Relational Practices, Participative Organizing (Advanced Series in Management)

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ADVANCED SERIES IN MANAGEMENT

Previous Volumes: Autopoiesis in Organization Theory and Practice EDS. RODRIGO MAGALHAES AND RON SANCHEZ Organizations as Learning Systems ‘‘Living Composition’’ as an Enabling Infrastructure MARJATTA MAULA Complex Systems and Evolutionary Perspectives on Organizations: The Application of Complexity Theory to Organizations ED. EVE MITLETON-KELLY Managing Imaginary Organizations: A New Perspective on Business EDS. BO HEDBERG, PHILIPPE BAUMARD AND A. YAKHLEF Systems Perspectives on Resources, Capabilities and Management Processes EDS. JOHN MORECROFT, RON SANCHEZ AND AIME´ HEENE Tracks and Frames: The Economy of Symbolic Forms in Organizations K. SKOLDBERG

RELATIONAL PRACTICES, PARTICIPATIVE ORGANIZING

EDITED BY

CHRIS STEYAERT University of St. Gallen, Switzerland

BART VAN LOOY Katholieke Universiteit Leuven, Belgium

United Kingdom India

North America

Malaysia

China

Japan

List of Tables

Table 4.1

Monological (realism) form compared with dialogical (relational) form . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

71

Table 5.1

Realities for sustainable organizing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

96

Table 5.2

Docents’ relationships with groups/elements of relational organizing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

98

Table 8.1

A comparison of appreciating and depreciating dynamics in relational space . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

144

List of Figures

Figure 5.1

Model of relational practices.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Figure 11.1

Mapping the innovation journey in context (based on Rip & Schot, 2002). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Emerald Group Publishing Limited Howard House, Wagon Lane, Bingley BD16 1WA, UK First edition 2010 Copyright r 2010 Emerald Group Publishing Limited Reprints and permission service Contact: [email protected] No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without either the prior written permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying issued in the UK by The Copyright Licensing Agency and in the USA by The Copyright Clearance Center. No responsibility is accepted for the accuracy of information contained in the text, illustrations or advertisements. The opinions expressed in these chapters are not necessarily those of the Editor or the publisher. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN: 978-0-85724-006-4 ISSN: 1877-6361 (Series)

Acknowledgments

the critical acceptance of a heritage makes it possible to think for oneself and to invent the thought of the future, a thought for better times, a thought that refuses to submit, a thought unfaithful out of necessity Elisabeth Roudinesco, Philosophy in Turbulent Times

In acknowledgment sections, readers can get a glimpse of the many little stories that have accompanied the production of the manuscript-becoming-book. Our story is connected to the academic retirement of Prof. Dr. Rene´ Bouwen at the Katholieke Universiteit Leuven. At this occasion, a liber amicorum was offered, entitled Relationeel Organiseren (Relational Organizing), edited by Johan Hovelynck, Sven De Weerdt, and Art Dewulf (published by Lannoo Campus, Leuven). This ‘surprise’ book, written by former doctoral students and colleagues in the Flemish–Dutch network that Rene´ Bouwen participated in and inspired, concentrates on how learning and working together in and between organizations can be developed from a relational perspective. Even if Rene´ Bouwen eagerly engaged in collaboration in various local communities of practice, we realized there was a complementary story to be told that strongly shaped and directed Rene´’s academic trajectory, as he over the years teamed up with many colleagues abroad. This international focus was not in the ﬁrst place a sign of the currently so eagerly pursued internationalization, but expresses the many years of joint partnership to pioneer the development of a relational perspective in the study and practice of organization and management, something which has been reported on earlier in Hosking, Dachler, and Gergen (1995). Some 15 years later, the book — Relational Practices, Participative Organizing — offers not only honors and relates to the work of Rene´ Bouwen, but especially brings to fruition the thinking and researching of a generational community that has been passionate to reconsider and innovate the foundations of organizational research. In that sense, this book is literally a liber amicorum, which generously gives credit to, critically inherits and afﬁrmatively celebrates the joint collaboration of this collegial community of colleagues who also became friends. Also, acknowledgment sections are many times the ﬁrst things readers turn to when glancing through a newly acquired book. These sections provide readers with an intimate insight of the relational constellation within which authors have been working to ‘‘pull’’ a book through. They complement the more formal network of textual references a book draws upon and which are neatly ordered alphabetically in

xiv

Acknowledgments

the bibliography. Moreover, it is revealed that the few names that emerge on the front cover are nothing compared to the collective assemblage of numerous participants through which the book could be produced. Acknowledgments show abundantly that science is a relational practice as they provide space to show gratitude and appreciation to all those that have contributed to the book’s emergence and, typical to the genre, acknowledge that the mistakes and shortcomings are only accountable on behalf of the authors or editors. In a similar sense, we would like to point out that the shortcomings of this book have to be ascribed to the editors, despite the enthusiasm, care, and dedication of many people who have participated in this project. We would thus like to use the space of this acknowledgment to acknowledge our appreciation for a relational setting that we as editors could only feel lucky with. First of all, we want to thank the authors for their enthusiast and prompt reply to contribute to and participate in this book project. Especially in times where journal publications are the things that matter and count, little persuasion was yet needed to invest, investigate, and sum up their understanding of organizing as relational practice for this book. Also, we want to thank Ron Sanchez as series editor and Rebecca Forster as assistant commissioning editor of Emerald’s Advanced Series in Management for their invaluable support and professional guidance. At different stages of the editing process, Florian Schulz and Patrizia Hoyer (University of St. Gallen) acted as competent and witty coordinators who were not restricting themselves to this exacting task but eagerly engaged with the gist of the discussions. Patrizia’s enthusiasm and professionalism did provide the extra mile needed during the ﬁnal stages of the process. The compilation of the reference list has required many talents for attention and scrutiny: thank you to Christina Ihasz-Riedener and Bjo¨rn Mu¨ller (University St. Gallen) and Marriette Du Plessis (Katholieke Universiteit Leuven) for engaging with this detailed work. In our appreciation of attention to detail, we would also like to thank Isabelle Theys for a ﬁnal twist in layout matters. Also, we thank Alan Anderson for his competent and punctual language editing. Finally, book projects often inﬂuence if not interrupt the rhythm of everyday family life. We are grateful to Arni, Jan-Willem, Louis, and Nicole for making life sweet and spicy even when we referred sourly to the next deadline. Chris Steyaert (St. Gallen) and Bart Van Looy (Brussels) and the many other cities between Milan and Philadelphia where this book was discussed, deplored, and, after all, taken delight in.

Chapter 1

Participative Organizing as Relational Practice Chris Steyaert and Bart Van Looy

1.1

Introduction

This book focuses on the concept and role of relational practices as a way to understand, conceive, and study processes of organization, and subscribes to a processual view of organization that, since Weick’s seminal book The Social Psychology of Organizing, has turned the study of organizations into one of organizing. More than 30 years later, the ﬁeld of organizing has increasingly expanded Weick’s interpretive framework of sense making, resulting in a rich palette of conceptual frameworks that vary between such diverse processual approaches as complexity theory, phenomenology, narration, dramaturgy, ethnomethodology, discourse (analysis), practice, actor-network theory, and radical process theory (Steyaert, 2007). These various theoretical approaches draw upon and give expression to a relational turn that has transformed conceptual thinking in philosophy, literature, and social sciences, and that increasingly inscribes the study of organization within an ontology of becoming. This book centers on the concept of relational practice in order to conceptualize, ﬂesh out and give life to the process of organizing. Understanding organizing as a relational practice implies a different concept of theorizing, a practice that has been described by Shotter (1996, p. 305) as ‘‘a new way of ‘looking over’ the play of appearances unfolding before us, such that, instead of seeing the events concerned, in terms of theories of what they supposedly represent, we see them ‘‘relationally’’ — that is, we see them practically, as being embedded in a network of possible connections and relations with their surroundings’’. Such relational view of theorizing follows what Thrift (1999) has called a nonrepresentational logic in that theory is not extracting a representation of the world from the world, but ‘‘because we are slap bang in the middle of it’’, we are coconstructing it with numerous human and nonhuman others (Thrift, 1999, p. 297). Theorizing is itself a practice, a complex practice that can reﬂect upon the kind of entanglements it takes part in and the other Relational Practices, Participative Organizing Advanced Series in Management, 1–17 Copyright r 2010 Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 1877-6361/doi:10.1108/S1877-6361(2010)0000007005

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possibilities it can support. Theorizing is thus not a neutral activity, but an ethicopolitical endeavor that urges us to ask the question in which worlds we want to participate and to experiment and unfold another kind of theorizing that ﬁnds connection with the everyday, yet urgent, problems of ‘‘this’’ world. Such participatory agenda pervades the tone and style of writings in the chaptersto-come as the authors of this book engage with explaining and illustrating relational practices that can produce participative organizing. Their focus is on changing current conditions and caring for other worlds to participate in, while acknowledging the struggle with multiplicity, and the need to connect with and intervene in the multiple trajectories simultaneously at work in organizing participation and participating in organization. What then is meant by relational practice can best be explained by these common conceptual interests that connect the various contributions and chapters in this book and that — without losing sight of their singularity — can be summarized as a threefold yet intertwined set of premises this book starts from. First of all, there is a genuine focus on and desire to consider other possible worlds to participate in by considering organizational change as part of a broader process of world-making. While organizational change is often considered a discrete topic that can be isolated and studied separately from other organizational processes, the authors of this book argue that organizing is ‘‘always’’ oriented toward the simultaneously conceptual, practical, political and ethical questions of how organizational realities unfold. Organizing is about concrete and singular contexts of pervasive, encompassing, and sometimes systemic, organizational problems that are connectable with and connected to historic, social, political, ethical and environmental circumstances. Every chapter connects to and works with illustrative vignettes of the very worldly problems of organizing that color and affect our everyday lives: clean water as a right for everyone, the discrepancy in wages between CEOs and ‘‘regular’’ employees, a mother suspected of murder, respect for animals, the death of plane crash victims, jealousy among colleagues, fake communication, stereotypes between cultures, a leadership takeover, palliative care, technological policies, instant dismissal of a vice-president of a bank, and so on. Secondly, organizing is based on considering a multiplicity of perspectives, ideas, actors, contexts, and materialities. Organizing is inscribed by and kept alive by difference and diversity. While there is a tendency also here to single out diversity as a separate ﬁeld of study (what has been called diversity studies or diversity management), the book’s perspective reclaims that difference, and diversity is an integral part of understanding and conceptualizing the process of organizing (Zanoni, Janssens, Benschop, & Nkomi, 2010). Since each chapter reﬂects on how to understand organizing as enacting differences and as harnessing diversity, this book offers various conceptual proposals that draw upon a dialogical understanding of communication (Gergen, Gergen, & Barrett, 2004) but try to make the concept of dialogue more concrete or precise through such notions as, among others, communal organizing (Bouwen, in this volume), multiparty collaboration (Gray & Schruijer, in this volume), and polyvocality (Gergen & Gergen, in this volume). Dialogue is viewed as something that has to be accomplished by dealing with conﬂict, power, collusion, stereotypes, habit, and even erasure of multiplicity.

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This brings us to the third premise that informs our relational focus on organizations; theorizing and intervening are seen as interconnected relational practices. When research is considered as enactment (Law & Urry, 2004), the question is not only how it enacts worlds but also what worlds it wants to help create. While there are various ‘‘models’’ discussed throughout the book to approach this connection — such as reﬂective practice, relational action learning, practical authorship, and reﬂexivity — most authors connect theoretical elaborations with issues of taking action and generating new opportunities. For instance, in the accounts in this volume by Blantern, Gray and Schruijer, Maas et al. and Gergen and Gergen, which ‘‘report’’ on intervention situations, there is a constant movement back and forth between narration and reﬂection, and between literature sources, facilitation options and the perspectives of various stakeholders. Methods of inquiry and conceptual resources provide opportunities for experimenting and action learning that are never just tools but inventive forms for altering the kind of relational practices that can be enacted in a speciﬁc context and for changing the ways participation is organized. In our view, these intertwined premises pave the way for inquiring what we mean by participative organizing. Participative organizing is grounded in the orientation toward change (in which contexts do we wish to participate? what contexts do we want to create?), the question of multiplicity (which perspectives will be involved and how?), and ﬁnally practices of reﬂection and intervention (in what ways do we participate?). To explore these questions in depth, the book is organized in four parts, each of which underlines a core theme in the study of participative organizing as relational practice. The ﬁrst part focuses on the principles that make concrete our understanding of relational practice. A core theme is the notion that relational practice enables us to study, document, and understand the everydayness of organizing. Organizing is approachable through what de Certeau (1984) has called ‘‘the practice of everyday life,’’ in line with Wittgenstein’s adagio, ‘‘language is use.’’ This part is consequently not a sketch of organizing as a dry, abstract and ‘‘academic’’ exposition but it seeks to illustrate and reﬂect upon recognizable vignettes of everyday life by drawing on core concepts that coconstitute the ‘‘essence’’ of relational practice. In the second part, we focus on the emotionality involved in everyday practices of participative organizing. A second core theme of this book is that relational practice, even if often viewed as taking the form of a communicative or discursive practice, is embedded in and embodied by emotions. Hence, this part sets out to reconnect and expand on the understanding of the relationship between emotion and organizing, giving form to what Fineman and Gabriel(in this volume) call in their chapter an ‘‘emotionology of organizing.’’ We will demonstrate that emotion is a core dimension to understand the way volunteers participate in a nonproﬁt organization, to address how various actors relate to a fatal plane crash or to a collegial conﬂict, and to make visible the hidden deals in organizational power games. In the third part, we discuss how change is enacted through interventions by addressing organizing in the context of teaching, conferencing, consultancy, and policy. Whether interventions are enacted in classrooms, conferences, change projects

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or policy-making, reﬂexive change depends on how these contexts are critically addressed and can be turned into dialogical spaces or moments where a variety of perspectives can be included without overstepping or erasing differences. In the ﬁnal part, we introduce new ways of conceptualizing participative organizing by moving to and experimenting with the conceptual space of senses, glimpses and sounds, which indicate that participative organizing is enacted in holistic, prediscursive and polyvocal ways. We will now explain each of the four parts in more detail.

1.2

Everyday Relational Practice

The focus on relational practices — as constituting the core of social realities — is far from being a new phenomenon, since important contributions and ideas on which relationality builds can be found in a multitude of ﬁelds ranging from philosophy to literary criticism.1 Furthermore, relationality has been deepened out in the social constructionist movement, which has strongly inﬂuenced theorizing in psychology, technology, management and organization. Many of these ideas have been developed and applied in the context of organization studies and turned it into a living and heterogeneous ﬁeld of inquiry with parallel yet related streams that have recently emphasized and/or prioritized relationality, processuality, and practice.2 Drawing on this intertextual build up, the concept of relational practice is situated in the ﬁrst part of this book by linking these resources to the reﬂections of three experienced guides. Each, in his own individual style, shows the rich (inter)textuality of the meaning and relevance of the notion of relational practice in studying organizing. Whether in the style of a travelog where Rene´ Bouwen introduces readers to the innumerous communities of practice he engaged in as reﬂexive facilitator; or in the style of an oral account where Peter Dachler accomplishes a multilayered and consequent narration without referencing but yet drawing on many resources; or, in contrast, in the style of a crisp poly-textual collage as done by Chris Blantern, each time a rich plethora of textual references and illustrations is unfolded to explain the everydayness of relational practice. In this trilogy, we follow Bouwen traveling to all corners of the world where he engages with ‘‘ordinary’’ men and women. Indeed, Dachler would say that in this social universe, there are no heroes; there are only the daily things we do, as Blantern would respond. In Chapter 2, Rene´ Bouwen travels back in time to one of his ﬁrst memories — if not epiphanies — to develop his core idea: namely, that relational practices as negotiated interaction patterns and forms constitute the building blocks of 1

Important sources of inspiration include – among others – the ﬁelds of process philosophy (Bergson, 1934, 1965), pragmatism (James, 1890, 1975; Mead, 1968; Rorty, 1991), language philosophy (Wittgenstein, 1953, 1980a, 1980b, 1981, 2001), history (Foucault, 1978, 1980, 1997; de Certeau (1984)), sociology (Berger & Luckmann, 1967, Garﬁnkel, 1967), psychology (Vygotsky, 1978, 1986), Watzlawick, 1984), philosophy of science (Kuhn, 1962) and literary criticism (Bakhtin, 1981, 1984, 1986, 1993). 2 For example, Cooper (2005), Kyriakidou and O¨zbilgin (2006), Czarniawska (2008), Hernes (2008), SamraFredericks and Bargiela-Chiappini (2008), Gherardi (2006), Schatzki (2005) and Nicolini (2009).

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participative organizing processes. In order to document the sources, principles, and implications of relational practices, Bouwen remembers, and travels to, the various communities of practice he has worked with over the last 40 years in projects that lay in between experiments of integrating psychiatric ‘‘patients’’ into the everyday life of a small Belgian town called Geel and a natural resource management project or drinking water project in Ecuador developed through principles of multiparty collaboration. The many stories and examples that are evoked through his impressive traveling document the ubiquity and the pervasiveness of relational practice and allow us to shift the focus of attention between group and team contexts, conﬂict and diversity challenges, intercultural classrooms, organizational change and innovation episodes, appreciative inquiry and action research practices, interorganizational natural resource projects and peace building initiatives, the creation of a nature reserve, and so many other organizational and societal projects across the boundaries of traditional organizations. Bouwen’s understanding of relational practices is literally exempliﬁed through the many illustrative vignettes he weaves into his conceptualization, aimed at connecting and bridging what are normally separate ﬁelds of research, education and intervention. Through this, sources of relational thinking such as process philosophy (Bergson, 1934, 1965), linguistic philosophy (Wittgenstein), and various interpretive strands within sociology, are linked to how various scholars and practitioners alike experimented with relational practices as they took on collaborative research, family therapy, organizational development, and interorganizational collaborative works. Simultaneously, Bouwen’s text connects participation and reﬂection as he formulates and illustrates core principles of how interactive practices exhibiting high relational qualities are enacted through the creation of conversational spaces. These principles allow Bouwen to connect relational practices with ‘‘organizing as participation’’ or what is called ‘‘communal organizing’’: research and intervention here are simultaneous processes of engagement, oriented to generating actionable knowledge-as-participation through co-construction. Finally, Bouwen formulates how communal organizing has crucial consequences for how we are able to think about future teaching, intervention, and research as relational practices. In Chapter 3 — to further situate relational practices in organizational research — H. Peter Dachler explores relational practices as post-heroic practices by scrutinizing the individualist assumptions dominant in organizational research and by considering gender research as a means of developing a relational understanding of organizing. Dachler writes in a precise, patient, and participative way: he invites the audience into his text by adopting a nontechnical style. For Dachler, individualism — and its culturally and historically deeply ingrained and taken-for-granted understanding of the individual as a conscious, free, and active architect of his/her world — is a key obstacle that prevents organizational research from taking a full ‘‘relational turn’’ in its theorizing attempts. To make this point, Peter Dachler raises the epistemological question of what we consider ‘‘knowledge’’ to be. Knowledge is often seen as an entity that individuals possess or objects contain: knowledge becomes reiﬁed and objectiﬁed, taking abstraction from how it is constructed in language, interaction, and

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relationship, and how it is in consequence robbed of its historical, cultural, emotional, and linguistic context. Taking the example of how we know leadership, Dachler explores the stories, images, ﬁgures of speech, and common sayings, through which leadership is linguistically constructed, arriving often at a similar individualist understanding. He calls this understanding ‘‘heroic,’’ since it draws upon the hero that we know from a largely male-dominated competitive world in sports, politics, the military, and working life. This heroic subject is a pervasive ﬁgure in Western history and therefore a fundamental change will not work overnight. Such a change touches upon (questioning and altering) the forms of life through which leadership is performed and reproduced in organizations. Dachler invites us to ponder the limitations of the heroic self and to look simultaneously for other possible forms of understanding that do not locate the roots of individual behavior within the individual. Organizing and its main themes are fundamental relational processes formed in various communities of practice. Individuals are, at best, unstable effects of social processes. For instance, one’s gender is not something one has a priori but is something one does on an ongoing basis. This ‘‘doing gender’’ consists of a range of particular practices that express and form a feminine or masculine effect as we draw upon speciﬁc socially formed perceptions, discourses and micropolitical activities and as we negotiate and legitimize our gendered versions through a process of social accounting. With this performative view of gendering, it is now possible to reframe leadership through post-heroic practices such as collective performance and social negotiation. The social interactions and relational practices of which leadership can be said to consist are oriented toward change: a process of learning and developing, drawing upon diversity, and oriented toward long-term, sustainable change. To conclude the ﬁrst part, Chris Blantern, in Chapter 4, reﬂects upon his daily work of doing consulting (in the form of relational action learning), reminding himself of the various threads that produce his consulting practices. In this chapter, he produces the kind of intertext that for the most part remains implicit since we are fully engaged in the daily struggle of actualizing working life. This textual interweaving is itself a practice of relating, connecting, and associating with such contributors as Wittgenstein, Goffman, Fairclough, Latour, Gergen, and Bakhtin bringing together those who have worked on the theory of language, social interaction, and materiality. There are a number of important principles that Blantern brings to the fore with regard to knowledge making, consulting and intervening: (1) unforgetting the sociopolitical process that makes us prioritizes certain ways of speaking and categorizing, (2) language organizing our experiences and presenting a world that is stabilized, naturalized, and normalized, (3) ongoing worlds that can be interrupted in order to give prominence to reﬂection and alteration, and (4) change itself then not as a grand project but one that needs to tackle how we face the moments of our daily interactions and the subject positions we enact through ideological-discursive formulations. In the various examples of professional contexts such as law, management, and science, Blantern on each occasion documents how the expert and expert knowledge is

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used to reinforce certain realities rather than to question and alter them. As a consequence, Blantern advances a performative view of social processes that allows us to understand how participation is produced, stabilized, and difﬁcult to alter as we maintain the daily things we do. Organizing participation is not some extraordinary thing but implied in how our everyday practices exclude alternative ways of world making. This leads Blantern on to document how the kind of relational events in his own consulting practices present another kind of dialogical practice, requiring him to present himself differently as a practitioner and to invite all to participate as relational practitioners.

1.3

Emotion in Relational Practice

What links the following contributions is the strong conviction that the study of organizing processes needs to focus on how emotionality is part of and embodied in everyday relational practices. The three contributions that form the second part of this book concentrate on the everydayness of organizing revealed in the ﬁrst part and zoom in on the emotional layers in the enactment of organizational reality. At ﬁrst, an emphasis on such emotional phenomena as passion, injury or collusion dynamics may not even be surprising since organization studies has progressively extended its analysis of emotions (Fineman, 2000). What is striking, however, is that emotion is taken as central in understanding organizing processes and not as something that is given its own drawer, relatively isolated from other organizational phenomena (Fineman, 2003). Furthermore, some time ago, priority would have been given to a discursive vocabulary to conceptualize organizing as relational — read discursive — practice. While this book draws upon a discursive understanding of organizing, these chapters ensure that no such ‘‘discursive turn threatens to become a discursive retreat’’ (Cromby & Nightingale, 1999, p. 13). By analyzing the relationships in the complex of a zoo (Salipante & King, in this volume), by zooming in on the tensions after a plane crash or during collegial conﬂicts (Fineman & Gabriel, in this volume), and by uncovering the collusion dynamics during consultancy interventions (Gray & Schruijer, in this volume), these relational analyses document the emotional layers in relational practice. Emotions such as passion and desire for autonomy, injury and grievance, conﬂict and avoidance are constructed in these varieties of relationships. Finally, to accomplish this emotional unfolding of relational practices, the authors alter their study practices. Salipante and King turn to an ethnographic study to analyze a complex set of everyday relationships and their consequences for the construction of emotion, identity, and ethics. Fineman and Gabriel center their attention on the relational practice of apologizing in interpersonal and interorganizational contexts, drawing both on public and intimate data material; Gray and Schruijer base their analysis of difﬁcult-to-notice relational dynamics on bringing to the fore the kind of stories (of problems in intervention) we do not like to tell and reframe the psychodynamic theory of emotion from a relational perspective.

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In Chapter 5, Paul Salipante and Nancy Koury King go in search of alternative social forms of organizing and investigate through an ethnographical study of a nonproﬁt organization how volunteers come to participate in its everyday activities. They lead us into the fascinating and emotional world of a zoo where they follow the activities of a large group of volunteers and their voluntary actions characterized by passionate engagement, a sense of autonomy and an ethic of responsibility. While most of us know the zoo through visiting its front stage and admiring animals in their artiﬁcial settings, this study gives us an insight into the complex of relationships that make possible the organizing of a zoo and helps us deﬁne the role of volunteers in this. By analyzing the relationships of the docents with each other, with colleagues, with animal keepers, with management, with the public, and, last but not least, with the animals, Salipante and King document how sustainable organizing is based on a complex yet coherent set of relationships and relational practices that have been developed over many decades. The authors argue that if we must choose a place to start sustainable relational organizing, it should be with the engendering of passion. In Chapter 6, we move from the energy of passionate engagement to the dramatic and unpleasant emotional context of plane disasters, racial insult and emotional hurt where Stephen Fineman and Yiannis Gabriel inquire into the relational practice of apologizing and showing remorse. They document how the seemingly simple utterance of saying ‘‘sorry’’ is a complex relational performance that is at once discursive and symbolic, political and moral. Just this one word — sorry! — and the whole range of practices of apologizing and showing remorse that are associated with it, can help us to understand the politics and ethics of organizational emotionology. While we do not wish to take away the suspense of three wellnarrated, very conﬂictual episodes, readers may well be surprised by the sheer variety of organizational contexts they choose to compare and analyze, from the public event of a plane crash, to the closed walls of a union meeting, and on to the tensions in the corridors of an academic institution. To conclude the second part, the chapter by Barbara Gray and Sandra Schruijer continues the focus on the emotional embeddedness of relational practices as they turn to a psychodynamic conception to explain why multiparty collaboration often concludes without any ‘‘real’’ collaborative participation. A psychodynamic approach that they derive theoretically from a relational interpretation of a psychoanalytic approach and from open systems thinking does not take interactions and relational practices at face value but assumes that social processes are mediated subconsciously by people’s feelings, assumptions, and beliefs as they emerge from and are molded by (inter)group processes and the history of the relevant social system. The chapter by Gray and Schruijer makes an important contribution in warning us about any light or slogan-like use of the notion of multivoicedness; they call the inclusion process of different perspectives in multiparty contexts ‘‘a tall order.’’ The authors reject any kind of ‘‘hurray’’ assessment for dealing with diversity and differences in multiorganizational settings by highlighting the potential obstacles to collaboration and the inevitability of conﬂict that needs to be acknowledged by those leading or consulting in such complex collaborative interactions.

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More speciﬁcally, they argue convincingly that any attempt to integrate multiple voices requires an enduring process that must deal with the phenomenon of what they call ‘‘collusion’’; namely, the relational situation where no real differences among parties can be acknowledged and are kept under the carpet for — paradoxically enough — the sake of the collaborative process. Readers have the opportunity to follow some of the authors’ interesting, but sometimes tough, real-life experiences as they are confronted as interventionists with what they call ‘‘collusion’’ or collaborative situations where differences in interest, power or identity are not really addressed or confronted, and the group acts unconsciously with untested and partially unreal agreements and assumptions. The examples are not only valuable in coming to understand the complexity of ‘‘integrating’’ differences in a collaboration process and how sensitive and risky it can be for a facilitator to have actors in a multiparty process to reﬂect upon or be confronted with their own state of collusion, but they also help the reader appreciate how changing relational practices in the here-and-now is a necessary condition for any kind of sustainable change in a social system based on diversity and differences. The article ends with some relational practices that have the potential to be used to address collusion in multiparty collaboration in an effective way.

1.4

Intervention as Relational Practice

In the third part, we pursue four reﬂections on intervention in the different contexts of education, research, consultancy, and policy. The common theme, revealed in this part, is that relational practice reconnects research with its generative or intervention potential. Research, as relational practice, enacts worlds. This is the point that Law and Urry (2004, p. 390) made when they wrote that ‘‘social research and its methods are productive; they (help to) make social realities and social worlds. They do not simply describe the world as it is, but also enact it’’ (our italics). Research is formed through social practices that form the social world. For Law and Urry (2004), the social sciences are relational or interactive as they ‘‘participate in, reﬂect upon, and enact the social in a wide range of locations’’ (p. 392, italics in original). One of the implications, according to Law and Urry, is to pose the question that ‘‘[i]f social investigation makes worlds, then it can, in some measure, think about the worlds it wants to help to make’’ (p. 391; italics in original). Whether we want to develop generative space for learning through diversity (Fry & Hovelynck, in this volume), whether we want to alter the practice of conferencing in a multivoiced manner (Ra¨sa¨nen, in this volume), whether we want to set up a multiparty facilitation (Maas et al., in this volume), or whether we want to consider the contingencies of (technological) policy-making (Rip, in this volume), change is dependent on how relational practices of researching, reﬂecting, and intervening are (re)conceived. This part undertakes an active search for new, inventive forms of intervention that can alter the process of organizing as diversity and difference are inscribed.

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In Chapter 8, Ronald Fry and Johan Hovelynck ask the question how to understand learning contexts as relational practices. They introduce us to how, in their organizational development classroom, generative relational spaces are developed as a diversity of participants begins to learn and work together. Fry and Hovelynck (pursuing a similar question to Gray and Schruijer) are interested in how communities of practice can beneﬁt from differences rather than enact them as obstacles; this then leads on to looking into how relational spaces make it possible for group or community members to appreciate that differences are constructed in interaction rather than them governing our interactions as a priori stereotypical categories. Fry and Hovelynck, drawing simultaneously on the philosophical work of Arendt and Habermas and the empirical research by Losada, undertake an in-depth exploration of the concept of relational space. Their understanding of a generative relational space is one characterized by an appreciative dynamic, where group members (learn to) balance inquiry and advocacy, alternate self and other dialogic reﬂections, and engage abundantly in afﬁrmative conversational utterances. These insights into the affectivity of a relational space — and the kind of appreciative dynamic that accords with it — is illustrated in a telling account of their multicultural classroom where it becomes clear how participants struggle with, and learn to engage in, different kinds of relational practice that are more and more compatible with what they call ‘‘a generative relational space.’’ This actualization of a ‘‘different’’ relational space also highlights the fact that differences are constituted as community members engage in exploration, questioning, and experimentation rather than in a priori us-versus-them differences. In their conclusion, Fry and Hovelynck suggest that the privileging of generative images and the practice of questioning constitute an appreciative dynamic that can develop into a generative relational space, where participants move from stereotyping toward appreciating difference. In Chapter 9, we move from classroom contexts to explore academic conferences as potentially relational practices. The essay by Keijo Ra¨sa¨nen is a beautiful example of persistent reﬂexivity in which he ‘‘revisits’’ a conference he had once participated in and about which he had felt disappointment; he carefully develops a different account of the event through drawing on the practical turn in the organizational literature and on the work of Alisdair MacIntyre. His concern, and also his explicit purpose, is to understand how academic practices that the author considers urgent — given that the space for autonomy, diversity, and self-governance in universities seem to be constantly shrinking — can be renewed. In that sense, his text tries to intervene in the current context of the ‘‘McDonaldization’’ of academic work and so-called enterprising universities by raising a discussion that addresses the moral effects of one’s daily (academic) work and that might thereby instigate a ‘‘MacIntyrization’’ of university life. While this perspective is critical, the chapter tries to be equally generative by exploring how new practices of relating can eventually form what he calls, along with MacIntyre, a new academic praxis, and thus complement critique with inventive action. To develop his reinterpretation of how the conference struggled with engaging with different practices from a practice-based understanding of organizing, Ra¨sa¨nen plays

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with the differences and connections between practicalities, practices, practice and praxis, interweaving the theoretical positions of de Certeau, Bourdieu, Schatzki, and MacIntyre. Although the conference did not meet all expectations as intentions to run a different conference were from time to time literally overrun by the routine conferencing approach adopted by the participants, Ra¨sa¨nen’s emphasis on a practice-based understanding makes clear that changing academic work is a laborious task that simultaneously involves the tactical, political, and moral concerns of practitioners. The relational practices that partially constitute an emerging academic practice as suggested by Ra¨sa¨nen require relational sensitivity, aesthetical, and embodied qualities, integration of activities, and self-reﬂexive and autonomous attempts at renewal. In Chapter 10, Alexander Maas, Johannes Stravers, and Frans Baar provide an in-depth insight into the intricacies of change interventions as they narrate and reﬂect upon what is called ‘‘the moments of change’’ through which they lived during the change process in the context of palliative care services. Through their ‘‘thick’’ descriptions and reﬂections, readers can develop an understanding of the principles of intervention as a form of knowledge-as-inquiry and what these imply for the relational practices of not only facilitators but also all those involved. In the context of an aging population, the need to invent and implement new models of palliative care services and of cure by rethinking and reconnecting the social, medical, spatial, and managerial dimensions requires a different model of collaboration and intervention. In a rich and detailed retrospective analysis of the relational practices that constitute this change process of reinventing care services, we can follow the transformation of intervention from a closed, targeted, and top-down process to an open (but not free) process of inquiry where there is a constant quest to include and mobilize more perspectives and participants and to vary contexts and relationships. Instead of a general theory of change, an interwoven set of ﬁve trajectories is offered in contextualized meshwork of stories and reﬂections. Intervention as inquiry forms a relational practice of reﬂexivity which is enacted through (1) questioning taken-for-granted actions by involving multiple researchers and acknowledging their different views, (2) searching for instances of nonreﬂexivity and seeking opportunities for deconstruction when participants stick to, and seem to be attached to, one speciﬁc understanding of their reality, (3) enriching the situation by opting for plural diagnostics and by multiplying contexts and stakeholders, (4) challenging the various stakeholders and exploring new ways of connecting, energizing, and negotiating, and (5) connecting to the outside through engaging with external networks. Reﬂexivity is not a cognitive activity but forms an organizing process through varying contexts, confronting preferred interpretations and changing relationships. Intervention is thus presented as a relational practice of inquiry (where it is usually distinguished from research) through which social energy is mobilized and new organizational realities emerge. After exploring intervention in classrooms, an academic conference, and consultancy in a nonproﬁt organization, we move, in Chapter 11, on to the policy intervention as a negotiation and modulation process. A reﬂection on the publication of Nelson and Winter — ‘‘a useful theory of innovation’’ — published more than

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30 years ago forms the starting point for Arie Rip to develop an impressive picture of technological innovation as an unfolding multilayered, multiactor process. Increasing our understanding of these processes is instrumental for modiﬁcation or translation, resulting in trajectories of a more desirable nature. Translations, however, are too often approached from the perspective of a modernist or mere instrumental philosophy, as witnessed by the quest for approaches allowing policy makers (or ‘‘managers’’) ‘‘to make a difference, to exert inﬂuence.’’ According to Rip, in a nonlinear world where multiactor interactions and their — sometimes unpredictable — outcomes determine what happens, such an approach will by deﬁnition be unproductive. Hence, instead of adhering to steering centrally — from a position of strength or authority — the acknowledgement of mutual translations becomes a crucial element in the process model advanced: ‘‘The policy actor is one of the actors — no more, no less.’’ Evolutionary or relational approaches are essential to further increase our understanding of these processes as they emphasize the contingent character of both translations and — temporary — stabilizations. Expanding on these building blocks, a stage model is being developed in which both the introduction of novelty, selection, and consecutive variation are portrayed as endogenous processes, characterized by dilemmas or even ‘‘trilemmas.’’

1.5

Prospecting Participative Organizing

In the fourth part of this book, we move to an area of thinking and writing that seeks to address itself to the ‘‘other’’ in relational practices. In all three chapters, the authors build on the linguistic turn but do not limit themselves to the study of discourse that has dominated organizational studies in recent years. While the second part explored the emotional layer of relational practices, this part reconsiders the overall relationship between discourse, body, and practice and inquires into relational practice as embodied performance. Inspired by such process thinkers as Bergson and Bakhtin, the authors seek to deliver a different stance to the notion of relational practice by zooming out from text and vision and zooming in on other senses (Nicolini, 2009). What ‘‘happens’’ in these three chapters is that the understanding of relationality forces organizational scholars to depart from their focus on text and vision, and to move instead to much less obvious conceptual spaces as a study of the sensorium and sound changes (Hosking), of prediscursive glimpses and new beginnings (Shotter), and of voice and polyvocal potentials (Gergen and Gergen). Poised between politics and aesthetics, a different understanding of participation emerges as a holistic sense of participation. Chapter 12 is a real tour de force where Dian Hosking not only undertakes a critical literature review of how relational processes have traditionally been conceived but also suggests a bold, alternative conception of a relational theory of change in which change work practices are seen as hovering between politics and aesthetics. Hosking distinguishes between three discourses of relations — namely, subject–object

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relations, revised subject–object relations, and critical–processual relations. The subject–object construction of relations, situated within objectivism and the received view of science, focuses on a disembodied relation between independently existing entities, characterized by an active–passive binary where an active subject gains control over a passive object and where change comes from the outside. The revised subject–object construction of relations, softening the hard subject–object differentiations in the wake of postpositivism and constructivism (and its variations), is based on a critical realist epistemology that centers on real, yet imperfectly knowable, objects. Change is understood as the movement from one stable state to another, ‘‘interrupted’’ by resistance to change and handled through asymmetrical power relationships. After this review, Hosking continues to develop a third version that breaks with subject–object relations and takes instead a critical relational processual orientation. Enacted in local–cultural–historical forms of life, relations are seen as processes ‘‘going on’’ in interacting where both human and nonhuman actants are involved and where many simultaneous forms (of interaction) contribute to ongoing (re)constructions of reality. Change is situated within a weak ontology of becoming, which sees stability as a temporary achievement and a pattern of repeated reconstructions, and change as a reconstruction of previously stable patterns. To acknowledge change work as a process from within, Hosking gives special emphasis to a changed aesthetic where the role of all senses is inscribed in how we can ‘‘do’’ our lives through different but equal relations. This changed aesthetic questions the strong link that exists between language and vision and breaks with the dominant view of communication based on visualism and visual metaphors. Instead, Hosking suggests a return to a holistic sense of participation based on amplifying our sensitivity to the oral/aural and to listening because the qualities of relational processes resound best in the qualities of sound, which involves us in the here and now, situates us in the middle of actuality, and brings us the lived experience of time or what Bergson called la dure´e. Hosking’s alternative conception of change is radical since it makes a clear caesura between change work based on ‘‘logos’’ and change work based on what Heidegger called ‘‘legein.’’ While the former often works with saying without listening, the latter sees listening as a form of gathering, as giving shelter and coming together as a presence so that others can be heard. In a second forward-looking essay, John Shotter investigates in Chapter 13 the question of how collaborative processes can be set out for creative and new beginnings when different groups of people with incommensurable perspectives have reached a stalemate or when scope for congenial collaboration has been jeopardized. Shotter raises a very intriguing issue in organizational theory; namely, how people with different understandings and frames can collaborate in a mode where their collaboration brings along a new common-sense-in-the making — a question which has been prepared in earlier chapters by Bouwen, Gray & Schruijer, and Fry & Hovelynck — without heading for compromise, conﬂict or anything less than synergetic newness. His question — how can uniquely new beginnings be understood and initiated? — is developed by proposing a Bakhtinian dialogicality practiced in relational–responsive meetings. Such meetings arise from the fact that people respond

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(and can hardly prevent themselves) in a spontaneously responsive way to events and to each other. The dialogical contains a seeming strangeness as our meetings and interactions form in-between or transitional spaces where listeners and speakers — in a responsive interplay — continually grasp and alter each other’s everyday understandings as they creatively and responsively continue and add to each other’s utterances. The dialogical is thus a joint creation based on creating distinctive changes and transitional understandings as people sense the real presences of each ‘‘other’’ and their otherness. Shotter speaks of these meetings as agentic events, where we are able to relate to the otherness, grasping the unique grammar of a word as it is used in a situated utterance and rejoining it with a new beginning. In contrast to a debate where we would reply with a known and established language game, we might here — in the pause, in the hesitation, in a glimpse, in such transition that moves, strikes or arrests us — reply spontaneously with a new beginning, a prelinguistic action, a whisper that in Wittgenstein terms might prompt a new language game. In that wavering or precursor world, as we hear and feel action guiding anticipations, we may be able to pursue these with unique replies rather than with expected ‘‘replications.’’ The beginning of a new language game has a primordial nature and its dialogical dynamics can be typiﬁed as spontaneous, unrepeatable, uniquely creative, intermingled, chiasmic, temporal, and vectored. Relational responsive practices take place in the irreversible ﬂow of time or what Bergson called ‘‘duration,’’ in the in-between or third space of the dialogical. In the ﬁnal chapter, Kenneth and Mary Gergen undertake a little experiment to practice what they try to conceptualize — namely, the notion of polyvocal organizing. With this notion, they seek to identify a core challenge of participative organizing; namely, avoiding differences being diminished or even erased by habitual, ritualized or standardized organizing practices. The Gergens indeed (fore)see a potential sea change in organizational life where organizing is constituted through its collaborative processes and relational practices. In conceiving of workplace contexts as uniquely crafted amalgams of concepts and practices, they suggest the notion of polyvocal organizing, which they explore performatively in a dialogical ‘‘pas de deux’’ between ‘‘Ken’’ and ‘‘Mary,’’ and which they enrich with examples from their own lives. Polyvocality resonates well with polyphony, suggesting how multiple and different languages, voices and intonations are continuously and sensitively interwoven. Ken and Mary Gergen are particularly interested in how the multivoiced potential of the polyvocal person becomes inscribed within and/or erased from the organizing process. Polyvocal persons are always enacted through relational practices, which can leave residues that form a myriad of unrelated and contradictory potentials waiting in the wings to be reintroduced in later embodied interactions. The organizing process can then be understood as the critical process where polyvocal repertoires become interwoven, molded but also absorbed, extinguished in standard or ritualized organizational practices. Polyvocality is especially valuable in meeting specialized challenges as an unﬁxed mission of the organization, environmental ﬂuctuation and organizational conﬂict. However, the authors suggest and

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demonstrate that polyvocal practices have a more general enriching and developmental potential for creating organizational well-being.

1.6

Conclusion

Participative organizing in this book has been indirectly investigated as we explored and applied the notion of relational practice in various, contemporary contexts of organizing. Participation is often reduced to an instrumental notion, as it is subordinated to a logic of performance and proﬁt, or presented as a package of rhetorical one-liners. In response, we approached participation as that which appears in the rearview mirror as we centered and focused upon relational practices of organizing and scrutinized its emerging effects of inclusion and exclusion. Organizing is not participative by nature and participative organizing, therefore, does not imply a tautology. Starting from the initial premises — a focus on becoming and change, the inscription of multiplicity and the interconnection between theorizing and intervening — it becomes now feasible to formulate various corollaries that emerged from the connections between the different chapters. We believe these corollaries also provide an outlook for how the focus on participative organizing is at the edge of current and future developments in organizational studies. First, participative organizing oriented at social change is an ongoing accomplishment that has to be situated on the level of everyday, relational practices. Relational practice attempts to situate everyday problems of organizing not as isolated episodes but as the complex and multidimensional effect of how subjectivities, materialities, discourses and bodies become connected and disconnected. Conceptually, this corollary can be aligned with the current investments in such (parallel) theoretical movements that have come in the wake of the relational turn, such as nonrepresentational theory (Thrift, 2008), practice theory (Gherardi, 2006; Miettinen, Samra-Fredericks & Yanow, 2009) and actor–network theory (Latour, 2005, Czarniawska & Hernes, 2005). Moving from methodological individualism to relationality, the focus is oriented at understanding and conceptualizing the depth and width of the notion of practice. This book brings forward a rich repertoire of understandings of the dynamics of practice, which by drawing upon and connecting various conceptual stances, point at the embodied (Bouwen), gendered (Dachler), ideological (Blantern), moral (Ra¨sa¨nen), sustainable (Salipante & Koury King), normative (Fry & Hovelynck), performative (Fineman & Gabriel), unconscious (Gray & Schruijer), contingent (Rip), reﬂective (Maas et al.), aesthetic (Hosking), prelinguistic (Shotter), and multivoiced (Gergen & Gergen) nature of practice. What these attempts have in common is that practices are ‘‘productive concatenations that have been constructed out of all manner of resources and which provide the basic intelligibility of the world: they are not therefore the properties of actors but of the practices themselves’’ (Thrift, 2008, p. 8). Second, acknowledging and drawing upon such authors as Bergson, Bakhtin or Whitehead, participative organizing works from and with the multiplicity inherent in

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processes of becoming. The ongoing concern is to reﬂect upon and experiment with how the implied diversity can provide the potential for deﬁning and redeﬁning realities. Participative organizing looks at how boundaries are deﬁned and/or can be reopened, and, as a consequence, how relational practices then might result in effects of a more inclusive nature. However, inclusion is not taken light-heartedly. In this respect, a second corollary can be formulated that states that participative organizing as an open-ended process needs to connect with the stabilizations and limitations that our cultural, social, and political situatedness brings along. We need always to understand how to overcome that our wings to undertake something new or different might have been tied or even clipped. The various studies, stories, and vignettes that have illustrated the challenge of accommodating and inscribing multiplicity into the process of organizing, consequently, do not underestimate the difﬁculties in changing and creating different organizational life worlds. We are pointed at conditions of nonreﬂexivity (Blantern, Ra¨sa¨nen, Maas et al., Gergen & Gergen, in this volume) or at situations of collusion or evasion (Gray & Schruijer, Fineman & Gabriel, in this volume) as much as that we are instigated to undertake interventions that follow appreciative inquiry (Fry & Hovelynck, in this volume), relational action learning (Blantern, in this volume), or critical inquiry (Maas et al., in this volume). Interventions thus draw simultaneously upon critical reﬂexivity, active experimentation and creative variation to open up for harnessing diversity. This corollary coincides with current pleas for combining deconstructive and reconstructive reﬂexivity (Alvesson, Hardy, & Harley, 2008) and to underline afﬁrmative stances in critical and deconstructionist approaches (Dey & Steyaert, 2007). Third, the relational practices of everyday (organizational) life are strongly entangled with emotional and aesthetical processes as we discussed, respectively, in Part Two and Part Four. Hence, our next corollary that states that the thinking of organizing as ‘‘movement and motion cannot be done without considering e-motion’’ (Thrift, 2004, p. 60). From Part Three, it emerges that the study of emotion and affect can no longer be considered the ugly stepchild in organizational research. The tensions between inclusion and exclusion, between monolog and dialogue, between majority and minorities cannot be solely understood as a discursive struggle but have here also been understood in the interaction between power and passion (Fineman, 2007). This corollary thus connects to the increasing interest for emotion as a pervasive feature of organizing processes, as illustrated by such notions as the emotional organization (Fineman, 2007) and the affective corporation (Thrift, 2008). Participation is enacted through an emotional performance, which is permeated by contagious passions (cf. Salipante & Koury King, in this volume), strong emotions (cf. Fineman and Gabriel, in this volume) and unconscious affects (cf. Gray & Schruijer, in this volume). In Part Four, we have extended this inquiry of the emotional into connecting it with the embodied, aesthetical, and prelinguistic dimensions as essential or primordial (cf. Shotter, in this volume) inscriptions of organizing processes. This corollary of participative organizing not only situates the agenda of organizational theory as being poised between politics and aesthetics (cf. Hosking, in this volume) but challenges

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how the social so far has been understood in organizational theory as we (re)open for the prediscursive and preindividual, the nonhuman and material, the affective and aesthetic of organizing. Approaching the affective and aesthetic entanglements of everyday practices opens up for ‘‘new ecologies of belonging’’ which simultaneously addresses our corporeal vulnerability (Thrift, 2008) as well as our reciprocating and creative responsiveness (cf. Hosking, Shotter, in this volume). In a modest way, we believe that the combination of these three corollaries of participative organizing — as an everyday, complex accomplishment, as poised between intervention and invention, and as an affective and aesthetic ecology of belonging and becoming — can give a different outlook for how the practice of organizing and the organizing of practice can be accomplished in the years to come.

Chapter 2

‘‘Relational Practices’’ for Generative Communal Organizing: Traveling Between Geel and Ecuador Rene´ Bouwen

2.1

A ‘‘Relational Practice’’ Perspective

What if we were to take an explicit relational perspective on organizing? What if we put our organizational conversations and interactive practices right in the middle of our scholarly focus on organizations? In this contribution, I wish to document how the concept of ‘‘relational practices’’ can be formulated as a generative approach to organizing in emergent and multiplex organizational contexts. Starting from the main concern of developing ‘‘actionable knowledge’’ about organizing, I will compare and contrast a relational constructionist approach with a mere instrumental approach to organizing. Beyond the purposive coordination of the means to attain intended goals, organizing will be considered as an essentially relational activity. Actors acknowledge mutually meaningful contributions and, at the same time, mutually enact organizational membership through joint engagement in ‘‘relational practices.’’ Relational organizing is as much a goal in itself as a means to an end. ‘‘Relational practices’’ are proposed as a generative metaphor for looking at organizing processes and for complementing the discourse of ‘‘effectiveness,’’ ‘‘well-intended self-interest,’’ ‘‘competitive advantage,’’ ‘‘return on investment,’’ and ‘‘performance’’ metaphors drawn from the dominant thinking on organizations. In management thinking, it is the accepted wisdom to consider relational processes as mainly economic exchange transactions among the actors, as in agency theory. By using the concept of ‘‘relational practices,’’ we seek to broaden the meaning of these managerial and organizational practices, and rename the entire repertoire of interactions by emphasizing the relational aspects.

Relational Practices, Participative Organizing Advanced Series in Management, 21–39 Copyright r 2010 Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 1877-6361/doi:10.1108/S1877-6361(2010)0000007006

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A ‘‘relational practice’’ is any communicative or task-oriented interaction among organizational actors, exchanging goods or services, while positioning each other in a mutually inclusive relationship as members of a living community. The brief account that follows illustrates the taking of a ‘‘relational practice’’ perspective. Policy makers, international scholars, and grass-root workers from different conﬂict areas in the world meet in a workshop on ‘‘informal peace-building leadership.’’ Rather than engaging in intellectual discussion, they participate in mutual interviews to exchange stories about ‘‘breakthrough experiences in conﬂict interventions.’’ They share impressive and very vivid stories: acting as facilitator in a reconciliation ceremony between two ethnic groups; setting up a training session on human rights for staff members of the army and for local militant groups; running informal information networks to facilitate communication between local observers in the ﬁeld on violence against civilians; and extending this link to policy-making headquarters in Geneva and Washington. Participants tell, and listen to, stories that feature an enormous diversity but they do so with the essential characteristic of concrete relational engagement to overcome barriers of distrust, misperception, hate, and miscommunication. The storytelling itself creates strong mutual recognition and reinforces engagement. People become aware of their own theories of practice, and they engage in designing innovative work forms to build new transitional spaces for peace ‘‘growing.’’ The storytelling itself has the quality of a relational practice and, by engaging in it, participants evoke and recreate relational practices in the ﬁeld that engage actors in new ways and reposition them as active agents and recipients. This example concerns a speciﬁc kind of conference on peacemaking but any form of group work or organizational conversation can be approached from a relational practice perspective, as I will seek to illustrate throughout the text. Relational practices do indeed take a broad diversity of conversational forms, mostly mediated through joint efforts to secure task completion or context-directed action. In this text, I am focusing on the quality of these relational practices to accomplish the demands of the organizational task. What kind of quality of relational practices makes it possible to deal with differences in the perspectives of actors, to create common ground in a diversity of issue deﬁnitions, to structure different levels and facets of relationships, to set boundaries, and to offer sustainable membership to all interested parties? In my view, the crucial qualities are the level of reciprocity, the scope for mutual testing and confronting, the openness and directness of expression leading to co-ownership, the opportunity to mutually reward, and a learning potential for lived interdependence. Relational practices are the negotiated interaction patterns and forms that constitute the building blocks of organizing processes. I will provide illustrations from my experience in a variety of contexts over my professional career. Focusing on ‘‘relational practices’’ can direct the attention of actors to new possibilities and can integrate the contributions of scholars and practitioners into ‘‘actionable knowledge’’ about organizing.

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Some Sources of Inspiration on Relational Thinking

The ‘‘linguistic turn’’ positioned every element of knowing and understanding as a language game, depending on the actors and their contexts. It is the making of the world in text and context and the doing through conversations that has become the vehicle for knowledge activities (Schroeder, 2001). Some philosophers in particular have emphasized the social and dialogical nature of human existence. Emmanuel Levinas and Martin Buber (Buber, 1958) see ‘‘the Other,’’ and especially ‘‘the face of the Other,’’ as the ultimate invitation to relational existence. Thinking in terms of processes rather than entities has been speciﬁcally developed in the philosophies of Bergson and Whitehead. Similarly, in the social sciences, there is an emergent theorizing from phenomenology, symbolic interactionism, systems thinking in communication and many other trends, which acknowledge that social reality is constructed through interaction and that knowledge can be conceived as an essentially relational process among the actors involved (Hosking, Dachler, & Gergen, 1995). Over recent years, the conversational nature (Shotter, 1993b) of relational work and the emphasis on practices (Gergen & Hosking, 2006) in research and in day-to-day activities is being developed by a growing community of scholars. Research considered as a relational practice has been giving way to entirely new possibilities for scholarly engagement in appreciative (Cooperrider, Withney, & Stavros, 2004) and collaborative approaches (Reason, 1994). Most of this work is strongly linked to communities of practitioners; in particular, family therapy, organizational development and interorganizational collaborative work have been inﬂuenced by these ideas (Bouwen & Taillieu, 2004). The relational perspective challenges researchers to reﬂect on the relational qualities of their research practices. Undertaking research is also to engage in relational work but it is often limited to a distant and instrumental view. The processes studied, and also the research processes themselves, are conﬁned to data-creating and data-handling practices, while the relational practice with clients or research subjects remains implicit and remote.

2.3

Encountering Relational Practices

Why is it that so much social science knowledge is unused, overlooked, or considered of no relevance in social settings dealing with concrete issues? Why is it so difﬁcult in contexts of change and development ‘‘to break the code of change?’’ (Beer & Nohria, 2000). Much of this social science knowledge is stored in scientiﬁc articles and in handbooks studied by novice practitioners; yet, they are not always able to extract from these knowledge bases usable and ‘‘actionable’’ knowledge. At the same time, we have observed that much skillful practice and action is executed by people who have only an insider’s understanding or implicit knowledge of social change contexts. Their actionable knowledge seems to be inscribed in the ongoing practices they use

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with each other but, in the main, these practitioners do not use an explicit body of knowledge to guide their relational practices. Here is a striking example of such implicitly embedded relational practices used to deal with the deviant behavior of mentally ill people in a community practice of family care. Back in 1966, I had the opportunity to undertake participant observation and write biographies, as my ﬁrst professional job, in a multidisciplinary and international study project about the family care system of mentally ill people in Geel, my hometown, under the supervision of the American anthropologist, Leo Srole, from Columbia University. Geel, a small rural town in the north of Belgium, has a centuries-long tradition (since the 11th century probably) of family care of psychiatric patients in local families. The tradition stems from the providing of hospitality to pilgrims coming to Geel to worship Saint Dymphna for mental illnesses. As an inhabitant of Geel, this situation was ‘‘commonplace’’ for me. Being asked to become an observer and reporter to answer the interested questions of researchers put me in a position to reﬂect on the complexity of practices Geelians used to interact with psychiatric patients so that these people could become members of both family and community. What is considered deviant behavior — so discordant and intolerable that the home family could no longer cope with it — is accepted by Geelians. They know how to involve such patients in activities in their homes, farms, markets, pubs, churches, streets, and many other community situations. Today, we would say they have the ‘‘social capital’’ to deal with all kinds of deviant behavior. The research task the anthropologist gave me was to describe the kind of interactions that patients and Geelians engage in and how boundaries and interaction spaces were set. It was very difﬁcult to draw general conclusions. Caregivers did not control deviant behavior directly but their actions were guided by the principle of providing tasks and roles that were feasible. Most patients were given a distinctive kind of role, somewhat on the fringe of adulthood or as a child growing up. This attitude and capacity on the part of Geelians is very implicit and passed on from generation to generation by carer families. People who move to Geel from outside are not inclined to have patients. What follows is a typical — and for outsiders and my supervisor, very humorous — interaction event located in a church. Felix is a tall middle-aged patient who sits among the schoolboys in the nave of the church during high mass on Sunday. The parish dean’s sermon lasts far too long for all those present; the schoolboys become impatient but, under the close supervision of their teacher, they remain subdued. Suddenly Felix gets up out of his chair and slowly stretches his arms high into the air and sits down again. The schoolboys are unaffected by Felix’s gestures but the supervising teacher, a newcomer to Geel, cannot contain her audible laughter. All together the boys turn round to gape at the teacher, who goes red with embarrassment for being the only ‘‘deviant.’’ This illustration is a vivid reminder that the meaning of an activity is to be found in the patterns of lived relationships. By interacting, people position themselves and others in a speciﬁc way. In so doing, they exchange meaning depending on the relationships experienced through the practices shared in particular contexts. The schoolboys relate to Felix as Geelians dealing with patient behavior in their

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‘‘traditional’’ and tolerant way. The supervising teacher is struck by Felix’s daring spontaneity in expressing his impatience in full view of the priest. Looking back on this Geelian experience from a ‘‘relational practice’’ perspective, it is very clear that the meaning of the situation, and the type of membership that grows out of that context, is socially constructed among the actors in the here and now through participation in a particular community of practice. Actors complement each other’s activity in shaping meaningful episodes. The practice and the quality of the relationship are enacted simultaneously. A researcher’s perspective could identify many ‘‘variables’’ to describe this particular context and to make interpretations, but it is only by looking at the joint practices and interaction patterns that the ‘‘meaning-making’’ among the actors can be described and understood. To derive ‘‘actionable knowledge’’ from that context is very challenging since there is no place like Geel in the entire world where family care for psychiatric patients is provided. The narratives of the joint practices were the most important output in this study. For me, it was my ﬁrst experience of studying knowledge in context. During academic training in psychology, the emphasis was mostly on the outsider’s perspective at a distance. This illustration makes very clear the difference between academic knowledge and actionable knowledge. Academic knowledge is mostly distanced, generalized, and decontextualized. It has a major difﬁculty in informing skilled action in context. Actionable knowledge is embedded in relational practices that are enacted among the key actors involved, building on existing meanings and memberships in actual contexts. About four decades later, I am involved in rural natural resource development projects in the southern highlands of the Ecuadorian Andes. Bioengineers and social scientists from the University of Cuenca in Ecuador and the University of Leuven in Belgium co-facilitate local community projects dealing with soil conservation, soil fertility, and cultivation methods — in particular, methods of plowing on slope land where there is a major problem of erosion. In one community, close collaboration has been established among the local heads of the villages, a local agricultural school and an indigenous nongovernmental organization. The engineers, in close collaboration with local facilitators, are working with demonstration ﬁelds and simulations of plowing in experimental sandboxes. Farmers, assisted by young students from the local agriculture school, discuss with the technicians their experiences and problems in plowing those difﬁcult slope lands. They talk about the occurrence of erosion and fertility problems and discover new methods of fertilization and soil conservation. A remarkable event occurred when the farmers started to speak their local language Quichua (the European coordinator of the project showed a deep interest in learning this language) instead of Spanish. The farmers have many more words in Quichua to distinguish different types and qualities of soil; they have different words for soil that is suitable for wood, grass, or farming land, taking into account the slope and speciﬁc soil characteristics. This ancestral knowledge seems never to have been translated into Spanish but it still remains very much a part of their practice. This experience contrasts with another irrigation project where water engineers had been developing irrigation pipes for slope land. Here, the farmers could only be persuaded to use the pipes if they were given special ﬁnancial support. In this project,

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the technology had not been developed jointly but had come straight out of the irrigation laboratory. After the experimental period came to an end, the farmers reverted to their existing practices of spraying the land. The relational practice perspective directs our attention to ‘‘who is included and how?’’ and ‘‘who is excluded through what kind of activity?’’ The quality of interaction among the actors has a direct connection with the kind of activity they establish with each other. Engineers intending to bring ‘‘new developments’’ can do this to the extent that they engage with the other actors in reciprocal and lasting relational practices. If one party pushes too hard and proposes too many one-sided practices, then the consequences in terms of hesitation and possible rejection are very evident. In fact, these relational practices offer two main opportunities for the actors. They give the actors the scope to be active and to engage in some activity — and by engaging, they actualize at the same time their much-desired membership.

2.4

Principles of Relational Practices

A relational understanding of organizational life focuses on micro-social processes — the interchange among persons in relationships — and the broader networks of relationships they inhabit. When considered in relational terms, a person’s problems are not his or hers alone. With a relational intelligibility in place, we can shift our attention to ‘‘what transpires between people, not what is contained within them’’ (McNamee, 1998, p. 102). It is a shift from what is ‘‘between the ears’’ of people to what goes on ‘‘between the noses.’’ What are some of the essential features of what we understand by ‘‘a relational practice’’ that constitutes and enacts organizational processes? We wish to illustrate three main features that characterize the essence of what relational practices do in organizational contexts: they focus essentially (1) on interaction and processes of interaction beyond a mainly individual focus, (2) they draw attention to the quality of these interactions, and (3) they facilitate the creation of conversational spaces. In work and organizational psychology, individualized problem deﬁnitions about work issues in organizations are very often used. Contexts of conﬂict or health are framed easily in terms of individually experienced stress or well-being issues; in labor relations, there is a growing tendency to use ‘‘individualized’’ problem deﬁnitions. The availability of an individual health paradigm, an existing questionnaire methodology, and a widespread social demand to localize work-relations issues at the individual level has helped to foster this individualization phenomenon. Through the quality of their research practices, work and organizational psychology researchers often contribute to this individualization and, in so doing, make these problems virtually insoluble. From a relational perspective, these diagnosed issues can be redeﬁned and, by using the language of ‘‘relational practice,’’ these problem deﬁnitions can be ‘‘brought into the relationship again.’’ The ‘‘relational practice’’ perspective reintroduces the essential relational quality that underlies and constitutes these so-called individual

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problems. Professionals can become aware of the relational qualities they enact through the research and consulting interventions they make (Bouwen, 1991). Social processes such as collaboration, leadership, conﬂict, negotiation, and trust are seen as co-constructed discursive practices (Dewulf et al., 2008). Research itself, and all the efforts expended in getting to grips with these processes, can be viewed as the practices of scholars or practitioners to join the ongoing organizational practices of the main actors. Second, a ‘‘relational practice’’ perspective draws attention to the quality of the relationships that are enacted in the process. A relational practice is any interactive project or exchange between at least two actors; it has a consequence for the relationship, and it has a perceivable outcome. Concrete and simple examples of a relational practice are: a dance, a jazz improvisation, an act in improvised theater, a spontaneous celebration, an open interview, or a good conversation. Interactions with a negative outcome (a ﬁght, an aggressive act, a breakdown in contact) are also relational practices but we wish especially to draw attention to the ‘‘potential quality’’ of the relational exchange and the potential effect on the social context, the learning outcome, and the organizational environment enacted by that practice. All interactive moments have the potential to create high relational qualities. To characterize the quality of a relational practice, one can look into the following concrete and observable characteristics, which draw partly upon Argyris and Scho¨n’s organizational learning approach (1978):

The extent of reciprocity in the actors’ contributions: is there a two-sided involvement and mutual responsiveness between the actors? Open, concrete, and personal communication: is the communication illustrative of a concrete and personalized way of interacting? Mutually testable and contradictable statements: can viewpoints be tested and critically examined so that shortcomings can be detected and corrected? Extent of synergy in competence, power, expertise, and social status: are the practices able to bridge or embody these social differences among actors in a constructive or generative way?

Interactive practices that, in large measure, possess these kinds of qualities can foster the creation of organizational work forms that are sustainable and that lead to high involvement and systemic vitality and resilience — and over the long term. This is expressed through the following emerging qualities:

A shared ownership of the task or project: actors can develop and experience co-ownership of ongoing efforts and intended goals. Generating mutual engagement and mutually energizing and rewarding activities: people co-create positive spirals of mutual stimulation. Allowing for ‘‘deep’’ and ‘‘systemic’’ learning in line with the principle of doubleloop learning (Argyris & Scho¨n, 1978) as the core of organizational learning.

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High quality does not necessarily mean a consensual or joint outcome. The ending of collaboration can also be a possible outcome but only after all actors involved in the conversation are clear why they do what they do and what they can learn from it for future interaction in a range of contexts. Third, interactive practices with high relational qualities are being enacted in the creation of conversational spaces, where actors can meet and issues can be addressed. No author has more adequately evoked the potential of a conversational reading of organizing than John Shotter (Shotter, 1993b; Shotter & Katz, 1996). Actors engage in dialogue and evoke responses among each other, creating new contexts by bringing in texts and contexts. The interaction is a fully original emerging social creative process, where voices meet and meanings are evoked — and provoked — to coordinate action. The good manager should be seen as actually involved in the practical making of history. He or she should be a ‘‘practical-ethical’’ author, a conversational author, able to argue persuasively for a landscape of possible actions, where the positions of all those who must participate become clear. Furthermore, the change literature points to an emerging tendency that real change work is to be found in the conversational quality that can energize the people involved in emerging organizational contexts (Quinn & Dutton, 2005). Looking back, the ‘‘process-consultation’’ approach can be viewed as typical of a relational approach at that time (Schein & Bennis, 1965). Its aim was reﬂection and consensual validation of the ‘‘here and now,’’ of the ongoing interactions among the participants. This level of reﬂection is negotiated with the participants when the common goal is learning about interdependence and group development (Bouwen & Fry, 1996). Joint reﬂection on common experiences is considered by Edgar Schein (1999) as the core of ‘‘process consultation’’ in creating a helping relationship. The ‘‘relational practice’’ perspective explicitly stresses the importance of the practicing, the doing together, the quality of the interactions, and the importance of the context created by the common activity, beyond the mere talking and reﬂecting on a ‘‘cultural island’’ (Lambrechts, Grieten, Bouwen, & Corthouts, 2008). Not only training context but all organizational contexts can be approached through a ‘‘relational practice’’ lens. The focus is always on the enactment and the active doing with each other. In a training context, the ‘‘relational practice’’ quality supports the reﬂexive dialogues about mutual feedback and social sense making. The most remarkable observation in these training activities is that the here-and-now and face-to-face learning, through high involvement mutual practices, constitutes the necessary condition for this type of joint learning (Hovelynck, 2000). The relational practice of dialoguing and reﬂecting on the ongoing interaction itself is the essence of joint learning. In this kind of training and development group, the task is the relational work itself. Participants provide feedback on each other’s being and acting in the group and experiment with new forms of interacting that are more supportive of the joint learning goals. The acting together provides the basis for joint learning. The essence of this process is so closely relation- and context-bounded that it becomes difﬁcult to speak in general terms about it. Involvement in the process itself is the only way to comprehend this kind of relating and learning.

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A relational organizing perspective can in all probability contribute to a more sustainable form of organizing. High quality relational practices in organizations such as teamwork, participatory action research forms, and relationally balanced and multi-level interventions promote continuous learning and mutual feedback for dealing with unexpected and complex issues. Sustainability requires high interactivity in order to live with the new demands of ever-increasing interdependencies.

2.5

Implications for Generative Scholarship and Practice

A distinctive facet of the relational practice perspective comes into play when we consider its epistemological stance toward social science research activities. Any social science activity can in itself be conceived as a relational practice in a speciﬁc context between scholars, subjects, and other agents involved. If any research activity can be considered a relational practice, then all research assumes a generative capacity for what it means to act and intervene as a scholar. The generative capacity of a research or intervention is the potential to open up new opportunities for understanding and also for further high-quality involvement by all participating actors. Does this particular scholarly practice have a lasting consequence or not? Here too, the relational quality of the research or intervention activity shapes the generative potential. Donald Scho¨n (1993) was among the ﬁrst scholars to emphasize that all problem setting in social science is mediated by the metaphors that analysts and practitioners enact in their research account. If we apply the relational practice metaphor to any research activity, engaging in researching and knowing becomes in essence a collaborative and reciprocal kind of activity. As a scholar, or actor of any kind, I can only commit to a participatory engagement if I wish to know, to act and to co-construct the organization-in-the-making. An organization cannot be studied as ‘‘a thing’’ to be observed, measured and assessed from the outside, using distant instrumentation. Any study or analysis about organizing is a series of relational activities assembled into an ongoing construction of knowledge by all actors involved. The researcher and all other actors are actively engaged in bringing their perspectives and discourses to the public forum. They negotiate projects, resources, and goals with each other in a common and interdependent action space, with the prospect of sustainability and an open future. Through the involvement in ongoing relational practices, the actors, as well as the scholars, co-create action spaces and coordinate activities. The scholars can never make ‘‘a distant picture’’ from which they are excluded; they are always ‘‘in the picture.’’ Researching means active engagement with the other actors, and playing and negotiating a proper role. The researcher’s contribution will often be some kind of reﬂective learning in the way Scho¨n talks about the ‘‘reﬂective practitioner,’’ informed by concrete action. The renewed attention given to participatory (Reason & Bradbury, 2001) and appreciative (Cooperrider et al., 2004) forms of action research can be viewed as illustrations of a relational practice perspective in social and organizational research.

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Rene´ Bouwen Research as Intervention and Intervention as Research

Any research activity also has a generative capacity of some kind for the context it is studying because the researcher is always intrinsic to the context; understanding and intervening are simultaneous processes of engagement and interaction. The quality of relational involvement is particularly evident in the organizational contexts of change. Organizational change can be seen as a context where new interdependencies, new knowledge, and task arrangements are developed and enacted. To secure some level of co-ownership and sustainability, it is important that all actors participate in the new contexts, negotiate and create new tasks and roles, ﬁnd new memberships, and become involved in new relational practices. Intervention invariably has a research or inquiring quality, and research is always an intervention that has an impact on the actors involved. Hence, any kind of activity has consequences, depending on the quality of the practice. Sometimes, mere survey-data feedback blocks an organizational change process. Recreating contacts between the different parties involved can regenerate the energy needed to continue the change process. For instance, in a large international chemical plant, operational and logistic employees in a transportation department are going to be merged into a multi-skilled task force. A research survey by an outside researcher is set up to assess the implementation of the restructuring. During this follow-up research, many complaints are expressed about the leading supervisor and the working conditions. After reading the critical report, the manager of this supervisor calls a halt to the survey feedback because he thinks ‘‘it is going to be destructive of future collaboration.’’ Facilitated by a third party, the researcher, the supervisor, and the employees eventually succeed in acknowledging their mutual perspectives. This new relational practice recreated and reestablished a space for dialogue. Research without involvement distances participants from the data. Joint discovery and mutual engagement recreate a new platform for further transition. Research as co-constructing a social context is a necessary condition for generating energy and readiness to change.

2.5.2

Co-constructing Social Knowledge

In creating a transition, the ‘‘change’’ is in the jointly negotiated script. A picture made by one party, the researcher, ‘‘blocks’’ the change process rather than supports the change. Survey results often stimulate a ‘‘reiﬁed’’ view of a situation. The authority of the researcher to create an ‘‘objective’’ picture overpowers the other voices in the context, and resistance to change is what emerges. Perhaps the so-oftenobserved ‘‘resistance to change’’ phenomenon in organizational projects is largely the product of a one-sided attempt at change. Resistance to change is often the expression of energy from the parties not yet included in the experience of ‘‘owning’’ the change. In social innovation projects through multi-party collaboration, the importance of relational processes among the parties and interest groups involved can easily be observed. In complex and messy contexts, where diverse social groups are involved

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and where no party is in a socially legitimate position to act on behalf of the other voices in the room, the careful development of joint relational practices in which parties feel included is the crucial process in building a lasting collaborative context. I will now follow on with an episode from a multi-party natural resource management project, which I introduced earlier. Soil improvement engineers and local farmers are collaborating on an erosion reduction project in the Southern Andes of Ecuador. Since the exchange of knowledge has been difﬁcult in recent workshops, the engineers are invited to participate in joint ﬁeld visits and ﬁeld demonstrations by a local social consultant. Engineers and farmers exchange views on the soil quality during the harvesting of potatoes. Engaging in a common practice that can be discussed and studied together creates a new involvement and an in-depth understanding. The scientiﬁc language of the engineers and the contextual language of the farmers become connected around a common practice.

2.5.3

From ‘‘Knowledge-as-Substance’’ to ‘‘Knowledge-as-Participation’’

Related to these multi-party projects, two different forms of discourse on knowledge can be distinguished: the ‘‘knowledge-as-substance’’ discourse and the ‘‘knowledgeas-participation’’ discourse (Brown & Duguid, 1996). We wish to show that the type of discourse used has an effect on the capacity of the actors involved to maintain their engagement during the development of a project or to become gradually excluded as knowledge differences constrain the relationship among the actors. In a large drinking water project in an Ecuadorian community, the leadership of the project is in the hands of an international nongovernmental organization with considerable expertise of similar projects. Although the NGO formally uses a discourse of participative technology development, they are faced with signs of disengagement by the local natives during the development phase of the project. In the technical task forces, the drinking water experts were very active building on their scientiﬁc expertise; this resulted in a gradual decline in attendance at meetings by the locals, who were responsible for the maintenance and administration of the system. Building further on the existing system, taking into account the local work distribution, and reconstituting the task forces had the potential to eventually revitalize the project. The participation of newly elected political representatives from a new social movement of the native people was especially beneﬁcial in facilitating this project. They perform a strong boundary role through their multiple social memberships. It is quite common in technical and scientiﬁc projects to enact a ‘‘knowledge-assubstance’’ discourse: knowledge is considered as ‘‘a thing,’’ an object that can be transferred from one container or mind to another container or mind (Scho¨n, 1993). The capabilities of the ‘‘containers’’ and the logical structure of the knowledge will deﬁne the conditions for transference. Although Nonaka and Takeuchi, and other scholars in the ﬁeld of innovation and change, moved toward a more dynamic and less reiﬁed concept of knowledge, it is still quite common in administrative

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sciences and in organization theory in particular to work with a ‘‘particles’’ concept of knowledge. Social constructionist authors (Gergen, 1985, 1994; Shotter, 1993b) and knowledge-discourse scholars (Brown & Duguid, 1996) are moving toward a ‘‘knowledge-as-participation’’ metaphor. In this view, knowledge creation, knowledge development, and knowledge sharing are considered relational processes. People create knowledge by engaging in joint action as forms of participation in a community of practice (Wenger, 1998). This leads to quite different concepts of learning. Knowledge development and knowledge sharing are always situated in a context of practitioners, who enact this knowledge in their activities and their interactions. According to this view of knowledge, a professional, a scientist or a manager learns by participating in, and continuously creating and recreating, a particular community of practice. Whether it is about a child learning to speak a language or a surgeon acquiring highly sophisticated skills, learning always means in effect integration into a particular community of practice. Learning in this way is a concrete developmental aspect of a relational practice.

