On the Structure of Textual and Visual Dissertations

Abstract

This article looks at issues surrounding the academic dissertation within the particular context of the Art and Design school. To begin with, questions of objectivity and authorial voice are examined, suggesting that current practice does little to foster student identity. A discourse
framework is then established largely based on the work of Bruner, with exposition and narrative posited as the primary problem-solving modes. This discursive framework is then transposed into the visual domain, where several possible discourse structures are suggested. A case study is offered
that highlights the benefits that can be gained from the use of a visual dissertation. In the conclusion we argue for educators to consider these alternative modes of discourse.

Full text

239
Journal of Writing in Creative Practice
Volume 4 Number 2
© 2011 Intellect Ltd Article. English language. doi: 10.1386/jwcp.4.2.239_1
JWCP 4 (2) pp. 239–259 Intellect Limited 2011
PAUL HAZEL, MARY DAVIES AND HOWARD RILEY
Swansea Metropolitan University
On the structure of textual and
visual dissertations
Abstract
This article looks at issues surrounding the academic dissertation within the particular context of the Art
and Design school. To begin with, questions of objectivity and authorial voice are examined, suggesting that
current practice does little to foster student identity. A discourse framework is then established largely based
on the work of Bruner, with exposition and narrative posited as the primary problem-solving modes. This
discursive framework is then transposed into the visual domain, where several possible discourse structures
are suggested. A case study is offered that highlights the benefits that can be gained from the use of a visual
dissertation. In the conclusion we argue for educators to consider these alternative modes of discourse.
Introduction
The current paradigm in UK schools of Art and Design demands that students’ practice be
validated by an underpinning of academic writing throughout the early years of the degree course,
culminating in a major piece of academically objective writing known as the dissertation. This is
Keywords
visual dissertation
exposition
narrative
authorial voice
dissertation structures
discourse modes
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the legacy of a government-sponsored committee set up in the early 1960s and chaired, ironically
enough, by the leading painter of his day, Sir William Coldstream. The committee was charged
with assuring the academic credibility of the then new degree status of art school courses at a time
when academic credibility was deemed synonymous with a high level of literacy in objective
analysis. Coldstream himself was partial to the notion of ‘objectivity’, his painting practice based
upon a method of measurement he himself thought of as divorced from any subjectivity.
The irony of this situation is heightened when it is recognized that the generally accepted
academic credibility of the ‘objective’ discourse advocated for the dissertation is itself questionable.
Harré (1990: 81) points out that ‘[…] since Fleck’s (1935) pioneering analysis of scientific
documents disclosed how far they are from unvarnished descriptions of uncontested facts, the way
has been open for a radical rethinking of the nature of scientific discourse …’.
That Fleck’s early analyses – not to mention Harré’s comments – have been totally ignored by
those responsible for the insistence of the objective voice in dissertations indicates the suppression
of alternative approaches to the expression of experiential knowledge that are much more akin to
the ways that art students go about their work. The common advice given to students – avoid the
first person, the I – is exposed as a false means of representing factual objectivity. It is a means of
obscuring a peculiar rhetoric: ‘The ostensible claim of scientific utterances is for agreement, since
they are presented as knowledge’ (Harré 1990: 81). In fact, the objectivity of scientific sentence
construction, for example, … it is generally agreed … or … it is accepted that … actually means
‘Trust me …’, or ‘You can take my word for it …’ (Harré 1990: 81).
For our students in Art and Design, the problem of the first-person voice is one to do with
two different modes of working: the one visual, the other verbal. In the former mode, while the
student will engage critically with his or her creative practice, there is a place for a subjective
response where students are able to put themselves into their work: for example, the intuitive
understanding of how to select contrasting colours that produce the desired illusion of depth in
a drawing or painting. In contrast, in the verbal mode, where they are required to work wholly
through language, many of our students have great difficulty. In part, it is a technical problem. It
is well documented (e.g. Rankin 2007) that schools of Art and Design attract high numbers of
dyslexic students and also non-dyslexic students who do not have strong linguistic skills with
the written word. This problem is compounded by the general feeling of alienation from the
process of writing that students have (e.g. Tang and John 1999), which is the experience of so
many of our students, and which has much to do with a form of assessment that, they feel,
gives them no room for the expression of their personal voice: the ‘I who wants to speak’.
