Category: Techniques

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Claiming an idea

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“Each day acquire something that will fortify you against poverty, against death, indeed against other misfortunes as well; and after you have run over many thoughts, select one to be thoroughly digested that day.”
— Seneca the Younger, “Moral letters to Lucilius”

I have been listening to Seneca’s letters, recently published by Tim Ferriss in an audiobook form. Naturally, a book that survived such a long test of time is full of gems that are universally applicable. For example, the issue of the balance between depth and breadth on one’s studies is something that comes up in my personal experience in academic research, photography and kendo.

Seneca points out that there are too many books out there for a single person to be able to read. Instead of chasing after every new author, he advises to “fall back upon those whom you read before”. The goal is to engage with the classic ideas, to understand them deeply in order to be able to reliably apply them in daily life. By the way, it is interesting to note that in Seneca’s time philosophy was, apparently, an applied discipline.

I think that Seneca’s approach is a useful guideline for information consumption in the modern world, where we are bombarded with much more data than we can hope to process: learn something new every day to stay current in your field of study, but claim one idea per day as your own. In other words, become so deeply familiar with the idea that you can not only explain and defend it, but also to know its range of applicability.

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On presentation

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Presentation standards change. I have been doing research presentations for many years, but every now and then I find it useful to go back to basics in terms of learning the craft. Otherwise, there is a danger of falling behind times, coming off as archaic and not meeting the expectations of the audience.

Recently, I had a chance to revise my approach when giving a seminar talk at Politecnico di Milano on the use of flow visualization techniques in fluid mechanics. This is my core area of research, so presenting on this topic is almost automatic. That is why I wanted to change things up a bit.

Well, I didn’t do anything revolutionary, but I did actually went online to browse through recent guidelines on presentation. The main change that I implemented as a result was to abandon pointing out every element of each slide, as I described them with a laser pointer – a habit drilled into me and my lab partners by our academic advisor, who was widely considered a near-god-level standard of everything, including presentation skills, in our research area. Instead, I completely eliminated text from the slides, and let them change in the background, in the style of Ted talks.

Incidentally, this trip to Milan provided another illustration of the dynamic nature of presentation in the form of design of store windows and product packaging, for which the city is famous. I had been in Milan only about six months earlier, and during this time, there have been many changes. I had a refreshing feeling that applied art is truly alive, and people genuinely take interest in it, not only for the sake of consumerism, which the art undoubtedly serves, but also for the sake of pure aesthetics.

Perhaps, photographers and artists would do well by making a deliberate point in changing around the style of how they present their art – from a re-designing the look of their websites to actually pushing the boundaries of their creative process and exploring new subjects or techniques.

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Storytelling using a smartphone

Evernote Camera Roll 20160121 162348I am writing this post on the plane on my way back to Victoria from Milan, where I was attending a PhD defense and presenting a seminar on using flow visualization in fluid mechanics research. Usually, I try to combine these kind of work trips with photography, but taking some time between work to go on photo shoots. The last time I did this with a particular focus was during a trip to Shanghai.

For this trip to Milan, for the first time in a while, I did not bring a DSLR. The trip was going to be very short, so I thought that it would be appropriate to test the “nimble photography” mode (the term was coined by Derek Story, the author of the first photography podcast that I ever listened to). I brought just by iPhone 6 Plus, which has an excellent camera and, unlike my 1 Dx, allows instant sharing of the photos.
Well, I can report that I did a lot less less photography during this trip than I usually do. When I did take photos, they were mostly snapshots. Also, and perhaps most importantly, I found that I lacked the habit (and consequently, the skill) of instantly sharing the photos, so I didn’t make much use of the iPhones connectedness, other than sending snapshots of my dinner plates featuring risotto alla Milanese and other “produtto tipico” to my wife.
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Having said this, rapid communication is a skill, and I believe it is a matter of practice to develop it and turn it into a habit. I saw this in action when I went to see “Rigoletto” at la Scala on the last evening of my trip. Before the third act, Russell Crowe showed up with his entourage and proceeded to the Platea. As soon as he entered he took out his phone, snapped a few pictures of the interior of the concert hall and Twitted one of the ceiling with just a couple of words as a subtitle: “la Scala… Verdi’s Rigoletto”. He was very unapologetic and matter-of-fact about this, even though the “house rules” website of la Scala is explicit about not bringing phones to the hall. This is the rule that almost everyone, including myself, ignored anyway.
Thinking about it, I realized that what Mr. Crowe did was, legitimately, story telling. Granted, what he wrote was not “War and Piece”, but it was absolutely better than nothing. It is just like showing up for just the last act of the opera is better than not showing up at all.

