into a further part of the building. On the left there is another hallway and a staircase going down. …

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Mary arrives from behind the staircase on the right. She walks quickly but does not seem stressed. “Are you Johanna?” We shake hands and she asks whether she could invite me for a coffee, which I agree to. We walk parallel to the staircase through an open door and enter a smaller foyer, behind which an auditorium is hidden. Then we turn left and immediately right into a hallway parallel to the foyer, and then turn left to enter the cafeteria. We walk between counters and tables to the back of the room, take a hairpin bend left and cross the food display cases to get to the coffee machines. Mary “taps” two cappuccinos into two paper cups. … We continue walking along the hallway, turn right through a door and take the elevator to the fourth floor. We exit it to our right, walk down half a staircase, turn left into a hallway, walk through a door, turn right into another hallway, walk through another door and half a staircase up—Mary calls it the “mysterious or ominous half staircase.” On our way, I notice several signs saying “massage room” pointing to the same direction we’re going in. We arrive at the office. There is a doorbell panel—probably because the door has a knob and can only be opened with the help of a key. (Field notes phase 1, ll. 2011ff.)

While following the labyrinth of hallways, doors, and turns described above, I was asking myself whether this hidden location had an effect on the TU internal visibility of Case B. Mary had mentioned, “we are somehow part of the uni, but we aren’t really” (ibid.). At first incomprehensible, this sentence represented the office’s location perfectly. At some point in its history, the main building received an extensive façade, hiding the original U-shape of the building. The old wings are located on the left and right sides of the main entrance, as shown in figure 7 below, where one of the old wings is hidden behind trees on the right side of the building. The tortuous path to get to Mary and Bill’s office suggested it was placed at the very back of the main building. The office was, however, located in the right wing of the old building with windows opening up a view of the main street, as shown in figure 7 and figure 8b below.

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Figure 7: View of TU’s main building.

When I entered the office for the first time, I perceived it as a rather impersonal space. One small plant was the only colorful sign of life in the otherwise mostly bare room; there were no further personal items. It left the impression of a temporarily inhabited space. This might be due to the fact that Mary worked in Berlin three days a week and that Bill often arrived at the office around noon (cf. field notes phase 1, ll. 2168ff.). When the two were working, they were mostly typing on their computers or reading texts; silence and concentration best describe the atmosphere. The harpsichord in figure 8a immediately attracted my attention. But as the picture shows, its appearance resembled that of a regular desk, with office chairs next to it and a conference poster placed on its top. Even its light-brown color matched the other office furniture. Closely examining the shelves of books displayed in figure 8a reveals a further feature. Leaning against the wall, there was a sign quoting the composer Edgar Varèse: “The very basis of creative work is irreverence! The very basis of creative work is experimentation—bold experimentation.”14 I was surprised to find a statement metaphorically but clearly referring to the experimental character of Case B hidden on the back of the shelves.

14 The sign is visible in figure 8c. Mary had removed it from the shelf in figure 8a and put it on the blackboard as “inspiration,” she told me in May 2016 when I came back to the office to take these pictures. During my field first research phase, the blackboard was covered with graphs from one of her articles.

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Figures 8a-c: Impressions of Bill and Mary’s office at TU when entering and looking left (a); the view to the main street (b); and turning around to the entrance (c).

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A look at the AU researchers’ workspace leaves a different impression. The pictures below display the office at the art academy, which is where Susan, Michael, and John worked most of the time. It was located on the third floor. Case B–related students’ classes and workshops as well as several team meetings took place in Daniel’s classroom,15 which was located on the first floor of the same building. Figures 9a-d: Impressions of the AU office. Taking a look around from the soldering and gluing desk in the left corner (a); to the mood boards (b); to the desks (c); to the shelving unit in the right corner (d) while standing in the doorway.

15 In accordance with the traditional structure of an art academy, AU professors are assigned classrooms to carry out workshops as well as final semester presentations.

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In the center of the office, a group of three desks allowed Susan, Michael, and John to work together closely (figure 9c). Several workstations were arranged around their individual desks: a computer used to draft stencils for etching and laser-printing processes was placed on a table next to the entrance door, and a printer, cutting mat, and soldering iron could be found on the table next to it (figure 9a). It is noteworthy that this basic infrastructure had not been immediately available or provided by the university; the AU team stated that they had to gather their office furniture by looking for “the three desks in the cubbyhole where other people put their discarded furniture” (cf. field notes phase 1, ll. 1328ff.), while the tools they used were often from their private stock (cf. field notes phase 1, ll. 667f.). Susan often used the three mood boards (figure 9b) to structure her research and work processes. When she used them, she placed them in front of the shelving unit (figure 9d); only the finalized versions were arranged

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behind Michael’s desk. A tiny kitchen area equipped with a sink, some dishes, cutlery, napkins, food basics such as salt, oil, milk, tee, coffee, pesto, tomato ketchup, and nougat cream, as well as a coffee maker and electric kettle (figure 9d) rounded up their workspace. Comparing the two office spaces of AU and TU, the metaphor “room of ideas” came to my mind to denote AU’s office-bricolage-workshop-space. In contrast to this, the TU space left a rather grey, dusty, antiquated impression of a room filled with the ancient albeit important and pioneering ideas of former musicology theses displayed on the shelves. In the paragraphs that follow, I describe the different working modes I observed in these spaces. Working modes To analyze the researchers’ working practices, I observed them in their offices and workshops. I paid attention to what they were doing, that is, to what I could see. In addition, I listened to the sounds they emitted in the form of, for example, words and sighs, as well as to the environmental noises such as keyboard clicking, humming sewing machines, and music. Since I immediately captured my impressions in field notes, they illustrate my findings best. An excerpt from the notes I took at the TU office of Mary and Bill is a good place to start. Wednesday, January 28, 2015. 10.57 a.m., Mary is writing one, two emails. … Asking her about the appointment with the web developer last Monday, she replies that she’ll talk about it in the team meeting this afternoon in more detail. … 11.15 a.m., and Mary is still writing emails. She types very quickly, and occasionally takes a bite from her chocolate croissant, which is lying on a paper bag on her desk, next to a white to-go coffee cup. Each time she sends an email, Apple’s standard “sending sound” is audible. While she reads, my tapping on the iPad I am using for my field notes today is audible. (cf. field notes phase 1, ll. 3334ff.)

The working atmosphere at the TU office was similar each time I was in the office: concentrated silence dominated the space, Mary, Bill, and their office colleague were usually sitting at their desks, typing or reading, rarely speaking to each other. Consequently, keyboard clicking and the abovedescribed email-sending sound were the only noises that interrupted the

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quiet from time to time. Besides the office described above, which was the main research and working site, TU team meetings took place at Tom’s office, with the researchers’ homes representing a third “workspace,” since both Mary and Bill worked from home several days per week. Twice, I accompanied Mary to the library where she scanned books and once to a meeting she had at a public institute for music research, which was Case B’s collaborator for the exhibition on digital musical instruments. At AU, the recording studio and several workshops were additional working and research sites. Even within in the AU office itself, I encountered different working situations. The following field notes serve as an illustration. Wednesday, January 14, 2015. Susan barely talks, is concentrating, looks at her screen, one hand at her chin, the other on top of the computer mouse. From time to time, she loudly exhales [not sighing though]. She sits on the chair with her back slightly curved. John comes back from smoking, looks for something, drinks coffee, and looks for Plexiglas sticks inside the closet, on which he wants to affix rubber bands … (Field notes phase 1, ll. 825ff.) Monday, January 26, 2015. 3 p.m., team meeting. Susan starts with a status quo on the upper hand part of the instrument. She tested a paper and cardboard model on the weekend. This way it’s comfortable, “that’s how it is on my hand,” Susan says with the fabric strap pulled up to her thumb. Michael and John are surprised, asking “AHA! THAT far?” Susan glues a capacitive sensor surface to the hand part to test how it can actually be played. Susan and Michael discuss their further procedure, Susan has a to-do-list in front of her, Michael takes notes with a pencil on a piece of paper. Two students come in to ask questions … At 3.17 p.m., the three continue their discussion. Five minutes later, everyone is working individually. Susan finalizes the cardboard model with the cap-sense surfaces. At 3.35 p.m., everyone is back at the table. Susan explains the model and the surfaces. … Susan’s cheeks have been red from concentration since she quickly glued together the model. The three sit together, test the hand part, and discuss the angles and adjustability of the surfaces. Michael opens the office door as well as the windows in the hallway, prepares water for tea. Susan explains all of the technological components inside the upper hand part; John suggests several changes, expresses his thoughts on the adjustability, and suggests a sandwich construction, that is, battery, etc., should “go” down into the bellow.

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Michael agrees, otherwise the hand part might get too big. (Field notes phase 1, ll. 3082ff.)

Nearly two weeks later, the working atmosphere changed again. It was tenser, since the appointments with AU’s 3D-printing and milling workshops, which would facilitate the production of the revised instrument version, were approaching. On top of this, the three researchers also wanted to start rehearsing for an international instrument competition Susan and John were going to participate in. Thursday, February 5, 2015. At 12.25 p.m., I enter the AU office on the third floor and find Michael and John sitting at their desks. The latest Deichkind album is played quite loudly via the loudspeakers on the shelving unit, relaxed atmosphere. “What a party mood!,” I say, smiling, with a slightly raised voice. Michael: “Nah, this is working mood!” The two continue working, looking at their screens. I notice a pizza box on a chair on the right side of Susan’s desk. “Did you work a nightshift?” I ask. “Currently, we’re taking turns at going crazy, because each of us thinks we won’t be ready [on time],” John replies. (Field notes phase 1, ll. 3779ff.) Later that day: 6.05 p.m., Susan has finished sanding. She takes the hand strap and circuit board to the wood workshop to glue the pieces together. John prepares coffee, asks for cake, and immediately asks me: “Do you write that down?” I don’t tell him that it’s part of my notes, but of course I do, because I notice the shift of time: eating lunch at 3 p.m. almost naturally results in having coffee and cake at 6 p.m. Deichkind. More partying. Unfortunately, I cannot understand Michael and John’s conversation anymore, as they are speaking lower. Michael continues soldering. John is sitting at the computer table, drinking coffee and talking about the voices of Deichkind’s members. (cf. field notes phase 1, ll. 4361ff.)

In summary, the working modes at AU ranged between what could be called individual immersive absorption and close collaboration based on discussions and mutual knowledge exchange. From the first day onward, I noticed the three researchers’ individualism, driven productivity, emotional involvement, and genuine motivation to develop their project to reach the best possible results.

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Varying working modes during a design and development process are not surprising as such. This similarly holds for frequent, repeated testing as well as for trial-and-error procedures, as described above in regard to the hand strap. Personal surprise for me came due to the fact that I did not know exactly what to expect before going to the AU office or workshops. Firstly, the different production stages and project timelines were not clearly outlined—or at least they were not communicated to me. Secondly, a lot of work happened in the evenings or on weekends, that is, during my absence. Thus, I was unable to observe many practical details regarding the researchers’ working methods. Even during my observations, I carefully chose the moments of interruption. For example, when I perceived the atmosphere to be particularly tense, or when one of the researchers was particularly concentrated, I postponed asking questions. In the individual interviews or informal conversations, I would then clarify my remaining questions. Thirdly, the AU researchers frequently soldered, glued, and sanded materials in their office. These practices easily transformed the office into a workshop that smelled strongly of chemicals and that no longer resembled its original use. The more I proceeded with my first field research phase, the more I developed a feeling for how far the different parts of the instrument might have progressed from day to day, and which working situation I might encounter in the space. Still, I was sometimes surprised by how little or much the instrument’s components had developed. This is probably because I was not well acquainted with practices such as etching, sewing, sintering, and coding or with how much time they take. Similarly, in the case of TU, many aspects regarding the researchers’ practices remained in the dark. As with the AU researchers, I did not want to disturb concentration phases, for example when the TU researchers were reading texts and writing articles. Due to my own practice, I was more acquainted with these types of academic, computer- and text-based working modes. Consequently, I adapted myself to the work situation and read an article, typed notes on my iPad, or took them using a pen and notebook. My observations often focused on Mary’s strategies to work on the exhibition. This is due to the fact that I noticed Bill’s personal work-related stress from the first day of my research onward and felt uncomfortable asking him detailed questions about his projects. However, he was always open to my presence and amicably met with me for interviews, especially during my second research phase when we had gotten to know each other better. I ac-

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companied neither Tom nor Chris during their work, which can be explained by the small amount of time the two researchers spent on the project. As a reminder, both of them only had 25 percent part-time positions in the context of Case B. Since Tom and Chris were involved in other projects, they neither offered me nor did I ask them whether I could sit in their offices for entire workdays. Instead, I mostly met them during team meetings and for our interviews. Especially during these one-on-oneconversations, they openly answered my questions about their work. Time management The different working modes of the AU and TU researchers lead us to an examination of time management in the context of Case B. At TU, Mary usually arrived at the office at 10 a.m. (Tuesday to Thursday), while her colleagues usually arrived around noon (cf. field notes phase 1, l. 2169). Hence, she was alone in the office on repeated occasions when I met her there. The weekly TU team meetings took place at around 11.30 a.m. or 12 noon, and usually lasted one or one and a half hours. Before each meeting, Tom set an agenda that the other researchers could add to and which they followed during the meetings. Afterward, they sometimes had lunch together at the canteen in a more informal context. In regard to internal AU meetings, Susan had suggested meeting on a weekly basis during my first week of field research. Even though she insisted on regular meetings to which both Michael and John agreed, these meetings took place spontaneously and not necessarily every week. Ultimately, the three convened according to the different project phases, that is, in accordance with their need to discuss the status of the instrument, to go over further production steps, or to partake in rehearsals. Furthermore, finding a date that fit everyone’s individual schedules proved to be difficult. Susan usually started working at 9 a.m., but since her workspaces were either the library, AU workshops, or the AU office, her timeframe was limited. Michael usually arrived at the office around 10 a.m. and John around 11 a.m.—most of the time eating, which is why he only rarely joined Susan and Michael for lunch. Since each of the three used the office nearly on a daily basis, their work was based on continuous exchange. Hence, additional opportunities for informal meetings were not as important as they would have been for the overall team structure. However, the frequency of formal meetings between the AU researchers increased toward the final