Rather, the objective stance demanded by the conventions of the genre (a stance discredited by
Harré and others) requires the student to adopt a third-person voice, one that distances him or
her not only from the subject but from his or her own ideas and, most tellingly for our
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On the structure of textual and visual dissertations
241
understanding of voice and its place in academic discourse, from his or her sense of him or
herself.
Arguably, what students are most afraid of is exposing the self that ‘claim[s] authority as the
source of the content of the text’ (Ivanic 1998: 26, cited in Tang and John 1999: S29). Consequently,
what we see in their writing is an exaggerated caution about expressing their own ideas, falling
back on ‘catch-all’ passive constructions such as ‘It could be argued that …’ and ‘This suggests that
…’. Dunleavy (2003: 115) points out the ‘anonymized’ subjects in such phrases. While we might
not want to go so far as to recommend that ‘all such usages … be carefully excised’ (Dunleavy
2003: 115), it is true that, used in this way, phrases like these are mere tricks of style, adopted to
get around the problem of first-person usages. Their effect is to undermine students’ confidence
and faith in themselves as writers who have something to say; rather, this type of passive phrasing
is a safe voice, a neutral persona that the student can hide behind.
In other words, the ‘authorial’ voice and ‘my’ voice are perceived as separate entities. The
authorial voice belongs to an academic discourse from which students feel shut out because they
do not understand the rules. Those of us who are inside this ‘discourse community’ (Tang and
John 1999: S25) move comfortably between the different voices. The problem for the student
comes when the third person is presented as the only valid voice: it places the writer at a distance;
it is ostensibly objective and, thus, critically sound. Read et al. (2001: 389–90) note ‘the high value
placed by academia on “objective”, rational argument rather than emotional subjectivity’. This
attitude prevails even in the face of critics such as Harré, as we have previously discussed.
‘My’ voice, on the other hand, is by definition subjective, by which is meant that it is often read
as mere opinion, unrefined by any process of critical thinking. Students in turn understand this to
mean that their individual voice has no authority and, therefore, no validity. For educators, this
should be recognized as a significant problem, for – as Tang and John (1999) argue – writers create
their identities out of their discourse. ‘Language does not serve merely as a tool to express a self
that we already have, but serves as a resource for creating that self’ (Tang and John 1999: S24). It is
telling that, in their study of the use of the first-person pronoun in students’ essays their results
show that 83 out of 92 usages conformed to the ‘least powerful authorial presence’ (Tang and John
1999: S29), with the very weakest usage accounting for ‘42.39% of the total number of occurrences,
the highest percentage taken up by a single role’ (Tang and John 1999: S30). They conclude that
‘Used this way, the first person pronoun, far from giving the reader information about the writer,
effectively reduces the writer to a non-entity’ (Tang and John 1999: S27).
Partly as a way of addressing these issues, in our School of Art and Design we have developed
a form of assessment, the visual dissertation, that offers students a choice of working in a visual
mode. As Mortimore (2008: 224) acknowledges, ‘There is a real need for the implementation of
creative alternatives to the word-based linear dissertation’. Our case studies have shown that the
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visual dissertation can fulfil academic requirements concerning rigour and credibility (Riley and
Davies 2010). At the same time, students are freed from the constraints imposed on them by the
conventions of academic writing to make their own discourse choices. It is the argument of this
article that such choices should also include a narrative discourse.
Modes of thought
As a basic framework for our discussion we will be depending heavily on the work of Jerome
Bruner. In Actual Minds, Possible Worlds, Bruner makes the distinction between two fundamental
modes of human thought:
The brunt of my argument [is] that the ‘reality’ of most of us is constituted roughly into two
spheres: that of nature and that of human affairs, the former more likely to be structured in
the paradigmatic mode of logic and science, the latter in the mode of story and narrative.
