Sometimes, when I’m in the mood to blog but don’t have any ideas, I’ll pull from Brian Eno and Peter Schmidt’s Oblique Strategies deck. I’ve written before about how invigorating the deck can be for pushing through creative barriers. Nothing helps me when I’m feeling stuck quite like a cryptic saying. I found today’s oblique strategy especially provocative:

Decorate, decorate

Decoration is not something I usually pursue. In my personal life, I tend to leave picture frames leaning against the wall for months after moving. I envy people who populate their home with plants, but I’ve never been able to keep things alive long enough to cultivate a green space. I can’t imagine ever getting a tattoo, though I’m always fascinated by the choices of those who do. My professional life follows this same trend. My approach to web design tends to be minimal—with a better sense of what I don’t like than what I do, I typically strip as much away as I can. I am fascinated by minimalist pedagogy, where you try to teach digital humanities methods using as little as possible. And as an editor I tend to strip things away to find the kernel inside rather than add in more text.

But I’m also put in mind of recent social media trends featuring a video of a person indulging themselves alongside unapologetic captions like “just realized I am a full-ass adult and can have ice cream for dinner.” Part of the joy in such posts is the recognition that you don’t need to justify such actions. Indulgences aren’t exactly decorations, but there’s a similar spirit of fullness. I’m thinking of my colleague Amanda Visconti’s recent DH2025 poster, which they (in their own words) decorated as aggressively as possible. There’s a freedom in decoration, in deciding to take up space in a particular way, in making a space your own. Decoration can be a survival tactic. A thing to show that you were there.

This past year our lovely students wrote a series of suggestions on our white board for how to survive 2025. I’m going to add my own: decorate. No other justification needed. To that end, here’s a photo of our cat.

What follows is material drawn from a larger book project I’m working on about an approach to digital humanities pedagogy that intersects with administrative policy to work towards a more equitable landscape for higher education. I’ll be blogging pieces of it as I go, so stay tuned for more related work in the future. Keep in mind, though, that I will likely be blogging about other topics intermittently as well. You can find book-related posts here. Happy to hear feedback, either on social media or by email at bmw9t@virginia.edu.

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This is a book about teachers, the labor they take on, and the structures that prevent them doing that work well. Our institutions often define teaching as something that happens in specific spaces, at specific times, and by specific people. In higher education, positions are often described with a common shorthand: “I teach a 2-2” or “I carry a 4-4.” The formulation describes both a calendar distribution as well as the supposed burden of teaching. Once your courses are done—your course load carried—you can get back to work. And the implicit encouragement is to spend less time on teaching and more time on your tenure file. The classroom is a space to be escaped. And when we describe some positions and institutions as teaching-intensive, however true the designation might be, we create boundaries. We suggest that some spaces are for teaching and some not.

Staff positions often distribute identification with the craft of teaching in a similar way. A Teaching and Learning Librarian might explicitly focus on classroom instruction. An Undergraduate Success Librarian might specialize in undergraduate outreach. Some roles might work with patrons directly to answer questions and roles, while others might think of themselves more as back of house and removed from the community. As with faculty positions and their associated teaching responsibilities, the ways we distribute staff labor can suggest separation between those who teach and those who do not. Some are in the classroom, while others might never set foot in it.

But we all teach.

It is understandable that someone without explicit classroom responsibilities might see themselves as disconnected from the act of teaching. But we do ourselves and our students a disservice when we fail to recognize the teaching that takes place across the institution by instructors in a range of different job titles. This book specifically speaks from the point of view of the teaching librarian, in part, because library positions entail a range of types of interaction. In some cases, librarians might design for-credit courses as part of the curriculum. But so much of the work of librarianship takes place in other spaces: reference consultations, collaborations with faculty members, one-on-one mentoring, workshops, one-off instructional sessions, and more. To be a librarian is to dance along the cracks of the institution, engaged in a thousand small teaching acts. Because of this, library perspectives are helpful for illuminating the cross-cutting impact of pedagogical decisions.

In the same way that teaching occurs throughout the university, staff positions like those in the library are useful case studies for discussing the pedagogies of institutions because they are regularly called upon to engage in the infrastructure of the university. Even if their job titles do not contain the word “administrator,” staff positions often make policy decisions that affect others. Digital humanities library positions, in particular, expose the ways in which teaching is an intersection of pedagogy and policy. Throughout this book I use the term teaching administrator to refer to individuals inhabiting such complicated roles in places of higher education. The term refers to those faculty and staff who inhabit administrative roles within their respective institution but also provide instruction in some capacity. I use the term administrator quite liberally here: it refers not only to directors or managers but more broadly to anyone engaged in the inner workings of university infrastructure and making policy decisions for it. Teaching, too, is construed broadly. Teaching takes place throughout the university, in its cracks and its hallways, in all manner of forms. The teaching administrator might direct a center but teach a course periodically. They might be a GIS Specialist who also runs regular workshops. Or they might be a developer engaged in paired programming with a student as part of a project development. Teaching administrators, no matter their specific job title, regularly find themselves implicated in and exerting force upon the various policies and norms that work on the institution and, in so doing, upon their embedded pedagogies.

More specifically, this is a book about all those principles, practices, and structures that intersect in a kind of pedagogy in the institution around them. When a local government reduces its budget, forcing secondary educators to dip into the own bank accounts to pay for classroom supplies—that is an observable act that impacts pedagogy. The material conditions of the classroom are changed based on administrative choices that are removed from the classroom. When the chairs in a public classroom are welded to the floor so as to prevent them from being moved from neatly arranged rows—that is a kind of pedagogy. The decision to bolt chairs to the ground may never have been made with actual instruction in mind, but it nonetheless affects the possibilities for learning in that space. The university encourages the idea that teaching takes place in the classroom, and this mode of thinking is a function of policy, power, and politics. When conversations are not explicitly about teachers and students—a kind of pedagogy is still being enacted. After all, an absence can still be noted and remarked upon. Why aren’t we talking about teaching? What does it say about what we value instead? A pedagogy.