2.5.4

Actionable Knowledge

‘‘Actionable knowledge,’’ or knowledge that can be put into action, needs to be placed against the background of a year-long discussion in several journals about the relevancy gap between contextual practitioners’ knowledge about management and theoretical general knowledge (Aram & Salipante, 2003). Research approaches that strive for relevance emphasize the particular at the expense of the general, and approaches that strive for rigor emphasize the general over the particular. According to Karl Weick (1979), it is not possible to attain both relevancy and rigor at the same time. Other authors such as Nonaka and Takeuchi (1995) have discovered in new theories on knowledge creation an epistemological basis for combining the particular and the general, experience and theory, the implicit and the explicit, and induction and deduction. The ‘‘relational practice’’ metaphor can most likely play a bridging function between the particular and the general: when practicing together, general principles and particular context aspects become embodied simultaneously. Research as relational practice enacts, in concrete interventions and in research episodes, an actionable and relational grammar, characterized by the principles of reciprocity, co-ownership, and mutual testing and engagement that was discussed in the previous section. The principles of open dialogue, constructive conversation and joint negotiation apply in each instance of research and intervention. For example, in a river basin project in the Ecuadorian Andes, the development of an integrated water-management concept is enacted in the stepwise creation of a multi-stakeholder catchments council. Representatives of farmers, entrepreneurs, local and national authorities, engineers, environmental groups, and nongovernmental organizations bring together different forms of implicit and explicit knowledge, different perspectives of analysis and interests, and different ways of framing the

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issues. The actionable knowledge is the deﬁnition of the issues that is co-constructed over a number of time-consuming confrontations and dialogues among different stakeholders. The activities of the catchments council constitute a series of relational practices that continuously deal with an enormous diversity of inputs and with the urgent necessity of delivering creative and lasting solutions (Craps, Dewulf, Mancero, Santos, & Bouwen, 2004). This example illustrates how the relational qualities of concrete project activities are generative of factual outcomes. Deep involvement in the search activities can be extended to deep involvement during implementation. The knowledge gathered is conceived of as shared knowledge in co-ownership. Different actors take responsibility as an extension of the responsiveness among the initiators and group representatives. Knowing, doing, and relating become interconnected; they are all aspects of the same continuing joint practice.

2.6

Generative Communal Organizing

The relational practice metaphor on organizing can offer a dynamic and refreshing view of daily organizational activities. Organizing is conceived as an assemblage of chains and clusters of relational practices among all actors involved in common projects. These relational practices are work forms such as teams, management or specialist committees, innovation projects, task forces, meetings and performance groups of all kinds, and interorganizational projects. It applies to the interpersonal, group, organizational, and interorganizational levels, invariably embedded strongly in local market, societal or environmental contexts. Relational practices for communal organizing can be considered a recent actualization of the inspiration of the founders of organizational psychology. In the broader domain of work and organizational psychology, there is a tendency, on one side, to return to the earlier mentioned individual measures of work and organization life experiences, with an instrumental purpose often included. On the other side, there is considerable emphasis on the structural and instrumental side of organizational functioning, in order to align with a more demanding competitive environment. Between these two tendencies lies a need to reemphasize the relational and process-oriented dynamics that continue the original focus of organizational psychology. The core of organizing activities these days involves even further migration from the organizational context to interorganizational activity spaces and multi-party collaboration contexts. The involvement of multiple societal stakeholders in global and ecological sustainability projects serves to underscore the need for an explicit process and for a relational orientation (Bouwen & Taillieu, 2004). At the same time, there is growing interest in social constructionist approaches in the social sciences and in social psychology in particular (Gergen, 1994). It can be argued that it was a lack of theoretical grounding that made the processconsultation and organizational development approach problematic to settle. The active mechanisms were difﬁcult to describe, and change was attributed to experience

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and context. Social constructionism — as a now well-elaborated paradigm — can play the role of infusing sounder theoretical and epistemological reasoning into the active relational processes that constitute the essence of the process-consultation and organizational development approach (Hosking et al., 1995). Beyond hierarchies and networks, communal organizing overarches given differences by continuously changing forms of collaboration. We will further illustrate communal organizing in three domains: training and education, development and intervention, and theory and research.

2.6.1

Learning for Communal Organizing

The relational practice concept, presented and illustrated here, can offer a language and a design practice for establishing a variety of communal organizing settings with the emphasis on learning and education. Etienne Wenger (1998) launched the idea of a ‘‘community of practice’’ as a heuristic concept for exploring learning contexts. The concept of ‘‘relational practice’’ can offer a concretization of this theory of learning by stressing the inclusion aspects in the community of organizational actors. One can justly ask the question: can we afford in our learning contexts and development projects a knowledge-as-participation metaphor? Can we really take the consequence of involving trainees and participants in contexts of lively communities of practice? In the training of artists, surgeons, advanced researchers, nurses, and indeed practitioners in sports and leisure organizations, we continue to accept the importance of joint practice between trainee and coach in order to create a fertile ground for deep learning. The more closely a novice is involved in the daily work of seniors, the faster the learner will grow and develop. The more actively a participant is involved in a social change project, the more co-ownership and shared membership will emerge. Theoretical reading work is never a substitute for direct involvement in a learning context; knowledge represented in symbolic documentary form can only serve as an intermediary tool to support the interaction between the trainee and the trainer, or between the participant and the change agent. If this person-to-person encounter is not developed, there is no vehicle for the theories and competencies to travel from one context to another and from one practitioner to the other. In the example of a Master program on ‘‘conﬂict and sustainable peace,’’ staff and students learn about new work forms to deal with social reconstruction in civil war zones. They engage in a multi-party simulation on reopening the public domains (markets, churches, schools, and streets) through stepwise negotiations among the key actors: international ofﬁcers and army staff, and representatives of the Serbs, the Albanians, the international nongovernmental organizations and the local and district authorities gathered in multi-party meetings to develop and engage in rebuilding plans. The learning is concerned mainly with experiencing and enacting multiple interdependencies, accepting mutual identities, framing issues and crafting out new understandings, common practices, and meeting places for community life.

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Interventions for Communal Organizing

New forms of organizing are often developed between several existing organizations or through multi-party collaboration projects. Business organizations engage in interorganizational collaboration projects to combine their efforts concerning highly technological innovations. Facilitating these joint ventures requires the gradual building up of mutual trust through progressive information sharing, tentative development of a joint new-product deﬁnition, and setting up joint research practices and try-outs. For instance, the new materials business division of a large steel and wire company is engaging in different forms of collaboration with external partners to develop their new coating technologies. One joint project is with a government research institute to make progress in the basic technology. With another ﬁrm abroad, the collaboration is centered on new market speciﬁcations for a high-tech application: this results in a new joint venture. And with a third company, collaboration on a mature complementary product is established, which later develops into a takeover of the company. In each case, speciﬁc combinations of formal and informal relational practices over different developmental phases lead to outcomes with expected and less-expected results for the actors involved. The organizational task in this complex world goes on across social settings and across small and large organizations. This is the case not only for innovation projects across business organizations but also for public–private initiatives in all kinds of social-service sector, in natural resource management, in social development projects, in peace-building initiatives, and in reconstruction programs in heavy war zones. Starting from a social constructionist perspective and using the vocabulary of ‘‘relational practices,’’ a new mode of conversation among actors with different issue frames and different action repertoires can be developed. Accommodating different voices in a polyphonic form of organizing can become a generative metaphor for organizing and for conducting meetings and gatherings where these new organizational forms are ‘‘in the making.’’ For a facilitator or a consultant, the ‘‘relational practice’’ perspective — concretized in the list of characteristics discussed above — can be a guiding lens for the introduction of interventions to enable designing and reviewing activities and to facilitate support for, and reﬂection on, the quality of the interaction spaces among participants.

2.6.3

Theorizing and Researching Communal Organizing

The ‘‘relational practice’’ concept offers a focus and a language for talking about the essential dynamics and characteristics of emergent social contexts. Theory development and empirical research take on a whole new form. Theory is not only a conceptual representation of social reality; it can be conceived rather as a common vocabulary for actors to engage in fruitful relationships and projects. Research is a process of documenting the different perspectives of the actors in a given context. Those documentations and vocabularies that make mutual understanding and interaction possible and sustainable are held to be the most valuable elements.

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Particularly in multi-party projects, this communal organizing becomes very tangible. A relational constructionist view on emergent and multi-party interorganizational projects helps to get to grips with and to document the different perspectives and those relational qualities that really make a difference. In such projects, very diverse groups meet to discuss a particular issue, where actors feel interdependent in some way but the perspectives are nevertheless quite different. It is precisely the core challenge of multi-party projects to build a social activity space, where the different deﬁnitions of the problem can meld, and where the actors can experience each other’s presence and negotiate a common practice that is rewarding enough for all those involved to continue the interaction and to develop a new community of practice. The emphasis is not so much on consensus building since that would be too-constraining an objective. The aim is to accommodate all the voices in a relational practice that has some future. A project’s public launching event, where each party can receive acknowledgement for its membership and its goals can serve as a transition toward other common or interdependent activities. Indeed, the social creativity is in framing an issue and setting up a common activity in such a way that the actors involved experience ‘‘meaning’’ and ‘‘membership’’ at the same time. Practices for theory development, for doing research, and for working with concrete organizational contexts become blurred. The purpose is always about bringing together different communities of understanding, communities of scholars as well as communities of practitioners. Each community — be it farmers, engineers or researchers — speaks and enacts its vocabulary face-to-face with other communities in order to secure some common understanding and common purpose. Some years ago, we were experimenting with the metaphor of polyphonic music to set up an international conference on multi-voiced organizing, the organizing of differences (see Gergen & Gergen, and Ra¨sa¨nen, both in this volume). The polyphonic singing and the attunement of the choir were introduced as a metaphor for collaboration and dialogue. One of the most exciting events of that conference was a public rehearsal session of this group of singers. Standing around one standard, holding the music score, they demonstrated to the public how they went about learning together by practicing on this new piece of music. The learning by doing, starting, holding, and joining in again, without anyone assuming the role of conductor, provided an impressive illustration of how they went about accommodating each other’s contribution into one attunement of shifting sounds. The period of reﬂection afterwards with the public was in itself a very rich relational practice of singers and scholars searching as one to supply concepts for the process of attunement they went through. The ﬁrst organizing principle of the practicing group to emerge from the discussion was: listening and feeling each other’s breath. Listening is important to anticipate and to follow up on the other’s contribution. Singers invite each other to join in. The merging of the different voices is continuously enacted by playing with the differences. The joint reﬂection is an illustration of joint theorizing through high quality creative dialogue, an equally impressive illustration of a high quality relational practice as the polyphonic singing itself.

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2.7

Conclusion: Sustainable, Social Creativity

2.7.1

The Added Value of a ‘‘Relational’’ Perspective

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All emergent organizational contexts or moments of transition such as conﬂict, change, learning, innovation, diversity, knowledge creation, growth, or decline can be looked at from a relational constructionist viewpoint to open new ways of understanding and to inspire new approaches for generating new possibilities. Theorizing about dealing with differences and diversity in such social contexts becomes the main theoretical challenge. How can we conceptualize differences in perspectives and interests so that they can gain a space and even become the essence in pursuing communal organizing? How to think differences together? How to formulate generative theories for experiencing and living with the differences? Conﬂicts in groups and organizations are contexts where perspectives clash and where a transitional space has to be developed to keep the voices in the room and co-create new possibilities. Conﬂicts are not to be avoided since they reveal the challenge of diversity. Social constructionist thinking invites the parties to engage in acknowledging the differences and in negotiating some activity that can accommodate these differences. The rainbow and the mosaic both require diversity of color; the actors only have to ﬁnd a proper ‘‘play,’’ a proper relational practice, to allow the interaction to enact the different colors into a generative orchestration. This is the challenge of social creativity. It is the challenge of how we can deal with the differences in our social world, as it becomes even more complex. In the past, especially in Europe, we dealt with differences by building boundaries around them and ﬁghting for the boundaries. Forcing and ﬁghting always leads to more predictable unsustainable outcomes. No single party can dominate the construction of social reality, certainly not on a global scale. By making ‘‘relational practices’’ the center of attention in organizational psychology and organization studies in general, we seek to place the quality of the interaction processes in the center of the dynamics, and the understanding of all organizing activities on different levels from interpersonal to interorganizational. The quality of the relationships in those relational practices then becomes the focus of attention in group and team contexts, in studying conﬂict and diversity, in organizational change and innovation episodes, in appreciative inquiry practices, in interorganizational natural resource projects, in peace-building initiatives, in the creation of a nature reserve, and so many other organizational and societal projects, across the boundaries of traditional organizations. Relational theorizing offers a vocabulary and articulates the interaction patterns in complex emergent social contexts. ‘‘Relational constructionism’’ is about knowing ‘‘from within.’’ It is knowing beyond theoretical and technical knowledge, and it is closely linked to people’s social and personal identities. It is an embodied form of practical–moral knowledge in terms of which people are able to inﬂuence each other in their being, to actually ‘‘move’’ them rather than just ‘‘giving them ideas’’ (Shotter, 1993b, p. 40). The theory offers a vocabulary to frame, and continuously reframe,

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how the different actors experience and live through the changing and emerging context, and creates through the engagement itself the social space for different problem frames, different identities, and diversity-in-action repertoires.

2.7.2

The Added Value of a ‘‘Practice’’ Perspective

The most typical way to deploy a ‘‘relational practice’’ lens to grasp the social world of collaborating actors is to focus on the ongoing practices among these actors as they relate to each other. It is in the doing together that the organization is constituted. Actors ‘‘in the doing’’ co-construct a certain quality of relationship: they listen, they communicate, they accommodate, and they engage each other in that concrete relationship up to the point where they can coordinate and accommodate — but the co-construction can also become antagonistic and exploitative. Actors can co-create mutual acknowledgement, reciprocity in action taking, exchange of energy, interdependency and co-ownership — or they can engage with their partner in rivalry, threat of exclusion, polarization or negation of mutual dependency, and a non-sustainable future. Actors can jointly coauthor the construction of social reality throughout the interactive episodes they engage in, and researchers can become coactors to add their perspective to the construction process. The manner or quality of engagement makes the whole difference. Content or issues are dealt with — but always on the basis of the quality of these ongoing interactions: the quality of the process. If actors become aware of their dialogical potential, they can take up more and more authorship of the development of their relationships with others and the development of any collaborative form in groups and organizations. This requires some kind of sensitivity or level of awareness beyond the mere instrumental approach in a subject–object relationship. A deep understanding of interdependency among the actors involved opens up the possibility of co-engaging in mutually enriching projects. This fundamental acceptance of interdependency creates the space to facilitate dialogues that can accommodate all kinds of differences. This is perhaps the ultimate challenge for actors in collaboration: to be able to engage with others in such a way that the relational practice that is created opens up opportunities to enact and to allocate a space to all differences that emerge in the encounter, not just as impediments but as sources of new creativity and innovation. The demand for creativity is the invention, again and again, of new practices and forms that can provide spaces to host the differences: cultural, gender, competence, resource, interest, etc. Is it not an ultimate ecological perspective on our globe that interdependencies are continuously changed and challenged? At one point in time, perhaps, our dialogical imagination can help us to develop a human ecology where all actors can perform an affordable and sustainable role beyond the relationships that characterize an ethnocentric, hegemonic or exploitative quality of relationships. Concluding, it can be said that the ‘‘relational practice’’ perspective has important consequences for how actors conceive their contribution in concrete day-to-day practices. A sharp eye on the here-and-now can continuously inform actors about the

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health and sustainability of the organization or collaborative project that they work on. Is it living up to the dialogical potential or not? For researchers, a whole new but exciting and difﬁcult role is conceivable. Moving away from their image as distant experts, they can become coactors processes that coordinate joint efforts to achieve goals within and between organizations. The assumption, however, is that we can opt for a dynamic, interactive, continuously evolving, and jointly constructed understanding of the world. Such a worldview assumes a new moral awareness about the proper interactive place of each and every one in a sustainable universe. The ultimate pressure for such a new moral view may come from the deep understanding that the interdependencies are so overwhelming that every actor must be fully alive and involved in all the relational practices that participation in the global activity entails.

Chapter 3

From Individualism to Post-heroic Practices in Organizational Research H. Peter Dachler

3.1

Introduction

One of the central questions to which organizational research has yet to ﬁnd a satisfactory answer concerns the concept of the individual in a context where the central subject matter deals with issues of community, groups, social practices, and the nature of social processes in communities of practice. This chapter seeks to show the ways in which the apparent contradiction between concepts of the individual and those circumscribing social practices and social processes is a fabrication resulting from the ubiquitous, the deeply ingrained (culturally and historically), and the generally taken-for-granted understanding of individuality. More generally, the central problem would seem to be that what is taken for granted — and, in that sense, experienced as real and true — becomes, with the passage of time and changed circumstances, politically incorrect, socially incompetent, or totally drained of meaning. One only has to bring to mind the once-credible principles of lifelong employment in a given company and of clearly deﬁned gender roles, or the traditionally sanctioned ideal of the nuclear family. In each of these cases, an axiomatic understanding existed, which was never questioned and which, at one point in history or in a given cultural context, was held to be real and factual. The question is thus raised as to why, and in what ways, such concepts that once seemed so factual and real over time became obsolete or even preposterous. Such changes in what is understood to be real are most often explained in terms of changes in socialization processes and changing norms and values, which individuals learn and actively adapt to (e.g. Berger & Luckmann, 1967). The deeply ingrained truths about the nature of individuals are often celebrated as the pinnacle of evolution in which the individual is seen as a conscious, free agent and an active subject who is author and architect of his or her world. Yet, the negative, and often destructive, consequences of Relational Practices, Participative Organizing Advanced Series in Management, 41–53 Copyright r 2010 Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 1877-6361/doi:10.1108/S1877-6361(2010)0000007007

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this modern understanding of the individual are seldom reﬂected. In this chapter, an alternative view of the individual is presented, which seeks to take into account the consequences of how we think and talk about individuals. No claims about the superior correctness or greater veracity of these alternative understandings are made. The aim is to present a different understanding of change processes that make the different options for action visible; in the context of traditional explanatory frameworks of individuals in organizational research, these options are often overlooked and consequently obscure possible options for change. Let us look at some central suppositions without which the arguments of this chapter are difﬁcult, if not impossible, to understand. The aim of this chapter is to present some of the major standpoints with as little ‘‘technical’’ jargon and with as many examples from everyday experience in organizations as possible. The story I try to illustrate in this chapter rests on the shoulders of many authors who have discussed and struggled with these topics. I gratefully acknowledge their contributions, but, for the purposes of this chapter, I will forego comprehensive citations.

3.2

A Different Way of Looking at Knowledge and Knowing

While the concept of knowledge has for long been a central issue in science and philosophy, it has been dealt with, broadly speaking, as something rather concrete, something one has (or does not have), as if it were some ﬁxed entity with various attributes and measurable consequences (Dachler, 2000). Knowledge is something that individuals, books, machines, networks etc. have or store in measurable amounts. Indeed, through experimentation and various methods of research, through thinking and reﬂecting, through reasoned and systematic questioning or reﬂective observation, people develop knowledge to serve their purposes. In this sense, knowledge is a basis for power by which people in relationships are compared and socially structured (e.g. supervisor–subordinate, gender relationships, doctor–patient, teacher–student, candidates in selection procedures). Such implicit concepts of knowledge have served us well in science and in everyday practices over centuries. However, despite the longstanding success of such an entitative and individualistic understanding of knowledge, it has led to some crucial difﬁculties and unsolved problems that, notwithstanding enormous efforts in philosophy and science, have remained unresolved. This is not the place to even begin to summarize the complex and still divisive epistemological issues in the philosophy of science, and the ongoing debates in the social and natural sciences. But, in a very general sense, it must be noted that up to the present the quest to ﬁnd a satisfactory means to distinguish objectively ‘‘true’’ knowledge from error and speculation has proved elusive. Perhaps even more disturbing is the recognition that no satisfactory way to independently and objectively generate knowledge about the world ‘‘out there’’ is available. We are always — as is the case in any methodological procedure — part of that which we seek to know. Questions that one wishes to ask of the world ‘‘out there’’ always presuppose some initial preconception of the entity about which we seek knowledge.

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Thus, the world ‘‘out there’’ cannot tell us something objectively about itself, since it can only ‘‘speak’’ to us through our language, our norms and concepts, and our culture and values. Otherwise, what the objective world might tell us would make no sense whatsoever. And similarly, questions we might conceivably ask that are not part of the language and the discourses we use, and that do not reﬂect our norms and values and our cultural context, can have no meaning. In other words, objective knowledge, i.e., knowledge that is generated independently of the questioner, is impossible. All knowledge is speciﬁc to its historical, cultural, social, emotional, and linguistic context and, therefore, cannot be an objective ‘‘picture’’ of the world ‘‘out there’’ (Gergen, 1999). These arguments imply that it is perhaps more useful to think of knowledge, not as something concrete that people, books, machines or networks have in various amounts, but as something that is a product of talk, interaction and relationships. Moreover, we may have to relinquish the assumption that only one true and correct understanding of something can exist. If it is not possible to generate ‘‘absolute’’ knowledge, i.e., if no absolute criteria of truth can exist but only, as Foucault noted, ‘‘each society y [with] its own order of truth, its ‘general politic’ of truth’’ (1978, p. 55), then the question is no longer conﬁned to what the ‘‘world out there’’ is made of but encompasses an understanding of how a concept comes to be accepted and understood as reality, as that which is put into the world as true and correct. Here some mental gymnastics are required. Perhaps a concrete example may assist the process of ‘‘turning the mind upside down.’’

3.3

How Do We Know Leadership?

If you had to explain to somebody what leadership is, without much reﬂection, you would almost certainly think of an individual who holds some position in an organization or who, in some other capacity, is perceived as a leader in the public arena. Moreover, you would most likely want to describe such a person in terms of the competencies and personality attributes he or she ought to have and the kind of behavior patterns that would characterize this person. Without noticing, you would, in all probability, think of the characteristic leader as male rather than female. And, if your conversation partner requests further explanation of what leadership entails, you would perhaps attempt to describe what distinguishes a good leader from a less effective one, how such a person behaves, and what actions he or she would seek to avoid. While one can certainly debate the precise characteristics of a good leader and how one can distinguish between good and less effective leadership, these debates will, in general and in the majority of cases, take for granted that leadership is an issue of some individual person, most likely male, who must possess certain attributes and behave in certain ways, who must be superior in several ways to those whom he or she leads, who holds a hierarchically superior position and, therefore, is in a position of power to decide what is to be done. The question that now commands interest is

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where such axiomatic knowledge about leadership comes from. In other words, if knowledge about something cannot be a substantially exact reﬂection of objective reality but rather a construction based on culturally inherent ways of talking, then some very interesting and seldom-asked questions arise. From where does such knowledge about leadership come, how was it developed and constructed over history and set into the world as taken-for-granted ‘‘truth?’’ In seeking to pursue such questions, one could begin by reﬂecting on the relevant stories, images, ﬁgures of speech or common sayings, and assumptions and other linguistic or symbolic means of signifying leadership that are available in Western societies. Indeed, it is through such means that we ‘‘do’’ the ‘‘knowledge’’ of leadership outlined above. It is through such communicative processes in social interaction that we have developed over recorded time, and still continue to set into the world, what can be described as a ‘‘heroic’’ understanding of leadership. It must be remembered that what we understand by ‘‘leadership’’ is something that has, over the centuries, been experienced, lived, acted out, and passed on by men (primarily) in interaction with other men — and (some) women too — at work, in politics, and through religion, the military, sport, leisure activities and the family. In these contexts, power/status hierarchies — and likewise the ubiquitous distinction between active, self-determined and self-willed subjects who shape their environment to their own interests and values and more passive, less emancipated and rather dependent objects — have become common precepts, deeply ingrained and resolutely taken for granted. The Protestant ethic that continues to underlie much of Western political thought distinguishes the hard-working, well-to-do and successfully competitive citizen from the less capable and less hard-working individual who succumbs in the selection processes that are an implicit part of this competitive world. Prevailing economic theory and current sociopolitical discussion in the so-called liberal republican tradition are signiﬁcant examples of such Western rhetoric and dominant discourses. Knowledge about leadership is also intimately connected with the prevailing understanding of career as a continuous ascent up the organizational hierarchy, an achievement that signals hard endeavor through largely full-time rather than parttime work, higher socioeconomic standing and increased responsibility for a greater number of subordinates. The great variety of leadership theories — and their deﬁnitions of what constitutes effective leadership — along with the many diagnostic and measurement instruments employed in managerial selection processes (including the existing professional and support networks, principally for men, that provide mutual help for mostly upper-level managers in their quest for top leadership jobs) all feed into the social processes through which the dominant ‘‘heroic’’ concept of leadership is set into the world (Dachler, 1989). In doing, recounting, negotiating and discussing such practices, a fundamental understanding of what is known to be leadership is continuously strengthened, further differentiated, and repeatedly reconstructed in everyday life. In attempting to answer the question of how we know leadership, language obviously plays a central role. Neither nature nor society in themselves have meanings that can be described or depicted by language. Rather, the language — through which

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I have tried to describe the way we know leadership — is a symbolic system that is socially constructed. It is only possible to talk by means of the symbolic order inherent in language, which contains, for instance, the antonymous concepts that I need in order to talk about leadership: such as male–female, subject–object, leader– subordinate, effective–ineffective, dependent—independent, etc. This symbolic order is constructed through that which is spoken and given value in a society. What is treated as problematic, what is seen as relevant, central and emotionally gripping, contributes to the collective production of meaning. Therefore, language is not a sign system that can be used to picture some objective world out there. Rather, it is a symbolic order by which we produce meaning and through which we determine what is the case, what is experienced as meaningful, valuable, realistic and, in that sense, true and reliable knowledge (Vaassen, 1996).

3.4

The Heroic Subject

We can now look at a central question of the social sciences in a somewhat different way. How do we conceive the self in Western societies, and in what way does such an understanding of the human subject become a central focus in all aspects of society and everyday life? Western culture is the inheritance from more than 2000 years of celebrating the self-contained self, the self as an individual agent, who makes rational and conscious decisions, who rationally and goal-orientedly transforms his or her intentions into actions, and who therefore is author of his or her performance and architect of his or her world. Based on a fundamental distinction between a reasoning, perceiving and feeling mind and everything else, be it matter or other subjects, the authorship of the individual self is seen in its attributes and abilities and in its fundamental rationality (Sampson, 1988). For example, it is surprising to observe how the media, the public, and even the shareholders in a company, unquestioningly accept as appropriate the ‘‘fantasy’’ salaries and other generous compensation packages that many CEOs receive, often several hundred times that of the average employee in the company. The chief executives point to the economic success of the company, the growing value of the company stock, the growth of the company, the competitive market for top managers and so on, as self-evident justiﬁcation for their remuneration. Such seldomquestioned acceptance must have something to do with implicit assumptions about the extraordinary abilities and characteristics, as well as the basic rationality of top managers, as if they were the actual architects and authors of the companies’ success. But how can we have come to ‘‘know’’ that a complex system — as any company undoubtedly is — must have an individual subject who is the conductor of its history and the architect of its fate? Is it not possible for other, very different processes to invent that history, in which the CEO plays only a symbolic role? As with our understanding of leadership, the idea of a heroic subject is not a reﬂection of an objective, unalterable reality but rather a product of Western history, Western culture and language. The celebration of the autonomous subject over

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centuries is not a result of some scientiﬁc discovery but the inheritance from the Age of Enlightenment and from continuous historical, societal, political, and technological development. In this sense, there could have been a very different kind of development, i.e., a very different kind of knowledge about the individual could have developed. The astounding and admirable consequences of the dominant concept of the heroic self for Western development, about which one is understandably proud, are well known. However, we seldom ask whether the social construction of the heroic self has had any destructive impact on Western development and to what extent such a concept of the individual could exert a negative inﬂuence on our quality of life. In other words, the question arises of the extent to which the idea of a heroic self promotes certain forms of life at the expense of other possible life forms, which are in consequence devalued or disregarded. As Gergen (1999) notes ‘‘(a)s we describe, explain, or otherwise represent, so we fashion our future’’ (p. 48). It is not difﬁcult to imagine the consequences for society and how other people would be treated if we did not proceed from the assumption that individuals have consciousness. What would remain is a being with a varied collection of organs that interact in complex ways with each other and are driven by chemical and electrical processes. Most likely, we would deal with each other in the same way we usually interact with and treat animals — which, for instance, were deﬁned as physical objects under Swiss law until very recently.

3.5

Limits of the Heroic Self

The fundamental belief in the self-determination of individuals, in the self as a closed entity, inevitably leads to an existence for the individual that is essentially separate from others. Our culture and language, including social science research and literature, provide innumerable ways in which we try to explain, describe and predict what feelings a person has, what individuals intend to do, what motives are behind his or her actions, and what a person might be thinking, planning, hiding, and so on. Yet, since we can never have direct access to a person’s ‘‘mind’’1 and because so much about a person cannot be directly and unambiguously revealed, one can never be quite sure who a person is, what he or she might be thinking or feeling, and in what ways he or she may behave. Thus, in interaction with others, we are always dependent on certain conjectures and assumptions, which can never be deﬁnitely established and which constantly change over the course of the interaction. An individual can never be certain who he or she is or who others really are. As we have seen in the discussion about the prevailing understanding of knowledge, the idea that the world ‘‘out there’’ is knowable in an absolute sense, and that our world functions on the basis of objective facts, contributes to a basic unease with all that is uncertain and unknowable factually. So, it is not surprising that this constructed individual isolation invariably engenders a certain distrust, 1

cf. Gergen (1999), for example, for an excellent discussion of these issues.

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a cautious, uneasy questioning in even the closest of relationships; conﬁdent assurance about who a person truly is cannot be achieved. The uncertainty and uneasiness surrounding the inability to know others completely is well documented with respect to even the closest and most intimate of relationships; witness the huge support literature and the pervasive media discussions relating to complaints and advice in the matter of love and partner relationships. Doubt will always remain about whether what is said about who one is can really be known. The consequences for human relationships of what we believe we know about individuals are enormous. As long as the reasons for human behavior, for individual perceptions and feelings, are understood to be inherent to the individual as a self-contained entity, close and profound social relationships and reliable cooperation, including international relationships, are rather problematic and at risk (Gergen, 1999). It is the central dilemma of the individualistic view of the person that the intended liberation of humans from superstition and from arbitrary domination by religious or aristocratic institutions in the Age of Enlightenment was gradually replaced by a natural state of inherent isolation and distrust. Only in such a context does the deeply rooted idea in Western societies of homo economicus — of individuals acting primarily in their own best interests, of the resulting competition, and of the privileging of the stronger, better and more efﬁcient competitor — make sense, becoming part of what we take to be objectively given. Neither the various evolutionary explanations of human nature nor the dominant economic theories of our times can function without the underlying root metaphor of the self-contained individual. The role of goals and objectives, performance-based rewards, the huge literature in social psychology on interpersonal relationships in which winner and loser, competition, etc. are normal aspects of human interaction, and our everyday focus on the personality and sundry characteristics of individuals are all a part of the knowing process through which human interactions in themselves become but a by-product. The isolation and the associated process of distrust in the individualistic social context make social relationships in everyday experience, as well as in socioscientiﬁc theorizing, something that is always problematic and disruptive for the individual involved. Relationships need to be worked on or they fall apart; teamwork is a process fraught with difﬁculty and in need of constant improvement; increasingly partnerships of any kind are experienced as more arduous and more fraught with risk than a ‘‘single system’’ characterized by short and noncommittal relationships. It is extremely important to be aware that any social construction perceived to be self-evident and factual has profound consequences for what, in the context of the socially constructed reality, appears to be meaningful and doable in the ﬁrst place or conversely for what, in this context, seems unrealistic or erroneous. Therefore, it is the socially constructed context that makes certain options for action possible and that, at the same time, disallows others. As long as we believe that the roots of individual behavior are contained within the individual and his or her situation, our research questions will continue to seek answers in those sources of ‘‘causation.’’ Explanatory frameworks will continue to encourage individual therapies and will seek to treat problematic behaviors with individual praise or punishment, with supervision and coaching of individuals, with motivating people, with encouraging good leadership,

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and with training entrepreneurs by selecting good leadership behavior and seeking indicators of certain personality traits or appropriate training. In Western societies, the individualistic approach to treating problematic situations is ubiquitous in all aspects of life, even though we increasingly realize that such approaches tend to have only shallow or short-term effects, be that in the area of psychotherapy or various areas of organizational research (Hoffman, 1981; Hosking et al., 1995). Alternative approaches that focus more on systemic, holistic or relational perspectives and that emphasize social or linguistic processes rather than traits and individual cognition are usually devalued as unrealistic or too complicated, too inefﬁcient, too slow and laborious or too expensive. But such critique seldom reﬂects on whether it is solely in the context of individualism that such alternative approaches are perceived as unrealistic and are therefore to be devalued.

3.6

Consequences for Organizational Research and Theory

As already stated, the vast majority of research and theory in the area of organizational behavior and management sciences is based on the principal assumptions inherent in self-contained individualism. While such a socially constructed world view has given rise to many important insights and has provided very successful and helpful explanatory frameworks, it has simultaneously negated alternative conceptions and explanatory options that could provide crucial answers to new challenges faced by a rapidly changing world plagued by widespread disputes. Symptomatic of the individualistic bases for organizational research is the large variety of extremely differentiated and highly characteristic stories, concepts and ﬁgures of speeches for describing the individual. But if we wish to say something about relationships, the vocabulary available is rather restricted, and it is far more difﬁcult to describe relationships as comprehensively as it is to describe the individual. Herein lies the main problem with an individualistic perspective of organizations. As indicated in the introduction, the crucial and complex aspects of organizations are not the individual members but the way in which social relationships and communication function in holding an organizational system together that would otherwise slowly drift apart. If one looks at the main themes that dominate organizational research, the focus is on motivation, satisfaction, decision-making and developing strategies, teams, fear, stress, power, and the efﬁciency of the work process. These are, in effect, issues of a community of practice and not of individuals per se. The main themes in organizational research have to do with issues such as trust in the leadership, availability and distribution of information, team conﬂicts, power struggles, dismissals of employees and managers, mobbing, erroneous decisions and strategies, prejudice of various kinds, and so on. Thus the central themes are always relational processes at their core and rarely problems of individuals. By focusing organizational research on the cognition, feelings, abilities, perceptions, and actions of individuals, our ability to understand and describe social processes, coordinated action, and relational networks, which are

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all at the heart of what makes organizations tick, is greatly diminished. Gergen (1999) cogently describes the central challenge in ﬁnding an alternative to individualism as follows: ‘‘We must locate a way of understanding ourselves as constituents of a process that eclipses any individual within it, but is simultaneously constituted by its individual elements.’’ (p. 129).

3.7

The Self as Social Process

The difﬁculty faced by organizational research and theory is that a heroic understanding of the self greatly restricts our scope for making sense of the individual as an integral part of social processes. In other words, how can one imagine the self as a constituent of a process when it is so ubiquitously taken for granted that individuals take part in the social environment, that it is individuals who attempt to form and inﬂuence it, and who are in turn formed and inﬂuenced by it? Perhaps such a ‘‘turnaround’’ in understanding can be illustrated by some of the insights gained in feminist research and theory. In the long and heated debates about what makes the difference between female and male and how such differences come about, a crucial new perspective has lately gained acceptance. Instead of the common understanding that the sex of a person is something he or she possesses based on the person’s biological features and the social role which that person plays in society, many problems encountered by an individualistic conception of gender disappear if one proceeds from the assumption that one must continuously acquire the ascription and the identity of one’s gender. Therefore, gender is not something a person has but something one does, something that is recurrently staged (as in a theater) for some directly or indirectly present audience, including oneself as observer. Despite the common experience that one can usually identify the gender of a person without much difﬁculty, we do so without really knowing all of the relevant biological details necessary for a deﬁnite classiﬁcation into the categories of ‘‘biological male’’ or ‘‘biological female.’’ These — for society, so fundamentally crucial — distinctions develop out of the relationships in the context of the respective social situation. Naturally, it is individuals who stage their gender through what they say and how they say it, through the way they dress, the way they move, where they are positioned in certain institutions, what activities they are involved in, and what activities they avoid. They perform for virtual or real others for whom such performances are intended and through whom individuals can achieve the legitimacy of their claim to a particular gender category. In this respect, West and Zimmerman (1987) have used the expressions of ‘‘social accounting’’ and ‘‘doing gender’’ to summarize these processes. On the one hand, the idea of ‘‘doing gender’’ contains a complex of socially formed perceptions, interactions and micropolitical activities, which represent particular practices as expressions of a feminine or masculine nature. On the other hand, it is the others involved in a particular situation who legitimize, through their reactions and the resulting negotiation processes, the claim to membership of a particular gender

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category. We can therefore talk of a process of social accounting. In this concept, gender is an evolving aspect of a social situation through the interaction and communication between the actors involved and is not a characteristic of a person. For instance, to become socially legitimated as women involves very different activities and conversations, depending on whether a person can pass as a woman in the military, or whether a person is operating in a family context or at work, or whether the person is taking part in an elegantly staged ball. The same ‘‘doing’’ gender of a woman in the military would most likely be problematic in the social accounting process of an elegant opera ball. For instance, Goffman (1977) has eloquently described the interactive ‘‘doing gender’’ process — very difﬁcult, intensive, and deeply moving — after a sex alteration operation until the ‘‘new’’ gender identity became reality for the affected person and for the social surroundings as well. In a very similar way, we can imagine the identity formation and ascription of personal characteristics by ‘‘doing’’ and ‘‘accounting socially’’ what we understand by courage, uncertainty, love, or a successful CEO and entrepreneur. It is important to appreciate that through multilateral communication, which includes all modes of performance, the self of the persons involved, as well as the meaning of relationships, is socially constructed. Such constructions are always in the making and only at a certain point in time do they seem to be factually given.

3.8

Organizational Research Beyond Individualism

Having discussed the self as social process, we can now illustrate the potential of undertaking research in organizations by avoiding the restrictions of individualistic concepts; we can instead put the social processes through which organizations function on center stage. I would like to approach this through the issue of leadership, which is a vital aspect of organizing. Practitioners, as well as organizational researchers, have increasingly come to the conclusion that, in today’s globalized economy, organizations of all kinds must ﬁnd their competitive advantage in more effective development of the prerequisites for organizational learning and greater creativity, as well as more effective mutual communication processes in the organization and its environment. In general, this emphasizes the development of abilities and the empowerment of organizational members on all levels, constructive handling of criticism, and dealing fairly with the different perspectives of organization members. In the context of such challenges, it is not surprising that the ﬁrst attempts to develop alternative leadership concepts have appeared in the literature in what could be called ‘‘post-heroic’’ leadership research (Fletcher, 2004; Fletcher & Ka¨ufer, 2003; Pearce & Conger, 2003; Dachler, 1999; Dachler & Hosking, 1995; Hosking, 2006). The general question asked in these early studies on alternative concepts of leadership is what happens to the notion of leaders when it no longer makes sense to conceptualize them as heroes. There are a number of fundamental theoretical considerations whereby post-heroic leadership differs from individual conceptions of leadership.

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Foremost is the assumption that leadership is a mutual and integral process that is played out and distributed over the entire organization. For example, it is understood that a CEO who is perceived as the ‘‘head’’ of an organization assumes that position out of legal and public relations considerations. However, rather than attributing heroic characteristics to such a person, it is understood that a CEO is empowered, enabled and supported by a large and complex network of leadership practices distributed throughout the entire organization, operating in concert with various actors and institutions in the organizational environment. It is important to realize that the recognizable, public results of an organization are made possible by the cooperative processes of organizational life and not by the actions of selected individuals at the ‘‘head’’ of an organization. In other words, a reversal is taking place, away from the idea of individual accomplishment and meritocracy toward an increasing awareness of the role of collective performance and achievement, social networking, and socially negotiated decisions. Teamwork and mutual responsibility take on central importance in post-heroic and relational leadership research. Leadership occurs through relationships and networks of inﬂuence in which the ‘‘followers’’ (as conceptualized traditionally) play a decisive role in inﬂuencing, enabling and developing leadership processes.2 Inherent in a relational understanding of leadership is the idea of change. The focus rests on the expected results of the leadership process. Social interactions that are understood as leadership within the particular cultural context of an organization and its societal surroundings are those that result in learning and development for both the organization and the actors involved. In this case, leadership involves the social construction of a context in which mutual enabling processes can take place, in which knowledge is generated and distributed, and where joint learning — especially learning on the basis of diversity — is made possible. In today’s conﬂict-ridden world, we might be forgiven for concluding that such views of leadership and other, similar conceptions of organizational issues are somewhat naive, or at least too complex, too idealistic or too ‘‘unrealistic’’ for organizations trying to survive in a global and highly competitive market. But herein lies the salient issue. We can, of course, argue that it is exactly this hard, competitive and conﬂict-ridden world that represents the objective reality in which we have to survive and which leaves us nothing but unrealistic dreams. In that case, everything remains the same because of the entrenched belief that this is the way people are and that the world out there is, by its very nature, hard, unfair and distrustful. We come back to the central theme of this chapter. The question is why relational leadership and its attendant understanding of organizing processes in general remains ‘‘unseen’’ in the dominant leadership and organizational literature, and particularly in matters of organizational practice.

2

It is important not to confuse relational leadership with democratic or participative leadership, in which the individual leader plays the central role.

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Perhaps the dynamics of this social construction process concerning relational leadership can be clariﬁed somewhat by looking at the gender-power issues involved. As is the case in nearly all areas of social interaction, leadership is also a platform for ‘‘doing gender.’’ Fletcher (2004) points out that, while traditional heroic leadership corresponds to the masculine ideal — as illustrated earlier in discussing the social construction of leadership — the relational understanding of post-heroic leadership is more in line with the feminine ideal. Conceiving leadership as a social process that aims at empowerment and development of others, and that supports equality among different forms of living, not only contradicts traditional assumptions of individualism, including economic and political theory, but fundamentally violates genderrelated assumptions about these practices and concepts. In other words, post-heroic assumptions in leadership theory and research correspond implicitly with what is perceived, in many cultures, to be embedded in feminine ideals and to be related, in consequence, to relative powerlessness. It needs to be understood that, in the context of the heroic self, ‘‘doing femininity’’ is in effect ‘‘doing powerlessness.’’ ‘‘Doing femininity’’ and ‘‘doing powerlessness’’ are not normally what is understood as leadership and both are strongly emotion-bound (Fletcher, 2004). Relational leadership concepts not only involve a change to a more feminine understanding of the world but also to a different logic of power and effectiveness in entrepreneurial practice. The logic of effectiveness in the context of heroic leadership is deeply rooted in the masculine life form — of the strongest, of competition, separation, subject–object relationships, and expertise in producing and building things. On the other hand, the logic of effectiveness in the context of relational leadership is deeply rooted in the feminine life form of being in relationships, of ‘‘caring’’ (Gilligan, 1982), as well as knowing about developing people and raising them in domestic life. Many studies, and indeed everyday experiences, have shown the dilemma in which many women ﬁnd themselves. In their life form, they tend implicitly to practice more of what is understood as relational leadership. Yet, in the context of prevailing heroic leadership expectations, they simultaneously communicate relative powerlessness with all its devaluing consequences (Rudman & Glick, 2001). In the context of the prevailing masculine understanding of what good leadership represents, it would seem that the so-called feminine logic makes less sense and is therefore devalued. However, when women try to conform to masculine expectations concerning good leadership, their ‘‘doing gender’’ is immediately construed as problematic such that, in the discourse of ‘‘social accounting,’’ they are degraded with expressions such as ‘‘iron lady’’ or ‘‘vampire.’’ Of course, a contrary ‘‘doing gender’’ problem is witnessed when men adopt the role of househusband or practice relational leadership, in which case their masculine legitimacy is questioned in the ‘‘social accounting’’ dialogue (Nentwich, 2004). Thus, these often hidden and hardly researched power and gender dynamics contribute enormously to the frequent observation that, despite strategically planned efforts to introduce relational practices of leadership in organizations, the results are often hardly more than well-meant, public declarations of intent. With respect to any fundamental change, things remain the same.

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Organizational Research as Method for Long-term, Sustainable Change

From the foregoing discussion it should be obvious that there are good reasons why the vast majority of organizational research, while certainly contributing to some very useful insights into the nature of organizations, has sadly failed to understand — and therefore contribute to — long-term, sustainable change. From a social constructionist point of view, long-term, sustainable change cannot be some ﬁnal, objective ‘‘end state.’’ Instead such change has to be viewed as an ongoing process, one whose ﬁnal outcome cannot be known in an absolute sense but whose emergence and development can be constructed in some valued manner. Much of the research on organizational change still contains fundamental ideas that directly or indirectly value or contribute to competition, dominance, delimitation, distrust, subject–object relationships, and so on. As we have seen, these ideas make sense primarily in self-contained individualism and a rationalist epistemology. They represent the socially constructed societal context in which alternative approaches that value different constructions of human interaction — which ‘‘do other kinds of social processes’’ based on empowerment, acceptance of diversity, mutual learning, and mutual enabling and dialogue – seem but unattainable dreams. Thus, it is the overall methodology — i.e., the way we do organizational research, our central assumptions and general hypotheses, and the vast array of corresponding measurement and analyses tools — through which organizational research constructs organizational change (Feyerabend, 1988; Gergen, 1994; Dachler, 2000). And implicit in this overall methodology are the kinds of valued approaches that have been discussed in this chapter. Therefore, long-term, sustainable organizational change must be based on a change in the fundamental assumptions in the way we ‘‘do’’ and ‘‘talk’’ research, by which differently valued social constructions concerning the individual and the way individuals interact in constructing and developing organizations are made possible.

Chapter 10

Using Knowledge-as-Inquiry to Mobilize Change: A Retrospective Analysis of ‘‘Moments of Change’’ in a Relational Practice Alexander J.J.A. Maas, Johannes H. Stravers and Frans P.M. Baar

10.1

Sharing a Problematique about Context

Europe’s population is aging. Compared to the number of people who live with an acute, life-threatening disease, more people now live with the effects of serious chronic illnesses, and disability toward the end of life. Meeting both needs presents a public health challenge. Policy makers and health professionals recognize that these changes require a health program that encourages both inventive cure and care professionalization, particularly palliative care for those patients (and their families) who cannot be cured (Davies & Higginson, 2004). We have witnessed an expansion of palliative care services worldwide. Everyone facing life-threatening illness will need some degree of supportive or comfort care in addition to treatment for their condition. Some stress the terminal nature of the disease and deﬁne palliative care as ‘‘the active total care of patients whose disease is not responsive to curative treatment, including control of pain, other symptoms, and psychological, social, and spiritual problems.’’ Others use the term more generally to refer to any care that alleviates symptoms, even if there is hope of a cure by other means. For example, a WHO statement (2005) calls palliative care ‘‘an approach that improves the quality of life of patients and their families facing the problems associated with life-threatening illness.’’ Still, the timing and growth rate of these services, as well as the form and setting in which this type of care is delivered, varies signiﬁcantly from country to country (Wright, Wood, Lynch, & Clark, 2007). For example, in 1996 the Dutch Ministry of Health chose to integrate palliative care into regular health care institutions and Relational Practices, Participative Organizing Advanced Series in Management, 177–198 Copyright r 2010 Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 1877-6361/doi:10.1108/S1877-6361(2010)0000007014

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stated that it should be possible for terminally ill patients to return to their own homes when death approached. The result has been that, despite many people’s preference to be cared for and to die at home, in practice death in an institutional setting remains the norm. Since then, new Dutch initiatives have provided a range of palliative care services in different settings that vary from special palliative care units within (academic) hospitals and nursing homes to hospices and consultation teams (Francke & Kerkstra, 2000). Some of these initiatives permit people to die in a home setting if they wish, but still too few, as has been shown (Algera, Francke, Kerkstra, & van der Zee, 2003; Algera, 2005). In 2005, changes to Dutch health care policies have given further impetus to bringing care and cure closer to the client. These changes have had tremendous consequences for some institutions, hospitals, and nursing homes. They have had to change their entire perspective; rather than design new products, they must now connect with their clients (and their families) in order to develop new ways of organizing and new services to match the care and cure needs of clients. We will follow this shift in activities and the management of one particular organization, Laurens/Antonius IJsselmonde (AIJ). This nursing home houses one of the largest palliative care units in the Netherlands and offers palliative care and two related activities in one location.1 The General Director of the AIJ was offered a new opportunity but did not know how to respond to it as an organization. We closely follow three participants in this transformation process: the General Director of the AIJ (Harry) and a consultant (Anton), who together form the inquiry team, and the AIJ’s Research Director (Martin) who became their most trenchant critic and reﬂective muse. All three provided an open account of their experiences, actions, feelings, and reﬂections during and after this process. They took a participative approach, inviting others, including critics, both within and outside the AIJ to reﬂect on the activities in the palliative care units and their social and cultural context. Bit by bit, the main research question for the inquiry team became clear: could they organize a relational practice in which professionals (bottom-up) change their content knowledge in a more active way and socially relate it to context knowledge? In this chapter, we investigate this inquiry team’s activities; we follow the dialogue processes and changes in content and context knowledge that these professionals in this particular care and cure center produced when confronted with this change in policy. We will also follow one of the researchers (the General Director) while he encourages participants to contribute their own observations as a consequence of the different and shared key concepts discovered. In other words, we look back on the inquiry process. Our retrospective analysis of this change process shows that relational practices between professionals produce diverse processes and manifold 1 AIJ is part of the Laurens group, which offers housing, service, and care facilities in and around Rotterdam. Laurens runs 6 nursing homes, 11 house-care centers, 18 residential houses, and has a home care organisation that offers service to the elderly at home. Four thousand (full- and part-time) employees take care of 8000 clients or patients. Over the last 35 years, the specialised professionals of AIJ have distinguished themselves with their two palliative care units, a unit for youngsters with a non-congenital brain injury and a unit dedicated to handling strokes.

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opportunities to organize professional knowledge differently as long as one is sensitive to context. It also shows that intervention processes differ from a relationalpractices perspective: a ‘‘knowledge-as-inquiry’’ metaphor becomes an important bridge between what Bouwen, Craps, and Dewulf (2005) call ‘‘knowledge-assubstance’’ and ‘‘knowledge-as-participation.’’ We conclude that the transformation process the participants experienced can best be understood as composed of ﬁve trajectories. While each of these was running, another was started and overlapped the others. Thus, all the trajectories took place simultaneously. All members of the inquiry team were not present in every trajectory. In particular, the ﬁnal one was run by the General Director alone. Each trajectory is presented through storytelling and reﬂection, each of which provides a different perspective on the same issue. In the ﬁrst perspective — called storytelling — different participants tell stories and relate insights. The result is a collection of stories about the process that enables us to sketch a rich picture of the social and content activities that took place. Some participants chose to portray what happened in reality through word, image, and sound. In their work and during meetings, they kept on telling stories. Prose produced by the inquiry team remained unread. Academic accounts bemused the participants. Since a visual dialogue in the context of this chapter is not possible, we opted to use storytelling in line with the emergent narrative tradition in organizational theory (see also Prince, 1982; Ankersmit, 1983; Genette, 1998; Sanders, 1994; Vries, 1995; Ellis & Bochner, 1996; Czarniawska, 1998; Cowan, 1999; Boje, 2001; Allen, Fairtlough, & Heinzen, 2001; Maas, 2004; Parkin, 2004). The ﬁve resulting stories consider how a weak signal in the environment stimulated a team of palliative professionals in a larger organization (the AIJ) to search for other possible futures. The second perspective — entitled reﬂection — gives voice to the authors of this chapter. We will reconstruct the narrative process with continuous insight into how the inquiry team reﬂected upon this process and made use of conceptual frameworks. In so doing, we summarize the ‘‘knowledge-as-inquiry’’ perspective, which is the glue that binds substance and participants. It is a reﬂection from both academic and practitioner perspectives on the particular trajectory of the transformation process. Here, we took an unselﬁsh, disinterested, or undeﬁned stand. We literally had no interest and did not deﬁne our position in advance. The inquiry team, Anton, Harry, and Martin, had their own interests, agendas, and values, and during the transformation process they developed some minimal rules to prevent them from colliding or becoming ﬁxated. In this second perspective, we seek to explain this hidden ‘‘knowledge-as-inquiry.’’ Our main conclusion is: only through interacting with those involved and through managing the diagnosis and intervention process did the inquiry team’s positions emerge. Interaction precedes thought, and inquiry is a crucial prerequisite (to paraphrase Weick, 1979, p. 194). The sense-making of this process and positioning is enacting-based and carried out in retrospect: sense-making (Weick, 1995) or meaning-making (Hosking, 2002) is a retrospective event or dynamic and, as such, is multivocal and open to multiple voices, interpretations, and perspectives (Wicklund, 1999).

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10.2

Starting-up: Problematizing or Questioning Taken-for-granted Actions

10.2.1

Storytelling

One day, Harry got to talking to a housing developer named Fabian after discussing the construction of a full-service apartment complex quarter (‘‘levensloopbestendige wijk,’’2 in Harry’s words) with other welfare, care, and building organizations at a meeting organized by Rotterdam’s IJsselmonde district. This quarter is to be customized for elderly people. The main principle behind the quarter is that residents will be able to maintain their own lives, in contrast to the dislocation typically caused by relocation to an old age home. The quarter is part of a large-scale restructuring plan of the IJsselmonde district. Everyone involved wants to see this full-service apartment complex quarter built. The area where this complex is to be erected is situated near the AIJ nursing home in the southern part of Rotterdam. The planned facility will serve as a place to test innovative ideas in the socialization of care and welfare, housing availability and conditions, and intramural institutions. Fabian favors three small-scale facilities that could serve as nodal points for services and care for the elderly living independently in the area. Three organizations wanted to develop these facilities but, recently, one withdrew from the project. Consequently, he is searching for another participant to help bring this concept to fruition. For him, ‘‘it is sink or swim.’’ This opportunity ﬁts quite well with Harry’s plans for his organization: 230 beds, 650 paid staff (310 FTEs), and 250 volunteers. He ﬁnds the dynamics, the ﬁnance structure and, last but not least, the professionalization in a hospice (which differs from that in a nursing home) all good reasons to welcome this opportunity. There is one major problem, however: although in favor of the new developments, his research director Martin has raised critical observations about situating the concept in a single location. Speciﬁcally, he fears the loss of contact and knowledge dissemination among health care professionals. This is especially the case when the institution is required to provide palliative activities in a full-service apartment complex, more than a ten-minute walk from the nursing home. According to Harry, all other professionals enthusiastically support the idea. He invited one of the policy makers to write a short report sketching the future of his Management Team (MT) in order to motivate, rather than persuade, his professionals. Two weeks later, he sent this report by e-mail for 2 These complexes provide apartments to (largely independent) elderly along with the entire range of health and social services required by a geriatric population such that a later move to a home is not required. The former include physical and speech therapy, a dentist, a general practitioner, and out-patient facilities, while the latter consist of, for example, an atrium with a market, restaurant(s), lounges, and other recreational facilities. These complexes also provide space for elderly folk who live elsewhere to comfortably beneﬁt from these services. They are designed to create a space for easy interaction between residents and the wider community and carefully manage care so that those who need it receive it without infantilising residents or undermining their dignity and privacy.

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review to his ‘‘third man,’’ whom he calls Anton, his consultant. When Anton phoned Harry a day later to discuss the matter, the latter was in a hurry and told him the following: The Dutch Ministry of Health plans to change its policy regarding a sector that our nursing home covers. Simultaneously, there is this housing corporation and its offer to build a hospice for palliative care. I’ve made a plan and want to activate a network of interested people such as local policy makers, ﬁnancers, and an architect. Yet, as a consequence of the constructive criticism by Martin, some additional staff members from the palliative sector now ‘oppose’ my plan. As a consequence of these developments, the MT, having reviewed my report, wants me to look carefully at the effects of the plan on organization and knowledge management before giving their approval. This operation’s time schedule is very tight, however. I must go through a strict decision-making process in order to also get my plans approved by the Board of Laurens. Time is too short to follow a strategic trajectory. Besides, you know the organization and it could be a nice topic for you. Can you help?

‘‘Your e-mail and this summary of the status quo by phone are completely different. Further inquiry is needed y Does the latter recapitulate the actual situation?’’ Anton asked. Harry replied in the afﬁrmative, and Anton concluded: ‘‘I see. I’ll think about your query and raise some questions by e-mail, if you don’t mind?’’ ‘‘Of course’’, Harry thought on the way to his next appointment: his network could help him look at the complex situation from another point of view. Don’t get drawn into the conﬂict, he had read in a management book. Anton could help him do precisely that! That evening, Harry received several of Anton’s questions concerning his report by e-mail. He did not like some of them but the questions triggered something in him: ‘‘Which report would Martin have written? How might others in the sector react to this new suggestion? Why does the report only search for internal arguments for a vision?’’ Indeed, Harry asked himself: why? Why did the report fail to make connections to client (and/or family) expectations? Or more broadly put: ‘‘Why were other organizations (competitors) in this particular market not mentioned or analyzed? Neither their products, nor their and our weak and strong points were discussed. In what sense could this new hospice differ from others and how would the new concept relate to the present conception of palliative care? What modiﬁcations need to be made?’’ Harry would later report that this was the moment he began to think about questions other than building a new facility. The next morning he phoned Anton and they agreed that a six-week inquiry among experts in and around the AIJ was needed. This meant one or more roundtable conversations with a selection of professionals from the palliative care units and possibly other interested parties from outside the facility.3 The round-table meetings were designed to prepare, discuss, and reﬂect upon a report to be written by Anton. The report was designed to be used to review the decision-making process. Harry was also invited to cooperate as a researcher. He hesitated, enjoying his role as client,

3

Anton proposed ‘‘collaborative workshops’’ but Harry rejected it as too academic.

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but reluctantly agreed to this suggestion, accepting that both he and Anton would encounter obstacles along their common journey. This principle was a ﬁrst step in being able to maneuver around these inevitable blocks. Before these meetings, Anton and Martin discussed the latter’s perspective on the matter.

10.2.2

Reﬂecting

We hear Anton tell Harry that further inquiry is needed. The former raises questions that stimulate Harry’s ‘‘inquiry process.’’ In this reﬂection, we explore what exactly is meant by ‘‘inquiry.’’ There are different ways to perform research. How do Anton, Harry, and Martin conduct an open-ended inquiry? Which frames of reference did they implicitly use? What does the literature on this subject teach us? As Denzin and Lincoln (2000, pp. 12–18) have shown, qualitative research operates in social science disciplines that crosscut seven historical periods. These periods overlap, and each has contributed knowledge that remains valid down to the present. Denzin and Lincoln deﬁne these periods as the traditional (1900–1950), the modernist or golden age (1950–1970), blurred genres (1970–1986), the crisis of representation (1986–1990), the post-modern, a period of experimental and new ethnographies (1990–1995), the post-experimental inquiry (1995–2000), and the future (2000 and beyond). Others argue that we are in an age of reconstruction (Gergen & Gergen, 2000) in which reﬂexivity (Hertz, 1997), multiple voicing (Bouwen & Steyaert, 1999), literary styling (Clandinin & Connelly, 2000), and performance (Carlson, 1996; Case, Brett, & Foster, 1995; Blumenfeld-Jones, 1995) constitute emerging innovations in qualitative research and that the arena of research has expanded into relational processes, technological revolutions, and the reconstruction of the self. What binds these various deﬁnitions together is that they all see qualitative inquiry as a ﬁeld in the process of transformation. This qualitative or clinical stand (Meehl, 1954, 1986; Maas, 1988) refers to more particularizing practices of inquiry. Hall (1999) distinguishes this type of inquiry practice from more generalizing practices. In the latter, priority is given to assumptions and suppositions (hypotheses) about how groups or things ﬁt together to form a world unto themselves and how that world ﬁts into the coherence of the wider context. Although never achieved, the ultimate goal is an overview of the construction of the universe (of worlds). From this standpoint, our construction methods must ﬁt the assumptions of a logically coherent world. An example of this is the fact that two contrary categories cannot simultaneously be true about a subject. After all, a world is a hoped-for unity. For centuries, these assumptions were developed, reconstructed, and repeatedly amended but yet they persisted despite these differences and continued to form the basis of the qualitative or clinical stand. As a consequence, current scientiﬁc views were put under pressure during the last century including those of Einstein who said that ‘‘God does not play dice with the universe.’’ In particularizing or clinical-inquiry practice, the basic statement is that the world is no longer an unequivocal fact. Reality is understood as a social construction — or better, as a plurality of social constructions (Gergen, 1994, 1999; Gergen, K. J., 2001;

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Gergen, M., 2001; Hacking, 1999; Burr, 2003; Gergen et al., 2004). Collisions, conﬂict, and consensus — and the negotiations that form these social cognitive constructions — are then of utmost importance (Van Dongen, de Laat, & Maas, 1996). Objective reality mediation is used as a substitute for politics, conﬂict, and negotiation regarding social constructions. Sometimes, different participants’ constructions run substantially parallel to each other and yet simultaneously differ and compete on a social level, or vice versa. Any inquiry that seeks to clarify and search for these social and cognitive differences among actors must accept as real some of the methodological consequences of this position. An initial important condition is that research into and management of a situation must never be carried out alone. A relational practice cannot be understood in isolation, for it is characterized by a plurality of social behaviors, contexts, simultaneity, and continuous change between interacting individuals (inside the practice) who have ongoing connections with world(s) (outside the practice) as well. By this, we mean a dynamic that is never ﬁnalized, never ﬁnished, never completed, and never encapsulated or encircled. Thus, to understand and follow these ongoing dynamics between people in any given situation, two researchers are a ﬁrst prerequisite. The use of multiple researchers is necessary in order to sort out all the diverse possibilities in each situation. This is why Anton considered asking Harry, his client, to serve as coresearcher. The reverse is also true: in this process of inquiry, Anton could become Harry’s client. Roles are not reiﬁed and may change as required by the inquiry process. Factual facticity (as understood by Sartre, 1956) is no longer the basic building block. A second condition builds on Thomas’s (1928) suggestion that ‘‘if men deﬁne situations as real, they are real in its consequences’’ and on an amendment to this: ‘‘if men deﬁne situations differently, they are real as well in their consequences.’’ (Van Dongen et al., 1996). The production of differences must be another prerequisite for this kind of research. In any inquiry, it is important to relate the position and perspectives of one conﬁguration with the way(s) in which signiﬁcant other conﬁgurations construct their worlds. It is the ‘‘reality of the consequences’’ that becomes vital. Every inquiry obviously seeks to understand the social and deﬁnitional structures of conﬁguration(s). For the inquiry team, a complicating factor is that, in this particularized practice, they know in advance neither the players’ social structure nor the substantial or cognitive structure of their play. Moreover, they do not know whether players are dominant or nondominant or whether they are dealing with strong or weak signals as a team.4 4

In inquiry, strong signals in an organization refer to mainstream reasoning in the particular organization. A weak signal refers to a method that inquires into signals: (1) new and surprising from the organization’s vantage point (although others may already perceive it), (2) sometimes difﬁcult to track down amid other context noise and signals, (3) that are a threat or opportunity to the organisation, (4) often scoffed at by people who ‘‘know,’’ (5) which usually have a substantial lag time before it matures and becomes mainstream, (6) it stands for an idea or trend that will affect how we do business, what business we do, and the environment in which we will work, and (7) therefore represents an opportunity to learn, grow, and evolve.

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This is how Anton, Harry, and Martin’s short inquiry became a journey. This adaptive and ﬂexible methodology is characterized by differences among the research participants and the researchers (whose views differ), and in each situation these differences helped them look for the variety of possible social constructions produced by the different interacting actors.

10.3

Searching for Participants’ Non-reﬂexivity

10.3.1

Storytelling

Let us focus on the interaction in this initial phase between Harry and Anton (his shadow). Much later, Harry looked back on these ﬁrst moments of the project and told us: My phone call with Anton clariﬁed the actions that brought me here: I had stressed the urgency of the matter and become negligent. As a consequence, ﬁrst one colleague and then others began to offer constructive criticism of the idea I (precipitously) brought to the MT. At the MT meeting, discussion focused on my colleagues’ arguments. I thus faced a severe block, which was when I decided to phone Anton and discuss the matter with him. We decided to give priority to the obstructions and take a step back. But how to do this? I suggested organizing a round-table meeting with a select group of sector participants (some of whom had to treat clients who desperately needed attention). Anton, however, had a different thought.

Anton emphasized another interactive element: I was brought into two worlds at the same time. Firstly, Harry could be part of the problem. He seemed to be connected to an idea (the content). As a consequence, he had less social connection to others in the organization so they started to focus on the subject too and some began to object. He lost touch with some of his people. In this context, to him any objection was ‘a storm of opposition,’ and enthusiastic reactions were quickly forgotten. As is often the case, the social reality was not quite that bad but it took some time to realize this. The process took on the characteristics of a smouldering ﬁre: without him seeing, it spread among people involved in the sector. He now faced a social structural conﬂict between himself and some of the people who had asked for our initial attention. In such a situation, a third person can offer opportunities a manager cannot: raising obvious or unexpected questions and facilitating reﬂection on the search for a different context. Secondly, Harry was in a hurry to make a decision about an issue in which other professionals were also involved. Their objections could be understood as a cry for social participation. It was important to deal with both worlds separately. I ﬁrst proposed that I would face the ﬁxation at the social level and discuss Harry’s objections with him privately in order to create a common social base.5 As long as we did not agree on the nature of the objections, we were little better than the cyclist with a stick in the spokes of his wheel. Simultaneously, we had to think about rising above this conﬂict and developing a meticulous procedure. A social activity (e.g., a collaborative workshop) under my leadership seemed a good idea as a third person might be able to help ﬁnd opportunities that participants had not seen. It is as if a fresh set of eyes are able to 5 Fixation here refers to the state in which an individual or conﬁguration of people becomes obsessed with an attachment to a speciﬁc human actor, interpretation, idea, method, interaction, or context (see Van Dongen et al., 1996).

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help participants see the situation differently. It was important that Harry should also attend and make himself available to answer questions, even if this meant that primarily he listened to the others rather than participated in the discussion. For the workshop, I proposed an inquiry into ‘the content matter of the sector.’ I wanted participants to examine two aspects in the collaborative setting: to examine their own activities in the sector more thoroughly (‘here and now’) and to talk about future transformations in the ﬁeld and consequences for the sector (‘there and then’). I only could do this if we took the content conﬂict into account. I invited Harry to be my fellow researcher during the workshop. He would then be able to raise questions and become the main researcher at a later stage.

Harry interrupted Anton: ‘‘We already agreed on this: I was to be a co-researcher! It was to be an experiment for me!’’ Two days before the ﬁrst workshop, Anton spoke to Martin (the Research Director) in order to learn more about the sector and its context; they also discussed the major risks involved with the initial idea. Anton wanted to know what kind of palliative care the AIJ would talk about. Martin explained: Over the last 30 years the role of nursing homes in the Netherlands has changed from nursing and care of the chronically ill and dying into established organizations rendering differentiated (intramural and extramural) nursing, care, living and welfare services to clients and their families (see Baar, 2002). Some need palliative care. At the AIJ, nine professionals offer intensive palliative care in two units or in multidisciplinary teams (one team for every six patients) that enhance the quality of life for patients with a limited life expectancy and alleviate their family’s pain and suffering by addressing their medical, emotional and spiritual needs. Right from the beginning, the team produces a care plan for the patient in which no speciﬁc therapy is excluded from consideration. The test of palliative care lies in agreement between the individual patient, their family, and this team consisting of physician(s), nurses, physiotherapist, psychologist, clergyman, and volunteers. This agreement demands sincere social interaction between the professionals, the patient and the family, and this is accomplished, in part, via a series of meetings to discuss (changes in) the patient’s condition and well-being. The expected outcome is relief from distressing symptoms, the easing of pain, and/or the maintenance of quality of life for the patient and their family. Providing a digniﬁed death for the patient is also a concern. In short, professionals are organized to serve individual patients and their families as well as to facilitate cooperation amongst themselves. Each individual situation is different. Simultaneously, a joint venture between the Laurens institution and other institutions in Rotterdam has created a mobile Palliative Care Response Team. This team has the ability to respond to general practitioners and other professionals who need help in making the transition from accepting and trying all measures to prolong a patient’s life to providing the physical, emotional and spiritual care needed to face panic situations and complications in the last phase of life.

This was followed by a discussion about the possible effects of building a hospice. Martin explained that he was worried about three risks in particular. He expressed his fear that a hospice might put pressure on the social interaction between the multidisciplinary team: Nowadays we see each other in the corridor, stop by each other’s ofﬁce, and see each other while making rounds. Right now, we have very short lines of communication. If this hospice is built, we’ll have to plan these meetings while a patient may need a quick decision. Operating activities at a distance takes time. We may not have that much time, especially if, for example, more than

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He expressed an additional fear regarding the synergetic effect the ﬁndings in the palliative care unit might have for other units in the AIJ nursing home: ‘‘We now offer high quality care for various target groups. Knowledge and experience in one group can be used for other clients too. What will happen if we decentralize our activities into several smaller units, as is the consequence of Harry’s idea?’’6 Martin described this risk in its context: These days the Dutch social service sector faces many (top-down) changes and transformations in which the knowledge of cure and care professionals isn’t taken into consideration. The marketing of cure and care products and services, competition in the sector, and various sources of ﬁnancing are important aspects for policy makers. Some in the AIJ organization want to implement these changes, Harry being one of them. Others warn of the consequences of these developments, especially that of bureaucratization: the professional might be forced to do a manager’s job and deliver information about their activities and patients that are not part of their core task. In the current situation, dialogues among professionals and policy makers try to manage these kinds of development. Do we have the time and space to prevent this development from deteriorating into mere control measures in a hospice?7

Both discussed how to deal with these fears. Anton told us: As far as I was concerned, he was the perfect third partner during and after the round-table meeting. He commands a great deal of information about the ﬁeld and was a vital person in the Dutch palliative network. Had he not been present, it would have been a loss for all participants and a sign of conﬂict. I thus asked him whether this objection prevented him from participating in the meetings and continuing to contribute afterwards. He reacted in an unexpected way.

Martin responded: I like the proposal of a round-table meeting because it buys us time and makes space for each other. It could help the MT examine how we are working in the units and looking at the issue. We on the shop ﬂoor need this time and space to understand the potential advantages and disadvantages! Of course having thought about this idea, I got a forum to discuss those objections that could give us constructive food for thought and action!

‘‘So,’’ added Anton, ‘‘my next question was whether he liked the idea of not talking about the risks at the meeting, as long as it was not mentioned by anyone else of course, but to discuss the actual situation from the perspective of the professionals, the clients, the competitors, and the Rotterdam care sector, and then look for opportunities in the future.’’ 6 Much later, during the transformation trajectory, one of his fellow physicians offered another perspective on this matter: ‘‘We have to look for ways to share these high quality aspects between the multidisciplinary team members and the staff at a new to build hospice. There are more ways to achieve high quality in the hospice situation than we have yet come up with. Let’s explore them!’’ 7 Not mentioned here is a ﬁnal risk he saw — namely, in unforeseeable operating cost deﬁcits. A controller at the AIJ has already been asked by Harry to write a report on this. In this case, Harry faced the consequences of his double role, being operatively responsible (as manager) and participative observer (as researcher). Anton and Harry decided as a team to split both roles in their individual reports on the inquiry (‘‘diaries’’ or ‘‘reﬂexive journals,’’ Erlandson et al., 1993).

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Martin then said, ‘‘Please, make your own agenda. Wouldn’t it be better not to start with the risks? Perhaps you should take them into consideration in your report?’’ Anton added immediately: ‘‘We came to exactly the same conclusion!’’

10.3.2

Reﬂecting

There are additional strategies of inquiry based on interpretive paradigms available to researchers (see Bateson, 1972; Guba, 1990; Lincoln & Guba, 1985; Guba & Lincoln, 1989; Erlandson, Harris, Skipper, & Allen, 1993; Abma, 1996; Abma & Widdershoven, 2006; Rubin & Rubin, 2005). It is by virtue of a wise combination of strategies that researchers are able to take an open stand toward relational practice. Such a combination enables them to relate differently to people with whom they are presently working as well as to actively participate, analyze, and (as in Harry’s case) manage. Thus, continuous reﬂection on the mix of methods or research strategies is a prerequisite for the production of differences in a relational practice. One element must be emphasized: the inquirers take an a posteriori stand, meaning that propositions are knowable on the basis of experience and are always related to the social and cognitive context. As Van Dongen et al. (1996) have shown, the consequences of our initial reﬂections on an inquiry strategy are signiﬁcant. We developed an open strategy that clariﬁed various interpretative schemes used by conﬁgurations of relevant players.8 The key point here is that the speciﬁc players in a detailed domain are related in various ways and thus construct, produce, and change their reality in related but different ways. Heterogeneity among players and detecting the patterns of relationships between players and their activities should be the main points of inquiry. It is important to understand that the usual subdivisions in and outside (a system), organization and unit (departments, functions, etc.) are worlds of difference that change and must be investigated. This position demands an ‘‘undeﬁned’’ approach in the sense that we do not have deﬁnitions, models, or points we want to make in advance (Maas, 1988). This helps to experience and clarify emerging social cognitive relations without prejudice. Van Dongen et al. (1996) detail an argument for this kind of inquiry. Three methodical concepts can help. The ﬁrst two are the concepts of social cognitive conﬁguration and aggregate (Maas, 1991). Both concepts portray the extent to which people share patterns of ongoing interaction, whether solid or not. Studied as an instantaneous record, social cognitive conﬁgurations are characterized by a matching between relatively stable ongoing interaction patterns and shared cognitions (Bolk, 1989). Both social situations refer to a process. Thus, conﬁguration must be understood as conﬁguring and aggregate as aggregating (Maas, 1988). The third crucial concept is the notion of multiple inclusion. 8

This open strategy is developed as an open source approach that unfolds and inquires into the collective wisdom of relevant stakeholders in and around both palliative care units. The method was developed to enable individual and team actions to evolve in a collaborative source for the AIJ palliative care (in the AIJ context also referred to as ‘‘crown jewels,’’ see Dinkelacker & Garg, 2001).