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production phase of the redesigned instrument prototype. Before, Susan, Michael, and John had been working on different parts of the instrument separately. But shortly before the international instrument competition, they joined these different parts into one piece. Still, the researchers had to slowly establish their awareness and acceptance of individual habits, time management, and working practices according to one’s tasks. For example, Michael told me that in the beginning, he had difficulties in understanding but in the end accepted that John arrived at the office “at noon only, eating, making coffee, going for a smoke, having more coffee, going for another smoke, and then starting his work” (cf. field notes phase 1, ll. 215ff.). He had to learn that when he himself left the office at 6 p.m., John was far from finishing his workday, and he came to acknowledge the amount of work John did at home or late in the evening. Susan, who was in the room with us during this conversation, added that it was “like a usual workday. When I start at 3 p.m., I work until midnight. John starts at 6 p.m., when I’m already done and tired, and works until 4 a.m.” (ibid.). Different approaches The above insights reveal one important difference between the working practices and time management at AU and TU. While the workdays and meetings at TU were—for the most part—clearly structured and can be described as repetitive or homogeneous, the AU researchers’ work was structured according to the production phases of the instruments they were developing. These phases were often influenced by external factors such as workshop availability, the processing of materials, malfunctioning printers, and a broken milling machine. Consequently, the AU researchers continuously had to readjust their schedules and anticipate potential delays. While the AU researchers simply considered their approaches “different”—both among themselves and between AU and TU researchers (cf. field notes phase 1, ll. 54ff., 1159ff.)—the TU researchers tended to describe and evaluate these differences. For example, Tom mentioned that the AU researchers proceeded in a “maybe more creative, experimental manner, of course working on single concepts, but not in such systematically planned single steps” (cf. interview 1 with Tom, ll. 240ff.). Looking closer at the redesign of the instrument, this statement only partially applies. John, Michael, and Susan new exactly which parts of the

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artifact had to be remade before they could relocate the sensors and further develop the coding structure underlying the data and sound-synthesis processes. Their procedure can indeed be described as experimental, in that the single steps they had planned in advance comprised material testing, modeling, performing, and remodeling—each time in accordance with and depending on the chosen production method and costs. One could say, however, that this did not differ much from the steps the TU researchers carried out for their audience studies, which included developing a questionnaire, carrying out first interviews, adapting the formulation and order of questions, and looking for further interview partners. These are all comparable, equally iterative steps. In relation to the different disciplinary backgrounds inherent to Case B, Michael addressed the contradiction between AU’s institutional configuration and interdisciplinary research projects. The below excerpt from my field notes illustrates his opinion. Individual disciplines remain separated. Case B represents an absolute exception; the university structures do not envisage such interdisciplinary projects. AU has maintained a very traditional, conservative character, and its structures are pretty much entrenched. (Summarized discussion with Michael, field notes phase 2, ll. 812ff.)

The disciplinary divide that Michael mentioned can be transferred to the overall project structure of Case B. On the one hand, one could say that the researchers implicitly agreed on the interdisciplinary nature of Case B, that is, they were conscious about the different disciplinary approaches each researcher contributed to the project. On the other hand, this consciousness about methodological differences did not result in mutual respect and acknowledgment. For example, I asked Bill (TU) in which way the notion “artistic research” applied to Case B. He replied: Well, that’s the AU employees’ self-conception. … they don’t proceed in a scientific manner. They rather develop instruments and concepts guided by artistic ideas. Then, they test these [instruments and concepts] in an artistic environment and derive individual conclusions on whether the instrument is suitable or whether it needs improvement. But as one can often hear in the interviews [Bill carries

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out with musicians], these conclusions are often valid for the individual person only; they are not really generalizable. (Interview 2 with Bill, ll. 43ff.)

While he claimed to be neutral, Bill seemed to consider the AU researchers approach as problematic, because their results were not universally valid. Even though he stated that his own interview study led to equally subjective results, he did not seem to consider both approaches as equally legitimate. As I already mentioned, this attitude can be transferred to the overall situation of Case B. Only very seldom did the TU and AU researchers all gather for mutual exchange on ideas and the current states of their research. Consequently, they rarely discussed the notions underlying their common research questions, ranging from content-related terms such as “instrument” or “interface” to method-related differences between, for example, “academic and scientific” or “qualitative and quantitative approaches.” The given examples revealed relatively clear-cut conceptions of these notions that the researchers had each determined for themselves. Yet, there was no common vocabulary guiding their research. My intention is not to seek out a shared, consensual terminology; there might very well be different notions and conflicting opinions within a team. However, discussing existing concepts among the entire team of researchers could have increased their mutual understanding. My impression was that the lack of shared semantics was one reason for the persistent misunderstandings between the TU and AU researchers. Tellingly, I experienced several team meetings characterized by a tense, heated atmosphere. Team meetings In regard to Case B team meetings, it is noteworthy that despite—or because of—the differing time management strategies at TU and AU, meetings with the entire team of Case B followed an indeterminate mixture of the two approaches described above. I observed two meetings, which most of the researchers in Case B attended;16 one took place at TU in the first re-

16 Chris was absent during the first meeting, as was Robert, who joined the second meeting via Skype. Daniel was absent during the second meeting.

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search phase and one at AU in the second.17 It was usually Tom who prepared an agenda when Case B meetings with the entire team took place in his office at TU, while Michael fulfilled this task when they met at AU. Even though agendas were set, there was seldom an official moderator keeping everyone on track and on time; rather, discussions proceeded freefloatingly, so to speak, and the meetings had a start time but no end one. The researchers did not have lunch, coffee, or dinner together afterward, since one of the meetings began in the late morning so that it lasted over lunchtime and the other one took place in the afternoon, with the result that everyone seemed to be quite exhausted afterward. Furthermore, my impression was that the researchers were not interested in or motivated to organize any joint informal meetings. Besides the time management issue, this was probably due to disagreements underlying the research project.18 In both meetings I attended, a tense and heated atmosphere filled the room at certain points in time. In the first meeting, the argument was caused by the TU researchers’ intention to carry out a visitor study during a students’ performance. The students had participated in the Case B–related class on instrument design and their final presentation consisted of performing with the digital instruments they had developed. The aim of TU was to gain insights into the audience’s perception and evaluation of the presented instruments and performances. Therefore, they had prepared a short survey comprising evaluative attributes the audience could choose from. In addition, the survey contained several lines for open comments. Since I consider this situation exemplary for the misunderstandings underlying Case B, I will quote a longer excerpt from my field notes. The square brackets are again used to insert comments and to distinguish between my notes and my reflections upon the description. 3.40 p.m. Michael [AU] addresses the students’ perspective and stresses that … the evaluation could “build a wall.” Susan [AU] asks whether they should discuss it with the students during the class. Michael and Mary [TU] ask why the focus on

17 To my knowledge, only one more meeting, namely the work meeting, took place in the intervening six months between the two meetings I attended. 18 A further reason for the lack of informal meetings was that some of the researchers simply did not like each other, which is something very natural in social contexts.

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the individual performance is important and whether the whole evening could be assessed, too. Tom [TU] explains their idea of a “qualitative bottom-up survey” in the field, the results of which will be used in experimental settings afterward. John [AU] emphasizes that it is essential to asks the students for their opinion, “if they don’t like someone like Johanna sitting in the audience writing…” Susan adds her personal opinion, saying that the idea is “interesting and good” (Michael nods markedly and supportively), but that it is important to prepare the students’ consensus, to inform them, and that they [the Case B team] should agree on “how to communicate it.” … Michael explains that he is afraid of the potential impact the evaluation might have on the performers, since they won’t have the right to have a look at the data (John [AU] supports this statement). Mary, Susan, Tom, and Bill [TU] discuss the kind of data collection and possible alternatives to avoid the lists’ absolute traceability, if it will follow the order of the performances; John emphasizes the sensitive nature of the situation. At 3.59 p.m., Daniel [AU] undertakes a short summary and repeats the remaining questions: Who contributes to the performance and who has control, experimental university concert and judgment, … will it impact the performance? Difficult situation, usually there are not twenty people sitting in the audience writing. John asks for the exact formulation of the “attributes.” Bill explains the method in greater detail. John states that the students will be thrown in at the deep end, since for some of them it will be their first performance on stage. Tom is noticeably angry and emphasizes that it is a “RESEARCH project” and that there is an agreement on “carrying out further empirical studies.” The corresponding subproject has developed so that it can be used for data collection only now, which is why they were not able to choose an earlier date. Tom adds that it will be a public performance, which is why “the interviewer has the right to the data, not the provider.” He stresses that, of course, the publication would be accessible and that the performers would receive the results, not the raw data. Michael says that, “the question ‘if’ does not need to be discussed.” He stresses that the aim of the class is to “serve the students, not the project.” Susan and Michael now emphasize that they will certainly find a consensus with the students, “we are optimistic.” Bill guarantees a “harmless formulation,” stresses methodological possibilities such as randomization, and adds that the students will be able to access the results. It is 4.12 p.m. [The atmosphere has become strongly heated. I need to restrain myself several times from mediating the discussion. I can understand both sides. Tom and John seem to be repeating their arguments without moving away from them

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or toward the others’ opinions. Michael, Susan, and later on Bill make some diplomatic statements. In the beginning, … instead of just saying, “we will carry out a survey,” the TU researchers should have explained their method in order to increase the AU researchers’ understanding, since they have only little or no experience at all with developing questionnaires. … My impression is that the conflict is not caused by the unwillingness of the involved parties. Rather, it is a question of miscommunication.] (Field notes phase 1, ll. 2697ff.)

At the peak of this conflict situation, Tom used the phrase “this is a RESEARCH project” in reference to the funding application in order to underline TU’s arguments and to legitimize using the students’ performances for the examination of their research questions. In this specific moment, one could interpret the use of the quoted expression almost as a sign of despair: Tom was trying to regain authority and found a supporting argument in quoting the funding application. In the end, he achieved his aim and the TU researchers carried out an audience survey. Conflicts and misunderstandings like the one described above are anything but rare or surprising in interdisciplinary teams. However, the strategies to solve them vary greatly. On the one hand, this specific situation would have benefited from additional efforts from the researchers in communication. Clarifying their method and procedure (TU) as well as the students’ progress over the course of the semester and corresponding situation on stage (AU) could have increased their mutual empathy. On the other hand, this situation represented the diverse logics inherent to Case B. Each of the seven disciplines involved—musicology, cultural studies, cognitive psychology, audio communication, product design, computer science, and sound engineering—has distinct dispositions and approaches to research. The defensive stances the researchers took could be interpreted as fear toward the cooperative engagement with a potentially opposing research tradition. This fear, the rare official team meetings, and the persistent complaints about the spatial separation between the offices indicate that the research project lacked a cohesive element to establish a solid research community. Collaboration across the institutions Together with Susan and John (AU), Mary (TU) wrote a paper on the design process of the instrument; Michael (AU) supported the writing process

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throughout (cf. interview 1 with Mary, ll. 84-202). Several aspects are noteworthy in this context. Susan and John were writing an academic paper in English for the first time, and they had hoped to benefit from Mary’s academic writing experience (cf. interview 1 with Mary, ll. 247ff.). Mary stated that she was generally neither used to writing publications together with other researchers nor with people whose disciplinary background differed a lot from her own, that is, who were educated in fields other than musicology or cultural studies (ibid., ll. 270ff.). During our interviews, they all spoke rather positively about their joint writing process, which was new and proved to be challenging to each of them in an individual manner. While Susan and Mary reflected upon the actual writing process, John made a more abstract reference to the academic system. Susan, for example, valued the fact that posing each other questions or giving explanations enabled them to work out certain aspects of the prototype in a substantiated manner and to develop a distinct personal notion of an instrument (cf. interview 1 with Susan, ll. 454ff.). Contrary to her positive perspective, John considered a general problem of “our entire field that people construct something, do something with it during three months, write a paper on it, and then put it back into the next closet” (cf. interview 1 with John, ll. 702ff.). In his opinion, the frequent publication requirements of the academic system at times contradict the potential of research results, in that “you don’t want to spend your entire life squeezing the thing down to the last detail” (ibid., ll. 708ff.). Finally, Mary remembered the writing process as instructive (cf. interview 1 with Mary, ll. 274ff.). She considered the relation between “giving an account of the design process” and “theoretical sprinklings” as crucial to achieving a satisfying degree of complexity (ibid.). She further said: “In any case, it was a very important lesson to learn how to balance [these two aspects] so that [the paper] makes decent reading” (ibid., ll. 288ff.). Through this cooperation, the three got to know each other’s research interests and working practices. Even though challenging, the quotations reveal that John, Susan, and Mary considered it a positive, joint process. In addition, the project exemplified the potential flexibility of the originally predetermined team and project structures. Yet, the paper remained the only cross-institutional, content-based cooperation.