This is a book about administrative choices like these, about the ways in which they help or harm the teachers in their midst. About all the myriad ways in which the work of education is routinely damaged by forces outside the classroom. This book argues that these institutional norms, policies, and structures act as embedded pedagogies that are operationalized for or against teachers and learners. Most often, as in the case of budgets cuts or prescriptive classroom spaces, these institutional pedagogies put teachers on the back foot, forced to teach in ways they might not otherwise do so in part out of a survival instinct. The first step to finding our way to the teaching we want to see in our work is to recognize the obstacles facing that labor, the pedagogies running counter to our own. And it can be especially difficult to notice the things affecting our teaching when they happen far outside the classroom, carried out by those who don’t consider themselves educators. By recasting institutional activities and actors in pedagogical terms, I hope to empower teachers to find their own path to enduring administrative difficulties even as they work to change them. These embedded pedagogies can be especially challenging to work against because the pressures they exert are often invisible to the teachers and learners in their midst. The first tactical decision we can make to counter them is to render them known.

Universities invest vast resources in making themselves known to their students, their communities, and their publics, from marketing to branding, communications to legislative testimony. In the process, though, this knowability is limited by design, as elite universities necessarily want themselves to be only so known, in specific ways, and by particular people. Institutions frequently obscure their actual administration in ways that distance teachers from their core functions. This web of policies, practices, and pressures shape our ability to teach and learn in seen and unseen ways, forming the network of embedded institutional pedagogies. By rendering these opaque practices transparent, we can empower educators to intervene in the forces affecting their ability to do the work of teaching.

In a certain way this book was also my own attempt to chart a pathway to survival in the face of the embedded pedagogies of my own institution. During a period of administrative upheaval at my place of work, blogging became a way for me to vent and reflect about the challenges I found for supporting student work. The audience I found for this writing seemed to be largely people in positions like mine: mid-career digital humanities administrators who had a hand in research, teaching, and administration. Positions like these are sometimes called “alt-ac” for the ways in which they offer a landing for graduate students outside of the traditional faculty path. Alt-ac staff often refer to themselves as scholar practitioners, a phrase that further serves to illuminate the fact that we often see administrative praxis itself as a subject for research and critique in its own right. The term “teaching administrator” is a similar riff, both a description of a hybridized identity and an attempt to instrumentalize it.

In moments of despair I sometimes referred to this manuscript as “the book I’m writing about bullshit and how to deal with it.” Invariably, others would respond with their own, similar frustrations at their own institutions. Embedded pedagogies carry power, in part, because they refuse to be seen for what they are. Writing this text is a first attempt at making legible the relationship between administrative policy and teaching in a way that makes them visible. To describe what I see so others can notice as well. To know and be known. To use the unique position of the teaching administrator to push back on the limited knowability of the institution and render legible its embedded pedagogies.

Amanda Visconti and I are starting a series of process experiments with public writing, where the goal is to experiment with format and mode while still attempting to get a public piece done in a single hour. For this first session we sat together, read some intentions and affirmations to set the tone, and then pulled from the Oblique Strategies card deck to get a prompt for us each to write on. The card Amanda chose hit me in the gut:

What mistakes did you make last time?

Given everything going on in the news right now, it’s impossible not to read this in light of the new presidential administration, which has just released a flurry of executive actions and destabilizing edicts designed to harm, divide, and panic. It feels like history rhyming, this time with capital letters. The first Trump administration felt excruciating and devastating in all sorts of ways, and this one already feels worse. I have been thinking endlessly about the memory of the last time, whether or not the work that we do in digital humanities matters in this context, and how we might make it matter more. It’s easy to despair.

What mistakes did you make last time?

In some ways, the quote rings to me of the cruelty of living in the past—exactly the sort of thing my therapist tells me not to do. “Don’t ruminate,” she would say, warning me against endlessly turning over in my mind the mistakes I made, the alternate timelines that didn’t manifest. It’s not enough to just warn oneself against worrying about past mistakes, though, and my therapist always goes on: “instead lean into your toolkit and all the work you have done to prepare yourself to deal with these challenging situations.” You are prepared for this. It is not the same, because you are not the same.

What mistakes did you make last time?

This is not business as usual, but the business of the usual carries on. The sun still rises. Care still must be given to those who need it. Work must still be done. There is an absurdity to this disconnect while the world increasingly aches with fire, death, and pain. I see in the card an invitation to the future, to dream of a better world than the one we have, to think beyond mistakes and towards rewriting the equation by different rules. We all have levers to pull to work against these forces each day. Last time was different because I was different. This difference can multiply. The math of dreamers, creating a world beyond the present crisis through the mundane work of small, everyday acts.

Who were you last time? Who are you now? Who will you be tomorrow?

Dream math. Pencils ready.

In which I argue we should be less stymied by fear of “virtue signaling” and more worried about not doing enough to assert, model, celebrate just and caring choices.

Sidebar: a Writing Challenge

Brandon and I are starting some Writing Challenge! sessions Brandon dreamed up, where we spend an hour using some prompt that makes us experiment with writing method and/or form/outcome, and commit to usually publishing something at the end. Today’s our first, and we’re using a card drawn from Brian Eno’s “Oblique Strategies” prompt card deck to shape what we write. The chosen card says “What mistakes did you make last time?”

Writing Challenge Plan:

Hourlong, in the grad office with door closed (folks can join the challenge process, but this way we’re not interrupted with unrelated things, given we’re on a tight schedule for the hour).

• 10min prep: speak Brandon’s affirmations; decide whether we each select a card, or share the same card, from the deck; set up YAML for blog post so it’s ready to go
• 25min: writing
• 5min: finalize writing such that you’re ready to push it live
• 10min: wrap = push writing live, celebrate, share on social media
• (Ends after 50min for bio break, or has padding for if we start a few minutes late)

“What mistakes did you make last time?”

I’m trying to excise “virtue signaling” from my brain, as a too-finely-meshed filter on what I say. In a week where an Executive Order on WhiteHouse.gov pivoted to a new and deadly register of transphobic rhetoric (very quick summary here), it is more urgent than ever that we assert constantly, publicly, confidently the rights and dignity of friends and fellow humans most under attack and most harmed. I have repeatedly made the mistake of being too afraid I was “virtue signaling”, or overly worrying about legit concerns that still shouldn’t act as barriers (e.g. demanding cookies for doing something you should just do without applause, because it’s right).