Perhaps, we, as human beings, are evolionary, programmed to like storytelling, both as tellers and as listeners. I think this is related to being good at transmitting useful information, that enable survival of our cave-dwelling ancestors. So, regarding the tools of the visual storytelling trade (i.e. an iPhone vs. a DSLR), bringing a professional-grade tool compels us to take the picture-taking seriously, but can detract from the actual experience (e.g. I might have decided to go for a nigh photoshoot instead of the Scala if had lugged the backpack-full of photo gear half way around the world) and therefore limit the storytelling opportunities.
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On contrast and balance

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I think that, ultimately, what makes an image (photograph or painting) visually appealing is contrast. There are many types of contrast: large and small objects in the composition, empty and filled spaces, dark and light areas (the actual contrast in the photographic terms), warm and cool colours, contrasting colours (e.g. red/green, orange/violet), etc. A skillful artist uses contrast to create an exciting image, and when a dilletant by chance snaps a photo with great impact, it usually prominently features one or more types of contrast.

Perhaps, what makes us like the contrast is our inherent striving for balance. When we are viewing a high-contrast image, we are being taken on a roller coaster ride along the range of hues and grayscale values, and we find the sensation of the loss of control entertaining.

Actually, human tendency to strive for balance is routinely exploited in martial arts, such as aikido or kendo, because when we are taken off-balance, we tend to automatically (i. e. spontaneously and unconsciously) over-compensate and put ourselves in a precarious position. Also, contrast between periods of calm and explosive motion wakes the fight exciting and interesting to watch. On a somewhat deeper level, when a kendo technique, for instance, posesses a quality of contrast it looks appealing to the judges (shinpan). For example, striking a high target, such as men, from a low shinai position (geidan no kamae) is inherently interesting, and such contrast (low/high) in technique has been known to attract recognition in tournaments.

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Substance vs. method

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“The Chairman said, “What is your substantive field?”
Phaedrus said, “English composition.”
The Chairman bellowed, “That’s a methodological field!”
— Robert Pirsig, “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance“

We tend to define ourselves by what we do for living. This is particularly true in North America, where the stereotype is that people live for work. Perhaps, this is how North Americans like to think about themselves more than how they actually live, but apparently, Europeans are a bit more relaxed in this regard. One way or another, this relationship with work surfaces in many forms, including the dilemma of whether to specialize in a narrow field or to strive to be a polymath.

Robert Pirsig’s brilliant “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance” has an interesting insight into the root of this issue – a discussion of the difference between the substance and the method of work. He says, “Substance doesn’t change. Method contains no permanence.” Perhaps, there is hint there, that we should not let the methods that we use define the substance of what we do. Also, no matter how much we work on diversifying our arsenal of skills and techniques, this doesn’t automatically mean that the underlying direction of the work has to change.

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Deliberate study vs. intuitive experience

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Continuing reading Cal Newport’s “So Good They Can’t Ignore You”, I realized that most points that resonate with me are the ones that I have come across before, sometimes several times, but that have fallen off my radar (not forgotten exactly, but I stopped being actively aware of them). This reinforces the idea to keep notes of the main points from the books I read.