(1986: 88)
The ‘logico-scientific’ or ‘paradigmatic’ mode ‘attempts to fulfill the ideal of a formal, mathematical
system of description and explanation’ (Bruner 1986: 12). It uses these means to ‘achieve
consistency, explicitness, and testability’ (Bruner 1996: 122) and ‘deals in general causes, and in
their establishment’, seeking ‘to transcend the particular by higher and higher reaching for
abstraction’ (Bruner 1986: 13). The second way of thinking is the narrative mode. This is primarily
concerned with ‘human or human-like intention and action’ (Bruner 1986: 13), takes as its
‘ostensive reference particular happenings’ (Bruner 1991: 6) and serves to ‘locate the experience in
time and place’ (Bruner 1986: 13). Narrative is ‘context dependent’ (Bruner 1986: 18), sensitive to
‘what is canonical and what violates canonicality in human interaction’ and always implies a point
of view or ‘narrator’s perspective’ (Bruner 1990: 77). According to Bruner, these two modes of
thought are not antagonistic or mutually exclusive but complementary, reflecting different aspects
of the world:
They may begin at a common origin, but they diverge and specialize with different aims in
mind where world making is concerned. Science attempts to make a world that remains
invariant across human intentions and human plights. The density of the atmosphere does
not, must not alter as a function of one’s ennui with the world. On the other hand, the
humanist deals principally with the world as it changes with the position and stance of the
viewer. Science creates a world that has an ‘existence’ linked to the invariance of things and
events across transformations in the life conditions of those who seek to understand – though
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On the structure of textual and visual dissertations
243
modern physics has shown that this is true within very constrained limits. The humanities
seek to understand the world as it reflects the requirements of living in it.
(1986: 50)
The problem for Bruner is that the logico-scientific mode is perceived as the only legitimate way of
thinking in our educational culture. What he calls the ‘intolerant puritanism’ of the scientific
method (Bruner 1996: 149) completely ignores the extent to which we depend upon thinking
narratively: because we are so expert at generating it, because we can so effortlessly decode it, it is
as though the narrative mode of thought has become invisible.
This observation of Bruner’s is widely supported throughout the literature, and, without
exception, the situation is blamed on an over-reliance on positivist ideology1:
[…] the storyteller is a victim of an age that values non-narrative discourse as a measure
of sophistication in rationality, as opposed to the mere ‘entertainment value’ that stories
possess. Truth, for the tireless promoters of modernity and technical rationality, is measured
in terms of standard procedures that demand an icy, critical stare at the object of study.
[…] The decline of the storyteller, or narrator, may be read as a symptom of a certain kind
of objectivity, the application of a neutral, unbiased point of view from which to gauge the
veracity of knowledge claims.
(McEwan and Egan 1995: xii)
Similar sentiments can be found applied within a wide variety of educational contexts: research
(Goodson and Walker 1995; McEwan 1995), in the classroom (Egan 1986; Paley 1995; Sutton-
Smith 1995; Lyle 2000) and as an expressive form (Rosen 1985; McEwan 1995). It is generally
agreed that narrative is marginalized and even ‘denigrated’ in education (Rosen 1985: 27).
The first key point in our discussion, then, is that we consider there to be two basic ways of
thinking about a problem – the logico-scientific and narrative modes – that are equally important
and complementary.
Discourse modes
Given that we have these two fundamental modes of thought, the next question concerns the way
that we are able to express them. As a starting point, we might usefully ask what are considered to
be the total set of ‘discourse modes’ (Chandler 2002: 159) available for communication. Virtanen
provides a widely cited literature review and discusses a range of typologies. However, she finally
settles for a set of five ‘primary’ discourse modes and their related ‘text-types’ (Virtanen 1992: 299):
1. Positivism ‘holds
that experimental
investigation and
observation are
the only sources
of substantial
knowledge’ (Collins
English Dictionary
2000). Also linked
to a ‘behaviourist
and rationalist set of
assumptions’ (Goodson
and Walker 1995: 184)
and ‘empiricism’ (Egan
1986: 18).
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narrative, description, instruction, exposition and argument. Most other commentators only identify
four modes: narrative, description, exposition and argument (Black and Bower 1980; McEwan 1997;
Chandler 2002) where, presumably, instruction is conceived of as a particular type of exposition.
Working with this latter set of four discourse modes we can immediately simplify our task
somewhat if we recognize that description can be removed from our discussion. Description does
not attempt to solve a problem or ‘explain’ things in the world; it simply reports it as is. The
function of description is not to ask how or why or when, but to say ‘it was’ or ‘it is’.2 As such, it is
incapable of sustaining the higher-order thinking skills we identified in the Introduction.
We can similarly remove argument from our discussion, but for completely different reasons. In
the sense we are using it here – as a specific type of discourse as opposed to its use as a general
term for logical thought – it can best be illustrated by reference to the dialectical process of
thesis-antithesis-synthesis, in which a problem of some sort is identified and someone states his or
her position in regard to it; this is refuted by someone else and a counter-proposition follows. By
negotiation – the process of argument itself – a third position evolves that is a synthesis of the
other two. However, thinking closely about the way this works in practice, it becomes clear that
argument is not actually a discourse mode in its own right. This is because each of the two
positions – the thesis and antithesis – will be made up of either narrative or, more likely,
exposition. That is, argument is a compound discourse mode, a particular format or structural
configuration of multiple competing narratives and/or expositions that come together through
dialogue and negotiation.