It’s mattered to hear what others care about, to see them model that in words and actions. When the Scholars’ Lab has gotten pushback over some explicit focus on social justice, reparative resource decisions, or even just webpage language, it’s mattered that we could point to the digital humanities org’s explicit statement that the sociopolitical is inextricable from scholarship, and that positive social change* is inherently part of scholarly work. (* As a colleague pointed out recently, I’m hoping we can change that ACH wording to be even more explicit, e.g. using the unmistakable phrase “social justice” rather than the ambiguous, could be used negatively “social change”.) I regularly hear from folks at other institutions that Scholars’ Lab being vocal about social justice + scholarship has mattered in what it occurs to them they can do or say, or in being able to do so safely, or encourage their institutions to do better. I think of the small ways I’ve recently seen people suggest we do something less just, to avoid something that isn’t actually worth that choice—like not showing 3D VR demos of datasets related to the history of slavery when the governor might be visiting, or not mentioning social justice is core to what the lab does in a job ad meant to hire someone who’d be working directly with the lab in case it made the Provost slow or reject the ad getting approved. More reminders of what matters, why, that others are doing this work can help in these small moments when we have a choice.

I can’t know who cares if we don’t say. There are parts of my beliefs and being that I don’t bring fully to work. I don’t mean the ones that work doesn’t get to have; I mean things I’m not sure I can bring without pushback that I don’t want to deal with, ideas that are not widespreadly adopted yet like prison and police abolition, the power and real possibility of transformational justice, a real understanding of anarchism as approaches to empowering, collective-focused, no-unneeded hierarchies work. A few years ago, we were going around the table giving introductions to ourselves at the start of our yearly Praxis Program grad cohort teaching; one of the fellows mentioned their work as an abolitionist, and it occurred to me that no one in the lab had any way of knowing that I also believe in abolition. It’s part of who I am, and other folks don’t know to ask me questions about it if they don’t know it’s something I’m interested in; fellow abolitionists don’t know they have a potential ally.

“Virtue signaling” seems fine as a term used to encourage that we not only speak, but also act; that we don’t demand cookies to not be evil. I just don’t want it to keep functioning the way it’s been for me, as a mental stop telling me not to testify. Speaking up can feel hard, despite privilege. Doing it in tiny ways more often seems to help me build that muscle and better see my comparative safety. One such practice is how I find “we don’t do that here” powerful and easy to grab words in the moment; as is following up on any offered excuses with “nevertheless, we don’t do that here”.

I’m not claiming I’m particularly good at this. But I want to be talking about it more for learning, accountability. It feels urgent I learn to speak and ct more when privilege makes it safe (if not comfortable—differentiating between fear and discomfort is also key to just choices). We’re going to need to build ability to speak and act when it isn’t safe too, and that ability starts getting ready yesterday, or at least from this moment.

Ryan Cordell wrote on Bluesky: “We’ve lost the plot with “virtue signaling”—the initial impulse was to call out entirely empty gestures, but it’s been twisted into the idea that any expression of a moral stance must be vacuous—see Zuckerberg’s recent comments—but what if people signaling virtue is sometimes good, actually?”

I want to know what other folks care about, that I’m not alone, who allies are. We want to signal what’s virtuous. And I think that ties into another necessary behavioral practice: asserting what we know is right and just and caring, not being sidetracked by others’ assertions nor letting them set the conversation.

This post includes or riffs on some earlier writing I’ve done on Bluesky, including this thread about virtue signaling on Trans Day of Rememberance, and this QT of a good post by Ryan Cordell.

Two months into this fellowship, I have prayed in the following places:

• The Grad lounge
• Brandon’s office
• Shane’s office
• Amanda’s office

The first time, it felt strange. I had barely known everyone for a week. I didn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. I didn’t want to seem like I was putting on a show of religiosity. I didn’t want to be stereotyped and put into a box.

Each time I asked if I could pray in the Scholars’ Lab space, those around me were extremely accommodating, offering to leave the room to give me privacy. That made it feel like even more of an imposition. I felt too conspicuous, too seen. The kinder everyone was, the more uncomfortable I felt. I couldn’t make sense of it. Why did this kindness make me feel like an outsider?

Soon enough, the afternoon prayer started eliciting other uncomfortable thoughts. Once, as I unfurled my prayer mat, I wondered if the DH tools we discovered would ever support Punjabi or Urdu (my research languages). Shane and I had spent an entire morning trying Tesseract’s OCR software on images with Persian, Urdu, and Punjabi text, but the invariable result was gibberish. A few weeks later, when I wanted my name in both English and Urdu on our Charter website, Jeremy said he’d figure out if and how that was possible. I nearly told him to forget I mentioned it. I remember noticing how brown my skin was as I prayed that day.

The experience of double consciousness each time I pray in the Scholars’ Lab is a stark reminder that I don’t fully belong in the ‘Digital’ Humanities. I have to be accommodated for, adjusted to, and worked around. It doesn’t matter how sincerely the Scholars’ Lab staff welcome me into their physical space. As soon as we face a laptop screen, I am stripped down to an anglicized, areligious, apolitical version of myself. For the computer only recognizes these fragments. Here, too, it has become the job of the SLab folks to stretch themselves in unexpected ways to make me whole again: by trying to find digital platforms and tools with Right-To-Left (RTL) language support; by hunting down essays on Global DH and Minimal Computing; by dredging up their own insecurities and limitations in conversations to assure me of my place in DH.

The message is clear: It takes the kindness and effort of individual DH scholars to make space for me within systems that were not designed for people like me. Grateful as I am, it is not kindness I want, but the chance to be an equal collaborator. To create and share knowledge across the linguistic communities I belong to.

In a recent paper, Masoud Ghorbaninejad, Nathan P. Gibson and David Joseph Wrisley have discussed the Anglocentric nature of current DH infrastructures that largely ignore the “digital habitus”¹ of RTL language users. They state that “knowledge is not just cultural content embedded in language; it is also infrastructure that allows that content to be represented, circulated, and preserved for the concerned communities.” Of the many tools I have discovered these past few months – Omeka, Voyant tools, MALLET, Tesseract, to name a few – not a single one supports Urdu or Punjabi in any meaningful way. As a multilingual South Asian and a student of Muslim literatures, each interaction with these tools involves two things: (1) silencing the very voices within me that have already undergone violence at the hands of the English language, and (2) a fervent hope for alternatives.

(Thank you Brandon for the title!)

I remember very clearly my flight back from the 2016 DLF Forum. I had presented with Mackenzie Brooks on open writing for Small Liberal Arts Colleges. My Facebook feed was full of photos of people voting in the US presidential election. Long lines. People putting one foot in front of another to vote. I flew back home on election night, and I remember the strange way that people in the airport started gathering around the television watching what was happening. Normally, people kept to themselves. That night, the anxiety in the air was palpable. As was the growing excitement (DLF, after all, was in Wisconsin that year). I remember the panic I felt flying and not knowing what would wait for me when we landed. When I got in my car and turned on NPR in a rush at 2:00 AM I first heard the results. I remember not being able to sleep.