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Despite the researchers’ explicit discontent about the lack of common projects, and regardless of the positive experience just described, the researchers in Case B only rarely took action to change this situation. The entire team of Case B jointly organized a work meeting (June 2015) as well as a symposium and related publication (October 2016). They did not, however, collaborate on any further research projects; rather, the work packages were handled in splintered teams as described in “3.2.1 Project development.” The paragraphs on the spatial distance between the two institutions illustrate that this was the researchers’ most frequent explanation for the lack of collaboration. Due to their separated offices, they stated lacking knowledge about what the others were doing. Besides the publication process described earlier, a second opportunity for in-depth exchange was the above-mentioned work meeting. Each researcher of Case B held a presentation either on the individual results they had achieved so far or on research ideas for the remaining time of the project. These presentations were discussed in workshop sessions. The Case B team invited several external researchers who also participated in these discussions. In our second interview, Susan (AU) retrospectively stated that she had realized the overlap between her own research interests and those of Bill and Chris (TU) only thanks to speaking with them during the work meeting (cf. interview 2 with Susan, ll. 314ff.). Still, their knowledge about their mutual interests did not result in collaborations between all three or even two of them; rather they continued working on their individual research projects only. This is interesting especially in regard to Susan’s study on the design process of instrument prototypes. The study comprised several improvisation sessions with a dancer and two musicians, which took place several months after the work meeting. Even though she had presented a first draft of the study’s concept at the work meeting, she only developed it in greater detail afterward. The integration of Chris’ questions and expertise on spatial aspects of sound would thus have been easy. Moreover, broadening the study with aspects of sound spatialization would have served the design of a more holistic instrument prototype. Still, Susan carried out the study mostly on her own; Michael advised her on technical questions. In this context, I also asked myself why Chris did not take the initiative: he could have developed Susan’s already existing research setting further to examine his own research questions.

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Another example in this context is related to potential collaboration between John (AU) and Chris (TU). The researchers at both universities were aware of the fact that Richard’s departure for his job in the US resulted in the lack of his engineering competence and knowledge for the AU team. Likewise, the TU researchers could have taken the initiative to work together with the AU researchers more closely instead of complaining about a result they did not try to actively influence. At the same time, Susan (AU) and John mentioned that it would have been “valuable” (cf. interview 2 with Susan, ll. 324ff.) and “useful” (cf. interview 2 with John, ll. 435ff.) to collaborate with Bill or Chris (TU), respectively. Yet, neither of them took the initiative to discuss concrete possibilities of cooperation with Bill or Chris during my research stay. John stated, however, that he had been asking to participate in the “sound spatialization stuff” several months previously, but that “nothing” had happened (ibid.). This holds true insofar that Chris’s work as a studio manager was time consuming. He dedicated only a small amount of time to the research of Case B (cf. interview 2 with Chris, ll. 268ff.); therefore, he had only been able to develop first ideas on possible designs of space-sound-instrument relations (ibid.). What were the reasons for the missed opportunities of collaboration? One more look at the working modes and spatial separation offers a tentative answer. My most immediate impression of Case B was that productivity and constructive exchange within the team were higher the closer the spatial situation was. This conclusion is not particularly surprising. In regard to a potential collaboration between Chris and Susan or Chris and John, however, it is insightful. Chris was working in a rather isolated setting of TU on questions of sound spatialization and generated little research output due to his other professional commitments. In comparison, Susan and John were working in a cooperative environment connected to their own research, the redevelopment of the instrument, and to the class the AU researchers gave. Their working modes and surroundings were thus entirely opposite to that of Chris, which could explain why cooperation between them and him did not organically emerge. Concluding remarks on the research dynamics The opposition between the TU and AU researchers was representative of the work situation of the entire team of Case B. Put even more pointedly:

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the institutionally rooted division was inscribed in Case B’s research dynamics from the beginning. In the preceding elaborations, I showed that the spatial distance between TU and AU as well as their infrastructural opposition marked the working practices of Case B from the project’s inception. The office spaces, working modes, and time management mirrored the two universities’ traditions as well as the researchers’ diverse backgrounds and individual habits. Furthermore, the researchers continuously complained about the spatial distance and emphasized “the others’ different approaches.” This showed that the physical distance between the researchers evolved into a mental barrier, which became increasingly manifest over the course of the project. This barrier made it more difficult to overcome the actual spatial distance and fostered subjectified working patterns. In addition, the team members’ different motivations for joining the research project sometimes provoked conflicts and the feeling of pressure. We will see that the researchers had diverging opinions about the instrument usefulness for their individual research endeavors. This created further tensions among them and resulted in persistent complaints about the first instrument prototype. The latter are comparable to the researchers’ continuous lamenting over the spatial separation between AU and TU. Neither in this case nor in the case of the concrete instrument design did any of the researchers try to establish cooperative subprojects between the two institutions. Occasions such as the work meeting temporarily brought the entire team closer together, which created opportunities for exchange and opened up space for negotiations. In theory, discussions do not need to result in consensus, even though it might be beneficial for further cooperation. However, not even the awareness of similar research interests led to cooperative projects that might have evoked a change in Case B’s isolating setup. Rather, the researchers’ mental barriers and tensions contributed to the cultivation of and further entrenched their solitary, individual working modes. To sum up, the researchers never established one cohesive research community and corresponding dynamics. Rather, the form of Case B can be described as a temporary group of researchers who came together to work on one common topic and who dispersed again after the completion of the project. The field of digital musical instruments, their design, and their perception remained a cohesive element over the course of the entire project. The

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examination of this field was carried out from different perspectives and was based on various methodological approaches. However, there was no common foundation for all the researchers to depart from. This fact prevented the individual working habits from merging into what could have been called one shared research culture. One could also say that the lack of closer collaboration had the effect of accelerating the dissolution process of Case B. That is, with Tom being appointed lecturer in the UK, Bill resigning from his contract shortly before the official ending of the project, and the remaining researchers splitting up into one-man work units, the researchers may have started dispersing earlier than if they had been a more cohesive team. At this point, I will examine the instrument’s function in the context of Case B in detail. Based on the descriptions I had found online before beginning my field research, I had thought about its classification as a boundary object. The instrument was the first digital musical prototype the researchers in Case B had developed. Through combining the researchers’ interests and competences, it was able to translate between them while simultaneously allowing them to develop further research questions. Furthermore, it was a hybrid instrument compatible with many of the aspects mentioned in the project outline. These included, for example, questions related to bodily movement with the instrument, audience perception, sound spatialization, and sound-synthesis processes. Therefore, I had expected its role to be central for the entire team. During my first week of field research however, I learned that “only” AU researchers had constructed the instrument. Still, I considered its mediating function as equally essential for the TU researchers. The following section examines the individual researchers’ reaction toward the instrument and discusses its function as a boundary object. 3.2.3 The role of the instrument As I stated at the beginning of the case description, the instrument already existed in its first iteration when I joined Case B as a field researcher. Before entering the field, I had been curious to see, listen to, and maybe try playing the instrument. However, during my entire first field research phase, the instrument was in reconstruction. I was able to test it once, but

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did not get the chance to listen to it, as Susan, Michael, and John were refining it until the very last minute before departing for an international digital instrument competition. They described its design process to me in retrospect during our interviews. While the instrument played a central role at AU, at TU the researchers hardly even talked about it. During our interviews, I asked each of them to explain the instrument’s setup to me, and they were all able to outline its basic functions. Only Bill stated that he tried to play it once (cf. interview 1 with Bill, l. 129), even though his colleagues were also interested in music making both with digital and traditional musical instruments. I asked Mary for her opinion on the instrument’s role in the overall context of Case B, and she stated the following. Thursday, January 29, 2015. Lunch with Mary at 1 p.m. Mary states that she has once more thought about the fact that the instrument’s role in the research project is not as central as it could be. She thinks that this could be due to the fact that the TU people saw and received an explanation about the instrument only before Christmas. … And the AU people have an entirely different approach than the TU people. And this has led to grudges on the side of TU when they became aware of this fact. … Richard, who is an engineer, contributed to the funding application, whose aim was to develop a versatile, universally usable and marketable instrument that could go into serial production. His position was supposed to be integrated into the development much more than it is actually the case and more than Mary, who was appointed Richard’s position after he left for the US, would actually be able to commit to. She says that she started working on the project much too late to join the process and that she is not an instrument maker. … Generally, a market analysis and study of the target group would have been necessary to reach Richard’s initial aim. (cf. field notes phase 1, ll. 3541ff.)

In the case of Tom and Bill, the grudges Mary mentioned persisted because of a schism between the instrument AU had developed and the “research aim formulated in the funding application” (cf. interview 1 with Tom, l. 365, interview 1 with Bill, l. 175 and ll. 196f.). During one of the TU team meetings, Chris used this same line of argument and expressed his discontent over the fact that he could only partially use the instrument for his own research endeavor (cf. field notes phase 1, ll. 3399). Bill was already quoted above saying that, “[the AU colleagues] don’t proceed in a scientific

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manner. They rather develop instruments and concepts guided by artistic ideas” (cf. interview 1 with Bill, ll. 43ff.). He described the resulting mismatch as follows. Unfortunately, [the instrument] does not really apply to what was mentioned in the funding application … Richard had a very specific vision of musical instruments. … His pet project is faders [including a motor] whose motion resistance is programmable so that the device feels as if you were plucking a string. … The idea of a musical instrument producible in larger numbers and connectable to each individual’s computer, for example via a USB, stemmed from this [concept]. It simply enriches individual people in their creativity without necessarily being THE only art object an artist performs with on stage—as it is currently the case. (Interview 1 with Bill, ll. 175ff.)

One could say that the funding application served the TU researchers as a form of external legitimization. Through repeatedly referring to the document, they implicitly criticized the AU researchers for not having fulfilled their initial agreement, namely, the construction of a marketable instrument. This, in turn, prevented the TU researchers from proceeding with their work as initially planned. According to AU researcher Michael, the aim mentioned in the funding application was to “develop hybrid instruments,19 which could be used in the concert business” (cf. interview 1 with Michael, ll. 444ff.). It is not surprising that the instrument matches this definition: Michael would have been partly responsible if the goal of the research project had not been achieved. Still, in parallel to the instrument’s development, criticism emerged and persisted on the side of TU, as Mary and also others stated. When I interrogated Tom on further research questions he could derive from the instrument, he replied as follows.

19 The notion of hybrid musical instruments generally denotes an instrument containing an acoustic-analog input that stems from the instrument’s material (e.g., the airy sound from the valves in the case of the instrument) and a digital soundsynthesis and sound-manipulation process, for example through microphones that amplify and algorithms that modify the analog input.

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Well, the instrument came a bit—somehow in a way—quite as a surprise. I didn’t really realize how they came up with it. One day I saw that the [three of them] had done a sort of design workshop … There was documentation, and then, suddenly, the thing was there and since then, they’ve been developing it further. … Of course, connection points [to our research] may always arise. The problem always is … if you deal with it—if I may say, academically—the problem is: our approach is always to achieve universality. We look for general tendencies. And when dealing with one very specific artifact, the question always is, what are we able to learn from it that goes beyond it, that can also be found in different instruments? (Interview 1 with Tom, ll. 404ff.)

This quotation made me ask myself the following questions: Why exactly did the TU researchers consider the instrument incompatible with their research questions? Was it really due to its specificity and complexity? Was it due to the different research traditions and approaches materialized in the artifact? Or was their negative reaction rather related to the instrument’s surprising emergence? To answer these questions, below I will outline the material characteristics and technical setup of the instrument’s second iteration (see figures 6a,b above). Susan, Michael, and John were working on this version of the prototype during my first field research phase. Technical setup of the instrument The redesigned version of the instrument comprised (1) a Plexiglas box at the bottom, which was tied to the performer’s thigh. This contained two valves, which were connected to pressure sensors as well as to two microphones. It also included two encoders that switched the sound-patches and volume and four buttons used to activate a so-called influx patch. (2) In the middle, a latex bellow, which contained LEDs and light and position sensors and could be pulled up and pushed down with the help of (3) the upper 3D-printed hand part, which was tied to the hand with a hand strap made from black cloth. The hand part contained a battery, several cables, a sender, and five capacitive sensor surfaces (CapSenses). Depending on how many of the CapSenses were touched at the same time and on how much skin touched the surfaces, the instrument emitted different sounds. Furthermore, the CapSenses activated a low-pass filter, which served to modulate the sound patches described below. The various

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sensors gathered data, which were sent to a notebook computer via Wi-Fi. According to the mapping structure the researchers coded with the software program SuperCollider, the data were synthesized into sounds. During the development process and during rehearsals, the three AU researchers often looked at the data displayed on the screen in real time to check whether the chosen sound patch was working correctly.20 Susan, Michael, and John did not save the data or use them for any further in-depth analysis. The researchers developed five sound patches: (1) a breath patch amplified the valves’ “natural,” airy sounds when the bellow was pulled up or pushed down; (2) a toll patch produced ticking, whose rhythm could be sped up or slowed down; (3) a saw patch emitted polyphonic electronic sound layers; (4) a tonal patch was mapped to an A-minor scale, which could be played in single notes and chords with the help of the CapSenses; and (5) an influx patch inserted a moment of uncontrolled sounds. It used an algorithm to feed the signals received by a microphone back into the instrument and reintegrated further data into the sound-synthesis process. Hence, the sounds resulting in this patch were always a surprise. In addition to designing instruments, a further aim of the corresponding work package was to enable an easy and cost-efficient reconstruction of the newly developed prototypes with the help of an online manual. During my second field research phase, Susan, Michael, and John were working on this manual, which documented and explained the development of the instrument to the interested community (cf. field notes phase 2, ll. 69ff.). The detailed outline of the instrument’s technical setup shows two aspects. On the one hand, the sound-synthesis process Susan, Michael, and John (AU) developed was compatible with Chris’s (TU) research questions on the relation between space and sound. The (1) integration of a position sensor and the (2) performative setup of the instrument itself would have offered two points of reference for further collaborative research with Chris. On the other hand, the gestures and movements Susan, Michael, and John had thought about and used to play the instrument could have informed an empirical study in Bill’s (TU) research field. However, Bill described the instrument as too “object related” and “performer specific” in

20 “Correctly” here implies that the generated data were within the bit range Michael or John had previously programmed for the corresponding patch.