We are now left with two prototypical discourse modes – or ‘primitives’ – whose function is
related to problem-solving.
Immediately, their one-to-one relationship between these discourse modes and Bruner’s two
modes of thought is readily apparent. Logico-scientific thinking principally concerns itself with the
natural world. The characteristics of this type of thought exactly mirror that of exposition, where
the logical relationship between the individual clauses is not subjectively determined but a function
of the domain itself: it should be subject to third-party scrutiny, measureable, repeatable, testable,
etc. When we think in terms of stories, however, we think about human or human-related
problems in the world. The internal logic of the story configures the events and the actions within
them in such a way that it becomes a device, a mental ‘prosthetic’ (Bruner 1986: 15), allowing us to
work through that problem towards some resolution. The story is dynamic, showing events
develop over time, a little virtual world set in motion. Its chief limitation is its particularity, born of
its essential subjectivity and the self-referentiality of its internal logic. Its natural and consequent
mode of discourse is narrative.
These two modes of thinking and their related discourse modes are clearly complementary
(see Table 1 for a summary).
2. Which is not to say
it is not subjective or
qualitatively weighted.
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On the structure of textual and visual dissertations
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Mode of thought Logico-scientific Story
Discourse mode Exposition Narrative
Dechronologized Time-sensitive
Abstract Contextualized
Externally referenced Self-referential
Measurable Immeasurable
General Specific
Static Dynamic
Repeatable Unique
Objective Subjective
Table 1: Modes of thought and discourse compared.
But exactly what do we mean by exposition and narrative? We can illustrate each in turn.
Exposition as discourse mode
We are going to use as our example of exposition the article mentioned above by Tang and John
(1999). The main body of the article’s text is divided into six sections demarcated with headings, as
illustrated in Table 2.
What we might term the global structure of the article can be seen to follow exactly the
prototypical academic template. Whilst this is already suggestive of an expository structure (Figure 1a),
it is at the sentential level that we can see the logic of exposition at work.
The Introduction is a single paragraph that can be broken down into six distinct statements:
1. New higher education students find themselves in an unfamiliar environment.
2. They must quickly assimilate a specialized discourse.
3. But because this is so rarely taught as a discrete subject, students often find this academic
discourse ‘dry, convoluted, distant and impersonal’ (Tang and John 1999: S24).
4. However, recent research suggests this situation may be changing.
5. How writers ‘create identities’ (Tang and John 1999: S24) therefore becomes a legitimate area
for research.
6. The particular area we are going to research is the use of first-person pronouns.
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Section Description Academic
function
1. Introduction Statement of the problem and specific
area of research related to that problem
Introduction
2. Writer roles and
writer identity
Contextualize research in larger established
academic discourse. Defines terminology and
identifies specific sources that the current research
develops
Literature
review
3. Possible identities
behind the first-person
pronoun
Creates a categorical framework for the evaluation
of the research data, with the six possible usages of
the first-person pronoun presented on a continuum
of authorial presence
Methodology
4. Our study Describes the nature and scope of the research data,
and the nature of the investigation carried out by the
researchers/authors
5. Discussion The results of the analysis presented in terms of the
categories established in section 3 and a detailed
discussion of each
Results
6. Concluding remarks
and pedagogical
implications
Restatement of the basic premise of the paper and
suggestions regarding the way in which the results
of the authors’ research might be applied in practice
Conclusion
Table 2: Global structure of Tang and John (1999).
Section 2 then begins by explicitly picking up on the idea of ‘creating identities’ (Tang and John
1999: S24) from the Introduction, and in its first paragraph the authors explore ideas largely drawn
from Halliday that posit identity and the self as a constituent element of reality: the key statement
is that ‘does not merely reflect an existing reality, but actually creates that reality’ (Tang and John
1999: S24, original emphasis). Again explicitly picking up a phrase from the preceding text block,
the next paragraph suggests that if ‘self’ is not a ‘fixed pre-language identity’ (Tang and John
1999: S24) then it follows that writers should be free to choose a writerly identity. This paragraph
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Figure 1: Normative structures of exposition and narrative.