In 2024, history rhymed. Conference week? Check. The ACH conference was the week of the election, and for months we had all wondered what the environment would feel like in the aftermath. We found out. Election results that were unexpected and, yet, all too expected? Check. At least this time I wasn’t on a flight: I could climb under the covers in my pajamas between sessions of the online conference.

I wrote both of my talks for this month’s ACH conference when Trump was just a second candidate. I helped to coordinate a workshop on articulating and defending the values at the core of your work with a whole raft of brilliant folks: Amanda Visconti, Caitlin Pollock, Pamella Lach, Kate Ozment, and Crystal Luo. Later that night, I gave a paper on speculative digital pedagogies with Seanna Viechweg, where we talked about the pasts, presents, and futures of imagination in the DH classroom. All of this work felt suddenly more urgent than ever. But I gave these talks in a stupor. As I spoke about advocacy and values I could not help but wonder about the limits and reaches of certain types of power. As I discussed the imagination and the future, I could not stop thinking about the past.

Did I still believe in what I was saying?

I’ve been thinking a lot about where I was eight years ago and where I am today. I’ve been at the Scholars’ Lab seven and a half years—roughly the span of the first Trump and the Biden presidencies. In that time, I have supervised dozens of students on a variety of projects. I have comforted them as they cried. Helped find them funding to survive. Worked to prepare them for and find them jobs. Advocated for them in spaces large and small. Organized alongside them in our wall-to-wall union. For some, this work helped. For others, it did not, and I remember every person for whom something didn’t pan out. I’ve learned hard lessons about the limits of my own ability to change things, and at times I’ve described the work as trying to steer a yacht through an obstacle course. You can correct the course slightly, but only so much. I’ve hit lots of buoys.

I believe in this work. I believe it has mattered. But eight years later I will confess to questioning a lot of its power. The words I was about to read to a digital space filled with other dazed people, all zooming in from their own rooms. They felt so small and insignificant. What good were my little words in the face of a country filled with hate, ready to visit and revisit new horrors on its population and on the world?

I recognize my own positionality. I am a cis white man with a comfortable job and salary. I do not face the same dangers to my bodily, financial, and political autonomy as so many who are most likely to be impacted by the new administration. Even so, I have so much fear. For my son’s future in a vaccine-skeptical world. For my LGBTQ friends and family who are worried about access to life-saving medication or the freedom to exist. For the immigrants in my life who are scared for their safety. My own anxieties and fears are a drop in the ocean, much wider and more vast.

As I was searching around for meaning and energy in the days following the election, I came across a few lights that I’ve been clinging to. As Josh Rezek posted on BlueSky, “Writing is part of surviving this! Your own and everyone else’s!” And my dear friend and collaborator Amanda Visconti shared a post by Brian LaRossa containing “a short thread full of words from people who are smarter than me about the vital role that artists play in society generally, and doubly so in the face of authoritarian regimes.” I don’t have any illusions that my own writing is as important or radical as the pieces linked in that thread. Toni Morrison, Audre Lorde, James Baldwin. These are real heroes. I should be so lucky as to write anything a scrap as meaningful as what they produced. But these examples are helping me think less about where I was eight years in the past and more about where I want to be in the future. About the writer, teacher, and advocate that I want to continue growing into. And those heroes exist in the present, too, closer to home. Some of the most helpful conversations I have had in the week since the election have been with a pair of brilliant students with whom I share a DH writing group. They are more committed than ever to the pursuit of a better world. They teach me, as always, how to be better and how to help. And the work they produced these past few weeks moved me to tears (though I am a softy, to be fair).

By complete and total happenstance this is my hundredth post on my personal blog. Lots of little words. This post, then, is less a statement for others than it is for myself. A commitment to keep going in the face of fear. To keep growing. I will keep recognizing the limits of words and work to act beyond them. But I will also try to hold in my heart the belief that words carry power. So a week after the election and a bit better rested here I am. Putting one word after another. And recommitting myself to the regular practice of doing so.

Seanna Viechweg and Brandon Walsh gave a talk on “Speculative Digital Pedagogies” at the 2024 ACH conference online. Texts and rough slides follow.

Seanna - Hello, I’m Seanna Viechweg, a 5th-year PhD English candidate at the University of Virginia.

Brandon - And I’m Brandon Walsh. I’m the Head of Students in the Scholars’ Lab, a digital research center in the University of Virginia Library.

Brandon - Before we get started - a few links for you. You can find the rough text and slides for our presentation at the link here. And if you are interested in the resources we are discussing today you can find them in a zotero library. So if you need access to those materials for any reason please do take a moment to open them in the browser as we’ll be moving away from this slide. But they’ll also persist after the conference is over, so you can rest assured that you’ll have access to them into the future.

This is a talk not about where we are but, instead, where we could be. Practitioners aiming to bring digital humanities (DH) into the classroom often run up against painful realities: what servers we have, what is possible in a semester, what tools are supported on campus. Reality, so often, restrains our pedagogy. This comes through in the writing on digital humanities teaching and learning. Using Digital Humanities in the Classroom by Claire Battershill and Shawna Ross has pages upon pages of expert advice on how to deal with the practical logistics of teaching DH—hosting, webstacks, resources to look for on campus, and more. The text is, of course, absolutely essential for these reasons. But we want to push back against this focus on the here and now, on how we situate our digital pedagogies in the contexts in which we live and, instead, take inspiration from André Carrington’s editorial headnote to the “futures” keyword in Digital Pedagogy in the Humanities: “Rather than preparing students to experience progress on terms that are not of their own making, educational strategies that employ technology to interrogate the unmet needs of the present enable students to reinvent the means and ends of learning in accordance with the futures they want to create.” Our goal in this talk is to further explore what it might mean to bind a teaching practice to the future, to the imagination, to create and practice a speculative digital pedagogy. In doing so, we situate our work in relation to DH projects like Stanford 2025, The DH RPG, and Ivanhoe, which explore the power for teachers and learners to imagine new institutions, new relationships, and new forms of educational praxis. We don’t have much time, but we’ll offer a theory of this work and then some notes towards practice.