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its use to carry out empirical audience studies with it (cf. interview 1 with Bill, ll. 284ff.). In his opinion, simpler gesture-sound connections would have been necessary to test the audience’s understanding or a musician’s behavior (ibid.). And indeed, the instrument had a level of complexity requiring more explanation than a simple key-tone relation would require. Reaction to the instrument’s complexity Even instrument developers Susan’s, Michael’s, and John’s interpretations of the instrument’s complexity varied. First of all, Michael and John were aware of the impossibility of commercializing the prototype in its current version, since the material they had used was too expensive and its production process too complex (cf. interview 1 with Michael, ll. 577ff., interview 2 with John, ll. 110ff.). So one could say that they had actually neglected the instrument’s marketability in its initial development process. For this reason, Susan, Michael, and John developed a “student’s version” of the instrument for their third class (cf. field notes phase 2, ll. 221 ff.). This version was easier to construct and to handle technically. In this manner, the students could use it to practice software programming (ibid., ll. 63ff.). Secondly, both Michael and John considered a certain degree of complexity crucial to creating a compelling, expressive instrument (cf. interview 1 with Michael, ll. 192ff., interview 1 with John, ll. 570ff.). John in particular explicitly stated that he aimed at losing control over the instrument, since in his conceptual understanding this would increase his expressive influence in and on the improvisation process (cf. interview 1 with John, ll. 568ff., 759ff.). John therefore perceived the instrument’s complexity as a positive affordance. This did not imply, however, that he did not have to or want to practice the instrument’s diverse playing modes. During my second field research phase, I observed several of Susan, Michael, and John’s studio sessions. The three met to practice for the various performances they had been invited to. To prepare for these sessions, John rehearsed for several weeks to refine his playing. In a way, his idea about control and expressive improvisation seemed to hold true: while I perceived the sounds he played as controlled, that is, directed and intended, I experienced the level of complexity and tension during the improvisational rehearsals as being rather low (cf. field notes phase 2, ll. 721ff.). This impression did not change with the recordings of their performances I listened to. From what I could identify as a sonic output of the in-

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strument, my impression was that Susan and John only used a little part of the instrument’s sound patches and functions as a framework for the performance in combination with Michael’s newly developed sound setup. During the rehearsals, I had already noticed that Susan only used the functions of the instrument she liked and played best. In this manner, she could test and improve her improvised play. In one of the rehearsals, she was even keen on developing a guiding structure such as a musical score, which they could stick to during the actual performances (cf. field notes phase 2, ll. 1193f.). But once the three had improvised together during several rehearsals, she abandoned this idea because she had become more confident in her improvisation abilities. It is remarkable that Michael, who had wanted to achieve a certain level of complexity as well to increase the expressivity (cf. interview 1 with Michael, ll. 192ff.), abandoned the instrument in the second half of the research project because it “has become a monster, which has gotten out of control” (ibid., ll. 583ff.). At a quite early stage in the research project, Michael already perceived the relation between complexity and control of the instrument as imbalanced, so that he obviously no longer saw the chance to achieve the expressivity he had aimed for. Ten months later, in our second interview, he elaborated on the development process of the instrument in more detail. He stated that he had always been interested in exploring a broad range of aspects instead of thoroughly examining one detail, and that this was linked to his interdisciplinary education (cf. Interview 2 with Michael, ll. 220ff.). And the second aspect is connected to the way we approached [the construction of the instrument]. A very NAIVE approach to “just quickly sketch such a thing” has led to a TERRIBLY complicated device, in which I see MANY, MANY dead ends. … Therefore I’d like to say, “OK, this is one direction in which we went,” and now I would like to open up the space and create AT LEAST one more [instrument] that consciously contrasts the [first] instrument. (Ibid., ll. 232ff.)

As a consequence of this viewpoint, Michael developed and played different instrumental setups that he called “sketches,” which “focus on different aspects other than the instrument, but which are EQUALLY legitimate considering the acoustic-digital approach of hybrid instruments” (ibid., ll. 247ff.). My perception was that these sketches were less complex in their

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internal structures. But since Michael had to handle several of them at the same time and in combination with a feedback mechanism, I was unable to say whether his new setup was more or less complex in comparison to the instrument. Nevertheless, Michael seemed to be more intrigued by playing these sketches than with the instrument. One could say that the complex characteristic that had driven his research gradually transformed into a negative affordance, leading him to discard the instrument. Tensions revolving around the instrument One more aspect is noteworthy regarding the reactions toward the instrument. Each time I accompanied Susan, Michael, and John as they rehearsed in the studio, I perceived the atmosphere between them as markedly tense. The definition of boundary objects suggested by Star and Griesemer (1989) applies to this observation. In conducting collective work, people coming together from different social worlds frequently have the experience of addressing an object that has a different meaning for each of them. [This] does not mean consensus. Rather, representations, or inscriptions, contain at every stage the traces of multiple viewpoints, translations and incomplete battles. (p. 412f.)

Even though Star and Griesemer emphasize that they do not have any normative expectations of boundary objects, they originally put forward this concept as a means of translation between heterogeneous communities of practice and as a way to reduce the tension between the members of such a community. In the case of the instrument, one could say that instead of solving tensions, it brought them to light. With its emergence, the conflicting opinions among the researchers in Case B were unveiled all at once. While the instrument served Susan, John, and Michael as an artifact to make meaning and to structure their research as well as joint work over the course of the project, it had the opposite effect for the TU researchers. Still, to a certain degree, Mary, Bill, Tom, and Chris also used the instrument to deduce knowledge and to clarify their notions of digital musical instruments. But since they had not contributed to its construction, the boundary object was even less well structured for them than it was for Michael toward the end of

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the research project, when he abandoned it to focus on different instrumental setups. Conclusion on the instrument’s role as a boundary object Following the instrument’s life cycle and the traces it left through its materialization process, further development, and application makes for an exemplary case study of a boundary object’s failure. Despite its interpretive flexibility, which Star (2010) identifies as one of the strongest aspects of boundary objects (p. 602), it neither brought the researchers’ interests closer together nor served as a connecting element between the researchers— even without reaching consensus. Instead, the instrument emphasized the increasingly splintered situation of Case B. In this manner, it fostered the subjectification of the researchers’ working patterns. The instrument represented Susan’s, Michael’s, and John’s (AU) ideas on hybrid instruments, their functionality, and performative aspects. By contrast, the artifact differed greatly from the conception of digital musical instruments the TU researchers’ had aimed for in the context of Case B. In this manner, the instrument materialized the schism between the various researchers’ distinct dispositions and approaches. Specifically because of this fact, the instrument’s presence could have led to the initiation of research on and development of further instrumental prototypes. Instead, I found that its role was central only to Susan, Michael, and John in varying project stages. They were the ones who developed the instrument from the initial conception, over several iterations, up to the first performances with it. Obviously for these three, it had become a boundary object to which each of them could contribute with their knowledge and expertise. Susan, Michael, and John exchanged knowledge when they, for example, discussed the instrument’s material and technological characteristics, and each of them could derive new knowledge as well as research questions from it with which they could structure their further work. This quality of exchange across their disciplinary boundaries could only be achieved because they worked jointly on the artifact. Alternatively, on the side of Mary, Bill, Tom, and Chris (TU), I encountered disappointment and almost rejection of the instrument in the sense that they did not even try to use it for their further empirical research. This is notable because throughout the remaining time of the research project, Susan, Michael, and John performed with the redesigned instrument at

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several internationally renowned events, institutions, and conferences, including being awarded third place at an international digital musical instrument competition, which provides further proof of the instrument’s acceptance in the electronic music community and among peers. It would thus be wrong to conclude that the instrument took on a minor role in the context of Case B. Rather, Gibson’s differentiation between “positive and negative affordances” (1986, p. 137f.) offers a possible interpretation of the researchers’ varying reactions to the artifact. Most of the TU researchers perceived the instrument’s material and performative character as unsuitable for their empirical studies, whereas the exact same characteristics afforded the AU researchers’ individual absorption. Consequently, the AU researchers continued examining and developing the same instrument, while the TU researchers abandoned the idea of its further use. These polarized positions prevented collaborative initiatives and instead fostered individual research. The only exceptions to these institutional stances on the instrument were Mary (TU), who used the instrument for several conference presentations, and Michael (AU), who abandoned the prototype in the second half of the research project due to its overly complex nature. It needs to be stated that examining the instrument as a mediating boundary object allows just one possible interpretation. One could furthermore look at it as an epistemic object representing the research endeavors of Case B. Knorr Cetina (2008) outlines this representative function of epistemic objects in research processes as follows. [The] representations experts come up with in their search processes are not only partial and inadequate, they also tend to imply what is still missing in the picture. In other words they suggest which way to look further, through the insufficiencies they display. In that sense one could say that objects of knowledge structure desire, and provide for the continuation and unfolding of object-oriented practice. (p. 62f.)

Knorr Cetina addresses the emotive potential of epistemic objects, which fully applies to the tensions I perceived when the researchers in Case B talked about the instrument’s characteristics in our interviews and during the rehearsals in the AU studio. It is remarkable that the researchers did not even use the instrument as a point of departure for the development of a

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different object that better represented their ideas or, to maintain Knorr Cetina’s phraseology, their desires. Above, I explained the TU researchers’ rejection of the instrument in line with their perception of its characteristics as negative affordance. With the instrument’s unexpected emergence, Bill, Tom, Chris, and later on Michael noticed that its material and technical setup did not meet their needs—be it in terms of further empirical research or in regard to their performative preferences and habits. In this sense, the negative emotions, which arose on the side of the TU researchers and on the side of Michael toward the second half of the project, might equally be interpreted as a reaction based on unfulfilled desires. Therefore, I would like to close with a new question: Is it, in the end, all about affects? 3.2.4 Summary and conclusion Let us recall that Case B was one of several other university-political collaborative projects between the two participating institutions. AU and TU were strategically connected with the help of Initiative A. Consequently, the factor of spatial separation was inherent to Case B from the beginning. Furthermore, through the integration of seven different disciplines, seven distinct field logics collided within one project; there was no common research tradition to build upon. In addition, the only cohesive elements were the research context and the rare team meetings to organize the symposium. Consequently, the researchers in Case B were unable to merge their distinct approaches into common research rhythms. Despite their mutual interest, curiosity, and identification of compatible research endeavors, they rarely took the initiative to collaborate with their colleagues outside of the predetermined work packages. As I have illustrated above, personal resentments and mental barriers outweighed the potential benefits the researchers could have gained from collaborating more closely with their colleagues. These mental barriers manifested especially in (1) the individual motivations linked to the researchers’ career paths, (2) the researchers’ continuous complaints about the spatial separation and lack of knowledge about what the others were doing, and (3) the conflicting opinions about the instrument, which materialized the researchers’ distinct research logics.

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Examining the instrument’s role furthermore revealed that it could only partially fulfill the functions of a boundary object. That is, it served knowledge exchange between Susan, Michael, and John (AU) during the initial development and redesign phases. They took time to discursively clarify notions on musical instruments and their ideas of performances. However, since the institutional embedding of Case B fostered subjectified working patterns, the instrument failed as a boundary object across the participating institutions. Regardless of the researchers’ varying perceptions of the instrument’s affordances, opportunities for collaboration would have been manifold during the second half of the research project. For example, Susan and Michael developed further instrumental setups, and these could have been used for Bill’s (TU) empirical audience studies. John would have been interested in examining questions of sound spatialization in greater detail; he and Chris (TU) could have worked on this subject jointly. In this way, the design and research processes could have integrated both TU and AU researchers as well as their interests and questions. But the researchers’ working modes and mental barriers had become inscribed into Case B’s structure so strongly that the researchers did not even consider the emergence of the instrument as a possible second point of departure for collaboration. Against this background, I would like to put forward several hypotheses about why the attempts to overcome these mental barriers remained mainly absent, resulting in missed opportunities of cooperation. Firstly, one could suppose that the individual work packages were too all-encompassing and time consuming. They might have exhausted the researchers’ time and cognitive capacities, preventing them from diving into their colleagues’ fields. Secondly, the researchers’ individual immersion into their topics might have captured all of their attention. The researchers’ strong focus on their own ideas and questions might have caused the fear of being distracted through the integration of their colleagues. Thirdly, one could assume that the team members’ own knowledge and behavioral patterns outweighed the opportunity to access their colleagues’ expertise. However, given several researchers’ distinct research traditions and working habits, one could say that they insulated themselves because they were afraid to collaborate with a person from an entirely different background. This could have implied a readjustment of their individual research processes both

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methodologically and in regard to the concrete working practices. Instead, all the researchers focused on finding or creating a distinct position in their respective fields, which enabled them to proceed with their individual careers and achieving their individual aims. In this manner, the research project fostered an individualization process among the researchers involved. Each team member’s individual imprints—be they disciplinary, psychological, motivational, behavioral, or content related—manifested themselves ever more pointedly over the course of the project. Instead of crossinstitutional support, exchange, and cooperation, the project cultivated strongly subjectified working patterns. To counter the institutionalized state of detached work settings, one might suggest the implementation of a project manager who would organize regular meetings and moderate discussions. While this solution might be partially valid, it is shortsighted at the same time. My field notes revealed personal resentments between several of the researchers, both within and across institutions. Additionally, their motivations for participating in the research project were sometimes incompatible. Such matters are strongly bound to the individual people and cannot be eliminated by the mere existence of a project manager. In their analysis of “emotional politics of research collaboration,” Griffin, Bränström-Öhman, and Kalman (2013) discuss matters such as conflicting motivations, hierarchical structures, and different emotional states. Based on personal experiences, Kalman (2013) states that it is crucial to consider the individual predisposition of each researcher involved in a research project (p. 77). Integrating their habitual practices, personal (research) interests, and competences is equivalent to respect and acknowledgment. Balancing potential weaknesses through combining them with other colleagues’ strengths enhances working processes. To increase the colleagues’ satisfaction, motivation, and enjoyment at work, it is important to not only be aware of differences, but rather a clear distribution of roles and transparent research procedures are required to foster a productive working atmosphere, increase the researchers’ trust in the research environment (ibid.), and potentially lead to high-quality research results. The measurements both Griffin et al. (2013) and Kalman (2013) suggest to facilitate the establishment of trust relationships remain on an organizational level of research collaboration. We could see in Case B, however, that the conflicting opinions about the instrument as well as incompatible motivations to join the research project created tensions un-

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likely to be solved from an organizational approach. These tensions were rather located on an affective level. In other words, they evoked states of negative affects. In the final chapter, I will therefore further examine affective states, specifically in regard to how these can be integrated to enable productive research dynamics.