FPO
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in turn serves as a link to the next, where the literature on ‘writer identity in academic writing’
(Tang and John 1999: S24) is addressed directly.
Space does not permit us to go on indefinitely, but the basic modus operandi of exposition can
clearly be discerned even from this short extract. In the Introduction, the first three statements
build on top of each other in a strict logical progression: because A, then B; because B, then C.
With the ‘however’ in point 4 the direction of the argument changes: despite ABC we now have D.
This instigates a new logical chain. Because of D, E is true, and because E is true we can investigate
F. Section 2 then opens up E – explaining in more detail what the ‘recent research’ actually is – in
effect providing the evidence that supports the case for it actually being a legitimate area of
research. This will in turn provide access to F, which in this case is the main subject of the article,
the research carried out by the authors.
Exposition is therefore based on a strict logical progression of observable and/or testable
points. Each of the first three statements in Tang and John is supported by references to external
sources. And whilst the second group of three statements are not referenced at this stage,
Section 2 provides fully referenced academic underpinnings for the new research. As the article
develops, this new research is itself subject to observation and testing, with short extracts from
the research materials provided in Appendix. In other words, the strength of exposition as a
discourse mode depends upon this accumulation of, and logical progression from, one ‘provable’
point to another. The language is largely impersonal and, other than the implied historical
progression of ideas in the first paragraph, is completely devoid of deictic elements grounding it
in either place or time.
Narrative as discourse mode
In discussing narrative we will be using ‘Eveline’, a short story written by James Joyce that forms
part of his Dubliners ([1914] 1993) collection. The story itself is very simple. Eveline is sitting by the
window in the front room of her house, looking out of the window or around the room. On her lap
are two envelopes, one for her brother and one for her father. She intends to leave home and sail to
Argentina with her lover Frank. Most of the story is made up of her reminiscences, memories of the
house, work and family. The final paragraph tells of Eveline at the dock, and how at the last minute
she finds she cannot leave. The story is told by an omniscient narrator (see Table 3 for a summary).
Unlike the academic paper, there are no explicitly labelled sections, but the way the text itself
has been laid out offers a good deal of structural information. ‘Eveline’ is very short, and its 126
sentences are organized into ten paragraphs, the last of which is separated off from the others with
a line space. Clearly the author did not parse the story in this way at random: given that the basic
unit of human discourse is the sentence, the next element up the structural hierarchy would be the
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Paragraph Sentences Description
1 1–3 Eveline at the window
2 4–16 The view outside. Childhood memories of playing in the field
with family and friends, before her mother died. She is going away
3 17–23 Home! Looking around the front room. The yellowing
photograph of the priest who has gone to Melbourne
4 24–35 Weighing up her decision to leave. Her working life at the store
5 36–51 Looking forward to her new life. Her current, hard, life:
brother dead, abusive father, two young siblings to look after
6 52–72 How she met Frank. What they did together. His life story.
Her father forbidding her to see him
7 73–81 The letters on her lap. Fonder memories of her father.
8 82–91 A street organ reminds her of her mother on her death bed,
going mad and talking gibberish
9 92–100 She must escape! Frank will look after her
10 101–126 The docks. Anguished, she cannot leave
Table 3: Global structure of ‘Eveline’.
paragraph, and we can therefore assume these are ‘meaningful chunks’.3 The line space obviously
suggests that the final paragraph is in some way distinct or separate from the others.
Whilst space precludes a full-scale analysis of ‘Eveline’ here, following the linguistic guidelines
described in Toolan (2001) it is possible to break the story down into four acts or sequences divided
by three linguistic markers placed at the following points:
1. Sentence 24. The lead sentence of paragraph four.
2. Sentence 72. The end of paragraph six.
3. Line space after 100, at the end of paragraph nine.
3. ‘Paragraphs are units
of thought refl ecting
the development of the
author’s argument …’
(New Hart’s
Rules 2005).
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In other words, markers 1 and 2 break the text into three groups of three paragraphs each, and the
line space separates off paragraph ten. Paragraphs one though nine are all concerned with Eveline
sitting by the window and paragraph ten is set at the docks: the line space makes perfect sense,
denoting a change of location. Moreover, the second linguistic marker is essentially a turning point
in the story, a kind of fulcrum around which the two halves of the story depend. In fact, based on
the structural analysis of a number of narratives in different mediums, this type of structure has
been posited by Hazel (2011) as a ‘normative narrative structure’ (Figure 1b).