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Inclusion can be understood to be ‘‘the extent to which the individual’s deﬁnition of reality, as regards content, converges with a speciﬁc social cognitive conﬁguration.’’ ‘‘Multiple’’ refers to the phenomenon that an individual’s reality deﬁnitions do not totally overlap with those used by others because any given individual belongs to other conﬁgurations as well. Human actors are similar and different at the same time. According to Maas (1988), both concepts are like two sides of the same coin. Where the ﬁrst two concepts offer the inquiry team a way to structure the situation, the last concept (inevitably related to the ﬁrst two) emphasizes the dynamic of the situation from the standpoint of a social actor. As Hall (1999) has shown, this deconstruction makes it possible to consider the prospects of inquiry under the diverse conditions that protagonists demonstrate. In this context, he refers to inquiry that operates under conditions of ‘‘heterology’’ (Hall, 1999, p. 29): the coexistence of alternative culturally conventionalized kinds of knowledge. It shows that the practices of sociohistorical inquiry are neither isolated provinces with distinctive autonomous logics nor the single province of a general epistemology. Instead, diverse practices of inquiry that might seem incompatible with one another [y] are at once bound together and separated by their uneven, differential, and contradictory connections to shared formative discourses.

In other words, when researchers relate paradigms, they combine ‘‘under social conditions.’’ When particularizing inquiry practices, they feel the need to generalize. The reverse is also true, depending on inquiry conditions. In this particular situation at the AIJ, it is important to examine the validation of the differences. As suggested above, the initial situation described by Harry was multi-layered: on the one hand, he was dealing with a ‘‘social conﬂict’’ and, on the other, a ‘‘substantial or cognitive conﬂict.’’ As Van Dongen et al. (1996) have shown, both contexts have the potential to erupt into open conﬂict, hampering or altogether blocking the team’s inquiries. Anton would ﬁrst talk to one of Harry’s critics in order to ensure a sound context for debate. If this were successful (success being deﬁned as Martin attending the workshop), the workshop could provide a social setting in which the inquiry team could then ﬁnd out whether participants were willing and able to make space for each other, and whether that might result in a solid basis for further inquiry. As a result, the inquiry team employed a continuously adjusting, open-inquiry design. This gave them the opportunity to shift perspective or focal point.

10.4

Enriching the Situation

10.4.1

Storytelling

Harry: From the very start my position as researcher was different from that of manager. As manager, I could tell people what I wanted done, give them tasks and orders, and have open dialogues and talks. As researcher, I was in a new position and (a) had to deal with a critical co-researcher. Half a day before e-mailing an invitation to my colleagues, I offered him a ﬁrst draft. Some of his

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remarks were incorporated into the ﬁnal version. I also (b) told him about the palliative care unit. I faxed him an MT report (about forming opinions on centralization of terminal patient beds at the AIJ) and some articles about the integrated care pathway for terminal patients (Ellershaw, Foster, Murphy, Shea, & Overill, 1997; Baar & van der Kloot Meijburg, 2002; Swart et al., 2003; Van Veluw, Schrofer, Swart, & van Zuylen, 2004). Both the report and the articles made much of the particular situation of the unit and/or nursing homes in the Netherlands. I thought my co-researcher, who was also to chair the round-table meeting, might be able to use these by way of introduction. I also (c) observed people and what happened in my organization, rather than merely regulating and managing the situation. As a consequence, (d) I had an intense dialogue with my co-researcher (as inquirer) and an inspiring interchange with my staff (as General Director). This other role helped me look at the situation completely differently.

Anton added: I initially search for an overload of information. I scan the internet for all kinds of related web pages. It was particularly friendly and helpful of Harry to sent me relevant articles and reports. Finally, my talk with Martin helped me to collect information for the meeting. He explained the Rotterdam palliative care scene to me and introduced me to the works of Dr. John Ellershaw (Medical Director at the Marie Curie Centre in Liverpool, UK) and Jo Hockley (a nurse at the Bridges Initiative, a project by a hospice in Edinburgh, Scotland) (Clark, Hockley, & Ahmedzai, 1997; Ellershaw et al., 1997). Both of their books provided insight into the state of palliative care abroad.

In this inquiry, both researchers agreed to use the round-table meeting as an invitation to bring differences to light. Anton chaired the meeting. They thoroughly debated the issues to be raised and formulated their questions as follows:

What are the strong and weak aspects of the AIJ sector, what problems do you face, and what do you want to improve or change? How do clients and families react (differently) within the AIJ sector? Which competitors are active in Rotterdam and what do they offer? In what way are they similar to and different from the AIJ? What are their weak and strong points, in relation to the AIJ sector? What will the future of the sector in Rotterdam and in the Netherlands look like? How could a transformed AIJ offer different opportunities to their clients and families? What adjustments are necessary?

The workshop was held in a large meeting room in the AIJ and included 14 participants. One staff member offered to support the inquiry team. She summarized the talks and later helped search for statistics. After half a day of discussion, the workshop was at midpoint. One participant (a physician) summarized the meeting as an inspiring event that helped to search for what was not said about the units, who was not involved in the analysis thus far. He admitted that it was not easy to be speciﬁc about the rules of the game within the units. We succeeded, however, in making a connection to each other’s work and to the palliative work done in the outside world — and other aspects never discussed in the unit!

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Another participant (a nurse) reported: What did I observe? We started discussing Harry’s proposal at the large round-table meeting in the conference room. We assessed the core of our work and also the possibility of separating a unit from the AIJ. For me, it was like analyzing the pearls this palliative work produces: caring for others, interacting and sharing dialogue with others in a multidisciplinary team of professionals who differ and have a common understanding, caring for the patient, their family, and each other. It was about where we are — our shared common and different interests. It raised the question whether we could relate these differences to one possible future and how we could change our attitudes and behavior. This particularization during the start of our work inspired me and gave me conﬁdence in our future. It is my feeling that the workshop also had a binding effect; it stimulated the units’ professionals to share knowledge and experience. It dissolved the old groupings and patterns, forcing us to start anew. For those who were most critical, it was not a threatening atmosphere. They were present and that was important for, rather than talking in circles, together we got down to brass tacks and settled a number of points. In that sense, we all showed a human, vulnerable face to each other! Finally, the introduction of more than one ‘third person’ in the process helped establish an open focus and prevented us from falling back onto our own biases. In short, we co-operated in a vital and decisive way.

Another participant (a physician) summarized his thoughts as follows: I consider the round-table meeting process the beginning of a cultural turn. There was a culture of consultation characterized by a certain informality. Simultaneously, we explored each other’s desire to know the direction in which we were journeying. For both units, these meetings were the turning point from a pioneering stage to collaboration and creating structure. An important question was: what did we develop, how do we sell our key qualities to outsiders, and how could we bring our professionalism into play in any given future situation. An important criterion for the new facility is that our main building will have to be rebuilt in a few years, and we cannot recover the same number of rooms we now have (why we need more space). One must start thinking about these things, keep up with public trends, and listen to one’s clients and their families.

Just before the ﬁrst meeting, Martin informed Anton that he might receive an emergency call concerning a private matter. Both agreed to organize an information session, which both researchers would run before holding a second meeting. He came and participated during the afternoon but had to leave halfway through.

10.4.2

Reﬂecting

Being reﬂective, the inquiry team developed several key focal points during this process, which were not made explicit. Their ﬁrst focus was to help stakeholders discern the various players and understand the variety of perspectives regarding this particular palliative care issue within as well as outside the organization. This detects various players in speciﬁed domains: within the organization, close to the organization (local authorities, competitors, local communities) as well as in Rotterdam and the Netherlands in general. In essence, each time someone raised this focal point they entered a ‘‘new’’ domain, and this happened more than once. ‘‘Knowledge-as-substance’’ was concentrated within the organization in a few experts who had been invited to the round-table meeting. That was the social setting the inquiry team needed to test their conﬂict thesis.

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For them, ‘‘knowledge-as-inquiry’’ started before this meeting and peaked during the meeting at which the team faced ﬁve main questions: becoming acquainted socially, participants’ deﬁnitions of the domain in Rotterdam, client and family perspectives on the organization, participant perspectives on the organization, and ﬁnally participant perspectives on the hospice organization. Within these ﬁve questions, they recognized a shift in attention. They discussed differences and similarities between units and their speciﬁc contexts, various clients and family characteristics, as well as participants’ views of the unit and a possible hospice organization. During a four-hour round-table conversation, participants were able to recognize many, sometimes contrasting, standpoints and opinions within and between each of the organization’s two units. In essence, ‘‘knowledge-as-participation’’ got its start during this meeting and continued during the second round-table session. It really started to take on a life of its own during the transformation process (after the policymaking process had been completed) and, together with the participants, the organizing and pre-building activities for the hospice began. One of the main aims of the workshop was to problematize the data developed when interacting. Slagmolen (2004, pp. 88–92) elaborates on this by combining Weick’s organizing concept (1979) and Chia’s (1996) downstream and upstream thinking concepts. Based on Chia’s distinctions, he warns that we should be aware of hidden aspects in people’s behavior or reasoning:

at a methodical level: preserve implicit assumptions and make the implicit explicit, at an actor level: search for generalizations (de-contextualize) and ask for context in general remarks (striving for objective knowledge denies speciﬁc and local contexts of actors), at a knowledge level: an act is a stabilization of meaning and asks for variation (in context, language, actor, order), and at an artifact level: prioritize artifacts (such as units, cooperation, key qualities) and give priority to the social context of the artifact (Slagmolen, 2004, p. 72).

Slagmolen subsequently shows that, by supplementing both positions, plural diagnostics are possible. Maas (2005) elaborates some of these methods (e.g., how to produce differences). We amend both positions by stating that not only are plural diagnostics necessary for inquiry but differences made by researchers and diagnostics do indeed matter. Based on observations by the inquirers and a staff member in the organization, the inquiry team’s second focus was to conﬁgure the players into groups of stakeholders. Combined with this second process, they tried to clarify the constructs and questions under discussion. In conversations with a selection of the professionals, they also employed a third focus: they tried to closely study each group of stakeholders in order to specify social and cognitive structuring differences within a conﬁguration. Their selection was mainly motivated by the nondominance of certain positions during the round table and less by agenda considerations. This analysis was done twice: initially, after the

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ﬁrst round-table session (by Anton) and, a second time, after interviews with actors outside the organization (by Harry). After the round table, both were able to detect several nondominant actors within the units and the organization. One was a member of the palliative mobile team who happened to know a great deal about Dutch hospice developments. They also identiﬁed two physicians who had contrasting paradigms about palliative care and interviewed them. As nondominant actors outside the organization, Harry identiﬁed and interviewed local policy makers and an architect.

10.5

Challenging Those Involved, and Connecting to Contexts

10.5.1

Storytelling

At the end of the workshop, participants agreed to hold a second meeting within ten days based on Anton’s ﬁrst draft report. This report summarized the main issues from the ﬁrst workshop. A list of six well-known Dutch hospices was mentioned. Anton also made a careful next step: he sketched participants’ visions of the future of the AIJ with a hospice. He did this by putting down on paper the risks expressed by participants about the new project and combined these risks with opportunities in the same document. He then sketched out the advantages and disadvantages of four possible futures: not starting a hospice, starting a regular hospice, starting a highquality hospice, and waiting for another project (for more will certainly come along!). He did not completely ﬁnish the report, sending the open-ended report with the following e-mail to every participant: As you may have noticed, the report is not ﬁnished. The inquiry team has chosen to offer you an ‘unﬁnished score’ because we do not want to prematurely close unﬁnished business at our roundtable meeting. We want to ensure that arguments developed after the ﬁrst meeting would be taken into consideration. In the next, short meeting, we will be interested in answering three questions: do you recognize the facts or did we make any mistakes in activities, organizations, ﬁgures? Can we discuss options to improve them? Finally, which scenarios should be fully worked out?

Harry, Martin, and Anton met just before the second workshop. The meeting was meant to strengthen the future social base between the directors and debate the risks and options detailed in the report. They worked constructively, listened to each other and made space for critical comments and suggestions. All three concluded that the relationship was healthy and ripe for an open discussion of the issue. Parenthetically, Harry announced that he had invited an architect to attend the second meeting to let him experience the meeting’s vigor. At the start of the second meeting (which lasted an hour and a half), both sides elaborated their positions. Martin summarized his position as follows: I explained that I saw challenges in the situation as sketched, but wanted to bridge to the UK situation in which polyclinic palliative care and outpatient treatment for patients with incurable diseases has been in place for years now. Yet I also had my objections: in particular, the loss of interaction and synergy had to be addressed. I brought these to the table hoping the discussion would help produce solutions. I would love to visit hospices somewhere in Holland. So we did.

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Harry remarked: I noted that the workshops on the palliative care units were followed closely by many others in the organization. It was much discussed and several professionals let me know that they regretted not having been able to attend. They spoke to other professionals and the message spread quickly. Given this situation, I wanted to invite outsiders (such as the architect) to participate, get a taste for the discussion, and better understand the participants’ context. In addition, I realized during the discussion that professionals at the AIJ were proud of their work. I also became an observing researcher and active manager who wanted to challenge, motivate, and search: who was I to prevent three participants from organizing a trip to several hospices? I supported their initiative. This trip (which took place after the meeting) certainly helped make a speedy start to the transformation trajectory. The collaborative workshops, the report and the trip together formed the energizing moments for change in this project.

Anton: Martin and Harry explained their positions again. We had questions about the different hospices mentioned, and all kinds of day-to-day questions came up. It was as if somebody had decided to bring these topics to the shop ﬂoor. One of the participants made a remark about ‘the level of the meeting.’ Another person used an argument that struck me: ‘Let’s be real. We have our prejudices about this hospice situation but let me turn the argument around: if we go and look at one of these hospices as the report recommends, we’ll become more conscious about what their concept does not offer and our concept should!’ Before I realized it, three participants were actively arranging benchmark visits to two hospices. An important connection to the world outside the AIJ was made, and (gratefully!) my role was minimized to rewriting the report.

Finally, one of the participants (a physician) concluded much later: In retrospect, I see a link between this project and changes in the organizational structure of the AIJ. For most of the MT members, the future was clear but Martin needed a small push. The development of the optional scenarios was helpful. It helped us to make the cultural move around multidisciplinary collaboration: in a hospice, more nurse expertise will be available and the multidisciplinary teams will have to deal with this situation.

10.5.2

Reﬂecting

In our retrospective analysis, we found that the inquiry team had an additional four focal points in this trajectory that helped them mobilize genuine collaboration. This section elaborates and illustrates these points. As a fourth focus, they asked what information participants needed to be able to compare their different worlds and activate the mobilization power of this opportunity to discuss these issues. At the start of a transformation process, both issues are of utmost importance. Usually a researcher studies policy and strategy statements or reports on this process but, in this particular inquiry, no such reports were available. So the inquiry team and a staff member contacted regional researchers and discussed these matters with them. Based on the collected material (Guba & Lincoln, 1989). Anton wrote a draft report that was used to stimulate participants to connect to the rest of the AIJ, clients, and the outside world. This report summarized his ﬁndings on palliative care, from the national level down to the organization under study.

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He simultaneously attempted to combine contrasting opinions for the ﬁrst time. The report was meant to be discussed at a second round table with the same participants but Harry had invited an architect and some other new people were also present, which complicated the situation. In addition to feedback on the report, their ﬁfth focus in this second round table, which took place nine days after the ﬁrst, was how to ﬁnd out which negotiation issues could be identiﬁed among the various conﬁgurations. The inquiry team also needed to establish who the negotiators were and who was not involved or was involved in a different way. Both inquirers also wanted to see which actors were ready for a challenge or were excluded. This second session was more difﬁcult because some contrasts and conﬂicts surfaced and were there for all to see. It was a particular relief that Anton as a third person set the tone for a constructive and open discussion, for some (we learned later) expected a quarrel or total silence. This kind of inquiry has strong iterative characteristics. As mentioned earlier, during the search process, both researchers made continuous adjustments. As the unexpected presence of new stakeholders in the second round table shows, these events often include intensive exchanges between inquirers, client (Harry in a double role), and participants. This affects the inquiry positively for, in this second round table, new insights on substantial as well as social matters were brought up. It seemed to everyone as if the draft report had activated a search for the new social and cognitive opportunities their questioning and suggestions had produced. That brings us to the sixth focal point of inquiry: throughout the process both inquirers reported their ideas on paper as well conversing with participants. This was done not only to inform participants (as is usually the case in such research) but also to organize reﬂexivity for them, the inquiry team, and possibly third actors as well as to mobilize those involved. Of course, such a session is full of textual and social reﬂection that the inquirers must learn to distinguish. Sometimes, reﬂections appear after a session and prompt e-mail contact, a short telephone call or longer person-to-person conversations. Moreover, during the second session, some participants took the initiative to organize a so-called second-level benchmark visit to two of the best relational practice hospices. These institutions were in the same circumstances that the organization under scrutiny might be in if they were to decide to build a hospice.9 The inquiry had worked! The last example also can be understood as a social relationship intervention within the sector. Inquiry not only means having an eye for analysis and reﬂection but also (as its seventh focus) being prepared to intervene and activate (or mobilize) others. Each conversation is not only open for diagnosis but also for intervention. The other critiques your questions and your understanding of their point of view, and you in turn critique their opinions, perspectives, rules, and acting networks. These critiques can 9

We distinguish between several benchmarking modalities: a ﬁrst-level benchmark concerns an organization that is in the same situation as the organization under scrutiny. A second-level benchmark concerns an organization that is in the situation as the organization under scrutiny might become (in this case, after building a hospice). A third-level benchmark concerns an organization in another sector and in a completely different situation compared to the organization under scrutiny.

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take many forms: a wink, a question about your social attitude as inquirer, etc. (context knowledge), or introducing new and unexpected content knowledge. An inquirer examining a particular situation offers opportunities to question a position or opinion, to bring in other people or organizations (by way of example or other best relational practice), and introduce new and unexpected rules and perspectives. Critique at both the cognitive and social levels develops variety and offers both participants the opportunity to bring in new, substantial issues and actors. Of course, an (ethical) bottom-line here is that critique never blocks verbal interaction or otherwise disrupts interaction between participants. If interaction is blocked, if people become ﬁxated, disrupt each other’s functioning or exclude each other, the usual process stages must make room for this ethical context (Van Dongen et al., 1996). Attention to (destructive) blocks precedes actual (constructive) differences and similarities (Levinas, 1969), as we have shown in our trajectory of non-reﬂections.10

10.6

Managing Transformation: Connecting to the Outside via Activities and Networks

10.6.1

Storytelling

One year later, the two researchers held in their hands a report entitled Regional Palliative Centre AIJ (2005), the result of contributions by various clusters of professionals at the AIJ. After the last workshop, the process was accelerated. A ﬁnal report was produced that helped Harry secure approval for the start of the transformation. At that point, he activated the ‘‘knowledge-as-participation’’ strategy. A project team was formed consisting of Harry, staff members from new housing development, and chairs from various workgroups. Four workgroups consisting of experts on palliative care units participated: one each for interior design, concept positioning, professional managing, and organization, care, and service. Each workgroup had its own theme to study based on a task formulated by the project team. The staff member linked the various workgroups. She monitored each workgroup for duplication and trajectory in connection with the project group. Interesting in this regard is the fact that the project group did not choose to multiply the existing situation. The basis for the analyses of each group was the perspective of clients, their families, and referees (specialists, hospitals). Answers to these questions were analyzed and clustered. Each group studied the required competencies needed to answer questions, made a link to available expertise, and performed a budget match. The result was a new organization.11 10

A philosophical argument for this position can be found in Jacques Taminiaux’s (2003). For example, at this moment, the serving of patient food and beverages by nurse professionals has a low priority, especially in strained situations. Yet, terminally ill clients highly value food and beverages, not on account of their nutritional value but because of their condition. The result is that, in the planned center, one is free to prepare food and beverages from eight in the morning until eight at night. 11

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For most participants, the report was tangible evidence that something had indeed been transformed, and they all agreed on the name of the new center: the Regional Palliative Centre (RPC AIJ). Harry told Anton about ‘‘his news to build an RPC’’ in the report: The RPC AIJ offers facilities for eighteen terminal clients and their families in this district of Rotterdam. The architectural sketches of the building are ready. The Centre would be able to handle seven different target groups of clients with varying care intensity who need a different kind of professionalism and demand different competences. As a result of our analysis, a strict budget was drawn up. The RPC AIJ distinguishes itself from its competitors in palliative care by virtue of the number of on-staff professionals, the quantity and quality of research done, our out-patient treatment and polyclinic functions, the high quality of care and service provided in a domestic setting, and our being combined with an open house centre as well as with our research institute for palliative care. Within the organization, this thinking about the transformation process inspired a great many people to come up with new ideas, opportunities, solutions to problems, and redeﬁned social roles. Naturally I had to handle this mixture of reactions. Simultaneous with the developments both within and outside the project team, I wanted to stay in touch with all my professionals. I therefore wrote a short report on the steps we had made during the change process in a journal I had kept for two months. It helped those who were not involved to keep in touch, experience our progress and provide feedback. The result was that, for most AIJ professionals, I have become the man that people come to with ideas, feedback, evaluation and reﬂection concerning the transformation. In the process, Martin became the biggest promoter of the RPC AIJ. After announcing our plans in public, we had some trouble with other institutions in Rotterdam. Together, we tried to speak to them and offer ways to co-operate. Now, we have to manage even more relational practices simultaneously!

‘‘What did you learn from this process?’’ Anton asked. What I learnedy I guess it was that an organized rush generates social energy. Bring some professionals together in a kind of pressure cooker situation and they start thinking, debating, generating ideas and conferring with colleagues when they face problems. They even know how to connect to the outside world when they need information. Before I knew it, we had the report I was looking for.

Anton also collected some reactions. One participant commented: We all felt responsible for the thinking and writing that went into this RPC report. Our activities also helped middle management make the ﬁrst moves for change. It was, however, much more difﬁcult to energize the volunteers in palliative care.

Another group participant reported: I read the RPC report as a challenge to ‘invent a recipe so we can cook.’ It was like a journey with no pre-arranged strategy. It was useful to think how an RPC could function in different settings. It made clear to me that palliative communication is not only that we talk about certain issues but also how we talk about them!

Martin: The report helped us make a closer study of Ellershaw’s concept of allowing a Dutch RPC more functionality than the AIJ does today. I agreed it was preferable that the AIJ ‘escape ahead’ rather than grind to a standstill. It’s exciting to see how professionals prepare themselves differently for work in new locations. It means we must create sub-specialties and that some

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people must receive further training. With the RPC, the AIJ will try to offer other, more, and better care. As a consequence, this specialized care unit of 18 beds will drive scientiﬁc research and education. Both of these will help improve clinical and care function. Collaboration with other palliative care institutions and nearby hospitals is important for the RPC AIJ. In the Rotterdam context, we faced resistance from different organizations offering palliative care. Sometimes, they were even able to interest the local press in these developments, which is welcome PR for us. Yet, ﬁnancial and political forces are challenged to see the RPC initiative constructively. The transformation remains a moving targety .

10.6.2

Reﬂecting

In this trajectory, Harry (in both his roles as researcher and manager) and his teams developed an RPC concept that changed and professionalized palliative care. Until this point, all discussion and development was internal but, after this report, a PR campaign was initiated. Other institutions in the region were evidently not pleased with Laurens’ ideas and strongly resisted them. The consequence was that the organization had to deal once again with many relational practices simultaneously but, now, in conjunction with various, differentiated organizational contexts. Finally, after several rounds of discussion in and around the organization, the RPC AIJ building Cadenza was completed in September 2008. For six months, ‘‘knowledge-as-substance’’ and ‘‘knowledge-as-participation’’ were concrete subjects in this organization. As we have shown, for both processes ‘‘knowledge-as-inquiry’’ was the connecting factor, the glue. What did we learn from this short case incursion into the ‘‘knowledge of inquiry’’? 1. Inquiry means having at least two researchers and the continuous production of differences. 2. Performing inquiries in this way means both inquirers and participants must take an active, mobilizing stand. Thus, the relationships between them must be sound and constructive. Then and only then can ‘‘knowledge-as-inquiry’’ become the bridge between ‘‘knowledge-as-substance’’ and ‘‘knowledge-as-participation.’’ 3. A telephone call by a General Director was the catalyst for the change process and also generated a diagnosis and simultaneously a potential ﬁrst intervention. We therefore emphasized the ‘‘who’’ aspects of the inquiry, meaning that it was ﬁrst necessary to construct a solid social context. 4. For an inquirer, the main principle of intervention is that when interaction is impeded, we cannot ﬁnd a way to get it moving again. We refer to this intervention rule also as ‘‘taking a stand outside and beside a conﬂict.’’ It means that, if a mediator faces a content ﬁxation, solutions can be found in the context; if they face a context ﬁxation, solutions can be found in the content; and if they ﬁnd a mixed context–content ﬁxation, they must search for solutions in another context or generate another content (Van Dongen et al., 1996). Another characteristic of this methodological strategy is to ensure that variety within and between conﬁgurations is maintained. This strategy offers a method to

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organize reﬂexiveness within various types of impediments, resulting in possible constructive characteristics. As previously mentioned, we cannot intervene in the problem because this only worsens it. Suppose the inquiry team (incorrectly) characterizes the initial stage as a context problem. They could have intervened in the hospice problem, for example. It would probably have meant that participants would have shifted their attention to another content problem; e.g., the organization’s bureaucratization process. The inquiry team could have decided to intervene on that issue but then participants would have shifted to the palliative paradigm problem. It is at this point that the inquirer is dealing with a conﬂict situation as a moving target: whatever they undertake at the content level only creates bigger problems. Such an intervention then demonstrates that participants in a conﬂict live the conﬂict and, moreover, cannot live without it. A corollary to Point 5 is that inquiry does not refer to a sequential plan. In inquiry, one must develop a setting in which various perspectives or methods can be generated simultaneously and used by inquirers as well as by participants (among whom is the General Director). Depending on the context, these perspectives or methods can be introduced in an iterative way. This approach makes possible an intake interview and thereby a diagnosis or even an intervention. For example, if the client (or client system) is part of the problem, then the inquirer faces another, paradoxical problem: don’t lose the client (system) but change or even get rid of him/her. A diagnosis may thus result in data collection or intervention; an intervention means all three simultaneously. Difference is not always necessary for inquirers. Depending on social context, we understand that inquirers use a strategy of homogenizing or heterogenizing. If they ﬁnd heterogeneity in content knowledge, they homogenize socially. Should they ﬁnd variety in context knowledge, they then homogenize on content. Should they ﬁnd too many similarities, they will ﬁrst try to ﬁnd out whether dissensus is allowed and whether one is permitted to have an eye for nondominant issues or contexts? Finally, they continually search for variety in context, content, and rules and raise related questions or comments regarding people’s vision(s). In this situation, we brought many relational practices together by amending the basic principles of inquiry.

Chapter 11

Processes of Technological Innovation in Context — and their Modulation Arie Rip

11.1

Introduction

Technological innovation in context has been studied by economists and sociologists of technical change and innovation. I shall present the insights and perspectives from this body of literature (including some of my own work), in order to highlight the dynamics of technological innovation processes and the possibilities to inﬂuence them — by managers, as well as governmental and societal actors. These actors often work with a limited view of the complexities of technological change and innovation, and they might do better if they were to use recent insights, as I have argued previously (Rip, 1995). Thus, a further topic, visible between the lines of my main expose´, is the relation between the ‘‘theory’’ — i.e., insights from social scientiﬁc studies — and the ‘‘practice’’ of policy or action. More than 30 years ago, the American economists Nelson and Winter published an article about what a ‘‘useful theory of innovation’’ might be, and they sketched an evolutionary approach: new technological options are introduced all the time but only some of the ﬁrms doing so would grow, depending on selection environments (Nelson & Winter, 1977). The late 1970s and early 1980s was also the time when national governments started to articulate technology and innovation policies. The Netherlands White Paper on Innovation of the late 1970s actually used the Nelson and Winter distinction between technological trajectories and selection environments to categorize and, to some extent, derive policy measures and policy tools: stimulating variation, supporting selection, and improving interaction between variation and selection. Thus, theory was applied by policy makers, albeit in simpliﬁed form. Why go back to the late 1970s? One reason is that the Nelson and Winter article was a seminal publication, and later work continues to refer to it. The other reason is that the example of the Netherlands White Paper shows interesting links between an Relational Practices, Participative Organizing Advanced Series in Management, 199–217 Copyright r 2010 Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 1877-6361/doi:10.1108/S1877-6361(2010)0000007015

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understanding of the dynamics of technological innovation and the identiﬁcation of opportunities for intervening; in this example, through policy measures. Intervention requires simpliﬁcation, not just the (hopefully productive) reduction of complexity that any theory entails, but also translation of projected goals into concrete attempts to make a difference, for which theory can be mobilized. In doing such translations, policy making draws on a modernist philosophy, almost by deﬁnition. One indicator is the strong ‘‘instrumentalist’’ push for robust methods that allow the policy maker to make a difference, to exert inﬂuence — in other words, act at a distance. The subtitle of Pressman and Wildavsky’s (1984) book, How Great Expectations in Washington Are Dashed in Oakland, summarizes both the modernist thrust and its limitations. The instrumentalist thrust may already be counterproductive on its own terms, when its neglect of the complexities and the own dynamics of the world out there in Oakland reduce the chance of achieving its objectives. Still, modernist approaches continue. This is linked to strong presumptions about an envisaged better world, where the world-as-it-is appears to be an obstacle to be overcome by dedicated action. But, if we live in a nonlinear world where multiactor interactions and their sometimes unpredictable outcomes determine what happens, such an approach, predicated on the idea of an actor working to realize a goal and achieving it because of his/her efforts, will by deﬁnition be unproductive. I am not implying that individual policy makers are never sensitive to the limited scope of their action among a multitude of actions and interactions. The structure and culture of the policy environment forces a modernist approach upon them, whether they identify with it or not (Rip, 1998). The modernist philosophy highlights the heroism of the policy actor vis-a`-vis the system. But, there is a variety of actors and roles, and eventually a ‘‘distributed coherence’’ for which no single actor is responsible. Some actors may contribute more to such self-organization than others but there is no general rule. If dominant positions occur, these cannot be taken for granted and are, in that sense, contingent. Instead of steering from a position of strength (which includes authority), there are mutual translations. The policy actor is one of the actors — no more, no less. But the policy actor’s link with the res publica does create a special responsibility. Even if a policy actor cannot do much more than induce or modulate ongoing selforganization, s/he can be held accountable. And the ‘‘shadow of authority’’ that goes with the position can have effects, even if these are not linearly derived from the authoritative role. While I focused on policy making and implementing, my point about modernist approaches is general. Managers of different ilk are also modernists — although it is easier for them to become reﬂexive and even turn to postmodern approaches because they are much closer to ongoing processes (Visscher & Rip, 2003). ‘‘Postmodern’’ is probably too strong a term, though. In general, for policy actors and for managers, productive intervention, in the large and in the small, remains a challenge but not in a simple modernist fashion. A few authors have offered relevant perspectives and conceptualizations, such as analysis of transitions from ‘‘ﬂuid’’ to ‘‘speciﬁc’’ situations (Garud, 1994) or from ‘‘hot’’ to

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‘‘cold’’ situations (Callon, 2002). Evolutionary approaches are important because these emphasize the contingent character of eventual stabilizations. Relational approaches are another way to thematize nonmodern management approaches. To intervene in ﬂuid and distributed processes should be seen as a matter of modulation (Rip, 2006a). Brute change efforts are an extreme version of modulation and one that can be productive only in extreme circumstances such as a war economy. In this chapter, I shall sketch the general perspective, based on an evolutionary approach to technological change, then introduce the notion of an innovation journey (after Van de Ven, Polley, Garud, & Venkataraman, 1999), identify speciﬁc opportunities for modulating ongoing processes, and in the conclusion come back to the role of government.

11.2

The Quest for Understanding: An Evolutionary Approach

Why go for evolutionary theory? Evolutionary economics and the related sociology of technological change continue to be of great interest to policy makers but are not really accepted by mainstream economics. In my view, this reﬂects less on the quality of the evolutionary approaches than on the limitations of mainstream economics itself, which is too far removed from what happens in the real world (at least, with respect to technological innovation). Economics has always had problems treating dynamic situations, and technological innovation is dynamic almost by deﬁnition. The need for evolutionary theory derives from the recognition that technological innovation always implies a change with respect to what existed and, to some extent, a break with what was usual. In other words, a new technological option is a ‘‘novelty’’ just like a mutation in Darwinian or other biological evolutionary theory. And like a mutation, the new option might well start out as a ‘‘hopeful monstrosity’’ (Mokyr, 1990; Stoelhorst, 1997) that must be nurtured to improve, grow and survive the harsh selection environments — sometimes, the organization in which the novelty arises, is already a harsh selection environment. Such an evolutionary theory is directly relevant to the issues of policy making and management. Its relevance goes deeper than policy makers using such insights to articulate policies they had deﬁned for their own reasons (as happened in the 1979 Dutch White Paper on Innovation, which I discussed in Section 11.1). Policy makers and managers are themselves part of the evolutionary process. Thus, versions of strong planning and command-and-control approaches, or the equally ideological neoclassical economists’ approach of leaving everything to the market except for a few generic ﬁscal measures to overcome collective-good problems, must be evaluated in terms of their function in speciﬁc evolutionary processes. Already, with Nelson and Winter (1977), the ‘‘selection environment’’ of their theory is much broader than the market and includes the patent system and other institutional conﬁgurations. Intervention in such broader conﬁgurations and their evolution is not a simple matter. As I intimated already, the general approach is to understand ongoing dynamics and try to modulate them — this includes joint-learning approaches.

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A further reason to prefer an evolutionary theory of technological innovation is the fact that the success of an innovation does not just derive from the power of the technological option on which it is based. I will develop this point, drawing on the insights from studies of processes of technological innovation. This will enable me to present an evolutionary theory of technological change and innovation in three steps. The ﬁrst step is to consider the introduction of novelty into an existing order. The analysis provided by Abernathy and Clar (1985) is a useful entrance point but must be extended. They emphasize how existing linkages — with customers and in markets — are broken, and how existing competencies (technological and other relevant capabilities within the ﬁrm) become irrelevant (‘‘obsolete’’ is their term). Such ‘‘dealignment’’ is accompanied by ‘‘realignment’’: the building up of new linkages and competencies. One can think of ﬁrms having to work with new suppliers and customers, and having to retrain personnel. ‘‘Realignment’’ creates links with the selection environment and thus some ﬁt but this remains precarious. There is no guarantee of success and, in that sense, the evolutionary notion of a partially independent selection environment continues to apply. Abernathy & Clark focus on the ﬁrm and its immediate business environment. But in fact, and especially if one considers longer-term developments and broader notions of success than short-term proﬁts of a ﬁrm, societal linkages and competencies are involved as well (Rip, 1995). New products can be taken up in other sectors; think of information and communication technologies as an important example. Analysts like Freeman and Soete (1997) have pointed out that the necessary ‘‘realignments’’ within and across sectors take a long time. For them, this explains the so-called productivity paradox (investments in the use of ICT are not yet reﬂected in increased productivity). Longer-term changes can add up to transitions, and the patterns in such transitions can be understood in terms of realignments and their partial stabilization (Geels, 2005). Another element in societal linkages and competencies is domestication of new technologies, including issues of public acceptance. For biotechnology and genomics, these issues are important in many countries, and managers may consider adding ‘‘societal embedment’’ to their product development strategies (Deuten, Rip, & Jelsma, 1997). With the emergence of nanotechnology, scientists, industrialists and policy makers now anticipate such issues and develop activities to avoid or mitigate them (Rip, 2006b). My theoretical point is that the dealignment that occurs with respect to existing sectors and their cultures, and is expected and now discussed at the level of society as well, is not a matter of undue reluctance, or even resistance, by publics but a general feature of technological change. If technology promoters seek to impose realignment without recognizing the actual dynamics for what they are, their actions may well be counterproductive, as the impasse over agricultural (‘‘green’’) biotechnology has shown. In this ﬁrst step, I have already gone further than the simple evolutionary approach of considering the introduction of novelty as a mutation or variation, and see selection mechanisms of various kinds as determining whether it survives and grows. In Nelson & Winter’s theory and their subsequent model (Nelson & Winter, 1982), routines within ﬁrms to produce innovations are the retention mechanism

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(the third key component in any evolutionary explanation), and selection works on the ﬁrms in markets and other selection environments. Important also for my analysis is how Rip and Kemp (1998), and in a slightly different way Basalla (1988) and Levinthal (1998), have focused on new technological options rather than actual products, so that one can include the quasi-markets that have emerged for them (cf. Schaeffer, 1998) in the theory. This links up with earlier analyses of expectations and promises about new technological options (Van Lente, 1993; Van Lente & Rip, 1998), and recent studies as in Brown, Rappert, and Webster (2000)and Borup, Brown, Konrad, and Lente (2006). This enables the next step in the theory, the recognition that variation is not random but shaped by anticipations, which can become stabilized as regimes or paradigms (Dosi, 1982). This links up with the phenomenon of dominant designs as, for example, the VHS video cassette recorder, which became dominant after a struggle with alternative, competing designs (Cusumano, Yiorgos, & Rosenbloom, 1997). Further innovation then occurs within the framework of the dominant design. Over time, the dominant design may shift or even be undermined and disappear. In the short run, innovations running counter to the dominant design and, more generally, to the rules of the dominant regime will be more difﬁcult to realize, and they may well face barriers that are not easy to overcome. These last observations indicate that the evolutionary perspective overlaps with what in general sociology is called institutionalization. Some novelties, at ﬁrst precarious and surviving because of the promises claimed for them (up to the hype surrounding e-commerce, and now genomics and nanotechnology), will grow and become established — which is to say, they will become irreversible. Like institutions more generally, they will then resist further change. This occurs in the small, on the microlevel, as when organizations resist renewal from within or from without. But it also takes place in the large, on the mesolevel of dominant designs, industry structures and standards, and on the macrolevel of technoeconomic paradigms. See, for instance, how Freeman and Louc- a˜ (2001), in their analysis of long waves in the economy of modern societies, highlight the role and dynamics of structural readjustment. The third step is to open up this picture of a tendency to stabilization and institutionalization, and to do so in two ways. There are broader developments that may unsettle stabilization. And there is the challenge of anticipation in an uncertain and largely unpredictable world. Actors develop ways to handle uncertainty — in evolutionary terms, by maintaining some variety and/or attempting to protect novelties against harsh selection. Other (often de facto or pattern) strategies are to reduce complexity by relying on shared expectations about future developments. Such shared expectations offer a sense of direction but that may be deceptive. A more sophisticated understanding of dynamics is important, starting with the recognition of nonlinearity of developments. Over time, there are shifts in functionalities and uses of an innovation, and there is uptake in other sectors, which induces further developments. The functions the telephone now fulﬁls are very different from the ones envisaged originally: business communication between the center and the periphery of the town, and piping concerts

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from the concert hall in the city center to the suburbs. Similarly, the idea of mobile telephony was raised as far back as the 1920s and led to prototypes, for example a motorcar with a radio, which allowed a link-up with receivers of the signal elsewhere — a far cry from present-day mobile telephony. In other words, the strategies of managers — and, at one remove, policy makers — should not just be based on performance in present contexts and actors’ intentions and their predictions of eventual achievements. One way to do better is to develop scenarios that encompass nonlinearity, for example, by drawing on a ‘‘branching’’ model of technological development. Another way is to consider evolving contexts, i.e., shifts in the selection environments (markets and institutions), as part of the dynamics. This implies that one should speak of coevolution rather than evolution. Nelson (1994) has already emphasized coevolution of technology, industry structure, and supporting institutions. We have used a broadly coevolutionary approach to analyze and characterize processes where whole regimes were transformed, as from sailing ships to steamships (Geels, 2005). An important feature of coevolution is its multilevel characteristic, where sequences of events at the micro-level, institutions and industry structures at the meso-level, and macro-level changes have their own dynamics but also interact. Again, there is unpredictability, which confounds modernistic attempts at intervention to achieve a goal. Yet, understanding of the multilevel dynamics is important and scenarios can be drawn up, as we have shown in the case of nanotechnology (Rip &Te Kulve, 2008).

11.3

The Quest to Intervene: Inﬂuencing Technological Developments at an Early Stage

In the overall coevolution of technology and society, a variety of actors are interested in inﬂuencing technological change from the perspective of their own goals. Firms will think in terms of market success and strategic advantages. NGOs have their values to pursue; for example, health improvement or a clean environment. National governments and other government agencies have overall goals such as security, quality of life and sustainability, under which a variety of actions are formulated and implemented. Their assessments of the situation, and their actions and interactions, contribute to the coevolution. Actors interested in intervening will do better — also in achieving their avowed goals — when they draw on an understanding of the coevolutionary nature of the overall process. They will then give up on unproductive command-and-control approaches. I note that there are paradoxes: such reﬂexive action may change the nature of the coevolutionary processes — so that an earlier understanding of the overall process is no longer sufﬁcient. The basic point remains that there is an advantage in understanding the nature of the processes that one is part of and is trying to modulate. There is a particular challenge, not just for technology developers but increasingly for policy makers and critical societal groups as well: how to inﬂuence technological

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change at an early stage, when irreversibilities have not yet set in and when one can still hope to sway the balance between desirable and undesirable impacts — for oneself (as in the case of the battle for an industry standard, e.g. video recording) or for society more generally. One problem, clearly, is the difference between functionalities originally envisaged for a technology and the eventually dominant ones that emerge. The branching model, exempliﬁed above in the case of telephony, tells you there will be branching but not which branches will emerge and become dominant. It sensitizes actors to the complexities and so may help to avoid unproductive action. Interestingly, actors learn from past experiences with the dynamics of technological change — for example, in the recent struggle for new DVD standards (Blu-ray vs. HD-DVD) where actors and media refer back to the earlier video-recording standards battle.1 Linked to the cognitive problem of not being able to predict the eventual shape of a technology and its context, there are two action-related dilemmas. The so-called anticipation dilemma refers to ﬁrms and other technology actors who might prefer to postpone action until the situation is clearer but cannot equivocate indeﬁnitely (Verganti, 1999). For the societal level, where governments, NGOs or societal groups may want to inﬂuence technological developments to avoid or limit negative impacts, Collingridge (1980) formulated the knowledge-control dilemma. The dilemma is not unique to technological innovation in context but is readily apparent there: at an early stage, when technological developments are still ﬂuid and amenable to some control, it is unclear what impacts will occur. By the time the ﬁrst impacts become visible, there are so many irreversibilities, including vested interests, that it is impossible to effect changes for the better. One can redeﬁne (but not resolve) the dilemmas by recognizing that the dichotomy (especially in the knowledge-control dilemma) is artiﬁcial. There are ongoing developments in which assessments are made all the time, tentative steps are taken, and learning from these experiences occurs. As with Lindblom’s incrementalist approach to policy (Lindblom & Woodhouse, 1993), there is no guarantee that the path that emerges is a ‘‘good’’ path. Additional reﬂexive learning is important (even if it will not provide a guarantee). So-called Constructive Technology Assessment approaches support such reﬂexive learning, and they address the additional problem of the variety of actors and their possibly contrasting perspectives.2 Learning is fractured by the contrast between ‘‘insiders’’ who invest in developing new technology, and ‘‘outsiders’’ who receive the results, whether they like them or not. This is not just the general contrast between producers (of a new product) and consumers (with their own, partially articulated preferences). Especially in 1

Financial Times (26 August 2005) had an article headed: ‘‘Repeat of VHS versus Betamax conﬂict looms,’’ and noted that ‘‘Mr. Nishida [Toshiba’s new President] said that the two sides had not given up trying to agree a deal on technical standards, which would avoid a repeat of the video technology battle of the 1970s, when Sony’s Betamax lost out to the VHS format.’’ 2 Rip, Schot and Misa (1995) set out the general idea and Schot and Rip (1997) outline generic strategies, including Strategic Niche Management. There is now also ‘‘real-time technology assessment’’ (Guston & Sarewitz, 2002).

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R&D-based innovations, the development trajectory optimizes the new process or product per se but its eventual success requires recontextualization; a process that cannot be anticipated fully, let alone determined, at the earlier stages of the trajectory. A striking example is the negative reception by the deaf community of cochlear implants — because this technology undermined their culture (Reuzel, 2004). The example also shows that the problem is not just a cognitive one (how to anticipate the unpredictable) but also a sociopolitical one (technological development is often a matter of insiders but will ultimately be exposed to outsiders). And it is not just a matter of myopia on the part of inside actors. There is a real dilemma because there are costs involved in taking wider contexts into account at an early stage. Garud and Ahlstrom (1997), who discuss a number of such examples, draw attention to what they call ‘‘bridging events’’ between insiders and outsiders. A similar point was made for the role of outsiders and of alternative products in attempts to change existing technical regimes (Van de Poel, 2000). The ‘‘bridging events’’ might become institutionalized and then create a ‘‘nexus’’ between the variation and selection components of the coevolution of technology and society. The concept of ‘‘nexus’’ was introduced by Van den Belt and Rip (1987) to show how test labs in the synthetic dye industry in the late 19th century were a way to anticipate on the selection environment. After a time, the dynamics were reversed, when dyers started to follow the instructions of the synthetic dye manufacturers. The concept of nexus can be applied more broadly to cover all types of institutionalized couplings between variation and selection. These are general considerations. The key point to be drawn is that actors who understand coevolutionary dynamics and emerging patterns can play on them to modulate what happens and perhaps realize some of their goals — a modest modernism. I will show how this point can work out by focusing on a concrete and recurrent pattern: that of an innovation ‘‘journey,’’ as Van de Ven et al. (1999) use the notion. I will mobilize further ﬁndings from economics and the sociology of innovation to expand the use of the concept to include contexts and their changes. My analysis will, in a sense, be a demonstration of the possibility of identifying opportunities for intervention, based on an understanding of how the innovation journey is articulated over time, and how it can be mapped anticipatorily because of the existence of recurrent patterns.

11.4

The Innovation Journey

Van de Ven and his collaborators introduced the idea of an innovation journey for product and process development in industrial ﬁrms (and in networks including R&D institutes) to capture the fact that there are lots of contingencies, shifts and set-backs during the innovation process, and planning and management have only limited effect (Van de Ven et al., 1999). Actual developments were traced retrospectively in the Minnesota Studies on Innovation (Van de Ven, Angle, & Poole, 1989) and used as an argument — as a mirror, as it were — for actors to recognize the complexities.

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The mapping of the complexity of a journey is necessary because actors tend to project a linear future, deﬁned by their intentions, and use this projection as a road map — only to be corrected by circumstances. Although this is evolution — trial-anderror variation and selection dynamics — one can try to do better. Conceptually, the innovation journey is a cross-section of the overall coevolution, and one which has traveled following the enactors of innovation. Given the dominant role of enactors of innovation in determining what will happen, the recognition of overall patterns in such innovation journeys is important for other actors (governmental agencies, NGOs, societal groups) as well, when they want to exert some inﬂuence. Figure 11.1 assembles and integrates results of a large number of studies on industrial product and process innovation. The background of this particular methodology of mapping the innovation journey in context has been described elsewhere (Callon, Lare´do, & Rabeharisoa, 1992, on technoeconomic networks; Rip & Schot, 2002, building on that type of analysis). Drawing heavily on Rip and Schot (2002), I will tell the ‘‘story’’ of the innovation journey. It starts with the identiﬁcation of an opportunity: a new technological option, or the pressure to ﬁnd a solution to a problem. New options may derive from R&D ﬁndings or scientiﬁc advance in general but other sources remain important. The role of science varies but has often to do with the discovery or modiﬁcation, in the laboratory, of an effect that is linked to potential applications (cf. also Robinson, Rip, & Mangematin, 2007). Such discoveries are widely published and pursued in many places without necessarily leading to innovation journeys (Van Lente, 1993). An example is the discovery of high-temperature superconductivity, which led to speculation about more efﬁcient magnetic trains (eventually, other applications of this new laboratory phenomenon proved to be more realistic, e.g. detection systems for very weak magnetic signals). New options can be actively sought, as in the pharmaceutical industry, where the search for ‘‘leads’’ is a recognized activity. This has to do with the level of articulation of functions to be fulﬁlled: (re)searchers have a good idea of what they should be looking for. In other sectors, functions — and thus, the search for opportunities — are articulated in a more ad hoc manner. For my analysis, the key point is that such technological opportunities always start out as ‘‘hopeful monstrosities’’: full of promise but not able to perform very well. Actors will make more speciﬁc promises (to internal and external sponsors) to mobilize resources to be able to work on the technological option and nurture it into a semblance of functionality — what is called ‘‘proof of principle.’’ Such promises anticipate and thus further articulate functions and possible societal demand. Since they also specify what the material, device, or artifact should be able to do (its ‘‘performance’’), an R&D agenda will be identiﬁed and somewhat stabilized. A promise-requirement cycle is launched and shapes the trajectory of development (Van Lente & Rip, 1998). There will be exaggeration and hand-waving claims, and actors can adopt different strategies: embrace hype or underplay the promise for fear of creating disappointments and a backlash. (This was clear in biotechnology and is occurring again in nanotechnology, cf. Rip, 2006b). The net effect of the networking and resource mobilization is the emergence of a protected space for promising R&D and

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Science

new options

Technology

Regulation, Market, Society

user‛s ideas and requests

promising findings

identification of technological opportunities

building a protected space for “hopeful monstrosities”

development in a protected space

Prototype

promises and mobilization of resources

problem-solving

ongoing development work

limited checks on patents, relevant regulation, possible market

trouble-shooting

first implementation & tests

identification of lead users, and test markets

socio-technical demonstrators

tentative introduction

Introduction

adoption, diffusion

wider changes

articulation of functionality, of demand (in diffuse scenarios about promise)

re-orientation of R&D agendas

rationalization of production

new questions, incl. impact monitoring

Science

service, adaptation, emerging standards

sectoral changes

Technology

market niches which may branch out, weaker or stronger linkages to other sectors

(possibly) regime shift

Regulation, Market, Society

Figure 11.1: Mapping the innovation journey in context (based on Rip & Schot, 2002). developing the technological opportunity, inside an organization or across organizations (e.g. in the development of a military aircraft, Law & Callon, 1992). Part of the protection stems from a (precarious) agreement over a diffuse scenario about functions to be fulﬁlled and their envisioned societal usage. The nature of the protected space, together with its boundary agreements, including the rules and heuristics derived from the promises that were made, determine choices and

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directions. Work within the protected space thus proceeds according to its own dynamics, with only occasional checks with the scenario of usage (if at all). In Figure 11.1, this is visualized as a cycle, giving rise to temporary path dependency (cf. Garud & Karnoe, 2001). The advantages of a protected space are clear. Such spaces can be consciously designed, up to the extreme version of a ‘‘skunk works,’’ as when IBM constituted a separate group, with its own resources and outside regular management control, to develop its PC. The risks derive from the fact that the diffuse scenario that legitimated the creation of the protected space in the ﬁrst instance is not updated. This is related to the fact that, in the early stages, the market/society pole only ﬁgures in terms of market studies, early promises, and other expectations. Such expectations will guide actions but precariously: they may construct a ‘‘house of cards’’ that breaks down when the effort to maintain it becomes too heavy (Van Lente, 1993). In general, the neglect of changes in the outside world can create problems later on, which require repair work and/or (unexpected) shifts in direction (Deuten & Rip, 2000). And, sometimes, the promise will turn out to be empty after all. The second cycle indicated in Figure 11.1 also gives rise to some path dependency and thus another trajectory in the journey. At some moment in time, a decision is taken (or emerges) to go for prototypes or other attempts at demonstrating a working technology. Activities include exploring/optimizing production, with trouble shooting and rationalization through further research; implementation of the product and learning about usage, and preliminary market or demand testing. As in the case of biotechnology, regulation and acceptability can become real issues and might direct efforts in particular directions (as happened, for example, in genetic modiﬁcation of corn and wheat with the choice of herbicide and pesticide resistance rather than of disease resistance). These activities are much less self-contained than in the earlier research and development trajectory, and subject to more intra- and inter-organizational tensions. Thus, other interactions and management styles are called for. With the tentative introduction of the new product or process, with a few customers (‘‘lead users’’), or in a ‘‘societal’’ experiment (and then often in collaboration with public authorities, as in the case of electric vehicles, cf. Hoogma, Kemp, Schot, & Truffer, 2002), the complexity increases but also the opportunities for real-world learning and subsequent modiﬁcation of the product. Because speciﬁc sociotechnical couplings are introduced, path dependencies may occur: when dedicated niches are created for learning, the kind of learning depends on the nature of these niches, and this may not be adequate to the demands and selections in the wider world. In addition, as the visibility of the project/the product increases, there may be reactions and repercussions. Market introduction, an important concern for marketeers and for higher levels in a ﬁrm, is thus a process rather than a point decision. The ‘‘market’’ is neither onedimensional nor homogeneous, and demand is only gradually articulated in response to supply. There must be something like a protected space (a niche) for the new product, so that it will survive an otherwise too harsh selection, in general and

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because it might go against the dominant regime.3 At the same time, when limited to the particular protected space, a product is created that can survive only within that space. This may well be the ﬁnal outcome: a product for one (and limited) market niche. For a long time, fuel cells, in spite of their recognized general promise, functioned only in space applications. Because of shifts in the motor-car world, a ‘‘branching’’ occurred and fuel cells are now adopted in earnest to drive motor cars. By the time branching and wider embedding in society occurs, a third phase of the journey emerges. The dynamics depend on the sector and on wider developments, just as much as on the introduction and diffusion of the innovation itself. There is a cumulative effect of further varieties of application, of suppliers orienting themselves to the new technology, of economies of scale and scope that are exploited, and of recognition by users of further possibilities, which creates new sociotechnical linkages. The sector starts to change and its relations with other sectors change. The latter can become so important that the technology driving such changes is recognized as a pervasive technology and characteristic of a new technoeconomic paradigm (Freeman & Soete, 1997). Cumulative effects may lead to the emergence of new regimes and/or shifts in existing regimes. This is a multiactor, multilevel process, in which no single actor can sway the balance intentionally. Of course, actors will attempt to do so; they will jockey for position in the newly emerging games and regimes, and involve themselves in strategic alliances. In standard settings within information and communication technology and in consumer electronics, such processes are very visible. These then become part of broader sociotechnical regime changes. One can argue that a third ‘‘cycle’’ can result from regime change, when further developments are shaped by the ‘‘grammar’’ of the new regime. In fact, a number of authors have analyzed historical cases in these terms (Van den Ende and Kemp (1999) on the computer regime, and Geels (2005) on steamships, motorcars, and jet engines). Regime change and its stabilization can be presented as a victory. Indeed, the actors involved, as well as the media reporting of the struggles, may think in terms of heroic stories in which power and cleverness of (single) actors determine the outcome. While there deﬁnitely is a role for ‘‘regime entrepreneurs,’’ the cumulative process of increasing interdependencies and sunk investments is decisive.4

3 Every innovation that actually or potentially goes against a dominant regime will have difﬁculty in dealigning existing linkages and ways of doing things, even when such alternatives have some credibility, for example, because of a promise of sustainability. Realigning requires room for experimentation and learning, which is not freely given. The general approach of Strategic Niche Management can be used (Kemp, Rip, & Schot, 2001), even if one has to be careful and avoid a simplistic David versus Goliath storyline: the tiny novelty conquering the mighty regime (Stuiver, 2008). As Hoogma (2000) has shown in the case of electric vehicles, a partial ‘ﬁt’ strategy is often the only possibility at an early stage and, only after some niches have been created, can the more ambitious ‘stretch’ strategy be successful (if at all). 4 Compare how Garud, Hardy, and Maguire (2007) speak of (socially) embedded entrepreneurs.

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In this stylized description of the innovation journey, three clusters of activities can be distinguished where the innovation journey enters a new phase, and a trajectory with its own dynamics is launched:

build-up of a protected space, stepping out into the wider world, sector-level changes.

Each phase has its own dynamics and the trajectories are not easy to modify. But, before the path ‘‘gels,’’ it is easier to exert inﬂuence while there is also some assurance that a real difference will result because the intended shift becomes part of the trajectory. In other words, attempts to inﬂuence the innovation journey — i.e., to help shape its further evolution — should focus on the entering of a new phase as the locus where a difference can be made (Rip & Schot, 2002). This is a way to address the dilemmas of Verganti and Collingridge with which this section opened.

11.5

Discussion: Intelligent Intervention in Innovation Journeys

Making a difference is not a matter of brute force but of intelligent intervention — i.e., playing with the dynamics and drawing on a sophisticated understanding of them. This applies to attempts at intervention by insiders as well as outsiders. Modulation (with some orchestration) of the dynamics appears to be the right approach. With the many actors involved, and the heterogeneity of their interests and strategies, there is no guarantee that a coherent direction will evolve. Also, waiting games may emerge, which create impasses even when there is a sense of direction. A ‘‘shadow of authority’’ may be necessary to break through impasses. Credibility pressures, for example in relation to environmentally friendly products and processes, can also play such a role. Authority and credibility pressure are also routes through which public interest considerations about desirable directions can be brought to bear on the dynamics of development. While this indeed happens, for example, in ‘‘technology forcing’’ regulation by governments and in public debates and consensus conferences about new technologies and their eventual impacts, there are also limitations because of the outsider position. Governmental and societal actors face the further problem of evaluating the dynamics and possible directions of an innovation journey (often, a cluster of innovation journeys — say, in the genetic modiﬁcation of plants) from the outside and relating them to their own (often not completely articulated) views of what is desirable. Such views can relate to wealth creation, policy learning and/or risk avoidance, and there may well be conﬂicts between the various views and goals. The key point is that not only are the eventual performance, uptake, and use of the new technology and products unknown, but the views and preferences related to the new possibilities are also unknown at ﬁrst.

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In other words, Collingridge’s knowledge and control dilemma is actually a trilemma, with the third horn related to uncertainty about desirable directions. The third horn can be turned into an opportunity for policy articulation and engagement with civil society, as has actually been proposed by a European Union Expert Group looking at the challenges of converging technologies (Nordmann, 2004). The strategy articulation workshops that we have designed and organized, focusing on domains of nanotechnology and their contexts, are also an occasion — in the small — of addressing the third horn of the Collingridge trilemma (Van Merkerk & Robinson, 2006; Robinson & Propp, 2008; Rip & TeKulve, 2008). Here too, understanding the dynamics of developments is necessary to arrive at adequate insights and realistic action. This leads to the further question of the robustness of the coevolutionary perspective and, in particular, the approach employing innovation journeys, as laid out in the previous section. There are two basic points that must be addressed: how to turn essentially retrospective insights concerning what happens in innovation journeys into prospective suggestions for action. And how generalizable is the pattern of the innovation journey as summarized in Figure 11.1. First, the mapping of innovation journeys, as carried out by Van de Ven et al. (1999) and in our own case studies of nanotechnology domains, and also in the many historical, sociological and economic case studies of innovation, is essentially retrospective. It shows what we know about such processes as they have occurred. In the beginning, however, only the items at the top of the map (Figure 11.1) are in place, and the future is uncertain. Over time, when the innovation journey progresses, further parts of the pattern shown on the map materialize. At an early stage, actors will rely on their own projections of how innovation processes usually go, and what is necessary to make them successful, to guide them in their actions. Things might still go wrong, of course, and for a variety of reasons. One cluster of reasons is the limitations of actors’ views: because of their limited experience, because of a tendency to be myopic (which can be reinforced by the context, cf. Pavitt, 1990) and because of neglect of what is already known. Thus, having an overall map of the general pattern in the innovation journey (if and when relevant to their situation) will help them to do better. This ‘‘enlightenment’’ model applies to all actors: technology developers or ‘‘enactors’’ (Garud & Ahlstrom, 1997), policy makers and other government actors, ‘‘third parties’’ such as venture capitalists and insurance companies, and civil society actors. We have been involved in developing mapping tools to support ‘‘enactors’’ of innovation, which introduce complexity (in particular, by forcing actors to specify the context of the innovation and taking it into account) and thus enable them to do better.5 The key element that justiﬁes a knowledge-and-understanding-based

5

The tools range from translating insights from economics and the sociology of technology (Rip, 1995), and visualizations of concentric biases (Deuten et al., 1997), to more detailed project management support in the SocRobust project, where we offered ways to draw managers out of their concentric bias (Lare´do et al., 2002). Our recent scenario exercises (Rip & TeKulve, 2008) are a further step.

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prospective approach (in contrast to brainstorming about the future) is the notion of ‘‘endogenous futures’’ (Rip, Robinson, & Kulve, 2007; Rip & TeKulve, 2008). Coevolutionary dynamics do not stop in the present where actors consider their actions as if they were free agents. In other words, futures are predicated on what has been happening. Our understanding of such coevolutionary dynamics is sufﬁciently advanced to articulate what such futures might be. In the case of path dependencies, leading to trajectories, this point is widely recognized. Broadening the notion of path dependence to ‘‘entanglements’’ (Rip et al., 2007) allows further application of the general idea, even if the prospective mapping should not be linear (that is a reason to work with scenarios). The innovation journey pattern, as discussed in the previous section, can now be seen as a way of recognizing, at an early stage, endogenous futures. Second, the question of generalizability of the pattern. My analysis of possibilities for modulating an innovation journey was carried out for a quite speciﬁc context: that of technological developments initiated in ﬁrms or other technology-promoting organizations. In other contexts, we might ﬁnd other dynamics. This need not undermine the general suggestion of intelligent intervention focused on speciﬁc loci but their speciﬁcation, and the shape of the intervention, will have to be different. Further, I am prepared to claim that there are only a limited number of different patterns in innovation journeys. My argument for this claim is contextual. The reason the innovation journey for industrial product and process innovations has a recognizable and recurrent pattern is the way industrial innovation has become institutionalized in our societies. The pattern is reproduced because it is seen as the natural way to do things and because it remains productive. Other patterns that might occur will also depend on the nature of the innovations and the nature and extent of institutionalization, and that is how we can identify them. I will discuss innovation in agriculture, taken to include nature and rural development. The general features of innovation, such as the introduction of novelty and the dealignment and realignment that occurs and has to occur, will be visible there as well. A speciﬁc feature is how natural processes in the soil, in plants and in animals and their interactions, are an integral part of the conﬁguration that has to work. ‘‘Natural history’’ is more important than mechanical and electrical engineering, and design and construction take on a different complexion. Natural processes are variable and locally contingent, so that what works on a particular location and at a particular time may not work elsewhere and at another time. And one has to wait and see what grows; one cannot simply force one’s intended realignments on nature. Thus, while protected spaces for further development such as ﬁeld experiments are possible, they will not always deliver results that are transferable to other ﬁelds — unless these can be transformed so as to be identical to the original ﬁeld of the experiment. While nature is always a partner in the coproduction of innovation and its impacts, there are different ways of ‘‘managing’’ the partnership. One route is based on experiments in laboratories and agricultural stations (so the protected spaces are more or less controlled), and novel options need to be transferred, precariously, to local practices. This is mostly done by colonizing these practices and transforming them into something similar to the experimental plots (the traditional route of

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agricultural research and extension since the late 19th century). There is increasing interest in another route, that of modifying the new option rather than modifying the local practice, because of the failures that occurred in the later route (Wiskerke & Van der Ploeg, 2004). Recognizing this, one can start at the other side with novelties generated in local practices and consider that as the basic pattern. The currently dominant expert-based regime would then be seen as an overlay on the basic pattern (Van der Ploeg, 2003), and its failures — for example, the grinding down of the Green Revolution — would be seen (and explained) as structural because of the neglect of the basic ‘‘natural history’’ pattern (and of social dynamics). The basic pattern is still alive, even if it has to survive in a modernist world. Local novelties will confront a dominant regime not only in terms of how to justify and develop themselves but also in relation to rules and regulations derived from the dominant regime. An example is how new ventures in low-input agriculture, including new ways of handling manure (in Friesland, one of the Dutch provinces), had to struggle against regulations specifying how ammonia emissions should be reduced. It took network building and concerted action to gain exemption from the regulation and demonstrate the promise of the new approach (Stuiver, 2008). A protected space was created for further experimentation but it was geared to the contingencies of local situations and their history rather than controlled construction and performance measurements, as in the industrial product development pattern. As case studies in South Africa have shown, novelties need to be protected against the traditions and exigencies of the local situation to allow them to grow — and an additional ambivalence is introduced by the role of sponsors and donors creating such a protected space, which also implies dependency relationships that cannot always be overcome (Adey, 2007). Modern agriculture (including nature and rural development) is in ﬂux, and patterns that were common before the Western expert-based regime asserted itself, in the West and then elsewhere, are accepted again. This is also visible in the debates on (and contestation of) high-tech inputs in agriculture, where participatory approaches and integration of local knowledge are increasingly welcomed. If one looks at innovation in agricultural machinery and agro-chemicals, and now biotechnology, one will see innovation journeys resembling the pattern of industrial product development. However, if one starts with local practices — or just with the difﬁculties of handling natural variability and contingency to serve human purposes — another pattern is visible, where innovation on location, including social innovation, is the driver. The expert-based and high-tech routes are an addition to this pattern. Actually, when one looks closely, there are many interesting cases where the ultimately successful innovation consists of local practices developing endogenous technology together with selective use of imported technology (Bertelsen & Mu¨ller, 2003). It is possible to identify and explore patterns of innovation journeys in other domains. Concretely (and realizing that I am reducing actual complexity), I suggest there are four main types of innovation journey, their differences depending on the institutionalization of innovation in various sectors and their historically evolved constellation of actors, and on the nature of the relevant technologies-in-context.

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One reason why constellations of actors are important is their role in creating protected spaces. The four basic types of innovation journey are: 1. Industrial product and process innovation, where ﬁrms recognize that dedicated effort is necessary rather than just learning from practices. 2. Energy, transport and infrastructure, where long lead times are taken into account, and there is little or no possibility of testing the overall system in a protected space. The real world becomes the laboratory (cf. Krohn & Weyer, 1994). 3. ICT, with its dual structure (carriers and services), big and small players, and the key role of software engineering and orgware and socioware aspects. 4. ‘‘Natural history’’ as exempliﬁed in agriculture (and nature conservation, environment, and rural development) but also in medical practices. There are overlaps and mixed dynamics, as was clear in the case of agriculture. Transitions toward, for example, a hydrogen economy follow Pattern 2 but are enabled by Pattern 1 innovation journeys as in fuel cells and hydrogen storage devices. The medical and health domain is such a mixed-dynamics case, I would claim, so that it would not qualify as a further basic type of innovation journey. Earlier practice-based innovation patterns in this domain were backgrounded by suppliers of apparatus and drugs, even when the role of professional users remained important Blume (1992). While Pattern 1 may now be dominant, the increasing importance of health care is the reason that the practice orientation is coming back. The overall pattern may well become like the one for agriculture — handling variability and local contingency of natural processes, now of humans rather than soil, plants and animals. Of course, each of the types of innovation journey can (and should) be described in as much detail as I provided for the ﬁrst industrial product and process innovation, and as I started out to do for agriculture. For intervention, the key point is to forget about one-size-ﬁts-all approaches and recognize that innovation patterns can and should be disaggregated to be able to address (‘‘manage’’) them productively. Pavitt (1984)’s early analysis of ‘‘innovation patterns’’ has the same thrust but he refers to largely stabilized industry structures rather than to the dynamics of innovation processes.6 Clearly, there are recurrent patterns in the coevolution of innovation, institutions, and society. Going for modulation rather than command-and-control, there are still varieties of modulation. Taking one pattern as the entrance point, the innovation journey in the context of industrial product development allowed me to identify interesting possibilities for modulation: loci for making a difference, protected spaces 6

Van de Poel (1998) introduced a (necessary) modiﬁcation to Pavitt’s typology by including a missiondriven pattern where the role of government is important. There is also the extension of the typology to services, as in the often quoted paper by Soete and Miozzo (1989). Unfortunately, within the scope of this chapter, I cannot address innovation in services explicitly.

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and strategic opening of such spaces. Additional research and further reﬂection is necessary, especially to discover if the overall approach of looking at dynamics and ways to modulate the dynamics can be productively applied to energy/infrastructure and ICT.

11.6

Coda

I have come a long way since 1977 when the Nelson & Winter article was published and some governments adopted their message in their technology and innovation policy. In a sense, innovation has come a long way as well. To paraphrase the title of a chapter in Felt et al. (2007), innovation has been reinventing itself including, on the one hand, open innovation around promising high tech (cf. journey type 1) and, on the other hand, ‘‘collective experimentation’’ as in open-source software (cf. journey type 3), and the involvement of patient associations and farmers’ collectives (cf. journey type 4). Other authors like Von Hippel (2005) and Malerba (2006) have indicated changes in innovation patterns (for innovation journeys type 1 and type 3). For the type 2 innovation journey, long-term planning and coordination, now with public–private alliances (and a neocorporatist governance pattern), continues. Another important change is the interest in anticipatory coordination in the face of uncertainties about new developments. The advent of European Technology Platforms for particular areas is a strong indicator. While they are established for all sorts of domains, there is an emphasis on capturing promising high-tech domains such as nanotechnology, embedded systems and the hydrogen economy (and their innovation journey type 1 dynamics). Such anticipatory coordination adds to the reﬂexivity of coevolution. When there are effects, it will be through modulation, and this then becomes an integral part of ‘‘doing’’ innovation. It is a further example of institutionalized coupling between variation and selection, i.e., a nexus. So what is the role of government? The basic point that government is only one of the actors in the overall evolution of multiactor, multilevel systems and their interactions, is increasingly recognized. Government does have a special responsibility: for infrastructures and other collective goods, and for the conditions that allow for productive and desirable innovations. Implementing that responsibility through generic measures, as neoclassical economy would suggest, runs up against actual variety. Speciﬁc measures will, of course, suffer from information asymmetries. The problem (a dilemma?) can never be resolved completely but the reduction of complexity that I have proposed, of thinking and acting in terms of a limited number of patterns of innovation journeys, will go some way to addressing that problem. The traditional justiﬁcation for government technology and innovation policy was market failure. There is government failure as well. In a coevolutionary perspective, the important issue is selection-environment failure and the need to address such failures at the system level (Smits & Kuhlmann, 2004), where government has a role to play anyway. Stimulating nexuses and some monitoring of their productivity would be a new approach; or better, it occurred already but is now recognized for

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what it can do and why. An example is the establishment of Technology Assessment organizations as a link to selection environments through anticipation and interaction.7 The recurrent discussions of patenting and intellectual property rights could also usefully be seen as being about the productivity of nexuses. Stimulating horizontal interactions between different kinds of actors, for a purpose, could also be designed and evaluated in terms of coevolution, including the way government agencies are increasingly part of the consortia and forums that are formed. These brief considerations should be located in the general thrust of my argument about understanding and intervention. There are patterns and dynamics to base policies and actions on, even if these patterns are contingent in the sense that they are outcomes of historical coevolutionary processes. Modulation is what intelligent intervention should be about, by government actors or any other actor.

7

Freeman and Soete (1997), in their conclusion, put up a similar argument and suggest that government technology policy should limit itself to Constructive TA.

Chapter 12

Relational Practices of Change: Poised between Politics and Aesthetics Dian Marie Hosking

This chapter is written from a standpoint that takes a critical orientation to relational processes. I shall over-view three ‘‘discourses’’ of relations (Deetz, 1996) calling these (i) subject–object, (ii) revised subject–object, and (iii) critical–relational–processual (CRP). The ﬁrst two are outlined together with their related approaches to change in order to clarify the third which will receive the most detailed exploration. I shall argue that CRP presents a discourse of relations that is radically different from the ﬁrst two in that it collapses the distinction between contexts of discovery and justiﬁcation, is self-critical, and opens up new possibilities for relational theory and change-work practices. I shall further argue that these ‘‘new possibilities’’ largely derive from constructing alternatives to subject–object ways of relating. The latter provide a very different ‘‘habitat’’ in which to experience self, other, and relations, give a greater and changed role to oral/aural communications and involve a radically changed aesthetic of relational practices.

12.1

Subject–Object Constructions

12.1.1

Objects, Representation, and the Hypothetico–Deductive Method

The S–O discourse includes themes that have been variously summarized as ‘‘objectivism’’ (Hermans, Kempen & van Loon, 1992) and ‘‘the received view of science’’ (or ‘‘RVS,’’ see Woolgar, 1996). Others, speaking of competing ‘‘paradigms’’ in qualitative research, have referred to some of these themes as ‘‘positivist’’ (Guba & Lincoln, 1994) — a confusing simpliﬁcation for those familiar with the philosophy of inquiry. Relevant examples include narratives that, for example, distinguish between individuals and groups and more ‘‘macro’’ units such as organizations and society in Relational Practices, Participative Organizing Advanced Series in Management, 221–240 Copyright r 2010 Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 1877-6361/doi:10.1108/S1877-6361(2010)0000007016

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ways that are overly suggestive of concrete, separately existing ‘‘things’’ with their own deﬁning characteristics (Hosking & Morley, 1991). Naı¨ ve reiﬁcations treat some-one or some-thing as uniﬁed, bounded, and separate — as an entity requiring its own explanatory theory. Speaking from the standpoint of psychology, such approaches have been called ‘‘individualistic’’ and ‘‘culturalist’’ ‘‘fallacies’’ (Allport, 1963). Broadly speaking, sharp differentiations can be found, for example, in sociology — between individual action and social structure or culture (see, e.g., Burrell & Morgan, 1979) and in the philosophy of the social sciences — for example, between ‘‘individualism’’ and ‘‘holism’’ (see, e.g., Hollis, 1994). Language has a very particular role in this discourse. This is well illustrated by the remarks of Hermans and his colleagues (1992) on the subject of ‘‘objectivism’’: language is needed to express concepts mapped onto objects, properties and relations in a literal, unequivocal, context-independent fashion. (Hermans et al., 1992, emphasis added).