One of these good/interesting points in the Newport’s book is the notion that not only the quantity of practice matters (e.g. the 10,000-hour rule popularized by Malcolm Gladwell in “Outliers”), but also it’s quality. Of course this is a bit of a truism, and more than that, it has been specifically brought up by Hayashi-sensei (kendo 8th dan hanshi) at a seminar a few years ago. As most kendo-related teachings, it applies not only to kendo to nearly everything else in life. Newport is being a bit more specific by introducing a classification of practice into serious study (“deliberate practice” in Anders Ericsson’s terms) and intuitive practice.

Since time is a non-renewable resource, everyone who wants to develop a skill faces a dilemma – to do a serious study “for the sole purpose of improving specific aspects of an individual’s performance” or to practice intuitively by applying whatever skills one has at his/her current level of development. Newport’s example is related to chess: studying the books with a teacher vs. playing in tournaments. This is a true dilemma (i.e. there is no single right answer), but the studies across various fields apparently show that serious study is necessary (although maybe not sufficient) for becoming a “grand master”.

The problem with intuitive experience is that in real-life, applied situations such as chess or kendo tournaments, routine photo shoots, academic research, etc., the challenge is either decidedly above or decidedly below your current ability. In both situations “skill improvement is likely to be minimized”. In deliberate study, on the other hand, there is an opportunity to choose a challenge that is appropriate for the skill level (incidentally, this is typically a teacher’s job).

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Practice vs. play

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Many Japanese kendo sensei call kendo practitioners “players”. Intuitively, I always thought that something is wrong with this word in the kendo context, something was rubbing me the wrong way when kendoka were called anything other that this Japanese word. “Swordsman” seems to Westernized, and “kenshi” is somehow too pretentious.

Now, as I am reading Cal Newport’s “So Good They Can’t Ignore You“, I think I understand the reason for this fidelity loss due to translation. About 1/3 of the way into the book, he explores the difference between playing and practicing, as it applies to becoming a craftsman. The difference is that practice implies “constantly stretching your abilities”. This also implies discomfort, or rather, training to become used to discomfort. Playing, on the other hand, is pure fun.

When I read it, at first I thought that this contradicted the hypothesis that a “gamers mindset” is highly beneficial for developing a skill. Thinking about it a bit further, perhaps there is no real contradiction. The gamers mindset also involves challenging oneself, only the stakes are not high and the learning curve is not steep – both of these factors keep the process enjoyable.

In fact, even in kendo, a seventh-dan sensei at a recent seminar explained that being able to anticipate the opponent’s action allows his to remain relaxed, because the whole match becomes like a game. It goes something like this: there are only so many ways a human can move once he/she is committed to a particular type of attack. Once the opponent’s attack is recognized and categorized into a particular kind (which happens subconsciously, due to an incredible amount of practice), there is no need to rush to make a decision or flinch – the correct action (counter-attack) has already been pre-determined and all is left is to let it happen as if by itself. The process actually becomes fun in some sense.

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Craftsman mindset

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I have come across Cal Newport’s book “So Good They Can’t Ignore You” for the second time in the past year. First time, it was through his blog on study hacks, second – through an inspiring interview with Derek Sivers. So I finally decided to read the book, although I have become largely disillusioned with non-fiction literature (I think, storytelling is the key to transmitting really fundamental ideas, but this is beside the point).

This book is surprisingly interesting. It’s about career-building, and the main idea is that trying to find a dream job by following one’s passion is bad idea; instead, one should become remarkably good at whatever he/she is doing for living, and the passion will follow.

One curious point at the beginning of the book is the contrast between the craftsman mindset, where one is concerned with adding value to the product of the work, and the passion mindset, where one is focused on maximizing of the value that the work can bring to him-/herself. In the case of the craftsman, the action precedes the passion. Interestingly, this is in line with the main recommendation of Robert Boice to university professors – start writing before you are ready, certainly before all experiments are completed and the data is analyzed.