At the sentential level, the internal logic of the progression of ideas is totally different from
exposition, and there is no attempt to prove or otherwise justify any of the statements.
Nonetheless, there is an internally consistent, coherent and meaningful progression of ideas
expressed, which in sequence and up to the mid-point are as follows: Eveline at the window
(establishing shot); looking out of the window (childhood); looking into the room (home, and the
priest who left); work; her hard life; and her lover Frank. Each paragraph, in other words, examines
a particular aspect of Eveline’s life and, as such, is unique to her. Although Eveline is singularly
lacking in effect herself, the language of the author strongly presents a point of view, almost
forcing interpretation upon the reader. And finally, whilst almost completely devoid of the cause-
and-effect so commonly cited as the main organizing principle behind narrative, the story is
nonetheless saturated in spatial and temporal movement.
The visual domain
So far we have only been discussing exposition and narrative in terms of their presentation within
text. But what happens when we put these linear structures into the visual domain – in other
words when the ‘chain of signs’ (Aarseth 2003: 777) becomes a sequence of images?
First, we can observe that description reimposes itself as a discourse mode. The image cannot
help but describe whatever it represents: ‘it immediately yields up those “details” which constitute
the very raw material of ethnological knowledge’ (Barthes [1980] 1993: 28). ‘Eveline’, the short
story example discussed above, embodies this idea perfectly. Although Eveline herself is the focus
of the story, Joyce tells us almost nothing about her; we do not know what colour her eyes or hair
are, how tall she is, whether she wears glasses, what kind of clothes she wears, etc. However, if we
were to translate the text into images, Eveline would be described to us specifically and
unequivocally. Regardless of its importance to the meaning of the story, we could not help but see
Eveline exactly as she is. As Chatman puts it, the ‘indeterminacies’ of text become absolutely
determinate as an image (1978: 30).
Second, moving our discourse from text to image allows us to escape the strict linearity
imposed by the written word, so that the progression of the exposition or narrative could become
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either non-linear or multilinear. A range of possible configurations present themselves, each of
which might be introduced to dissertation students as a potentially useful and relevant structuring
strategy:
1. Tree. This could be presented as either a hierarchy (the ontology of a single subject or problem)
or as a temporal progression (the discourse begins from a fixed point but splits off into a
number of possible outcomes). Respectively, the paradigmatic or syntagmatic dimensions of the
subject matter, in other words (Figure 2a and 2b).
2. Star. Different perspectives, viewpoints or aspects emanate from the centrally placed subject
matter or problem (Figure 2c).
3. Network. From a fixed start point multiple interrelated ‘arguments’ are presented leading
towards a fixed end point (Figure 2d).
4. Parallel. Two viewpoints on a given subject or problem are presented as discrete but
comparable discourses. Any number of possible variations exist: for example, narrative
compared to exposition (Figure 2e); two differing personal viewpoints as competing narratives;
or two interpretations of the problem as competing expositions. This list is not exhaustive.
Of course any of these basic configurations could also be combined, for example any node on a
Network could additionally be presented as a Star.
The main advantage of these types of presentational methods is that they naturally allow for
multiperspectival and/or multimodal representations of problems. This takes us back to Bruner,
who is fundamentally concerned with the way that humans create meaning. As he sees it, the
problem with logico-scientific thinking is that it is precisely this sense of meaning that is missing:
there may be hard data, facts, theories, but what does it all mean? What it means will largely
depend upon one’s interpretation of the evidence, and it is at this point that the limitations of
logico-scientific thinking are exposed: it is very poor at dealing with ill-defined problems or the
ambiguous and complex nature of human action (Artz 1998; Fisher 1994). What Bruner
recognizes is that all meaning is, ultimately, socially situated. Whatever the facts, meaning – the
evaluation of those facts – must always be subject to contextualization. There must always exist a
dialogue between the so-called objectivity of facts and the subjectivity of perception, and,
furthermore, we need to recognize and balance multiple perspectives on those facts if we are to
truly understand something. For Bruner, narrative is the vehicle for expressing these dialogues,
these negotiations:
Understanding, like explaining, is not pre-emptive: one way of construing the fall of Rome
narratively does not preclude other ways. Nor does the interpretation of any particular
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Figure 2: Structuring strategies for the Visual Dissertation.