So, for example, the scientist — as a language user capable of correct reasoning (see below) — is able to describe what she or he discovers about an already existing and independent reality. In other words, objectivism assumes that language can provide a ‘‘naı¨ ve reﬂection’’ of the world; ontology and epistemology are discoursed as separate but related. In this discourse, the ‘‘context of discovery’’ (the province of social scientists) and the ‘‘context of justiﬁcation’’ (the province of philosophers) are kept separate (see Gergen, 1994; Hosking & Morley, 2004) such that what the RVS says about its Self can be held apart from what scientists say about Other. This brings us to the related issue of methodology — often characterized as ‘‘empiricism.’’ Fiedler’s work on leadership effectiveness (see Fiedler, 1967) provides a helpful illustration. Fiedler presented his research and theorizing in a manner suggestive of a classical, empiricist methodology. For example, it was through observations of leaders, groups, and their performance outcomes, and subsequent application of ‘‘the traditional empiricist principle’’ of induction (Hollis, 1994, p. 45) that he arrived at his contingency hypothesis. He then conducted a series of empirical validation studies designed to test his hypothesis — following the hypothetico– deductive process (see, e.g., Kerlinger, 1964; Gergen, 1994). Truth was operationalized in terms of a probability coefﬁcient (arrived at through sample statistics) applied to numbers produced from empirical measures (claimed to be reliable and valid). Statistically signiﬁcant results were presented as evidence that the null hypothesis (of no signiﬁcant difference) could be safely rejected. Fiedler claimed that many empirical studies had tested and validated his hypothesis such that the basis had been provided for the prediction and control of leadership effectiveness.

12.1.2

Subject–Object Relations

When things are represented as uniﬁed, bounded, and separate, then relations are understood as being between independently existing entities. This has been referred to as a ‘‘subject–object’’ construction of relations (see, e.g., Dachler & Hosking, 1995;

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Fine, 1994; Harding, 1986; Hollis, 1994; Jaynes, 1976; Reeves Sanday, 1988). So, for example, writings may discourse a leader as acting on a group or organization to change it, or may discourse ‘‘the organization’’ as acting on individual cognitions, satisfactions, and actions. As we shall see a little later, this means that change comes from the ‘‘outside’’ through the actions of some individual agent achieving power over the Other. First, and by deﬁnition, S–O discourses construct an active–passive binary between an active and responsible agent (Subject) and an acted upon Other — as a passive object. The RVS positions the scientist as the knowing subject (S) acting in relation to the knowable objects (O) of his research. The scientist, mobilizing the discourses of his scientiﬁc community, knows what he wants to ﬁnd out (discover) and knows how to do it in ways that produce objective knowledge about Other. Equally, many theories do a similar job. For example, Fiedler’s theory of leadership effectiveness positioned the leader as active and ‘‘the leadership situation’’ as passive — available to be known and acted upon by the leader. Similarly, contingency theories of organizational effectiveness provide the basis for organizational change programs in which expert change agents act to re-structure the ready-to-be-changed object of their interest. Second, actions, relationships, and outcomes are explained through reference to the assumed characteristics of entities. These assumed characteristics include the physicalist attributes of material objects, the mentalistic characteristics of the mind, and a singular Self. So, for example, the RVS positions the scientist as a cognizing agent (Woolgar, 1996) who can know about Self and Other, and who can generate explanations in relation to some discourse of causes. Similarly, contingency theories of organization and of leadership discourse characteristics of entities (organizations, leaders, leadership contexts) including goals, structures, cognitive capacities, and leadership style and hypothesize causal relations between these characteristics and contingent variables such as effectiveness. Third, the S–O construction positions the Subject as active in building his individual knowledge. This is the Cartesian discourse of ‘‘cogito, ergo sum’’ (I think, therefore I am). Knowledge is discoursed as an individual possession, as a property of the rational mind; knowledge is dis-embodied and divorced from history and culture, is objective or subjective, is about the world ‘‘as it really is’’ (accurate, true) or distorted and inaccurate. So, in the RVS the scientist (S) is considered to build his individual knowledge using ‘‘scientiﬁc methods’’ to produce objective knowledge of what is real — including other people’s subjective knowledge claims. Similarly, organizational leaders are storied as those who can and must build their knowledge about Other in order to use that knowledge as the rational basis for their change efforts. Fourth, the knowing Subject is assumed to exercise his knowing mind in order to inﬂuence, form, or structure other as Object. For example, the RVS positions the scientist as one who may use his knowledge rationally to design and manipulate the inquiry process (‘‘methodology’’), testing theory, producing knowledge that provides the basis for prediction and control of nature, organization design, leadership effectiveness, and so on. Arguments and data (validated knowledge claims) should convince the rational actor of the truth of things. Similarly, Fiedler’s leader — Subject

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must achieve ‘‘power over’’ (Gergen, K. J., 1995; Gergen, M., 1995; Hosking, 1995) the leadership situation and leadership effectiveness, for example, by restructuring the group’s task or changing the ‘‘group atmosphere.’’ Fifth, the S–O construction turns relations into instrumentalities for S. Other is an instrument for the Subject in the pursuit of supposedly rational and value-free purposes. So, the RVS produces value-free knowledge about the world ‘‘in its so being,’’ the group is the leader’s instrument for achieving ‘‘leadership effectiveness,’’ and organizational change is supposedly desirable in relation to ‘‘organizational goals’’ and justiﬁable in relation to neutral methods and objective knowledge. In sum, S–O relations are prescribed in relations between the scientist and his research object and are assumed in theories and related inquiry and changework practices. However, ‘‘hard’’ Subject–Object constructions have been ‘‘softened’’ in post-positivism and in constructivist theories. It is to these that we now turn.

12.2

Revised S–O Constructions

The discourses of the RVS and of objectivism embrace assumptions that have received much critical comment over the years. Criticisms include: the naı¨ ve and simplistic assumption that linguistic categories represent ‘‘innocent descriptions of segments of the natural world’’ (Danziger, 1997) — suggesting the need to re-conceptualize the role of language; the assumption of causal relations, i.e., the relations between the independent variables caused the state of the dependent variable — inviting other ways of conceptualizing relations; the assumption of induction as a way to develop theory; the logic of veriﬁcation; the assumed independence of theory and data; the assumed independence of the observing subject from the observed object and so on (see, e.g., Gergen, 1994). I shall continue by overviewing some ways in which hard S–O differentiation has been softened or blurred by post-positivism and constructivisms. My intention is to ‘‘set the scene’’ for a third and radically changed discourse — that of ‘‘critical relational processes’’ (CRP).

12.2.1

Meta-Theoretical Blurring: Post-Positivism

Some of the above criticisms have been to some extent addressed in the ‘‘postpositivist,’’ meta-theoretical shift from naı¨ ve realism to ‘‘critical realism’’ (Guba & Lincoln, 1994). The latter largely involves shifts in epistemology — for example, accepting that we cannot know that we know the world as it really is, accepting a changed view of truth, and shifting to talk of falsifying hypotheses1 rather than the language of ‘‘brute facts’’ and proof. It is in this sense that all modern (and some 1

Although for Popper, falsiﬁcation was a much bigger issue simply that of disconﬁrming a hypothesis. Rather, he wanted to further and abandon the quest for certainty (see Miller, 1994 in Morley and Hunt).

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would say ‘‘modernist’’) western psychology has long viewed its knowledge as constructed rather than straightforwardly representative (Hosking & Morley, 2004). And in this sense, the hard boundaries between ‘‘internal’’ and ‘‘external,’’ Self and Other have been blurred. But these meta-theoretical shifts have been accompanied by a continuing ‘‘healthy respect for the ‘world as it is’ ’’ (Gergen, 1994, p. 67). The epistemological construction of individual objective and subjective knowledge continues, even though it is now accepted that objectivity is constrained. Equally, the ontological construction of separate existences (this entity, independent of that entity) continues. Further, when it comes to the everyday practice of social science inquiry, the meta-theoretical shift to critical realism need not have major implications — particularly when the meta-theory keeps separate the contexts of justiﬁcation and discovery. To do ‘‘critical realist’’2 science, the scientist must relate to Other in ways that attempt to minimize contamination of the (outsider) knowledge he is able to build about Other. The scientist must construct, as best as he can, a methodology that will let him produce objective knowledge — knowledge that can be accepted3 as justiﬁed true belief.

12.2.2

Theoretical Blurring: Constructivisms

In western psychology, constructivist themes are found in (early 20th century) shifts (a) from talk of sensation to talk of perception and (b) from talk of sense taking to that of sense making. These shifts echoed themes in earlier philosophical work such as the writings of Vico and Kant (see, e.g., Hosking & Morley, 2004; Watzlawick, 1984). Constructivist approaches assume that individual minds process sense data to construct knowledge about the world (e.g., von Foerster, 1984; von Glaserfeld, 1984; Kelly, 1955; Mead, 1968; Neisser, 1969; Piaget, 1954; Watzlawick, 1984). The constructivist orientation says that people do not know, and cannot know the world as it really is. Rather the mind ‘‘combines what is in the head, with what is in the world’’ so to speak. Social constructivist approaches amend and supplement this ‘‘cognitivist’’ story by paying particular attention to social inﬂuences and the effects they have on our knowledge claims. (Social) constructivisms have developed differently in different Human Science communities in relation to their varied histories and varied practical and theoretical concerns (see, e.g., Danziger, 1997). In recent years, the language of (social) constructivism has become increasingly prominent in business and management studies. The areas of business strategy and marketing, to name only two, increasingly put to work variants of constructivist thinking joined, for example, with more or less individualistic4 2

In the sense meant by Guba and Lincoln — others mean something rather different by the term. At least by the scientiﬁc community. 4 And indeed, more or less realist or idealist, for example. the radical constructivism of von Glaserfeld (1984) seems to adopt an idealist position by treating reality as an individual construction. 3

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versions of cybernetic systems theory5 (see, e.g., Stacey, 2003). At the same time, and as noted above, (social) constructivist thinking is neither new nor radical in those parts of contemporary western psychology6 that escaped the dominance of behaviorism, where post-positivism is commonplace and where social inﬂuences on individual action and cognition are widely theorized. Constructivist writings vary considerably in the particular S–O themes they blur. As far as meta-theoretical themes are concerned, the rationalist–empiricist construction remains part of the discourse but the dualist opposition is collapsed.7 Equally, even though reality cannot be known ‘‘as it really is,’’ ‘‘external’’ reality usually remains the focus of scientiﬁc interest in objective knowledge.8 These ontological and epistemological assumptions mean that talk of construction is likely to be understood as talk about either objective knowledge (now accepted as imperfect) or subjective knowledge. Should the constructivist writer seem immoderate, for example, in his critique of scientiﬁc practices, he will be supposed to be naı¨ ve (‘‘of course we already know that knowledge is constructed!’’). Equally, should the constructivist writer seem to go too far in his or her talk of construction she/he will be thought foolish (daft enough to reject the assumption of an independently existing reality) — trapped in the relativist position that there are as many realities as there are knowing minds where, apparently ‘‘anything goes.’’ Constructivist inquiries often continue to be oriented around an interest in ‘‘aboutness knowledge’’ and its (in)accuracy as a representation of an independently existing world. So, for example, constructs such as mind maps, schema, narratives, discourses y are treated as characteristics of mind operations and are awarded a central role in the processing of sensations and the production of knowledge. Language continues to be given the role of representing some nondiscursive world. Last, and consistent with my earlier reﬂections, constructivist interests are often pursued through some empiricist methodology. One major consequence of this is that post-positivist science continues to discourse Other as irrational and to discourse Self as able to produce objective knowledge, thus providing the basis for rational action. Reﬂexivity remains an individual act in which scientists evaluate the reliability and validity of their ﬁndings but do not reﬂect on or revise their meta-theoretical assumptions, i.e., ‘‘the context of justiﬁcation’’ (e.g., Steier, 1991). In sum, post-positivist and constructivist thinking succeed in blurring some S–O assumptions about relations and continue to prescribe S–O relations in the conduct of scientiﬁc inquiry. The characteristics attributed to the human subject include a

5 Wholistic developments such as, for example, in cybernetic systems theory, complexity, and chaos theories — in danger of continuing to reproduce some crucial S–O themes, i.e., science, systems, talk of processes y failing to get to grips with somatic life, emptiness and space, reﬂexivity, and openness (cf. Berman, 1990, p. 307). 6 Although countries clearly vary in how much they are committed to strong versions of empiricism. 7 As it has been in the thought styles and practices of many who would now be called scientists including Galileo and Newton (see e.g., Berman, 1981, p. 39). 8 Although not of all, the radical constructivists shift their attention to the individual observer as one who participates in self-reﬂexive constructions of reality.

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singular Self (I think), with a knowing mind (I think)9 and language ability, along with constructs such as motives and personality. The blurring of S–O is primarily epistemological and objective–subjective knowledge is about real objects, imperfectly knowable.

12.2.3

Subject–Object Change-Work

Subject–object relations seem often to be reproduced in change-work practices and writings. For example, it is common practice to discourse ‘‘the leader’’ and ‘‘the organization’’ as if each were a relatively stable some-one or some-thing with characteristics. This discourse means that change can only be understood as moving from one stable state to another — through changing characteristics (e.g., leadership style, organizational structures, mission, y). The Subject (leader-change agent) must attempt to know about and achieve inﬂuence over Other as Object. This requires empirical–rational analysis of what is and the production of knowledge ‘‘about’’ what is and what should be. Such analysis can draw upon the tools and rhetorics of (post) positivist science — using ‘‘scientiﬁc methods’’ — for the production of ‘‘unbiased facts’’ — in relation to ‘‘neutral’’ rationality. This technical (not ‘‘political’’) knowledge can then be mobilized as the basis for (‘‘a-political’’) inﬂuence — attempting to justify particular changes in relation to what is (claimed to be) ‘‘real and good.’’ Should such claims fail to achieve sufﬁcient rhetorical force then inﬂuence can be attempted through persuasion, bargaining, and negotiating (e.g., Carnall, 1990; Dyer, 1984). Subject–object practices privilege some constructions while silencing others. They construct asymmetrical power relationships of ‘‘power over’’ Other (e.g., Gergen, K. J., 1995; Gergen, M., 1995; see Hosking, 2004). Of course ‘‘resistance to change’’ is then constructed (by the Subject in the S–O relation) as the irrational response of Other — a response that then demands more power over. In this way, patterns of relating are likely to reproduce ‘‘more of the same’’ — more facts, more rational argument, more persuasion y. In the S–O discourse ‘‘politics’’ has a very particular meaning: it is ‘‘a dirty word’’ and a regrettable practice (Hosking & Morley, 1991). In an S–O discourse, politics reﬂect the play of local, partisan interests when neutral, non-partisan interests are at stake. And perhaps not surprisingly, politics are everywhere (there is no resistance without force!). While ‘‘rationality’’ and epistemology dominate politics and aesthetics are marginalized and change is ‘‘from the outside.’’ Changed constructions of change, of politics and aesthetics, await a changed discourse of relations.

9

See Hermans et al. for an excellent discussion of this.

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12.3

Relations as Process

12.3.1

Overview of Premises

The expression ‘‘critical relational processes’’ (CRP) will be used to refer to an interrelated set of assumptions and interests that differ from post-positivism and differ from constructivism. Instead of centering mind and ‘‘real’’ reality, CRP centers the processes in which relational realities are constructed — including constructions of personhood, self, science, the world, and so on. This means that CRP is not talking about mind operations producing subjective interpretations of reality and is not adopting idealism in place of realism. Rather, this is another ‘‘map’’ about another ‘‘territory’’ (to borrow freely from Korzybski, 1933). Given this map, the objective– subjective, real–relativist dualisms are viewed as cultural–historical lines of distinction that are local to a different discourse. The ‘‘lines of distinction’’ that contribute to the ‘‘discourse’’ (Deetz, 2000) of CRP have very long histories and come from many different ‘‘language games’’ and their related ‘‘forms of life’’ (Wittgenstein, 1953; see, e.g., Danziger, 1997; Gergen, 1994; Hosking & Morley, 2004). Turning to relatively recent times, contributing arguments come from literatures such as feminism and feminist critiques of science, literary criticism, cognitive and social psychology, interactionist, cognitive, and phenomenological sociologies, radical family therapy, critical social anthropology, and some expressions of ‘‘postmodernism’’ and post structuralism (e.g., Latour, 1987; Foucault, 1980). The following seem to me to represent some of the key features of a CRP orientation:

Relational processes are centered and not ‘‘the self,’’ mind operations, and individual knowledge. Relational processes ‘‘go on’’ in inter-actions that may involve speaking and listening, sounds and hearing, gestures, signs, symbols, y and seeing, movement, and so on. Inter-actions (re)construct multiple Self–Other realities as local ontologies or ‘‘forms of life’’ (person–world making). Realities and relations are local–cultural–historical. Relational processes may close down or open up possibilities. Relating can construct hard, soft, or indeed minimal Self–Other differentiation.

12.3.2

Discoursing Relational Processes

12.3.2.1 Inter-acting. In the discourse of CRP, talk of the individual as having a Self and as possessing a mind and individual knowledge gives way to discourses of relational processes as inter-acting or communicating. This of course raises the question of how the latter are understood. Many constructionist writings give language a central role — not as a way of representing some independently existing reality — but as a key medium in which communicating ‘‘goes on’’ so to speak.

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In this discourse, language derives its signiﬁcance from the ways it is used in human relationships and the forms of life it supports (Gergen, 1994, emphasis added). This approach to language avoids the dualistic lines of distinction that discourse mind independent of body, and language as a means to represent singular external realities. Theories of relational processes employ a variety of tools to discourse relating. Sometimes written and spoken language is emphasized — using terms such as story telling, conversation, narrative, and discourse. Sometimes the term ‘‘performance’’ is used — perhaps to gesture more toward nonverbal actions — and perhaps to suggest an ontological (rather than epistemological) discourse of construction (see, e.g., Newman & Holzman, 1997). Some writers employ the term ‘‘actant’’ — and write of networks of relations between actants. This seems neatly to avoid suggesting that construction is an individual act. For example, Latour speaks of an actant as ‘‘whoever and whatever is represented’’ (Latour, 1987, p. 84) including people, objects, statements, facts, events, y. He further writes of relations as processes of enrolling and controlling that construct and stabilize reality.10 My own preference is to use a form of words that is as inclusive as possible. Broadly speaking, I use the term ‘‘inter-acting’’ (a) to speak of a performance (b) that involves a coming together (c) of ‘‘whoever and whatever’’ (sic) and so (re)constructs person– world relations as (d) relational realities. While conceptual language (written and spoken) is commonly implicated in ‘‘coming together’’ I do not want to conﬁne my theoretical considerations to ‘‘just’’ voiced or unvoiced and written dialogues. Of course when humans are involved in the ‘‘coming together’’ of some actants then language is very often implicated — even if only in thinking (un-vocalized talk). I presume that theorists’ common reference to ‘‘language-based’’ interactions is intended to reference this ubiquity of conceptual language. This discourse of inter-acting stands apart from the constructivist discourse in a number of important ways. First, it centers both human and nonhuman actants as participants in and products of reality construction processes. Second, reality construction is storied as a process of inter-acting — of relations between actants — not individual action. Third, it is talk about the ‘‘textuality’’ of relating and not just written and spoken texts (Stenner & Eccleston, 1994). Last, Science is included in the discourse, i.e., it is treated as a construction process. CRP accepts that relational processes ‘‘go on’’ in language-based interactions but also gives space to nonlinguistic acts — recognizing that when humans inter-act with these they may well re-construct them in language.

12.3.2.2 Multiple, simultaneous inter-actions. Empiricist work is grounded in the assumption that it can be helpful to reduce the complexity of interaction to simple behavioral acts performed in sequence and objectively deﬁnable. Human actors, ‘‘natural’’ and ‘‘man-made’’ objects, and language are sharply distinguished and 10 In Latour’s view, cultures (we could also say ‘‘forms of life’’) differ in how they do this and differ in the extent to which they are able to enroll and control reality constructions. Science is different from other cultures by being able to act on a bigger scale.

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scientiﬁc interest is discoursed as being in objective knowledge about Other. For example, if we consider Magritte’s painting Ceci n’est pas une pipe, S–O thinking treats the painter, the painting, the viewer, and other possibly relevant con-texts as independent entities and turns complex, ongoing, relational processes into a seemingly singular and stable ‘‘it’’ (e.g., the painting), in relation to the Aristotelian logic of either–or (e.g., it is either a pipe — or it is not). In contrast, CRP opens up the ‘‘black box’’ (Latour, 1987) of relating, centers multiple, simultaneous inter-actions (rather than a singular object), centers the production — the performance or ‘‘the how’’ — of ongoing processes (rather than ‘‘the what’’ of inputs and/or outputs), and stays open to the possibility of multiple and changing constructions as ‘‘content.’’ CRP assumes that many simultaneous inter-acts continuously contribute to ongoing (re)constructions of reality. So, for example, in the case of Magritte’s painting, relational processes simultaneously implicate multiple interrelated texts which could include relating the visual symbol (which many would say was a picture of a pipe) with the written text below it (which says Ceci n’est pas une pipe — ‘‘this is not a pipe’’), the written text with the French language, the written text with the Dutch language (!), narratives of earlier viewings, of what others have said about the painting, of what counts as a painting, of what is appropriately called a ‘‘pipe’’ and so on. The question ‘‘what is it?’’ could invite many equally correct answers depending on the particular inter-relating of multiple texts: ‘‘it’s a pipe,’’ ‘‘it’s a painting of a pipe,’’ ‘‘it’s a paradox,’’ ‘‘it is a work of art,’’ and so on.11 This suggests that getting taken up with what ‘‘it’’ is goes together with an interest in knowledge12 to the neglect of power relations13 and will surely mobilize S–O discourses in order to secure ‘‘agreement.’’ 12.3.2.3 Local–cultural–historical constructions. In CRP, relating is considered to construct stabilized effects or patterned inter-actions. These can include social conventions, musical forms, organizational and societal structures, Western psychology, and that which some language games might call nature, or facts or artifacts. But not all inter-acts will be stabilized, for example, some will go unheard, unseen, and unnoticed. For example, the fate of some identity claim will depend on whether or not it is warranted as ‘‘real and good’’ (Gergen, 1994). Or, as Latour would have it: the fate of a statement depends on others who have to read it, take it up, and use it — others have to be ‘‘enrolled’’ and they have to be ‘‘controlled’’ (Latour, 1987). Some practices, cultures, or ‘‘forms of life’’ are able to ‘‘enrol and control’’ on a larger scale than others and so may appear, for example, to have more powerful Gods 11

Which some may take as good reason for not getting too hung up on games that focus on the question ‘‘what is it?’’ Perhaps Lewis Carroll was playing with this idea in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. There the mouse was telling a story in which he declared that various named characters ‘‘found it advisable — ‘found what?’ Said the Duck. ‘Found it,’ the mouse replied rather crossly: ‘of course you know what it means.’ ’’ 12 And a very particular kind of knowledge at that. 13 Not everyone has equal opportunity to inﬂuence how some-one or some-thing is called.

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or better methods for producing objective knowledge. Once a particular performance becomes stabilized, for example, a greeting convention, a particular sonata form, what counts as middle C y other possibilities may ﬁnd it harder to achieve warrant. As Beethoven discovered at one of his premiers, it may be harder to ‘‘enrol’’ and ‘‘control’’ an audience when its participants are sure they already know what is ‘‘real and good!’’ Such difﬁculties are especially likely to be encountered when S–O relations (implicating discourses of ‘‘right’’ and ‘‘wrong’’) are already stabilized (see, e.g., Deetz, 2000). The discourse of CRP re-constructs ‘‘politics’’ as a quality of all relational processes and reality constructions — processes/products in which neutrality and rationality are theorized as practices of ‘‘enrolling and controlling’’ rather than ‘‘how things really are’’ or should be. CRP speaks of local–cultural–historical processes. The reference to ‘‘local’’ should be understood in contrasting relation to (S–O) narratives of general (trans-contextual, trans-historical) knowledge about reality. CRP emphasizes that what is validated or discredited is local to the ongoing practices that (re)construct a particular culture or ‘‘form of life,’’ for example, the sonata form in western and not Japanese music. But as we have seen, inter-actions vary in the scale of their inter-connections. This means that ‘‘local’’ could be as broad as Western or post-enlightenment. The locals (including scientists) may take it for granted that their particular constructions are universal facts. However, the present line of argument suggests the essential artfulness of stabilized effects (forms of music, forms of life, organization, social structures, y) and draws attention to the relational processes that make and re-make them. CRP speaks of local–cultural–historical relational realities. However, talk of history as local is not intended as talk of temporary truths when permanent truths are potentially available. Further, talk of history is not intended to imply a linear and unidirectional process in which the present is a moment between (the now ﬁnished) past and the (yet to come) future. Such a view of process goes together with the separation of means and ends, process, and content, ‘‘tool and result’’ (Newman & Holzman, 1997) and reproduces a very particular (western? modernist?) construction of time. Rather relational processes are said to have a historical quality in the sense that actions always supplement preexisting actions and have implications for how the process will go on: the ongoing present re-produces some previous structurings, for example, the convention of shaking hands, and acts in relation to possible and probable futures, for example, that a greeting will be successfully performed. In other words, all acts (we could say texts) supplement other acts (con-texts) and are available for possible supplementation and possible (dis)crediting. In the discourse of CRP, inter-actions, and particularly regularly repeated ones, ‘‘make history’’ so to speak and history is constantly being re-made (see also Vico, 1984(1744); Hora, 1966).

12.3.3

Reconstructing Change Works

Given the above, CRP seems best viewed as a discourse that emphasizes the historical–cultural rather than the natural–scientiﬁc (see Morley & Hunt, 2004).

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This said, CRP should also be distinguished from ‘‘Contextualism’’ (referred to by Morley & Hunt as a ‘‘historical–cultural’’ approach) in that it views theory, method, and data are interwoven and so, collapses the distinction between the context of justiﬁcation (the province of philosophy) and the context of discovery (the context of empirical science). This has potentially radical implications for change-work theories and practices particularly when ‘‘soft’’ differentiation is the intended product/process. This is only possible in a discourse that lets go of the assumption that S–O is ‘‘how things really (or probably) are’’ or ‘‘should be’’ (for objective knowledge and scientiﬁc notions of truth). Before I explore ‘‘the soft option’’ in more detail I shall ﬁrst outline the ways in which change-work is necessarily reconstructed in the discourse of CRP. 12.3.3.1 Both stability and change are ongoing. Earlier we saw that S–O discourses assume stable things with deﬁning characteristics and reduce processes to knowing and inﬂuencing by Subjects in S–O relation. In contrast, CRP — by centering relational processes — views stability as constructed and maintained in ongoing processes. This means that change is no longer considered a temporary (even if increasingly common) aberration but is theorized as ongoing (re)construction which is without beginning or end. CRP assumes a ‘‘weak ontology of becoming’’ (Chia, 1995) by discoursing change as ongoing inter-action, stability as a pattern of repeated re-constructions, and change as re-construction of some previously stable pattern. Relational realities now are viewed as particular, more or less temporary, local– cultural–historical achievements. 12.3.3.2 Inter-actions always construct. By shifting from entities and individual acts the locus of change shifts to inter-actions and how they co-construct, reproduce, and change relational realities and relationships. This means that inter-actions are both the ‘‘unit of analysis’’ and the locus of stability and change. One potentially radical implication is that the conventional distinction between inquiry and intervention is now re-storied as only one possible construction in that all actions (whether or not someone calls them ‘‘inquiry’’) have the potential to change relational realities depending on how they are supplemented. This opens up and gives a new legitimacy to change — work practices that do not separate inquiry and intervention (e.g., Participative Action Research, Appreciative Inquiry). Further, languagebased communications achieve a changed signiﬁcance — they now are centered as relational processes in which stability and change are constructed — they are where change works! 12.3.3.3 Constructing both ‘‘both/and’’ and ‘‘either/or.’’ A CRP perspective on how things really are made demands exploration of the power aspects of relational processes. This requires consideration of the ways in which some practices/voices gain stability and a seeming ‘‘naturalness’’ — which means they are unlikely to be questioned — while others do not. Subject–Object relations, causation (whether ‘‘weak’’ or strong), and ‘‘power over’’ (‘‘enrolling and controlling’’) are just possible and not necessary relationship constructions. So, for example, patterns may be created without intention, chance and synchronicity may be commonplace, and

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inclusive, non-hierarchical ways of relating can (in principle) construct multiple, coexisting forms of life as different but equal (see Gergen, K. J., 1995; Gergen, M., 1995; Hosking, 1995). 12.3.3.4 Constructing is political. The S–O discourse centers knowledge and rationality and constructs ‘‘politics’’ as inﬂuence that ‘‘messes up’’ a potentially rational and legitimate change process. As usual, the standpoint of CRP views this as just one possible discourse among many. From the standpoint of CRP, ‘‘critical’’ interest requires attention to inter-actions to see what forms of life are invited, supported, or suppressed and how — including the ‘‘form’’ called Science along with its meta-assumptions. Critical interest goes to multiplicity (or its absence) and to relations (different but equal or dominance). This said, many critical theorists focus on de-construction and disruption and/or the ‘‘liberation’’ of groups the theorist assumes must be oppressed. However, another possibility is to explore change-work practices that could enable and support multiple local forms of life rather than imposing one dominant form or voice on others.14 The critical interest then becomes an interest in opening up (rather than closing down) possibilities and in change from ‘‘within’’ (transformation) the form of life/local practices rather than from ‘‘the outside.’’ Critical interest can now be directed to how such political processes might ‘‘go on’’: how might change-work practices (re)construct ‘‘soft’’ Self–Other differentiations rather than S–O?

12.4

Change Works in ‘‘Soft’’ Differentiations

When self and other are seen as co-constructed, care of other is constructed as care of the (moral) self. So, for example, relating no longer has to be reduced to discourses of either ‘‘soft’’ Humanist — where talk of caring makes sense or ‘‘hard’’ (factual) world — where economic ‘‘realities’’ and relations are (rationally) instrumentalized, secularized, and dis-embodied (see Hosking, 2000). Avoiding S–O constructions in Self-Other relations calls for ways of relating that accept both/and, ways that allow and support inter-dependent, different but equal relations. Change-work of this sort seems to include (a) opening up to possibilities rather than closing down through problem identiﬁcation, solutions, and ‘‘off the shelf’’ change programs and (b) creating space for multiple, local rationalities grounded in ‘‘unforced agreements’’ as reﬂected in coordinated action15 (e.g., Rorty, 1991). Change-work of this sort is theorized as a relational process in which ‘‘(im)moral’’ (and all other) criteria are held ﬁxed or left free to be mobile. Being ‘‘for the other’’ rather than ‘‘with’’ Other may be viewed as the ‘‘starting point’’ of relating, so to speak (see Bauman, 1993). 14

And as I have said, that also goes for the present thought style and its present particularities. But here I am not talking about knowledge (as is Rorty) but inter-action y and in this case ‘‘agreement’’ means we can go on coordinating our actions without questioning or being questioned; we do not have to share the same story (agree) about what we are doing (see e.g., Hosking & Morley, 1991). 15

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Dian Marie Hosking Non S–O Ways of Relating: Some Practical Orientations

Certain practical themes seem important in opening up possibilities, multiple realities, ‘‘unforced agreement,’’ and ‘‘power to.’’ These should be thought of as ‘‘orientations,’’ as attempts at practical theory and not as neutral methods or theory-free techniques. 12.4.1.1 View all acts as potential contributions to inﬂuence. Attempts at non S–O change-work recognize and give importance to the inﬂuence potential of all acts — asking questions, voice tone, words used, posture, y including ‘‘artifacts’’ — interview ﬁndings, percentage summaries, diagnostic classiﬁcations y. Any and all actants have the potential to contribute to the (re)construction of local realities and relations depending on how they are supplemented. This view clearly locates change agency in inter-actions and not in an individual. 12.4.1.2 Accept multiple local rationalities in different but equal relation. Letting go of S–O means that inquiry/change-work attempts to articulate and work with multiple local–cultural realities and relations rather than trying to suppress or homogenize them through sample statistics or consensus oriented change methodologies. In general terms, multiple local realities and relations may ‘‘go on’’ simultaneously in non-hierarchical ways that value difference and ‘‘power to’’ rather than ‘‘power over’’ (see earlier). This may mean including everyone who has an interest in some issue through large-scale ‘‘methodologies’’ with multiple, interrelated networks of participants (see, e.g., Bunker & Alban, 1997). Of course practices of ‘‘power over’’ do not just cease — particularly, if one deﬁnes them as a problem and tries to stop them! 12.4.1.3 Work in the present and with possibilities. The view that relational processes construct realities has major implications for all change-work. For many it means working with what is positively valued locally, i.e., working ‘‘appreciatively’’ (Cooperrider & Srivastva, 1987) rather than re-constructing a world of problems, deﬁcits, failure, and blaming. Of course it also requires acceptance of multiple local realities and relations and therefore different constructions of value — of what can be ‘‘appreciated.’’ The shift to possibilities invites, for example, change-work that helps participants learn how better to improvise and helps participants to imagine new ways of going on together (e.g., ‘‘Imagine Chicago’’ and other similar projects).16 12.4.1.4 Orient to transformation. Change-work shifts orientation from intervention to ‘‘transformation’’ in order to capture the notion of change ‘‘from within.’’ At the same time, the structuring distinction between inquiry and intervention is collapsed to recognize that, for example, future searching is present making in the ‘‘here and now.’’ Attention shifts from ‘‘knowledge that’’ and power over, 16

See for example, http://imaginechicago.org

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from inquiry and intervention, from observation for ‘‘ﬁnding out,’’ from language as representation y to a changed aesthetic concerning ‘‘how we do our lives together’’ in different but equal relations. 12.4.1.5 Work with language and the senses. An important aspect of this ‘‘changed aesthetic’’ concerns the way we theorize inter-actions — particularly in relation to language. We have seen that the S–O discourse positioned language as a means of re-presenting external reality while CRP discoursed language rather differently: as a form of communication, as a medium for ‘‘doing our lives,’’ for constructing relational realities. In addition to this changed construction of language, other contexts have also changed. So, for example, our interest in relating is no longer directed by an interest in ‘‘knowledge that,’’ or constrained by discourses of ‘‘the mind,’’ rationality, instrumental relations and neutral, rational purposes. Letting go of these con-texts opens up the possibility to re-consider our discourse of language, to reconsider the roles of the senses, and to explore how these might be related to the ways we can do our lives in different but equal relation.

12.4.2

Relating in Re-Vision: A Changed Aesthetic

A number of writers have written about cultural–historical shifts in forms of communication. They have argued that sound, talk, and listening were once common western cultural forms but that vision, for example, through written language, visual inscriptions of many kinds, an emphasis on appearances and observation, has gradually come to dominate. This increasing visualism has been further suggested accompanied by important changes in constructions of what exists (nature, humans, time, y), of who may know, what they may know, and how (e.g., Berman 1983, 1989; Bergquist, 1996; Berendt, 1992; Fiumara, 1990; Levin, 1989; Toulmin, 1990; Ong, 1967). One such change was the gradual re-construction of persons as autonomous beings, independent of nature and free from the will of the Gods, possessing personal characteristics and individual knowledge that allow them to act as agents ‘‘in their own right.’’ Another was the gradual emergence of Science as the ‘‘way of knowing’’ most likely to produce the best of knowable truths. Another was the gradual construction of a (Western) philosophy dominated by attention to the speaking aspect of communications (conversation, narrating, talk, y) to the relative neglect of hearing or listening — to the dominance of logos rather than legein (Fiumara, 1990; also Berman 1983, 1989). Central to many of these accounts is a discussion of language as heard and spoken relative to language that is written and seen. For example, Ong (1967) in The Presence of the Word writes about cultural–historical variations in the relative dominance of audition and vision, how this relates to the other senses, and how it is reﬂected in the relationship between word and sound. In common with others such as Berman, Latour, and Toulmin, he writes of a shifting dominance from the spoken word to the written word, of ‘‘the greater visualism initiated by script and the alphabet’’

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(Ong, 1967, p. 8) and the further stimulation of visualism by the mechanical reproduction of print, the increased use of maps, and physical exploration of the world. ‘‘The modern age was thus much more the child of typography than it has commonly been made out to be’’ (Ong, 1967, p. 9). According to Ong, ‘‘one of the most striking and informative’’ differences between oral/aural cultures and cultures dominated by the alphabet and print concerns their relationship with time. In the former, and in the absence of ‘‘look up’’ facilities, the past is present in what people say and do, in the performances of epic singers, storytellers and poets, in the arts of oratory and rhetoric y performances that join play, celebration, and community with learning. In oral/aural cultures, the word is clearly a vocalization, a happening, an event y experienced as ‘‘contact with actuality and with truth’’ (Ong, 1967, p. 33). However, by the time of Plato, some three centuries after the development of the Greek alphabet, it became possible to write about ‘‘ideas’’ (which, in Greek, means the look of a thing) — conceived not as events but as ‘‘motionless ‘objective’ existence, impersonal, and out of time’’ (Ong, 1967, p. 34). Cultures of alphabet and print, compared with oral/aural cultures, seem to give a more permanent sense of existence to words. Words that are visualized in written form are frozen in space — made seemingly timeless by being stripped from the progression of sound in time. And words, by being made representations in space ‘‘suggest inevitably a quiescence and ﬁxity which is unrealizable in actual sound’’ (Ong, 1967, p. 44). Ong (and others) goes on to make an important connection between this seeming ‘‘quiescence and ﬁxity’’ and relations of power between self and other, word and world: ‘‘the sense of order and control which the alphabet thus imposes is overwhelming’’ (Ong, 1967, p. 45). Other developments went together with the strengthening links between language and vision. These included the idea and the valorization of ‘‘literal’’ meaning. This is meaning that is according to the letter — that, unlike complex and polysemous utterances is clear-cut and distinct. A growing individualism was reﬂected, for example, in the increasing association of knowledge with books and in constructions of the solitary thinker and individual property (books, records, knowledge, copyright y). By the time of Descartes, thinking had been largely severed from its links with communications, with spoken language, and with listening, and instead was regarded as something that went on silently ‘‘in the mind’’ — perhaps even without words. Human consciousness had been transformed from a world of oral/aural events in time into a world of space and vision. By this time, Locke was able to present the mind as a camera obscura receiving ‘‘external visual resemblances or ideas of things’’ (Ong, 1967, p. 67), and Kant was able to visualize knowledge as phenomena — from the Greek phainomenon meaning ‘‘appearance,’’ ‘‘to show,’’ ‘‘to expose to sight’’ (Ong, 1967, p. 74). Observation, something for the eyes, increasingly dominated man’s relationship to him self and to the (by then ‘‘outside’’) world. Ong spoke of these changes as a transformation of ‘‘the sensorium.’’ By this he meant to refer to relations between the senses and the mind and sound and

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language — as local–cultural–historical constructions. Vision and visual metaphors increasingly dominated. The world had become a world of dead objects existing in spatial relations, represented by dead and relatively permanent texts. Self and Other became separate existences. These many interrelated shifts could be argued to have produced a ‘‘neutralized, devocalized physical world’’ where man is ‘‘a kind of stranger, a spectator and manipulator y rather than a participator’’ (Ong, 1967, p. 73). Self–other relations had become ‘‘dis-enchanted’’ and the oral/aural–cultural sense of ‘‘participating consciousness’’ was largely lost (Berman, 1981, 1989). The view of nature which predominated in the West down to the eve of the Scientiﬁc Revolution was that of an enchanted world. Rock, trees, rivers and clouds were all seen as wondrous, alive, and human beings felt at home in this environment. The cosmos, in short, was a place of belonging (Berman, 1983, p. 16).

Another way of describing this transformation of the sensorium is to say that a holistic sense of participation where the differentiation of self and other was minimal or ‘‘soft’’ gave way to ‘‘hard differentiation’’ (Berman, 1989) in which self and other were sharply separated and opposed in Subject–Object relation. Mechanical philosophy and materialist science produced dead texts of representation and a dead (secularized and de-natured) universe. Through nonparticipating knowledge, constructed as an individual possession, those such as Descartes could aim to make men the ‘‘masters and possessors of nature’’ (Descartes, 1637, 1950). Returning to CRP, we can now consider the possibility that constructionist treatments of relational processes may implicitly or explicitly reproduce the dominance of vision and visual actants. For example, the frequently commented on ‘‘shift to text’’ seems to be primarily a shift to written text.17 Although constructionist writings theorize language as action, in practice action often gets reduced to the frozen and visualized word; live talk is regularly turned into dead interview transcripts that can then be analyzed. Yet the arguments of Ong, Berman, and others suggest that focusing on the written word may promote visual qualities, stasis, and space to the relative neglect of sound, ongoing processes, and time. This emphasis may restrict our practical ability to depart from S–O relations — even though this is theoretically possible — and even though good reasons have been produced for so doing (e.g., Anderson, 1997; Gergen, K. J., 1995; Gergen, M., 1995; Dachler & Hosking, 1995). If we wish to explore the possibilities of non S–O change-work we may need to amplify our sensitivity to live sound, live processes, and time particularly in relation to listening.

17

Perhaps this echoes historical themes such as the (critical) realist centering of language (as a means of representing real things) and epistemology.

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12.4.3.1 In action and in time. While all the senses involve duration it seems that only sound is experienced as obviously active and ongoing. Sound is more likely to be experienced as ‘‘in progress’’ when compared, for example, with a visual experience. Part of what this means is that sound, be it the spoken word, music, a passing car, the call of a bird y seems ‘‘irrevocably committed to time’’ (Ong, 1967, p. 40). Relatedly, the experience of sound passing or going out of existence gives a sense of presence — to sound, to silence, to the ‘‘here and now.’’ As we participate in sound we know that something is ‘‘going on,’’ so to speak. Sound comes from some active source such that involvement with sound is involvement with action in a way that is not true of relating with dead texts (Ong, 1967; Berendt, 1992). Sight presents surfaces and what is in front of our eyes while we hear things all around; sound — and I should add, silence or intervals between sounds — situates us ‘‘in the middle of actualite´’’ (Ong, 1967, p. 128). 12.4.3.2 In time ‘‘here and now.’’ In aural/oral–cultural ways of relating the past is present in live action in talk, in music, and in regularly re-constructed conventional practices. Bergson (1934) called this lived experience of time ‘‘la dure´e.’’ In his view, live–lived time interweaves past, present, and future to produce an indivisible process or e´lan vital that encompasses everything that lives (Schroder, 2005). Similarly, speaking of music, Berendt (1992) notes that ‘‘past and present merge,’’ for example, in that ‘‘all previous notes play a part in the current one’’ making the experience of harmony and melody possible. ‘‘The future is also involved to the extent that within the harmonious progression of music, the note sounding ‘now’ anticipates the future note in which it will be resolved’’ (Berendt, 1992, p. 44). This contrasts loudly with the more visualized, spatialized, and bounded, linear and sequential construction of time associated with science and modernity. 12.4.3.3 In the middle of multiplicity and simultaneity. Sound ‘‘situates man in the middle’’ of both ‘‘actualite´’’ (sic) and simultaneity and multiplicity. We relate to sounds in front, behind, above, below y ‘‘all these things simultaneously y I not only can but must hear all the sounds around me at once. Sound thus situates me in the midst of the world’’ (Ong, 1967, p. 129). A chord consists of multiple notes played simultaneously; polyphonic music — be it called jazz, fugue, or opera buffa — involves multiple, simultaneous voices. And a note produced by the human voice, a hammer striking a string, or air moving across a reed, produces multiple overtones. Tempered tuning and modern Western instruments have greatly limited their multiplicity — thus ‘‘isolating, alienating, and sundering things from their natural context’’ (Berendt, 1992, p. 163). Thus sound processes can be more or less open to simultaneity and multiplicity. 12.4.3.4 Both being in and becoming. In oral/aural cultures, knowledge — or rather knowing — is clearly active and ongoing, a live process rather than a dead thing. In oral/aural cultures knowledge: is kept alive by being uttered, by being performed; is

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experienced as communal and not individual, and; is from within inter-action rather than the product of an outside observer’s distant gaze.18 Berendt and Ong both argue that relating in sound involves a sense of being part of the world rather than apart from it: ‘‘Being in is what we experience in a world of sound’’ (Ong, 1967, p. 130; emphasis added); ‘‘To hear ¼ To be’’ and ‘‘Being is only oneness’’ (Berendt, 1992, p. 48). Being in the ‘‘here (hear?) and now’’ goes together with a sense of participation where self and other are experienced as a relational unity or only softly differentiated. 12.4.3.5 Reciprocating — responsive relations. Ong suggests ‘‘the word, and particularly the spoken word, is curiously reciprocating’’ (Ong, 1967, p. 125). This ‘‘reciprocating quality’’ has many potential aspects. For example, and as we have already noted, the past and the present ‘‘come together’’ in that every action echoes and to some extent develops what has gone before. Sounds echo and resonate and rhythms synchronize. Inside and outside come together, not in the sense of inside and outside some singular and bounded Self (as in S–O relations), but in the sense of interiors ‘‘manifesting themselves’’ — like a cave when a wolf howls — or the body of a violin when a string is bowed or plucked (see Ong, 1967, p. 117). The discourse of inside–outside (and therefore of relating) no longer applies to some ﬁxed boundary between Self and Other but to variable reciprocations that allow sounds, overtones, multiple voices y to be heard. The more reciprocations the more emergent and improvised-in-the-moment is the process. ‘‘Doing-what-the-situationcalls-for’’ can be a way of ‘‘going on’’ in relation that, for example, characterizes a certain sort of collaborative inquiry that some call ‘‘therapy’’ (Anderson, 1997) and indeed the relationally responsive ‘‘coming together’’ that characterizes improvised jazz (Gergen, McNamee, & Barrett, 2001). Relational responsiveness is impossible when one voice dominates. A sound metaphor opens up possibilities for ‘‘going on’’ in ways that are open to many voices (overtones) and multiple, simultaneous self–other realities. It seems that if change-work is to let go of S–O ways of relating and be open to other, including other selves, it would be as well to follow Berendt’s advice and ‘‘cultivate the potentialities of the ear and of hearing’’ (Berendt, 1992, p. 31). This brings us to the ﬁnal movement — an exploration of listening.

12.4.4

Sound Changes

To construct a sound discourse that departs from S–O relations requires letting go of over-sharp distinctions between the senses, between the senses and the mind, between the mind and the body, between inside and outside my Self, and between self and other as independently existing actants. According to Corradi Fiumara it also requires letting go of Western philosophy’s one-sided attention to ‘‘the moulding ordering sense of ‘saying’’’ — to logos — and attending more to legein 18

Again we see that vision and Subject–object relations go together see Ong (1967, pp. 219–231).

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(Fiumara, 1990, p. 2). Drawing extensively on Heidegger, she argued that attention to logos, to the structuring aspects of language, constitutes attention to ‘‘saying without listening’’ and so to ‘‘a generalized form of domination and control’’ (Heidegger, 1975 in Fiumara, 1990, p. 2). Her comments on the one-sided attention to logos could perhaps also be directed to many post-modern discussions of deconstruction, language, and power. Corradi Fiumara drew heavily on Heideggers’ text Early Greek Thinking. His discussion of Logos began with the famous fragment from Heraclitus: ‘‘When you have listened, not to me but to the y Logos, it is wise to agree that all things are one.’’ With this as his context, Heidegger went on to explore legein. For Heidegger, listening as legein includes ‘‘gathering,’’ ‘‘heeding,’’ or ‘‘hearkening’’ among its meanings (Fiumara, 1990). ‘‘But gathering is more than mere amassing. To gathering belongs a collecting which brings under shelter’’ — an action performed with a view to ‘‘safekeeping’’ (Heidegger, 1975, in Fiumara, p. 4). Heidegger used the harvesting of grapes for making wine as his example. He continued by connecting legein and ‘‘gathering’’ with laying: ‘‘Laying brings to lie, in that it lets things lie together before us’’ and ‘‘whatever lies before us involves us and therefore concerns us.’’ ‘‘Laying is the letting-lie-before — which is gathered into itself — of that which comes together into presence’’ (Heidegger, 1975, in Fiumara, p. 5). Heidegger’s discussion of legein as gathering resonates with our earlier discussion of reciprocity/responsiveness and relating as ‘‘coming together’’ to ‘‘allow’’ other to be heard. This also resonates with Gadamer’s discussion of listening in relation to the opportunities it provides for ‘‘genuine human relationship’’ (Gadamer, 1979). It seems that listening (as legein) is crucially implicated in soft differentiation — not for ‘‘ﬁnding out’’ (for the purposes of subsequent structuring in S–O relation) — but to enable what Fiumara (1990, p. 40) called ‘‘the patient labors of co-existence’’ — labors that seem to need a ‘‘modesty and mildness of language that can exorcise the risk that it (i.e., language) becomes an end in itself.’’ It is in these rather special ways that a non S–O orientation to change-work seems ‘‘poised between politics and aesthetics.’’

Chapter 13

Relational Practices and the Emergence of the Uniquely New John Shotter

Perhaps the dead can be reduced to ﬁxed forms, though their surviving records are against it. But the living will not be reduced, at least in the ﬁrst person; living third persons may be different. All the known complexities, the experienced tensions, shifts, uncertainties, the intricate forms of unevenness and confusion, are against the terms of the reduction and soon, by extension, against social analysis itself (Williams, 1977, pp. 129–130).

Yet the actual alternative to the received and produced ﬁxed forms is not silence: not the absence, the unconscious, which bourgeois culture has mythicized. It is a kind of feeling and thinking which is indeed social and material, but each in an embryonic phase before it can become fully articulate and deﬁned exchange (Williams, 1977, p. 131).

Among Rene´ Bouwen’s many interests is an interest in knowledge creation (innovation), in knowledge sharing, and in knowledge management as all embedded in relational practices. It is upon this aspect of his work that I want to focus in my discussion below. In particular, I want to concentrate on the developmental dynamics of such practices when considered as living processes, and on the consequences of this focus for whether the relevant developmental changes can, in fact, be captured in theoretical schematisms of a rational kind — as Raymond Williams (1977) questions in the ﬁrst epigraph quotation presented above — or whether some other more directly instructive way of communicating their nature is required.

Relational Practices, Participative Organizing Advanced Series in Management, 241–259 Copyright r 2010 Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 1877-6361/doi:10.1108/S1877-6361(2010)0000007017

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‘‘Crossing Boundaries’’ or ‘‘Reculer Pour Mieux Sauter?’’

In Bouwen (2001), Rene´ Bouwen discusses the case of an R&D department in a metal reﬁnery developing a new reﬁning process, only to have it at ﬁrst rejected by the Operations department as too difﬁcult and time-consuming to implement notes. Yet later, when it was reintroduced at an opportune moment in a discussion — occurring within the context of a task force established by the Business Unit manager to study new innovations — the too revolutionary new process was accepted for implementation. About this event Rene´ Bouwen remarks: ‘‘The implementation of innovation really means a ‘crossing of the boundaries’ between the departments [y]. The innovative breakthrough can be attributed to a frame-breaking interaction [y]. Frame-breaking thinking does not occur in isolation but as a consequence of close interaction with signiﬁcant others who provide the necessary challenge and safety to pose a new framework [y]. The crossing of the communities of practice allows for the new technological innovation to emerge [y]. Only ‘interruptions’ in one’s modus operandi create opportunities for new exploration of meaning among oneself and signiﬁcant others’’ (p. 362). He then goes on to discuss another case, a second example from the domain of rural development in the Southern Andes in Latin America. Here, a whole multiplicity of different ‘‘communities of practice’’ (Wenger, 1998) is involved: a local NGO supported by representatives from the local Indian population, an international NGO, ofﬁcers of the Ministry of Agriculture, local university geology researchers, the local water management authority, and social scientists from a neighboring university. Starting from the principles of ‘‘multiparty collaboration,’’ this last group organized a platform for all those involved to come together. Rene´ Bouwen remarks with respect to this case: ‘‘It is remarkable to see here how each party involved in the same context deﬁnes the issue in a very different way, using different vocabularies and different languages to conceptualize the problems. Each of the actors belongs to different communities of practice and they describe their perspective starting from their viewpoint. The ‘content’ deﬁnition of the issues is, therefore, quite diverse; they all refer to very different types of social diagnosis and they refer each to very different strategies for action and improvement y [Indeed] actors deﬁne and position each other in mutual relationships of inclusion or exclusion while deﬁning the mere ‘content’ of an issue’’ (p. 363). Yet, as he goes on to recount, if the appropriate relational practices can be set in motion: ‘‘Different actors, all for different reasons and out of very different rationalities, meet around a common place of interest and start a social negotiation about ‘what is the issue’ here. Throughout the social construction process different deﬁnitions are compared, discussed, negotiated. Boundaries are drawn in this negotiation and the outcome is to shape the relationships and to include or to exclude partners from the new ‘common sense’ that is in-the-making’’ (p. 363). In other words, what at ﬁrst seemed to be a doomed clash of ‘‘incommensurable paradigms’’ (Kuhn, 1962), i.e., of different ways of seeing and thinking about the world with no standards in common, can on some occasions at least be developed into

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worthwhile collaborative coalitions.1 As Bouwen suggests, there is, or there can be under certain conditions, something special, something creative in people’s meetings with each other – in just those meetings, I want to argue, that have, in Bakhtin’s (1981, 1984, 1986) sense, an active, dialogically structured nature to them. It is this that makes it possible for people to move beyond (or more accurately, retreat back from) the initially incommensurable ways of being and acting in the world they each thought basic to them being (and staying) who they are, and to move back from the identities preventing them from changing their ways of acting. Thus, in his remarks and interests as outlined above, I think, Bouwen is right on target, and is concerned with some of the most important issues of the day: the bringing together of different groups of people with seemingly incommensurable ways of being in the world, not to change their views or beliefs, but to at least help them to work with each other in a cooperative fashion in an atmosphere of mutual trust and respect — in short, to create between themselves a congenial community of practice. In what follows below, I would like to explore further the issues he raises here with regard to collaborative relational practices. Especially, I want to suggest that when Bouwen (2001) says, to repeat, that ‘‘the implementation of innovation really means a ‘crossing of boundaries’,’’ that something much more complex is in fact occurring — a complexity he hints at in his remarks on the importance of ‘‘transitional ﬁgures, such as the business unit manager, and transitional activities, such as joint problem deﬁnition and joint development of alternatives y’’ (p. 362). Rather than helping participants in different communities of practices merely to cross boundaries, active, responsive participation in dialogically structured meetings leads, I want to suggest, more to a process of reculer pour sauter mieux (of ‘‘drawing back in order to jump better’’), and rather than a ‘‘frame-breaking’’ interaction, I want to suggest the possibility more of a ‘‘frame-dissolving’’ exchange. For it is in the very nature of such dialogically structured processes that — if people are truly spontaneous in their expressive responsiveness to each other’s activities — we can ﬁnd, perhaps surprisingly, the occurrence of entirely new beginnings for what Wittgenstein (1953) calls ‘‘forms of life’’ along with their requisite ‘‘language games.’’ It is the creation of these uniquely new beginnings, and the special action guiding transitory understandings that only ephemerally in their unfolding dynamics interplays 1

Bouwen does not make a big deal of this. But in the early days of social constructionism, Kuhn’s ‘‘incommensurability thesis’’ played a large part in realism versus relativism debates. Incommensurability is exempliﬁed, for instance, in the switch from Newtonian to Einsteinian physics. Kuhn (1962) describes it thus: ‘‘y the physical referents of these Einsteinian concepts are by no means identical with those of the Newtonian concepts that bear the same name. (Newtonian mass is conserved; Einsteinian is convertible with energy. Only at low relative velocities may the two be measured in the same way, and even then they must not be conceived to be the same.)’’ (p. 101). And this kind of ‘‘framework relativisim,’’ as I will call it, is central to Gergen’s whole approach to social constructionism (see especially Gergen, 1994, chap 3), in which words and actions only have meaning relative to the social conventions provided by ‘‘a form of intelligibility – an array of propositions, arguments, metaphors, narratives, and the like – that welcome in habitation’’ (p. 78). It implies that change can only occur, not in the creative, dialogic emergence of a new reality, but in the crossing of a boundary from one well-formed ‘‘intelligibility’’ to another, a crossing brought about by the ‘‘rhetorical impact’’ (p. 78) of a theorist’s analysis.

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occurring in our actual, living meetings with each other, that I want to discuss below. Indeed, it is precisely because these uniquely new beginnings originate only within such meetings as a ﬂeeting, ‘‘never-repeatable uniqueness of actually lived and experienced life y [i.e., as a] once-occurrent event of Being’’ (Bakhtin, 1993, p. 2), that they can never be captured in any systematically rational representations of our social interactions. If we are ever to render such events ‘‘visibly-rational-andreportable-for-all-practical-purposes, i.e., ‘accountable,’ as organizations of commonplace everyday activities’’ (Garﬁnkel, 1967, p. vii), then we will have to resort to another method — as I shall suggest below — very different from the usual ‘‘way of theory’’ (Shotter, 1999) to which we have routinely turned in the past.

13.2

The Dialogical and Action Guiding Anticipations

With the question in mind of what life might be like within a ‘‘new ‘common-sense’ that is in-the-making,’’ then, I want below to explore some of the very special phenomena that occur only when, as living, embodied beings, we enter into mutually responsive, dialogically structured relations with the others and othernesses around us — when we cease to set ourselves, unresponsively, over against them and enter into a dynamic interinvolvement with them. These phenomena arise out of the fact that we cannot prevent ourselves from being spontaneously responsive to events occurring in our surroundings; we react to them and to each other’s activities bodily, in a ‘‘living’’ way, spontaneously, without our having ﬁrst ‘‘to work out’’ how to respond to them. But more than simply responding to each other in a sequential manner, i.e., instead of one person ﬁrst acting individually and independently of an other, and then the second also by acting individually and independently of the ﬁrst in their reply, the fact is that in such a sphere of spontaneously responsive dialogically structured activity as this, we all act jointly as a collective — we. In other words, our outgoing responsive expressions toward others (or othernesses) are continually intermingled in with the equally responsive incoming expressions of others toward us — with listeners actively responding back to speakers in the course of their talk, and with speakers being responsive in the course of their talk to listener’s expressions. As Bakhtin (1986) remarks: ‘‘Any understanding of live speech, a live utterance, is inherently responsive y Any understanding is imbued with response and necessarily elicits it in one form or another: the listener becomes the speaker y Sooner or later what is heard and actively understood will ﬁnd its response in the subsequent speech or behavior of the listener y And the speaker himself is oriented precisely toward such an actively responsive understanding. He does not expect passive understanding that, so to speak, only duplicates his or her own idea in someone else’s mind. Rather, he expects response, agreement, sympathy, objection, execution, and so forth y’’ (pp. 68–69). All this means that when someone acts, their activity cannot be accounted as wholly their own activity — for a person’s acts are inevitably ‘‘shaped’’ in the course

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of their performance partly by the acts of the others around them, i.e., each individual’s action is a joint creation, not the product of a sole author2 — this is where all the seeming strangeness of the dialogical begins (‘‘joint action’’ — Shotter, 1980, 1984, 1993a, 1993b). I say ‘‘seeming strangeness,’’ for in fact, as Bakhtin (1981, 1984, 1986) makes clear, although active responsive understandings are very different from the (passive) representational understandings familiar to us in our current philosophies of mind, it is actually our ordinary, everyday understandings of each other’s sayings and doings that Bakhtin is concerned to describe here. I will call these more everyday understandings relationally responsive understandings to contrast them with the representational-referential understanding familiar to us in our more traditional intellectual dealings. But, to repeat, such relationally responsive understandings do not occur in all conversations, only in truly reciprocally or mutually responsive ones. Because, in our living exchanges with the others and othernesses around us, we are inevitably responsive to the unique circumstances of those exchanges, central among the special phenomena occurring only in dialogically structured exchanges, is the inescapable creation of something unique, something new: ‘‘An utterance is never just a reﬂection or an expression of something already existing and outside it that is given and ﬁnal. It always creates something that never existed before, something absolutely new and unrepeatable, and, moreover, it always has some relation to value (the true, the good, the beautiful, and so forth). But something created is always created out of something given (language, an observed phenomenon of reality, an experienced feeling, the speaking subject himself, something ﬁnalized in his world view, and so forth). What is given is completely transformed in what is created’’ (Bakhtin, 1986, pp. 119–120). Besides the inevitable creation of something new, among the other special phenomena, occurring moment by moment within the responsive interplay of all the events and activities at work in a dialogic situation, is the creation of an emerging sequence of distinctive changes (or ‘‘differencings’’), a sequence of dynamically changing forms, each one with its own unique ‘‘shape’’ or ‘‘temporal contour.’’ Such ‘‘shapes,’’ although invisible, may nonetheless be felt by all participants within the ongoing interplay in the same way. Thus, true dialogues with some degree of ease and intimacy are more than merely coordinated; they exhibit a common temporal contour in their unfolding, such that, as we shall see, at a certain moment in the exchange, the ‘‘speaking turn’’ passes over from one to another by movement felt very much in common by all concerned, and at a moment felt by all in virtue of the common time-order of events. Indeed, it is in the intricate ‘‘orchestration’’ of the interplay occurring between the outgoing and incoming responsive expressions occurring in each individual that a certain transitory 2

Although, as we shall see, there is a pervasive tendency in our individualistic western culture to represent all such truly collectively produced events, theoretically, as still consisting merely in a sequence of interindividual coordinations, with each step being performed as the result of a rational decision — but to be able to view them in this way, we have to wait until their completion and view them retrospectively as having such a constitution.

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understanding becomes available to us. In such understandings, we grasp the expressions of these others and othernesses, not as passive and neutral objects, but as ‘‘real presences’’ (Steiner, 1989; Shotter, 2003), i.e., as agentic events that ‘‘call’’ us to adopt a particular orientation toward them, a way of relating ourselves to them that is inﬂuential in determining the nature of our response to them.3 Indeed, they constitute what Wittgenstein (1953) draws on in bringing out what he calls the unique ‘‘grammar’’ of a word as it is used in a situated utterance, i.e., how the sense it makes for us in that use sets the unique conditions for our use of many other words in that situation.

13.3

Transitory Understandings within the Dynamics of Dialogically Structured Activities

An elementary example of what is meant here arises if we ask: How shall we respond to the pauses, the silences, in a person’s speech? Clearly, not all silences are the same; some are clearly pauses for further thought, others are for dramatic effect, some while waiting for signs from listeners that they’ve ‘‘got it,’’ and so on, while a certain special kind of pause occurs when, in the course of a conversational exchange, a speaker has ﬁnally succeeded in expressing all they had to say. It is in these moments that, as Bakhtin (1986) points out, there can be a change in speaking subjects: ‘‘This change can only take place because the speaker has said (or written) everything he wishes to say at a particular moment or under particular circumstances. When hearing or reading, we clearly sense the end of the utterance, as if we hear the speaker’s concluding dixi. This ﬁnalization is speciﬁc and is determined by speciﬁc criteria’’ (p. 76). The ‘‘invisible’’ ﬁnalization of a speaker’s utterance is hearable as a transitory understanding within the unfolding relational dynamics of our dialogical relations with that speaker, and we relate to it accordingly: by beginning our reply to it. Indeed, in our rejoinders to each other’s utterances within an ongoing dialogue, many other transitory understandings are hearable within the unfolding dynamics of our relations with a particular speaker. As Bakhtin (1986) remarks: ‘‘[While] each rejoinder, regardless of how brief and abrupt, has a speciﬁc quality of completion that expresses a particular position of the speaker, to which one may respond or assume, with respect to it, a responsive position y But at the same time rejoinders are all linked to one another. And the sort of relations that exist among rejoinders of dialogue – relations between question and answer, assertion and objection, suggestion and acceptance, order and execution, and so forth – are impossible among units of 3 Bakhtin (1986) talks of this as an ‘‘evaluative attitude y [which] determines the choice of lexical, grammatical, and compositional means of the utterance’’ (p. 84). For, we are never just dealing with an individual word as a unit of meaning in a language, but with what a unique speaker means by his or her unique use of a word in a unique utterance and with a unique sense. ‘‘Here the meaning of the word pertains to a particular actual reality and particular real conditions of speech communication,’’ says Bakhtin (1986), ‘‘Therefore here we do not understand the meaning of a given word simply as a word of a language; rather, we assume an active responsive position with respect to it (sympathy, agreement or disagreement, stimulus to action). Thus, expressive intonation belongs to the utterance and not to the word’’ (pp. 85–86).

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language (words and sentences), either in the system of language (in vertical crosssection)4 or within utterances (on the horizontal plane)’’ (p. 72). Let us explore the transitory understandings that are hearable within the unfolding dynamics of our relations with a particular speaker who, say, asks us a complicated question. For example, ‘‘How does Rene´ Bouwen reconcile his interest in social constructionism, that seems to draw on already existing social conventions,5 with his interest in people acting within a ‘‘new ‘common sense’ that is in-the-making’’?’’ In answering any such question, we must continually think with the question’s voice in mind to guide us in our attempts to write out an answer (our response) to it; and of course, as soon as we begin the process of producing our answer, we must also think with what we have already written in mind as well, to guide in our further thinking as to what an appropriate answer requires. And it is in each voicing of the question to ourselves that we, in responding to it dialogically, create another new transitory understanding from which we can begin, in Wittgenstein’s (1953) terms, a new ‘‘language game.’’ Indeed, we repeatedly voice the question to ourselves in the hope of it calling yet further such new responses, i.e, transitory understandings, from us — as I must keep reminding myself of my overall question here: ‘‘How is the creation of a new common sense among disparate groups of people possible?’’ Thus, to hear another’s utterance with a transitory understanding of it as posing a unique question requiring a unique answer from us, and to hear it (to feel it) as also as spontaneously calling out speciﬁc responses from us, is to experience it as providing us with unique action guiding anticipations as to how we might go on to respond to it. Similarly in hearing another’s utterance as a greeting, as an assertion, as a suggestion, as an order, and so on,6 is also to hear it as providing us with one or another action guiding anticipation as to how we should go on to respond to it. It is precisely these unique action guiding anticipatory understandings arising out of our acting with, say, a question in mind — which arise, in fact, in our continually voicing the question again and again to ourselves in our ‘‘inner speech’’ (Vygotsky, 1986) — that are lost when our unique, once-off, creative responses to the ‘‘questions’’ posed to us by the others and othernesses in our surroundings are refashioned as willfully planned decontextualized actions. What originally occurred as a unique answer to a unique question coming to us from an other or otherness in our surroundings, is recomposed into an action that can be executed by any isolated individual, anywhere, at anytime. 4

Bakhtin has in mind here Saussure’s (1959) linguistics, in which for the purposes of a scientiﬁc analysis of language he made a distinction between synchronic (vertical cross section) and diachronic (horizontal plane) linguistics — a distinction Bakhtin thinks is impossible in living speech. 5 See comment on Gergen’s (1994) version of social constructionism in endnote 1 that Bouwen (2001) draws on. 6 Within the discipline of Conversational Analysis (CA), terminology has it that the ‘‘ﬁrst-pair part’’ (FPP) of an ‘‘adjacency pair’’ sets up a ‘‘conditional relevance’’ that the ‘‘second pair part’’ (SPP) is ‘‘normally expected’’ to satisfy, where it is the expectation, not the mere adjacency in time, that meaningfully links the second-pair part to the ﬁrst-pair part (Schegloff, 1995) — and we can ﬁnd all kinds of ‘‘insertion sequences,’’ and so on, occurring between the utterance of a ﬁrst-pair part and the ﬁnal satisfaction of the expectations, the ‘‘preference structure,’’ it spontaneously arouses in both speaker and listener by the uttering of the second pair part. What makes my concerns here very different from those in CA is my focus on the once-off, uniquely new aspects of our utterances, rather than on the repetitive orderliness of our conversational exchanges.

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It is at this point it will be convenient to turn from Bakhtin’s work to Wittgenstein’s, for he makes a number of crucial comments regarding the beginning of new language games. ‘‘The origin and primitive form of the language game,’’ he says, ‘‘is a reaction; only from this can more complicated forms develop. Language – I want to say – is a reﬁnement, ‘in the beginning was the deed’ [Goethe]’’ (Wittgenstein, 1980a, p. 31). And elsewhere he remarks: ‘‘But what is the word ‘‘primitive’’ meant to say here? Presumably that this sort of behavior is prelinguistic: that a language-game is based on it, that it is the prototype of a way of thinking and not the result of thought’’ (Wittgenstein, 1981, p. 541). In other words, what Wittgenstein wants to do here is to suggest that at least a primitive, ﬁrst-time means of communication can be found in our spontaneously expressed, responsive bodily reactions to the events occurring around us. Irrespective of our professed thoughts about particular events, others can see what an event means to us in how we spontaneously react to it. But most importantly, we can also ﬁnd, within our own initial spontaneous responses to it, action guiding anticipations as to how we might go on next to respond to it. Indeed, among all the other features of responsive, dialogically structured talk, is its orientation toward the future. As Bakhtin (1981) notes: ‘‘The word in living conversation is directly, blatantly, oriented toward a future answer-word; it provokes an answer, anticipates it, and structures itself in the answer’s direction. Forming itself in an atmosphere of the already spoken, the word is at the same time determined by that which has not yet been said but which is needed and in fact anticipated by the answering word. Such is the situation of any living dialogue’’ (p. 280, my emphasis). It is, of course, the transitory understandings hearable within the unfolding relational dynamics of our dialogical relations with the others around us, that enable us to respond, in practice, to a speaker’s meaning, i.e., to relate ourselves to it accordingly, by beginning to reply to it. But these, both as joint creations, and as ﬂeeting, only once-occurrent events, do not and cannot ﬁgure in any of the retrospective accounts we give others of our actions when they ask us why we acted as we did. As Mills (1990) and Scott and Lyman (1968) noted, when others are puzzled by our actions and do not know how to coordinate their own actions with ours, they expect us to tell them of the reasons or motives for our actions, to account for them, to justify (or to excuse) ourselves for acting as we did. Why? Because, as a member of a particular society, to qualify for the right to act as an autonomous individual, one must be accountable and take on the duty of sustaining that society’s norms in one’s conduct (Shotter, 1984).7 7 In Shotter (1984), I explore the question: ‘‘Rather than individuals, why not take particular interpersonal relationships as the units productive of action in a society: the speaker/listener as a unit; the teacher/pupil; mother/child; master/slave; boss/worker; husband/wife, etc.?,’’ And I suggest: ‘‘The answer, I think, lies in the fact that a society, if it is to remain a society, must amongst other things be able to maintain a social order. For that to be possible, the elementary units in that order must be able to detect whether that order has been transgressed or not, and if so, be able to act in some way towards its restitution’’ (p. 148). In other words, our adherence to an ‘‘ofﬁcial’’ order must always trumps our relations to a local order. I will return to this issue in the ﬁnal section of this article.

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Thus, it is always in relation to the ‘‘ofﬁcial’’ norms of one’s culture that one must account to others for one’s conduct — this may not be very useful instructing others as to how in fact one acted in these local conditions in the achievement of a joint outcome along with others, but it is crucial in ensuring that one’s actions are related to by others, as being in accord with societal norms. However, this means that it is often the case that a person deﬁnes retrospectively the ‘‘decisions’’ they supposedly made: whereas, in fact, the outcome occurred before the statement of the ‘‘decisions’’ accounting for it. No wonder such talk has no locally useful action guiding force to it.

13.4

The ‘‘Primordial’’ Nature of the Beginnings of New Language Games

We are now in a position to outline in brief a number of the special dynamical features that become available to us only within our dialogically structured relations with the others and othernesses around us as they unfold in time — local features of our ongoing, living interactions with each other that are simply not present to us in our retrospective reﬂections on them as completed actions. Crucial among them, as we have already seen, is, (1) their spontaneous occurrence, the fact of their ‘‘just happening’’; they occur in a preintentional, precognitive realm of living activities which is there, present, as a background to all the more deliberately performed aspects of our doings and sayings, and without which they would have no meaning. (2) Such events are not only ﬂeeting, but they are unique, ﬁrst-time, once-off events, of an unrepeatable kind. (3) But most crucially, such ﬂeeting, once-off events are (or can be) uniquely creative; they can be the beginning of new language games — where the beginning of a new language game is in a spontaneous reaction, in being ‘‘struck’’ or ‘‘arrested’’ or ‘‘moved’’ by an unexpected or unanticipated event, for something uniquely new cannot begin from something already expected. The special nature of these spontaneous reactions cannot be emphasized enough. In discussing the whole nature of the phenomenon of ‘‘being struck,’’ Wittgenstein (1953) remarks: ‘‘Is being struck looking plus thinking? No. Many of our concepts cross here’’ (p. 211). In other words, such events are of a very intricate kind. Indeed, more than in merely looking or gazing, when one is searching for something with an already ﬁxed idea of what that something is like, strangely, something can occur in a glimpse, a glance, a striking event, that is surprising, an ‘‘otherness’’ that can change us in our very being: ‘‘The ‘otherness’ which enters into us makes us other’’ (Steiner, 1989, p. 188). This, as Casey (2000) puts it, is ‘‘the primary paradox of the glance: namely, the fact that something so diminutive in extent and bearing can provide such far-reaching and subtle insight’’ (pp. 149–150).8 To continue our outline of the dynamical features of dialogically structured events: (4) As we have also seen, these dynamical features are all intermingled with each other 8

In Katz and Shotter (1996), we also examine Bachelard’s (1992) account of the poetic, i.e., poesis ¼ creative making, power such ﬂeeting events.