Chapter 4: Reflections on research dynamics

The detailed case descriptions in the preceding chapter reveal significant differences between the two analyzed cases, especially in regard to the projects’ main aims, team compositions, and research dynamics. It is selfevident that the motivation of researchers to join a university research project vary, and that conflicts of interest are likely to emerge in heterogeneous work environments. Yet, existing descriptions of artistic research endeavors tend to take a uniformly affirmative stance on the projects they analyze (see “1.1 Previous studies and recent developments”), which has the effect of almost downplaying “naturally occurring” disagreements in larger groups of people. To contrast these approaches, I have tried to reveal the sources of such conflict situations in the detailed case descriptions. Generally, it is not surprising that emotional states and subjective sensitivities influenced both Case A and Case B so strongly. When researchers from various disciplinary backgrounds work together, their different personalities, behavioral patterns, and working modes constantly intertwine. We could see that in Case A, the newly composed team could build upon an existing institutional culture that supported the three researchers in finding a common working rhythm. In Case B, the institutional split inherent to the project from the beginning persisted and fostered subjectified working patterns. It thus cannot be presumed that discipline- and personality-related aspects will automatically or tacitly evolve into a homogeneous yet dynamic net that supports the research setting. Rather, heterogeneous disciplinary backgrounds need mediation in order to gel. In other words, the work processes require

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attunement. In this chapter, I will therefore return to situations from both cases in which affected states between human and non-human bodies— sometimes in combination with the boundary objects discussed above— influenced the research dynamics. This turn to affect might seem surprising given that precognitive affects ground social relationships, and given that affect creation and management are central aspects of artistic practice. Aesthetic experiences inherent to artistic production and reception are always closely linked to individual experience and personal knowledge. Even though tacit knowledge and experience can be conveyed intersubjectively to a certain degree, the interplay of individually or mutually affecting and being affected is particularly relevant in collaborative contexts where various artistic practices and distinct aesthetic judgments coincide. In artistic research settings, an analysis of how subjects and their environments mutually affect each other and how their being affected influences their actions is therefore of special interest. Rather than suggesting a causal relation between affect and action, an analysis of subjective affections—with the subject denoting a singular person, a group of researchers, a bigger audience—in relation to the environment reveals in which ways attunement takes place, empathy is fostered, a subject and its habits are formed, and common or singular rhythms emerge (see also Sharma & Tygstrup, 2015, p. 14ff.).

4.1

AFFECT THEORY

As a point of departure for these reflections, I will introduce the notion of the affectif, stemming from the field of affect theory. With what has been termed the affective turn, especially social sciences have broadened their analytic scope to include the influence of affects (Angerer, Bösel, & Ott, 2014; Clough, Halley, & Hardt, 2007; Gregg & Seigworth, 2010; Seyfert, 2011). Along with psychology and sociology, these also include politics and economics. Not only do affect theories shed light on how bodies affect each other in both positive and negative manners (Angerer, 2015; Bösel, 2014; Brennan, 2004; Gibbs, 2010; Massumi, 1995; Seyfert, 2012), but they also simultaneously distinguish between feelings and emotions as a form of affect and discuss how the relation between bodies and the envi-

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ronment constitutes affective atmospheres (Anderson, 2009; Brennan, 2004; Fox, 2015; Seyfert, 2012). Griffin et al. (2013) correctly state that socio-emotional interrelations underlying research collaboration have largely been neglected in the literature to date (p. 3). This research gap led them to a close examination of the emotional politics of a collaborative research setting in which the authors themselves participated. They address how naming the project, institutional hierarchies, trust relationships, and affects influenced the joint work in both productive and inhibiting manners. Their study offers valuable suggestions on managing the emotional politics that underlie collaborative research. However, their choice of terminology is less convincing. According to the authors, “affect, emotion, feeling are always present and are processual in ways that are both amenable, and not always accessible, to one’s conscious/ness” (p. 4). Therefore, they use the three above-listed notions affect, emotion, and feeling interchangeably. Recent theoretical approaches to affects, however, have introduced an important terminological differentiation between affect and emotion. Massumi (1995) states that affect is first and foremost related to physiological arousal, which can be measured, but which is neither immediately perceivable nor individually controllable. He goes on to argue that the intensity of affects is expressed in emotional actions and reactions (p. 86ff.). In other words, affect can be considered as the capacity to express oneself in the form of emotions. Emotions, in turn, enable the development of a narrative that is not restricted to the use of language only. A sad scene in a film might provoke crying as a reaction or it may provoke the feeling of pleasure due to the scene’s emotional intensity. The above example leads Massumi to conclude that affect is autonomous from its emotional reaction: the physiological arousal can be strong in both the positive and the negative emotional intensity. Therefore, the sole intensity does not allow a prediction of which emotional reaction, whether negative or positive, it evokes (p. 84ff.). Building on this, Seyfert (2012) argues that affect denotes the ability to affect and to be affected by other bodies, and that affect includes emotions and feelings as expressive categories (p. 31f.).1 He further states that affect

1

To establish a consistent terminology, Seyfert refers to feelings and emotions as affections (p. 32).

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always emerges through the encounter of or interaction between several bodies. Therefore, affect is never only subjective, that is, perceived or generated by one single body; neither is affect only collective, that is, socially or culturally constituted and felt (p. 33).2 Rather, affects need to be examined in relation to the environments in which they are produced through the encounters between human and non-human bodies. Affectif and affective atmospheres To offer a corresponding analytic framework to analyze affects in regard to their environment, Seyfert introduces the notion of affectif (p. 31f.). It accounts for “all the relevant elements involved” in the emergence of affects as well as the verbal and non-verbal effects of these affects (p. 33f.). That is, it includes human and non-human bodies, their environment, encounters and interactions between these elements, and the individual and collective affected states emerging through these encounters as well as their expression via emotional reactions. This furthermore implies that the affectif comprises a continuously changing group of entangled elements; that is, encounters and interactions between humans, non-human bodies, and the environment vary in kind and number, and thereby affect each other differently each time and produce new or other affects (ibid.). The emerging affectif depends on (a) the composition of its distinct elements, (b) each element’s ability to be affected and to affect, and (c) the perception, actions, and reactions of each element in regard to the other elements. In a research context, this implies that the affectif composed by office spaces, researchers, topics, and existing or newly developed objects changes continuously. The manner in which they affect each other is, for example, related to the encounters taking place (team meetings, lunch breaks, research activities); the present researchers and objects as well as to those who are part of the group but absent; the environment (meeting room, workshops, the team’s own or a different office, informal contexts); the researchers’ subjective moods and motivations; and the researchers’ roles in the specific context of the encounter. To capture the sensation and sometimes tension perceivable during such encounters upon entering a room or

2

The different theoretical conceptions of affects as either subjective and biological or socially constructed and therefore collective have been discussed recently (see e.g. Gibbs, 2010, p. 35f.).

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in new environment, Anderson (2009) uses the term affective atmosphere.3 He defines it as follows. Affective atmospheres are a class of experience that occur [sic!] before and alongside the formation of subjectivity, across human and non-human materialities, and in-between subject/object distinctions. … As such, atmospheres are the shared ground from which subjective states and their attendant feelings and emotions emerge. … Atmospheres are unfinished because of their constitutive openness to being taken up in experience. (p. 78f., original emphasis)

This idea of affective atmospheres corresponds to Seyfert’s notion of the affectif, in that both concepts emphasize the transformative character of atmospheres. Even though Anderson stresses the emergence of subjectivity, he does not imply that atmospheres are merely subjectively perceivable. Rather, his definition accounts for the persistence of individuality and subjectivity within the atmosphere despite the mutually affective capacities of and between its different components. Thus, both notions support an analysis of how researchers, materials, media and technology, and institutional spaces affect each other and influence the research dynamics. Attunement and synchrony But how do affective processes go about happening? Seyfert states that, “[in] order to trigger and produce an affect interacting bodies need to be attuned to the same interactive frequency” (2012, p. 38). There are five partially sense-related frequencies on which bodily affected states can be generated: “(1) haptic, (2) olfactory, (3) aesthetic (acoustic and visual), (4) ‘the unconscious transmission at a distance through nervous currents,’” which

3

With his introduction of the term affectif, Seyfert’s goal was to create an alternative to the notion affective atmosphere, as coined by Brennan (2004). Even though Brennan’s concept tries to capture the collective nature of affects, she states that individuals are able to resist being affected by other bodies (p. 11 and 23). Seyfert criticizes the concept for relying on individual perception and differentiation instead of taking into account the mutual influence between the elements. It is important to note that my use of the notion atmosphere on the following pages is likewise not related to Brennan’s idea of the term (Seyfert, 2012, p. 29ff.).

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are classified as direct frequencies, and “(5) expressions,” which are indirect frequencies related to symbols and signs (ibid.). It is noteworthy that affects can occur on several frequencies; they are not mutually exclusive. For example, a strong smell (olfactory transmission) might cause physical, haptic reactions such as goosebumps or nausea (see also Brennan, 2004, p. 10f.). To give another example, Seyfert quotes Guyau (1887), who conceives of artworks as media that indirectly transmit “states of mind, sentiments, emotions, thoughts through sympathy” from the artists who created the work (Seyfert, 2012, p. 37). The frequency addressed in this example is called “psychological suggestion” (p. 35, original emphasis). The same frequency applies to, for example, houses that might evoke ideas of inhabiting it with a family, triggering corresponding affects related to sociability (p. 36). One needs to keep in mind, however, that a similar frequency can evoke both positive and negative affections and that similar frequencies that are not “correctly” attuned prevent both interaction and the production of further affects. Frequency, therefore, is not the sole decisive factor for the quality of affected bodily states. The latter rather seem to depend on a body’s capacity to be affected. Furthermore, it is important to stress once more that affects precede human actions but do not causally explain them (p. 38). Against this background, one could criticize the idea of affective transmission as too descriptive and too conceptual to actually explain why and how affects evoke (which) effects. To look at how the attunement of bodies becomes manifest, a notion originally stemming from psychology and psychotherapy is useful: synchrony. Koole and Tschacher (2016) provide the following explanation. When interaction partners become synchronized, they become adapted to each other’s rhythms and cycles of activity, like people who are dancing together. This mutual adaptation may mean that interaction partners come to display similar behaviors. However, interpersonal synchrony does not always involve imitation or mimicry. … For instance, if one interaction partner nods her head in response to another’s hand movements, this still qualifies as interpersonal synchrony. Interpersonal synchrony thus depends on the mutual timing of responses, regardless of the precise form of these responses. (p. 9)

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In relation to the patient-therapist relationship, the authors state that synchrony indicates increased mutual comprehension, which is mirrored in bodies that behave, move, and perceive similarly (ibid.). In line with that argument, Wheatley et al. (2012) claim that synchrony in groups increases the feeling of empathy between the individuals as well as their attachment and belonging to that group (p. 594ff.). They state: “The ability to synchronize with others enables emotion contagion. … [It] allows us to spontaneously embody the affective experiences of familiar others, and this embodiment fosters better social understanding” (p. 594). Furthermore, in reference to Polanyi (1983) and his exploration of implicit forms of knowledge, Gill (2007) claims that bodily synchronization is central to the transfer of tacit knowledge and hence to the joint engagement in practices as well as the negotiation and “formation of a common ground” against the background of distinct points of view (pp. 569, 600). Similarity of behavior does not imply, however, sameness. Rather, synchrony refers to activities that are carried out at the same time, that are coordinated, composed, and that follow a common rhythm. Wheatley et al. (2012) argue that “coordination of distinct roles benefits from an understanding of how the system moves as a whole,” whereas the coordination of similar activities evokes the feeling of representing one and the same system, of enacting the same roles, of resemblance (p. 595ff.). This is a relevant aspect for understanding group dynamics, because the feeling of belonging and resemblance can have both negative and positive consequences. One the one hand, strong social bonds lead to enhanced feelings of security, pleasure, and enjoyment. The latter are linked to the bodily reward system. Semin and Cacioppo (2008) define synchrony “as jointly and simultaneously recruited sensory motor processes that are evident in a neurophysiological mirroring of the producer by the perceiver” (p. 123). Since these processes of neurophysiological mirroring take place automatically, increased social ties and mutual understanding can be achieved efficiently, without needing to invest much effort. Therefore, synchrony is perceived as specifically rewarding and can even be considered as desirable as far as fulfilling basic needs of belonging (see also Wheatley et al., 2012, p. 596). On the other hand, Wheatley et al. explain that “[brain] areas involved in the perception and production of dynamics literally entrain to the same oscillatory rhythm. … Group dynamics may serve to overcome individual rhythms, thereby providing a more compelling beat to which to entrain” (p.