FPO
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On the structure of textual and visual dissertations
253
narrative rule out other interpretations. For narratives and their interpretations traffic in
meaning, and meanings are intransigently multiple: the rule is polysemy.
(1996: 90)
However, what we are suggesting here is that the multiple perspectives Bruner sees as being so
crucial to good education are not merely a function of narrative, but can also be achieved by
removing the discourse from the realm of the written word and allowing the affordances of the
visual medium to facilitate non-linear or multilinear representations.
A case study
Our case study illustrates how one student used both the visual domain and a narrative discourse
mode for his dissertation, and – perhaps more importantly – suggests a rationale for doing so.
Sonny’s dissertation was based on a comparative study between film and painting. He chose
Edward Hopper’s The Hotel Room (1931) (Figure 3) for his painting and Alfred Hitchcock’s Rear
Window (1954) for his film, using narrative as the connecting idea between them: Hopper was an
artist whose paintings often implied stories, and in Rear Window the main character (Jefferies), sitting
behind his camera, trains the lens on the apartments across the courtyard from his own and watches
his neighbours play out the stories of their lives. Sonny says that ‘In the painting, the main view
point is the letter. This is what we make our narrative out of, from what we see, ourselves, looking at
letters when they arrive, in our own homes, everyday, from somewhere’. In his comment on the
image from Hopper’s painting, he focuses on the ‘viewpoint’, which provided him with a link to
Hitchcock’s film. Sonny himself was someone who looked at life through the lens of the film-maker,
and he was interested in the ‘point-of-view shot’ as the basis of a film narrative. From Sonny:
In the film there are a lot of point of view shots, which we see through Jefferies’ camera
lens, when he looks across the courtyard into windows, from the scene in each window, he
creates his own narrative.
In the text that supports the section on Hopper’s painting, Sonny builds his paragraph around the
idea that Hopper’s paintings encourage the viewer to look outside the frame of the painting (a
narrative somewhere outside of this frame) and imagines a life for Hopper’s figure: a woman sits
alone on a bed, in a hotel room, a letter in her hand:
The piece of paper in the woman’s hand, in my own narrative, is a letter that she is reading.
I look at her reading it. There is a narrative somewhere outside of this frame. She is sitting in
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Figure 3: Edward Hopper, The Hotel Room (1931).
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On the structure of textual and visual dissertations
255
this hotel room, maybe in the middle of the night. The message on this piece of paper has
reached its destination.
Past experience had shown that the technical difficulties, that is, the more sophisticated use of
grammar and sentence structure demanded by third-person writing, acted as a barrier between the
ideas in Sonny’s head and the page. Partly to help him free up his writing, and partly because
Sonny had chosen to approach his subject through his personal story, both his supervisor and his
study support tutor encouraged Sonny to adopt a first-person style of writing. This produced some
quite poetic phrases,4 as in the text below, where he expresses the paradox he finds in the
‘pleasures of sadness’:
When I look at this painting, it shows the mirroring of myself in the other. I have felt the
way the woman looks when I have been in the same pleasures of sadness.
Writing in the first person enabled Sonny to put pen to paper and write. As he put it, ‘I didn’t
worry about how it came out. I just wrote it’. Crucially, not only did he find a way of expressing his
thoughts and ideas, but he worked them out through his writing. He learnt a ‘new word’, he said:
‘narrative’. Thus, the phrase ‘in my own narrative’, introduced as a device to distinguish between
Sonny’s ‘narrative’ and that of Hopper, took on a real and concrete meaning for him: ‘I looked
outside of the box [the picture frame]. That created my narrative […] [then] I write my little
sentences down – like writing a script, writing a story’.
The value and efficacy of first-person narratives in teaching is illustrated by Haroutunian-
Gordon’s (1995) approach. In her chapter ‘The role of narrative in interpretive discussion’, she
documents the stories that she has invited her students to tell. They are stories of revenge that are
then used to help them understand, give meaning to and interpret, through discussion, the theme
of revenge in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. The next step is then to tell and retell the story of
episodes in the play. Haroutunian-Gordon shows how this process of telling and retelling
encourages comment – on each other’s stories, on the story of Romeo and Juliet – and how out of
what became an animated discussion, the students were able to find meanings in the text. In a
similar way, Sonny’s decision to use narrative gave him a means of going beyond the surface story
of Hopper’s paintings – in the passage above, for example, he arrives at the very interesting and
potentially complex thought of the self mirrored in the other (it shows the mirroring of myself in
the other).