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to such an extent that what occurs between us is much more than our merely coordinating our orderly acting, or our turn-taking, as individuals; our actions are neither yours nor mine, they are truly ‘‘ours’’ in the sense that, as we have already seen, no one’s actions can be accounted as wholly their own. (5) Elsewhere (in Shotter, 2003), following Merleau-Ponty (1968), I have explored in some detail the special chiasmic character of such intertwined events as these. Peculiar to them is the intrinsic creation within their intertwining of ‘‘relational dimensions’’ of a novel kind — for instance, our two eyes working together in binocular vision create the relational dimension of ‘‘depth.’’9 Bateson (1979), along with Merleau-Ponty (1962) takes the morphogenesis (the creation of form) at work here as paradigmatic of many other such form creating processes — our dialogically structured activities included. (6) This leads me on to a sixth dynamical feature that makes its appearance spontaneously only within the interplay occurring between us and the others and othernesses in our surroundings, namely, the unfolding temporal contours of people’s expressive responsive living movements as they occur in our exchanges. Not only are our ‘‘evaluative attitudes’’ (Bakhtin, 1986), i.e., our ways of positioning and relating ourselves with respect to our surroundings, expressed in these contours — our tone of voice being just one aspect among many others of these expressive movements — but in expressing ‘‘where we are coming from,’’ and ‘‘where we are going to,’’ we can provide both others, and ourselves, with a grammatical sense of what can sensibly come next in our actions.10 (7) Thus, as an aspect of our spontaneous responsiveness to the others and othernesses around us, we ﬁnd that the transitory understandings and action guiding anticipations continually arising in our exchanges with them, give us a moment-by-moment shaped and vectored sense both

9

Bateson (1979) takes our binocular vision as a typical example of such chiasmic intertwining, for axons from the retina ganglion cells from the two optic nerves meet and are intermingled in the optic chiasm, and he notes that: ‘‘From this elaborate arrangement, two sorts of advantage accrue. The seer is able to improve resolution at edges and contrasts; and better able to read when the print is small or the illumination poor. More important, information about depth is created. In more formal language, the difference between the information provided by the one retina and that provided by the other is itself information of a different logical type. From this new sort of information, the seer adds an extra dimension to seeing’’ (p. 80). It is the morphogenic creation of the new relational dimension of depth in our dynamically unfolding, living relations with our surroundings as we look over them, that is most notable here – note the difﬁculty of representing ‘‘depth’’ in any static, spatial array. It is not going too far to suggest that, when we say our talk together has a certain ‘‘depth’’ to it, that we are here also referring to the relations dimensions, i.e., the forms of connection between the topics of our talk, that are created within it. 10 Stern (2004) has discussed such temporal contours, such dynamic time-shapes — he calls them ‘‘vitality effects’’ — extensively. To get an idea of what is meant here, imagine the time course of events as a ﬁrework (rocket) shoots up into the sky, bursts, showers out, then crackles as each glowing fragment slowly falls to the ground, imagine the dawning and development of a smile, a piece of music, an utterance. As William James (1890) remarked so may years ago, about what above I have called transitory understandings, and he called ‘tendencies’: ‘‘y ‘tendencies’ are not only descriptions from without, but that they are among the objects of the stream, which is thus aware of them from within, and must be described as in very large measure constituted of feelings of tendency, often so vague that we are unable to name them at all’’ (p. 254).

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of where we stand, and of how things ‘‘hang’’ for us, in our ongoing coping with the world around us. Taking all these features into account, we can say, clearly, that what is produced in such spontaneous dialogically structured exchanges is something very intricate. In fact, it is a very complex mixture of not wholly reconcilable inﬂuences — as Bakhtin (1981) remarks, both ‘‘centripetal’’ tendencies inward toward order and unity at the center, as well as ‘‘centrifugal’’ ones outward toward diversity and difference on their margins or borders. Indeed, within such exchanges we can ﬁnd occurring spontaneously preintellectual precursors to many of our later deliberations. Thus, we will mislead ourselves if we mischaracterize what I will call this precursor world in our usually taken for granted philosophical categories, that is, in talk of subjective and objective, orderly and disorderly, mental and physical, etc. Aware of this danger, Merleau-Ponty (1968) notes that modern philosophy ‘‘prejudges what it will ﬁnd’’ (p. 130). To overcome this tendency, he suggests that philosophy ‘‘once again y must recommence everything, reject the instruments reﬂection and intuition had provided themselves, and install itself in a locus where they have not yet been distinguished, in experiences that have not yet been ‘‘worked over,’’ that offer us all at once, pell-mell, both ‘‘subject’’ and ‘‘object,’’ both existence and essence, and hence give philosophy resources to redeﬁne them’’ (p. 130). In other words, we must install ourselves in what he, Bakhtin, and Wittgenstein, all call ‘‘the primordial.’’ We must develop a sense of what it is like to live in a precursor world, to what previously we took to be the ‘‘external world’’ as set out in our more modernist, ofﬁcial, Cartesian accounts. How might it be characterized? Well ﬁrst, let us note what was mentioned above, that because the overall outcome of any exchange cannot be traced back to the intentions of any of the individuals involved, such activity cannot be accounted simply as action (for it is not done by any individuals alone, thus, it cannot be explained by their reasons). Nor can it be accounted simply as behavior (as a causal regularity), for as a human activity, it still has intentionality, i.e., it is such that it seems ‘‘to point to,’’ ‘‘to contain,’’ ‘‘to mean,’’ ‘‘to be a means to,’’ or, in short, ‘‘to be related to something other than or beyond itself’’ — even if that something might not exist. As a consequence of these two properties, the ‘‘dialogical reality’’ or ‘‘dialogical space’’ participants construct between them is not only experienced as an ‘‘external reality,’’ but also as a ‘‘third agency’’ (an ‘‘it’’) with its own (ethical) demands and requirements. ‘‘The word,’’ as Bakhtin (1986) remarks, ‘‘is a drama in which three characters participate (it is not a duet, but a trio)’’ (p. 122). This agentic aspect of dialogical spaces is missed in all objective characterizations of them. Indeed, if we take our conversational exchanges as a paradigm for all such exchanges, it is easy to see that, although they may be quite speciﬁc in one sense — in being responsively shaped in accord with a speciﬁc set of occasioning circumstances — they are also always still open to further inner articulation. In other words, in being unﬁnished, all such activities within this realm lack a ﬁnalized speciﬁcity. They are ever only partially speciﬁed. Indeed, they remain a complex mixture of many different kinds of inﬂuence. This makes it very difﬁcult for us to characterize their nature: for

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they have neither a fully orderly nor a fully disorderly structure, neither a completely stable nor an easily changed organization, neither a fully subjective nor fully objective character. Spatially too they are not easy to identify, for they are nonlocatable in the sense that they are ‘‘spread out’’ or ‘‘distributed’’ among all those participating in them; neither are they wholly ‘‘inside’’ people, nor are they wholly ‘‘outside’’ them. They have their being in that space between them, where what is ‘‘outside’’ is also partially ‘‘inside,’’ and vise-versa. Temporally also, we run up against similar problems, for, as Bergson (1965) points out, the continuous nature of any ﬂow of activity in time is such that we cannot build it up form a sequence of immobilities: ‘‘real time has no instants’’ (p. 52).11 There are no separate ‘‘befores’’ and ‘‘afters’’ in a ﬂow of activity; each moment has within it a ‘‘carry over’’ from the past and a quite speciﬁc anticipation of the future — just as the recipient of a question feels, as we have seen, a compellent need to reply with an answer to it. In short, the ﬂow of activity within this third realm of dialogically structured activity, is an indivisible whole, meaningful in different ways at different moments for all those who are participants within it, but which cannot be divided into separable parts — observable as such by a nonparticipant outsider — and still retain its identity as the whole that it is. Indeed, it is precisely its lack of any predetermined order, and thus, its openness to being speciﬁed or determined just by those involved within it, in practice — while usually remaining quite unaware of having done so — that is its central deﬁning feature. And it is precisely this that makes this sphere of activity so rhetorically interesting. For it opens up for study how, from beginnings in new, ﬁrsttime reactions, we might reﬁne, elaborate, and develop the spheres of activity already existing between us, into novel ways as yet unknown to us. To repeat, the primitive origins of our new language games can be found in our spontaneous, living reactions to events occurring around us. Like Merleau-Ponty, Wittgenstein also takes it that western philosophers have (mostly) come onto the human scene far too late in the day, and they have then looked in the wrong direction for the wrong thing. In treating human beings as already self-conscious intellectuals, they have looked backward and inward, seeking supposedly already existing, single, sovereign centers of inﬂuence at work hidden within them as individuals — centers which can be expressed in terms of rules, systems, or principles. In wanting to come on the scene much earlier, Wittgenstein (1980a) suggested that ‘‘when you are philosophizing you have to descend into primeval chaos and feel at home there’’ (p. 65). In other words, prior to individual people acting willfully and intellectually, like Merleau-Ponty, Wittgenstein also wants to consider people’s activities in a similar precursor world, a sphere in which people act unthinkingly, in spontaneous response to the events occurring around them. And furthermore, rather than looking inward

11 ‘‘The instant is what would terminate a duration if the latter came to a halt. But it does not halt. Real time therefore cannot supply the instant; the latter is born of the mathematical point, that is to say, of space’’ (Bergson, 1965, p. 53) – time is not simply a fourth dimension of space.

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and backward to seek their supposed hidden intentions or thoughts, he wants to look forward and outward toward how people, out in the spontaneous and nondeliberate activities occurring between them now, create and establish new ways of ‘‘going on,’’ the beginnings of new ‘‘forms of life’’ within which they can later come to act willfully and intellectually. It is in the realm of these precursor activities that the notion of ‘‘real presences’’ has its point and purchase. As transitional entities, with only a partial, ﬂeeting existence, they can only exist as possible candidates for later conceptualization; to attempt to conceptualize such transitional understanding, such ‘‘real presences,’’ as well-deﬁned completed objects would be to distort their ‘‘living’’ nature utterly. Yet, nonetheless, they played a very real part in inﬂuencing the actual outcome of our activities in the local settings within which they occurred.

13.5

Reminders and Instructive Expressions: Local and Ofﬁcial Rationalities

We have here, then, the clear tension expressed by Williams (1977) above, in what I presented as the ﬁrst epigraph quotation for this article. As he noted there, ‘‘all the known complexities, the experienced tensions, shifts, uncertainties, the intricate forms of unevenness and confusion [experienced in our actual living of our lives], are against the terms of y social analysis itself’’ (pp. 129–130). For currently, in both our everyday discussions of decision making, and in mainstream theory-driven research, we assume that when people act, they do so by making decisions in the face of the conditions confronting them, and that they progressively correct their decisions and their actions accordingly as additional information turns up, i.e., we assume that they simply choose and reﬂect (or reﬂect and choose) in the performance of their actions. But is this so? As we have seen, being already participants in ceaselessly ongoing processes, they can only act in relation to the constraints and limited resources locally afforded them within such processes, as well as the responses they ‘‘call for’’ from them. In so doing, like, say, tournament tennis players,12 they often act simply as best as they can, given the exigencies of their local circumstances – in other words, they hardly make any selfconsciously deliberated decisions at all! They simply act spontaneously, in terms of 12

Classically, Bartlett (1932) in discussing his idea of the ‘schema’, the ‘‘active organization of past reactions y which must always be supposed as operating in well-adapted organic response’’ (p. 201), took making a stroke in a quick game of tennis as an example: ‘‘How I make the stroke depends on the relating of certain new experiences, most of them visual, to other immediately preceding visual experiences and to my posture, or balance of postures, at the moment. The latter, the balance of postures, is a result of a whole series of earlier movements, in which the last movement before the stroke is played has a predominant function. When I make the stroke I do not, as matter of fact, produce something absolutely new, and I never merely repeat something old. The stroke is literally manufactured out of the living visual and postural ‘schemata’ of the moment and their interrelations. I may say, I may think that I reproduce exactly a series of text-book movements, but demonstrably I do not y’’ (pp. 201–202, my emphasis).

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their experienced judgment. In moving on inside a world that is making them while they are making it, they are not able to reﬂect on that world as a ﬁnished object: they know what they are doing, i.e., they can account for it to others if challenged; they know why they are doing it, i.e., they have a reason for it; but what they still don’t yet know is what their doing has done — it may in the end all turn out badly. In other words, in representing people’s actions as a sequence of rational decisions, we forget both the irreversible ﬂow of time, and that a successive or expressive movement has continually, in each of its successive moments, to struggle to come into existence — for, at each moment of its realization, it is, so to speak, a matter of navigating in an often unpropitious and often overwhelming sea of other possibilities, to all of which it must be interrelated in its own unique realization. As a consequence of which — as we have seen in the dialogically structured activities discussed above — people can in fact have no reﬂective understanding at all of the local conditions that determined their actions; it can only be seen as resulting from a ‘‘correct decision’’ after their actions have been taken. Thus, only in retrospect can they formulate what they must have done in order to make their supposed ‘‘decision’’ a correct decision. And they need to do this to give their decision legitimacy, i.e., they need to show how what they did ﬁts in with the agreed overall aims and values of the organization in which they have a decision-making role. Why do they do this? Garﬁnkel (1967) provides a now classic account of how jurors make their decisions ‘‘while maintaining a healthy respect for the routine features of the social order’’ (p. 104). He highlights in his account just the tensions and ambiguities we have been highlighting here: that between the decision-making methods of everyday life and acting in conformity with the ‘‘ofﬁcial juror line’’ (p. 108). There is not enough space to go into this study in great length, but a number of details are worthy of mention here. First, is the fact that jurors were themselves very aware of these tensions, and of the fact that they had retrospectively ‘‘modiﬁed’’ their reasons for their judgments. But, ‘‘such selective ‘‘redeliberations,’’ as ‘‘solutions’’ to the ambiguities in their situations of ‘‘choice,’’ were uneasily held and were productive of incongruity. But such discrepancies were privately entertained. Publicly, jurors either described their decisions as having been arrived at in conformity with the ofﬁcial line or they preferred to withhold comment’’ (p. 112). Indeed, ‘‘when, during the interviews, their attention was drawn by interviewers to the discrepancies between their ideal accounts and their ‘actual practices’ jurors became anxious. They looked to the interviewer for assurance that the verdict nevertheless had been correct in the judge’s opinion’’ (p. 113). In other words, in everyday life, people face two distinct tasks in their actions: (1) the practical, prospective task of realizing an achievement, step-by-step in relation to exacting local conditions, and (2) the ethicopolitical task of retrospectively accounting to others for the legitimacy of the ﬁnal outcome of their actions — two tasks that need bear very little relation to each other. As Garﬁnkel (1967) puts it, after having discussed the tensions at work here: ‘‘If the above description is accurate, decision making in daily life would thereby have, as a critical feature, the decision maker’s task of justifying a course of action’’ (p. 114). In other words, in our everyday

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activities, we are much more likely to be preoccupied with the problem of assigning a legitimate history to the outcomes of our actions than with trying to attend to the local details relevant to the process of their fashioning. As Wittgenstein (1980b) remarks: ‘‘The facts of human history that throw light on our problem, are difﬁcult for us to ﬁnd out, for our talk passes them by, it is occupied with other things’’ (vol. I, issue 78). But such ‘‘ofﬁcial,’’ retrospective, justiﬁcatory accounts fail to account for the myriad of situated details to which actors must attend and respond in their struggles to creatively produce their actions in the ﬁrst place. Thus, what I must emphasize here is, literally, the world of difference between these ﬁrst-time achievements and their second-time reproduction, the fact that they occur in two very different worlds: (1) one in the precursor world of our ceaselessly ﬂowing, just happening, dialogically structured activities, in which everything occurs in spontaneous response to previous occurrences, and (2) the other in the modernist, Cartesian world of thoughtful individual agents who act deliberately by putting their intentions into action. It is at this point that the second epigraph quotation from Raymond Williams (1977) above becomes relevant. As he puts it, if we are to present an alternative to the received and ﬁxed forms in terms of which ofﬁcial culture presents a mythicized account of the supposed causal history leading up to our actions, we must turn away from the kind of thought and talk separated from feeling that is currently required of us in our intellectual inquiries, toward ‘‘thought as felt and feeling as thought: practical consciousness of a present kind, in a living and inter-relating continuity’’ (Williams, 1977, p. 132). We need a kind of feelingful thought that can function in relation to an embryonic phase of our activities while they are still ‘‘in growth,’’ so to speak, before they become ‘‘fossilized.’’ Such transitory, embryonic understandings are, of course, exactly what we have been discussing in the two sections above. But, as Williams (1977) makes clear, if we are to translate them from their original local context and to bring them into the everyday world of public life in ways that are beneﬁcial to others, then we have to approach them, not as scientiﬁc discoveries, but as we approach works of art. For, although works of art ‘‘y really are, in one sense, explicit and ﬁnished forms — actual objects in the visual arts, objectiﬁed conventions and notations (semantic ﬁgures) in literature. But it is not only that, to complete their inherent process, we have to make them present, in speciﬁcally active ‘‘readings.’’ It is also that the making of art is never itself in the past tense. It is always a formative process, within a speciﬁc present’’ (p. 129). In other words, we have to bring them to life in some way, to realize them as an ‘‘it’’ with agentic force in our ways of relating ourselves to our surroundings. But to do that, to make such transitory understandings present and able to exert a formative inﬂuence on us in our actions, we need a form of talk, a use of language at the appropriate moment in time, that directs our attention toward crucial aspects of our surroundings that we would not otherwise notice, aspects which can arouse in us the uniquely appropriate ‘‘action guiding anticipations’’ that can enable us to ‘‘go on’’ to respond to them appropriately.

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This, I take it, is precisely the function of Wittgenstein’s (1953) ‘‘philosophical remarks.’’13 They are ‘‘reminders’’ of what in fact is already very familiar to us within our everyday lives, but which — like Garﬁnkel’s jurors — for various reasons we nonetheless leave disregarded in the background to our lives together. Elsewhere (Shotter, 1996, 1997, 2001b), I have explored the practical signiﬁcance of Wittgenstein’s philosophical remarks extensively, and there is not enough space to repeat that exploration here. But let me nonetheless suggest that this is precisely how we might best relate ourselves to a theorist’s utterances when they are talking of human communication and other human practices familiar to us: not by making use of his/her generalized representational meaning, i.e., what the theorist is supposedly talking about, what they are attempting to picture as an essential state of affairs ‘‘over there,’’ but by our responding to and thinking with his/her relationally responsive meanings in mind as guides, as ‘‘reminders,’’ as to how best, practically, to ‘‘go on’’ in relation to the unique events currently occurring around us. For it is their utterances in the course of their speaking (when, that is, they are speaking of situations with which we are all familiar) that can guide us in acting effectively. For, if we can keep their voicing of their utterances in mind, like the powerful voices of our parents who instructed us in our ﬁrst ways of acting in our community (Vygotsky, 1978, 1986), they can arouse in us the possible action guiding advisories that can give us a sense of how to ‘‘go on’’ in the situations of which they speak in their talk. As a result, we can come to view the world as much through their words as through our own eyes. As an example of what I mean here, we can take Wittgenstein’s (1953) remark, to do with how, when someone doesn’t ‘‘get’’ what you are trying to teach them, you sometimes simply put another example in front of them: ‘‘I wanted to put that picture before him, and his acceptance of the picture consists in his now being inclined to regard a given case differently: that is, to compare it with this rather than that set of pictures. I have changed his way of looking at things. (Indian mathematicians: ‘‘Look at this.’’)’’ (p. 144). Looking now with the action guiding awareness aroused in him by the new example, he now ‘‘gets it.’’ But we are all familiar with teachers saying to us, while watching over our attempts to carry out a skilled practice, ‘‘Not like that (repeating in exaggerated form at our still not quite right attempt), but like this (executing the act now with emphatic ﬁnesse).’’ Thus, to bring to our attention the crucial differences between our own attempt to ‘‘get it,’’ with what a poised or self-possessed ‘‘getting it’’ consists in, where sure a conﬁdent ‘‘getting it’’ in fact consists in a performance that meets a complex multiplicity of intertwined and not wholly articulable criteria.

13 ‘‘What we are supplying are really remarks on the natural history of human beings; we are not contributing curiosities however, but observations which no one has doubted, but which have escaped remark only because they are always before our eyes’’ (Wittgenstein, 1953, p. 415).

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Conclusions

I began above with two cases exemplifying Rene´ Bouwen’s account of knowledge creation, sharing, and management within relational practices, and with the question of what life might be like inside a ‘‘new ‘common sense’ that is in-the-making’’ (p. 363). In posing the question in this fashion, I was concerned to show that — in contrast to ‘‘ofﬁcial,’’ after the fact, rational accounts of people’s social activities — it is perfectly possible for participants from within quite incommensurable frameworks or paradigms — if they were able to enter into truly dialogically structured relations with each other, to nonetheless still ﬁnd common ground with each other and to build a new, comprehensive community of practice between them. Let me now return to one of those cases to get an idea of how we now placed it. (1) At ﬁrst, after the R&D department of the metal reﬁnery had its new reﬁning process rejected by the Operations department as too difﬁcult and timeconsuming to implement, we can imagine them returning to their department and discussing what to do next: Should they do this? Should they do that? How should we interpret the Operations department’s attitudes? And so on. They were in the dark, they had a problem to solve, they had to come up with, essentially, theories as to what to do next. But to do this, they could only draw on their past experience for guidance, and they had to wait for another occasion to arise in order to test the worth of their theories. (2) However, within the context of the open dialogue occurring among the members of a task force established by the Business Unit manager to study new innovations — assuming, that is, that it is an ‘‘open’’ dialogue in the sense, as Bakhtin (1986) puts it, they acted toward each other ‘‘without rank’’ (p. 97)14 — things were very different. As each participant ﬁnishes what they had to say, the action guiding anticipations made available in the other participants’ transitional understandings of their utterances, provides a ‘‘momentary motive’’ for another participant’s contribution, and so on. And, within this new common sense in-the-making all involved can begin to see, within the common landscape of possibilities being assembled between them, where their contributions might ﬁt and play their part. The Operations department now begins to see how the new reﬁning process developed by the R&D department — which was thought to be too revolutionary at ﬁrst — can now, with the collaboration of others in the task force, be accepted for implementation. 14 What in fact constitutes an open dialogue is, clearly, too complex an issue to be discussed at length here. But see Becker, Chasin, Chasin, Herzig, and Roth (1995), Gustavsen (1996), Seikkula (2002), and Seikkula et al. (1995). Central to any such open dialogue, is the requirement that members speak only in response to invitations to speak – that is, in answer to ‘‘calls’’ issued to them by the dialogue (as itself an agency in the process), ‘‘calls’’ that arise out of a pre-agreed structure for the dialogue, but also, much more importantly, the ‘‘calls’’ to respond that are implicit in another participant’s actual utterances. By speaking only of events from within their own personal lived experience, to which others in the dialogue can respond, and by not bringing any topics into the dialogue ‘‘from the outside,’’ to which those in the dialogue cannot respond, it is possible to create a dialogical arena or forum within which all can participate equally.

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But here, in this second process, there is nothing comparable to the solution of a problem. To solve a problem, we have to cudgel our brains to work out ways of discovering something unknown by thinking about what we already know about the situation in question; a problem can be solved only if it is already well deﬁned as such, so that by cross-checking with the data we already have, the unknown quantity can be given a deﬁnite value. Thus, at work in problem solving is what Scho¨n (1983) calls a ‘‘technical rationality.’’ But what is at work here, in this second process, is much more akin to what Scho¨n (1983) calls ‘‘problem-setting,’’ which is: ‘‘the process by which we deﬁne the decision to be made, the ends to be achieved, the means which may be chosen y Problem-setting is a process in which, interactively, we name the things to which we will attend and frame the context in which we will attend to them’’ (p. 40). Where Scho¨n thought of problem setting as being so very important, because, as he pointed out, ‘‘the situations of practice are not problems to be solved but problematic situations characterized by uncertainty, disorder, and indeterminacy’’ (pp. 15–16). In other words, as we pointed out above, what we face in practice is not a problem presenting itself something already well-deﬁned in relation to the kind of technical ingenuity required for their solution, but a situation in which a struggle to realize an effective outcome in the face of often unpropitious circumstances is required. We call it a struggle rather than problem solving because, as we have seen, in expressing each sequential movement in an ongoing course of action, we have to struggle with, i.e, navigate within, an often overwhelming sea of unique details, of other possible movements we might make, and we must take all of these somehow into account in the unique course of action we do actually take. As Bakhtin (1993) puts it: ‘‘The performed act concentrates, correlates, and resolves within a unitary and unique and, this time, ﬁnal context both the sense and the fact, the universal and the individual, the real and the ideal, for everything enters into the composition of its answerable motivation. The performed act constitutes a going out once and for all from within possibility as such into what is once-occurrent’’ (pp. 28–29). This, as Scho¨n (1983) intimates, is the opposite of problem solving, for instead of a linear progression from known data to a solution, we have a situation in which a retrospective reﬂection on the outcome of a struggle, within the uncertainty, disorder, and indeterminacy characteristic of a situation of practice, can bring the relevant data to light — as Garﬁnkel (1967) in his study of jurors. But what Scho¨n (1983) missed in his otherwise brilliant study of practitioners’ art is the strange and unfamiliar, primordial, or precursor world of dialogue. As Garﬁnkel (1967) noted in his study of jurors, to repeat, they acted ‘‘while maintaining a healthy respect for the routine features of the social order’’ (p. 104), and that this lead them to a pervasive concern with, retrospectively, ‘‘justifying a course of action’’ (p. 114). However, if we really want to study people’s activities as they develop, from their initial beginnings in people’s spontaneous reactions to events occurring around them, through the stages in which they take on a discernable shape, and later become ﬁrmly ‘‘rooted’’ and institutionally established, only later to ‘‘fossilize’’ and become irrelevant to the circumstances of the day, then we must constantly keep in mind the dynamic ﬂow of the entire process of their development. And as Williams (1977) made so very clear, it must also be studied as a living process,

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not as an object. But what kind of living process is it, given its social and historical character? Clearly, we cannot take the growth of a single organic form as a model for it! It is a process in which we can expect radical alterations in the very structure of people’s behavior. Much better than I can express it, Vygotsky (1978) sets out something of what we must expect with respect to children’s development: ‘‘At each new stage the child changes not only her response but carries out that response in new ways, drawing on new ‘instruments’ of behavior and replacing one psychological function by another. Psychological operations that were achieved through direct forms of adaptation at early stages are later accomplished through indirect means. The growing complexity of children’s behavior is reﬂected in the changed means they use to fulﬁll new tasks and the corresponding reconstruction of their psychological processes. Our concept of development implies a rejection of the frequently held view that cognitive development results from the gradual accumulation of separate changes. We believe that child development is a complex dialectical process characterized by periodicity, unevenness in the development of different functions, metamorphosis or qualitative transformations of one form into another, intertwining of external and internal factors, and adaptive processes which overcome impediments that the child encounters y To the naive mind, revolution and evolution seem incompatible and historic development continues only so long as it follows a straight line. Where upheavals occur, where the historical fabric is ruptured, the naive mind sees only catastrophe, gaps, and discontinuity [y] Scientiﬁc thought, on the contrary, sees revolution and evolution as two forms of development that are mutually related and mutually presuppose each other. Leaps in the child’s development are seen by the scientiﬁc mind as no more than a moment in the general line of development’’ (p. 73). As I see it, we must extend this account of Vygotsky’s to organizational changes — in other words, they will be characterized by periodicity, unevenness in the development of different functions, metamorphosis or qualitative transformations of one form into another, intertwining of external and internal factors, and by adaptive processes that overcome the impediments we encounter. For instead of the already orderly Cartesian world of modern philosophy, in our actual everyday practices we must deal with a pluralistic, only fragmentarily known, and only partially shared social world. Thus, vagueness, ambiguity, uncertainty, and incompleteness — but hence also versatility, ﬂexibility, and negotiability — must for that reason be dealt with as inherent characteristics of our everyday dealings with each other. There is hardly any more efﬁcient way of evading the complexities of our ordinary everyday activities and practices than to divorce them from the actual people performing them, and the actual situations in which they occur, to ﬁnd an order in the ‘‘data’’ so collected, and to then go on to invent mythical ideals in terms of which that order can be supposedly explained.15

15

See Marx’s & Engels’s (1977) account of the ‘‘three efforts’’ required for the construction of ‘‘ruling ideas’’ (pp. 66–67). I have essentially set then out in my ﬁnal sentence.

Chapter 14

Polyvocal Organizing: An Exploration Kenneth Gergen and Mary Gergen

The sea change is all about us: A receding interest in the assumption of the individual as the atom of the organization, and a growing concern with collaborative process. If organizational vitality is our goal, then it is not to individual minds that we must turn in order to achieve change, but to forms of relationship. It is precisely this orientation that is represented in movements toward ﬂat organizational structure, democracy in the workplace, team building, collaborative leadership, diversity training, distributed cognition, and more. While it would be a mistake to integrate these creative efforts into a single, overarching formulation, it would be equally mistaken to view them as isolated islands. Rather, it is the ﬂuid movement across the borders of intelligibility and practice that is most likely to bring about change. Every workplace context is special, and change may best be achieved through uniquely crafted amalgams of concepts and practice. In our past work, we have pressed increasingly toward a vision of human functioning as relational process. From a theoretical standpoint, such a view is presaged in our attempt to articulate a social constructionist account of knowledge.1 From a constructionist standpoint all that we take to be real, rational and good issues from relationship. In effect, constructionist efforts challenge three centuries of Western history, and the prominent place accorded to individual minds. Within this vein, we have joined others in attempting to transform the conception of the person from that of autonomous agent to a relational being. We have attempted to articulate the process of memory as social and not individual (Gergen, 1994), to recast the self-concept in terms of culturally embedded narratives (M. Gergen, 2001), and to transform the emotions from biology to performances within relational scenarios (Gergen & Gergen, 1988). This work has also been extended into the organizational sphere, not only in orchestration with others (see Hosking et al., 1995), but in attempts to apply chaos 1

See especially (Gergen, K. J., 1995; Gergen, M., 1995; Gergen, 1999; Gergen & Gergen, 2001, 2004).

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theory to organizational change (Gergen, K. J., 1992; Gergen, M., 1992), to envision power as a form of social coordination (Gergen, K. J., 1992; Gergen, M., 1992), and to explore dialogue as the critical fulcrum for creating, sustaining, and/or destroying organization (Gergen et al., 2004). These scholarly efforts are scarcely insular, as the present volume will attest. However, in this offering we wish to add a further dimension to the assembly. Speciﬁcally, we take some preliminary steps toward developing a concept of polyvocal organizing. The emphasis, then, is on multiple voicing. However, what we mean by this will differ from much that has preceded. In exploring this metaphor, we shall also bear traces of many familiar concepts and practices-dialogue, narrative, metaphor, and positioning among them. At the same time, it is our hope that the concept of polyvocal organizing will foster new sensitivities, raise new questions, and suggest new practices. Our exploration will proceed on two levels. Most important is the level of content: we hope to travel across a large terrain of ideas and visions of practice. However, we also offer an exploration in form. Speciﬁcally, our own polyvocality will be set in motion, with each of us setting multiple voices free in dialogic play. Our hope is that the form will also add to an instantiation of content.

14.1

Polyvocality and Polyphony

Mary: To begin, I think it is important that we take into account some milestones in the development of multivoiced organizing. This will also set the stage for our extension into the realm of polyvocality. For example, we owe a debt here to work that Rene´ Bouwen did with Chris Steyaert (1999) on global organizing. They were among the ﬁrst to promote multivoicedness in describing how an organization might be affected through the inclusion of many voices. They distinguished four metaphors that were useful in exploring how multivoicedness could inﬂuence global organizing: ‘‘building the Tower of Babel,’’ ‘‘dialogical imagination,’’ ‘‘polyphonic chorus,’’ and ‘‘strangers’ meeting.’’ Ken: As a pre´cis to what we are proposing I think it would be useful to unpack these metaphors a bit. For example, by the sound of it, the ‘‘Tower of Babel’’ metaphor sounds ominous. We often take this metaphor to signal an inability to communicate because of incommensurable languages. I recall that William McKinley and Mark Mone (1998) even suggested that organizational studies be reconstructed on the basis of a dictionary, which would stabilize concepts so that incommensurability would be reduced. From their perspective, the existence of many different voices signaled a failure of the ﬁeld and as an impediment to further development. They seemed to be pumping for one clear and simple voice. Mary: That remark reminds me that in 1988, in a foreword to a book I was editing, (Gergen, M., 1988), I said I was eager for there to be one clear voice of feminism. However, as time went on and the dialogues unfolded, I began to see problems in this view. Then, in 2001, I wrote an introduction to another book (Gergen, M., 2001), in which I favored multiple voices of feminism.

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Ken: It sounds as if you were carrying multiple voices yourself! Mary: Well, as Emerson said, ‘‘a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds.’’ I do agree with you that the metaphor of the Tower of Babel traditionally stresses confusion, chaos, and negativity. However, Bouwen and Steyaert invoke the work of Italian writer Umberto Eco (1994), who uses the Tower of Babel metaphor as a solution to the problem of intergroup conﬂict. ‘‘Development lies not in the reduction of languages; real, universal communication is a play of multiple languages that can interact through polyformed organizing processes.’’ (Bouwen & Steyaert, 1999, p. 303). This approach comes close to propositions offered by William Kaghan and Nelson Phillips (1998) in which they stress the importance of paradigmatic pluralism in organizational theory and strategic management. They conclude that ‘‘organizational studies is not an immature science simply because it has no dominant paradigm. It is more like the Brueghel painting in which the Tower goes up with only the most limited central control. The production of knowledge about organizations is a messy business and is used in a multiplicity of ways. Diversity and disorder are not necessarily weaknesses.’’ (p. 207). As you once wrote, ‘‘[F]rom a constructionist standpoint there are many possible paths to change, and living with ambiguity is a skill that is becoming increasingly necessary as global interaction becomes the norm’’ (Gergen, 1998, p. 280). Ken: Returning to the four metaphors, ‘‘Dialogic imagination’’ is very close to my heart. There is also a resonance here with the work of our colleague, John Shotter (1993a, 1993b) in that it emphasizes the viewpoint of the Russian linguist, Michael Bakhtin (1986), especially his book, The Dialogic Imagination. For Bakhtin, dialogue opens the space for the creation of new realities. Bakhtin, Shotter, and I all emphasize the signiﬁcance of the relational when it comes to making meaning. We stress that to understand something is to be dialogically engaged. Neither meaning nor understanding can be located within one person’s utterances alone. Mary: The metaphor of the polyphonic chorus, a 15th century musical invention, is especially close to Rene´ Bouwen’s heart. I shall never forget the conference organized by the Taos Institute with Rene´ in Leuven, Belgium. At the opening of the conference, a group of eight singers came forward in the large chapel to perform for the assemblage. The description in the chapter by Bouwen and Steyaert (1999) has a strong parallel to Eco’s views on polyphony, in the valuing of multiple lines of song. Every melodic line ‘‘could, in theory, be performed separately. But by performing all of these lines simultaneously, the result is a rich and complex musical totality y. Each voice is meaningful on its own but, at the same time, gains meaning in relation to the other voices’’ (p. 309). This metaphor is also strong in emphasizing the singularity of voice. In this sense, it reduces the range of voices to a harmonious univocality. Ken: What about ‘‘strangers’ meeting’’? This metaphor suggests treachery, deceit, and distance. Mary: Yes, there is a negative overtone, but similar to the Tower of Babel metaphor, there is another side. The fascinating twist is the vision of strangers within ourselves. Bouwen and Steyaert refer to Strangers to Ourselves, written by French feminist Julia Kristeva (1991) as the source of this metaphor. While one may see

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others as strangers with whom it is necessary to relate in order to sustain and change organizations, the potential of creating change through self-inspection, in ﬁnding the strange within is also challenging and potentially fruitful. Ken: Very nice, because this metaphor is a good beginning to our present exploration of polyvocality. All the preceding metaphors more or less presume an equation of person and voice, that is, one person/one voice. This last metaphor of strangers to ourselves opens the possibility for multiple voices within the same person. This is our primary concern, along with the way in which such a concept can be related to the organizing process. These multiple voices may or may not be strange to us; some may be quite present to us, but remain unspoken or even denied by our public behavior. Like Herman Hesse’s Steppenwolf, we may harbor voices behind our voice that laugh in derision at what we are doing. Here, it seems to me, we part company with our close conceptual neighbor: polyphony. As Robert Rodriguez (2001) summarized in his dissertation, polyphony exists in those ‘‘moments when people from different social realities come together and each person’s voice is solicited, allowed to speak, heard and valued equally to cocreate the future’’ (p. 5). It is in this vein that Mary Ann Hazen (1993) has written about an organization becoming polyphonic when people celebrate their differences. She used the carnival tradition of Mardi Gras to illustrate the point. In the festival, people come together from many different walks of life to dance and play and laugh together. Diana Whitney and I (Gergen & Whitney, 1996) used the concept of polyphony to welcome the kind of organizational process that celebrates dialogue over top-down monologic control. However, the concept of the polyvocal complicates the view of dialogue. Here we emphasize with Hermans (2002) ‘‘the person as a polyphonic society of mind’’ (p. 148).

14.2

The Polyvocal Person

Mary: I think it would be helpful at this point if we could elaborate on our particular vision of the person. This will help to clarify the directions we may take when it comes to talking about practice. It seems to me that as we move toward relational practices, we will ultimately require an entirely new conception of human functioning. Ken: For me, the starting place is the abandonment OF the traditional conception of the autonomous agent, the self-contained individual as Ed Sampson (1988) called him. (You might say I am sexist in my choice of pronouns, but I think you would agree that this conception is based on a vision of the man — possibly as an envisioning of himself as A god.) Let us replace this vision of separated and fundamentally alienated beings with one that begins with the process of relationship and understands the concept of the individual as issuing from this process. Once we have this image in place, the concept of polyvocal organizing will make more sense. Mary: I agree that our habit of talking about the single individual, especially of individual minds, is something important to revisit. One might say, with the Buddhists, that the conception of an individual self is an illusion. Or as we might put

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it, a ‘‘social construction.’’ In any case, it seems to me that our seemingly innate sense of an independent mind is something we have learned in our early years of life. As we develop in Western culture, we become pretty much convinced that we are (and are supposed to be) autonomous agents. We are supposed to have free will, and we are held responsible for our actions. In our schools, our organizations, and the voting booth, we are regaled to make up our own minds independent of others. Ken: But there is an interesting irony here that has important implications for the thesis we are trying to develop. You say that we learn to talk about ourselves as having independent minds. In effect, our very sense of independence issues from relationship. Now if we take this irony and extend it, we can say that virtually all the ways we have of talking about ourselves or the world are generated within relational process. If we had no history of relationship, what language could we use to converse; how could we deliberate even when alone on the nature of organizations, leadership, equality, and so on? Indeed one of the major assumptions of social construction is that we are never alone in the sense of having autonomous, private thoughts. Even if physically separated, thinking is a form of conversation borrowed from our past relationships. To press further, to the extent that lives are constituted by many and varied relationships, we must carry with us myriad ways of speaking, describing, interpreting, declaring, expressing, and so on. Given an extended relational history, we enter each day with polyvocal potentials. Mary: I think we need to put some ﬂesh on these abstract bones. In fact, consider our own lives. We ‘‘forget’’ that as children we either struggled against (you) or dominated (me) our siblings. We spent years in grade school learning to placate, please, resist, hide from, and strive to meet the standards set by our parents, teachers, and older family members. With our friends, we learned other skills for getting along. We lead and we followed, we teased and we felt the shame of being the object of jest. From Sunday School, we learned to be awed by Guardian Angels, the saints, and Jesus. Later, we acquired the skills of ﬂirting, dating, ‘‘making out’’ (but not going ‘‘all the way’’). As we grew into adulthood, we learned to become lovers, marriage partners, parents, and professionals. To say that we are polyvocal persons is to say that from all these relationships we emerge with particular ways of being — dominating, submitting, teasing, being teased, worshiping, ﬂirting, parenting, professing, and so on. In my book (Gergen, K. J., 2001; Gergen, M., 2001), I described the way we carry ‘‘social ghosts,’’ which included individuals both real and ﬁctional. Heroes and villains, saints and sinners from novels, movies, the Bible, and so on are all participants in the polyvocal me´lange. After our long and complicated histories of development, what a salad of complex, diverse, even contradictory potentials are available to us. Ken: Just now I seem unable to escape the ‘‘academic voice,’’ but I do want to underscore several of the radical implications of what you have just said: First, you intimate an orientation to the person that escapes the determinism/ voluntarism binary. You are not saying that we are determined by our past, but rather that we engaged in relationships that leave us with residues. You are not saying we voluntarily chose our actions, but that actions are brought forth from a history of

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relating. The polyvocal person is engaged in a process from which he or she cannot be separated. Second, you also imply an abandonment of the subject/object dualism that has plagued the scholarly world for the past three centuries. You don’t distinguish between an inner self (subjective) and outer action (objective), but rather, you have here participation in relational process. Or, you might say, what we have viewed as inner contents of mind, such as reason, emotion, attitudes, values, and the like, are not there before action. They are embodied within action. As an analogy, the act of seeing a sunset is not decomposed into the sunset on the one hand, and the inner representation on the other. It is all a singular action. Finally, you are suggesting a vision of the person quite at odds with the Western ideal of the uniﬁed, coherent self. The polyvocal person is a polyglot, harboring a multiplicity of unrelated and often contradictory potentials. If we press the case, we might say that for every value we espouse, we also have the potential to champion antagonistic values. We may argue for equality at one moment, and rewards by merit on the other; we champion both tranquility and excitement, strong character and ﬂexibility, cool reason and deep passion, care of the self and nurturing others, saving money and giving it away, and so on. So, to what ‘‘Mary’’ am I addressing these remarks? Mary: It depends upon which reading I make of this paragraph. How I respond will give you some sense of the ‘‘Mary’’ that I am in this moment. First, I appreciate the ways in which you supplemented my comments about our growing up times. You transformed our ways of learning to be in the world into philosophical and psychological terms. You have raised the bar in terms of intellectualizing. (A helpful voice in relating to other scholars.) You went a bit further than I imagined, but there is one striking absence in the account thus far. In our commentary, we have struck many blows against a uniﬁed process of self (e.g., no inner or outer dualism), but we have left the polyvocal potential unrealized. It is frozen in a moment before action, much like the capacity for language before sentences are uttered. I think it is important now that we set the polyvocal person in motion, participating in a continuous process of relationship. ‘‘WE’’ [One] not only carries with ‘‘US’’ [him or her] a multitude of voices from the past, but enter[s] into relationships that unfold into the future. It seems to me that when one enters any human relationship with someone — a mechanic, waiter, boss, assistant, doctor, maid, hairdresser, child, policeman, lover — one comes with many possibilities for relating. I have the capacity to be naı¨ ve, knowing, grateful, annoyed, y oh, so many things, so many languages, and body movements, and gestures, waiting in the wings, to spring into being. You are the same. It is fascinating to consider how it is that people come together and make meaningful connections at all. Well, I guess sometimes we don’t. Ken: Yes, amazing that from the vast repertoire of possibilities people bring to a relationship they somehow locate just those potentials that will allow them to coordinate their actions. But to put it another way, in the process of coordination they bring forth only a limited array of their potentials, enough to achieve meaning within the relationship. I think this challenge of coordinating potentials is eased in

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most situations by virtue of our cultural histories. Based on past experience, we know how it goes in various situations: we don’t puzzle over ‘‘what self’’ should be put in motion when we buy a ticket for a movie, report for a physical examination, or sit on a bus. Congenial with Goffman’s (1959) views on self-presentation, we are pretty much ‘‘scripted in advance.’’ And in most organizational settings, we know enough history to act in conventional ways. It is this focus on conventions of relationship that brings us most directly to the process of organizing.

14.3

Organizing as Polyvocal Erasure

Mary: In the case of organizations, it seems to me that when we ﬁrst enter the world of work, we expand our polyvocal repertoires. We don’t have quite what it takes to properly coordinate ourselves with others within the organization. Many details of the situation may be strange and yet critical to remember. We observe people moving about, exchanging greetings, fetching coffee, handling their email, going to meetings, and, in general, conducting their work lives with very little conscious attention to how they were doing it. It seems automatic. They are relying on their histories to act properly. Yet, for the neophyte it may be a little like entering the playing ﬁeld for the ﬁrst time without knowing the rules of the game. Over time, however, one masters the rudiments of the game; one is on the way to becoming a veteran. One might say that the rest of the team had showed you the plays, and soon you were coordinating with the others in a seamless fashion. This is the way in which we add to our earlier socialization to ﬁt into the particular organization to which we now belong. Often there are mentors who show new members the ropes. They help with the physical layout, the location of resources, and introductions to key people with whom one must deal. They model the appropriate way to dress and behave, and may even warn one when to be cautious or extra attentive to a special person in the organization. Over time, rituals, historical moments, vision statements, general meetings, and team sessions all ﬁt together to give one a sense of the organization and how one can contribute to it. One learns to coordinate in such a way as to sustain the meaning and practice that constitutes the organization. Ken: For me, this is where the process becomes most interesting. Let’s take another look at what you are describing. We began by talking about the polyvocal person, one who possesses a multiplicity of potentials, each reﬂecting various relationships over the life-course. Now, we place such individuals in organizations, and what happens? The individual ﬁrst begins to expand his or her potentials for coordination. And yet, as you describe it, the ﬁeld of coordination soon narrows. Relationships shift toward the conventional. At this point, one might say that the vast share of the potentials one brings into the organization are lost, simply shaved away as the individual becomes absorbed into the rituals, traditions, and standard practices of the organization. The person enters with enormous potential, and from this potential the organization extracts just the part that is needed to fulﬁll the challenges at hand. The remainder is erased.

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It’s not unlike a tennis group with whom I play each Monday night. We have been playing for over 20 years together; we enjoy it immensely. But outside of our Monday night matches, we scarcely know each other; we don’t talk about what is going on in each others’ lives or loves. Of course, up to a point, this kind of reductionism is not so bad. It is efﬁcient, maximally coordinated, and highly effective in achieving desired ends. On Monday night, the four of us need do nothing more than show up prepared to play. We don’t have to call anyone, arrange times, decide what kind of sport we will play together each week, or occupy ourselves with all the complexities of each others’ lives.

14.4

From Univocal Organizing to Polyvocality

Mary: There is much I like about the organizing of your tennis group and the efﬁcient way it operates. It is pretty clear that what you all want to do is restricted to that Monday night slot. If you got too involved in other aspects of each others’ lives, those that involved the serious matters you mentioned, there wouldn’t be much time for tennis. But consider: Most organizations have their particular needs and goals, and nothing more is required of the participants than they contribute their particular skills to these ends. To bring anything more to work — their political views, domestic problems, issues of family health, complexities of their love life, their spiritual crises, and the like — not only absorbs time more properly spent in fulﬁlling organizational goals, but adds ‘‘noise’’ to smooth communication functioning. In an organization one often considers these process losses, that is, losses in productivity resulting from the attention that must be paid to personal matters that interfere with the standard operating procedures. Ken: OK, so what you are telling me in a rather nice way is that this cozy little picture of the tennis group has only limited applicability when it comes to the complexities of organizational life. It is true that our group functioning is pretty much cut away from cultural life in general. That is, the success of our efforts as a group does not depend on what other voices we bring to the group, or indeed, on anyone else’s opinion. Our success does not depend in any substantial way on having target audiences, buyers, suppliers, or a favorable economy. In a sense we are a small group with a long history of practice dedicated to a single, satisfying product: a lively tennis match. This suggests that we ought to consider conditions under which it may be useful — even vital — for an organization to open the range of voices. When is it important to unsettle the taken for granted world of organization in which everyone speaks in the same voice, and when is it more functional to ﬂatten the dimensions of self? We need to think more broadly, then, about the kinds of conditions in which this monovoiced organizing may be detrimental to the organization and to the people who work within it as contrasted with more favorable conditions. Mary: One context in which I think polyvocality is most critical is when the mission of the organization is not ﬁxed. For example, if one is an ofﬁcer in Iraq in an area

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where there is much confusion about who are friends and who are enemies, where there is considerable danger, and where the goals of the group are rather multiplex and uncertain, it would be very useful to have the views and experiences of all the people who are part of the military team. It would also be helpful to have the input of those who are trusted allies and friends of the soldiers. Here, the ofﬁcer is often the last to know what is happening on the ground, although he or she may be well-versed in the policy and planning aspects prior to the start of the mission. Lives could be saved and the mission forwarded if space for polyvocality is given. Ken: Although not fully distinct from what you have said, I also think polyvocality is especially important under conditions of environmental ﬂuctuation. For example, academic organizations are often very clear about their basic goals, but uncertain about the stability of their enrollment levels. Shrinking numbers of high school students in an area, new competitors creating new programs that may attract your usual student body, changes in federal aid programs, the opening of a new dormitory, the success of the football team — all may inﬂuence the number of students in a given semester. Administrators and faculty must address questions concerning the offerings that are most likely to attract and keep the student population that is a crucial part of the institution’s long-term economic viability. Here the opinions of faculty and staff, in all their polyvocal complexities, are important resources to consider in deciding, for example, whether or not to embark on a new program or to eliminate an existing one. Various faculty and staff may have specialized knowledge about demand for a particular program, about the nature of the competition, about the strengths of the faculty to offer such a program, and the costs to the institution if such a program were initiated or terminated. Faculty and staff who have not been encouraged to express their voices, who fear censure or who have become indifferent in the process of being ignored in the past create a loss to the community. Support from the group’s leaders for polyvocality leads to more information sharing and better decisions in an unstable environment. I think it is important in both these conditions to emphasize that we are not simply advocating participatory decision-making. Rather, the attempt is to invite into the conversations the multiple voices of relevance that people carry with them. In the military and academic examples, the participants will have different kinds of experiences and thoughts — often conﬂicting ones. Admitting this diversity of voices into the conversation not only adds vital enrichment to the span of relevant concerns. In addition, such expressions mitigate against tendencies to rapidly reach a singular conclusion or to form camps of antagonists. Mary: Your mention of antagonism also suggests that polyvocality can be especially useful under conditions of organizational conﬂict. Here I also recall Paul Salipante and Rene´ Bouwen’s (Salipante & Bouwen, 1995; Gergen, K. J., 1995; Gergen, M., 1995) explorations into practices of conﬂict management in organizations. The signiﬁcant notion in their work for our purposes is that grievances put forth in organizations are social constructions of the situation. These constructions are not compatible with one another, and this is where the conﬂict arises. To complicate the situation further, grievance constructions very often shift over time; they do not remain ﬁxed (Bouwen & Salipante, 1990). In order to move toward

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mutually viable constructions the polyvocal potentials of all the stakeholders are invoked. Mediators may help to bring forth alternative voices such that each party to the conﬂict can begin to speak with the voice of another. Through the conﬂict resolution process, ‘‘peak opportunities for individuals to reinterpret organizational events and construct new meanings and beliefs y that guide their future actions’’ are presented (1995, p. 71). We might wish to describe this moment in the resolution phase as a time when mediators and others are able to break through the barriers that keep polyvocal potentials dormant or hidden, and enable participants to speak with multiple voices. If participants can be open to both the pros and cons of their own positions, and express concerns that are suppressed by the conﬂict, the binaries of conﬂict can be softened. For example, unions and management would not be so intensely polarized, but ambiguities and shades of difference would start to emerge. Here one would ﬁnd the potential for engaging in new dialogues, exploring mutualities, and developing new solutions to old problems. Ken: I like very much the direction in which you are going here. A number of case studies show how the failure of an organization to attend to the multiple voices of its participants, particularly in the lower ranks, can invite serious trouble. If communication circulates within a group there is a tendency for this group to draw borders around itself, to see others as alien. And, as the group begins to move toward univocality, they often create binaries from which the other is constructed as an antagonist. This is the message of Carter, Clegg, Hogan, and Kornberger’s (2003) study of Liverpool dockworkers, and Louie’s (2001) research on immigrant sweatshop women in a global corporation. From what you are saying here the organization would be far better off, not only with broad participation in decision making, but polyvocal expressions on the part of the participants. Mary: You might say that with such expressions, we might all ﬁnd the other within ourselves and vice versa.

14.5

Polyvocality and Organizational Well-Being

Ken: So far we have been considering special situations in which polyvocal processes are especially desirable. You might say, we have been describing polyvocal practices as a means for meeting specialized challenges. However, I also think we should consider the enrichment of the organization: how can an organization that is enjoying reasonable success use polyvocal practices for enrichment and development? More broadly I guess I am asking: why should an organization simply settle for ‘‘achieving its purpose,’’ or ‘‘getting a job done?’’ Why not move toward organizations that make a contribution both to their participants and the world about? Mary: Here I like to think of the difference between going to work because ‘‘you ought to’’ as opposed to ‘‘you like to.’’ What does it take to bring about working relations that create joy for the participants? Here it seems to me that a certain degree of polyvocality is essential in securing the enthusiastic engagement of organizational

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participants. If our individual voice is never recognized or we are allowed only to display a minimal part of our relational repertoire, we are likely to feel our work life is empty, without meaning, and alien from the remainder of our lives. In effect, polyvocal process may be one of the most effective ways of achieving what Lawler (1992) calls a ‘‘high involvement organization’’ or Seiling (2001) a ‘‘membership organization.’’ This recalls minding a story from our time consulting with a multinational corporation that hoped to run a ‘‘tighter ship’’ by reducing redundancy in job functions, paring down staffs and increasing proﬁtability by decreasing waste. This notion of shedding excess baggage, or ‘‘downsizing,’’ was very popular at the time, almost a fad among big corporations, and this company was no exception. In most cases, the decisions were made in secret by the top management and then sprung on the unsuspecting victims of the cuts. Ken: I recall our neighbor, a vice-president of a bank, who was ushered into his colleague’s ofﬁce one morning, told that the division he headed was being axed, and sent packing within the hour. He became deeply depressed, almost suicidal, until the following year when he decided to join with others to create his own bank. Mary: Continuing on, the head of a large subsidiary was reluctant to introduce downsizing into the company for fear that it would demoralize the employees and be a signal to the best ones to jump the sinking ship. Thus, he would be left with the inferior workers who would cling till the last smokestack had disappeared below the waves. Instead he decided to maximize the polyvocality of the organization. Who would know better than they where the ‘‘fat’’ in the organization might be? Twelve groups of 12 were assembled from all levels of the organization. Each group, a mix of employees from different specialties and levels, had the task of evaluating their own division of the organization, with the aim of improving the productivity of each one. Each group created a report that was integrated into an overall report compiled by a senior management group. There was no mention of downsizing in the entire process. What happened was that by inviting polyvocality within each employee and within each group, creative ways of achieving cost efﬁciency emerged. No downsizing was necessary, and productivity could be increased. Ken: I like this story very much, but I do wonder whether the organization really maximized polyvocality. This is to say that there was surely a great deal of participatory decision making, or polyphony, but what is less clear is whether the participants were able to bring their multiplicities of being into play. I would be more sanguine about the case if, for example, these work groups could have talked about their personal lives as they related to the organization, had outings together, played some volleyball, and things like that. Could they come to see the organization as a venue for more fully engaged relationship? Perhaps my reaction is too idealistic. But let me recall another story from our consulting activities, this time about the use of polyvocality in building positive relations between organizations and their human environment. We worked with an organization that used animal research to develop its pharmaceutical products. They were under attack by vocal antivivisectionists. Protesters were at

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the gates each day and news coverage of the demonstrations stimulated broad controversy. Rather than ignoring the protest or trying to ﬁght it with their side of the story, company representatives met with the protest group and offered to fund an exhibit in a town hall in which both groups could present their case to the public for evaluation. There was an agreement and representatives from both groups then worked together for several months in designing the exhibit. During this time they talked about problems in space, lighting, sound, aesthetics, and so on. They often ate meals together, informally talking about various aspects of their lives. The exhibit proved highly successful. Most important, the sharp antagonism subsided, and a group formed within the company to make antivivisectionist concerns apparent in all decisions regarding animal research. Mary: As we have moved through the potentials of polyvocal practices in treating ambiguity and conﬂict, and in securing enthusiasm and uniting organizations with their surrounds, I ﬁnd myself becoming optimistic. Polyvocality may not be required in all work situations, but to recognize its presence and to encourage its enactment, can add enormously to the resources of the organization. In this light, I realize that when we began this discussion, we were uncertain where this exploration might lead. By giving each other space to reﬂect and imagine, and supporting the expressions, I ﬁnd the idea of polyvocality has ﬂourished, and its implications for practice have become increasingly visible. I even begin to see new options even in my own workplace. Perhaps I will begin this week by wearing some exotic clothing to the ofﬁce!

14.6

Epilogue: A Reﬂection on Polyvocal Inscription

We close this exploration by bringing into the conversation yet another voice. This is a reﬂexive voice that inquires into the conversational process through which we have attempted to instantiate the concept of polyvocality. Has this attempt to vivify the concept through performance been successful? Of course, this question has many answers, even for us as authors. We do feel that a greater range of our relational world has entered into the offering. Hopefully, this will enable readers not only to ﬁnd more of themselves drawn into relationship with the text, but to see the text as an invitation to dialogue. At the same time, as we reﬂect on the writing process we do detect other voices within, and some of these are not entirely satisﬁed. But indeed, where would we be without these voices; do they not carry with them high ideals? In any case, we do feel that in our writing we might have been overly drawn to the academic voice. We are aware that the primary audience for the work is an academic one, and that a certain genre or style is considered appropriate for this audience. Moreover, to violate the rules of the genre may result in dismissal of the work as ‘‘just fun and games,’’ ‘‘not serious,’’ ‘‘trivial.’’ So it is that the academic workplace

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erases the polyvocal potentials of its participants. And, from the present analysis, we might say that it is just such erasure that squeezes the enthusiasm from academic efforts, and leads to the kinds of arid and elitist documents that separate the academy from its surrounds. Perhaps our steps have not been sufﬁciently bold; perhaps others can ﬁnd ways of turning ‘‘silly walks’’ into silk purses. We will be on the lookout!

Chapter 4

Relational Practice — ‘‘The Daily Things We Do’’ Chris Blantern The daily things we do For money or for fun Can disappear like dew Or harden and live on. Strange reciprocity, The circumstance we cause In time gives rise to us Becomes our memory. Philip Larkin Note: Best efforts were made to secure permission from the copyright holder to use part of this poem. The copyright holder is advised to contact the publisher.

4.1

Noticing our Cultural, Relational Practices — ‘‘The Daily Things We Do’’

The invitation in this chapter is to see or remember1 what can be gained and achieved by turning our attention from a style of thinking and speaking that focuses on the ‘‘truth about things’’ and shifting it to a recognition of the contribution of our own cultural practices in how things come-to-be what they seem. We are invited to look at human social processes and the relationships of how things in the world get caught up in these, historical or current but always active, processes and in so doing create meaning. The point here is to arrest or interrupt the spontaneous, unself-conscious ﬂow of our ongoing activity, and to give ‘‘prominence to distinctions which our ordinary forms of language easily make us overlook.’’ (Wittgenstein, 2001, p. 43) 1

By using the word ‘‘remember’’ I am pointing at the value of those disciplines and forms of enquiry that reveal the minutiae of social interactions that we have long ceased to notice (forgotten) and that lead to the use of phenomena (like ‘‘organisations’’ or ‘‘selves’’ or ‘‘time’’ or ‘‘power’’) as if they are unremarkable natural objects.

Relational Practices, Participative Organizing Advanced Series in Management, 55–73 Copyright r 2010 Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 1877-6361/doi:10.1108/S1877-6361(2010)0000007008

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We are invited to indulge a little less in the apparent ‘‘nature of things’’ and instead give a little more attention to the practices that make things happen and the relations between their inter-actors. Rather than having the relationship between ‘‘a directly perceiving mind and reality’’ as our primary focus we are looking afresh at those social processes that attribute characteristics to its actors and ‘‘cause us to hold beliefs.’’ We might call this ‘‘relational practicing.’’2 I assume that the proper study of interaction is not the individual and his [sic] psychology, but rather the syntactical relations among the acts of different persons mutually present to one anothery.. yNot, then, men [sic] and their moments. Rather moments and their men. (Goffman, 1982, p. 2)

Goffman richly points out the variety of ordinary, everyday ways in which people participate in social encounters and how they conduct the minutia of constitutive relational practices. Goffman spent a lifetime illuminating the relevance of the almost hidden inter-participant grammar in cooperative performance of coordinated meaning and structure and also had much to say about the practical relationships between the actors and those prevailing enacted structures. Taking a different route, Norman Fairclough deals with the constitutive nature of language as distinct from the common-sense view that it is merely transparently descriptive. Fairclough has done much to point out how the relational practices, embedded in the ideology of discourses, together with their capacity for positioning subjects, come to ‘‘naturalize,’’ to make commonsensical those subject positions as if they were simply ‘‘there’’ — pre-existing and present as part of a ‘‘naturally occurring’’ social world. Later Fairclough went further and focused his attention on the way in which social institutions — [the press, education establishments, the workplace, the family, and so on — and here we are including the institutional nature of ‘‘science’’ too] contain and create ideological effects through dominant ‘‘ideological-discursive-formulations’’ (IDFs). Each IDF is a sort of speech community with its own discourse norms but also, embedded within and symbolised by the latter, its own ‘‘ideological norms’’. Institutional subjects are constructed, in accordance with the norms of an IDF, in subject positions whose ideological underpinnings they may not be aware of. A characteristic of a dominant IDF is the capacity to ‘‘naturalize’’ ideologies – to win acceptance for them as non-ideological common sense. (Fairclough, 1995, p. 27)

When I was younger I had a friend who, during a pub discussion about the politics of the time, wanted to illuminate what he saw as the deviant and ‘‘distant from ordinary life’’ nature of what I argued, by saying: ybut I’m not political, I vote Conservative — just like my parents.

I think it was one of the ﬁrst occasions when I realized how it is possible to enact a particular set of views that achieve the naturalizing and strangely massivebut-unimportant status of ‘‘unremarkably right and true’’ — and of course, in such enactment, lose touch with what processes and practices had brought this about. 2

John Shotter — after Wittgenstein.

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Pierre Bourdieu (1998) called this a ‘‘doxic’’ relationship — where ‘‘doxa’’ (borrowed from Aristotle) are the repertoires of taken-for-granted, unconscious beliefs and speech forms which make up the shared conceptual worlds of particular communities or social networks.3 This doxic relationship keeps in place local cultural practices4 which also have the effect of reproducing the dominant nature of these taken-for-granted beliefs — leading to forms of social reproduction that are difﬁcult to dislodge or derail. This implicit and ubiquitous cultural practice that consigns the arbitrariness of the social order to the ‘‘unnoticeable or unremarkable’’ or mis-proclaims it as ‘‘natural,’’ plays an important role in realizing (making real) structures of domination — and of rendering deviations from such order a dangerous threat. Bourdieu called it ‘‘symbolic violence’’ and saw it as a principal device of control by hierarchical institutions. The kind of speech community or social institution which universally privileges ‘‘objectivity’’5 above humanity, social interaction and struggle, is probably dangerous in as much as it positions those who claim to have achieved this special relationship with reality and truth as universally more credible, superior and having much more inﬂuence than everyone else. What’s more, by its very nature all actions and utterances are implicitly measured for their aberration against such notions. It is a normalizing process and incipiently privileges its subscribers while softening the ground of others — sometimes with grave consequences. One such example is the way in which the positivist-empiricist (realist) ideology is embedded in the British system of justice. In April 2002 Angela Cannings, from Wiltshire in the United Kingdom, was sentenced for the murder of 7-week-old Jason in 1991 and 18-week-old Matthew in 1999. Sudden infant death syndrome (SIDS) was recorded as the cause of death after Ms Cannings’ ﬁrst child, Gemma, died at the age of 13 weeks in 1989. She has one surviving daughter, who was born in 1996. Ms Cannings always maintained that the two boys died of SIDS, or cot death. On December 10, 2003, the court of appeal overturned the conviction, saying it was unsafe. Her appeal was one of three major cases to receive high-proﬁle attention because of the prosecution’s reliance on evidence from two main scientiﬁc experts. What all these cases had in common was the nature and status of evidence given by a renowned pediatrician. Although all the defendants in the three cases protested their innocence the exact cause of death could not be shown by any traditionally accepted means. However the expert pediatrician took the view, indeed he had previously published his opinions of such matters, that if no other cause could be found then because multiple deaths were involved in each case (Angela Cannings lost three children) — the only rational explanation must be 3

Bourdieu (1990) called them ‘‘ﬁelds.’’ Again — Bourdieu (1990, 1998) called cultural practices — within a ﬁeld — ‘‘habitus.’’ For Bourdieu the ‘‘ﬁeld’’ gives rise to cultural practices or habitus — we assimilate and adopt them as we become members (we belong in ﬁelds where we share similar quotients of economic, political, intellectual, and social capital). Reciprocally, the cultural practices reproduce the norms and social order of the ‘‘ﬁeld.’’ 5 As if there is a way in which we could get at a nonhuman view, as if we could know that we are using the words nature would use to describe itself (Rorty, 1991). 4

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‘‘murder.’’ The pediatrician, Sir Roy Meadows is most renowned (according to the BBC) for an observation in a book that became universally known as ‘‘Meadow’s Law.’’ This states that: ‘‘one sudden infant death is a tragedy, two is suspicious and three is murder, unless proven otherwise.’’ Now I can hear some voices saying that it was precisely because Meadows did not follow his scientiﬁc method right through, that these tragic mistakes occurred (i.e. he inferred that murder must be the cause because his own rationalizing processes had been exhausted of any other possibility and being a monologist there was no room for an account that could come from elsewhere — including an account that there was no satisfactory explanation). But the point here is that the micro-political and ideological practices that supported and held in place the primacy of empirical method were still at work in the court proceedings. Even though he had left his top empirical button undone Meadows had been granted the position of chief spokesman for reality and no one noticed that he was not properly dressed. The drama, in a sense, already had a provisional ideological story line — that there had to be a known cause of death and the prize of veracity and credibility would go to whomever came up with the most culturally ﬁtting explanation — a scientiﬁc one. Interestingly even if the statistics Meadows had drawn upon in arriving at his infamous ‘‘three is murder’’ assertion had not been shown to be fallacious there would still have been nothing to say that any of these mothers had a hand in their children’s deaths. Even Angela Cannings’ account that her paternal great-grandmother had suffered one sudden infant death and her paternal grandmother two, did not make its way into the proceedings. Such was the naturalized cultural conﬁdence in the role of scientiﬁc knowledge and its protagonists that it not only rendered the voices of the defendants in at least three trials inaudible but it also served to invert the most hallowed principal of justice — of ‘‘innocent until proven guilty.’’ In effect these women were positioned as guilty and convicted because they could not prove they had not murdered their children. Their accounts were elided and what remained was measured for cultural value against that of the scientiﬁc expert. There was nothing they could say that could make a difference. Eventually the verdicts were thrown out on appeal — not because anything about the manner of cultural practice changed so that their accounts could be heard as valid and coherent — but because Meadow’s account had now failed the empirical test — his stats were wrong and he was caught with his empirical trousers down. A more insightful view of the processes enabling one story to be established over others, where the consequences were so grave, would have seemed preferable. It is a good example of the naturalizing effect of the ‘‘objective’’ discourse and it’s inappropriateness for all but a narrow range of contexts. This story was about the cultural embeddedness of ideology within the institution of British justice and the same sorts of processes are at work in institutions such as ‘‘mental health’’ or public service delivery (police, education, health, housing, and social care) or indeed in management discourse (particularly personality proﬁling and psychometrics) or more generally in the press, media, and other areas of public exchange. Unfortunately these social practices and processes are so naturalized, so ‘‘normal’’ that we get to hear about them only when they fail their own cultural tests or produce their own absurdity.

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For instance, in April 2001 an employee of a national DIY superstore chain in the United Kingdom was sacked a week after being appointed. His appointment process had involved a combination of a traditional interview and a psychometric aptitude test. Having been duly appointed he set about the job with enthusiasm and quickly became popular with his colleagues, his manager, and customers. Within a week it looked as if he was making a success of the job. Then his manager took a call from the human resource department at the headquarters. They informed him that they had discovered, after a mix-up with the results of the psychometric test, his new appointee had in fact demonstrated the wrong proﬁle for the job and would have to be released. Even though the ordinary course of actual working activity with all its social interactions and calls for judgment was being more than satisfactorily enacted the psychometric activity was somehow deemed to be measuring something more reliable and valuable. It made the national news and there was some debate in the press, but it was nevertheless deemed that the empirical psychometric process was revealing more useful knowledge than a week’s experience in the job itself and our appointee was judged from a distance as not being able to do the job he was already doing, by other local accounts, well.

4.2

‘‘The Daily Things We Do — in Time Give Rise to Us — Become Our Memory’’

When Bruno Latour, who takes a more anthropological networking approach to the construction of knowledge, talks about what it means to make sense of the world, human endeavor and what constitutes the ‘‘social,’’ he makes visible some important historical–political relational issues. For example, he uses a story of competitive scientiﬁc debates and the activities they supported, to show how Louis Pasteur’s account of ‘‘spontaneous generation’’ superseded that of Fe´lix Pouchet. In a Europe that predated refrigeration and the food preservation and packaging we appreciate now, the development of mold and the rotting of food was regarded as a property of the food itself — a property that would be spontaneously generated after a period of time. This was the accepted scientiﬁc ‘‘reality’’ of the time. Pasteur had conducted experiments, at the time difﬁcult to reproduce elsewhere, which showed that the phenomenon of spontaneous generation was better accounted for by ‘‘airborne germs.’’ This, and Pasteur’s work overall are closer to the scientiﬁc ‘‘reality’’ we accept today — except that Pasteur’s account, though it gave rise to the development of a whole industry of microbiology, was then changed by the advent of something scientists called enzymes. Latour’s point is that what we easily take to be ‘‘reality,’’ the uncovering of ‘‘nature’’ as it really is by people uniquely qualiﬁed to assess this on our behalf, is better understood as a series of related social processes replete with their mechanisms — such as relations of power, legitimacy, morality, and utility — for establishing one account over another. He points out that the accepted account of the time, so ﬁercely defended by Pouchet was deemed to be ‘‘true’’ — a correct account

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that corresponded to a true state of natural affairs. However, what happens to the status of truth when it is superseded by an account that seems to be more useful (more true?). Even Pasteur’s own account in this ﬁeld has been subsequently shown to be less legitimate by those who promote the signiﬁcance of enzymes. Our ability to develop increasingly sophisticated accounts of what purports to be characteristics of nature is a function of the development of more sophisticated vocabularies and reﬁned distinctions. That is, the development of our social apparatus and what Latour refers to as the ‘‘historicity of things.’’ yand now spontaneous-generationists have been pushed to the fringe, but their mere [contemporary] presence is an interesting indication that the ‘‘ﬁnally’’ that allowed philosophers of science y to rid the world of what was proven wrong was too brutal. Not only is it brutal, it also ignores the mass of work that has to be done, daily, to activate the ‘‘deﬁnitive’’ version of history. y When a phenomenon ‘‘deﬁnitely’’ exists this does not mean that it exists for ever, or independently of all practice or discipline but that it has been entrenched in a costly and massive institution which has to be monitored and protected with great care. (Latour, 1999, p. 153)

From Latour’s point of view there is symmetry between the effort that goes into assembling the activities around the reproduction of phenomena (in Pasteur’s case the reproduction of ferments in the laboratory) and the appearance of what we take to be natural entities. The more Pasteur works in his laboratory the more autonomous his ferment becomes. (Latour 1999, p. 147)

It is an almost theatrical — like metaphor that suggests the more we create the conditions for a ‘‘performance,’’ including the parts undertaken by human and nonhuman actors, the more performance we elicit and the more easily we can get to attributing substance, characteristics and ‘‘competence’’ (the reliable reproduction of behavior) — the more we can see a performance as a thing. Latour is trying to illuminate the kinds of human processes, relations, and associations by speaking a little differently, which historically constitute what we take to be entities. Correspondingly then, he is also pointing at how actors, human, and nonhuman are caught up, locally and contextually in reproducing and maintaining ‘‘things.’’ From our point of view, he is once again creating some distinctions that our ‘‘ordinary forms of language overlook’’ and illuminating some activities that we will want to make more accessible and call ‘‘relational practice.’’ y I live inside the Pasteurian network, every time I eat pasteurised yogurt, drink pasteurised milk or swallow antibiotics. In other words, to account for even a long lasting victory [of Pasteur over Pouchet] one does not have to grant extra-historicity to a research program as if it suddenly, at some threshold or turning point, need no further upkeep. What was an event must remain a continuing event. One simply has to go on historicizing and localizing the network and ﬁnding out who or what make up its descendants. In this sense I participate in the ‘‘ﬁnal’’ victory of Pasteur over Pouchet, in the same way that I participate in the ‘‘ﬁnal’’ victory of republican over autocratic modes of government by voting in the next general election instead of abstaining or refusing to register. (Latour, 1999, p. 168)

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Finally then, we leave this series of sketches of the uncovering of cultural, relational practice with a passage from Ken Gergen who has been engaged in the project of denaturalizing the traditional cognitive psychological discourse for many years. I have chosen a passage which not only, like others here, reveals some of the ways in which we can gain access to the processes of social construction, but also says something of ‘‘why bother.’’ In the end it is, in this era, whether we can ﬁnd more satisfying ways of enriching our societies and our lives. For the social epistemologist, in contrast, accounts of the world are embedded in social practices. Each account will render support to certain social practices and threaten others with extinction. Thus a critical question to be put to various accounts of the world is what kind of practices do they support. Do they enable us to live in ways we hold valuable or do they threaten these patterns. For the social epistemologist, a major question to be asked of, let us say, Skinnerian behaviour theory, is not whether it is objectively valid; it is, rather if we adopt the theoretical language proposed in this domain, in what ways are our lives enriched or impoverished? (Gergen, 1994, p. 130)

We can see how practices and their range of accessories — words, forms of talk, social moves, ideologies, iconic objects get their meaning from the way they are used in relationship and whose manner of use is then properly reproduced in any given community (see Blantern & Anderson-Wallace, 2006, pp. 71–74) — for this is what it means to become a member (see Lave & Wenger, 1991, p. 122).

4.3

Making Trouble — That’s Out of Order!

We can begin to see that practices become socially naturalized in association with what these interactions make such as subject positioning, embedding ideology, generating power relations and of course bringing ‘‘substance’’ into being. However coupled with this is a cultural, social, or community memory of the manner of participation which must also be reproduced in everyday encounters. Goffman and Fairclough make us very aware of participative styles demanded in certain forms of encounter — such as politeness, respect, obedience, authority, promptness, knowing your place, turn taking, following a line or generating a new topic, face maintenance, social gaffes, intonation, turn taking, social etiquette, indirectness, and the myriad manifestations of implicitly expected ‘‘naturalized’’ public performance. These phenomena are what we know as the situational expressive order — ‘‘how things are done’’ and to act outside them,6 to breach them, invites accusation and sanctions for being ‘‘out of order.’’ These sorts of issues vary from community to community and once adopted by their members — as the price of entry — are pretty much used to police participation. They are used not in any conscious sense that members or participants have a checklist of overt rules — a kind of community constitutional ‘‘small print’’ — but more an implicit, constant and thoroughgoing expectation of others’ practice. Just as Giddens points out ‘‘you can’t go against even 6

y without or outwith culture.