This talk is, itself, an exercise in speculative practice. It emerges from our realization that we were each using speculation to mean something quite distinct from the other that might, nonetheless, could be powerful when brought together. My speculative pedagogies draw heavily on the field of critical digital pedagogy, on bell hooks, Paulo Freire, Sean Michael Morris, Jesse Stommel, and many others to create a space where digital humanities students can imagine into being the kinds of professional futures they want to see, a space where they can work beyond the realities of the academic job market through speculative practices in professional development. That is to say, my work tends to operate at the level of the individual who is seeking to imagine their own future within a broader present that tries to constrain this development. These forces, of course, are systems of power that consistently work in unequal ways on our students as they try to navigate them. Our work as practitioners of speculative digital pedagogy is to recognize how individual imagined futures are tied up with larger systems of power and oppression in the present.

Seanna - Our conception of a speculative digital pedagogy is in part shaped by my research background in Caribbean studies, specifically Caribbean SF (with SF being an umbrella term for several subgenres of speculative fiction such as science fiction, fantasy, magical realism, and horror, to name a few). We rely upon definitions of speculative fiction that are entangled with objectives of transformation, namely Caribbeanist, Nicola Hunte’s definition of SF as “concerned with anti-hegemonic practices and marked by its preoccupation with social and political injustice” and as a “progression to a more hopeful treatment of the other”—particularly as they are experienced by persons of the diaspora, transitory, marginalized, and migratory communities (Hunte 17). In the context of digital pedagogy, we want instructors and students’ engagement with speculation and digital methods to be marked by an ethic of solidarity and sensitivity to what others have experienced, are experiencing, and where they are headed.

Drawing from several other scholars in Caribbean and Black DH studies—such as Kaiama L. Glover, Kelly Baker Josephs, Marlene L. Daut, Asha Maharaj, and Patricia Mohammed—we advocate for a speculative pedagogy in the digital sphere that centers consciousness-raising, coalition-building, and alternative epistemologies. Hunte similarly draws attention to the virtual Caribbean cultural community that is created on social media platforms such as WhatsApp and Facebook, underlining key strategies of Caribbean cultural expression and resistance such as the use of Caribbean language, idiom, and iconography. Josephs, Maharaj, and Mohammed’s respective attention to alternative Caribbean storytellers (i.e. photographer Ruddy Roye, comedians Seth ‘Xcel’ Bovell and Senior Gum Boy) and movements such as #LifeinLeggings (a social media campaign highlighting gender-based violence in the Caribbean), emphasize the ways in which global communities can deeply connect with the personal experiences of communities in the Global South; fostering an empathy and awareness to the lived realities of communities they would otherwise lack exposure to. This approach provides students and instructors with innovative frameworks for their speculative practices, especially by encouraging them to draw on diverse perspectives as they might question common or established narratives.

My advocacy for speculative pedagogy arises from my own experiences in graduate school where I attempted to integrate speculative practices into my reading of canonical texts. In analyzing Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre, my background in Caribbean studies led me to speculate on the connection prefigured by Bronte’s novel as put in conversation with Jean Rhys’ Wide Sargasso Sea—both a ‘prequel’ and Caribbeanist text that reimagines the colonial backstory of the ‘madwoman in the attic’ in Bronte’s novel. Not only did my professor disagree with my reading but she also publicly reprimanded me for not reading Jane Eyre on ‘its own terms.’ While her stance may seem to simply mirror early literary theory, primarily in New Criticism, my professor failed to realize that my use of speculation between the two novels was one that could have opened up discussions of empire, silencing, and the Caribbean in our (virtual) classroom. Speculation, for me in this case, was about creating a dialogue across time and space; emphasizing the underrepresented experiences of Caribbean women that underpin Bronte’s (canonical) novel. Though initially disheartened by this incident, this experience shaped my teaching objectives as a culturally-relevant and socially-engaged instructor. I now view speculative practices as essential tools to reexamine histories, our present, as well as the canons that persist in many classrooms.

Brandon - Speculation, then, can be a pathway for practitioners of digital pedagogy to re-imagine a more equitable and just future for their communities of teachers and learners, to work beyond a limiting present even as it aims to change it. In the time we have remaining, we wanted to offer a few rapid-fire examples, exercises, and prompts for how you might, today and tomorrow, implement a speculative digital pedagogy in your own practice. They will necessarily be incomplete but will hopefully spark a sense of wonder.

We’ll start broadly, where many begin when thinking of their teaching. When we plan courses we quickly turn to the calendar, the course requirements, the texts to be read, the goals for the course. This is, of course, due to circumstance: we frequently teach to the moment, to the registrar, to the material needs around us. DH syllabi can often feel overloaded and weighted down, in particular, by the pressure to appear DH enough. What if, instead, we resisted the institutional pull to fix things in place? What if, instead, we allowed our syllabi to dwell in possibility?

One way to do so is to draw upon minimal and iterative design practices, a process by which rapid prototyping leads to more refined ideas. What if we applied this to syllabus design? Take a course title and rename it. Rename it again ten times. Twenty. Take the list of assigned authors and redo that list ten times. Twenty. Take your final digital project assignment and iterate through a list of fifty options. While the idea might sound absurd, we would wager that, if you push through, something transformative might happen to your idea of the course, of your students, and the role of your teaching. Allow the iterative pressure to blow the lid of your conception of the classroom. What happens to your sense of the canonical works you must teach? To your sense of what DH is? And what might happen if you kept this feeling alive and invited students into this course as a thing-in-process? As an imaginative, porous space of instability? How can you navigate this together and learn to critique educational practices that purport towards a false sense of fixity?

Seanna - We might also consider the impact our individual assignments and digital projects have on the stories we share with our students, as well as encourage them to tell. My investment in speculation, in what Saidiya Hartman calls “Critical Fabulation,” has been deeply shaped by digital projects that uncover and ethically reimagine diasporic and indigenous histories—such as the “Barbados Runaways Project,” “In the Same Boats,” and the “Dark Laboratory,” to name a few. “In The Same Boats” traces the migratory journeys of significant cultural actors from the Caribbean, wider Americas, Africa, and Europe in the 20th century; both presenting and speculating on spaces in which these actors met, were in conversation, and where they might have influenced each other’s work. The Dark Laboratory challenges conventional narratives about Black and Indigenous history, using digital tools, interactive archives, and storytelling to reimagine hidden histories and alternative futures while the Barbados Runaways Project allows users to interact with digitized and colonial newspapers in Barbados with information about enslaved individuals who escaped slavery. I was fortunate enough to become involved with the Barbados Runaways Project when doing a Fulbright in Barbados as the ads were being digitized. I was invited to lead a workshop that encouraged participants to engage with the question, “How can we use these ads to speculate on their lives with the forms that are given?” One woman used the advertisement of a young woman, with limited description, to work on a screenplay that speculated on acts of resistance that the young woman exhibited under the conditions of enslavement. As an aspiring professor in Black and Caribbean studies, I aim to use speculative digital pedagogy to push students to engage with alternative archives in similar ways—drawing on Hartman’s practice of critical fabulation, by not imposing one narrative on the archive but instead remaining open to one of its many possible realities and histories.