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596ff.). Therefore, if group dynamics have a muting effect on individuality, synchrony might likewise lead to a decreased self-perception (p. 597). Consequently, the authors state that even though synchrony automatically happens, attempts at deliberate counter-movements—what they describe as “engineering disconnection” (p. 600)—might be fruitful for group dynamics. That is, instead of muting or overcoming differences, it might be more productive to be aware of them and to consciously integrate them into research processes. What implications do these elaborations have for research settings in which aesthetic practices and mediation between various disciplinary backgrounds are crucial? One could argue that if the researchers in such a collaborative, transdisciplinary context are attuned to the same frequency, their mutual understanding increases, which has a positive influence on their research dynamics. The preceding paragraphs reveal, however, that both attunement and synchrony are not just related to various frequencies; timing also plays an important part. Situations such as the simultaneous presence of researchers, different activities carried out at the same time or in the same space, spontaneous gatherings, and planned meetings can be analyzed in regard to the frequencies of which affects are produced, what kind of affects they produce, and whether the specific kind or timing of an encounter enabled the researchers to synchronize. The musical connotations of both attunement and synchrony4 is specifically striking against the background of Case B. Terms like rhythmicity, beats, sounds, resonant spaces, synchronizing, materiality, tonality, acoustic-analog inputs, and digital manipulation were part of the researchers’

4

In psychology, sociology, linguistics, and musicology, attunement or entrainment and synchrony are often discussed alongside resonance. In these contexts, resonance and synchrony are distinguished thusly: resonance denotes passive processes of being affected, while synchrony involves active engagement of all parties involved in finding a common rhythm of frequency (see, for example, Breyer & Pfänder, 2017). Resonance will therefore not be further discussed here.

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daily vocabulary.5 In Case A, the researchers were mainly interested in the test persons’ affected states and in creating an environment that stimulated affective arousal. In the following paragraphs, I examine several situations from the case studies related to research dynamics in light of the just introduced notions of attunement and synchrony.

4.2

SYNCHRONIZING PRACTICES

Attunement and synchrony need to occur on the levels of both harmony and tempo. Only then can one find the same rhythm. Or as Gibbs (2010) states: “Rhythm (or ‘pulse’), like affect, organizes …” (p. 198, original emphasis). One question can be raised in this context: Can we actually learn to be affected in a specific way just as we can practice a rhythmic figure or get used to keeping a tempo? Do the components of an affectif harmonize over time so that their affects somehow unify? While Brennan (2004) would argue that individuals can resist becoming affected (p. 11f.), Massumi (1995) would counter that affects are preconscious and therefore autonomous, that is, uncontrollable (p. 85f.). The same holds for processes of synchronization. Synchrony automatically occurs since neurophysiological oscillations happen on the same rhythm (Wheatley et al., 2012, p. 596ff.). Yet, differences might persist as metaphorical offbeats and could lead to the negotiation and production of a less homogeneous and therefore potentially more compelling rhythmic figure. Going through the questions of familiarization and harmonization applied to both cases results in the following considerations. In Case B, the overall team meetings I participated in had an agenda, but no schedule. Neither did they have a timeframe nor did they include breaks. The AU researchers’ internal team meetings proceeded similarly: lunch or coffee breaks were carried out “according to demand,” and if necessary, the meetings would continue after these breaks. The TU researchers’ internal meetings usually had a predetermined start and end time. They were restricted to one and a half or two hours maximum, usually followed by a lunch or cof-

5

Of course, different research contexts in which the attunement of individual practices is similarly important might use vocabulary that is more closely related to their disciplinary embeddings.

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fee break. The repetition of such rhythms quickly led to the conclusion that one gets used to a specific procedure and the corresponding affected states. Even though this does not necessarily imply a learning process, it does point to the fact that affects are linked to expectations. These expectations are therefore connected to the perceived atmosphere in a specific spatial setting, within a distinct group constellation, on a particular day or time. If a team meeting goes well, one might expect the following meeting to proceed in a similar manner and would be surprised—that is, affected in a different manner—if tensions arise. The same holds for the reverse situation: if a meeting results in an argument, one might expect a tense situation in the upcoming meeting. In the case of a harmonious subsequent meeting, the affect evoked might be relief. In Case A, team meetings proceeded similarly to those of the AU researchers. At first glance, they were not structured at all. One of them would ask theirs fellow colleagues whether they should get together to discuss the setting’s further development, the performance, or an article to be submitted. According to each person’s availability, the meeting started immediately, half an hour, or two hours later. Phone calls, other project partners passing by, or coffee and lunch breaks quite frequently interrupted the meetings. These “forced breaks” did not result in negative affects such as anger or impatience. On the contrary, my impression was that Anna, Steve, and Nick had become used to these interruptions and adapted their behavior accordingly. This implied that the three had established a sort of intuitive rhythm of gathering, parting, and coming back together for their joint work. Steve and Anna automatically worked on their own projects when Nick followed his daily rhythm, which included a short siesta after lunch followed by a coffee and a small piece of chocolate to get him back into working mode. During this time, Steve and Anna did not work in their lab spaces because Nick usually used their shared sofa for his siestas. In reference to such space-time relations, Salter (2014) uses the term affective atmospheres. If atmospheres not only consist of the diffusion of unbounded elements through space, then the coming together and then sudden pulling apart of the elements that constitute such environments is also a question of temporal synchrony. Synchronous events are defined as those that lock in step with each other, occurring simultaneously in space and time. … [Points] of synchrony within the different el-

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ements which construct atmospheres denote simultaneous phenomena but not necessarily of the same temporal shape and duration. … Synchrony highlights the parallelism and potential fusion of two disparate events but as a series of discrete moments. (p. 240f.)

This quotation supports one of my above suggestions: namely, that the production of affects is not only dependent on the attunement of frequency. In addition, the rhythm is important to organize (expected) affective states. The notion of attunement implies getting in the same mood, developing the same tempo and rhythm. This is, however, neither necessary nor desirable if applied to research settings. Rather, one can say that just like different opinions, various states of affect can exist in synchrony, that is, in correspondence with each other. It is a matter of coordinating differences, not of eliminating them. Even though these differences might merge into a common rhythmic figure—literally, in the case of synchronized instruments, or figuratively in the case of a work routine—they escape deliberate organization. The pure ability or will to synchronize does not necessarily lead to synchrony. Looking back once more at Case B, the researchers’ subjective competences and perceptions sometimes fostered and sometimes hindered the establishing of a productive work environment. Despite the fact that the researchers’ activities were loosely coordinated in one and the same research project, conflict situations that arose due to individual sensitivities and resentments stood in stark contrast to the possibility of getting along well with each other and finding a common, synchronous working rhythm. In this context, Koole and Tschacher (2016) state: “The emergence of synchronous behavior, however, does not depend on intentions or any other quality of the individuals who are behaving in synchrony. Rather, synchrony arises as a self-organized behavioral pattern form people’s mutual interactions” (p. 5). The autonomous character of affects therefore implies that whether affects promote or prevent productive research dynamics is a result of tacitly emerging rhythmicity, which depends on how the affectif evolves over time. It has become clear that getting used to an affectif is closely linked to expectations and confidence, and therefore trust. Below, the impact of trust on the development of the described cases is examined in greater detail. The following reflections take account of the conversations I had with fur-

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ther actors from the field who were not part of Case A or B (see “2.2 Participant observation and qualitative interviews,” where the actors’ names are also listed).

4.3

FORMS OF TRUST

In a conversation I had with Max on the development of the field of artistic research and his own practice, he pointed out to me how important trust was in his work relationships. In his opinion, trust helped establish research dynamics that left open enough space for the exploration of ideas. In this manner, he and the teams of his various projects were able to develop research questions or design ideas during the research process without a fixed goal and outside of a pre-structured framework. At the same time, he stated that such an open-minded, undefined setting required passion for the content the team was working on and trust in each other’s commitment as well as competences (cf. conversation with Max, ll. 20ff.). The open research processes Max described applies to the manner in which the AU researchers developed their first instrument prototype. Except for the phrase “development of hybrid instruments” mentioned in the funding application, they did not have any predetermined details to depart from. Instead, they had to rely on themselves. That is, they had to trust in their individual ideas, experiences, and preferences and had to build upon the inspiration they gathered from their environment as well as from talking to each other. They were open to their respective contributions, and trusted that their collaboration would result in a digital instrument prototype. In this manner, Susan, Michael, and John designed the instrument from scratch. This included its material, shape, size, sounds, and performative aspects. Since none of the TU researchers were integrated as supervisors or co-creators of the instrument, they had to trust in the AU researchers’ work on the first prototype. And they obviously did trust their colleagues, since they did not actively engage themselves in the development and design process of the instrument. As I outlined in the detailed case description, the TU researchers’ rejection of the instrument stemmed from the mismatch between their expectations and the final prototype. In their opinion, the instrument did not meet the requirements of their individual research endeavors. They complained about its functionality as being too complex and

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based on individual, artistic ideas instead of on more universal, testable, and marketable ones. One could therefore conclude that these complaints resulted from the initial confidence the TU researchers had placed in their colleagues and the ultimately unmet expectations created by this confidence. Furthermore, the complaints emphasized the mental barriers that so dominated the research dynamics of Case B and that prevented smaller collaborative subprojects. It was surprising for me to see that despite the interest and maybe even passion the researchers in Case B shared for their overall research endeavor, their projects remained in parallel, separately existing structures. To put it more pointedly: instead of creating intertwined perspectives and collaborations, the researchers in Case B maintained subjectified working patterns fostered by the original project structure. Researchers who are experienced in interdisciplinary projects might not be surprised about the following aspect: disciplinary and personal conflicts are common in contexts where several people are involved. However, there are examples that show the opposite, namely, participatory and empathetic research processes. In the conversations I had with further actors from the field of artistic research, several of them talked about trust in connection with long-term relationships between themselves and their project teams. For example, Dominic explained that his research group, which comprised ten people from disciplines such as sociology, dance, improvised music, phenomenology, neurology, philosophy, medicine, architecture, and media science, had been working together for seven years (cf. conversation with Dominic, ll. 61ff.). They mainly developed phenomenological and philosophical exhibition or performance projects in relation to media ecology, and their projects usually explored the possibilities recent technologies offered for research and performance. Consequently, the research group used the term “media exploration” to denote its research processes.6 This group regularly organized

6

Dominic explained to me that since his professorship was located at a technical university, the attribute “artistic” in “artistic research,” which he had used before, had been perceived as irritating. The computer scientists studying and working at this university were more familiar with the development and use of media. Therefore, his colleagues “tolerated” the name “media exploration” for their research practice, and the university administration even acknowledged it

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excursions to get to know each other and the respective research interests even better; sometimes these meetings included external guests who gave inputs or moderated their discussions on a certain topic. Dominic described his group’s working modes as participatory and social, with the team usually working collectively. There was no role division in the sense of “the artist is doing something” (ibid., ll. 72ff.) and the theoreticians then provide the corresponding contextual framework. Rather, they tried to benefit from their individual connections with institutions and people to use these networks for their own cooperation. This way, they could use and combine their respective surroundings, infrastructure, and networks for projects and then decide on a production and presentation format in accordance with these environmental aspects (ibid., ll. 67ff.). Trust, in the case of the research group just described, was related to its members’ institutional networks and their individual expertise with which they contributed to the realization of their projects. Furthermore, performance situations are stressful situations, especially for less experienced lay performers in the research group. Consequently, the group’s performance approach also required trust, commitment, and a high degree of respect toward each other. Empathy and confidence Jonathan, one of my conversation partners from a Swiss art academy, claimed that establishing empathy for the cooperating partners’ interests and practices in the long run was crucial for their ongoing collaboration. Since Jonathan worked together with marine research institutions based, for example, on the North Sea coast; in Texas, US; and in Spitsbergen, Norway, they only met in person every six months and otherwise communicated with each other via Skype (cf. conversation with Jonathan, l. 4, ll. 50f.). In his opinion, these in-person encounters were irreplaceable. Only through discussing terms and their respective interests, could they transform the parallel threads of their projects into intertwined perspectives (ibid., ll. 54ff.). Furthermore, he claimed that the technology the team used for their projects enhanced this change in perspective, allowing for “thick observations” and a certain degree of “aesthetic distance” (ibid., ll.65f.). For exam-

as a means to acquire funding from agencies that the university had not been able to access before (cf. conversation with Dominic, ll. 15ff.).