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the most apparently minute rules of the English language’’ so it is with all forms of ‘‘commonsensical,’’ naturalized cultural practice — we get a strong reaction from other participants — for committing such social breaches. Here’s a quote from the British politician, former MP and Government Minister, who was characterized as ‘‘controversial’’ by his opponents and the establishment media whenever he attempted to point out self interest, political and social taboos and the invisible, value-laden nature of what are often claimed as ‘‘facts.’’ When I say something that points out some of the assumptions or biases in what someone is doing I’m labelled as controversial. At ﬁrst the press say I’m ‘‘dangerous’’, then they say I’m ‘‘crazy or loony’’, next they say ‘‘I must be a bit stupid’’ and then do you know what — when people start to listen — they say ‘‘it was their idea all along’’. Tony Benn —‘‘controversial’’ UK Politician [Interlogics International Conference — It’s A Relational World — March 2002]

However, it is not the nicety of social etiquette that I am seeking to eradicate — I am not seeking to promote a more rude, brutal, or unpredictable world — rather it is the bringing to attention just what it is these platitudinous devices, these normal and unremarkable ways of talking, are being used for to protect. So closely coupled are these ways of talking and the worlds they promote and preserve, that it is often, from the monological7 frame, not possible to disturb the ideology, the embedded assumptions about the way things are, without disturbing these social sensibilities, too. However, without the sensing of this ‘‘local difﬁculty’’ it is most likely that we are accommodating the prevailing cultural norms and being assimilated into the takenfor-granted — becoming a legitimized member. Importantly then when we begin to intervene in the cultural practices of communities, organizations, or teams, reactions born of a defense of such social sensibilities are most likely an indication that we are touching inﬂuential practices — the very notions that make our work worthwhile and potentially valuable. Nevertheless, treading this path requires some careful map reading and delicate movement. If we succeed in doing no more than causing alienation or disaffection — then we render ourselves mute in the face this monological cultural colossus. Equipping individuals alone with the insights of self-development or indeed the skills of relational practice may have little effect in a context where the dominant discourse or speech practice is ﬁrmly monological. It is likely that, in such a context, all we are doing is making our learners more incoherent (should they persist in attempting to practice what they’ve learned, probably face saving, social distance, and power relations will ensure they ‘‘must’’ hold back and largely continue to embrace the status quo). It is necessary to ﬁnd devices, tools, illusions, and look-alikes — something similar to what happens already but different enough — that changes the rules, the social architecture, for everyone in community dialogue — so that the possibility of a repositioned discourse and its subjects and modiﬁed cultural practices can emerge (see Blantern & Anderson-Wallace, 2006, pp. 282–294). This represents a shift of emphasis from focusing on the individual as the site of learning and change to 7

One way of talking — of seeing things — in this or that situation. ‘‘My way’’ is normal and natural, so any variant is a problem to be ﬁxed or eradicated.

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the relational architecture and the way social rules and taken-for-granted practices shape action and the performance of identity.

4.4

Toward ‘‘Relational Practice’’

The idea of ‘‘monologism’’ — the notion that there is only one way of speaking — can be mentioned as one established repertoire of cultural beliefs. We might see monologue as the effect of the closed and self-policing nature of a social network and its vocabulary (ﬁeld and habitus). The effect of monologue is to render other people — other consciousnesses that are living and saying things differently — as less important than the doxa the community upholds. Until individuals have paid the price of entry, taking on the local cultural practices (if the doxa allows), others are less credible, less audible and visible, and in some cases — less human. This is particularly evident with the ﬁelds of science and most doctrinaire religions — where ‘‘local’’ does not have to be geographic but perhaps historical, institutional, or class determined. Mikhail Bakhtin, to whom this particular, relational way of seeing things is attributed, tells us something of the distinction between ‘‘monologue’’ and ‘‘dialogue.’’ Monologism, at its extreme, denies the existence outside itself of another consciousness with equal rights and equal responsibilities, another I with equal rights (thou). With a monologic approach (in its extreme pure form) another person remains wholly and merely an object of consciousness, and not another consciousness. No response is expected from it that could change anything in the world of my consciousness. Monologue is ﬁnalized and deaf to other’s response, does not expect it and does not acknowledge in it any force. Monologue manages without the other, and therefore to some degree materializes all reality. Monologue pretends to be the ultimate word. It closes down the represented world and represented persons. Bakhtin (1984, pp. 292–293)

Principally we want to establish a frame of social practice that positions the stories, in any social encounter (and there are no accounts of knowledge that do not involve the social, the cultural) — institutional or otherwise — as having at least equal value in as much as they have — for the speaker, as a member of this or that community, local coherence. They make sense to the speaker. Of course this is not to say that we will always wish to regard what speakers are trying to make happen with equal weight — but there is something to be gained by avoiding the monological trap of acting as though nothing can make a difference to my already ‘‘naturalized’’ and fully developed ways of talking to myself and others about the world. One of the primary naturalized, doxical mechanisms of the monological discourse or speech practice is to position any attempt at appreciating why and how ‘‘others’’ might come to say the things they do, as assuming that we advocate, with the same sort of performative force — the very same things as those others. For example, it has become quite taboo in the United Kingdom for any public discussion that attempts to make sense of the phenomenon of pedophilia without it being seen as somehow endorsing it. Surely it is better to gather something of the processes at work if we are to do something about it. Similarly, the discussions conducted in media about the causes of terrorism are also monologized. As George W. Bush said in his the post ‘‘9/11’’ rhetoric — ‘‘If you’re not with me — you’re against me.’’

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How can we ever change social situations if we do not wish to learn about the processes that bring them into being? Is it enough to know that we are ‘‘right’’ and they are ‘‘wrong’’ — and to attribute the cause to resistance, incompetence, perversion, brainwashing, or even mental illness, or evil? If it is then we elide, collapse or dismiss the myriad of relational practices that can give us a better account of things than ‘‘human nature,’’ ‘‘chemistry,’’ ‘‘communications,’’ ‘‘culture,’’ or ‘‘society,’’ or ‘‘organizations’’ and we have no option but to rely on the single device of power — to police, to declare war on, to crush, to obliterate, to marginalize, to demonize, to pathologize, to make illegitimate or invalid, or ‘‘to make them understand and conform’’ or even to make them disappear. In a world where there is an increasing sense and experience of dynamic connectedness however — whether it be the familiarity of ‘‘social networking’’ (Web 2.0) or a concern for ecological responsibility and appreciation of Gaia, we might derive increasing hope of awareness of performative and constitutive relations in social encounters, in interactions more generally — in the daily things we do. We can say, we are better off realizing [naturalizing!] that we are making things and building structures with our language and practices. The advent of the awareness of ‘‘relational practice’’ will enable many aspects of social learning to take place which are currently beyond our grasp. We can choose to intervene in our own cultural practices. We can be engaged in the development of processes and practices for making things better — rather than having recourse only to the lumpen devices of ﬁghting for justice and a voice, or ridding ourselves of troublemakers, the incompetent, the evil, and down-right crazed. So now we are developing a sense of what we are calling ‘‘relational practice.’’ It involves at least four stances:

8

To undo, unpick, or otherwise reveal the kinds of practices, processes, assumptions, and taken-for-granted ideologies which lead to a monological, unquestioning acceptance of a line of talk8 — as if it was nature, or indeed God, we are listening to and being guided by. To acknowledge that all interactions, all instantiations of communication are making or consolidating something of interest, value or pay-off as distinct from simply describing something neutrally. That when people speak differently — outwith the local expressive order — they are revealing something of a different order, a different world which is coherent for them. We are better off knowing more about it rather than dismissing it. Instead of attacking it — we would be better off asking some questions. That enquiring into the practices and processes of others (in the present or the past) necessarily invites the same of ourselves. That is, we can adopt a more conscious dialogic stance in search of a more mutually satisfying outcome — make something different together.

Not just literally a ‘‘line of talk’’ but also all signs, symbols, texts, and artefacts that get used, applied in ways which get taken for granted and whose appropriateness we have ceased to question.

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So to Relational Action Learning

Action learning was originally developed as a practical concept in the late 1940s– 1960s by Professor Reg Revans. Revans studied under Rutherford and worked as a physicist at the Cavendish Laboratories during those earlier, atom-splitting times. Revans was noted for advocating and developing processes, generally believed to have been seeded at Cavendish, for questioning uncritical applications of recorded/ reported knowledge. He called it ‘‘programmed’’ knowledge and he recognized that much was to be gained in the practical application and development of knowledge and know-how through opening up one’s theoretical and operational assumptions, problems, and doubts to the support and challenge of others — through forms of interaction that promoted ‘‘questioning insight.’’ At the very zenith of Western modernism Revans was trying to remind people that reported knowledge was always mediated through [inter?] action and, as a scientist, in order to make the point succinctly, he developed the metaphorical formula L ¼ P þ Q [where L ¼ learning, P ¼ programmed knowledge, and Q ¼ questioning insight]. He was renowned for the phrase: There is no learning without action and [sober and deliberate] no action without learning.

Today many people recognize the impact and potential of action learning and, as a practice model, it has become widely adopted in the United Kingdom — particularly in the public service sector — as a popular alternative to management development programs and centralized structural/process redesign as a principal method for promoting ‘‘cultural’’ change. However, we might argue that over the last 30–40 years action learning has been interpreted, possibly through the rhetorical inﬂuences of constructivism, humanism, and ‘‘self-managed’’ experiential learning, as an individual activity even though it is occasioned by the gathering of ‘‘comrades in adversity’’ — known as the [learning] ‘‘set.’’ It also appears that action learning has become more focused on personal development and less centred on organisational problems. The shift to individual choice of problems or tasks, and away from negotiated agreements with the sponsors or commissioners of action learning in the organisation, indicates that the chosen tasks are likely to be ‘‘own job’’ issues, discussed in small sets of six, relatively isolated from the wider organisational context. (Pedler, Burgoyne, & Brook, 2005)

As with a popular notion of ‘‘learning’’ more generally where the relationship between ‘‘knowing’’ and ‘‘behavior’’ is seen principally as located in the individual ‘‘mind,’’ this approach to action learning tends to focus on rhetoric and a facilitation style which privileges ‘‘mental models,’’ ‘‘personal responsibility,’’ ‘‘individual choice,’’ ‘‘skill,’’ ‘‘initiative,’’ and ‘‘self awareness.’’ Action learning is often explained in terms of the ‘‘experiential learning cycle’’ as made popular by David Kolb (1984) expressed entirely in terms of the apparatus of the individual — namely ‘‘concrete experience,’’ ‘‘reﬂective observation,’’ ‘‘abstract conceptualization,’’ and ‘‘active experimentation.’’

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Individuals who do not work together (strangers) meet off the job. The meeting accommodates a maximum of between 6–8 people (in order to give proper attention to each individual and their problem) which — if it continues, becomes a learning set. Each brings an individually ‘‘owned’’ challenge or problem.9 Each member takes a turn to unfold an account of their challenge. While the ‘‘owner’’ speaks — others listen ‘‘actively’’ — but do not interrupt or engage the speaker in discussion. (They are encouraged to make notes.) At the end of the speaker’s turn — others are invited to ask questions — that ‘‘may be helpful to the speaker’’ (the idea is to offer both ‘‘support’’ — an appreciation of the speakers situation — and ‘‘challenge’’ — how might they see it differently). Each speaker makes a commitment to some new form of action — which they will undertake [somewhere else] between meetings. Each individual ‘‘turn’’ at subsequent meetings begins with a review of what action was tried and what happened. I am not saying that these foci are not helpful — on the contrary they go some way to:

Drawing the distinction between cognitive learning (of the intellectual and abstract kind, P) and what goes on in the ebb and ﬂow of local sense making and practical experience (questioning insight, Q). Creating a protected space where a different conversational pattern can emerge. Changing the form of talk (and consequently it’s effects) — principally ‘‘appreciating’’ and ‘‘questioning’’ as distinct from ‘‘pathologizing’’ and ‘‘commanding/controlling’’ which are common in many organizations and institutions. Initiating ‘‘dialogue’’ (as distinct from monologue) — through the practice of asking questions. Reﬂecting on historical interpretations of events and one’s relationship to them.

Nevertheless, from the more relational ontological point of view I have been expounding, I am saying that these foci do not quite get at notions of ‘‘action’’ in a social context. One might ask ‘‘where is the action in action learning?’’ when a learning set meets off the job away from those contextual issues such as ‘‘power relations,’’ ‘‘what can be said openly and what is kept private,’’ ‘‘face saving and 9 Revans was rigorous about drawing the distinction between a ‘‘problem’’ and a ‘‘puzzle.’’ Problems in this sense are characterised by their social complexity, dynamic nature, and intractability — if they could have been resolved easily they would have been. Puzzles exist for want of gathering some information and are relatively straightforward. Of course from a relational frame, these tough problems occur because they are controversial. They affect people in different ways and stakeholders bear differing degrees of responsibility, risk, and investment in the outcome and have different ways of accounting for what is going on (knowledge and know-how). This notion of ‘‘problem’’ points at complexities and dissonances among the relational practices — ‘‘the intractable problem’’ is the effect.

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maintenance,’’ and ‘‘pragmatic risk’’ (what might happen to me?). These notions are powerful shapers of what can be said, done, and learned — of what it is to be an individual participating in these moments of life — in a given context, and arguably transcend any notion of the relationship between individual mind and behavior. What it is to be an individual — replete with recognizable behaviors that we might attribute as individual traits or characteristics — including openness and the ability to learn — are, as we have been exploring, inseparable from and contingent upon the context. Regardless of how enthusiastically a set member emerges from an action learning meeting — they still have to reenter the context with its enduring and repetitive, constitutive processes — back at work. Work is a domain or ﬁeld where the continual requirement for us to ‘‘renew’’ our cultural membership renders the linguistic space of the conventional action learning set a different world. Some might say — this is a good thing because it frees individuals from the constraints and inhibitions of face saving and recriminations of speaking more openly in the work place. How, though, does this translate and transfer for the individual when back in that context? How does it help those situated processes of organizing? Where is the opportunity to illuminate the action manifest through connections and mechanisms with other human and nonhuman actors around real tasks in real work situations? Though I am concerned about what it means for individuals to ﬁnd more satisfying ways of navigating their social territory, I want to emphasize here that I am interested in how action learning might be deployed differently in pursuit of organizational development and change (or institutional or societal change). But, given the exposition of a relational world (above), that traditional polarization between ‘‘the’’ individual10 and ‘‘the’’ organization can be collapsed — they are contingent upon each other. If we can make a difference to the relational practices that make up a context — what Ervine Goffman called ‘‘the trafﬁc rules of interaction,’’ what Pierre Bourdieu called ‘‘habitus’’ or what Mikhail Bakhtin named ‘‘the dialogic consciousness’’ — then we make a difference to individuals too.

4.6

Some Principles and Practices for Relational Action Learning

So here are some principles for action of something we might call ‘‘relational action learning.’’ It is not an exhaustive exposition (see Boydell & Blantern, 2007); however, we can map out the seminal themes — with some examples. The focus of attention is neither ‘‘the’’ individual nor ‘‘the’’ organization in any monolithic sense — but rather the micro-sociological processes in any given and recurring context — such as decision-making meetings, observation and reporting processes, the attribution of behavioral and moral responsibility, and commitment to action. If we take note of Bruno Latour we might also say that ‘‘we cannot study the 10 From the ‘‘relational stance’’ there is no higher or deeper self that can in some way said to be a ‘‘true’’ self — against which we can measure ourselves in other contexts. There is no place where the decontextualized self pokes through.

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social without also studying its nonhuman actors’’ — that is the extent to which our contextual behavior is imprinted by the objects we use. We obey for instance trafﬁc lights — they prepare and inscribe our individual behavior in particular contexts and in our everyday organizing we might want to consider a whole range of contextual ‘‘actors’’ — such as computers, cell phones, psychometric tests, theories, competency models, targets, building design, and more — inasmuch as they invite, prepare, and inscribe our associated, situational behavior. There are many ways in which such a relational focus can be created — brought about through a combination of the provocative vocabulary deployed by the action learning set ‘‘facilitator’’ — who might constantly invite set members’ attention to enquire into such issues and the role they might play — or more structurally through ‘‘architectural’’ devices — like an invitation to give an account of ‘‘how we come to be here’’ with a ‘‘rule’’ to give some attention to how systems, processes, and things are used. Of course, as mentioned earlier, it is important to be able to do these relational things differently enough to bring them into view — but not so starkly that they are roundly rejected for offending the sacred habitus and doxa of the community-inquestion. Here are a few questions extracted from a questionnaire11 we sometimes use in order to shift the focus of attention toward some kinds of relational processes. Questionnaires are familiar, but in this case we are not so much concerned with the answers as with the agenda raising and processing of enquiry they encourage:

Does it feel safe to challenge the views of those with more experience or higher-up than yourself? Can you think when you last did this (a speciﬁc occasion)? Make a few notes of what happened. How do ‘‘rules’’ get made in your team? What happens when rules get challenged or broken? Have you ever felt incompetent in your work? If yes, would you like to share a little of how you account for this feeling? (Please make a few notes.) Have you ever seen someone ‘‘lose face’’ in your organization/partnership/project or team? Can you describe what happened?

Because we are concerned about a context of action — then the most promising and helpful context is that where ‘‘real’’ work takes place. That is where the actors in any particular activity12 are doing their daily interacting in order to make things happen. This represents another marked difference from conventional action learning which usually, and deliberately, takes place off the job. Arguably, though individuals are encouraged to go away and try out different action, what takes place in the action 11

‘‘Conditions for collective learning’’ — r InterBlogics 2005. Granted there may be some difﬁculties in determining what constitutes an ‘‘activity’’ — however, the ‘‘host’’ organisation or community will have ways of ‘‘deﬁning’’ the ‘‘problem.’’ Interestingly many people tend to point at a problem by proposing solutions — ‘‘what we need to do isy.’’ (which, incidentally, is very often ‘‘training’’) without articulating the problem or dissatisfaction with others or even themselves. 12

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learning set is, on the whole, a reﬂection of, a report of action elsewhere. When the individual acts in the context that concerns them — that they want to talk about and reﬂect upon — they can only do so within the conﬁnes of the established contextual habitus. In relational action learning we will want to work, ‘‘for real,’’ in order to encounter and make sense of those relational practices that shape the outcomes. We want to work with face saving routines, with power difference, with marginalization in talk, with subject positions, with difference, with ideology and with unexpressed expectations — since whatever we learn as individuals — off the job — this contextual judiciary will still be waiting to pronounce. So, ﬁrst of all, it is the nature of the task or the problem that ‘‘deﬁnes’’ the action learning set.13 Who and where are the key ‘‘touch-points’’ (nodes or key interactions in the network). This may be an existing team or more likely, depending on the scope of the problem, actors who do not communicate directly but have a shared stake in the task or problem. Again we might use a number of devices to orientate attention to these constitutive relational issues — if you like, to illuminate our everyday relational practice. Here’s a sample: for talking about what can be said openly and what remains private, in other words ‘‘discussing the undiscussable.’’ Here the emphasis is not so much on being able to say what, up to now, must be kept private (for issues of face credibility and risk of recrimination or longer-term marginalization). To tackle such undiscussables head-on would almost certainly have the effect of reinforcing them — to inﬂame the habitus so to speak. I have certainly witnessed situations where, in private, staff members would use the most extreme and abusive vocabulary to describe their line manager and their own sense of anxiety and even scorn at his/her affect on their lives — yet these same individuals would go to extraordinary lengths to collaborate in saving face for that same manager when ‘‘faced’’ with a public exposition of these views. In this process, the unspoken remains within the control of members and instead we focus on what is it about ‘‘the way things happen around here’’ that means that some things can be talked about while others cannot? For example, we might ask each member to write down on a piece of card a description of an issue that they would like to address but which they feel would be publicly taboo. They are then asked to place the card in an envelope and seal it. The envelope remains in the owners possession at all times, and we emphasize this as if to concretize the expected rule of face control. We then ask ‘‘what would need to happen here, for you to be able to talk about what is in your envelope?’’ What follows is usually a more focused exchange about the operative norms and how they might change — while leaving intact the very rule they are using there and then. Sometimes an individual may feel inspired to test out the validity of any emergent new rule by revealing what’s on their card. On other occasions a shared reﬂection on the operative rule itself is sufﬁcient to enable more powerful people to make an offer or invitation to try something different. It is a beginning — but one that forms a gateway to dialogue.

13

It is common in conventional action learning to constitute sets by reference to professional tier or job grade — such as ‘‘director,’’ ‘‘senior manager,’’ etc.

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I mentioned earlier the marginalizing effect of ‘‘monologue,’’ which according to Mikhail Bakhtin ‘‘is ﬁnalized and deaf to other’s response, does not expect it and does not acknowledge in it any force’’. We might introduce this notion — not by explaining it — but by inviting participants to choose to examine or enquire into a real situation by substituting a dialogic structure for their more taken-for-granted scripts. Given participants’ own accounts of the ‘‘problem’’ or issue they face — we invite them to adopt a more appreciative position which acknowledges that what others say is of genuine value and can make a difference to ‘‘our’’ world and to do so from a range of ‘‘dialogic’’ frames. It might not feel ‘‘natural’’ or ‘‘authentic’’ at ﬁrst but they are very likely to notice and build upon the effects. It does not take much — especially in a real value-laden context — to change negative expectations that often deﬁne a relationship — and hence allow different public behavior. Forms of talk are important — for example, ‘‘appreciation’’ or ‘‘‘invitations,’’ like all forms of talk, are symmetrical in their function14 — they tend to invite a set and similar response from the hearer. From a relational point of view, we can see forms of talk as generating patterns that call out behaviors from their participants. It is often difﬁcult to change these patterns unilaterally, since they are wrapped up with other features of the context and habitus. However, given the space, the temporary exemption from the daily norm that action learning offers, we can invite participants, together, into more productive patterns (some key examples) (Table 4.1).

4.6.1

Making the Connection between What We Say and What Happens

One of the key effects of the realist frame is to isolate activities and tasks in our ‘‘organizations’’ from ordinary meaning-making processes. This implies that we can know and anticipate how things work and simply ‘‘plan’’ for them. Of course such a reliance on planning, which is so prevalent in many organizations (‘‘It’s in the plan!’’) elides and collapses any view of ‘‘habitus’’ or relational practice — or how plans become interpreted in practice and precipitate action. Similarly many tasks and activities are disconnected from any shared sense of ‘‘what we are trying to do here.’’ Reg Revans may well have seen this when he began to promote the practice of action learning by deliberately distinguishing between programmed learning and questioning insight. However, there is little or no explicit acknowledgement of meaning making in interaction — or at least its constitutive effects — as action learning has conventionally come to be practiced. So we have found it useful to introduce a pragmatic sequence to help people make ordinary connections between 14

Pragmatics informs us that ‘‘utterances’’ gain their meaning from the way they are used. In other words participants have a repertoire of responses for types of situations or forms of talk. Such responses are not rational acts (according to Bourdieu) — but a matter of bodily know-how — we develop a ‘‘feel for the game.’’ For example, a form such as a ‘‘question’’ almost inevitably calls out the cooperative response of an ‘‘answer’’ — even when people intend, such as in a heated argument, to be uncooperative with each other!

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Table 4.1: Monological (realism) form compared with dialogical (relational) form. Monological (realism) form

Manifestation

Dialogical (relational) form

Manifestation

Assuming, projecting, introjecting or ‘backﬁlling’

What others say means in our world ‘‘They never mean what they say — we can’t trust them’’

Enquiring

Policing or controlling

This is how I want you to speak and behave. ‘‘I don’t want to hear about that — this is what I’m looking for’’

Inviting

Pathologizing

Delegitimizing others because they act differently. ‘‘There’s something wrong with you.’’

Appreciating

What does this mean for you? ‘‘Can you say a bit more about why you say that — how does it work for you?’’ I’m interested in what you might contribute to this. ‘‘This is what I’d like to do and I’d be really interested in how you see it and if you would help me.’’ Valuing others because they bring something different. ‘‘That’s really interesting — can you tell me more about the sense you make of it?’’

what they say and what they make happen — together. Typically then, a relational action learning meeting would reﬂect a three-stage process as follows: Part 1 — Enquiry (concerned with the past and present, not the future) What brings us here? What is our relationship to the problem or issue? Using action learning principles of protected turn taking, participants are invited to give accounts of how they see the historical development and contemporary enactment of the current situation — from their perspective. We might use any of the devices previously mentioned to enable these stories to unfold and to bring about more appreciation of how things come to be as they are. We introduce two rules — in order to help people move away from patterns that are often counter-productive. First, we ask ‘‘please do not talk about the future!’’ This helps people to avoid moving straight to solutions, which both reduces the space for asking questions and also tends to position others without allowing those others’ accounts to be heard. We have found that the simplest and quickest way to relieve people of their local

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predilection for ‘‘monologizing’’ forms of talk is to ensure that there is ample time to enquire into the past and present before talking about the future. Second, we ask people not to position others as responsible for their predicament — and where they are tempted to do so to reframe this as a question to others in the spirit of genuine curiosity (we might use some dialogic sentence forms as prompts here, too). Part 2 — Imagination (concerned with the future — and making clear our joint and several expectations) We invite people to imagine what their situation will be like in ‘‘x’’15 years time — when they have overcome their current frustrations and are meeting their, often unexpressed, expectations. We will ask people to say, looking back from the agreed point in the future, how they have overcome challenges they highlighted in their earlier enquiry phase. It is not uncommon in this process for participants to recognize that their expectations are more easily reconciled than they had previously considered. My own interpretation of this effect is that the interjection of the enquiry phase disturbs the ‘‘normal’’ practice of pathologizing others when rushing immediately to a solution and the newly discovered spirit of potential collaboration enables a more productive deﬁnition of working relationships and expectations to emerge. Incidentally where there are notional ‘‘boundaries’’ in any network (different organizations, different cultural practices, different interests, different resources or power) we ask people to work together in small, mixed groups that reﬂect the doxa and habitus from those different ﬁelds. The effect seems to be, working in such intimate groups, that there is less requirement for individuals to reﬂect an ‘‘institutional face’’ — with all the situational prejudices this demands — than when ‘‘lining up’’ across a table in more conventional meetings. Part 3 — Resolution (meaning making and commitment to action) Finally, having shared in a more multi-vocal expression of the past and future, we invite participants to make speciﬁc proposals they want to come about. In a conventional action learning set such actions are pre-owned by virtue of the architecture and focus on individual action and responsibility. In relational action learning we are more likely to be touching issues of ‘‘face’’ and ‘‘membership’’ and so there may be a temptation to ‘‘play safe’’ in front of the boss. However, we overcome this [we think] by asking people to make proposals that they want to ‘‘see’’ happen [safe — someone else’s responsibility] and ‘‘make’’ happen [more provocative — something I will commit to]. We ask people to do this from a frame that all proposals are deemed doable from the outset — that is, if we have done our initial preparation well, there is such a mandate16 at the meeting. The ﬁnal negotiation then is to identify those proposals that need more clariﬁcation, data or risk analysis before they can be supported. In practice we ﬁnd that, by this stage, there has developed a more public commitment to making different things happen than there is for defending the status quo. 15

‘‘X’’ depends on the nature of the task/problem, the rhythm of any production or service delivery ‘‘cycle’’ and prevailing environmental or socio-economic conditions. 16 There is no need to seek permission elsewhere if the mandate to decide is in the room. The invitation to those present is consequently to give a more public rationale why a proposal cannot be supported.

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Resolution

Our relational friends have pointed out, by ‘‘speaking’’ a little differently, some ways in which relational practice can begin to ‘‘arrest or interrupt the spontaneous, unselfconscious ﬂow of our ongoing activity’’ — if we think it is important, here or there, to work for change. Later in the chapter, I have applied some of these relational practices to the activity of action learning and hopefully illuminated how such learning practice might shift from seeing the ‘‘learning unit’’ as the embodied individual to include the important inﬂuences of ‘‘environment,’’ of interactivity, of social performance in any context — what Goffman called the ‘‘trafﬁc rules of interaction’’ — and that we might be better off, if change matters, working where the action is — in real risk laden, power-infused situations. I focused on action learning, as a much loved and advocated method for experiential meaning making, in order to highlight a shift in the assumptions contained in a particular set of conventional practices. However, if we are to bring about a world that can work productively with multiple voices, with distributed power and authority, with complex and dynamic social challenges — we might be better off ditching the 250-year old idea that truth is a property of nature guarded by a few experts [who have the keys]. This way of seeing things — so effective in freeing the world from the grip of institutions such as the church and monarchy — is now part of the problem and has served its time. If we want a world that acknowledges others and does not make light of the marginalized, that cares about the disenfranchised and is better at effecting social change, then we all have a moral responsibility for becoming more aware of the relational practice in all ‘‘the daily things we do.’’

Chapter 5

The Heart of Relational Organizing: Passion, Autonomy and Responsibility Paul Salipante and Nancy Koury King

5.1

Introduction

Modern organizational forms are subject to isomorphic processes (Di Maggio & Powell, 1983) that create a narrow range of organizational types. These types dominate discussion in the management literature, creating the impression that they represent the proper, advanced way to organize. As a consequence, critical scholars are calling for management research and education to become committed to praxis, ‘‘the ongoing construction of social arrangements that are conducive to the ﬂourishing (our emphasis) of the human condition’’ (Prasad & Caproni, 1997, p. 288). According to this view, researchers should seek to generate knowledge of alternative social forms that provide options to organizational leaders. This chapter represents our attempt to do so. Nonproﬁt organizations are good settings to examine alternative, noncorporate, nondominant model organizing (Bouwen & Steyaert, 1999). Studying these can expand the formally known (to literature) ‘‘gene pool’’ of organizing processes, making a broader range of processes available for intentional adoption. Relational inﬂuence is often hidden in corporate-form organizations (Fletcher, 1998). In contrast, it is quite out in the open in voluntaristic nonproﬁt organizations (Pearce, 1993). We can learn much about relational organizing by studying organizing in settings where voluntary action is occurring. And, learning more about effective volunteer organizing lends help to the nonproﬁt practice community that relies on volunteers to accomplish their missions. This study explores the relational basis of organizing in a vital, long-standing and self-governing voluntary association of docents. In contradiction to recent normative and mimetic processes that have produced in the United States a dominant

Relational Practices, Participative Organizing Advanced Series in Management, 77–102 Copyright r 2010 Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 1877-6361/doi:10.1108/S1877-6361(2010)0000007009

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model of bureaucratic management of volunteers by staff, these particular docents operate autonomously. Their autonomous association exists within the larger structure of a nonproﬁt organization, a zoo. The analysis examines the docents’ achieving of self-governance, responsibility and sustainable organizing. This achieving is not a once-and-done outcome but, rather, an ongoing social accomplishment. We argue here that this social accomplishment is fueled by two realities that the docents have socially constructed for themselves and that drive their engagement – passion for animals and desire for autonomy. The docent association has a bureaucratic structure – bylaws, job descriptions, hierarchy, and policies – but those serve a supportive rather than dominant role. Relational inﬂuence is the key to the docent association’s success. Through a set of relational practices, the docents interact with the animals and with others in a fashion that represents an ethic of responsibility. The sustaining of a self-governing association in the face of contrary trends is an example of human agency. Our task here is to understand how, through the relationships and realities that they construct, the docents organize in a highly effective and sustainable fashion that is distinctively different than the sector-wide trend. Consistent with the preceding paragraph and as depicted in the major headings of Figure 5.1, our analysis revolves around three main elements: (1) the docents’ constructed personal drivers of Passion for Animals and Desire for Autonomy, (2) Relational Practices that manifest the drivers and support an Ethic of Responsibility, and (3) Outcomes of Access to Animals and Self-Control for the docents and, for the organization, Sustained Valuable Work from the docents.

Figure 5.1: Model of relational practices.

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Relational Organizing Among Volunteers

Rather than examining the social–relational aspects of volunteerism, most contemporary literature on volunteers has concentrated on volunteers’ motives and attachments (cf. Clary & Snyder, 1999; Yeung, 2004). Much of this literature has emphasized preexisting, individualistic factors such as personality (cf. Wardell, Lishman, & Whalley, 2000). Discussion concerns whether volunteers’ motives are primarily egoistic or altruistic. Others note that volunteers’ work points to a complex interrelationship of these self- and other-oriented motives (Clary & Snyder, 1999) and to the relative importance of volunteers’ actual experiences in their organizational endeavors, and the accompanying emotions and need fulﬁllment, over their preexisting needs and antecedent experiences (Davis, Hall, & Meyer, 2003). Volunteers have been found to become morally involved, entering into the realm of protagonists and antagonists (Glover, 2004). Here, we rely on these more recent perspectives and extend them to the relational realm by examining volunteers’ ongoing interactions and the associated collective construction of motives. Analyses of effective organizational performance often reveal its dependence on a core group of highly skilled workers who carry a disproportionate share of the workload. So Jone L. Pearce (1993) discovered in volunteer-staffed organizations, conﬁrming and extending the work of prior researchers. The core volunteers were typically termed ‘‘the leadership’’ and performed ofﬁce-holder roles. In Pearce’s volunteer-staffed organizations, and in opposition to employee-staffed organizations, ofﬁces were neither widely sought nor seen as having perks. Rather, people selfselected from peripheral membership into the core based on their willingness to take on the time-consuming burden of ofﬁce. Pearce indicates the importance of cohesive group phenomena that result from the increased interaction among core members, enabling the control through relational inﬂuence noted above. To these ideas we can add those of Farmer and Fedor (1999) regarding personal investments. Those who have made high role investments in the past, especially holding ofﬁce, are more tightly bound to the organization and subsequently contribute more hours of their time, solidifying their membership in the core. Some nonproﬁt research points to relational aspects of organizing. Pearce emphasized issues of interpersonal inﬂuence. Bloom and Kilgore (2003) emphasized the roles of trust, affection and self-learning and how these were produced through the joint engagement of volunteers and clients in social and practical activities. Smith (2000) indicated that volunteers prefer less intense and stressful but highly rewarding activities. To investigate the relational organizing that occurs through ongoing interactions, Rene Bouwen (1998) suggests taking the relationship itself as a unit of analysis. He identiﬁes as core processes of meaning construction in relationships ‘‘dialoguing y, generating and communicating knowledge y, attending to the quality of relationships, creating new metaphors y, and enhancing multi-voiced communication’’ (1998, p. 299). Among volunteers, where relational inﬂuence has been found to be prominent, these and other relational processes can be expected to be critically important in producing and reproducing successful organizing. By fostering

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relationships that possess certain qualities, and by engaging in effective relational practices, groups of volunteers can create and recreate their own community of practice (Lave & Wenger, 1991; Wenger, 1998). The knowledge and understandings constructed in that community should then guide members’ actions. We will argue that this is, indeed, the case for the volunteer organization studied here. Further, the highly personalized nature of relational organizing means that emotions are a central element, both sustaining and being sustained by relational activities (Hosking & Fineman, 1990; Fineman, 2003). With leadership being carried by a core group in volunteer-driven organizations, as described above, the dialogues, relational practices, and emotions of members of the core group can be expected to be central to the ongoing constructing of the organization. Following from the above views, this paper treats the relationship as the unit of analysis, examining the nature and qualities of relationships in a volunteer organization, the emotions and ethics constructed through them, and the consequences of these for the sustaining of effective organizing.

5.1.2

Methods

This study is part of a larger ethnography involving many months of observation and interviews. The ethnography focused on a zoological park in the United States, one that had served modest local needs for many years, then transformed itself over a three decade period into a zoo of national reputation. We will refer to it subsequently as, simply, the Zoo. In the text, we have disguised various aspects of the setting that have little impact on interpretation. The methods of the study were ethnographic and narrative (Glover, 2004). A ﬁrst phase of the research utilized an ethnographic design to examine the operation of social networks in and beyond the Zoo. Knowledge gained in that phase concerning the potency of this zoo’s self-governing docent association led to our focus upon it for the present study. Over 250 docents provide at least 30,000 volunteer hours annually to the zoo in the form of public talks, tours of the facility, volunteering at special events and supporting the animal keepers. The puzzle that we set out to explore was how the docent organization achieved its effectiveness, strong standing and sustainability in the larger organization of the Zoo. The rapid ethnographic study reported here relied upon three data collection methods – participant observation, phenomenological interviews and readings from secondary sources. The Zoo’s CEO and the Board Chair both offered their verbal endorsement to the study, and signed a letter of cooperation. The organization provided us with access to meetings, interviews, and the facility over a one-year period. Backed up by the data previously collected, ethnographic interviews (Spradley, 1979) were the primary method of data collection for the docent phase. The particular focus here is the analysis of data from interviews with four of the volunteer association’s leaders. These interviews were framed as concerning processes of self-governance, yet we quickly learned that the leaders’ comments were strikingly narrative in style and necessarily encompassed their broader lived worlds as docents: ‘‘The qualitative research interview attempts to understand the world from the

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subjects’ points of view, to unfold the meaning of the peoples’ experiences, to uncover their lived world prior to scientiﬁc explanations’’ (Kvale, 1996, p. 1). The interview process itself was relational, not simply in the usual way between interviewer and interviewee as noted by Kvale, but among interviewees themselves in the form of a group discussion. In these phenomenological interviews a recent president of the docent association and three docents recounted their experiences to us. Each of the four interviewees was currently or previously an ofﬁce-holder in the docent organization. Three of the leaders met with us in the same lengthy interview, speaking as much to each other as to us, a process that led to richer descriptions and ones that ﬁt their docent perspective rather than the interviewers’. Although numerous sources of data were accessed, this article places primary emphasis on the information from these leadership interviews, which resulted in over 40 single-spaced pages of transcription. We also engaged in observations and phenomenological interactions with ﬁve additional docents at the annual docent recognition meeting, where over 200 docents were present. In addition to interviews with docent leaders and docents, we collected data through participant observation at staff and board meetings where a docent leader was present and through phenomenological interviews with the Zoo’s CEO, board members, senior managers and staff. Secondary sources of data gave background and insight into the workings of the docent organization. Finally, through visits to the zoological park, we were able to observe the docents in action. These additional sources and methods provided the means for us to triangulate the data collected from the docents during their interviews. Interviews and meetings were audio taped and transcribed verbatim. Observations were audio taped and transcribed as researcher notes. We used four steps in analyzing the data. First, each of the two authors independently analyzed the leadership interviews using the inductive approach of open coding (Emerson, Fretz, & Shaw, 1995). Next, we exchanged our coded transcripts and compared our respective coding approaches. Third, we studied the transcripts and codes and independently conducted a thematic analysis of the data (Boyatzis, 1998). Such analysis was accompanied by further, closed coding and permitted us to systematically increase our sensitivity to the data. This step involved the use of memos independently written and exchanged, and included analysis at both the descriptive and interpretive levels. Through comparison and discussion, we agreed upon ﬁnal themes and jointly negotiated interpretations of the data.

5.1.3

The Docents’ Roles

The docents play four important roles at the Zoo, each involving meaningﬁlled relationships with nondocents. First, the docents are in many ways the Zoo’s primary interface with the public, representing the animals to the public. Docents are stationed throughout the Zoo each day to answer questions that visitors might have about the animals. More broadly, docents provide numerous educational presentations on site and off for groups such as schools, nursing homes and company picnics.

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They also provide tours of the Zoo for various groups. Second, docents perform a quasi security role. Although there is formal security staff on the grounds, docents posted throughout the Zoo often ﬁnd themselves challenged by rude or worse behavior by visitors. Docents protect the public from the animals and the animals from the public. Third, docents serve the role of extension to the keeper staff. The animal keepers are paid staff members who are all trained animal caretakers. Docents work in a speciﬁc animal region (e.g., apes) and assist the keepers in their region with answering questions for the public, and observing and monitoring the animals’ conditions. Fourth, the docent leadership participates in management and governance of the Zoo. Some leaders sit on the Zoo’s board and others participate in regular department meetings of managerial staff. The board and staff acknowledge the centrality of the docents to the current and future operation of the Zoo.

5.1.4

The Docents as Community – Autonomous Yet Connected

Docents are enthusiastic about their roles and being a part of the Zoo itself. This enthusiasm and strong sense of community was visibly demonstrated and most clearly observed at their annual meeting, where over 200 of them gathered to recognize their accomplishments and hear about their favorite animals or exhibits from selected Zoo staff. Docents proudly sported various forms of docent logo wear. The room was a sea of bright turquoise jackets, polo shirts and sweatshirts with the word ‘‘docent’’ on it. Almost all of them wore ofﬁcial docent name badges on a lariat around their neck. Those not in ofﬁcial docent logo-wear wore blouses, slacks and jackets displaying animal prints – giraffe, zebra and leopard – or in outﬁts with animals pictured on them. This type of strong social identity sustains commitment and prosocial behavior (Tidwell, 2005). It is important to the docents that they are not identiﬁed as employees. The docents point out that their name badges, logo and logo wear are distinct from the Zoo’s. Docents have aqua-colored clothing; the Zoo’s uniforms are dark green. Notably, the docent organization designates a chairperson to be in charge of uniforms and logo wear to insure consistency and use of their docent brand. Yet despite this deliberate distinction, a key part of their identity is that docents become ‘‘insiders’’ at the Zoo. In the zoological areas that they choose to frequent, their observations and conversations with staff and other docents make them aware of special occurrences among the animals – a particular gorilla being pregnant, or another animal having died. This type of ‘‘insider’’ knowledge is sometimes kept from the public until the appropriate time for an announcement. Insider status signals to volunteers their centrality to the Zoo and its mission, giving their efforts additional meaning.

5.1.5

Passion for Being a Docent

Docents are emotionally committed to their roles. Consider the practices of members who take on leadership responsibilities. Even those who hold the top ofﬁces in the

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organization insist that they continue their ‘‘trench docent’’ activities. ‘‘When Mary asked me to run (for President), my ﬁrst question was, ‘Can I still participate?’ Because, honestly, I would not have done it if I couldn’t.’’ This practice was followed by all of the most recent seven or eight presidents continuing their direct docent work with the public and animals while tending to their duties of ofﬁce. At the Zoo, there is a special relationship and commitment of volunteer leaders to their direct service roles. Their activities in the trenches are central, while leadership is a necessary support activity whose time burdens cannot be allowed to eliminate performance of that central role. This can be understood only by considering the emotion attached to their task performance and relationships, as we will now describe.

5.2

The Docents’ Relationships and Realities

In the following sections the docents’ key relationships are presented in the order of our assessment of their importance to sustainable organizing of the volunteers. We start with the docents’ relationship with the animals. No doubt there is far more to the docents’ relationships at the Zoo than we, as outsiders, are able to discern and describe. Nowhere is this more true than their relationship with the animals. Nevertheless, we believe that we have captured enough of the docents’ realities to demonstrate that the networks of relationships and realities are exceedingly rich, interconnected, and consequential for organizing. In each set of relationships, we will see that particular relational practices are extensions of the docents’ passion for animals and desire for autonomy, others support an ethic of responsibility that ensures a signiﬁcant contribution to the Zoo’s mission, and some relational practices support both.

5.2.1

Relationships with the Animals

The animals can’t talk. We talk for them. (We are) ambassadors for them.

In the interview discussions, the docent leaders became emotional, one might say animated, whenever they discussed the animals. This was especially evident when they described their most direct encounters with animals. The docents’ ofﬁcial duties do not include taking care of the animals since they are not trained animal handlers. They know their limits, not touching the animals except in special circumstances, primarily when particular animals are on special exhibit for demonstrations with the public. Docents explicitly associate their beneﬁt of being close to the animals with the responsibility of keeping some distance and allowing the keepers to care for them directly. Yet on rare occasions, keepers reward docents by allowing them near the animals and on occasion to touch them. ‘‘I got to hold a baby gorilla,’’ said one docent. Another said, ‘‘I petted our female lion, I was so in love with her, and she got so she would come to me.’’ Readers with pets at home may be able to relate to these

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emotions, yet they are likely stronger among docents. The animals are more exotic than most home pets and permitted interaction with them is circumscribed and less frequent and, hence, more emotional. It is the animals that inspire the docents. Docents follow the progress of individual animals closely. Through zoo morning announcements, the docent newsletter and meetings with keepers, they get regular updates on births, deaths, hospitalizations and transfers. At the annual docent meeting, the head keeper was the featured speaker, opening his talk with a video of the long awaited birth of a baby gorilla. The room was full of ‘‘oohs and ahs’’ as docents intensely watched the baby being born. Afterward, the head keeper responded to dozens of questions about this and other animals: ‘‘How is the baby gorilla doing?’’; ‘‘When will the new elephant be on display to the public?’’; ‘‘Are the moose ready to be released into the wild?’’ The docents expect to be informed about changes in animals’ status and likewise expect that all docents will keep abreast of changes in their particular area. As they acquire knowledge about the animals, and are in their presence, their interest deepens. It is, in fact, more than an interest. As they observe parents and children watching the animals, the docents identify with the animals. Docents are not just at the Zoo for the public’s beneﬁt but for the animals’. When visitors disturb the animals, such as by beating on the glass of exhibits, docents intervene to protect the animals, their friends. For instance, when a visitor contravened the rules by feeding a banana to one of the animals, a docent initiated control of the situation by educating the visitor about the health reasons for the rule. There is more going on in these cases of rule maintaining than the educational role of the docents. They are identifying with the animals, respecting them, and asking visitors to do likewise. Among themselves, the interviewed docents wondered what it would be like for disrespectful visitors to be on exhibit. What would it be like to ‘‘bring the animals out every day at 4:00 to watch the people?’’ The docents are in serious, emotional relationships with the animals, which is why they describe these relationships as friendships. On the special occasions when docents do come in contact with the animals, they talk about them in terms of reverence: ‘‘God, when you get something like that, y.’’; ‘‘It’s wonderful!’’; ‘‘Fabulous!’’ We might better write that an essential source of meaningfulness for the docents is that the animals are ‘‘wonder-ful,’’ that the docents are there to help protect them and, beyond that, to educate others about the wonder and the need for protection. The docents possess an animal passion. Docents at the Zoo are crazy about animals. But, they are more than just groupies hanging around the animals. They connect their passion for animals and the animals’ need for protection to what would otherwise be the sometimes unpleasant task of controlling the public. More broadly, docents connect their volunteer work at the Zoo with the even larger mission of promoting respect for the natural world and the conservation of animals worldwide. They see themselves as playing a personal role that is at the heart of this mission: They are advocates for the animals that they love. By providing factual information to the public, and displaying the respect that they accord to the animals, they are delivering a message to the public about animals, the natural world, and preservation. They ‘‘talk for the animals.’’

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It is important to note that the relational practices involving the animals are routinized (Reckwitz, 2002) and experienced frequently by the docents, so the social construction of the docents’ passion, autonomy, and norms is ongoing, continually (re)constructing the reality of their drives and ethics. Two of the relational practices just described serve to continually construct the docents’ personal drivers — namely, the practices of being near the animals, following and sharing the animals’ progress, and celebrating their distinctive docent community. These practices fuel the docents’ passion for animals and desire for autonomy. Other relational practices serve to create an ethic of responsibility among the docents — namely, restrictions on the docents touching the animals, and the docents protecting the public from the animals. These practices continually reinforce the docents’ obligations to their own docent organization, to the Zoo, and to the public mission of these organizations. And, two relational practices construct both the personal drivers and the ethic of responsibility – protecting the animals from the public, and educating the public about the natural world by ‘‘talking for the animals.’’ To ‘‘talk for the animals’’ is at the heart of the docent leaders’ understandings of the signiﬁcant contributions that their volunteer involvement provides them. While other analysts might attribute this to individualized need fulﬁllment, we argue here that the spirit and joy of being a docent springs most fundamentally from a set of passions, norms, and rhetorics shared among the docents, and the singular meaning that they have constructed for their tasks. The docents are there, individually and collectively, because they manifest the mission of the Zoo. Acting as a local society, they have constructed their relationships with the animals in a fashion that is beneﬁcial to themselves and their passions and that enacts responsibly the Zoo’s most fundamental mission. 5.2.2

Relationships with Each Other

The people, the staff the lasting friendships, all the people. ySome of us go on trips together, it’s a feel-good placey

The docents’ relationship with the animals provides a basis for their relationships with each other. They enjoy being around the animals and interacting with each other concerning their love of animals. Tellingly, docents do not describe their interactions as relationships but as friendships: ‘‘Most people develop very good friendships here.’’ They respect each other – ‘‘some very good, some very strong people.’’ Respect is evident in the docents’ relationships with one another. Docents are quick to point out that theirs is a group of highly skilled and educated individuals with their own professional careers. They proudly identify the university professors, doctors, nurses, business leaders, attorneys and other professionals who are members of their association. Relationships with each other are characterized by the following relational practices: learning together, mentoring prote´ge´s, mutual monitoring, leading and following, and contending and changing. These practices support their passion for animals and their desire to remain an autonomous organization.

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5.2.2.1 Learning together. What do the docents do with each other that creates and maintains the friendly and respectful nature of their relationships? One activity is stimulating each other’s learning about their loved animals, living an ethic of curiosity and information seeking. This ethic in their relationships produces situated learning (Lave & Wenger, 1991). While all task situations carry the potential for learning, only when interpersonal relationships are conducive is learning actually likely to occur (Hanks, 1991). Such relationships are present among docents at the Zoo. Their enthusiasm is ‘‘contagious.’’ They want to tell each other what they have found. ‘‘And then people share – it’s like, Oh my God, did you watch this (on TV)? I taped it.’’ ‘‘I want to see it.’’ Opportunities for acquiring more knowledge abound, and are greedily seized. Parents and children ask questions that stimulate a search for answers. These questions result in docents’ seeking answers from keepers. When the keepers don’t know the answers, a quest is begun to ﬁnd the information elsewhere, for the question is then a very intriguing one, and many people who do not know the answer can learn something new. Knowledge is gleaned from many sources and eagerly spread around. Updates about particular zoo animals are posted on the docents’ website. Docents organize trips to other zoos, and some use their vacation time from work to take these trips. Learning and sharing ‘‘y continues with our association with other docent associations y Whether it’s a regional conference or a national conference. You know, you go and you hear about things other zoos are doing. You meet people, you write to people, you go to their zoo and you visit them.’’ Some docents bring substantial, relevant knowledge with them from their professional lives. They are experts who have devoted signiﬁcant periods of their lives to acquiring, transmitting, and sometimes generating knowledge in areas such as anatomy and reproductive processes. These knowledge bases can be applied, expanded and shared in the zoo environment. For other docents without such knowledge bases, curiosity about animals is the stimulus for their learning. Whatever their professional background, docents have made the Zoo ‘‘an enriching environment’’ for themselves, one in which learning is part and parcel of their reality. What becomes of docents who are not immersed in learning? ‘‘They don’t last long.’’ ‘‘Unless you wanted to learn, y there are other organizations that you can do that (volunteer) at.’’ Becoming skilled, collectively, is a challenge for any volunteer group. At the Zoo, knowledge is valued in its own right by docents, and learning together is an essential part of their relationships. It is a basic element that continually reproduces their effective task performance and their standing in the larger organization, the Zoo. Their expertise enables them to hold their own with staff, and it permits them to perform their services for the public at a high level. Volunteers’ long-term commitment to the animals and the Zoo permits a deepening of their knowledge over time and, in turn, is sustained by their continual pursuit of knowledge. The interplay of passion, learning, and knowledge expression in their relationships is a robust organizing dynamic for these volunteers. Passion drives the desire for knowledge. Respect from peers, keepers and the public is one of the rewards.

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5.2.2.2 Mentoring prote´ge´s. Docents recognize that learning and assimilation into the group are enhanced by mentor–prote´ge´ relationships. New docents are supported by mentors, docents who volunteer to serve as a coach and contact for new docents. Whereas discussion of this process in most organizations and literature refers to this process as ‘‘mentoring,’’ in their interviews docent leaders repeatedly used the term ‘‘prote´ge´,’’ placing the focus in the relationship on the new members and the support provided to them. Passion and knowledge are transmitted through the association-wide practice of mentor–prote´ge´ relationships. For example, at the annual meeting, each committee and subcommittee chair proudly called each of its members to be recognized for their service. Time after time a ‘‘mentor’’ was thanked or a ‘‘prote´ge´’’ was lauded. This type of recognition is meaningful because it comes from socially valued peers rather than distant authorities (Pearce, 1993), and it fosters friendship and respect while also building identity for the new members. 5.2.2.3 Mutual monitoring. Despite the friendly relations described above, as in any human organization, all is not sweetness and light. When problems of member behavior arise, docents assume responsibility for managing each other. If they do not, they fear that they will not be able to preserve their autonomous status and respected position in the Zoo as a whole. Put another way, docent leaders seek to perpetuate their personally fulﬁlling experiences, and those of their peripheral members, by taking on the responsibility of mutual self-monitoring. One manifestation of this is an extensive set of rules and practices concerning appropriate behavior. The docents have created bylaws that spell out appropriate conduct, as in the keeping of conﬁdential information about the animals, and when members deviate, ‘‘You remind them.’’ Monitoring, then, is accomplished by peers. When direct reminders have not been enough, as has been the case a few times in their history, members who persist in deviating are handled through a grievance procedure. Docents consider it their personal responsibility to call each other on inappropriate behavior. In their organizational meetings, when members proceed too far with ideas that reﬂect their personal interests rather than the organization’s, others tell them, in effect, ‘‘Stop and think!’’, keeping them responsible to the Zoo and its mission. Because they are self-policing, they cannot turn a blind eye to a member who would harm the Zoo. 5.2.2.4 Leading and following. We know from Pearce’s research that it is no easy job to recruit volunteer members for leadership (core group) roles. Strikingly, in contrast to experience in many volunteer settings, a large percentage of the docents serve leadership roles at the Zoo. The docent association president noted that, ‘‘It takes one-third of our members to run this organization.’’ Other than this, selfgoverning organization provides a structure for the docents to achieve individual autonomy and collective self-control, and as a result, a high degree of commitment and meaning. With a volunteer base of over 250 people, the docents have used shared leadership, small group structures, and prote´ge´-ing to keep their members involved, included, and committed.

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Members take on leadership roles in order to support their in-the-trenches docent activities and, not incidentally, preserve their autonomous, self-governing status in the Zoo. The recognition of self-governance as a contingent reality provides a spur to step forward and take on leadership roles when asked or the situation demands. ‘‘Arm-twisting’’ is a common practice. ‘‘Most people are willing to take on things,’’ if given ‘‘a clear picture of what you’re needed to do.’’ At the same time, many of the leadership roles are considered to be ‘‘a joy, animalpleasant.’’ Docent leaders of zoological regions have tasks of providing educational information on the animals in their regions, consistent with their personal animal passion. It is common for docent leaders to proceed through a variety of leadership roles, such as board member, committee chairs, cochairs or taking on roles such as newsletter editor, historian, or parliamentarian. The docent association implements a deliberate system for leadership roles called ‘‘monkey move up,’’ otherwise known as succession planning. Docents are often placed in leadership roles in pairs so that one docent can assume primary responsibility and the other can work alongside him or her, learning the leadership role and preparing to assume it in the future. This system also serves to prevent one leader from being overwhelmed or burned out. One docent wondered why she was on the list of leaders. She had been in several leader roles over the years, but she was not presently in one. Consistent with the concept of core group membership, and in contrast to Weberian concepts of bureaucracy, her presence on the list indicates that leadership status attaches to the person as much as to the role. Current leaders consult readily with past leaders, seeking their advice and experience, and people move in and out of particular leadership roles with some ﬂuidity and, not infrequently, some friction. Leaders can seek to initiate change, or not. One president and president-elect pair saw the need for shaking-up some organizational practices and leadership structures. They were willing to put in the extra energy to bring about change and felt that their election had been something of a mandate to do so. At the same time, various members are willing to take on leadership roles because they know it is primarily their choice as to the level of effort to put into them. They can serve well by continuing and maintaining, or they can choose to take on the extra burden of change. 5.2.2.5 Contending and changing. Members speak with a strong voice in their organizational dealings and meetings. Exercising voice is a part of being responsible, and contention is common. Efforts are made by docent leaders to be proactive in their communications. However, the docent president notes that the ‘‘phone works both ways,’’ referring to the responsibility docents have to make their own needs and requests known. In response to information received from members, the docent president took a strong approach to problem solving, ‘‘Every time somebody would say, ‘Well this is a dilemma,’ I’d say ‘Let’s go ﬁx it.’ ’’ There is another aspect to the leadership’s proactive approach. The leaders whom we interviewed acknowledged that in a volunteer organization of this size, rumors can start and snowball. They claimed it was their responsibility as leaders to ‘‘stem the gossip.’’ With the group’s diversity, docent leaders admit that they are not always

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successful, ‘‘It is explaining why or nipping it in the bud. And there are times we hear things and we will try and nip it in the bud and go to the source, and explain what this small issue has now become. But that’s one of those things – you do your best, and you’re not always going to be successful, because there are just different people with different personalities.’’ In questions of leadership succession and problem-solving, the docent leaders emphasized that they strive to transcend cliques. This is for good reason. Cliques are accepted as a reality. But, while cliques are inevitable, they represent a particular problem to a system running on relational inﬂuence. If one clique is heavily favored in leadership positions, or dominates in the actions taken to handle problems, the entire relational dynamic can change. As Pearce (1993) noted, volunteers are not shrinking violets. Perhaps members speak out because they view their exercise of voice as not being a personal threat to their continuing in the organization, as it can be in most employment situations. Their voice is an expression of their passion and their pursuit of mission, and it provides a dynamism and vitality to the organization. The extensive exercise of voice, within a circle of friendships, permits an expansion of reciprocal inﬂuence and control in this social system (Tannenbaum, 1968). Let us review and categorize this section’s relational practices as constructing particular of the docents’ realities. The realities of their desire for autonomy and of their ethic of responsibility are both constructed through the practices of sharing leadership in pairs, initiating change to keep their organization vital, contending with each other at organizational meetings, stemming gossip, and transcending cliques. Failing to act responsibly in these ways would jeopardize their autonomous organization. And, the practice of region leaders providing educational information on the animals to their peer docents sustains both the reality of their ethic and of their passion for the animals.

5.2.3

Relationships with the Animal Keepers

Auxiliary keepers

Meaningfulness ﬂows from docents’ relationships with the animal keepers. Keepers facilitate and, in effect, manage the docents’ connections with the animals that they love. Being closest to the animals, keepers hold a special place in the Zoo, ‘‘somewhere higher than the Director,’’ so the joke goes. Keepers are perceived as having the animals’ best interests at heart. The keepers’ passion for and expertise about the animals they care for are what fuels the docents’ respect and passion for these individuals. It is the head animal keeper who is the invited featured speaker each year at the docent’s annual meeting. Docents and keepers engage in a reciprocal exchange that beneﬁts both. Keepers in their specialized zoological area provide docents with animal knowledge and access. In exchange, docents often free the keepers from answering questions from the public and occasionally help with the care of the animals. For instance, docents rotated shifts to provide a ‘‘24-hour watch’’ to a pregnant animal, an endangered species, for

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a period of 2 months and alerted the keeper when the animal went into labor. They continued their monitoring for another month to keep watch on the newborn as well. Associating with the keepers accords additional status to the docents. Docents sometimes describe themselves as ‘‘auxiliary keepers,’’ noting ‘‘I feel like I’m an equal professional.’’ The term ‘‘auxiliary’’ here connotes complementary rather than subordinate status. Being respected by the keeper is a sign to docents of their personal worth at the Zoo. This worth is attained and sustained by expending energy to become knowledgeable. Keepers’ respect conﬁrms docents’ knowledge of the animals and their ability to communicate that to the public. Occasionally, in chasing down an answer to a visitor’s question, docents provide knowledge to the keepers that the keepers did not possess. The animal knowledge that docents acquire due to their contagion of learning and sharing of information enables a respectful relationship with the keepers. A lack of skill among the docents would weaken these relationships and hamper effective collaboration with the keepers. Maintaining the respect of the keepers is important for docents who want to be involved in particular zoological areas. The keepers have veto power over the selection of docents assigned to their areas. The docent president shared with us that one of the keepers had recently refused to let a particular docent work in his area. The docent president had to serve as a liaison between the rejected docent and the keeper. Despite the docent’s disappointment, the president respected the keeper’s wishes and reassigned the docent to another area. The docents’ relational practices with the keepers help to sustain their key realities. Their passion and autonomy is reconstructed each time that the keepers provide the docents with access to speciﬁc animals and knowledge about them, each time that the docents provide the keepers with information that the keepers did not have, and each time that a docent serves in any way as an ‘‘auxiliary keeper.’’ Similarly, the docents’ ethic of responsibility is maintained whenever they engage in the practice of relieving keepers from the need to interact with the public. All these practices serve to reinforce the reality that they must hold the keepers in respect and earn their respect, which the docents realize is requisite to their own access to the animals.

5.2.4

Relationships with Administrators and Managers

That’s the relationship we have. We’re autonomous and he appreciates that.

The self-governing docent association resides within the Zoo, so the association’s leaders must connect with the Zoo’s CEO and other administrators. Formally, the docent president is a member of the Zoo’s governing board and the Zoo’s larger advisory board. She provides reports to the board at each meeting. ‘‘I sat as a full member on the Board of Trustees y. At X organization, I was ex-ofﬁcio on the Foundation’s Board, but here they include us,’’ stated the docent president, comparing her experience as president of a volunteer group at another organization with that at the Zoo. The president of the docents is also considered a member of the senior management team and attends the CEO’s meetings with his department heads. She also represented the docents in the organization’s recent strategic planning process.

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The docents have sought to improve communication and coordination by providing representatives to various zoo staff committees, such as special events and safety committees. They are invited to listen in on the ‘‘morning report,’’ a daily update to all staff in the zoo. Recently, the Zoo engaged in a comprehensive strategic planning process to discuss its future growth. Docents were involved in the process and had an opportunity to share their ideas and concerns with staff and board members. Ironically, the docents are in fact ultimately managed by a paid staff member – the CEO. While they are self-governing in their own activities, the docent president stated that she reports directly (and only) to the Zoo’s CEO. She credits this arrangement as one of the reasons for the success of the docents. ‘‘I didn’t report to any of the other managers in between,’’ nor do any docents. According to her, this arrangement is unique; most other volunteer organizations have paid staff members assigned to manage them. ‘‘So if the president has a problem that needs to be ﬁxed, his open door policy and the previous CEO’s is also what really makes us able to do what we do.’’ She states that the CEO’s open door policy fosters ownership among the docents. ‘‘It becomes their zoo, it becomes our zoo. This is our zoo. So we have ownership of that and the CEO’s open door policy allows us to continue to do that.’’ The docent’s president sees her role as a liaison between the zoo’s management and the docents, and she represents the docents’ ideas to management when requesting a change. ‘‘That was my strength this year, identifying the problems, making sure that people knew there was a problem. If they could give me the solution, then I’d go to management and get that taken care of.’’ The docent’s president is far from a supplicant in her relationship with top management. The docents view their organizational autonomy in an historical context. The Zoo had docent volunteers before it created paid staff in an education department. All docents interviewed echoed the sentiment that being managed by a paid staff member would be an unsatisfactory arrangement. Several of the interviewees had volunteered at other organizations where a department head assigned and scheduled them. ‘‘What they do is, they tell the volunteers where they’re needed. They tell them what to do, where to go and when to do it. That’s the usual model.’’ ‘‘At one organization I worked at, all they let the volunteers do is work in the gift shop. If I wanted to do that, I’d go to Hallmark (a retail gift store) and get paid,’’ exclaimed one docent at the annual meeting. They say that if someone told them where they were assigned, ‘‘I would do it, but I would not be happy.’’ Through sharing such stories, the docents sustain a particular reality, one that conﬁrms the value of their association’s autonomy and stresses the need to organize and act responsibly in order to maintain the respect of administrators and preserve the docents’ autonomy. Docent leaders view their self-governing status as an indicator of management’s respect for them. In fact, they see maintaining their autonomy by remaining selfgoverning and reporting to the CEO as a measure of their worth and success. The reverse also holds. Their reality has been constructed to associate reporting to a lower level manager and losing their self-governing nature with failure. The biggest threat to the docents would be to lose that self-governing status.

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Two of the above-described docents’ relational practices with management and staff reinforce the docents’ reality of desire for autonomy – namely, reporting to each other rather than to staff, and their president reporting only to the Zoo’s director. We should not assume that volunteers innately desire autonomy and self-governance. Here, that desire is socially constructed in the docents’ ongoing relational practices. Certain of their practices similarly serve to sustain their ethic of responsibility – leaders working with members to identify problems, and working with the CEO to ﬁx those problems. Several of their practices involving management sustain both the docents’ desire for autonomy and their ethic of responsibility — namely, serving as peers alongside management at meetings and on committees, jointly ﬁxing problems in a way that builds ownership among the docents, and docents’ relating to managers in a manner that earns their respect. Among the docents the various relational practices described in this section serve to tightly intertwine the construction of autonomy with that of responsibility.

5.2.5

Relationship with the Public

Open their eyes

Relationships with zoo visitors are driven by the docents’ relationships with the animals. Animals are often seen by visitors as ‘‘pets’’ who are ‘‘tame.’’ One docent with experience in Japan described to her fellow docents that Japanese zoos are entertainment centers, where animals are drawn out for display and performance at scheduled times of the day. At the Zoo, docents understand things differently. The animals come ﬁrst. The Zoo ‘‘keeps animals as wild as we can.’’ Docents attempt to help parents and children understand this. For example, one docent helped a parent ﬁnd a difﬁcult-to-see animal in an exhibit, then ﬁlled the parent in with some facts on the animal’s nature, so that the parent could, in turn, educate the child who was with her. The goal is to expand visitors’ awareness, to ‘‘open their eyes.’’ Docents thrive on visitors that share their passion for animals. ‘‘You love the person that stays for an hour because there really is just so much to talk about.’’ Indeed, docents see the regular visitors to the Zoo as those who get the message. ‘‘We are here for what’s best for the animals.’’ Docents want parents to understand the implicit message and communicate to their children the ‘‘values’’ concerned with the responsibility to properly care for animals. Docents have knowledge that can help visitors understand the need for respect for the natural world. They are pleased, for instance, when they hear that the recycling exhibit, a house built from recycled materials, is having an impact on parents. They are reinforced when they hear regular visitors say, ‘‘There’s the gorilla lady,’’ knowing that their knowledge and demeanor is helping people develop ‘‘respect for the planet.’’ Docents also are enforcers of rules that the public must follow. For example, one of the docents explained that she had to stop a father from holding his son over the fence that surrounded the crocodiles’ area. Rule maintenance is the type of

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bureaucratically oriented task that Pearce (1993) found volunteers choosing to ignore. At the Zoo, this task is zealously pursued, since it is interpreted by docents as integral to their deﬁnition of mission, as protecting the animals and educating the public about the preservation of the natural world. In one case, a docent had to control a group of teens who were pounding on the glass of the gorilla cage. One docent described it as dealing with the daily ‘‘freak show.’’ Consistent with their role, this rules enforcement is carried out as part of the docents’ educational relationship with the public. It is an opportunity to inform visitors about the animals’ habits, their needs, and the reasons for the rules. But, in a broader sense, this relationship is one of advocacy, of advocating to the public on behalf of the animals. Rather than a simple relationship of teacher and student, the relationship occasionally takes on the character of antagonist (the visitor) and protagonist (docent). There is a strong values-basis to voluntaristic activity that can transform actors into antagonists and protagonists (Glover, 2004). With visitors, the docents publicly express their being champions for the natural world, for the animals with which they have a personal relationship. Of the various relational practices involving docents and the public, the docents advocating and championing on behalf of the animals, of being protagonists for the natural world, serves to sustain their reality of passion for animals. When they enforce rules with the public, they recreate their reality of responsibility. And, when they strive to open the eyes of the public by conveying knowledge of the animals, they reinforce both their passion and their ethic of responsibility.

5.3

Discussion

Many of the docents’ relational practices described above ﬁt with Rene Bouwen’s (1998) core processes of meaning construction, which were noted earlier in this paper and are italicized here. Practices of dialoguing were omni-present between docents and other participants at the Zoo and, most importantly, with each other. Much of the dialoguing served to generate and communicate knowledge, not only about the animals but also about how to act as a docent. This knowledge was often rooted in the creation of metaphors such as ‘‘talking for the animals’’ and animal analogies such as ‘‘monkey move up.’’ Seeking respect, mentoring prote´ge´s, and sharing leadership all served to attend to the quality of relationships. However, harmony was not always the by-word for quality relationships. Stemming gossip and transcending cliques served to maintain otherwise strained relationships and enhance multivoiced communication. So, too, did processes for docents to contend with each other at meetings and to recognize their responsibility to voice, to ‘‘pick up the phone.’’ To further borrow Bouwen’s (2005) terms, the Zoo is ‘‘an ongoing construction of the different actors involved’’ where members ‘‘co-construct the organization-in-the-making’’ (p. 56). When they coconstruct, the docents manifest important qualities of effective relational practices noted by

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Bouwen: ‘‘shared ownership of the task; open, concrete and personal communication; mutually energizing and mutually rewarding activity’’ (p. 59). The sustained success of the docents’ autonomous organization conﬁrms the value of the above qualities of relational practices. Their case indicates these relational aspects to be part of one effective and sustainable way to organize. However, additional key elements stand out in the docents’ organizing – passion, autonomy, and an ethic of responsibility. The ﬁrst and last of these seem to have been largely ignored in organizational literature, even in the relational and volunteer literature. Perhaps this inattention is due to a societal emphasis on forms of organizing that are weak in producing passion and an ethic of responsibility. The combination of passion, autonomy and responsibility, all three embedded in routinized relational practices, provides one way to understand a striking aspect of the docents’ organizing – the convergence of personal beneﬁts for these volunteers with strong contribution to their own organization and to the larger organization, the Zoo. Normally, analysts of organizations would attribute this convergence to an alignment of individual and organizational goals. Instead, the focus of our analysis has been on relationships. Through the relational practices that they follow with animals, each other, Zoo staff, and the public, the docents continually reproduce a set of personally and organizationally beneﬁcial realities. The representations in Figure 5.1 are intended as useful simpliﬁcations of the various descriptions and interpretations made in the preceding section. The reader can recover some depth by considering the more detailed descriptions of the relational practices in the earlier text. The center of the model deals with relational practices that serve to construct repeatedly the docents’ personal drivers and ethic. Certain of the relational practices, particularly those with the animals and keepers, create a strong attraction for the docents to their work. In the docents’ construction of their reality, continuing to enjoy these interactions is contingent on their assuming responsibility. Similarly, their freedom from being managed by staff conﬁrms for them their right to self-control. However, the docent leaders have constructed this reality of freedom as contingent on fulﬁlling the obligation of responsible self-monitoring and selfgovernance. Accordingly, the docents have evolved a set of relational practices with the animals, keepers, managers, and, most importantly, themselves, which constitutes an ethic of responsibility. The continuing enactment of this ethic produces in an ongoing fashion the key outcomes: for the organization, a sustainable contribution of valuable work from the docents; for the docents, continued access to the animals and a large measure of self-control. The latter two outcomes reinforce, respectively, the two personally driving elements of passion for animals and desire for autonomy. The system’s recursive nature makes it sustainable. In the terms of structuration theory (Giddens, 1984), the processes of interacting with the animals and governing themselves produce structures of relational practices that support the processes. The system tends to reproduce itself as a whole, even while continually changing its details and adapting through the relational processes of contending and ﬁxing problems. At the risk of even greater simpliﬁcation, we can generalize our

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interpretations in terms of the following formula: ðRelational practices that build passion and desire for autonomyÞ þ ðRelational practices that constitute an ethic of responsibilityÞ ¼ Sustainable outcomes that benefit individuals and the broader organization. This generalization might enable the concepts of this study, rooted in the particulars of docents at the Zoo, to be transported to other volunteer settings and, perhaps, to an even broader range of organizing contexts. By reviewing how the elements of this model were manifested among the docents, we can better understand whether and how the elements might be transported elsewhere. Passion is here featured as the ﬁrst among the three important elements. It is important to understand how powerful this passion can be. In the case of the docents, animal passion is the heart, and is at the heart, of their volunteer organization’s continuing effectiveness. We could say that this aspect of the docent’s life is the enacting of the values and mission of the organization, but those terms and the ideas behind them fall short of what we experienced when around the docents at the Zoo. Even the term ‘‘emotion’’ is inadequate. There is a palpable spirit that comes through from interactions with the docents and from their stories about docenting experiences. True enough, their connection to their in-the-trenches tasks is an expression of the organization’s fundamental values and mission. But, it is the spirit, enthusiasm and ownership with which the docents pursue their tasks that demands the term ‘‘passion.’’ Through the experiences that they share with each other, the docents create and sustain a passion for their favorite animals and for the natural world. This collective motive is continually reconstructed through all the docents’ interactions with each other and with the keepers and public. Their passion provides a shared sense of fulﬁllment, and even of privilege. It seems that this is exactly what many people are ultimately seeking in their volunteer work, and the docent leaders at the Zoo have attained it. Passion plays a central role in the docents’ organizing in another way. Docents’ passionate talk inside and outside of the Zoo attracts and retains a sizeable and potent membership. Passion for animals enlarges both the core and peripheral member groups, providing the Zoo with muniﬁcent volunteer resources at a time when many nonproﬁt managers are portraying volunteers as unwilling to commit many hours or for the long term. The large number of volunteers enables each member to choose a level of engagement that makes personal sense, preserving their individual autonomy. The core, or leadership, group is sustained by the willingness of a sufﬁcient number of members to take on the burdens of ofﬁce and move into the core group. People become committed long-term, with their passion enabling them to justify an investment of time that has personal and organizational payback. The time invested by docent leaders at the Zoo belies the negative impacts of heavy time demands on volunteer engagement found in other volunteer settings (Wilson & Musick, 1999). As a church volunteer interviewed by Anne Yeung (2004) stated, ‘‘Sometimes I felt frustrated and tired y but the whole time the people and the

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discussions were much more valuable than what it took out of me’’ (p. 36). Relational organizing that builds passion provides a way for volunteers such as docents to deal with the demands of their work. The Zoo provides an example of a general organizing problem – difﬁculty in attracting and retaining a good number of committed members – that can be mitigated by particular relational organizing practices and locally constructed realities. Perhaps the general problem found in many volunteer settings is due to inadequate relational and task construction for building passion. 5.3.1

Relational Practices Create the Reality of Responsibility

The realities of responsibility created by the docents’ relational practices include a number of imperatives and desires for the docents, listed in Table 5.1. Perhaps these seven imperatives and desires can be generalized for transport to other settings where self-management and responsibility are to be engendered through development of particular relational practices. We would argue that each of the realities plays a role in sustainable organizing. Realities 1 and 2 indicate to volunteers that they must devote serious hours to their work and that those hours are worthwhile. If they are to live up to these realities, they must make both a short-term commitment of needed hours and a long-term commitment to continue their participation. These two realities about how their efforts will pay off for the organization’s mission make the volunteers’ role highly attractive. Regarding Reality 3, onerous volunteer tasks would be unattractive and infrequently and poorly carried out were they not linked to the volunteers’ missionbased passion. For Reality 4 shared learning keeps the volunteer association’s members knowledgeable and expert in their tasks, one of the foundational requirements for effective organizational performance. Autonomy, Reality 5, provides a sense of personal control that is fundamental to the very concept of ‘‘volunteer,’’ enabling members to commit to and own their volunteer work. Realities 6 and 7 both reinforce to volunteers the contingent nature of the privileged work and status that they enjoy. Failing to police each other or to engage in leadership activities is Table 5.1: Realities for sustainable organizing. Realities for sustainable organizing 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

The imperative to engage in advocacy for the organization’s mission The joy in learning more and more about their cause The desire to devote hours of effort that will help their cause The need to educate and inform the public The desire to maintain their association’s autonomy from management The imperative to monitor and police each other in order to produce responsible behavior that legitimizes their autonomous status The imperative to share a collective burden of organizing for self-governance

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understood to bring the risk of reduced legitimacy for their volunteer activities and autonomy. At the Zoo, each of these seven constructed realities is embedded in the docents’ various relationships and undergirds their continuing ability to organize as a group and produce respected performance. Another element that can be subsumed in an ethic of responsibility is the earning of respect. While the current organizational literature favors the concept of trust, respect may well be a more potent concept for relational organizing. Especially in professional settings where knowledge is highly valued, reciprocal respect is a valuable lubricant for relationships intended to result in productive outcomes (Zeilstra, 2003). For example, if the docents are to have the kinds of relationships with keepers that provide them access to the keepers’ knowledge, and to the animals, they must earn the keepers’ respect. Doing so requires responsible, knowledgeable, expert behavior. Also, without respect for leaders by members and for members by leaders, volunteers’ self-governance could not be maintained. To be respected by others (managers as well as keepers) as responsible contributors requires that the docents be expert, be ‘‘equals’’ in some sense. Docents can be more polished than keepers at educating the public, but they also need to hold their own with the keepers regarding rule maintenance with the patrons and being knowledgeable about the animals. This need to be regarded as expert is not due to these volunteers’ primary role being an educational one with the public. Rather, it is due to the volunteers needing to be seen as competent and responsible by other members of the zoo organization. When individuals are not seen as competent by other members of the organization, even formal mechanisms and requirements for collaboration can be subverted by lack of respect (Pentland, 1992). Knowledge acquisition, then, is another subelement of an ethic of responsibility. For the docents learning is stimulated not only by passion but by its power in earning the respect of valued others in the Zoo. Recruitment of docents with professional skills (whether zoological or educational or managerial) and the contagion of learning are important organizing elements. Mentor–prote´ge´ practices at the Zoo not only provide knowledge about how to act as a docent and cope with various situations, they also help new docents get the virus of self-directed learning. It is the relational reality of self-directed, situated learning that is ultimately of great importance, since it provides each docent with a more specialized knowledge base, and one that expands continually over time. In keeping with Lave and Wenger’s (1991) analyses of successful and unsuccessful situated learning, the docent organization has evolved a set of interpersonal relationships among its members and with others (in the broader Zoo and in docent institutions) that facilitates learning when engaged in primary tasks. At the Zoo, knowledge produces respect and respectful (and friendly) relationships stimulate learning.