Brandon- And, finally, we might consider the roles we play as educators outside the classroom, as we work with students to plot out their professional futures against the constraining realities of the job market. This is imaginative work, especially when it comes to humanities students learning about digital methods—and careers—for the first time. Our job is so often to help them imagine new ways of being. In contrast, professional CV’s typically read as a record of past accomplishments sanctioned by the academy. For students just starting out, it can be easy to look at one’s own document and struggle to see your own way past the gatekeepers. Instead, we can design activities for our students that help to imagine their professional future into being and then create tools for them to manifest them. Ask your students to sketch the CV of the person they want to be in five years. Ten years. To write a biographical sketch for that person. What do they see in that person that you can help with them right now? In our Lab, this means a focus on blogged public writing as a means to write that future into existence without waiting on a publisher to OK it (though the work often leads to that!). Another example - we have students design and deliver DH workshops on an unfamiliar topic or method with the goal that they will begin to see their own developing relationship to technical expertise as one of possibility. And these workshops are intentionally meant to be creative and low-tech (think network analysis by way of string and rope, or data visualization by way of drawing what you had for breakfast this week) as a means of making professional development into a space of play as opposed to pain. The hope is that these activities bring a student’s provisional future one CV line closer to existence. And they also offer a way for students to find their ways into professional communities without waiting for institutional permission to do so. Because a more just and equitable future will never arrive if we allow institutions to control whose voices they allow to speak within their walls. To quote Frederick Douglass, “Power concedes nothing without a demand.” Our pedagogies can be a space to demand better futures for our students.

Seanna - Our examples have attempted to show how speculation can be used to challenge the present, to offer students a space to develop their own futures. But, as the anecdote about my own negative experiences in the classroom shows, imagination can also be a weapon of power. My experience underscores the ethical dimensions of the imagination that have been practiced in academic spaces—begging the question of who has the right to imagine and reinterpret texts, as well as whose perspectives are allowed into academic discourse. It is important to note that when my professor denounced my comment, I was in my first semester of graduate school during the pandemic. I left our Zoom classroom feeling dispirited and questioning my place in academia as an aspiring scholar in Caribbean studies—had I let this experience overcome me, then I would not have been able to begin practicing the speculative pedagogy that we are advocating for in the digital sphere. When speculative practices are dismissed or outright rejected, there is a policing of the imagination that limits new and diverse interpretations and ultimately, reinforces dominant narratives that have excluded marginalized communities, as well as communities outside of academia. To practice speculative digital pedagogy, we must rely on an ethical imagination that acknowledges and values the contributions of those whose knowledges, histories, and day-to-day lives look quite differently than our own. Advocating for a speculative digital pedagogy is about cultivating spaces online and in person where students, instructors, and scholars can freely explore new interpretations, push beyond traditional forms of analysis and discourse, and imagine new lives for themselves in the present. New stories to tell. New futures.

The following is a short, internal lightning talk I gave to UVA Library staff as a part of the Library’s Open Access Week in fall 2024.

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Hello! My name is Brandon Walsh, and I’m Head of Student Programs in the Scholars’ Lab, one of the twin branches of the UVA Library’s Digital Humanities Center. I was asked to talk a bit about my work in open pedagogy as it intersects with digital humanities, a big baggy field in which we’re constantly confronting what we don’t know and helping others to do the same. From my earliest days working in DH, way back when I was a student myself in the Lab and in the Library, I was drawn to this pedagogical through line. The sheer importance of learning to it all. And this, in turn, has deeply informed how I approach Open with my students.

Always learning. Always teaching.

Together.

My practice of open digital pedagogy is informed by three intertwining principles:

1. Humanities students see themselves as imposters more often than not, particularly when it comes to technical concepts and methods.
2. Students are experts in teaching and learning. There is no one better equipped to explain something complicated than a person who has just learned it.
3. The labor of teaching and learning is often invisible.

My whole career has been about the commingling of these three concepts when it comes to pedagogy—self-confidence, expertise, and visibility.

Open has been the space in which they meet.

Often, this takes the shape of co-authored OER materials with my students. I co-wrote A Humanist’s Cookbook for Natural Language Processing in Python with Rebecca Bultman, then a UVA religious studies PhD. When I was a postdoc at Washington and Lee University, I co-wrote a course book on text analysis with Sarah Horowitz, a faculty collaborator who I was co-teaching with at the time. In each case, the process of co-writing, I hoped, would offer my partners a space to teach themselves something about the topic as well as the technical stack that it took to make it. They learned the terminal, Python, text analysis, markdown, version control, and more. I, in turn, learned to be a better teacher: the materials were much improved by having them involved as partners. The outcomes also presented this labor—the work of teaching and learning—in a space that was available to other learners and also CV-friendly. By positioning these student collaborators as co-writers, co-experts, I hoped to gently affirm that they were more than capable of doing this work. And the work aimed to present this new material in a space that would be more comfortable for humanists, grounding the learning process in public writing and conversation as opposed to pounding away at a programming script.

The production of open materials, by, for, and with students like these has always been a core part of my DH practice. Sometimes, as with these examples, the result explicitly looks like OER, but it’s often just about asking students to write in public about the process of teaching and learning. They teach themselves new techniques, develop workshops for each other, and document the teaching materials for others. My students use open writing as a means of imagining into existence the kind of scholars they want to be on their own terms—they don’t wait for academic publishers to credential them accordingly. The examples I used here were specific to me, but virtually every member of the Scholars’ Lab staff is engaged in this work in some capacity. We want our students to see the Lab and the Library as spaces that see them for who they are—worthy and capable even as they are learning.

All of this is to say that open pedagogy for me means treating students as true partners in the production of scholarly knowledge. They teach me as much as I them, and it happens in public. I’ll close with a quotation by Nicholas Payton, a jazz hero of mine. It’s one I sit with every day.