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ple, Jonathan used the sensors and cameras that the cooperating marine research centers used for pure data collection in artistically staged installations. In this manner, they fostered self-reflexivity and increased their comprehension of the respective partner’s work. They did not need to newly define the notions they used or to achieve terminological consensus. Rather, reusing and staging their respective media and technology increased their empathy as well as mutual understanding. On this basis, they were able to establish trust relationships (ibid.). This is similar to the description in Case A that revealed how Anna had to get used to Steve’s “covert” working mode, as she called it, implying that she had to build trust in his ability to fulfill his tasks even when she did not see him working. In the context of Case B, the AU researchers’ different time-management approaches resulted in varying periods of shared presence in the office. In particular, Michael stated that he had had to learn that differing schedules and working sites were not equivalent to a differing quality or quantity of research results. At least for Anna (Case A) and Michael (Case B), visibility and presence seemed to be important factors in their establishment of trust. At the same time, in the construction process of the Case B instrument, the mutual trust between Susan, John, and Michael seemed to be self-evident. Regardless of their different time-management strategies, practices, and competences, they never expressed distrust of each other. Rather, there seemed to be a tacit agreement about fulfilling their tasks and asking colleagues for advice if a problem occurred. The three researchers’ openness toward each other’s questions and their commitment to helping each other enabled what Max described above as open research dynamics, which allow the exploration and design of ideas during the research process. In relation to the notion of synchrony, one could conclude that Susan’s, John’s, and Michael’s individual moods, practices, and beats synthesized into one rhythmic figure that accounted for their individual subjectivities instead of muting them. That is, they found a productive manner of gathering and disconnecting, and of carrying out research in their specific fields of interest and of integrating it into their common project goals. On a different level, trust was also central to the following situation in Case B: when Susan stated that she had needed to become familiar with John’s and Michael’s performance practices in the beginning of the project. In German, the term “familiarization” is semantically connected with the

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notion of trust or trusting something (“Vertrauen” as a noun or “vertrauen” as a verb), and “to get familiar with something” is translated as “vertraut werden mit etwas.” Even though Susan had given concerts before, she was not familiar with improvising, which was John’s and also Michael’s preferred performance technique. Improvisation had to evolve into a “trusted practice” for Susan, which she was later on more comfortable with and even enjoyed carrying out during their rehearsals. She had to become confident in using it for her own performance contributions. Trusting the ethnographer Furthermore, trust played a crucial role for my own research endeavor. I experienced relationships of trust when I joined the researchers of Case A and Case B as an ethnographer. Accepting me as a constant observer in the offices, workshops, team meetings, and informal meetings such as lunch breaks proved the researchers had trust in me to respectfully treat the sometimes sensitive information I gathered. Even though in the beginning the researchers in Case A and Case B commented on my presence and continuous note taking on repeated occasions, they nevertheless shared information with me, answered my questions, and integrated me into their work with small tasks. Only seldom did they explicitly allude to the confidential nature of budget discussions, judgments they expressed in our interviews, or my evaluation of their team dynamics. In the latter case, I took the following notes on a conversation I had with Michael and John after one of the rather heated discussions with the entire team of Case B. Following today’s team meeting [of the AU researchers], Michael said to me with a serious expression, very determined and in an unequivocal manner: “I assume that financial discussions are not going to be part of your thesis.” With raised eyebrows, I replied friendly but equally determined: “No, of course not, that is self-evident.” Michael nodded his head, smiling. John joined the conversation saying, “but for sure, yesterday’s discussion was very revealing for you, wasn’t it?”—Me: “It was, indeed.” … Michael: “You can mention that there are discrepancies, because they do indeed exist.—Oh well, you’ll do as you think, I trust you with this.” I simply smiled at him as a reply. (Field notes phase 1, ll. 2955ff.)

I was well aware of the responsibility their confidence in me implied for my treatment of the data I collected. In addition to the trust the researchers

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placed in me, I had to trust in their openness and in the “validity” of the information they conveyed to me. Simultaneously, I had to rely on my own senses and alertness to surprising and exceptional as well as commonplace and habitual aspects, which would later on provide the foundation for my case descriptions. Data and technology At this point, I would like to examine in which way the researchers not only used but also trusted the technology, that is, the hardware and software, they built their research projects on. In this context, I would like to recall Anna’s statement on the Case A researchers’ intention to analyze the biofeedback data they gathered in a quantitative manner. She asked: “What do these biofeedback data TELL us AT ALL? And is [the equipment] we have sufficient to see whether the conclusions we draw are true?” (cf. Interview 2 with Anna, ll. 209ff.). Contrary to general techno-skeptic or technooptimistic-affirmative stances, Anna stated that they needed to critically reflect upon their interpretations in relation to the sensors’ accuracy and the background information they received from their test persons. She further stated that if, for example, the pulse sensor constantly measured an elevated heartbeat, this could be related to a person’s general physical condition; it did not necessarily result from the person’s perception of the responsive environment. Therefore, they analyzed each dataset individually (ibid.). Similarly, the sonic and visual data Jonathan gathered on organisms along the coast and Henry collected on trees located in different regions in Switzerland could not simply be trusted or taken for granted as such (for more details on their projects, see the next section, “4.4 Boundary objects, technology, and trust”). In both cases, the researchers needed to rely on the sensors’ measurements and data transfer, and in both cases, the transferred sounds and images were always subject to contextualization and interpretation. For example, ship traffic and weather conditions could equally result in a louder sound from and stronger movement of the sea, and a black image could stem from dirt on the camera’s lens or from a broken data cable. Hence, there was a persistent degree of uncertainty about what exactly the sensor did and how the data it transferred could be explained. Even though Henry and Jonathan could increase their comprehension of data transfer processes as well as of naturally occurring changes in the environment outside of those caused by human activities, their trust was always put to a

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test; they established a unidirectional trust relationship and were ultimately unable to clarify their questions. As such, they manually selected the data they interpreted in relation to their overall datasets. But in the end, the selections were based on their subjective perceptions and judgments about whether the data could be evaluated or not. Instead of providing definite answers, the data rather opened up further questions or paved the way for first hypotheses. Only in the long run, following tests and refinements, would Jonathan and Henry and their respective research collaborators be able to give clearer responses to their initial questions. It is noteworthy that the projects of Henry, Jonathan, Dominic, and also Case A were based on the use of sensors the researchers manually adapted to the projects’ specific needs.7 Therefore, it is not entirely correct to say that the researchers trusted in the sensors. Rather, they manipulated the sensors and other employed technologies in order to control them. The researchers then relied on their hacking competences to modify and adapt the sensors (cf. conversation with Henry, ll. 66f.), as well as on their technological knowledge, with the result of “leading the sensors” to generate the data the researchers needed to answer their research questions. Concluding remarks on trust in research settings The preceding analysis shows that the establishment of trust in the mentioned research groups was effective on individual, organizational, practical, and material levels, among others. Moreover, the researchers’ trust in and dependence on the media and technology they used was crucial for their work and results. The given examples illustrate that trusting their colleagues’ expertise and competences as well as the researchers’ selfconfidence greatly influenced the team dynamics in each of the settings. We saw that mutual respect, trust, empathy, comprehension, and acknowledgment not only informed the research dynamics in Max’s, Jonathan’s, and Dominic’s research groups, as well as in Case A and among the AU researchers, but that these aspects further led to a positive evaluation of their collaborative projects. Could passion and trust therefore be indicators for fruitful cooperation?

7

Susan, Michael, and John (Case B) constructed the instrument as a sensor-based instrument, but to my knowledge, they integrated the sensors in their original form, without modifying them.

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Several of the researchers I observed and talked to explicitly identified trust as an important aspect of collaboration. Most of the exemplary cases revealed that personal meetings, negotiations, and discussions were decisive for an increased mutual understanding and trust relationships—even if or specifically because these discussions did not necessarily lead to consensus. My overall analysis of Case B confirmed this aspect; it shows that trust alone was insufficient in creating a result that the entire team was content with. Hence, trust relationships in interdisciplinary research groups should be strengthened from the beginning, but obviously they cannot be considered the only condition for what could be called a “high-quality outcome” of such collaborative projects. At this point, an organization sociological perspective would offer further insights on, for example, the soft skills needed for project management and the correlation between organizational trust and employee motivation. A theoretical concept discussed in organization and science sociological contexts was already addressed above: namely, boundary objects. Boundary objects were brought forward in their function as mediators and translators in interdisciplinary research groups. Below, I will therefore shed light on the role boundary objects played in the establishment of the trust and mutual empathy that several researchers considered crucial for their collaborative work. I already showed that the integration of sensors played a predominant role in each of the research settings. Consequently, the sensors influenced the epistemic potential of the created objects and overall results of the projects. In the following, I will thus pick up the role of technology in artistic research projects once more and discuss its impact on the construction of boundary objects.

4.4

BOUNDARY OBJECTS, TECHNOLOGY, AND TRUST

When Star and Griesemer (1989) first published their ideas on the concept of boundary objects as mediators in heterogeneous research groups, they stated the following.

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In conducting collective work, people coming together from different social worlds frequently have the experience of addressing an object that has a different meaning for each of them. Each social world has partial jurisdiction over the resources represented by that object, and mismatches caused by the overlap become problems for negotiation. … management of these scientific objects—including construction of them—is conducted by scientists, collectors and administrators only when their work coincides. The objects thus come to form a common boundary between worlds by inhabiting them both simultaneously. … Intersections place particular demands on representations, and on the integrity of information arising from and being used in more than one world. Because more than one world or set of concerns is using and making the representation, it has to satisfy more than one set of concerns. When participants in the intersecting worlds create representations together, their different commitments and perceptions are resolved into representations—in the sense that a fuzzy image is resolved by a microscope. This resolution does not mean consensus. Rather, representations, or inscriptions, contain at every stage the traces of multiple viewpoints, translations and incomplete battles. (p. 412f.)

In this explanation, the authors stressed that joint work between the actors involved in a research project is a necessary condition for a boundary object to emerge. This does not imply, however, that the collaborative creation of the boundary object prevents or solves potential queries or conflicts. On the contrary, its joint construction enables the ability to negotiate different interests, approaches, and meaning-making strategies. With its emergence and evolution, the boundary object is a tangible result of negotiations and discussions, and it even materializes different viewpoints, preferences, and working practices. Consequently, its characteristics serve meaning making and translation in and across the various disciplines, practices, and subjects that contributed to its creation. This explains why the boundary object allows each of the actors to use it both on a “strongly structured” individual and on a “weakly structured” common level (p. 393). Despite its mediating function, the described circularity simultaneously characterizes a boundary object as an enclosed system. The negative consequences of this aspect became manifest in the context of Case B, where only the researchers who had constructed the instrument used it for performances and further research. I therefore already suggested interpreting the instrument with the help of negative and positive affordances. The two ap-

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proaches enable ecological analyses and are a fruitful combination in the examination of both the creation process and the reception of a boundary object. I showed that even though the instrument was related to several TU researchers’ interests, the connection points were either too weak or the researchers’ mental barriers too strong to use the instrument as a boundary object. Both aspects led to TU researchers’ rejection of an artifact that could have become a boundary object or served as a point of departure for the joint creation of a different boundary object. A third aspect that might explain their reluctance toward the instrument is the artifact’s complexity. Again, affordance is a helpful analytic concept in this context. Through the integration of different sensors and mappings, the instrument became more and more complex over the course of its iterations. While its increased complexity piqued the AU researchers’ interest and resulted in further research as well as rehearsals with the instrument (positive affordance), the TU researchers evaluated the handling of the instrument as too difficult for the audience studies they had envisioned (negative affordance). Similarly, the researchers in Case A used sensors that made the handling—or in other words, the control—of the setting they developed more difficult. A negative affordance became manifest in postponing the quantitative data analysis due to the sensors’ inaccurate measurement. One can generally say that Steve, Anna, and Nick perceived the setting’s complexity predominantly as positive affordance, as they continued using it for their research and further improved its functionality. In conclusion, the use of technology strongly influenced both the characteristics of the cases’ two boundary objects and whether the researchers perceived the affordances as negative or positive. The role of technological equipment In Star and Griesemer’s (1989) original concept of boundary objects, technology played a role neither in the development of artifacts or concepts that functioned as boundary objects nor in the team dynamics. The two cases I observed as well as the projects my further interview partners talked about used technological equipment as a basis for all further activities and research results. It is therefore necessary to look at the relation between technology and the construction of boundary objects through human actions in more detail. For example, Henry applied sensors to trees and installed cameras near them to observe and measure their behavior as well as changes

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that occurred in their immediate environment. He then used datasonification methods to make the chemical processes inside the trees audible. The basic idea of his project was to “make climate change tangible” (cf. conversation with Henry, ll. 11ff.). Jonathan carried out a project in the context of media ecologies as well. Using a comparable approach, he collaborated with a marine research center and installed several microphones and cameras along the coast of the North Sea. His aim was to record changes in the distribution of organisms that inhabit the coast (cf. conversation with Jonathan, ll. 9ff.). Both Jonathan and Henry stated that the sounds they recorded “provided evidence about the state of the health” of the trees and the ocean, respectively. The images they videotaped served as a means of validation for the interpretations and hypotheses they put forward on the basis of their sonic data. It is remarkable that Jonathan and Henry both reported having spent approximately one year on creating, adapting, and refining to their needs the technology they used in the field. Jonathan used underwater capsules to protect the cameras, and was further dependent on underwater data cables for the image transfer. Lost data resulted in, for example, black images or silence in the sound recordings. As for Henry’s project, both the microphones and cameras were permanently exposed to varying weather conditions, which is why they needed to be robust. The sensors he applied to the trees and other plants were customized by hand; Henry explained that he had “hacked” a sensor he had bought in a store, similar to what David did with the sensors used in Case A’s responsive environment. More precisely, Henry soldered his sensors onto tiny copper circuit boards so that he could pin them into the tree while at the same time remaining able to collect the data he needed (cf. conversation with Henry, ll. 66f.). Furthermore, the audio files Jonathan and Henry each recorded comprised the sounds the organisms emitted, those produced by the ecological environment (that is, the sea, a forest, the sky, or a nearby highway), and “anthropogenic emissions,” as Jonathan referred to the human activities that impacted the environment such as ship traffic (cf. conversation with Jonathan, l. 46). Before interpreting these files, both Jonathan and Henry obviously needed time to listen to the sounds they recorded and to distinguish between them. Therefore, they both stated they spent a further year organizing small exhibitions, sound and video installations, and talks without analyzing the data in-

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depth.8 Their visual presentations and installations in particular actually served as instruments to gain further insights on the different quality of sounds and images and their origins, as well as on missing data and its potential reconstruction; they did not present clear statements or definite, final results. Hence, the exhibitions were comparable to an analytic tool: they were staged to convey the research processes and first insights to an audience, to make them tangible, and simultaneously to generate further knowledge for the researchers themselves. The experience of the researchers in Case A was similar. In the end, they spent at least half a year continuously refining their sensors. In addition to the evaluations they carried out to gain concrete research results, the theater performance I described (“3.1.5 The application of the setting”) generated further insights without analyzing the data in-depth—just as the visual installations did for Henry and Jonathan. The visualization of images and sounds, which Jonathan and Henry gathered as data to answer their research questions, enabled them to deduce various forms of knowledge. Yet, we rather need to consider the sensors as media(tors) that produced sonic and visual data that were then staged as second order boundary objects. Defining data as first order boundary objects implies that media and technology occupy an active intermediary position in the production process of these boundary objects: the researchers manipulated the sensors or installed the cameras to generate the data they needed. In the cases I examined, technological equipment therefore needs to be considered an integral part of the group of researchers—or the network of actors, as Latour (2005) would say—dedicated to the examination of a research question and the construction of a boundary object. Complexity as positive affordance Considering technological equipment as an integral part of research processes requires looking once more at the level of complexity introduced by technologies, as well as at the influence its use has on the establishment of

8

This implies that after two years of intense research, they were able to draw first conclusions and to give a tentative explanation for the changes they had witnessed. Henry stated that he was going to apply for follow-up funding based on a first hypothesis he could put forward after the two years of research the SNF had financially supported.