5.3.2

Some Conjectures on Relational Organizing

Table 5.2 lists the relational practices that have been identiﬁed in this study. Note on the right side of the table the large number of practices that serve to sustain the

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Docent relational practices

Docents’ relationships with groups Animals

Being near the animals Following animals’ progress Not touching animals Monitoring sick animals Enhancing knowledge of animals Sharing new knowledge of animals ‘‘Talking for the animals’’ to the public Respecting keepers as gatekeepers to the animals Monitoring each others’ behavior Enforcing rules to protect the public Enforcing rules to protect the animals Celebrating the community of docents Mentoring prote´ge´s

x x x x x

Each other

Keepers

x

x x x

x

x

x

Administration

Elements of relational organizing Public

Passion

Desire for autonomy

x x

x x x x x

x x x

x

x

x

x

x

x

x

x x

x x

x

x x

x

x x

Responsibility

x x

x

x

x

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Table 5.2: Docents’ relationships with groups/elements of relational organizing.

x

x

x

x

x

x

x

x

x

x

x

x

x x x

x x

x x x

x

x x

x

x

x

x

x

x

x

x

x

x

x

x

x

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Sharing leadership tasks in pairs Initiating organizational change Contending at organizational meetings Stemming gossip Transcending cliques Providing animal information to peers Displaying animal knowledge to keepers Relieving keepers from talking to public Serving as peers to management Working with management to ﬁx problems

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docents’ ethic of responsibility, and the fact that many of these also sustain the docents’ passion. The two are substantially interwoven. Table 5.2 suggests to us several interesting conjectures regarding effective relational organizing. Consider ﬁrst the large number of practices listed and the certainty that there are yet more practices than we as outsider researchers have been able to discern. While much writing about organizations concentrates on establishing the value of a few selected practices, often thinly described, organizational analysis can beneﬁt from recognizing the multiplicity, range, and interrelationship of relational practices that operate in reality. Elaborating the list of relational practices can reveal something of the complexity of effective organizational systems that have evolved over time, chastening actors who might seek to understand and change organizations with knowledge of only a few, supposedly ‘‘key’’ practices. We would conjecture that the large number of relational practices involving docents at the Zoo constitutes a usefully overdetermined system possessing multiple causes rather than a single cause (Styhre, 2002). The multiplicity of relational practices overdetermines each element of the triangle in Figure 5.1 – passion, autonomy, and responsibility. This multiplicity provides greater assurance that each element will be attained for each docent and for the docents as a group. Put another way, an elaborated system of complementary and interconnected relational practices provides the docent’s voluntary organization with a robustness and resiliency that enhances its sustainability. As indicated on the right side of the table, messages about each of the three key elements are sent through each of many relational practices. It would take a truly deviant docent to fail to hear and internalize these messages. We might term this conjecture of overdetermination ‘‘the value of practice redundancy.’’ A related conjecture, based on the left side of Table 5.2, is that each of the three key elements is best sustained through a multiplicity of relationships. For instance, the docents’ passion is sustained not only through their own relationship with the animals, but also through their relationships with each other, the keepers, and the public. Similarly, their desire for autonomy and their ethic of responsibility is supported and reinforced through their relational practices with several groups, not simply with one group. The messages about passion, autonomy, and responsibility come through relationships with several different groups, lending greater credibility and impact to the messages. Reciprocally, the docents are able to share their realities with each of the key stakeholder groups in their environment. This sharing through relational practices tempers the ability of these groups to develop poorly founded negative perceptions of the docents, and the docents of these other groups. We could term the conjecture discussed in the current paragraph as ‘‘the value of relationship redundancy.’’ Practice and relationship redundancies should reinforce the same essential messages – here, passion, autonomy, and responsibility – that form the members’ realities. No doubt, docents occasionally experience some interactions that contravene these elements – for instance, unpleasant encounters with some members of the public could contravene the responsibility to enforce rules to protect the public. A docent might think, ‘‘If that unpleasant person gets hurt, they’ll just be receiving what they deserve.’’ The redundancy of relational practices elaborated in their

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organizational system can overwhelm these contrary messages and sustain the three key elements of the docents’ reality. Our claims regarding the centrality of passion, autonomy and, responsibility, and our conjectures about the value of redundancies in relational organizing, touch only a few aspects of the docents’ organizing. There is no doubt that the intricacies and subtleties of the docents’ organizing are only roughly captured in this study. Over a number of decades the docents have developed a complex yet coherent set of relationships and relational practices that produce sustainable organizing. Speculating on the basis of what can be observed in the present, we believe that this set of relationships has evolved chieﬂy due to the docents’ fundamental passion for being around their loved animals and talking for them. If we must choose a place to start sustainable relational organizing, it would be with the engendering of passion.

5.4

An Epilogue: Reﬂections on Corporate Versus Relational Organizing

We noted at the beginning of this paper that in corporate-form organizations relational aspects of organizing are often hidden and unrecognized, even by the members practicing them (Fletcher, 1998). In the volunteer organization studied here, these relational aspects certainly were neither hidden nor unrecognized by the docent leaders whom we interviewed. Their narrative accounts provided ample and rich descriptions of their relationships and the tight connections that they saw between these relationships and their ways of organizing themselves. There was a sense among the docent leaders that their association was exemplary in its success over long periods of time, that the ways that it functioned must therefore be viable, and that their vigilance and efforts would keep the association functioning well. The very term association is relational and, perhaps, subtly connotes to all connected with it that it differs from corporate organizations. At the same time, the association utilizes practices and is structured in many fashions that are bureaucratic, among them hierarchical ofﬁces, formal training of new members, a scheduling procedure, and a disciplinary system. Yet, beneath these is a distinctly personal, relational quality that fulﬁlls the term ‘‘association.’’ And, the members show no hesitancy in displaying the emotion, the heart, the passion that lies at the center of their organizing. Relationships and emotion are not denigrated nor submerged in this organization. They are lauded and prominent. The relationships and constructed understandings and tasks (together with their complementary set of routinized practices) form a system of structuration (Giddens, 1984) that tends to evolve the docent organization as an ordered system. Structuration theory and neoinstitutional theory point to the role of microprocesses (everyday practices) and human agency in both organizational reproduction and change (Reckwitz, 2002). The docents’ agency occurs in relationships, with leaders and other members forming new realties and visions through their dialogues. They engage in political activity to build support for particular projects and changes

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(Hosking, 1991). Together, the relationships and realities constitute relational organizing. It is in this sense of human agency operating through relationships that the docents’ self-governing association and its legitimacy in the eyes of others can be described as an ongoing social accomplishment. In light of the tendencies toward individualization in late modern society (Hustinx & Lammertyn, 2003), relational organizing provides an opportunity for volunteers to experience a passion for their work, achieve desired social proximity (Yeung, 2004) and be highly efﬁcacious and respected. In a larger sense, the docents’ agency produces a relational model of self-organizing that stands as an alternative to that of bureaucratic, staff-managed volunteerism and, more broadly, to that of impersonal, technocratic, and proceduralized depictions of organizing.

Chapter 6

Apologies and Remorse in Organizations: Saying Sorry — and Meaning it? Stephen Fineman and Yiannis Gabriel

There is now a growing literature on how organizations attempt to maintain, defend, or repair their legitimacy — crucial, often, to their very survival (e.g., Ashford & Gibbs, 1990). This process is most evident when a public expose imputes malfeasance or wrongdoing to an organization, such as harming the environment, promoting a health damaging or dangerous product, criminal negligence, fraud, or simply inefﬁciency, ineptness, or misrepresentation (Elsbach, 2000; Massey, 2001; Suchman, 1995). It is evident in organizations ranging from government departments (‘‘a computer fault’’), hospitals (‘‘lack of care, misdiagnoses’’), railways (‘‘lateness, breakdowns, serious accidents’’), garages (‘‘overcharging, shoddy workmanship’’), schools (‘‘lost exam papers, violence’’), to major corporations (Union Carbide’s Bhopal disaster, Shell’s crisis with Brent Spa and Nigeria, WorldCom’s crash, etc.). What links these events is a dip (or plunge) in stakeholder trust in the organization because of the pain, hurt, or insult caused directly to them, or to those with whom they identify or represent. It is often accompanied by a weakening or fragmentation of cohesion among the organization’s own employees. Where moral authority is a cornerstone of legitimacy, such as in churches, social work departments, the police, or the medical profession, threats to legitimacy can be potentially devastating to the groups’ professional standing, and conﬁdence can be difﬁcult to restore. What is the role of apology in this? Do apologies help restore organizational legitimacy and trust? If so, what kind of apologies? And exactly when, by whom, and to whom? In what ways do expressed apologies and feelings of remorse link, if at all? A ‘‘sincere’’ apology has long been axiomatic to the healing of interpersonal rifts, but we know surprisingly little about how apologies operate in an organization’s emotionology. Indeed, there is an impression that heartfelt apologies (beyond ritualistic ‘‘sorry for the delay/inconvenience/noise’’ etc.) are rare occurrences in commercial and professional organizations, and when they are expressed, there is a

Relational Practices, Participative Organizing Advanced Series in Management, 103–120 Copyright r 2010 Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 1877-6361/doi:10.1108/S1877-6361(2010)0000007010

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tendency to regard them as cosmetic exercises, or ‘‘too little too late.’’ There is clearly suspicion about an organization’s declared remorse when it occurs long after the alleged wrongdoing, and has taken considerable stakeholder pressure to elicit it. The moral and reparative signiﬁcance of apologies and remorse are highly contextualized and we need to look at how the discourse evolves over time (Brooks, 1999). We see this, for example, in the mixed responses of victims, or their relatives, to heads of state’s apologies for past deeds, such as the ‘‘deep sorrow and pain’’ of Emperor Akihito of Japan for his country’s treatment of prisoners of war, the ‘‘deep sense of regret’’ of the Tony Blair government for the execution of the First World War soldiers for desertion or cowardice, and the Vatican’s 1998 apology for its inadequate response to the Holocaust. In 2002, Roman Catholic bishops in the United States voted to adopt new rules aimed at stamping out the sexual abuse of children by priests. Bishop Gregory acknowledged the pain the Church had caused, and offered ‘‘the most profound apology.’’ Yet, to the dismay of some victims, the bishops stopped short of ruling that abusive clerics will necessarily be expelled from the priesthood. Expressed remorse is one thing; the nature of reparative behavior that follows is something else. This paper examines apologies as attempts to restore and manage meaning when existing meaning structures have been destabilized by an event (e.g., an accident), an utterance (e.g., an insult), or the violation of fragile meaning structures. In particular, we draw attention to two dimensions of apologies, the performative and the relational. Apologies are par excellence performative speech acts (Austin, 1962). By saying ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ I perform the deed of acknowledging a measure of responsibility (deliberate or otherwise) in causing distress to someone else. However, the outcome of this speech act is by no means certain. An apology may settle the matter and restabilize meanings; it may offer a temporary and precarious stabilization that can easily disintegrate later; or it may escalate destabilization, if, for example, it is viewed as insincere, belated, grudging, or even insulting. The management of meaning is not unilateral but may involve a variety of stakeholders, all of whom play a part in the way an apology is presented, interpreted, and received. It can involve the offender and the injured party, but others can easily become involved, notably peacemakers, grief brokers, aides, wider audiences, and various neutrals. As with all forms of management of meaning, apologies must be seen as part of a wider political process where different parties seek to draw in neutrals by adopting a moral high ground, where alliances and pacts are formed and dissolved and where conﬂicts move from one terrain to another, assuming different forms as they do so. Finally, the management of meaning is tied up to the management of unpredictable emotions unleashed by the earlier destabilization of meaning. It is for this reason that apologies, in their presence and absence, are an important aspect in the emotional life of groups, organizations, and even nations.

6.1

The Emotionology and Politics of Apologies

The social ritual of apology is highly nuanced in Western cultures. At its profoundest, it represents felt and displayed feelings of remorse for injuring another party and

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transgressing a central moral code. The felt regret is accompanied by a strong impulse to right the wrongs caused. The absence of such apology is taken as denial or devaluation of the moral worth of the harmed party, hence the restorative signiﬁcance of a sincere apology. The restoration, however, is likely to be more symbolic than literal for a deep hurt, as the injury itself cannot be reversed. What is restored by the apology is the dignity of the victim; recognition that they should not have been treated in the way they have been. The moral and relational value of such apologies is nicely captured by Kathleen Gill: The apology is not a thing; it is an act that displays a certain set of beliefs, attitudes, etc. experienced by the offender. More importantly, an apology is not a mechanism for offsetting losses. The apology does not compensate for loss; it is instead a way to acknowledge the value of what was lost. (Gill, 2000, p. 16)

It follows that this kind of apology implicates emotions beyond feelings of remorse and regret. It involves the expression of feelings of empathy and shame, the former placing the perpetrator in the victim’s shoes, the latter signaling ownership and responsibility for having crossed a moral line — and wishing to do something about it. Yet what is felt has also to be performed, and convincingly so if the apology is to provide what Goffman terms a ‘‘remedial exchange’’ (Goffman, 1971). Acts of apologizing are in part cultural and in part institutionalized. In the traditional Catholic Church, for example, the apology ritual contains a confession of sins, plus an act of prayer or restoration to the wronged party. It once also involved penances, such as fasts, sexual continence, pilgrimages, or ﬂoggings. The perception of whether or not an apology is ‘‘really meant’’ appears crucial to its healing properties. We here face the consequences of emotional hypocrisy — the commonplace disjuncture between what we feel and what we display. Such hypocrisy is, in part, a necessary feature of all social intercourse, where the artful display of emotion helps to moderate or minimize communicative differences between people (Fineman, 2003). On the other hand, there is cultural predilection to attribute greater sincerity (as a positive attribute) to those whom we believe to privately feel what they emotionally display in their talk and bodily gestures, in short where words, feelings, and actions appear to be consistent. The conundrum, however, is that we typically infer another’s ‘‘real’’ feelings from what they publicly display, so context cues will be important. These include the background history to the apology, the extent of the apparent injury, the kind of organization or industry implicated, the power and status of the wrongdoers and their victims, any previous ‘‘convictions,’’ and how the apology is presented. Accordingly, apologizing is a relational practice, part of a political process with different stakeholder interests (Cunningham, 1999). We see this particularly in courts of law where the burden of emotional credibility rests heavily on a felon’s shoulders, given the expectation that she or he may be well briefed to ‘‘show remorse’’ in seeking leniency in sentencing (Bagarik & Amarasekara, 2001; Cox, 1998). More generally, any public apologizer faces the challenge of countering disbelief or cynicism. In this respect it is likely that spontaneous, or instant, acts of contrition

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are more meaningful to victims than ‘‘set pieces’’ which have had a long and wearisome history, and expressed in scripted political speeches or pronouncements. Here, the medium is one element of the symbolic context of the message. Contrast, for instance, the impact of an apologetic personal letter or phone call compared to a ‘‘form’’ letter or email, or to a company’s ‘‘sincere apologies for unsatisfactory service’’ when the words are attached automatically to all its marketing literature. In everyday discourse, some apologies fulﬁll social obligations which touch only lightly, if at all, on the dynamics we have described. For example, the normative force of the apology has a powerful anticipatory role in stabilizing sustaining social relationships and mitigating toxicity in organization (Frost, 2003). So I may apologize to you in case you feel offended by what I have just done or am about to do, before knowing whether or not you have, indeed, experienced offence. I may also apologize for something I have not personally done, but by proxy, for my cat, my children, my workgroup, or my organization. In this vein, solicitors will issue apologies on behalf of their clients, managing directors for their company and presidents and prime ministers for their whole country. We also use ‘‘sorry’’ in circumstances where we wish to express sympathy and sorrow for another’s misfortune, not liability — ‘‘sorry to hear about your illness/job loss’’ etc. We may say sorry when we feel we have caused to others’ discomﬁture, but the act was an unintentional — ‘‘I’m really sorry I’m so late for the meeting, but the bus was twenty minutes late.’’ And ﬁnally, ‘‘sorry’’ can be used when no sorrow is felt. It is used ironically for rhetorical effect, such as ‘‘I’m sorry if you can’t understand what I’m trying to say, but really you’re completely wrong in what you’ve just suggested.’’ In sum, apologies are deeply embedded in the moral architecture of organizations, as well as workaday courtesies. They are attempts to manage meaning in situations where conventional meaning structures have been disrupted. High-proﬁle organizational apologies offer no guarantee that harmful and shameful acts will not be repeated, or that the injured will somehow instantly feel all is forgiven. But, at best, they can restore self-respect to the injured parties and instill a degree of conﬁdence among other organizational stakeholders. At worst, apologies can appear as shams or rituals lacking in sincerity, exacerbating the pain of the victims and accelerating distrust in the organization and its legitimacy. The ‘‘correct’’ apology is, we would suggest, an essential ﬁrst element in the victim-valuation process. However, often something more is required; action that builds materially and/or symbolically on the apology. In the remainder of this chapter, we will examine three case studies where meaning structures were severely damaged or disrupted and attempts were subsequently made to restore them through apologies. The ﬁrst examines the way that an organization facing a major crisis of trust and credibility in its services, uses apologies, along with other ‘‘remedial’’ discourses, to attempt to steer through the crisis. The second and third take an intra-organizational perspective focusing on instances when interpersonal relationships at work were severely disrupted and were subsequently reestablished through apologies.

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An Organizational Disaster — and Apologies Nicosia, Sunday, 14th August 2005, 15:30 Helios ﬂight ZU522 from Larnaca to Athens and Prague, carrying 115 passengers and 6 crew members, has crashed north of Athens at approximately 12:20 pm. Fire rescue services are at the scene. It is unclear as to why the aircraft has crashed at this stage. There are no reports of survivors. Our thoughts are with the families of those on board at this difﬁcult time. We are doing everything we can to keep them informed and updated about this tragic accident. The emergency number to call is Nicosia 70003737, 22–446146.

This stark message, posted on Helios Airway’s ofﬁcial web page,1 was the ﬁrst public indication that something terrible had happened on August 14, 2005. Helios Airways (named after the Greek sun god) is a small, Cyprus-based ‘‘budget’’ airline formed in 1999. It ﬂies mainly short-haul holiday trips in Europe, and is a part of a larger, Cyprus-based, holding company, Libra Holidays Group. Some six hours after the ﬁrst message, a second message was posted. This time, the sense of doom deepened, but shock and sorrow are now sandwiched between cautious, procedural, statements. Nicosia, Sunday, 14th August 2005, 21:00 The Helios Airways Board of Directors met today and further to our previous communication on the Helios Airways tragic incident today, it is conﬁrmed that no further ofﬁcial information from the crash site has been given by authorities. We also wish to conﬁrm that the aircraft was fully serviceable and airworthy before it departed. The names of all passengers and crew as required were given timely to the police authorities in Cyprus and Greece who have been contacting the families involved. The majority of the passengers were adults. Helios Airways directors, management and staff are devastated by this event and the thoughts of everyone are with the families of the passengers and crew, to whom we shall give every possible support. Arrangements are being made together with the Government for the relatives of the passengers and crew to be ﬂown to Athens. An announcement to this effect will be made in due course.

From hereon, information about the magnitude and ramiﬁcations of the crash spiraled beyond the immediate control of Helios ofﬁcials. The world’s media took up the story, and Cyprus-based press reports were intensive. It transpired that the majority of the crash victims were Cypriot, some of them children. Cyprus is traditionally a close-knit society with a population of some

1

The airline is now defunct and its website http://www.ﬂyhelios.com/ has been redesigned. Unless otherwise indicated, all the quotations from the company were accessed from the company’s original website in the immediate aftermath of the accident.

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700,000, so the chances of being directly or indirectly linked to someone who was in the crash were reasonably high. The disaster, therefore, was deeply felt by Cypriots as well as the wider Cypriot community and their representatives (e.g., politicians, religious leaders). As knowledge about the event spread, the conduct of Helios Airways, past and present, came under close scrutiny — from prosecutors, shareholders, victims’ families, government ofﬁcials, investigative journalists, and web-loggers. In the crucial week following the disaster, when the accident had shattered existing meaning structures (about the reliability of air travel, trust in a company and the sanctity of human life), Helios navigated an uneasy route of managing and restoring meaning at three levels: ﬁrst, managing the shock and despair felt by its own employees; second, responding to the trauma and anger of the victims’ families and friends; and third, presenting itself as credible business which was not, itself, to blame and could continue business as usual. These three interventions were often at odds with each other; instead of restoring the earlier meaning structure, they seemed to draw in more and more neutral parties in placing the responsibility for the crash squarely on the company.

6.2.1

Culpability Evasion

Who should apologize for a catastrophe such as this, where 121 people die, including all the crew of aircraft? By day two, Helios’s Chairman, Andreas Drakou, took center stage in a public press statement, reiterating the company’s distress at what had occurred and the sorrow felt for all those affected. Helios would offer practical help wherever possible. One press photograph depicts Drakou surrounded by a barrage of microphones, head bowed, and his hand covering his face in apparent anguish: ‘Yesterday was a tragic day for all of us’ he said, ‘In an effort to alleviate, as much as possible, the pain and anguish of the families, Helios Airways, in co-operation with the Government, activated its emergency procedure and immediately arranged to set up a meeting centre for the families of the passengers at a Larnaca Hotel.’

Drakou’s expressions of despair and sympathy stopped short at apologizing for the crash itself. He afﬁrmed, once more, that prior to its departure, ‘‘the aircraft was duly inspected in line with standard procedures.’’ Moreover, the company’s scheduled services would continue to ﬂy as programmed, ‘‘despite the terrible tragedy that occurred yesterday.’’ (By the end of the week this message had shifted: ﬂying would continue, but Helios would be sending their remaining Boeing 737s to Sweden for safety checks ‘‘to restore people’s conﬁdence and to stop any rumors and fear-mongering’’). However, Drakou apologized reservedly (‘‘the company had followed the International procedure and regulations established by the Cyprus Department of Civil Aviation’’) for what turned out to be excruciating wait for the families of passengers before they learned for certain who had perished. The delay had prompted a scene of near riot at Helios’s ofﬁces at Larnaca Airport in Cyprus.

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Meanwhile, events were unfolding to cast doubt on Helios’s reassurances.

The circumstances of the crash were becoming clearer.2 On departing Larnaca, the pilot of the plane had told air trafﬁc controllers that the Boeing 737 was experiencing air-conditioning problems. Some 20 minutes out of Larnaca, communication with the plane was lost. Greek ﬁghter pilots were scrambled to ﬁnd the plane, which was spotted ﬂying at 34,000 feet, apparently on autopilot. The copilot could be seen slumped in the cockpit and there was no sign of the pilot. Unused oxygen masks were dangling in the cabin. Some time later, probably out of fuel, the plane crashed into the Greek hills. All signs pointed to a catastrophic failure of the air pressure system, the oxygen supply, or both. The airworthiness of this plane, as well as others in the ﬂeet, were challenged in ‘‘revelations’’: from previous passengers, from maintenance engineers, and from relatives of the deceased copilot. It transpired that passengers on the same plane, during a ﬂight from Heathrow, had complained about the extreme cold. ‘‘It was absolutely freezing on that plane,’’ recalled one passenger. ‘‘Everyone was asking for blankets but the steward told me they had run out. I have never experienced such cold conditions on a ﬂight. Something was deﬁnitely wrong.’’ The same plane had also been involved in a ‘‘decompression incident’’ on a 2004 ﬂight from Warsaw to Larnaca. A former chief mechanic for Helios provided evidence to the police that the fault lay with a poorly sealed door. Another complained of the pressure from airline management on contract staff to ‘‘sign off’’ maintenance work that was not satisfactory, ‘‘just in order to get the planes out or lose money.’’ This, he claimed, led to a high turnover in maintenance staff. Finally, the family of the copilot claimed that he had repeatedly complained about the plane’s technical problems, which the company said they would ﬁx. He had kept a diary of his running concerns with him on the plane. The culmination of this publicity led Helios to admit, on its website, that ‘‘the aircraft that experienced the decompression problem was the aircraft that was involved in this accident’’ (16/8/05). But, they added defensively, that ‘‘the cause of the accident on Sunday 14th has yet to be established by the authorities with whom we are working closely.’’ This message was quickly followed by another, afﬁrming Helios’s commitment to supporting families of victims, ‘‘as long as they need it,’’ with professional counselors based at the Park Hilton Hotel in Nicosia, while also paying tribute to ‘‘the skill and professionalism of our staff who lost their lives’’ (17/8/05).

6.2.2

Reputational Assault

Nevertheless, the seeds of doubt about the airline’s trustworthiness had now been sown, a theme taken up in newspaper vox pops. The Cyprus Mail, for example, 2

Sources: BBC, Reuters, The Times, The Guardian, The Telegraph and Cyprus newspapers, particularly The Cyprus Mail.

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reported people’s negative opinions of Helios which included: ‘‘Their defensive stance’’; ‘‘A basically unsafe company’’; ‘‘They knew there was a problem’’; ‘‘Cost-cutting which compromised safety’’; ‘‘They just care about money’’; ‘‘Helios shouldn’t survive, just like Swiss Air’’; ‘‘I’ll never use Helios again’’; ‘‘Evasive’’; ‘‘Their response has been disappointing, sort of hoping it will go away, which it deﬁnitely won’t’’; ‘‘Ill-judged continuation of ﬂying the day after the disaster when the Cyprus had declared three days of mourning.’’ In the same newspaper, a clinical psychologist described the centralization of counseling of services at a Nicosia luxury hotel as showing, ‘‘they have no understanding of the situation whatsoever. The attention must be given locally.’’ Helios’s assurances on the training and skill of all of the ﬂight staff on the stricken airliner were also treated skeptically. The London Times reported that the German pilot previously worked for two months for the British budget airline Jet2, and before that for easyJet, but ‘‘Jet2 refused to comment on claims that he had been sacked after a series of safety breaches.’’ Finally, in a further twist of events, on the same week as the disaster a Helios Boeing 737 ﬂying from Cyprus to Birmingham, UK Airport reported a problem with its landing ﬂaps. It landed safely, but with emergency services on full alert. A Helios spokesperson was keen to play down the incident — ‘‘This is not something that’s out of the ordinary — it was a simple maintenance job.’’

6.2.3

Sorrow and Scapegoats

As rumors and questions about Helios’s ﬁtness and culpability multiplied, Helios withdrew from all statements that could imply liability and apology for what had happened. Their website carried the following announcement: Nicosia, Thursday, 18th August 2005, 16:00 There has understandably been a great deal of speculation as to the cause of the crashy. Helios Airways will not be making any further comments on the speculation as it arises. We will, of course, remain at the disposal of the authorities and will continue to provide them with every assistance.

But, in the popular mind, the airline was already guilty, and those in pain — families, relatives, and friends — needed that ‘‘obvious’’ fact to be conﬁrmed if they were to begin their slow, difﬁcult, recovery. Palliative care and expressions of sympathy could only go so far in easing the process of grieving, even if expressed by key ﬁgures outside the Helios organization (e.g., bishops, the President of Cyprus Republic and government ministers).3 The House Speaker Christoﬁas added a realist edge to the 3

There are parallels here with the Beslan disaster one year before Helios. A school in Beslan, Russia, was invaded by Chechen guerrillas, holding hostage all occupants. In all 331 people died, including 186 children. The still grieving relatives remain bitter and angry that the Russian government has not admitted its mistakes — as they see it — and shown remorse for the way they handled the siege: launching fatal ﬁrepower into the school.

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sympathies: ‘‘When the funerals of the victims come to an end, we will scatter off to work, but these people will continue to mourn their needlessly lost loved ones.’’ Some saw liability reaching systemically into the culture of the Helios enterprise, where many different stakeholders — employees, ofﬁcials — were seen as morally culpable for the disaster, people ‘‘who should have spoken up long ago.’’ One Cypriot web-logger makes plain his views: It is incredible how always when such things happen, tens of people ﬁnd the strength and will to open up and describe things that if done before would have prevented it. When a ship sinks, you get to hear about the company’s tens of other malfunctions. Yet after a short period, nothing happens and a ship sinks again. If the state and these people complaining and accusing today, had an honest and decent system going on, nothing of these would have happened. The excuse ‘my job was at stake’ or ‘we did whatever was requested’ isn’t just good enough for me. (16/8/05)4

Such a complaint extended to the very authorities implicated in the ofﬁcial inquiry, such as the Civil Aviation Authority, responsible for certiﬁcating the airworthiness of the doomed aircraft.

6.2.4

Some Reﬂections

The Helios case points to many of the dilemmas of an ‘‘outward’’ facing organization in conditions of emotional and business extremes, under intense public gaze. Distress ﬂoods the organization and the community of which it is a part. But unlike ‘‘blameless’’ natural disasters, such as earthquakes, ﬂoods, or sudden storms, this was a plane crash that seemed preventable, while also having the potential for destroying the Helios business. Hearsay evidence and news reports may be suspect in legal settings, but they are highly signiﬁcant in shaping an organization’s reputation and esteem. The organization is under attack, which presents its managers with a complex situation. While trying to normalize business functions they are also: (a) attempting to manage a spiral of stories and accusations that impugn their organization’s reputation; (b) in circumstances that are charged with pain and anger; (c) where public announcements by key members of the organization hover between sorrow and a defensiveness that seems to blunt that sorrow; and (d) where ‘‘remorse means liability,’’ so it is hedged around. In this last respect, the implications of a high proﬁle, public, corporate, apology was too self-incriminating for Helios — at least at this early stage of proceedings. So we see the corporate narrative of sympathy and sadness carefully crafted to avoid such allusions. And just as each word counts in the heightened atmosphere, so does each corporate action. The symbolism of not grounding the small ﬂeet of aircraft in the desperate hours soon after the disaster sent a signal easily interpreted as 4

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‘‘they don’t really care; it’s the money that counts.’’ But had they grounded the planes they may have been accused of knowing that they were not airworthy (once trust is broken, whatever the company does can be interpreted to compound the guilt). The initial silence about the safety record of the plane added to suspicions about the competence of the airline and its assurances on maintenance. The delay in revealing the full casualty list could suggest an organization that is more worried about itself than about those who have suffered the loss. In this disaster, like other organizations that have been implicated in the loss of life, it is not only the organization’s customers or clients who have been injured; their staff members have also suffered. Many have lost close colleagues while they, themselves, are also part of the grieving community. What apology and support does the organization owe its rank-and-ﬁle members who still have to work? For instance, the emotional labor of the ﬂight attendant is now well documented —the ever smiling, always helpful, attendant (Hochschild, 1983; Williams, 2003). What is the nature of this labor when the ﬂight attendant’s own sorrow mixes with heightened anxieties of passengers, fears for her own safety, and a growing public resentment for the airline? A hint comes from one passenger’s observations:5 Coming back from Prague I’ve ﬂown with Lotus Airline (an Egyptian-suddenly Egyptian airlines seem way far more trustworthyy), but the crew was from Helios company. You could see the faces of the airhostess full of fear and sorrow. Imagine not to have to travel but to actually have to WORK after that happening. And these people were trying to do their best so that we fear nothing (what the airhostess ironically described on TV ‘they asked me to give them food and drink with a smile’). (16/8/05)

In such circumstances the ﬂight attendant is an archetypal toxin handler, absorbing the pain and fear of others and reprocessing them with a smile. But the costs to her are less visible, apparently not within the remit of the sympathy and counseling services offered to victims’ relatives. As studies of radical organizational change suggest (e.g., Huy, 2002), the way an organization in crisis creates a ‘‘holding environment’’ for its distressed employees is crucial to its eventual recovery.

6.2.5

Grief Brokers

Major disasters trigger a web of grief brokers: people or agencies that perform cultural rituals of support, sorrow, or condolence. Grief brokers include religious representatives, community spokespersons from local and a national government, social service agencies, and undertakers. Some offer a ready-made voice for private grief, others a collective setting for its expression. In different ways, they frame and orchestrate grief, channeling the dismay, denial, anger, and helplessness that usually accompany it. They also act as mediators in the management of meaning, pronouncing on whether the apologies are sincere or not, whether the excuses have a foundation, and whether life can return to normal. 5

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There are also opportunistic grief brokers, lured to the potential rich pickings from a disaster. A US law ﬁrm, with no apparent connection to Cyprus, advertised its wares on its website to Helios relatives in this ﬁrst week of the disaster. Note how their discourse of empathy blends into one of ‘‘legal recompense’’: We appreciate that this is a time of deep pain and grieving for the spouses, children and families of the passengers and crew who died in the Helios Airways crash. In the coming weeks, you will, however, have questions concerning how and why the crash occurred, your legal rights, compensation that is available to you, and the duties and legal responsibility of the airplane operator and manufacturer. (Lieff Cabraser, Law Firm, San Francisco)6

Some displays of grief and sorrow are impulsive–spontaneous reactions to the overwhelming horror of loss. Yet these expressions are not free from broker intervention. As ‘‘images’’ they are often prized by newsmakers. In the Helios case, the press was sometimes mawkish in its portrayal of grief, featuring lurid pictures of victims at the crash site and close-ups of distressed relatives. The images, ironically, also provided counter-stories by newspapers that chose to take the moral high ground, accusing their competitors of ‘‘intruding into private grief.’’ In sum, this case illustrates how a major disaster destabilizes taken-for-granted meanings. People, especially those most directly affected by the human loss of the tragedy, struggle to make sense out of what has happened, and to create some emotional and cognitive order out of sudden chaos. In part, this is a self-managed process; but it is also inﬂuenced by meaning managers — in the present setting, airline executives and subsequently grief brokers and other commentators. As company ofﬁcials wrestle to present a reasonable, balanced, caring, yet self-protective, face, any contradictions or inconsistencies in their attempts — words and/or actions — take on considerable symbolic signiﬁcance. The authenticity or sincerity of their sorrow is an immediate casualty; trust is another. But the case also shows that the airline is but one player in the meaning-making process; its grip on interpretation of events (e.g., aircraft safety, culpability, the airline’s integrity) soon slips. In short, the airline loses control of the ‘‘spin’’ as others jostle for voice in ‘‘what really happened’’ and, as agencies that are more credible, take on the management of the grief and sorrow and the discourse of causation. A disaster can severely challenge an organization’s capability to defend and manage meanings in ways that suit itself.

6.3

Intra-organizational Apologies

We turn now to examine some of the dynamics of apologies inside organizations. Here we encounter people apologizing for things they did or things they said themselves, rather than on behalf of a corporate entity. We present two contrasting examples, one in which the entire membership of an organization is involved potentially as an injured party and one involving only a couple of professional colleagues. 6

http://www.globalaviationlaw.com/accident-helios.htm (accessed August 12, 2007 at 12:09:20).

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Stephen Fineman and Yiannis Gabriel Racist Slur or Slip of the Tongue?

Unite! is a large trade union in the United Kingdom, an organization with around 700 paid staff.7 Unite!’s membership includes a wide spectrum of public sector employees from school cleaners to white-collar workers and scientiﬁc and technical staff in hospitals and schools. A very strong ethos running through the union is that it should be ‘‘a member-led organization, run by its members, for its members.’’ Unite!’s governing Board is made up primarily of union members elected on a regional basis. The Chief Executive is also on the Board, as are a small number of senior management staff. However, management on the Board are outnumbered by the elected union members — this is seen as an important principle for a member-led organization. Alexandra Appleton was appointed Chief Executive by Unite!’s governing Board as the ﬁrst black person to lead the trade union and has enjoyed much support from Christine Crosby, the Board’s Chair, an elderly ex-nurse. Alexandra had instigated a series of changes with the intention of modernizing the organization to enable it to be more engaged with the outside world, and more business-like. She had also initiated a high-proﬁle public campaign to eradicate racism from the union. Unite!’s quarterly Board meeting was held over two full days. By the second day, members were becoming restless and several people started leaving the meeting for short periods to answer their mobile phones. Business was falling behind schedule, and by the time of the ﬁnal session, there were still several important items to get through before the meeting could end. As the meeting broke for coffee, Chair Christine Crosby made a plea for everyone to return at 4.20 pm promptly, for the ﬁnal two hours of business. By 4.25 pm some people had still not returned to their seats, and some of those who had come back on time had grown impatient and were starting to drift out again to make phone calls. Christine Crosby was clearly frustrated, and said in an exasperated voice ‘‘If any more council members leave, it’s going to be like Ten Little Niggers.’’8 A stunned silence followed the use of this racist word. Then one of the other Board members said ‘‘Surely, Chair, you did not mean to say that?’’ Rather than taking this as an opportunity to apologize, Christine mumbled something about the need to press on with the meeting. In the days that followed, several Board members discussed the matter with each other and with the Chief Executive. Some were shocked by Christine’s comment and believed that she should resign or be dismissed, saying that it is not appropriate for someone who has used such overtly offensive language and behaved so insensitively to continue in such a high-proﬁle leadership role. Others expressed support for Christine and felt that she should not be hounded out of ofﬁce over one ill-judged comment. Several people said that Christine, who was nearly 65, was brought up in a 7

The names of the union and principal characters and some small details have been altered. ‘‘Ten Little Niggers’’ is the original name of an Agatha Christie murder mystery, in which the characters disappear one by one as they are murdered. It was written in the 1930s. It has since been renamed ‘‘Ten Little Indians.’’ 8

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time when such language was not considered taboo. Some made the point that we all make mistakes, and that the Board should operate in a spirit of understanding, tolerance and forgiveness, rather than being punishing and vindictive. Others said that although Christine’s comments were clearly ill-judged, they knew she was not a racist and she should not be branded as one — after all, she had been the chief advocate of appointing a black person as Chief Executive. Eventually, the story was picked up by the tabloid press, leading to some lurid headlines. Two weeks later, Christine Crosby was forced to resign. In her resignation statement, she said: ‘‘Although I didn’t intend any offence, I am stepping down as a sign of my own and the union’s commitment to tackling any perceived form of racism.’’ Alexandra Appleton was quoted as saying ‘‘Chris has made a personal sacriﬁce for the good of the organization. She has apologized for the offence her remark caused and I accept that on behalf of myself and my staff. The decision conﬁrms that the union collectively is committed to tackling institutional discrimination in all its forms.’’ Following the resignation, a Member of Parliament defended Christine by saying ‘‘until recently it was a commonly used phrase’’ and describing the resignation as ‘‘appalling and outrageous, another example of the extreme lunacy and the lengths to which the politically correct lobby have gone in this country.’’ By contrast, a spokesperson for the Race Discrimination Unit said: ‘‘This is a classic case of unconscious racial discrimination. Fortunately, under the law, even non intentional race discrimination is unlawful. Since overt racism is less common, attention needs to be focussed on covert race discrimination. Employers nowadays refuse black and Asian job seekers employment because ‘they would not ﬁt in.’ Institutional racism is a consequence of unconscious discrimination.’’ In this example, the incident that disrupts existing meaning structures and sparks the call for an apology is not what a person did but what a person said, a verbal comment that many in the audience found insulting and some found innocuous. The comment was not pre-planned and was made ‘‘in the heat of the moment.’’ It was certainly not meant as a slur, yet it was viewed as an instance of ‘‘performing a racist practice,’’ every bit as offensive as an act of overt discrimination or injury. A powerful dynamic was then set in motion. The ‘‘stunned silence’’ that followed the comment indicated that a taboo had been broken (that, in others words, a system of taken-forgranted meanings had been destabilized), yet, Christine failed to make an instant apology, something that probably exacerbated the insult felt by a section of the audience. This destabilization was compounded by her attempt to pretend that the comment was either insigniﬁcant or innocent. While no-one accused her of wishing to insult black members of the audience, her use of the ‘‘N’’ word was seen by some as ‘‘unconscious racism’’ that surfaces in moments of stress. Following the comment, the audience was split. Some of them instantly became ‘‘injured parties,’’ some felt ambivalent (‘‘unfortunate comment, elderly lady, not meant badly’’), and a few rallied behind Christine (‘‘potential victim of political correctness gone mad’’). Christine’s subsequent response was one of denial. She neither strongly defended herself seeking to turn the tables on her accusers, nor did she acknowledge any wrongdoing. She did not offer any excuses or rationalizations.

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This divided her defenders. Some felt that the comment was entirely innocuous, some felt that the comment was insulting but should be forgiven if adequate restitution was offered, and some may have felt wrongly that the storm would subside by itself. How was the meaning system restabilized? In her reported statement, she sought to exonerate herself from intending to cause offence and stopped short of offering an apology. By offering her resignation, she sought to appease those who had been insulted by her comment without acknowledging that they were right to be insulted. If anything, her action, presented as an act of self-sacriﬁce, was meant to give her the moral high ground. She presented her resignation as an act of self-sacriﬁce (without acknowledging that she had done anything wrong), indicating her and the union’s commitment to tackling perceived forms of racism. There is ambiguity in her statement as to whether those offended were right to be offended by her comment or not. Meaning is still destabilized until Alexandra steps in to manage it — by declaring that Christine’s resignation constitutes an apology and the matter is closed. Alexandra’s action as a grief-broker is far more effective than those of the Helios managers. In spite of attempts to reopen the case (accusations of political correctness witch-hunt by right-wing MP, attempts to make political capital by race activist), everybody sighs with relief that this unpleasant and embarrassing incident is over. The apology (in spite of its ambiguity and its questionable sincerity) coupled with the resignation has ensured that order and the cohesion of the organization have been restored and meanings restabilized.

6.3.2

‘‘Least Collegiate Person’’

The second example has a more intimate character and initially involved two people, Mike and Pat, colleagues in an academic institution.9 Mike had received an advertisement for an academic job suitable for a recent PhD graduate. He showed the advertisement to Hannah, a student in his department who was approaching the completion of her PhD, suggesting that she may consider applying for the post. A day or two later, Mike met Hannah’s immediate dissertation supervisor, Pat, in the corridor. Pat angrily accused him of ‘‘interfering’’ with ‘‘her’’ student and putting in her way job proposals that were likely to damage her progress toward completing her PhD. Mike remonstrated that this student had nearly ﬁnished her PhD and had already asked him to help her in her job searches, but Pat insisted that he was not to talk to her students. The conversation became very heated and eventually, losing his patience, Mike told Pat that she was ‘‘the least collegiate person’’ he had ever known. Pat was very upset by the comment; she walked off and went to her room. She was later found by another colleague, crying and complaining that Mike had treated her appallingly. Pat was not a woman who had been seen crying before; her 9

This case is based on an incident experienced by the authors directly and extensively discussed by them. Small details have been altered to protect the identity of the main characters.

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tears indicated that a boundary had been crossed and a meaning structure had been fractured. Over the next few days the relationship between Mike and Pat was frosty, an atmosphere that soon spread to their immediate colleagues. Eventually, a meeting was called by some common colleagues in order to discuss, and hopefully resolve, the incident. The event failed to produce consensus, although Mike was made aware that, in making the ‘‘least collegiate’’ comment, he had overstepped the mark. The agreement among the neutrals seemed to be that Pat was not ‘‘the least collegiate’’ person, although no-one actually said that she was collegiate. It was also unclear whether Mike’s offence was to believe that she was uncollegiate or to have said so. Mike stood by his comment, but the weight of the public opinion seemed to be against him. Following a cooling-off period, a second meeting was called. To everyone’s astonishment, Mike opened the meeting by apologizing for what he had said to Pat. He said that he had been ‘‘wrong to tell her that she was the least collegiate person’’ and that ‘‘he was sorry for it.’’ His words were spoken in a neutral way, but not one that could be accused of insincerity. There was considerable surprise and possibly even embarrassment among those present: an angst-ridden session was expected, like the previous one. Mike’s apology created a new type of destabilization of meaning, since apologies (other than purely token ones) are rarely offered in universities, being well rehearsed in argumentation. When a misunderstanding occurs, the expectation is usually that some compromise will be found, saving face for all parties concerned. This clearly had not happened here. Someone asked Mike if he asked anything in return for Pat, to which he said, in the same neutral voice, ‘‘no.’’ Pat was asked if she accepted the apology; she offered a lukewarm ‘‘yes.’’ She seemed as surprised as the others. The matter was closed and there was some relief all round. As in the previous example, there was a palpable sense of relief following the apology, as if order had been restored. It is not clear whether Mike’s apology was sincere, nor whether Pat had sincerely accepted it. It may be that Mike had anticipated a reciprocal apology from Pat (for example, for having been unfairly accused with interfering with ‘‘her’’ student), but he was not prepared to press for one. The incident might have been described as a hollow ritual but it did enable the group to continue working together. Mike and Pat never became close colleagues after the incident but were able to work together for a few more years. A misunderstanding lies at the start of this episode — Pat perceived Mike to have encroached on her territory by contacting ‘‘her’’ student directly. Numerous complications followed. It is possible that a dynamic of gender was interwoven in the offence caused by the ‘‘least collegiate’’ comment. Pat, as a woman who had had three maternity leaves in close succession, may have felt sensitive to others questioning her commitment. Mike, for his part, may have been venting his anger at what he perceived as Pat’s steadfast defense of boundaries, such as work-home, ‘‘my students’’ — ‘‘your students.’’ Mike may also have felt that his altruistic act had been thrown back in his face. It is also possible that Pat had a hidden agenda of retaining Hannah once she had completed her PhD. Was his ‘‘uncollegiate’’ comment

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meant to hurt Pat, in a way that the ‘‘N’’ word comment was not meant to hurt the audience in the previous example? Probably. But in addition, Mike may have felt that he was venting a general resentment against Pat, in which case he was treading on delicate territory, as colleagues were unlikely to openly admit as much. As in the previous example, Mike’s apology was a public one, though unlike the previous one no action was taken to indicate atonement. The crucial step was acknowledging that something had been said that should not. As in the previous example, there was a degree of ambiguity regarding the scope and sincerity of the apology. Mike appeared to be sorry about having made the comment, although he did not retract it; nor did he apologize for his approach to Pat’s student. Pat’s lukewarm acceptance of the apology left some doubt as to whether she had genuinely accepted it or not. Yet, in spite of these ambiguities, the apology functioned as a ritual that allowed the restoration of order. Unlike the example we discussed when organizations apologize through their spokespeople, the apologies in these two examples are offered, not for physical material injuries, but for insults to people’s feelings and for perceived violations of psychological space and boundaries. Such insults have the character of being surplus to requirements, like rubbing salt to a wound. Both insults were made in the heat of the moment, one unintentionally, one probably intentionally. This raises the always interesting question on whether, in the heat of the moment, people reveal their ‘‘true’’ feelings or whether they simply say careless or hurtful things that they later live to regret.

6.4

Some Reﬂections

Much of the literature on apologies and excuses is cognitively oriented, identifying different types of accounts that people offer in response to damage to their image or reputation caused by something they did or said. In a classic article, Sykes and Matza (1957) describe the ‘‘neutralization’’ techniques employed by young delinquents to justify damaging behavior. These included denial of responsibility, denial of injury, denial of victim (injured party ‘‘deserved it’’), condemnation of condemners, and appeal to higher loyalties. Building on this perspective, Scott and Lyman (1968) have proposed the fundamentals of a theory of ‘‘accounts.’’ They deﬁne an account as ‘‘a statement made by a social actor to explain unanticipated or untoward behavior’’ (p. 46). They single out two types of accounts, ‘‘justiﬁcations’’ and ‘‘excuses.’’ In the former the actor accepts responsibility but denies that action was bad, whereas in the latter the actor acknowledges that the action was bad but denies responsibility — or seeks to justify or neutralize the action. Other authors, such as Benoit (1995) have developed these ideas to provided extensive typologies of accounts which include concessions, excuses, justiﬁcations, and refusals (‘‘bolstering’’). What is interesting about the above case examples is that they entail far greater ambiguity and nuance than is suggested by bald ‘‘accounts.’’ As a minimum,

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the apologies in these examples acknowledge that an unfortunate incident has occurred. They leave, however, much doubt as to the nature of the incident and as to the factors that make it regrettable. Christine, for example, did not acknowledge that what she had said was racism, but merely that it could be ‘‘perceived’’ as racist. Likewise, Mike did not acknowledge that he had been wrong to pass on the advertisement to the student or that he had been wrong to think that Pat was ‘‘the least collegiate person,’’ but merely that he should not have said so. What the examples suggest is that accounts are not self-contained, but that they emerge at the cross-face of statement, interpretation, and feeling. All the ‘‘accounts’’ are shaped variously by the anxiety, pride, shame, or embarrassment that attends (and deﬁnes) the contexts and anticipated outcomes. There are unfolding threats and costs to the parties involved. The examples suggest, also, that even where accounts are ambiguous or possibly self-contradictory, the apologetic tone or words offer a means of saving face — not only for those responsible for the unfortunate incident, but also for the injured parties and the audience. They are relational ways of defusing a situation, reducing fear, increasing self-esteem, and thus stabilizing meaning. But, as a non-linear social/ emotional process, the timing of an apology is vital. Some emotions, such as hurt and anger, can increase in intensity, in which case an apology that may have worked effectively at an early stage becomes insufﬁcient later. And conversely, some negative emotions subside, so that after a ‘‘cooling period’’ a modest apology or a token retraction may be enough to restore the order. Focusing exclusively on ‘‘accounts’’ underestimates precisely such emotional dynamics. The way an apology is uttered, the emotional climate in which it is expressed, and the desires of different parties to prolong, escalate, or contain the conﬂicts, are key considerations. The management of meaning is directly linked to the management of emotion; and the mismanagement of meaning is as likely as not to be the by-product of a mismanagement (misreading, misunderstanding, ignoring, or denying) of emotion.

6.5

Meanings and Modes in Apologies — A Conclusion

In opening this chapter we noted the relative rarity of apologies in organizational life and their neglect by theorists. We linked apologies to attempts to restore the legitimacy of an organization or the integrity of a person and to reestablish trust and cohesion. We observed that most apologies entail a vital ambiguity regarding the extent to which harm done is the result of someone knowing or not knowing, deliberate or accidental action. And we signaled some key questions regarding the effectiveness of an apology and its relation to its perceived sincerity. Our examples indicate that when apologies occur in organizations, as well as in other contexts, they usually follow the destabilization of a presumed system of meanings. This can be brought up by an ‘‘accident,’’ a misunderstanding, or the violation of a boundary. We observed that uttering an apology and acting in a way

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indicating the acceptance of responsibility can be out of synch, undermining the apology’s perceived sincerity. Yet, even when its sincerity is doubted, an apology can offer a face-saving restoration for the parties concerned permitting the resumption, more or less, of ‘‘business as usual.’’ In this way, apologies can be seen as modes of management of meaning when meaning becomes violated or unstable. Existing theory tends to approach this management through the concept of ‘‘accounts,’’ i.e., plausible-sounding explanations and justiﬁcations. Our discussion suggests that whether an apology is interpreted as adequate for the circumstances, as insincere, as ‘‘too little too late,’’ or even as an additional insult, depends crucially on emotional forces at work. In times of organizational crises, the emotions are likely to be mobile, contested, multi-actor, and multi-stakeholder. Meanings are easily derailed, such as by the swamping effects of the rage, anger, hurt, or pain of those injured. Indeed, we need to view the perceived sincerity of an apologetic ‘‘account,’’ and any attendant action, as fragile commodities in the emotional melee of organizational crises. The management of such processes can never be taken for granted but requires emotional and political sensitivity. They are quintessential settings for skilful emotional labor, especially of the philanthropic sort, where responding to another’s distress is an act seemingly unmotivated by personal gain or reward (Bolton, 2005). Here we face a distinction between the routinized, distanced, apology (‘‘I’m sorry this happened’’) and the deeper sorrow that implies remorse, or moral culpability for what has happened. It is the latter that is potent in stabilizing meanings as it unconditionally values the offended party or parties. Yet, paradoxically, precisely this is problematic for organizational managers socialized to defensive posturing and liability protection. Remorse implies legal and personal responsibility, and possible further reputational and ﬁnancial damage to the organization. The apologetic manager is thus ensnared in complex organizational and institutional circumstances, which make apologies (a) vital to the management of meaning and conﬂict or crisis resolution, but (b) essentially ambiguous in form and outcome.

Chapter 7

Integrating Multiple Voices: Working with Collusion in Multiparty Collaborations Barbara Gray and Sandra Schruijer

In this chapter, we explore the difﬁculties of capitalizing on the diversity among stakeholders in multiorganizational contexts and of translating this diversity into collaborative outcomes that are satisfactory to all. The main argument of our chapter is that bringing people together so as to allow multiple voices to speak is, in itself, not sufﬁcient to ensure collaborative participation and high quality decision making. Speciﬁcally, we draw on psychodynamic perspectives to explore the challenges inherent in integrating diverse voices in multiorganizational arenas. Sociopsychological phenomena (such as projection, collusion, and idealization among others) that are the result of subconscious dynamics can prevent participants from fully realizing and capitalizing on the opportunities associated with having multiple voices present. For those facilitating multiorganizational processes, it is important to help participants understand these phenomena and acknowledge the role they play in limiting the participants’ success. In this chapter, we will focus on the phenomenon of collusion in particular. We have organized this chapter as follows: First, we present our understanding of the notion of relational practice (Bouwen & Steyaert, 1999; Bouwen & Taillieu, 2004) and show that the relational practices associated with multiparty collaboration hinge on the management of diversity. Second, we synthesize research on the nature of multiparty interactions and identify what is necessary to move a diverse group of stakeholders from a collection of underorganized groups to a collective force for change within a problem domain (Gricar & Brown, 1981; Gray, 1989; Huxham, 1996). Third, we outline the psychodynamic perspective that we use to discern and understand ‘‘sociopsychological’’ phenomena. Psychodynamic forces that arise in the subconscious work of the group can be particularly persistent in derailing collaborative efforts (even when the parties are well intended about working together) (Vansina, 2000).

Relational Practices, Participative Organizing Advanced Series in Management, 121–135 Copyright r 2010 Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 1877-6361/doi:10.1108/S1877-6361(2010)0000007011

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We examine one psychodynamic force in particular, collusion, which impedes collaborative success. To illustrate ineffective collaboration and the ways in which collusion can infest interactions, we provide various examples from our own research on and practice with individuals and groups whose attempts to collaborate were thwarted by collusion. Finally, we consider the relational practices that parties can adopt to increase awareness of these pernicious obstacles, again drawing on examples from our own knowledge and experience.

7.1

Relational Practice in Multiparty Arenas and the Need to Harness Diversity

The idea that relational processes are central to knowledge creation and knowledge sharing is an idea in good currency (Bouwen & Taillieu, 2004; Brown & Duguid, 1996; Wenger, 1998). Rather than considering knowledge as a commodity that can be transferred from one mind to another, when knowledge is viewed as a relational practice, it resides in social interactions and is actualized in common practices that evolve within a particular community of practice (Sternberg & Horvath, 1999; Van Looy, Debackere, & Bouwen, 2000). Thus, knowledge is both embedded and emergent — subject to change as participants in a community interact with one another. To understand what is known, it becomes necessary to study how members of an organizational community interact and how their knowledge shifts over time. The notion of knowledge as relational practice rests on several epistemological assumptions. First, it is not an individual or essentialist perspective. Instead, knowledge is a collective phenomenon; to understand it, the researcher/practitioner needs to investigate meaning at the collective level (Berger & Luckmann, 1967; Donnellon, Gray, & Bougon, 1986). Second, knowledge is unfolding through interaction among participants in a community. Consequently, the focus is on how participants jointly construct their interactions and what they are doing together. Third, it necessarily directs attention to how participants’ interpretations are similar or different from those of others and by what mechanisms diverse parties engage one another. Understanding multiparty contexts from a relational practices perspective presents a variety of challenges for researchers and practitioners alike. At the heart of these challenges is the question of how to deal with differences in the way various parties make sense of a problem domain given differences in their past experiences, history, and values (Bouwen & Taillieu, 2004; Lewicki, Gray, & Elliott, 2003). That is, for successful collaboration to occur in multiparty domains, it is necessary to entertain and integrate diverse voices. Bouwen and Steyaert (1999) refer to arenas in which diverse voices meet and interact as multivoiced or polyphonic (after music of the same name that emphasizes the equitable juxtaposition of multiple melodies). In an organizational context, this involves both generating an appreciation for the diversity of viewpoints that multiple parties bring to a problem (or opportunity) and, at the same time, to corralling and channeling this diversity into problem solutions that all

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parties can accept. Thus, there is a need for relational practices that simultaneously foster and manage the differences in the various parties’ perspectives. The choice of practices employed can either ameliorate or reinforce existing differences. Consequently, multiorganizational contexts pose one of the most challenging applications of the notion of relational practice. Considerable attention has already been devoted to how to build a common vision and introduce concerted action in domains in which a variety of stakeholders are linked through their investment in a common issue or problem (Gray, 1989; Lewicki et al., 2003; Bouwen & Taillieu, 2004). In the next section, we take a closer look at what is already known about collaborative practices for dealing with differences in multiorganizational settings and some of the known obstacles to success.

7.2 7.2.1

Collaborative Practices for Dealing with Differences in Multiorganizational Settings Meaning of Collaboration

Collaboration is a process in which multiple stakeholders engage one another around a problem or issue of mutual concern that none of them can solve alone (Gray, 1989). Because the parties are each in some way dependent on the others for the resolution of the problem, none of them has the power to take unilateral action vis-a`-vis the problem domain. The need for collaboration occurs in situations in which the parties (or stakeholders to the problem) represent a variety of different organizations or functional viewpoints — all of which have some bearing on the problem under consideration. Since the stakeholders represent these diverse perspectives, they are often at odds with one another over the appropriate actions to take to address the problem. Consequently, creating a process that allows each of their viewpoints to be heard and that incorporates all of their perspectives into decisions taken to address the problem is a tall order. Gray (1989) has deﬁned collaboration as ‘‘a process through which parties who see different aspects of a problem can constructively explore their differences and search for solutions that go beyond their own limited vision of what is possible’’ (p. 5). Achieving such an outcome requires an ability to work constructively with diverse points of view, strong integrative negotiating skills, and careful coordination to ensure effective implementation of agreements. Some scholars have argued that diversity improves the overall quality of decision making (cf. Bantel & Jackson, 1989; Jackson, May, & Whitney, 1995; Ancona & Caldwell, 1992a). For example, through the use of analogy (Thompson, 2003) and interest-based negotiation (Fisher & Ury, 1981; Lax & Sebenius, 1986), innovative solutions that had not been considered can be generated. However, others have argued that diversity impedes effective decision making and promotes unproductive conﬂict within groups (Pelled, 1996; Pelled, Eisenhardt, & Xin, 1999; Simons, Pelled, & Smith, 1999; Williams & O’Reilly, 1998). In these cases, the conﬂict shifts from productive task conﬂict to unproductive relationship conﬂict (Jehn, 1995).

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While scholars differ on the role that identity characteristics (e.g., race, gender, and age) play as triggers of relationship conﬂict (cf. Ancona & Caldwell, 1992b; Pelled et al., 1999; Harrison, Price, & Bell, 1998; Kilduff, Angelmar, & Mehra, 2000), there is no doubt that such conﬂicts can diminish group effectiveness (Jehn, 1995; Jehn & Mannix, 2003) and derail collaborative processes (Gray, 1989, 2004; Gray & Clyman, 2003).

7.2.2

Obstacles to Collaboration and the Inevitability of Conﬂict

Numerous obstacles that interfere with progress toward achieving collaboration have been identiﬁed (Gray, 1995; Huxham & Vangen, 2005). In her investigation of educational collaborations, for example, Gray (1995) identiﬁed differences in organizational cultures of the participants, histories of misunderstanding, and the erosion of trust among parties, and institutional disincentives as formidable obstacles to collaboration. Cultural differences (rooted in core differences in language and national or ethnic belief systems) also impede or prevent the level of understanding required for collaborative agreements (Brett & Okumura, 1998; Bouwen, Craps, & Santos, 1999; LeBaron, 2004). The absence of process skills has also been noted as a detriment to collaboration (Wondolleck, 1985). Additionally, no matter how interdependent the parties pursuing a collaborative effort are, their aims frequently diverge (Huxham & Vangen, 2005) which leads to contention and battles for control among participants. Some seek short-term gains while others pursue longer-term outcomes. Some join up only to prevent others from gaining too much control over a problem domain. Some are motivated by economic gain while others seek to prevent the negative externalities that often accompany such gain. Problems also arise when parties project deep-seated identity concerns onto what appear to be substantive, issue-speciﬁc disputes (Folk-Williams, 1988). Additionally, when parties frame the issues or the reasons for their interdependencies through different lenses, the quality of the agreement diminishes (Curseu & Schruijer, 2005), and sometimes the potential for ﬁnding any agreement at all disappears (Lewicki et al., 2003). Finally, perceived or real differences in power (Gray, 1989), such as the ability to inﬂuence prevailing discourses (Hardy & Phillips, 1998), access to decision making arenas as well as access to informational and economic resources, can all impede the likelihood that parties can bridge the differences that they bring to a collaborative table. Consequently, despite the best intentions of conveners and parties, collaborative processes, even those which begin from the joint pursuit of seemingly common objectives, are often derailed at some point by either overt or covert conﬂict (Gray, 1989). Other factors that can impede collaboration relate to the process through which it unfolds. Gray (1989) has suggested there are three distinct phases to collaboration each with key issues that require attention before advancing to subsequent stages. Failure to address these issues in the early phases of collaboration can result in unintended consequences in later stages. For example, if the issue of representation is

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not sufﬁciently resolved in phase 1 (problem setting), problems with ratiﬁcation of the agreement by back home constituents can arise in phase 3 (implementation). That is, if representatives to the collaborative table do not carry sufﬁcient authority from their constituents to act on their behalf, delicate agreements struck with other stakeholders’ representatives may unravel when representatives report the agreement to their respective organizational members. Other process issues that may elude resolution in phase 1 and then impede resolution later include: Who is and is not included in the collaboration and their relative standing vis-a`-vis other stakeholders (Gray, 1989), the problem of conﬂicting aims among the various stakeholders (Huxham & Vangen, 2005), handling conﬁdential information, and working across differences in power among the stakeholders (Gray, 1989; Bouwen et al., 1999). In sum, while diversity among collaborative participants is to be expected and can be productive in generating innovative solutions for the problem domain, learning how to harness it to generate innovative outcomes and preventing negative relationship conﬂicts from sabotaging collaborative success requires knowledge and skills concerning the underlying dynamics at work in collaboration. All too often, leaders of collaborative efforts fail to establish a context in which these threats to collaboration are acknowledged and constructively attended to.

7.3 7.3.1

Psychodynamic Issues Inherent in Collaboration A Psychodynamic Perspective

As we noted earlier, the fact that collaboration is not easy has been amply documented. While the Tavistock School has adopted a psychodynamic perspective to explain the difﬁculties people face when working within group and organizational boundaries (Jacques, 1953; Bion, 1961), this tradition took a back seat in organizational scholarship for a time and has only more recently begun to reemerge (Hirschhorn & Barnett, 1993; Klein, Gabelnick, & Herr, 1988; Prins, 2001). A psychodynamic perspective aims to understand the signiﬁcance of concerns, tensions, and anxieties for the behavior and development of organizations, groups, and individuals and is based on the following assumptions (Vansina, 2000, 2008): (1) The way reality is attributed meaning by individuals is mediated by their feelings, assumptions, beliefs; such meaning attribution is a social process; (2) Human behavior is a function of conscious and unconscious mental processes; (3) People shy away from threats to their own self-esteem and avoid anxiety; (4) Individuals are directed toward social interaction and toward staying in contact with reality. That reality though may be a real or imagined source of anxiety leading to the deployment of defensive mechanisms that in turn limit one’s contact with it (Vansina, 2000, 2008). A psychodynamic perspective developed out of psychoanalytic thinking, although, unlike Freud, the unconscious is not assumed to contain merely repressed irrational or destructive impulses — it can also contain intuitive and creative thinking (Feldman, 1993). More importantly, the unconscious is not necessarily an element of

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individual psychic life; its content may be generated collectively as the product of social interactions and be a consequence of social repression (e.g., Hirschhorn & Barnett, 1993; Billig, 1999). Besides having psychoanalytic roots, a psychodynamic perspective is grounded in open systems thinking. Both schools of thought were originally joined in the work at the Tavistock Institute in London (Bion, 1961; Miller & Rice, 1967). From this perspective, anxieties not only spring from personal or idiosyncratic sources, they may be the consequence of the task or the situation in which a group is engaged. A psychodynamic perspective on individuals in groups and organizations then, focuses on ‘‘normal psychological processes,’’ and attempts to ‘‘sort out’’ at what level the observed phenomenon needs to be explained: intraindividual, interpersonal, group, etc. The French call such an approach ‘‘sociopsychologie,’’ which is quite different from our common understanding of ‘‘social psychology.’’ Well-known psychologists who adopt a psychodynamic perspective in the way meant here are Irving Janis and Jerry Harvey, both psychodynamically trained social psychologists, who try to understand concurrence-seeking tendencies (Janis, 1972) and collusion arising in social contexts (Harvey, 1999). The methodology belonging to a psychodynamic way of understanding is interpretative or what is called in French: an ‘‘approche clinique.’’ From a psychodynamic point of view, behavior is not taken at face value. Rather the obvious or ostensible function it serves is questioned and other subconscious functions are investigated. To this end the totality of the social system is taken into account, including the relevant environment or context, and the relevant history of that social system. Of course, what is relevant is not known beforehand but needs to be sorted out.1 Furthermore, contrary to widespread beliefs, personal histories need not be explored.2 Instead, only the history of that particular social system under study, as it manifests itself while working on the task in the ‘‘here-and-now,’’ is relevant (Vansina-Cobbaert, 2005; Vansina, 2008). Also noteworthy is that fact that the observer (or in action research or consulting, the researcher or consultant) considers himself or herself as part of that social system. Observing, therefore, is not done in the sense of being detached from the system but rather looking upon oneself as part of it and cocreating events (Huxham, 1996). According to Gabelnick, Herr, & Klein (1998, p. x), ‘‘a psychodynamic stance invites the reﬂection and anxiety that accompanies learning.’’ Observing means sensing, listening to one’s own feelings in the situation and trying to use them in explorations within oneself and with the others to ﬁnd out what is happening. One listens to the music behind the words and is attentive in the ‘‘here-and-now’’ to emerging psychodynamic phenomena (Vansina, 2008). In our way of working, it is especially group psychodynamics (cf. Bion, 1961) in which we are interested rather 1

Psychodynamic research involves linking ‘‘causes, effects, observed actions, and unexpressed feelings in a psychologically coherent narrative’’ and focuses on the ‘‘paradoxical quality of group life’’ (Hirschhorn & Barnett, 1993, p. xv). It reveals contradictions between behavior and intentions that emerge in these narratives. 2 In consultancy or action research, collecting these may even be considered unethical.

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than individual anxieties. The body of knowledge that is brought to the system-inobservation refers to notions from a psychodynamic understanding of groups and organizations. Simultaneously though, it is important to try to remain open to what is occurring and make sense of it, without ﬁtting it into pre-existing notions. Suspending judgment in this sense is a necessary albeit, difﬁcult, task to understand the system in its context.

7.3.2

The Phenomenon of Collusion

Cooperation and conﬂict are dominant terms in understanding interpersonal and intergroup relations, though conﬂict even more so than cooperation (Schruijer, 2005). This seems likely since merely labeling groups as different can generate intergroup rivalry and conﬂict (Tajfel & Turner, 1986). Interestingly, collaboration as a term has only come into use recently, possibly because of its double meaning, referring both to joint working and to cooperating treasonably.3 A phenomenon that we encounter often is collusion though it seems to go unnoticed in the organizational sciences literature on interpersonal and intergroup relations. Collusion comes from the Latin ‘‘co’’ and ‘‘ludere,’’ i.e., ‘‘playing together’’ and as such seems innocuous and creative. A formal deﬁnition of collusion, however, as ‘‘a secret agreement between two or more parties for a fraudulent, illegal, or deceitful purpose’’ (American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language) reveals its relevance for our purposes because it conveys a sense of conspiracy. To us, collusion refers to: implicit agreements and relationships that are not consciously secret, but unconsciously enacted. They are not necessarily for fraudulent, illegal, or deceitful purposes, but they serve one’s own interests (and are often kept vague). In a collusive climate parties neglect to confront others with their diverse interests, while they unduly and prematurely agree with one another. They deny the diversity and suppress or avoid any disagreement to maintain an illusion of harmony (Schruijer & Vansina, 2006, p. 7331).

Thus, collusion stands for unconsciously agreeing not to confront reality. A good example is the story of the emperor with no clothes. Collusion is an unconscious process or maybe preconscious as it can be made conscious after it has been exposed by someone. However, the colluders are often resistant to this exposure. Their initial reaction (and possibly a persisting one) is to label the one who exposes the collusion as a deviant or a rebel (or worse) and subsequently reject him or her. Whether the latter happens or not is a function of how strong the anxieties at work in the setting are to the colluders. Of course, when these anxieties are certain to produce real consequences (as can be seen in openly criticizing a dictatorial regime), we would not talk of collusion, but of repression instead. How does collusion get expressed in collaboration? In his research on labor negotiations, Stephenson (1981) has described collusion as the likely result of 3

This meaning of collaboration derives from the behavior of the French who collaborated with the Nazis during World War II.

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representatives being very attentive to interpersonal needs at the negotiating table while ignoring the differences between their constituencies’ interests and those of the constituencies of the other representatives around the table. In the opposite case, much attention is paid to the intergroup aspects of the negotiation situation while no interpersonal needs are met and no interpersonal relations built. In such a case, intergroup conﬂict is an outcome to be expected. In Stephenson’s view, representatives need to attend to both the interpersonal and intergroup demands in the situation. Facing rather than avoiding differences in parties’ interests and ideas can create conﬂict, but this is a necessary conﬂict in case one is interdependent and wants to beneﬁt from collaboration. In this context, a distinction needs to be made between task and relationship conﬂict where the former refers to confronting and working with the group differences (‘‘playing the ball’’) while the latter is aimed at defeating the other party or showing one’s superiority (‘‘playing the person’’) (Jehn, 1995; Schruijer, 2002). Collusion manifests itself in a variety of different ways. For collaboration to be successful, differences in interests, power, identities, ideas, etc. need to be explored. Doing so, however, may generate feelings of powerlessness, dependency, insecurity, being superﬂuous, etc. within oneself and one’s group. Whether in the context of a complex multiparty simulation (Vansina, Taillieu, & Schruijer, 1998) or in action research or in consulting projects with organizations striving to work together, people ﬁnd it hard to explore their differences (Schruijer, 2007; Schruijer & Vansina, 2006). If it is attempted, they proceed like hedgehogs making love. The inherent fear seems to be that any difference is insurmountable, will lead to rejection and exclusion or will make the budding relationship explode into relational conﬂict. Further, if the parties’ distrust of each other becomes apparent (distrust that is likely to be present at the start), it is immediately taken as proof that collaboration is impossible. Still, distrust often gets expressed in a very subtle manner, even though parties try to disguise it by choosing a politically correct interaction style. But even differences in identity, interests, or resources – differences that may have been a stimulus to work together in the ﬁrst place — are threatening, before knowing their relevance in the context of a joint goal. Any difference may conﬁrm the expectation that the other party is unreliable and unwilling to compromise. As a consequence, conﬂict is avoided. New information is suppressed as it may upset the climate of nonconfrontation. Assumptions are not questioned and parties seemingly converge toward some sort of agreement while, to outsiders, the parties’ unwillingness to test reality may be patently obvious. Although group members seem happy about the apparent harmony and agreements reached, their constituents’ interests have not been addressed.