“There are no great teachers, only great students who give tools to other students.”

I’m in the middle of listening to an audiobook of David Byrne’s How Music Works. The book is a fascinating glimpse into the music industry, but I almost had to pull my car over when he started talking about digital humanities centers.

Okay–Byrne was actually in the middle of a whole chapter describing the special character of CBGB, the renowned music club that opened in 1973 and that was the frequent haunt of punk and new wave bands. But I was struck by just how resonant so much of his advice for cultivating a special and identifiable community was to me, someone who spends a lot of time working to do the same with students new to digital humanities. Once I parked, I quickly made some notes riffing on Byrne’s own eight characteristics of a successful music scene. I’ll share Byrne’s elements below and then riff on them as they relate to our own practice of cultivating collective DH experiences. You can find out more about Byrne’s own points by reading David A. Zimmerman’s summarizing blog post about the text.

1. There must be a venue that is of appropriate size and location in which to present material.
   • Space matters. It’s challenging to develop a sense of DH community without a space to gather, a place to house the energies of the group. One of the first tasks of a DH scene is often figuring out where it takes place. If physical space is not available to you—such locations are typically contested and hard won—take stock of other options. Virtual space, social media, community by mail, and more might be viable options, and they each offer their own affordances and limitations. And then make those spaces available to your people—as a student, it was impossible for me to reserve space. So friendly librarians who helped me do so meant the world to me.
2. The artists should be allowed to play their own material.
   • It’s not enough for community members to be passive contributors to the projects of others. They must be given the space and resources to allow their own creativity and their own original research projects to flourish. This also means making space for intentional play as a pathway to finding projects. Don’t ask people to show their DH project credentials at the door in order to get in!
3. Performing musicians must get in for free on their off nights (and maybe get free beer too)
   • Belonging should come cheap and often for those who want to join. In the Scholars’ Lab, we try to offer free tea and coffee to folks as often as possible. This might seem flippant, but it actually contributes in large ways to a sense of buy in with our group. Besides offering a ritual of belonging—we make this together for you—free coffee also offers a pathway into the Lab for those with economic hardship. Such resources are scarce for different communities, but it’s worth taking stock of what you can offer cheaply. What levers do you have?
4. There must be a sense of alienation from the prevailing music scene
   • For a DH scene to matter to someone, it has to stand for something. And that something typically stands in opposition to the larger institution around it. Look to your group’s larger context—what is left out? Who? How can your specific scene make space for those absences, center them, and give them a home? Discuss these values intentionally and find ways to act on them.
5. Rent must be low – and it must stay low
   • For Byrne, this was a larger commentary on the challenges of low-rent housing in a gentrifying area of New York City. For our own purposes, keep in mind that this work costs, but it should not cost the community. To keep your scene sustainable, it is worth regularly revisiting your prior assumptions about what is necessary to keep it flourishing. What might need to be sacrificed to maintain the ideological cohesion of your group? How does the changing financial landscape of your institution affect the underlying budgetary structures that make your work possible?
6. Bands must be paid fairly
   • Those who cultivate a DH scene have a responsibility to provide equitable compensation for the labor that its community members take on. Pay a living wage when possible. Advocate for better wages when it is not. Recognize and support labor organizing activities in the broader institution as you are able. Healthy labor practices ensure that your community knows you stand for and with them. They will notice.
7. Social transparency must be encouraged
   • Your community members make up your scene as much as the administrators who work in private to make it possible. Allow outside voices to help shape your practices—that’s how they become insiders. To cultivate the kind of DH scene your people want to see you need to ask them what they want. Ask what you can do for them—actions, events, speakers, and the like mean more when they come from community interest.
8. It must be possible to ignore the band when necessary
   • A flexible scene allows many smaller groups and communities to flourish. That is to say, a DH scene accommodates more than one use at one time. This is not to say smaller initiatives need be neglected. On the contrary—it allows your community to be agile, to flexibly act in many directions at once. Walk and chew gum at the same time. There are limitations to a group’s energies, of course, so be mindful of when you can ignore one aspect so as to safeguard energies for where you are needed.

I found, in particular, Byrne’s commentary on the intersections between spaces, policies, and creativity to be illuminating. Obviously there is much more to be said, and the analogy to Byrne’s music scene is not a 1:1 comparison. All communities have limitations, and we cannot be all things to all people. But hopefully these quick notes riffing on Byrne are helpful as we all work to cultivate a sense of belonging and community in our own DH spaces. As you try to find your own scene.

Let’s jam.

I was always very quiet in coursework as a student. I have always had some measure of social anxiety, and I felt it especially acutely when pressured to participate in the service of a grade. This was a constant in every course I took except one: in graduate school I took a course with David Vander Meulen on textual editing, and I felt more engaged and free to do so than ever before or after. While David was an exceptional teacher, there were other specific reasons I credit with the vibe in the room: it was a three hour seminar and there were only four students in the room. I could not hide and, perhaps most importantly, in a group that small there was a real sense that we were in it together, that we were accountable to each other for keeping the conversation alive. The social anxiety persisted after the course, but I’ve always remembered that group dynamic fondly.

Did I mention the course met Friday mornings at 8:00AM? We really depended on each other to stay awake.

We’re trying a new thing this year in the Praxis program to bring something of this same spirit into the room, to encourage the students to feel more direct accountability for each other in discussion. In the past, whenever we’ve run unmoderated discussions I’ve generally facilitated them myself or in the company of a couple other Scholars’ Lab staff. Even when the students present their individual research projects for a design jam, a staff member serves as primary respondent and facilitator. This generally works fine, and the students are usually up for it. But the result is that the students are most accountable to the staff. This year I am going to experiment with rotating this role through the room a bit more, to spread the accountability around a bit more intentionally. For each session that will have discussion, I’ve assigned one or two students as primary facilitators. For sessions where a student will present, I’ve assigned another student as a respondent.

I’m trying not to overthink this too much: the real goal of this is to encourage collaboration, co-teaching, and collective buy-in in ways that might not take place if the students only feel accountable to the staff. But Jeremy wisely noted that not everyone might know how to facilitate a discussion. I come from the English department, where I’m used to teaching and learning based around open-ended conversation. But not every discipline is structured that way. Jeremy suggested I make a few notes about how I approach running discussions. What follows is my own starter pack for running a conversation. I have our own students in mind as the primary audience, but I imagine there is something useful here for others as well.