There are some definite advantages to adopting the craftsman mindset. It removes the psychological pressure to be completely satisfied with the job, which is impossible to achieve anyway, considering the wide ranges of work subjects, conditions, contexts, etc. Instead it affords a kind of stoic clarity: this is what I get, so I will work with it to polish my skills (altimately, myself). Basically, this comfort comes from conceding control (which we didn’t really have anyway) over the fact whether we like every single detail of the work and every particular moment.

It is almost redundant to explain how this principle applies to photography. Photography is a craft by definition, so it pays off going out and shooting, instead of questioning whether you have the right gear, the right conditions, or whether this is the right calling for you. Especially if you are a pro, the questions will be rendered moot because you will soon be out of the job if you are not constantly working on developing your skills.

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Spontaneous vs. generative work

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Robert Boice, in his book “Professors as Writers”, explains how spontaneous writing is helpful for getting unblocked, unstuck, and warmed up, which is crucial for establishing a daily writing habits.

However, at some stage, spontaneous writing, as helpful as it is in working around the self-consciousness and self-censorship, becomes counter-productive for precisely that reason: spontaneous work by itself does not produce coherent, finished results. What tis needed at that stage is a healthy dose of what Boice calls generative writing. It is still quite free-form, unconstrained and not particularly concerned with perfection of style and logic, but it is focussed on a particular topic. In order to maintain the flow of ideas, Boice suggests alternating between spontaneous and generative work.

I can see clear parallels between this “academic writer’s” workflow and that of a photographer. Writer’s block is a problem so common, despite the debates of its reality, that books have been written on how to overcome it. In photography, it is equally easy to become paralyzed and never start creative projects because of perfectionism (reluctance to start under imperfect conditions, without “ideal” gear, sufficient time, etc. or reluctance to share less-than-perfect images with others), self-doubt or impatience (rushing to complete the projects and not allowing ourselves to slow down in order to produce better, more significant work).

For photographers, the spontaneous work is carrying a camera (even a phone camera) and shooting everything that we come across and that catches our attention. There should be no goal to eventually share the images with anyone. The practice of observation and of taking photos is the goal in itself.

Then, in order to make tangible developments of our skills, by analogy with the writers in Boice’s book, the photographers would benefit from periodically doing more structured shoots involving more elaborate production. Those could be projects focussed on a particular theme or a technique.

For me personally, the projects involving local dancers or athletes from our university provide opportunities to do generative work. Making sure that spontaneous work is happening on the daily basis is proving to be more challenging.

As a side note, another aspect of photography, which doesn’t readily fall into spontaneous/generative classification is post-processing and development of skills and creative techniques related to it. Perhaps, it similar to some type of supporting work (e.g. referencing) that writers have to to in their craft, and since the the writing craft appears to be fairly well-researched, I am looking forward to learning about it.

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Work in progress

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Richard Feynman explained that for some types of work, e.g. doing theoretical physics derivations, he needed large chunks of uninterrupted time. I personally think that any research work ultimately benefits from this kind of distraction-free workflow.

The reality for myself and, I venture a guess, for most of my colleagues (ok, for most people),  is far from ideal, though. I do my academic writing in what Robert Boice calls brief, regular sessions (BRSs), and strive to keep them as regular as possible, without being concerned that they are more beef than I would like.

Likewise, I draw and paint on my iPad is sessions so short, that they cannot really be called sessions. Still, this ability to steal a minute or two here and there to do a sketch based on a photo that I took in Venice six years ago is precious to me. Sketching on a tablet is not perfect. It would have been nice to fire up Photoshop and draw with a Wacom graphics tablet, but the reality is that other obligations (many of them self-imposed or even imaginary, but this is beside the point) are so numerous, that long, concentrated painting sessions simply don’t happen, or at least don’t happen often enough

Working in microscopic, fragmented slices of time is a compromise, but it is better than not working at all. In fact, this fragmented workflow even has it’s unique advantages, but the main benefit is that it enables consistency, which is crucial for skill development, or improvement in general.

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