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trust relationships on the basis of boundary objects. Let us therefore once more take up the example of the instrument in Case B. It is clear the complexity of the instrument, which increased through the various position, light, and air pressure sensors, evoked the perception of negative affordance on the side of the TU researchers. One could also say that the difficulty of handling the instrument decreased their feeling of control over the object. Consequently, their confidence in the instrument’s use for further empirical studies declined as well; they distrusted the instrument. The AU researchers’ interpretation of its complexity led to the complete opposite result, especially for John and Michael, who explicitly stated they intentionally integrated a certain degree of complexity to develop an intriguing instrument (cf. interview 1 with Michael, ll. 192ff., interview 1 with John, ll. 570ff.). It is thus remarkable that Michael abandoned the instrument due the complexity they had themselves created. He instead turned his focus to developing and playing the sound sketches described earlier. In summary, one could say that Michael, Susan, and John founded their interactive play on a secure basis, that is, on instruments and playing modes they were able to control; whose outcome they could predict to a certain degree; and which they were able to react to in the course of their performances. Furthermore, with increased practice, John and Susan established trust in their ability to control the instrument, while Michael practiced improvising with the sound sketches to become self-confident in performing with them. In this way, the three researchers could perform on stage in a manner that fulfilled their self-expectations. By way of concluding, the following difference needs to be acknowledged. The TU researchers distrusted the instrument as such, since they perceived the characteristics of the artifact to mismatch their research endeavors. In comparison, Anna (Case A) took a strong stance on the quantitative interpretation of their data, which needed to be carried out in a cautious and reflective manner. A similar reaction was mirrored in Henry’s as well as Jonathan’s hesitance toward interpreting their data at all. In the last two examples, the researchers used these data in staged settings—as second order boundary objects—to achieve further insights into their research questions and to structure their further procedures. This was different in Case B; the researchers’ intention was never to use the sensorial data produced by the instrument for further analyses. In

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the other cases, the data—as contingent and untrustworthy as they were— still had a connecting, structuring character. The researchers perceived the data’s ambiguity as positive affordance; they were intrigued by and wanted to derive further knowledge from them. The data offered multiple interpretive approaches for the researchers’ varying disciplinary, that is, artistic and academic, backgrounds. These examples therefore illustrate that the establishment of trust and the perception of positive affordances on the basis of boundary objects are linked neither to visibility nor to simplicity. Rather, the researchers’ confident handling of ambiguous, complex boundary objects is crucial to the artifacts’ success within a research setting.

4.5

IMPLICATIONS FOR THE FIELD

The key findings of my study can be summarized as follows. One aspect that dominated the analysis of my field observations following my research stays is related to the researchers’ subjectivity. With this term, I am firstly referring to personality. That is, for example, one’s general attitude or behavior in a research setting. Furthermore, subjectivity is related to individual preferences, practices, understanding of research and research dynamics, habits, and patterns. One could also speak of subjective perception and individual predispositions: on the basis of their disciplinary backgrounds, experiences, and research interests, the different researchers contributed to the construction of boundary objects, perceived and made use of affordances, and were affected by or affected others. Both case studies show that very specific approaches to research, methods, and the relation between the arts and sciences—in short, discipline-inherent logics—informed the researchers’ distinct behaviors. These influenced the research projects’ methodological setup. Consequently, these logics also had an impact on the manner in which boundary objects were produced and on which research results were generated. The fact that research settings are constructed in accordance with fieldinherent logics and approaches and that these approaches are mirrored in the research dynamics and outcomes is not surprising as such. However, if these logics continue to serve as evaluative criteria for the generated results, research projects will persist in being caught in a circle of selffulfilling prophecy and constant legitimization. The criteria currently used

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to evaluate artistic research projects are similar to those used to evaluate any other academic research project. They focus, for example, on a quantitative evaluation of publication indices, acquisition of further third-party funding, and the number of PhD students supervised during the project. It is questionable, however, whether artistic research projects should continue to be evaluated on the basis of their results and research output by both funding bodies and the participating researchers. Rather, the projects’ affective atmospheres, synchrony, and the emerging research dynamics could serve as alternative or additional indicators of a successful and productive research project, as these factors account for each researcher’s individual approaches while at the same time analyzing the integration of subjectivity into the overall affectif. Such an evaluation would be qualitative, and possibly be based on the subjective experiences and individual feedback of the researchers involved. In practical terms, this could be realized within the team, for example in one or two brief annual meetings with a project coordinator or the principal investigator. Continual reflection on both the development of team dynamics and research progress is essential to remaining aware of and incorporating each researcher’s aims, experience, and motivation. Looking back at the very beginning of my study, such an analytic approach is in accordance with the overall dynamics of the field of artistic research. Negotiations of different perspectives and discussions about conflicting standpoints should be enabled rather than being muted. In line with this argument, one could look at how and whether differences can be integrated in a productive way, to account for the field’s diversity in methods, topics, and theories. The two case descriptions additionally reveal that the capacity to affect and to be affected by others depends on the individual human and non-human bodies involved in a research environment. Even though these bodies collectively constitute the affectif and produce affects, their resulting behavior is distinct. Finding and adapting to a common rhythm depends on the researchers’ self-confidence on the one hand, and impacts the establishment of trust relationships on the other. Aspects such as self-confidence, musical abilities, and learning competences are again closely connected to the researchers’ predispositions. Consequently, the emerging affectif is a highly interdependent field based on individual abilities and experiences just as

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much as on automatically occurring processes of synchronization and the related production of affects. In this manner, the subjectivity of each researcher highly influenced the composition of the projects’ further progress and the development of research dynamics. I would therefore like to draw a further conclusion: since artistic research contexts mainly aim at creating and investigating aesthetic experiences and are constantly involved with affective management, the researchers’ subjectivity merits more attention than it has received to date. That is, given that timing, a certain mood, flow with materials, and the spatial setting are so essential to artistic practices, these aspects should be considered in the development of artistic research projects. Practically speaking, this includes considering the arrangement of office spaces and workshops and instituting flexible office hours and space usage to accommodate individual working patterns, alongside scheduling regular meetings to create sufficient room for exchange between the researchers involved, and thus enabling the synchronizing of various distinct research dynamics. Depending on the size of the team, this might even require employing a project coordinator who takes care of administrative and organizational tasks. Limitations Given the methodological setup of the present study as an ethnographic field study, it strongly relied on one particular researcher and her openness, curiosity, and alertness. Simultaneously, it was dependent on the individual researchers’ activities, honesty, and knowledge they shared with me. Subjectivity was therefore inherent to the research procedure of this book and could be considered a limitation of this study. In addition to this, limitations were inherent to each concept I used for the analysis. That is, boundary objects and affordance are useful on the organizational level of research only, and the notion of affectif enables one to discern different affective states of and frequencies between its elements. These concepts do not, however, offer an explanation of why the latter have promoting or inhibiting influence on research dynamics. Despite these limitations, combining the three approaches is the particular strength of this study. The examination of boundary objects (“the setting” in Case A and “the instrument” in Case B) in relation to their specific affordances enabled a thorough analysis of the different research dynamics in Case A and Case B. Likewise, the notions of affectif and synchrony complemented the ex-

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amination of the socio-emotional relations that underlie collaborative research. The conceptual triad therefore supported an analysis that was at the same time comprehensive and adapted to the individual projects. In addition, it allowed an examination of the use of sensors and the interpretation of data in artistic research projects. Finally, even though the direct comparison between two cases provided nuanced insight, an analysis of a third case would have been helpful to validate and further deepen the presented results. Questions that could guide further research endeavors include: How do other (institutional or noninstitutional) environments influence research processes? Which role does the initial project development play? Which aspects (e.g. objects or topics) structure and organize research processes and which are factors that inhibit collaboration? Outlook As I showed in the preceding chapters, the integration of artistic practices and sensor-based approaches into multidisciplinary research settings opens up the field of sensuous knowledge. This form of knowledge is highly individualized. One could therefore ask whether sensuous knowledge is especially suitable to address the epistemic requirements of our current society, which builds upon highly personalized, specific, and dispersed knowledge. The in-depth analyses of Case A and Case B show that the integration of several disciplines, artistic practices, and sensor-based technologies drew a more encompassing picture of the cases’ corresponding topics (digital musical instruments in Case B and responsive environments and sustainable living strategies in Case A). In addition, through individually experiencing the functionality of sensors and through perceiving the possible influence of wearable technologies on the body, on our daily life, and on our feeling of control, both the researchers and the audience gained personalized, sense-based knowledge related to the perception and use of digital musical instruments and of computer-controlled environments). At the same time, one has to critically ask whether such research settings generate artifacts, dynamics, and knowledge that are products of the very setup of the projects and as such that do not stem, as one might expect, from the research questions. The analyses also reveal that such sensor- and sense-based approaches evoke subjectification—both on the side of the researchers and of the re-

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sults. In the context of Case B, the researchers’ individualized working patterns and subjectified work environments were not only brought to light, but even more importantly, the common research endeavor strongly emphasized them. The researchers’ individual competences, preferences, interests, and motivations informed both their contributions to the construction of the instrument and its perception. In Case A, the test persons’ behavior depended, for example, on their individual bodily and psychological constitutions, experience with responsive environments, and self-reflective potential. Almost inevitably, sensors, which are manipulable through touch or other physiological reactions such as breathing and pulse, evoke individualized sensation and behavior. Against this background, the generation of subjectified, sensuous knowledge in the context of artistic research projects seems like a self-fulfilling prophecy. Generating such individualized forms of knowledge is one of the most criticized aspects from opponents of artistic research projects, while supporters emphasize this aspect as the specific strength of artistic research.9 Focusing on the epistemic potential of artistic research and on researchers’ subjectivity more generally also requires revisiting the dichotomy between subjectivity and objectivity so frequently used to distinguish between the arts and sciences. At the very beginning of this book, I stated that the field of artistic research often remains in a defensive position and makes use of said dichotomy to position itself in opposition to “the objective sciences.” My studies show, however, that the constant negotiation and integration of subjectivities is a particular strength of this field, which is legitimate in and of itself and is a quality that needs to be accounted for more than is currently common. The idea of affectif, introduced in section “4.1 Affect theory,” points to the fact that research environments are always in the making. The emerging dynamics and their development depend on a specific constellation of peo-

9

In this context, I shall at least briefly refer to sociologists of science such as Latour and Woolgar (1979) and Knorr Cetina (1981), who stress the entanglement of tools, people and their dispositions, and environments in experimental, laboratory, and ethnographic research settings. A phrase summing up Latour’s and Knorr Cetina’s social constructivist stances is “the fabrication of scientific facts,” since it underlines the active role of the individual researcher in the research process itself as well as in the presentation of results.

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ple, experiences, material, spatial settings, timing, and institutional contexts. Against this background, I would like to raise another question: What role do institutional boundaries, politics, and missions play in the development of common research rhythms? If artistic research projects are established on temporary grounds only, in which way can institutional structures be used for these projects without adhering to the implied politics of the institutions, especially if they might have such a strong impact on the project development, as in Case B? Maybe artistic research practices can serve to push institutional boundaries and limits. To come back to the notion of synchrony: instead of imitating and adapting to the rhythm indicated by institutional politics, artistic research practices could serve as a countermovement, an “engineered disconnection” (Wheatley et al., 2012, p. 600), that sheds light on how the institution functions as a whole. In this way, research projects and their individual researchers from artistic, scientific, cultural, and other disciplinary backgrounds could manifest their individuality and distinct working patterns as a temporal part of that institution and as such raise awareness regarding how the hosting institution works. However, in opposition to this idea of synchrony as being able to be directly and deliberately influenced, Koole and Tschacher (2016) state: “The emergence of synchronous behavior does not depend on intentions or any other quality of the individuals who are behaving in synchrony. Rather, synchrony arises as a self-organized behavioral pattern form people’s mutual interactions” (p. 5). Therefore, if one is to understand artistic research as a tool for, among other things, understanding institutional settings, an environment that allows for the integration of individual research patterns, motivations, and practices into synchronous working rhythms similarly needs to allow for a decoupling and rearrangement of its elements, for example, in a situation where the researchers are simply unable to synchronize. Such disintegration, however, should avoid instability or precarity. Rather, both the institution and the researchers should be able to persist in their individuality, join other collectives, and proceed with their ideas and working modes; that is to say, to conclude their research endeavors. With this idealistic request I would like to reorient the discussions surrounding artistic research in both institutional and non-institutional contexts toward a focus on each project’s and researcher’s individual rhythms and practices, and thereby contribute to further refining the research settings and funding structures of this field.

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank the teams of the two projects I examined for their welcoming attitude and openness toward my research. Their consent and information has been crucial for the realization of this publication. Furthermore, the conversations I had with different actors from the field of artistic research served as a validation of my findings and interpretations discussed throughout the book. Therefore, I would like to thank them for their time and thoughts on their own practices and the general development of the field. Finally, I would like to thank my three supervisors, Martin Tröndle, Claudia Mareis, and Wolfgang Krohn for supporting me throughout the entire process of writing this dissertation.

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