• Questions not answers. This one comes from my literary studies background. I tend to see my role as a discussion facilitator as primarily about opening rather than closing, about shaping doors and inviting the group through. They can choose to enter or not, as distinct from other approaches to teaching that might pull the group along in a specific direction. When I write lesson plans they are almost always lists of questions to ask. Note that this is different from a project meeting, which has a specific goal and purpose! More on that in a different post.
• Other shapes. I am not the sole giver of knowledge in the room. Instead of an arrow that I carve into the ground, what other shapes can the group draw together? How can we design our own ways of building knowledge together? Everyone has something to contribute, and I am there to learn as much as everyone else. The experience is not unidirectional. It twists, turns, folds back.
• Give space. More than you think. I like to count silently to make room for others. When in doubt, sit quietly. Thinking is hard work, and hard work takes time. Don’t mistake silence for confusion or lack of engagement. Your silence can be a gift.
• Be mindful. Who has spoken a lot? Who has not? How can you enlist the aid of the sturdy talkers in making room for others? How can you draw in the quiet ones? Pay attention to where you’re going as well as where you’ve been. Don’t think of yourself as yanking the group towards an end goal. Can you point the way and then follow? Can you help draw connections among various things that have already been said? At the end, can you sum up where you’ve gone together? I often like to drawn on the board to visually represent the flow of our conversation.

It should be clear from all this that my approach is as much about community building as an end in itself as it is about the actual material. That is to say—I like my students and my discussions to live out a specific kind of learning experience together using the material as a vehicle. We discuss the material too-quite deeply-but the particular manner in which we do so is as important to the learning goals as any particular message about the specific topic of conversation. When Jeremy asked me to write this post I immediately wanted to turn the question back around. How does he run a discussion, coming from history? How does Ronda’s own background as a life coach and project manager change her angle of approach? Everyone brings their own selves to running the classroom, and I think there is beauty in this diverse range of teacherly identities. I would love to hear how others take on this role and how they approach the difficult task of developing group identity, making space for other voices, and building up a collective teaching experience.

Die AG Minimaldatensatz – ein Zusammenschluss wichtiger Akteur:innen auf dem Gebiet der Digitalisierung von Kulturgut – hat die erste Vollversion der Minimaldatensatz-Empfehlung für Museen und Sammlungen veröffentlicht. Die Online-Handreichung bietet Museen und Sammlungen einen niedrigschwelligen Zugang zu einschlägigen internationalen Standards für die Erfassung und Publikation von Objektinformationen im Internet an. Die Empfehlung soll das Bewusstsein der Kulturerbeeinrichtungen für Datenqualität schärfen und dabei die FAIR– und CARE-Prinzipien – welche für eine bessere Auffindbarkeit von Objektinformationen im Internet sowie einen ethischen Umgang mit
denselben werben – in der Arbeitsweise von Museen und Sammlungen verankern. Die Empfehlung verfolgt die Vision: Daten aus Museen sind über einzelne Einrichtungen hinaus anschlussfähig, für ein möglichst breites Publikum online auffindbar und soweit ethisch und rechtlich zulässig nachnutzbar. So sollen mehr Menschen die Arbeit der Museen wahrnehmen und in Freizeit, Schule, Arbeit und Forschung davon profitieren.

Die Minimaldatensatz-Empfehlung richtet sich sowohl direkt an Museumsmitarbeitende als auch an Museumsberatungsstellen und Akteur:innen aus Fortbildung und Lehre, die in der Vermittlung von Standards für die Online-Publikation von Objektinformationen tätig sind. Zudem werden explizit Anbieter:innen von Datenbanksoftware adressiert, die die Empfehlung in ihre Softwareangebote einbauen können und so in die Lage versetzt werden sollen, eine an Standards orientierte Online-Veröffentlichung von Objektdaten technisch zu unterstützen.

Anwendungsszenarien für die Minimaldatensatz-Empfehlung sind die Veröffentlichung von Objektinformationen aus Museen in Online-Sammlungen einzelner Einrichtungen, aber auch die Bereitstellung über Kulturportale wie die Deutsche Digitale Bibliothek und Europeana sowie über Datenschnittstellen. Perspektivisch soll die Empfehlung auch die Einbindung von Objektinformationen in den Datenraum Kultur und den Common European Data Space for Cultural Heritage erleichtern.

Dank der Kompatibilität der Minimaldatensatz-Empfehlung mit dem ICOM-CIDOC-Standard LIDO können Museen ihre Objekte strukturiert kontextualisieren und anhand kontrollierter Vokabulare verlässlich und interoperabel beschreiben. Die verbesserte Datenqualität legt schließlich den Grundstein für eine den Zielen und Anforderungen von Museen entsprechende Nachnutzung durch KI-Anwendungen.

Die AG Minimaldatensatz wurde 2022 von den Fachstellen Museum und Mediathek Fotografie/Ton der Deutschen Digitalen Bibliothek (DDB) und der AG Digitalisierung der Konferenz der Museumsberatungsstellen in den Ländern (KMBL) sowie digiS Berlin initiiert. Mitglieder der AG sind Mitarbeitende bzw. Vertreter*innen des Instituts für Museumsforschung, der Fachgruppe Dokumentation im Deutschen Museumsbund (DMB), der Koordinierungsstelle für wissenschaftliche Universitätssammlungen in Deutschland, der digiCULT-Verbund eG, von museum-digital Deutschland e. V., NFDI4Culture, NFDI4Memory, NFDI4Objects, des Museums für Naturkunde Berlin und des Übersee-Museums Bremen.

Die Minimaldatensatz-Empfehlung für Museen und Sammlungen (Version 1.0) ist unter dem Link www.minimaldatensatz.de erreichbar. Sie wird auf folgender Online-Veranstaltung vorgestellt:

Museumsverband Sachsen-Anhalt und Institut für Museumsforschung
Launch der Minimaldatensatz-Empfehlung für Museen und Sammlungen (Version 1.0)
10.06.2024, 16:00–18:00 Uhr

Kontakt
Dr. Elisabeth Böhm, Museumsverband Sachsen-Anhalt
Sybille Greisinger, Landesstelle für die nichtstaatlichen Museen in Bayern
Chiara Marchini, Fachstelle Museum DDB, Institut für Museumsforschung
Dr. Domenic Städtler, Institut für Museumsforschung
info@minimaldatensatz.de