So what is to be made of Sonny’s visual dissertation, how successful was it, and what does it tell
us about the kind of candidate we are looking for? Sonny himself said that the greatest benefit to
him was control over the organization and structuring of his material: when he expressed himself
4. One of the problems
for his study support
tutor and his
supervisor was how
to get the grammar
right, without losing
the poetic rhythms of
Sonny’s writing.
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through images, ‘everything connected together’, he said. This was very different from his experience
of writing conventional essays. Working in this format Sonny had found it very difficult to impose a
logical order on his material, but as the process of writing the visual dissertation went on his editing
skills came strongly into play. Although there was much material that he was reluctant to let go of,
he became quite ruthless about discarding redundant ideas (‘chucking away my babies’, as he put it).
Similarly, he was able to break up his text, treating his paragraphs as sections. In this way, he found
himself, as the process went on, building up sections of writing to 800 or 1000 words. At the same
time, writing in the first person enabled Sonny to actually put pen to paper and write.
Sonny’s experience has shown the benefits of both the visual dissertation and the narrative
discourse mode, not only as creative opportunities for our students in Art and Design, but also
showing how working outside the constraints of the linear structure of the traditional exposition-
style written dissertation facilitates students’ writing and encourages confidence in their ideas and
in themselves as authors.
Conclusion
The point of a dissertation is to examine and discuss some particular issue within a subject domain. As
educators, we would expect students to demonstrate and evidence the higher-order thinking skills of
analysis, evaluation and synthesis. It is a sophisticated type of problem-solving. However, it is clear that
thinking about visually structured dissertations in this way also reveals insight into the general case of
the written dissertation and its place within current practice, suggesting alternative modes of discourse
that may be more in keeping with the exigencies of a twenty-first-century academic discourse.5
Having exposed both the dubious premise upon which the art school dissertation rests, and the
fallacy of the objective voice that has traditionally been advocated for dissertations, we might now
explore alternative ways of constructing arguments related to and augmenting experiential
knowledge. In this respect, the narrative mode, this article argues, is one that gives students a way
of drawing on their experience, presented as a personal narrative, through which they find
meaning in both textual and visual material.
We are looking forward to facilitating dissertations, both textually structured and visually
structured, informed by the modes of discourse that have been elaborated in this article.
Constructive comment and criticism is welcomed by the authors.
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conceivably include
a multimodal and
multilinear dissertation
presented as a
hypertextual document
existing entirely within
the digital domain
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Suggested citation
Hazel, P., Davies, M. and Riley,. H (2011), ‘On the structure of textual and visual dissertations’,
Journal of Writing in Creative Practice 4: 2, pp. 239–259, doi: 10.1386/jwcp.4.2.239_1
Contributor details
Dr. Paul Hazel is the Head of School of Digital Media at Swansea Metropolitan University. His
research interests include a cluster of subjects related to new media theory and practice, particularly
narrative, e-learning, digital literacy and interface design.
Contact: Swansea Metropolitan University, Mount Pleasant, Swansea SA1 6ED.
E-mail: paul.hazel@smu.ac.uk
Dr. Mary Davies is a study support tutor at Swansea Metropolitan University. Her two strands of
research interests include working on approaches and strategies with visually oriented students to
develop their academic writing; English and Italian literature; and philosophy of the Renaissance.
Contact: Swansea Metropolitan University, Mount Pleasant, Swansea SA1 6ED.
E-mail: mary.davies@smu.ac.uk
Howard Riley is Professor of Visual Communication and Head of the School of Research and
Postgraduate Studies, Dynevor Centre for Arts, Swansea Metropolitan University. He studied at
Hammersmith College of Art, Coventry College of Art and the Royal College of Art, and holds a
doctorate from the University of Wales in the Practice and Pedagogy of Drawing. He has published
in the areas of visual semiotics, the pedagogy of drawing and multimodality. His drawings have
been exhibited in Australia, Malaysia and Finland, as well as the United Kingdom.
Contact: Swansea Metropolitan University, Mount Pleasant, Swansea SA1 6ED.
E-mail: howard.riley@smu.ac.uk
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JWCP_4.2_Hazel_239-259.indd 259JWCP_4.2_Hazel_239-259.indd 259 11/11/11 3:03:06 PM11/11/11 3:03:06 PM
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