7.3.3

Examples

A climate of nonconfrontation is often mistaken by participants for collaborative success. They think they collaborated in the ﬁrst meaning of the term mentioned above while, in fact, their behavior was in line with the second meaning albeit

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unconsciously — what we call collusion. A desire to be successful can, in itself, result in collusive behavior. Jointly developed goals to address complex multiparty issues may become diluted over time and result in manageable small-scale deals that gloss over the real issues, without this being noticed. A concrete example of participants enjoying a feeling of collaborative success while observers interpreted it as collusion concerned the dynamics during a workshop that was organized to address a difﬁcult and long-term environmental policy problem in which nature preservation concerns on the one hand and industrial interests on the other were in conﬂict. Members of the various stakeholders groups came together and were invited to develop creative ideas that might contribute toward solving the lasting dilemma. Participants were explicitly asked to take part as individuals, i.e. to forget about their constituents and their interests. They were subjected to highly structured creativity exercises that focused on developing a large number of ideas, subsequently reduced to a smaller number through statistical aggregation techniques. The pressure to be productive was strong during the succession of different tasks. The facilitators played a leading role in administering the techniques, selecting ideas and sticking to the (over)structured program. Time for debate was minimal, and the program did not permit reﬂection time. While participants uttered some expressions of fatigue, no one publicly questioned the undertaking. Moreover, the unfortunate absence of one of the major stakeholders (basically undermining the raison d’eˆtre of the whole exercise) did not lead to overt discussion. The observers were struck with the rather complacent atmosphere about which one of the participants commented during a break, expressing his reluctance to confront ‘‘the facilitator, who seems such a nice man’’. The observers speculated that participants were seduced to go along with the overstructured task by the pleasant and well-intended facilitators. It satisﬁed the need of participants, facilitators, and sponsors alike, to experience some success in a continuing, conﬂict-ridden situation (Neven & Schruijer, 2005). A second example concerns a recurring ‘‘leadership seduction cycle’’ that is observed in a two-day simulation of a complex multiparty issue, called ‘‘The Yacht Club’’ (Vansina, Taillieu, & Schruijer, 1998, 1999). Seven legally independent parties (one of whom is a local government authority) are confronted with a regional development concern. The complexities and uncertainties inherent in the problem domain and in the interactions among multiple parties whose interests and motives are not yet known, very quickly result in a call for a ‘‘strong leader.’’ The local authorities, who started ostensibly facilitating a collaboration process (with their self-appointed role remaining mostly unquestioned by the other parties), are faced with accusations that they are not proactive and that they should be more directive. As a response to the other parties’ criticism of their ‘‘facilitative’’ role, they start acting more like managers and judges. However, once they have become dominant leaders (partly in response to the call of the others but also in response to the need to serve their own interests), they are strongly rejected as leaders by the other parties. The call for a strong leader helps parties to shy away from facing and wrestling with the uncertainties, ambiguities, and complexity of their relationship. The local authorities are easily seduced as they want to become a valued player, be accepted in a

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prominent role, and to simultaneously satisfy their own interests (while claiming and often believing that they are neutral). Such collusive pattern is never recognized by parties while it is happening. It is only when reﬂecting upon the dynamics of the simulation afterward that participants recognize the seduction cycle. In the same simulation collusion manifests itself in other forms, namely by the lack of reality testing. Grandiose plans are sometimes made to address the complexities inherent in the multiparty problem setting. These plans may refer to a wonderful future in which all problems will be solved. If parties persist in wishful thinking while no one brings it back to difﬁculties in the here-and-now, parties collude to ignore their divergent interests and the complexities they are faced with. Likewise, assumptions can be made or strategies developed, that are not based on logical thinking or grounded in realistic ﬁgures. Again, often these false assumptions and incorrect calculations are accepted by other parties precisely because it helps them to escape from difﬁculties and possible conﬂicts while still having a sense of ‘‘dealing with the issues.’’ Sometimes parties have worked for more than 10 hours on ‘‘the vision’’ or ‘‘the concept’’ (often captured in promising one-liners). During this time parties are asked whether they agree and want to collaborate. It is not uncommon for parties to go along. If after the simulation we ask them to describe ‘‘the vision’’ or ‘‘the concept’’ individually, answers vary considerably (Vansina & Taillieu, 1997; Vansina et al., 1998; Schruijer, 2002). Even when collusion is exposed in the here-and-now, parties often resist addressing it. Two examples from our own consulting practices illustrate how interventions aimed at confronting the collusive dynamics failed. The ﬁrst occurred in a leadership development workshop organized for promising (relatively) young employees in a professional organization who had taken up managerial positions or were about to do so. The parties involved were the director and his team, and a group of professional leaders, all from the same organization. The second author was asked to give a lecture-discussion on leadership to this group. The workshop mainly consisted of discussing the developments within the organization and the new policy chosen by the director. The director and his management team were present during the whole workshop. Still, it was intended as a training in which participants were expected to talk openly and freely about their concerns. The workshop was facilitated by two external trainers. That day Sandra gave her short lecture and opened the ﬂoor for discussion. During the ensuing discussions, a small group of participants (who already had been labeled as the ‘‘most promising and important ones,’’ a label that was conﬁrmed through several comments by the director during the discussion), focused their attention almost exclusively on the director and were basically exchanging ideas with him (and he with them). After the discussion, Sandra asked them to discuss some issues in subgroups. One of the senior managers publicly refused to participate. The plenary discussion again showed a similar pattern. At some point Sandra asked them how things were going. No one referred to any of the here-and-now dynamics. Ultimately she did so herself while also questioning the level of perceived safety present. She asked whether people felt the conditions existed to speak openly about one’s concerns with the director and managers there and described some examples during the session in which the power

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differences were clearly manifest. Especially the active, young, and eager participants were bafﬂed. They did not know what Sandra was talking about. One participant exclaimed rather annoyed: ‘‘Listen, I am a clinical psychologist, so I know what makes situations safe or not. I can tell you, it is safe here!’’ A woman who was the only one from a different department, and who had been silent hitherto, said she recognized what Sandra had observed. Nevertheless, the rest were unwilling to explore the issue further (including the trainers). As a presenter, Sandra felt rejected by the group and disappointed because there was no insight into the here-and-now and no willingness to discuss it. She also fretted over the fact that her intervention was poorly timed just before the end of her session and because others may have seen it as off-task. Nonetheless, as Sandra observed subsequent sociometric exercises facilitated by another trainer (e.g., ‘‘with whom do you feel most at ease?’’ ‘‘who is most important in the organization?’’), she observed the earlier dynamics again. The ‘‘young and promising’’ participants stuck very close to the director. The day after the workshop, Sandra shared her observations and reﬂections with the director. It was also afterward that some participants approached her individually and conﬁrmed that they had not felt safe during the training. In this case, collusion was present in various ways and among various people. Although power differences clearly existed and had an obvious impact on the dynamics, they were not faced and strongly denied by the ‘‘most promising ones.’’ Additionally, the collusion was reiﬁed and legitimated by a clinical psychologist who exclaimed, on behalf of others present, that it was a safe situation. The ‘‘most promising ones’’ had an interest not to expose the dynamics as they wanted to be close to the director who ﬁnancially sponsored their projects. Those who did not fall into the category ‘‘most promising ones’’ likewise had an interest not to confront the dynamics so as not to conﬁrm their ‘‘less promising’’ status. The facilitators colluded with the dynamics by not pointing to the dynamics themselves and by remaining silent the moment Sandra did. Sandra, who beforehand had made clear to the facilitators that she would not act as a consultant but as a teacher, felt seduced to step out of role and make an intervention that backﬁred with too little time to discuss the implications in-depth. Whether the director’s behavior was a manifestation of collusion or of an intentional power play has remained unclear. The second example involves a team-building project (undertaken by the ﬁrst author) with the administrative staff of a large tertiary hospital. The hospital’s CEO invited the consultation to improve the working relationships between a 4-person executive committee and a larger 18-person administrative committee that included the executive committee members. The presenting problem quickly became more complex when, during interviews about the dynamics within and between the teams, some administrative team members reported an alleged affair between the CEO and a member of the executive committee. They reported that this suspicion had poisoned the climate within the administrative team and eroded trust in the CEO. When the consultant, Barbara, queried the CEO about his awareness of the rumors and their negative repercussions within the larger team, he reluctantly agreed that this fallout from the rumors (not whether they were true) should be raised when Barbara presented her feedback to the administrative committee.

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Proceeding on this agreement, Barbara prepared the diagnosis, but on the eve of the presentation, the CEO revealed that he had reversed his stance and was now siding with the Executive Committee who recommended against acknowledging the fallout during the presentation of the diagnosis of team problems. Needless to say, Barbara was taken aback and protested this reversal on the grounds that he could not regain the trust of his team by denying the problem. Additionally, the credibility of the team-building activity would also be jeopardized if the damaging effects of the rumors were ‘‘whitewashed’’ in her report. When the CEO refused to budge, Barbara partially acquiesced by agreeing to say that one (unnamed) issue that surfaced in the diagnosis had been presented to the CEO who was willing to discuss it privately with anyone in the team who chose to do so. After the feedback, Barbara continued to provide team-building work to address other issues raised during the diagnosis. However, the CEO effectively undermined full success of these events by either not attending or allowing distractions to pull him out of the meetings. Five months later, he accepted a position at another hospital. The collusion in this example was two-fold. First, the members of the executive committee colluded with the CEO to prevent any open discussion of the effects of the allegations of the affair on trust within the larger committee. We can speculate that the executive committee chose this route to manage their own anxiety about the CEO coming under ﬁre and also to protect one of their own (his alleged accomplice) from vulnerability. The CEO claimed that the hospitals’ medical staff created the allegations to force him to leave and denied that the rumors had any negative impact on his relationships with his own staff. Thus, he and the Executive Committee colluded to keep the troubling issue from being considered in the group. By failing to address these issues, the CEO effectively undermined his own efforts to improve team relationships. Consequently, what had become a climate of suspicion and mistrust for some team members, remained so. Second, Barbara also got caught up in the collusion by agreeing to proceed without a public acknowledgment of the repercussions on the team. In hindsight, Barbara concluded she should have refused to continue with the project since her subsequent efforts to engage in team building (with the hope that some improvements in the team’s dynamics were still possible) could not breach the gulf between the team and CEO. While other criticisms of the CEO’s leadership were raised during the feedback session, the unwillingness of the CEO to address the anxiety produced by the allegations and his subsequent indifference toward the team-building activities all signaled his belief in his own invulnerability. He behaved as a narcissistic leader — one who seeks to preserve an ideal deﬁnition of himself (Schwartz, 1993). In psychodynamic terms, he was unable to acknowledge the ‘‘depressive position’’ (Klein, 1946; Krantz, 1998) — the realization that no one can remain in the narcissistic state of infancy in which we can do no wrong and deserve unconditional love. Narcissists engage in the delusion that they can do no wrong and instead split off the negative parts of themselves and project this negative aspect onto others by blaming them for problems instead. Narcissism feeds what relational theorists call the self-enhancement bias and prevent leaders and their teams from honestly confronting their limitations (Schwartz, 1993).

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Coping with Collusion to Improve Collaboration

By introducing and exemplifying the notion of collusion we have tried to shed light on dynamics that can arise in seemingly well-intended collaborative processes that make the task of fully integrating diverse parties exceedingly difﬁcult. The difﬁculty is particularly acute because parties are usually not fully aware of their participation in collusive dynamics. There are at least two reasons for this. First, the motivations for counter-collaborative behavior operate at a subconscious or even unconscious level. Parties are not typically aware of their complicity with collusive dynamics. Second, the dynamics have a powerful pull because, to overcome them, someone has to take considerable risk to label and expose the collusion for what it is. A single ‘‘whistleblower,’’ however, can quickly be the victim of scapegoating (Krantz, 1998) and suffer being written off by the others as a trouble maker or a ‘‘nonteam player’’ in order to prevent exposing the collusive behavior of the others. So, what, if anything, can be done to cope with collusive behavior and increase the potential for effective collaboration? We turn our attention now to some relational practices that leaders and participants of collaborative processes might employ to ameliorate the negative effects of collusion. First, participants and leaders of multiparty processes need to gain insight into sociopsychological processes and become aware of their impact on collaborative success. Methods that promote such learning include human interaction laboratories, reﬂective workshops, and simulations. The simulation referred to above is a tool for experiential learning about multiparty dynamics, about leading multiparty processes, and about coping with ambiguity. After having taken part in the simulation — that lasts for more than one day — a collective reﬂection and inquiry, aimed at understanding why things happened as they did, takes place. The importance of confrontation as ‘‘a process of seeking reality’’ (Harvey, 1988) becomes meaningful after having gone through such a collective experience. The willingness to confront so as to ﬁght collusion requires courage and goes against people’s tendency to conform to an implicit or explicit group norm ‘‘to keep quiet or not rock the boat’’ (Harvey, 1999). Apart from helping to achieve collaborative success, such courage embodies also an act of social responsibility. When a climate of diversity exists, people are more willing to express their true beliefs. Asch’s (1953) classic experiment in conformity showed that it needed only one stooge to present the other wrong answer for the real subject to state the correct answer. We all can unveil and label collusion if we understand it and our own role as an accomplice in it. Insight into the dynamics of collusion is only valid if one can accept that s/he can be a complicit too. Not only participants; leaders of collaborative processes need themselves to be open to their own vulnerability too. (Gabelnick et al., 1998, p. x).

For leaders, this implies being cognizant of the potential for collusion in their own behavior and in the behavior of their subordinates who may not feel sufﬁciently safe during change processes in which levels of uncertainty (and concomitantly,

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anxiety) are frequently high and their sense of identity may be threatened or in ﬂux. Leaders and participants who comprehend and accept the depressive position and operate in a climate of tolerance for vulnerability can acknowledge and manage their anxieties and limit self-protective, narcissistic behavior that judges or blames, rather than welcomes, diverse others (Krantz, 1998). Creating a climate in which a diversity of opinions can be expressed, is accepted and even valued, is furthermore, something leaders actively need to work at. Perhaps the most difﬁcult aspect of understanding the grip of collusion on a group is the unwillingness of members to expose their own weaknesses in public. ‘‘This (y) entails the capacity to tolerate the shame and frustration of not knowing, living with the vulnerability required to learn from others, and coping with the public experience of being wrong’’ (Krantz, 1998, p. 92). Work of this sort requires courage and a supportive climate. Without the latter, our anxieties again take over and evoke more primitive defensive postures. Leaders who can model nondefensive behavior for other participants and who can create environments where such explorations feel safe and valued will have a greater chance of surfacing and addressing their own and their collaborators’ collusive behaviors. It is important to realize that such climate of safety is not likely to be present at the start of most multiparty interactions. Trust is something that needs to be built over time. Successful collaborative leaders play important roles in the process by creating conditions for trust-building to take place (Schruijer & Vansina, 2004; Gray, 2006; Vangen & Huxham, 2003). Coping with collusive behavior can be facilitated by building in a role for outsiders who can comment on a group’s or organization’s dynamics — dynamics in which the leader and participants may be trapped and unable to observe for themselves. Relying on feedback from such external observers can guard against unwitting participation in collusive cycles of behavior. Rather than relying solely on the observations of an outsider or third party though, regular reviews can be organized so as to learn from multiparty interactions and to improve the collaboration (Vansina, 2005). A review is a joint reﬂective activity in which the activities and interactions of the social system as they took place are discussed. The aim is to understand how the group or organization worked and what was hindering or helping them in doing the task and thus ﬁnd ways to improve on future performance. It is a collective inquiry into the dynamics as they occurred; experiences and observations are shared and compared in order to ﬁnd out why, and under what conditions, things happened as they did. The concept of ‘‘sorting out’’ that was introduced earlier is, as part of the review, a joint endeavor. A review looks back with a view to learn and improve. Of course, the way the review is done in the ‘‘here-and-now’’ can also be informative and can be reviewed too. Finally, to prevent the occurrence of collusion it may be important to revisit the design for and intentions of participants to the collaboration. Further, consultants and/or action researchers can work at developing their self-awareness concerning their own potential to be seduced into collusive behavior as well as their courage to act on these eventualities should they occur.

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135

Conclusion

In this paper, we have tried to explore how bringing diverse participants together for a collaborative process requires particular attention to the potential for collusion that can ultimately impede collaborative success. In group and multiparty settings, collusive dynamics arise through collective participation in unconscious behaviors — rather than through the more individualized unconscious behaviors stressed by Freud. They result from group repression of anxiety and collective reluctance to wrestle with limitations and admit vulnerability (Hirschhorn & Barnett, 1993; Billig, 1999). Consequently, the fears of one party are magniﬁed by the others — making it difﬁcult to confront the collusive behavior and work with it. Furthermore, we don’t want to leave the reader with the impression that awareness and exposure of collusive behavior will necessarily be sufﬁcient to overcome it. In situations in which the fears are strong and perpetuated over long periods of time, collusion rather than open conﬂict (be it task or relational) is especially likely. In these settings, organizational members or competing groups either become socialized into an idealized view that (1) falsely confuses collaboration with harmony and consensus and extols the latter as politically correct, or (2) villainizes other groups while exempting themselves from blame. Such views are furthered by narcissistic or very directive leaders who are unlikely to be converted to acceptance of the depressive position through one collaborative experience, or a single consultant’s feedback. Instead, they may encourage collusion to ensure that the ‘‘manufactured consent’’ (Chomsky, 1993) they receive from their own group goes unnoticed. Finally, we want to reiterate that just bringing diverse parties to a collaborative table (even with no limiting factors in their history) is unlikely to capitalize on the differences they represent. Huxham and Vangen (2005) stress the need for understanding the complexity of multiparty dynamics and accepting the pain of working through them, but also stress that serendipity may play a role in fostering collaboration. While serendipity may indeed be productive, our view is that serendipity is only possible when high levels of safety exist. Such safety is only achieved when potentially collusive dynamics are labeled, confronted, and replaced with high levels of risk-taking and vulnerability among collaborative partners. To counter the detrimental effects of collusion or to prevent it from occurring in the ﬁrst place, it is necessary to establish a relational climate in which diversity is appreciated, vulnerability can be shown, and mistakes can be repaired. In such a climate, participants may learn that their fears were unwarranted, or perhaps that they were warranted, but that real social learning and development can take place if these fears are confronted, explored, and worked through. An innocent child who points out that the emperor is naked may help all the adults open their eyes and confront their collective limitations which, in turn, can unlock the potential for real collaboration.

Chapter 8

Developing Space for Diversity: An Appreciative Stance Ronald E. Fry and Johan Hovelynck

What is a ‘‘difference’’? What constitutes ‘‘diversity’’ and if it has meaning or value to social systems, what is it? For the past decade, we have co-inquired into this topic area as our students from a postgraduate degree program in Organization Development in the United States and a certiﬁcate program in Group and Organizational Consulting in Belgium have joined to work and learn together. Each exchange included a three-day, experiential workshop to explore multicultural dynamics in teams and organizations. In these workshops, we have consistently experienced the elusiveness of the notion of a difference, particularly a so-called cultural difference. It seems that any difference initially articulated, upon investigation, reveals ﬁrst an exception to that difference, if not a deeper sense of commonality among the students. We see ‘‘stuckness’’ in the group as a result of expressed differences, as well as ﬂow and innovation stemming from differences. And yet, it is the diversity represented by students from multiple countries, professional backgrounds and different educational programs that makes this experience so attractive from the outset. When we convene these two groups, we live with the question: how does diversity show itself; how does it enhance the learning community; how does it contribute to new knowledge or understanding? The purpose of this chapter is to inquire further into how diversity contributes to the potential and resilience of communities of practice. How can communities develop the capacity to beneﬁt from internal differences, rather than enact them as obstacles? More speciﬁcally, we develop the notion of relational space, where understanding/ knowledge is created and held, with an interest in how relational spaces become generative, or move toward positive outcomes that enhance collective futures. In this regard, we join the works of such authors as Bouwen (Bouwen & Fry, 1996; Bouwen & Hovelynck, 2006), investigating how the development of such a space facilitates relational learning, and Shotter (1993b, 2001a), whose concept of

Relational Practices, Participative Organizing Advanced Series in Management, 139–154 Copyright r 2010 Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 1877-6361/doi:10.1108/S1877-6361(2010)0000007012

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social poetics at once refers to a relationally responsive interaction and the distinct type of understanding that emerges in such dialogue. Finally, we use fragments from one of our recent student exchange workshops to evolve the construct of an ‘‘appreciating dynamic’’ in relational space that, when present, ensures that diversity becomes a life-giving factor in organizational life. We conclude by revisiting our initial questions concerning diversity and propose that appreciating dynamics in relational space are necessary for diversity to become a generative force in community learning and cooperation.

8.1

Appreciating Social Dynamics in Relational Space

Relational space refers to the state and conﬁguration of interpersonal connections within a social system and to the conditions that facilitate these connections. Where connections are strong or of high quality (Dutton & Heaphy, 2003), the relational space is vibrant and full of life. When the number of connections is numerous, and where their conﬁguration is extensive and expansive, the relational space is robust and resilient (Baker, Cross, & Wooten, 2003). Generative capacity is increased by the extent to which people connect to think expansively through dialogue in vibrant, healthful relational spaces.

8.1.1

Relational Spaces1

The quest to understand the conditions conducive to the emergence of vibrant relational spaces has long been a topic of discussion. For Arendt (1958), a relational space is a public space that refers to all things seen and recognizable by everybody, and it emerges anywhere people act together, no matter how large or small the group (Benhabib, 1992). A relational reality, in the socially constructed sense, only emerges when a multitude of simultaneous perspectives exist among interrelating players, and when people translate these perspectives from private thought into terms that can be understood by others. ‘‘The greatest forces of life y lead an uncertain, shadowing kind of existence unless and until they are transformed, de-privatized and de-individualized, into a shape to ﬁt them for public appearance’’ (Arendt, 1958, p. 50), highlighting the importance of conversational dialogue (Howe, 1993; Isaacs, 1999) as the primary mechanism for relational enactment. Another factor that generates a healthy relational space is a common focus of interest among interaction participants. An orientation toward common action has particular relevance: Reality is not guaranteed primarily by the ‘common nature’ of all [those] who constitute it, but rather by the fact that, differences of position and the resulting variety of perspectives 1

We would like to acknowledge the contribution of our colleagues, David Cooperrider, David Bright, and Ned Powley to earlier drafts of this construct.

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notwithstanding, everybody is always concerned with the same object. If the sameness of the object can no longer be discerned, no common nature of men can prevent the destruction of the common [socially constructed] world. (Arendt, 1958, p. 57)

Communities emerge wherever people willingly converse and accept responsibility for a common fate (Howe, 1993), which enables the co-construction of new alternatives (Freire, 1992). A common interest has a linking effect on people that allows multitudinous views to converge on the creation of shared social constructions. Habermas (1989) extends these ideas to suggest that a healthy relational sphere comes about when people have respect for one another and see each other as working equals (Victor & Stephens, 1994). Every person in the interaction is seen as having a perspective of value. Within these ideal conversational moments, the players experience a temporary suspension of status differential, they discuss any topic related to locus for action, and they operate under an assumption of inclusivity (Habermas, 1989). When mutual respect ensues in conversation, the capacity for practical reasoning becomes possible. ‘‘A certain form of unrestrained communication brings to the fore the deepest force of reason, which enables us to overcome egocentric or ethnocentric [cultural] perspectives and reach an expanded view’’ (Habermas, 1987). People use practical debate to generate locally normative actions. This is especially true when the interaction climate is governed by democratic, communal procedures that encourage participants to collectively deﬁne and act upon their own decisions (Powley, Fry, Barrett, & Bright, 2004). In sum, where successful, generative conversations emerge, they forge social integration (Calhoun, 1992) because action is ‘‘based on communication rather than domination’’ (Habermas, 1989, p. 210). To summarize, relational spaces are shaped by the language used in dialogic conversation, by a common focus on some purpose or action, and by the normative assumptions of respect and reciprocity made of each other by interacting participants.

8.1.2

Mapping Relational Space

One way to capture the dynamics of relational space is found in Losada’s recent, fascinating work in which he used nonlinear dynamic models to examine the interaction of groups (Losada & Heaphy, 2004; Losada, 1999). Relational space, in this research, includes the emotional atmosphere that emerges as a result of the complex, nonlinear interactions between different types of conversational dynamics. Using a specialized time-capture lab environment, Losada and his colleagues recorded the interactions of 60 actual planning teams at work. Team performance was later assessed through externally derived measures of success, and the teams were grouped into high-, medium-, and low-performing clusters. Every team member utterance was captured, time-stamped, and later coded using a simple set of three bi-polar constructs. The ﬁrst construct mapped a Positivity– Negativity (P–N) dimension, where positive and negative utterances were deﬁned as feedback mechanisms through which team members provided each other with insight regarding the viability of emerging ideas. Positive utterances afﬁrmed or encouraged others (e.g., ‘‘That’s a really great idea!’’) and negative utterances

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(e.g., ‘‘I really disagree with that!’’) communicated ‘‘disapproval, sarcasm, or cynicism’’ (Bales, 1950; Bales & Cohen, 1979). A second continuum mapped the Inquiry–Advocacy (I–A) dimension, where inquiry utterances sought understanding of another’s position, while advocacy utterances sought to defend or promote a speaker’s speciﬁc stance (Senge, 1990; Argyris & Scho¨n, 1978). Finally, on the Self–Other (S–O) dimension, self utterances referred to the speaker, the group, or the larger organization of which all group participants were members, and ‘‘other’’ utterances referenced to external parties. Ratios were calculated for each dimension in each team, and then proﬁles created for each cluster of teams. High-performing teams produced balanced (1:1) I–A and S–O ratios and an average P–N ratio of 5.6:1. Medium-performance teams had slight imbalances (about 3:2) in favor of advocacy and self utterances, while their P–N ratio averaged 1.8:1. The low-performance teams demonstrated almost no inquiry or other-oriented utterances, and their P–N ratios were either 1:1 or completely imbalanced toward negativity. In addition, to measure the number of connections among participants in each team, the time-series patterns for each dimension of each person in a group were cross-correlated with the equivalent dimensions for every other member. Again, high-performing groups showed signiﬁcantly more interpersonal connections than either the medium- or low-performing teams. Additionally, as qualitatively observed, the high-performing team interactions generally showed positive emotions (e.g., pleasurable surprise, awe, excitement), the low-performing teams were often negative (e.g., disdain, frustration, anger) or neutral in emotional expressions, and the medium-performing teams exhibited a mixture of emotions.

8.1.3

Relational Space, Innovation, and Performance

Using a Lorenz system of nonlinear equations, developed and validated to accurately predict these categories of utterances, Losada and his colleagues found that highperforming teams produced ‘‘chaotic attractors’’ or ‘‘complexors’’ when the three dimensions were modeled together, indicating a broad range of activity in group member dialogue. In mathematical terms, a complexor indicates an order with no ‘‘repeating trajectories’’ of activity, and models an expansive spiral of dialogic activity. High-performing teams were not only engaged and connected, but also highly innovative. On the other hand, the low-performance teams produced ‘‘ﬁxed-point attractors,’’ meaning that when modeled, their interactions produced predictable patterns. A ﬁxed attractor indicates a spiral toward stagnant, static, and patterned dialogue. Members in low-performing teams appeared emotionally disengaged or highly negative, advocated without inquiring, and were self-focused in their utterances. The medium-performing groups produced a ‘‘limited cycle’’ pattern, which is more robust than a ﬁxed-attractor system, but also limited in its expansive capacity. Taken together, Losada et al.’s work provides an intriguing insight into the dynamics that enable a group, or groups, to construct and work toward future possibilities. Such high-performing groups engage in relational spaces where there is a

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distinct imbalance in favor of positive anticipatory images, a broad scanning of personal (internal) and external needs/wishes and balance of inquiry with advocacy. One theory that accounts for the correlation of such positivity to high performance is Fredrickson’s ‘‘broaden-and-build’’ theory (Fredrickson, 1998, 2001). Emotionality ensues from every conversation (Homans, 1950), yet positive and negative emotions are qualitatively different because they correspond to fundamentally distinct underlying mental processes (Seligman, 2003; Seligman & Pawelski, 2003; Fredrickson, 1998). Fredrickson associates negative emotions with speciﬁc thoughtaction tendencies that focus on survival. For instance, when people are fearful or angry, these negative emotions interact with cognition to reduce the range of thought possibilities to a focus on escape, caution, defensiveness, or revenge. In an atmosphere that is dominated by such emotions, it is difﬁcult (perhaps impossible) to think beyond protectionism. On the other hand, when people experience positive emotions, they think more broadly about possible activities or actions. In conditions of support and psychological safety, the capacity for people to perceive, attend to, and understand differing perspectives improves (Edmondson, 1999). If, as Fiol and O’Connor (2003, p. 59) suggest, a ‘‘rich action repertoire’’ curbs mindlessness, then it should be expected that an expanded ‘‘thought-action repertoire’’ (Fredrickson, 2001) and its accompanying positive emotional state corresponds to the innovativeness, creativity, mindfulness, and generally broadened thinking that would be required for high performance.

8.1.4

Appreciating Social Dynamics in Relational Space

We propose that the high-performing conversations in Losada and Heaphy’s (2004) work exemplify an appreciating dynamic, occurring when interactions spiral upward in a self-reinforcing pattern of activity that continually produces unique, innovative outcomes. The dynamic is characterized by a balanced ebb-and-ﬂow between inquiry and advocacy epistemological postures, a balance between self and other dialogic reﬂections, and a strong imbalance toward afﬁrming conversational utterances. Operationally, an appreciating dynamic also manifests as an expansive effect in relational space because of the connection building that takes place among interacting players. We can now begin to summarize the factors contributing to an ‘‘appreciating dynamic’’ (and depreciating) in relational space. Table 8.1 depicts the elements we have described above at the metaphorical, interactive, conversational, and individual levels.

8.2

Developing a Generative Relational Space

Drawing on this overview of characteristics of an appreciating dynamic, we further investigate the process in which such generative relational spaces evolve.

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Table 8.1: A comparison of appreciating and depreciating dynamics in relational space. Level of manifestation

Appreciating (life-enhancing) dynamic

Depreciating (life-draining) dynamic

Metaphor

Organizations are a ‘‘miracle to be discovered’’ (Cooperrider & Srivastva, 1987)

Organizations are a problem to be solved

Interaction

Common object at the center of discourse (Arendt, 1958) Temporary suspension of status differentials, people have respect for one another and see each other as working equals (Habermas, 1989)

No commonality at the center of discourse Power dynamics are enforced in relational space, conversations become onesided, participants become entrenched in ideological conﬂict

Conversation

Inquiry utterances occur in equal proportion with advocacy utterances (Losada & Heaphy, 2004) Other-oriented utterances occur in equal proportion with selforiented utterances (Losada & Heaphy, 2004) Afﬁrming (positive) comments about others’ utterances are at least three times as frequent as disconﬁrming (negative) comments (Losada & Heaphy, 2004)

Advocacy utterances dominate the discourse

Sense of high-quality connectedness with others in the relational space (Dutton & Heaphy, 2003) Psychological safety encourages inquiry and the sharing of any perspective (Edmondson, 1999) Ensuing positive emotions dominate the experience (Fredrickson, 1998, 2003)

Sense of isolation or disconnectedness with others in relation space

Individual

Self-oriented utterances dominate the discourse

Disconﬁrming (negative) comments occur in equal proportion with or dominate with respect to afﬁrming (positive) comments

Fear for self-interests and/or identity discourages open inquiry and perspective sharing Ensuing negative or neutral emotions dominate the experience

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If appreciative dynamics are indeed paramount for diversity to become generative, as we propose, how do such dynamics develop? We explore this question in the context of a three-day experiential workshop, following the often-subtle dynamics through which participants become open to the differences brought by others. Our interest lays in how group members construct ‘‘otherness’’ in ways that enable them to value and beneﬁt from internal differences.

8.2.1

The MOD–CIGO Exchange as a Case of Developing Appreciative Space

The above-mentioned exchanges between professional development programs in the United States and Belgium have, albeit to varying degrees, developed relational spaces characterized by an appreciating dynamic. The Masters Program in Organization Development and Analysis (MOD) at the Case Western Reserve University, in Ohio, and the Certiﬁcate Program in Consulting in Groups and Organizations (CIGO), sponsored by the universities of Leuven and Hasselt, set up their ﬁrst exchange program as an experiment in cross-cultural experiential learning in 1995.2 It has since taken place eight times (and continues annually) and provides the authors and their colleagues3 with a setting to learn about the development of appreciating dynamics in multicultural groups. We will further explore this process in the context of a three-day workshop that always begins the exchange, which totals ﬁve days in each country. A circle of 36 chairs is what the participants ﬁnd when they enter the meeting room after initial presentations over a cup of coffee: place for 19 MOD-students, American, 14 participants of the Flemish– Dutch CIGO-group and 3 facilitators, staff of both programs. When everyone has a seat, one of the staff members introduces the program objectives and schedule. The purpose is to learn about ‘Organizing processes: life-giving forces in organizations’ and this in a multi-cultural context. The program starts with a 3-day organization simulation, including ample time to reﬂect on the organizational dynamics that the participants create, and 2 days of company visits, exploring organizational dynamics and organizational development in other settings. The two other staff members, one of either program, proceed to brieﬂy present the focus and structure of the CIGO and the MOD programs. When they invite the program participants to add to their introductions, a few people bring in their experience, emphasizing certain aspects of the program. The few questions that are asked remain factual: ‘‘How many weeks have you been together?,’’ ‘‘Do you do in-company projects also?’’ Time for personal introductions: the facilitator proposes that all present are part of MOD or CIGO, yet simultaneously members of many other communities of practice, in professional as well as private life. ‘‘Some of you work for companies, other for social proﬁt organizations, for example. How about ﬁnding out who in this room works in a similar type of organization in this regard, and take 5 to 10 minutes to meet? After that, I will propose another way to form subgroups.’’ During the following hour, participants meet their fellow line managers or consultants, meet those who spend their leisure time on similar hobbies and connect to those with the same number of siblings. Those who ﬁnd it hard to ﬁnd out who matches the proposed criterion, simply meet someone close by or ﬁnd someone else standing around. The introductions are closed with a tour of the circle, in which everyone repeats their names and has a chance to clarify their 2

The program took place under the supervision of Rene´ Bouwen (Katholieke Universiteit Leuven), Felix Corthouts (Universiteit Hasselt), and Ronald Fry (Case Western Reserve University). The Case Western program was recently redesigned as Masters in Positive OD and Change (MPOD). 3 We would like to acknowledge the contribution of Lieve Wens, Danielle Zandee, and Ludo Keunen.

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program expectations — including: ‘‘I’m curious to learn about differences in organizing between the US and Europe,’’ ‘‘I wonder how it will work out to work with another group, after the time spent in our group,’’ ‘‘I hope my English will prove good enough to make a contribution to this part of the program’’y; After the break, the organization simulation is launched. During 3 rounds of 60 minutes, interrupted by reﬂection time, the participants will build a company to produce greeting cards. The company’s initial structure contains 3 Production Groups, 10 people each, coordinated by a Management Team of 3, but this can be changed after the ﬁrst round. Before the game can start, however, it must be decided which position everyone will take: ‘‘Who volunteers for the positions of CEO, Material Resources Manager, Quality Control & Accounting Manager, Production Manager, Production Group Resources Manager and Production Group Quality Control Manager?’’ Silence. A giggle here and there, while the participants look around the circle. Finally, one of the gentlemen who already asked a few questions says he wants to manage one of the production groups. A few other volunteers follow. ‘‘Where are the women in management positions?’’ Three women step forward. In the end, the CEO position is the only one left to be ﬁlled. Silence. ‘‘Who wants to be a production worker?,’’ someone asks. Twenty-ﬁve hands go up. Finally, after probing looks from around the circle, one man says he’s willing to give the CEO position a try.

When the groups are formed and each assigned a designated space, there is time to prepare for the task in the organization game. The facilitators check in with different groups and note how each of them already starts to develop its unique character. For the sake of documenting the development of generative relational spaces, we further follow the course of the evolving conversations in Production Groups One and Three. As the facilitator proposes that participants move to different corners of the meeting room in order to form Production Groups, Group One gathers around the man who ﬁrst volunteered as Production Manager. It is the ﬁrst group to be complete. During the preparation in their room, after further introductions, their ‘manager’ turns quite directive. When he leaves the room for a meeting with the Management Team, one of the participants suggests that ‘‘Now he is gone, we can ﬁnally organize ourselves.’’ With all group members still laughing, they look into the nature of the job to be done: produce a certain number of greeting cards meeting certain speciﬁcations and according to a product mix yet unknown. Different ideas are proposed, including:

In order to ensure consistent quality, decoration needs to be simple and easy to copy; In order to ensure conformity of card design and production, it is best that the person who designs any speciﬁc feature on the card later produces it also; In order to obtain the exact required product mix despite unforeseen circumstances and last-minute information, it is useful to produce a number of generic cards that can be given different destinations with minor ﬁnishing touches.

When the Production Manager comes back in, one of the group members tells him how they envision working toward their objectives and deadline. He jokingly adds that the group was ‘‘able to organize itself as soon as he had left the room.’’ The manager agrees to the plan, ﬁnds it terriﬁc that this was all developed while he was gone and good-naturedly accepts the idea that his group seems to organize itself best when he is gone. The latter becomes a standing joke. Group Three is the last one to be formed, completed by participants who apparently wanted to join Groups One or Two initially but found these groups complete. Once in their room for preparations, the Production Manager proposes that they further assign the design and production tasks to different subteams. The group agrees and — the Production, Resources and Quality Managers not counted — 2 people take up design tasks and 5 the actual production. As the Design Group prepares for several anticipated product mixes, the Production Team — at a separate table — takes time for further introductions and awaits its turn to take action. When the actual simulation starts, all the members of Group One — except for their manager, who is primarily checking in with the broader organization — sit around one table, producing their part of the cards as they designed it. The whiteboard next to the table presents an overview of what needs to happen

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and what is ﬁnished. The cards move down the line from one person to the next. As time goes by, it appears that the men are standing up, planning and adjusting things on the whiteboard while all the women are sitting at the table, producing. When two of the women express this observation, the group gathers around the table again, producing. The focus of their humor shifts to their ‘‘gender organization.’’ In Group Three, the designers’ work is practically over by the time the Production Team starts theirs. All three Production Group managers are to some extent involved in solving problems created by the division of planning and labor. When the company results of the ﬁrst production round become known, Group One prides itself of its productivity. The fact that the Management Team does not actually have data per Production Group does not keep them from proclaiming themselves ‘‘the winning team.’’ Back in the plenary group for a review on the ﬁrst phase of the organization game, the members of Group One sit next to each other — a line of 10 chairs in the wider circle vibrating with energy and laughter. When they report their answers to the review questions, the emphasis is clearly on ‘‘factors that stimulated effective group functioning: simple design, the break-through idea of a generic card for last-minute corrections, actively dealing with the gender issue that came up, continuous communication and trust and minimal structure.’’ Group Three, in contrast, enacts the ‘‘losing team:’’ rather quiet, its members ponder how part of their production was not taken into account because of late delivery. Their response to the review questions focuses on ‘‘factors that hindered effective group functioning,’’ the single most important one being ‘‘not respecting the agreements made about everyone’s role in the team.’’

Interestingly, neither of the Production Groups answered the review question ‘‘what were the most important organizational dilemmas?’’ other than Group One’s response that ‘‘they didn’t identify with the large company.’’ The language of this ﬁrst review session is strongly in terms of ‘‘us’’ versus ‘‘them,’’ with participants speaking for their constituency rather than personally addressing other program participants, and clearly advocating rather than inquiring. During the next rounds, the self-images that both Production Groups enacted, conﬁrmed themselves. Group One sought to use the strengths they had identiﬁed and Group Three sought to improve the task role deﬁnition of the Design and Production Teams. Entering the groups respective work rooms, the facilitators were repeatedly struck by the humorous productivity in Group One and the quiet disengagement of either designers or producers in Group Three. By the time the Management Team decided it useful to have data per Production Group, Group One indeed showed the most and Group Three the least productive. After three rounds of the organization game, the participants exchanged reﬂections on their experiences ﬁrst in their former Production Groups and then in a plenary session. The following life-giving forces were identiﬁed and, after clarifying them in conversation, presented as themes to further explore in an Open Space structure:

Counterbalances: ‘‘We needed something to work on, a focus, but ‘distractors’ also. It is life-giving to have both in a certain, balanced proportion. Communication was another example: we needed more information on the goal and the results, but not all information, not every detail.’’ Feedback: ‘‘We needed feedback on the cards we produced from the outside: we knew how many were accepted and rejected, but did we manage the required product-mix? We didn’t know.’’ ‘‘What I am curious about,’’ says a member of Production Group Three, ‘‘is: did high-performing teams seek more feedback than we did?’’ Someone from Group Two focuses on interpersonal feedback: ‘‘We started sharing our impressions on each others’ communication styles, as some of us were more direct than others. The question became: how do I bring up issues without becoming offensive? We should have taken more time for that earlier: we could have avoided some irritations. This really is a life-giving force!’’ Communication: ‘‘People in divisions need the big picture.’’ ‘‘Yes, but communication needs to be top-down and bottom-up: people in the divisions need to put together the big picture also,’’ adds

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someone, ‘‘and we didn’t share enough information in our division either.’’ The clariﬁcation of what was meant by ‘communication’ lead to the following point: Connection: ‘‘As said earlier, communication doesn’t need to be too tight: not everyone needs all information at all timesy I mostly needed to see the goal and feel connected to it and feel like I could contribute.’’ Risk and personal responsibility: ‘‘We started from shared confusion,’’ admits a Group One member, ‘‘but then spirits were good, we saw a positive development and we became braver in our designs. We didn’t check on each others’ work, which would have meant additional work for the same productivity: we trusted that all did their job as asked and would say so if there was a problem.’’ ‘‘Also, when our ‘gender organization’ came up, I was wondering how to raise the issue: that was a risk. But we didn’t stick with complaining about it: the message was well received and we made a change.’’ Several people agree that risk-taking is a life-giving force, yet add the question ‘‘how far can you go in pushing people to stretch themselves?’’ Leadership: ‘‘A sense of direction.’’ ‘‘Overview.’’ The gentleman who asked whether high-performing groups sought more feedback poses another question: ‘‘What created shared leadership in Production Group One?’’ Competition: ‘‘Don’t set up competition between departments,’’ one participant states. ‘‘Nobody intended to organize competition,’’ someone answers, ‘‘we worked in silos and these silos brought competition.’’ ‘‘But competition is a life-giving force!’’ ‘‘I agree it can be, but it became detrimental at the point where we withheld information from each other.’’ ‘‘Oh, did that happen then?’’ Humor: ‘‘It just strikes me now that we had a lot of laughter in our group. Although of a different nature, I have enjoyed the humor in this circle as well. I would like to further explore its importance.’’

Throughout this plenary session and the following Open Space, the two student groups further developed an appreciative dynamic into a generative relational space. The plenary session synthesized above can be understood as a tipping point: as the participants started to identify more with the large group, the differences between the Production Groups became accepted and available for inquiry. Break-through events included:

As a member of Production Group One suddenly noticed how he and his Group One teammates had seated themselves as one block of 10 in the plenary circle, he stood up and asked to change places with someone, explaining that he wanted to position himself as a member of the larger group, rather than reinforce the ‘‘us versus them’’ climate which had characterized their recent interaction. The question about the ‘‘shared leadership’’ in Production Group One by a member of Group Three, clearly showing appreciation for the other group’s ability to develop this life-giving force. From a relational dynamics point of view, the question is ‘‘announced’’ by the earlier question linking feedback to ‘‘high-performing team’’: while non-verbal behavior leaves no doubt that this qualiﬁcation refers to Group One, it is not yet made explicit. Next, a Group One member describes their functioning in terms of ‘‘shared confusion,’’ thus dropping some of its earlier unquestionable ‘‘winning team’’ fac- ade. This sequence exempliﬁes how participants gradually renegotiate a relational space in which Positive afﬁrmation, Inquiry and Other-oriented utterances combined generate the expansive action repertoire that Losada and his colleagues recorded.

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Tying in with the above two events, during this plenary session, the prevailing way in which participants (ﬁrst from Groups Two and Three) addressed each other shifted from speaking for their constituency to speaking for themselves and more directly to speciﬁc others.

8.2.2

Actualizing Generative Relational Space

We suggest that the MOD–CIGO exchanges, as exempliﬁed by the fragment above, provide a forum to explore how the appreciating dynamic, which characterizes the high-performing conversations in Losada and Heaphy’s (2004) study, may develop. Individual participants who live in, contribute to, and experience such a dynamic, will often feel empowered or valued, and have appreciation for the diverse perspectives of others. Successful (balanced) inquiry-action and self-other conversational dynamics indicate a condition in which group members perceive, acknowledge, and seek to enhance the value of others’ contributions as an important part of conversation. Our further exploration of how generative relational spaces develop will put forth two focal points. First is the role of generative representations of organization, the role of positive anticipatory images versus ‘‘languages of deﬁciency.’’ The second is the power of inquiry, the contribution of certain questions in supporting such representations and the importance of the question in this regard.

8.2.3

Privileging Generative Images

A generative relational dynamic can be actualized through inquiry into ideal organizing images. Similarly, Weick (Weick & Roberts, 1993; Weick, 1979) has argued that organizations are enacted entities that emerge when people both represent images of a system and contribute by acting in relation to these images in a way that brings the system into reality. Organizing representations are templates for action and are discussed in various forms: rules (Giddens, 1984), schema (Bartunek, 1984), mental maps (Weick & Bougon, 1986), metaphorical images (Morgan, 1986), or stories and narratives (Weick & Roberts, 1993). Representations provide the basis for action because they convey the unspoken assumptions, implicit norms, and role identity characterizations that allow social actors to coalesce in their contributions to organizational life. Inquiry into organizing images and representations makes them more explicit, and therefore accessible, as a potentially generative force for action. A frequent and controversial (Barge & Oliver, 2003) deconstruction made by proponents of this appreciative dynamic in relational interactions is that subtle ‘‘languages of deﬁciency’’ are endemic in most organizations, so much so that they are embedded in the basic fabric of organizing paradigms. In the MOD–CIGO story presented, Production Group Three initially exempliﬁes the case in point: focusing on ‘‘factors that hinder group functioning,’’ they decide that the problems of belowstandard card quality and late product delivery should be solved by further detailing

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and more strictly enforcing the agreed-upon task roles. They end up doing more of the same, thus creating what they later call ‘‘a downward spiral.’’ The group’s functioning reﬂects the ‘‘repeating trajectories’’ which Losada and Heaphy (2004) associate with ‘‘ﬁxed-point attractors.’’ Production Group One, in contrast, imagines itself as ‘‘the winning team,’’ focuses on factors that enabled them to be that and hence initiates Losada and Heaphy’s expansive spiral of activity — including becoming ‘‘braver’’ in their product design as well as interrupting their ‘‘genderorganization’’ to develop a more satisfying way of functioning. Writers on the theory and practice of Appreciative Inquiry frequently explore the link between image and action in organizations. For example, Cooperrider (1990) reviewed a broad range of literatures on effects of anticipatory imagery such as self-fulﬁlling prophecy, the Pygmalian dynamic and placebo effects. The basic presumption in this writing is that the seeds for change in both individual and organization action can be enabled through a shift in the anticipatory images or representations that perpetuate organizing structures. To the extent that representations are socially constructed, conversations reﬂect the ebb and ﬂow of organizing images. When researchers or practitioners focus on the content of conversations, they discover dominant organizing images. Indeed, conversations can function like an organizational memory (Walsh & Ungson, 1997) that perpetuates itself in the narrations of daily life (Ford & Ford, 1995). We speculate that organizations need to collectively develop and foster a capacity for life-generating language and conversational norms that are ﬁlled with hope, inspiration, and possibilities not grounded solely in a ‘‘gloom-and-doom’’ interpretation or critique of present circumstances in the popular terms of ‘‘gap analysis’’ or ‘‘root cause’’ analysis (Ludema, Wilmot, & Srivastva, 1997). Here the underlying hypothesis is that the capacity of people in social systems to see and articulate an alternative interpretation of present circumstances is either underdeveloped or underfacilitated, and that this under-capacity seriously cripples an organization’s potential for movement. From the perspective of such an assumption, organization initiatives assume not only the task of generating actionable change, but also the task of improving an organization’s ability for considering images with generative capacity. Thus, a focus on generative dominant conversation patterns is a key imperative. The proclivity to seek this richer, more afﬁrming perspective is encouraged by the thesis that ‘‘to re-awaken the imaginative spirit of action-research we need a fundamentally different perspective toward our organizational world, one that admits to its uncertainties, ambiguities, and mysteries’’ (Cooperrider & Srivastva, 1987, p. 165). This suggests a rhetoric that promotes a view that organizations are ‘‘centers of human relatedness alive with inﬁnite capacity y a miracle and mystery of interbeing’’ (Cooperrider & Barrett, 2002) and not only a set of problems to be solved or uncertainties to be minimized (Cooperrider & Barrett, 2002). The implicit retooling in this language is that the appreciable universe in social systems is vast, even mysterious, that inquiry into this mystery of organizing is a source of life-giving energy, and that the capacity to tap this energy is limited only by the capacity of relational practices to see beyond the horizon of accepted assumptions-in-practice (e.g., sophisticated stereotypes). For instance, Otto (1986) suggests that to approach an object with a sense of mysterium tremendum is to reclaim

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a capacity for wonder and awe. To approach organizational life ‘‘as if’’ it is a mystery is a pragmatic move (James, 1975) that has large consequences. It implies a deliberate suspension of mindlessness that results from sheer repetition of ordinary categories and routines, and even explicit de-familiarizing of taken-for-granted objects and predictabilities.

8.2.4

The Art of the Question

Inquiry, which guides questions in conversation, is one vehicle for accessing the narratives that reﬂect and shape organizing practices. Questions always contain the seeds of their answers (Cooperrider & Barrett, 2002) and they convey the underlying assumptions and images of the inquirer. In essence, questions narrow the interactive focus to a range of potential answers that often point back to and validate or re-enact the very images that produced the question in the ﬁrst place. For instance, Powley, Cooperrider, and Fry (2001) reported Appreciative Inquiry work in a unionized trucking company with a long history of labor–management strife. The presumptive question in such a situation typically centers on the conﬂict itself: ‘‘Why are we [they] ﬁghting each other?’’ Yet the fundamental image of this interrogative focuses on ‘‘ﬁghting’’ — something to cease doing if at all possible — an assumed negative image that easily leads to additional questions like ‘‘What is limiting our ability to work together?’’ or ‘‘What are the root causes of the problem?’’ or ‘‘How can management (or union) ever trust the union (or management) again?’’ The images embedded in these subsequent questions still fundamentally center on the conﬂict, meaning that the range of possible answers will also center on it. If these are the dominant set of questions that are addressed, the conversation partners can easily be trapped into a single-loop cycle of learning where they continually expand what they know about the conﬂict or the differences/disagreements between the parties (Argyris, 1977; Senge, 1990), but gain little traction in the development of alternatives. Ironically, more is learned about ‘‘ﬁghting’’ and less about an alternative; the root of the initial question becomes self-fulﬁlling. But what of the deeper, underlying organizing images that serve as an implicit anchor of comparison for the ‘‘problems’’? In other words, why was the conﬂict relationally deﬁned as a conﬂict in the ﬁrst place? A social constructionist reading suggests that negative images are deﬁned as ‘‘negative’’ because the protagonists are comparing perceptions of ideal and real images regarding ‘‘what should be.’’ Psychologically, the discrepancy between the negative real and the positive ideal produces cognitive dissonance and negative emotions. If the weight of negative emotions has a limiting effect on the range of possible thought-action alternatives and these limiting alternatives are translated from private thought to public space, self-survival is a predictable theme, and where self-preservation is paramount, people are emotionally and biologically primed to think inwardly. Perspective taking and the consideration of broadened, collectively shared objectives is difﬁcult, at best. The MOD–CIGO fragment presented above seems to indicate the potential power of review questions in the development of relational space. After the ﬁrst production round, the facilitators initiated a reﬂective time-out with the following

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questions: ‘‘What was my most signiﬁcant experience? Which factors were stimulating and/or hindering effective group functioning? What were the most important organizational dilemmas?’’ While Production Group One barely touched on hindering factors, Group Three neglected stimulating factors. Neither group answered the question on organizational dilemmas, as ‘‘they didn’t identify with the organization.’’ We suggest that the facilitators enacted an assumption that review questions need to be open and neutral, hence balancing ‘‘stimulating’’ with ‘‘hindering factors.’’ Filtered through participants’ organizing representations, these ‘‘neutral’’ questions contributed to magnifying the image they started to actualize, thus creating a company of ‘‘silo-ed’’ Production Groups, with a ‘‘winning team’’ in Group One and a ‘‘downward spiral’’ in Group Three. Thus, a proposition regarding generative relational space suggests that the initial questions of any inquiry or signiﬁcant change initiative should ﬁrst focus on the ideal, rather than on the gap between the real and ideal or on the obstacles to bridging that gap. This is not a dismissal or ignorance of what exists. It is an invitation to read any situation at another level. In the above scenario of the trucking company, the primary question becomes ‘‘What are the images of union-management cooperation that we long for?’’ The presumption and image in such a question is that some common ideal can either be discovered or co-created. This assumption naturally leads to questions such as ‘‘What expands our ability to cooperate?’’ or ‘‘What are the root causes of success when we do connect?’’ or ‘‘What is already making this process work for all of us?’’ The images are fundamentally about thinking together, and the range of possible responses conjures up answers that reinforce the capacities and images of collaboration. Inquiry is the catalyst for the eventual emergence of an appreciating dynamic (Losada & Heaphy, 2004), especially when it allows people to think from and hear from the perspectives of others, and where conversational dynamics afﬁrm these efforts. As we articulated earlier, it is in inquiry that people are positioned to listen and to learn. When this stance is strengthened by the invitation to reﬂect upon questions that seek common, higher ground, a discussion that centers on themes such as working together, sharing, etc. tends to conjure an atmosphere of positive emotions, which broaden the repertoire of thought–action possibilities. When these are shared, expanded ideas produce greater creativity and innovativeness. A reinforcing, appreciating dynamic takes form in the texture of conversations and works to strengthen the connections of interacting participants.

8.3

Space for Diversity: From Stereotyping to Appreciating Difference

Returning to our initial question about the value of diversity to social systems, we suggest that an appreciative dynamic is a condition for diversity to become generative and, vice versa, that diversity is a key characteristic of such dynamics. Several authors have attempted to link team performance to heterogeneity and advocated the beneﬁts of diversity in teams (Guzzo & Dickson, 1996) with mixed results (Polzer, Milton, &

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Swann, 2002). Yet what constitutes heterogeneity? It has been studied in terms of knowledge and skill (Hackman & Morris, 1975); race, gender, and age (Kirkman, Tesluk, & Rosen, 2004); culture (Hofstede, 1980); and nationality (Doney, Cannon, & Mullen, 1998). When related to group phenomena, heterogeneity or diversity in these terms is consistently conceptualized as an ‘‘input factor,’’ an element of group composition, rather than a characteristic of the interaction itself. Instead, we propose to investigate how group members construct ‘‘otherness’’ in a developing relational space; how they become open to, and valuing of, the differences brought by others. The MOD–CIGO fragment provides an example of such a process. Set up as an opportunity to explore multicultural dynamics, the initial expectations mainly reﬂect two frames for constructing sameness and otherness in the new social system: the study program (MOD or CIGO) one participates in, legitimizing their presence in the exchange, and their cultural background, including language, in regional terms (North America or Western Europe). Facilitated by the format for personal introductions, conversation then turns to a broader range of frames, creating similarities and differences that cross the initial, more salient ones. The new connections affect the composition of the Production Groups, which become subsequent nuclei for identiﬁcation and membership in the larger community (Smith & Berg, 1987). In the plenary group, sameness and otherness are now framed predominantly in terms of the Production Groups and constructed in terms of ‘‘us’’ versus ‘‘them,’’ embodied in positions of one block in the circle, ‘‘the winning team’’ versus the others. Only when this construction eroded, did the rich diversity of thought–action repertoires, developed during the production rounds and time-out sessions, become available for inquiry. In order to tap into this potential, the participants had to revise their relationship with both their Production Group and the larger company and learning community, as enacted in the decreasing use of ‘‘we’’ in favor of ‘‘I’’ in the plenary conversation and illustrated by the participant who changed places during the session to literally step out of his constituency. The dialogue on life-giving forces in the system nuanced the stereotypical images of other Production Groups to where they dissolved in the light of a more differentiated understanding in terms of more local contextual or individual factors. In the terms of Losada and Heaphy (2004), this move — especially for the tone-setting Group One — implied complementing its high positivity– negativity ratio with balanced self–other and inquiry–advocacy ratios. Our experience with the MOD–CIGO exchanges is that a similar process is recognizable in how participants construct their ‘‘inter-cultural differences.’’ Broad, generalized distinctions between Americans and Europeans or between American, Dutch, and Flemish students soon seem deconstructed to a panoply of other contextual origins — including study background, professional experience, gender dynamics, social class, family. The more anyone attempts to objectify or verify culture as the source of some distinguishing observation about the groups, the less it stands up as an explanatory factor. We often observe in our cross-cultural exchanges that the orientation toward the ‘positive’ interpretation of events is a stereotypical barrier from the perspective of the Dutch/Flemish group:

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Joining the call of Osland and Bird (2000) to go beyond sophisticated stereotyping and bi-polar labels which are currently so popular in the management literature (Hofstede, 1980; Trompenaars & Hampden Turner, 1993), we propose that cultural difference(s) are better understood as potential meanings construed in interaction. In this perspective, stereotypes represent constructions of ‘‘otherness’’ in social systems that are preoccupied with ‘‘sameness.’’ As participants emphasize mutual similarities to conﬁrm their community (or group) membership (Srivastva, Obert, & Neilsen, 1977), stereotypes provide an initial, often premature way to understand the differences at hand: directiveness is attributed to being male, positiveness to being American, productivity to Production Group One, etc. The earlier illustration of how participants — their membership now sufﬁciently established — renegotiate the dividing lines between ‘‘us’’ and ‘‘them’’ at once exempliﬁes how they start to differentiate their understanding of the differences in terms of more idiosyncratic factors and hence, construct diversity.

8.4

Conclusion

It is quite possible that an overriding factor that inﬂuenced the typical feeling of connectedness, cohesiveness, and colleagueship at the conclusion of the student exchanges in which we explored this subject, was the shared values underlying Organization Development practice. It is possible that the groups gradually, through relational interaction, discovered that the beliefs and aspirations that caused each individual to enroll in their respective programs actually create a ‘‘common ground’’ that is inherently based on a positive anticipatory image of organization life, human practices, and global well-being. It seems likely, in a global context, that the relative closeness of North-American and West-European cultures facilitated this process. At the same time, we propose that any gathering will have such a commonness that, when explored and discovered appreciatively, can offer new knowledge to foster a positive future for those gathered. As this commonality becomes evident through the choreography of generative relational spaces, an appreciating dynamic ensues where ‘‘differences’’ (cultural, departmental, gender, or otherwise) are merely transitional placeholders or conversation starters. The inquiry into what gives life to such cross-cultural exchanges-in-relationship (in the moment) reveals new understanding that trumps preconceived notions or stereotypes and creates space for diversity.

Chapter 9

On the Moral of an Emerging Academic Praxis: Accounting for a Conference Experience Keijo Ra¨sa¨nen

9.1

Introduction

This chapter was inspired by and tells of a conference experience. Most ‘‘ordinary’’ academics like me go to a varying number of conferences annually and regularly share stories of these experiences with our colleagues. The conference stories are about a central set of practices in academic work, at least for active researchers. However, it is difﬁcult to ﬁnd studies of conference practices (for exceptions, see Radford, 2000), and, in particular, their broader meanings to both organizers and participants. One speciﬁc conference experience has puzzled me for a long time. This event was arranged in Leuven in 1997. Since I work in the spirit of participatory research and study academic work,1 I wrote a personal account of the conference immediately after the event and included the story in a later conference paper (Ra¨sa¨nen, 2000). Now, after learning more about so-called practice theories (see Schatzki, 2001a; Reckwitz, 2002; Nicolini, Gherardi, & Yanow, 2003), I am ready to question my original understanding of what happened in and around the conference. This essay presents an alternative, practice-based account. Firstly, I will reproduce the original account of the conference experience. This is a story of an attempt to organize a conference in an alternative way and of my personal experiences in the meeting place. The story is about practicalities that frustrate good

1

I belong to a group of colleagues who have collaborated in renewing our own practices through participatory research. Five of us are currently cooperating in the Management Education Research Initiative — MERI (www.hse.ﬁ/meri). Although I am writing this story in the ﬁrst person, Kirsi Korpiaho, Hans Ma¨ntyla¨ and Hanna Pa¨ivio¨ have contributed to this essay in various ways. I also wish to thank Chris Steyaert and Susan Merila¨inen for their helpful comments. The Academy of Finland has contributed to the funding of my research work (grant no. 108645).

Relational Practices, Participative Organizing Advanced Series in Management, 155–176 Copyright r 2010 Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 1877-6361/doi:10.1108/S1877-6361(2010)0000007013

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intentions. Secondly, I will outline a revised understanding of academic work as a practical activity, drawing on various understandings of social practice and on MacIntyre’s (1985) views in particular. The new perspective is based on a concept of ordinary academic work as a potential praxis in emergence (Ra¨sa¨nen, Korpiaho, Herbert, Ma¨ntyla¨, & Pa¨ivio¨, 2005). Thirdly, I will recontextualize the original conference account with the help of the revised concept, suggesting that I had been witnessing a practice in emergence. Fourthly, I will characterize the practice engaged in by the organizers of the conference. I suggest that, in this particular practice, the renewal of one’s own work is considered a ‘‘good thing’’ in itself. This essay proposes a way of reading theories of practice. However, the major message is less literate. I want to show appreciation for such forms of academic practice that pursue autonomous development work in academia. Therefore, my reading of practice theories is colored by a speciﬁc purpose – namely, making them serve the task of crafting accounts for ordinary work in academia. In particular, I am looking for stories that appreciate both diversity in the forms of academic work and the potential for moral action in sustaining and enriching this diversity (cf. Ra¨sa¨nen & Ma¨ntyla¨, 1999; Ra¨sa¨nen et al., 2005). My worry is that such stories are left in the shadows by the current managerialist policies of standardization and normalization. To my mind, there is a pressing need for scholars who wish to, and who are able to, renew academic practices in directions that enable self-governance of the academic profession in its diversity (cf. Nixon, Marks, Rowland, & Walker, 2001; Groundwater-Smith & Sachs, 2002; Rowland, 2002). Accounts of the local, creative accomplishments of ordinary academics are important, and they complement the critical analyses of developments in higher education (e.g. Smyth, 1995; Readings, 1996; Deem, 1998; Marginson & Considine, 1999; Morley, 2003; Blackmore, 2002; Ylijoki, 2003; Willmott, 2003; Slaughter & Rhoades, 2004). While critical accounts serve the purposes of reﬂexivity and political debate, they do not deal with existential and moral questions concerning the purposes of academic work in the ﬁrst place. Moreover, they say very little about what can be done to protect autonomy and improve the nature of this work in local contexts (cf. Walker, 2001; Merila¨inen, Ra¨sa¨nen, & Katila, 2009). Recognizing reasons for despair and keeping up hope are both important (cf. Ma¨ntyla¨, 2000; Ma¨ntyla¨ & Pa¨ivio¨, 2005; Ra¨sa¨nen et al., 2005).

9.2

A Conference Experience: Good Intentions and Practicalities

The next subsection reproduces the account that I wrote in 1997, following the EIASM workshop on Organizing in a Multi-Voiced World.2 The remainder of the essay develops an approach for reinterpreting the account.

2 For the current version, I have only corrected writing and language errors and omitted a few sentences addressing the organizers as a recipient of the feedback letter. Ra¨sa¨nen (2000) also reports the (full) account and a reinterpretation of it.

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The Account

Academic meetings confer on their participants’ different positions and images in scientiﬁc communities. This is one of their main social consequences, be it intended or otherwise. In this brief note, I am committing to paper my own experiences at a conference. What made this conference especially interesting was the explicitly stated purpose of its organizers to have a ‘‘different’’ meeting, to build a temporary multivoiced community. My experience was that the stated objectives were not met, in spite of the careful and laborious preparations and the wonderful occasion in many other respects. Thus, I am writing this story as an account of a partial failure in ‘‘organizational innovation.’’ The core of my message is that practicalities — to a large extent — do the work of organizing, and statements of purpose have only a secondary role in the construction of (academic) realities. Losing voice, hearing noise. Arriving in Leuven with joy and a relaxed feeling. I have friends in this beautiful town, and it was here that I organized a workshop back in 1989. At the front of my ﬁne old hotel — the Irish Institute — I come across familiar people. Some questions and comments about the chairperson’s assumed tasks arise among the three of us; we will all be performing that role and are not sure what it will require of us. First day. Sitting in a church with nearly 200 people. I know some of them; many of them are new faces. A musical performance is a new way of launching a conference, and I like the musicians a lot. They walk around the entire group of participants and leave us inside a circle. Then, some well-known academics — so-called keynote speakers — introduce themselves. I cannot hear their words. They look rather uncertain about what they are doing. As rehearsed before the ofﬁcial program, we — the group of chairpersons — stand up and form a choir. We were advised to be there together as a group but not to sing or say anything. Our leading spokesperson says that our task is to facilitate the voices of the other participants. Then Rene´ has a say. I feel happy that he has ﬁnally managed to arrange this conference. It must have been ﬁve years ago that he asked me to join him in organizing a workshop. We are now here and waiting to see what comes out of this new script. I think that I will try my best to help make this work. Leaving the church with mixed feelings. Joining a group of other Finns for a couple of excellent Belgian beers. Hearing some critical comments on the conference from younger colleagues. I admit that there are tensions in the program but I still assert that I want to make this work. Reception and dinner goes by with hardly any contact with new people. Somehow, I feel the need to remain with my Finnish colleagues. Two keynote speakers sit at our table but they don’t appear to want to talk to us. They are reserved, too, even though I know one of them from the early 1980s. Second day. Arriving at the room where I am to chair the ﬁrst session. Suddenly, I am paralyzed and my voice gets weaker and weaker. I realize that the preliminary and sketchy ideas that I had for the organization of this session cannot be used here. In the room, we have seven papers and their authors, and a number of other academics. People are somewhat nervous. I assume that they don’t know what will

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happen, and they seem to be thinking primarily of their presentations. At least they have piles of slides in front of them, and it looks to me as if they are concentrated on arranging their thoughts for presentation. Then, the ‘‘great organizer’’ approaches me: he is my fellow chairperson/ spokesperson for the ensuing theme-speciﬁc sessions. And he informs me how we are going to work here: ‘‘We think these three papers go nicely together, and so we can take them ﬁrst. Let’s have the remaining four papers after the coffee break. Here, we usually permit one quick question to be asked after each paper but discussion should wait until all the papers in a set have been presented.’’ So much for my own plans. I have no option but to follow his rules. He has lobbied certain participants beforehand and formulated an agenda. And seven papers are to be presented in one session, and altogether 11 academics have made preparations to read their papers. I give in — but I feel severely FRUSTRATED and alienated. How have I come to be doing this, in this ‘‘different’’ conference y going for the traditional paper-based organizing principle, even though I wouldn’t do it anywhere else nowadays if I can at all inﬂuence the program? I am doing something against which I have been ﬁghting in various places over the last two or three years. I lose my voice and start working like a machine or a chair rather than a chairperson — whatever this chairing could now mean. My only active move during the session is to restrain an American man who arrives in the middle of the session and seeks to take every second turn to ask questions, comment, and offer nuggets of advice. The session goes by without any sensible dialogue. I cannot help it. The papers are interesting and the participants are an exceptional group, but yet the voices are not heard. How did I come to fail in such a situation? Why did I give in to the guy who stipulated the traditional paper-based interaction pattern? These questions occupy my mind for the rest of the day. I turn to silent analysis, although I have seldom retreated into that mood at other meetings over recent years. The second session is similar except that my fellow chairman/spokesperson is an active and skilled chairman. He talks a lot: deﬁning the themes and drawing conclusions for the others. He manages time skillfully so that there is room for what he calls discussion. I hear the sound of his voice but I cannot understand his words. There is nothing wrong with his ﬂuent English. I sit in my chair, hardly noticing where ‘‘me’’ starts and the chair ends. Nevertheless, toward the end of the session, I assemble my thoughts. I really should intervene, I think. I am sure I can do it. I look for the right question. AND THEN, another participant does it for me — and for many other seemingly frustrated people in the group. She raises the question of what is actually happening to us in this group: how might we apply our innovative and creative ideas to our own activity here and how? Like many others, I am aroused by this skilled, responsible act. We have an energetic and creative conversation, and we hear what the others say. Within 10 minutes, we have gathered a nice set of ideas as to why this has not been working as expected, and what embryonic practices we have seen today that point to a more desirable interaction. A few participants want to see academic discussion as competition (especially the American man), while others express a desire for

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something else. My analysis of the reasons for my silence proceeds apace. After the session, I again feel ready to meet other people and smile my way to the nearest cafe´. Toward the end of the day, we spokespersons are supposed to report on behalf of our theme groups. This was documented in our advance instructions. I ﬁgure out an analysis of the paralysis and of the multivoiced situation in our group. The main point in my never-uttered speech is that we are witnessing a struggle between traditional paper-based organizing and different, relational practices. I wish to make a distinction between the traditional, academic contest for ‘‘who knows best,’’ or who conquers most social space from the others, and the intention of the organizers to have a relational meeting with multiple voices. Coming out of the group’s reﬂective moment, I was in a position to share a list of concrete ideas on how to follow the logic of the latter. BUT, I never get the chance to say anything on this issue. The spokespersons’ voices are given no space. The keynote speaker commands the entire slot — and keeps apologizing for it. It seems that he doesn’t like the script but he is trapped by it — with the help of the audience who make him THE voice. The groups are forgotten — as are my worries about my reporting responsibility, especially after the morning’s failure. In the evening, I drink a few beers with my friends. We are too tired to go to the theater performance, after playing the role of audience for the entire day. I hear that the other groups had similar experiences. In one group, they even voted on whether to present the academic papers or to embark on something else. The majority had opted for the papers! Well, Leuven makes me feel good. The students are here. It is warm and friendly. We have heated conversations on various important issues. Third day. A bigger group in a theme session. I am an ‘‘invited voice.’’ The other invited voices seem to be equally uncertain about what should be happening here. We reorganize the tables to have a closer circle. I suggest that we start this session with a discussion of its purpose. A British invited voice says that it would be too much for him to discuss it openly in front of people. So my idea is not accepted. But here again, the great organizer, my good old fellow chairman announces the rules: he is the chairman, and he will ﬁrst deﬁne the themes and issues of the session; then, he will change hats and share his own ideas on the topic; thereafter, the other invited speakers will say something, one by one. These rules we follow. But now I am well prepared. I have my thoughts for the last session on the 2nd day in my pocket, and I now want to — and am able to — use my voice. I am here again, speaking and feeling that somebody is listening to me. And they are. People draw on my lead and express their thoughts and feelings. This is dialogue! And it goes on among the other lead singers — until the chairman ends the session with his noises that I can neither listen to nor understand. The best session of the conference is before lunch. The leader of an ensemble of singers tells about the practices of polyphonic singing. What is astonishing is that she is the only person whose voice I could clearly hear in the church. The ensemble sings a few examples; in the evening we will listen to their concert. This is extraordinary and rewarding. Perhaps we will also be able to accomplish similar joyful synchronization of personalities and voices after 500 years of rehearsal.

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The conference program ends with a collective search conference. I cannot hear the instructions given by the American specialists in large-group interventions. I have a creative talk with my partner, with whom I have worked some years ago in a team of tutors on a doctoral course. The consequent six-person group is unable to listen to each other and have a dialogue. We end up with no joint ideas to report, in spite of the ‘‘heavy intellectual resources’’ working in the group. In the reporting phase, I again hear only noises — as if the church was not designed to be a place for multivoiced organizing. But I no longer mind. I see many familiar faces around me, and I am happy to applaud the organizers of this conference. They gave it a really good try. And I am glad to be here. In the evening, I am in good humor. Getting acquainted with many younger and older colleagues. Sensing warm feelings and closeness in relations to the local organizers, my old friends. Participating in ﬁerce laughter in a circle of Nordic colleagues. 9.2.1.1 Organizing practicalities. For me, the conference was loaded with tensions and contradictions. As they say: tensions and frustrations are necessary aspects of learning. The design intended for the conference was not achieved per se but, in any case, it was a special occasion that was worth arranging and taking part in. My description and analysis of failure emphasizes the negative side, but someone could just as easily volunteer an analysis of success. Success and failure are always relative, and the purpose of my bias is to foster the productive illusion that relationally satisfying academic meetings can become a reality more often. Starting from my serious analysis of the reasons for my loss of voice and my alienation, I ﬁnally developed an insight into how practicalities do the work of organizing, and this is no less true for academic activities. The design was not followed for very simple but powerful reasons. There were almost 200 people at the conference. And they were asked to write a paper for the conference, and so they did. And all this had to be orchestrated in ancient premises. The church with its echoes from the past was the only room big enough to contain such a mass of people. It made voices into noises. Since the participants had written their papers, they expected to have the opportunity (or the obligation) to deliver them. And when they started to present their papers without ﬁrst having a joint context for dialogue, they returned to the context in which they had written their papers a few months previously. This all made a familiar and favorable stage for those skilled in the politics of timesharing — the masters of academic calendars. The traditional chairmen rose to the front and played their old scripts without misgiving. The allocation of roles to the keynote speakers made them privileged voices — a role in which some felt ill at ease. Therefore, they adopted a low-key attitude and thus missed the opportunity to facilitate the work of the chairpersons/spokespersons. And we chairpersons/ spokespersons were helpless and voiceless in this situation, given the practicalities and the lack of skills with which we could turn the wheel in favor of the illusion that drew us to Leuven in the ﬁrst place. 9.2.1.2 Conferring images on people. Practicalities construct images of people and of social roles. They import the rules of interaction and put us in certain social

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positions, whether we want it or not. We are all skilled at utilizing the material actors to our own advantage; yet, the material actors can be biased in favor of certain organizing principles over others. At the Leuven conference, the premises, the papers and the sheer number of people made us, as participants, into something other than human voices. We were like chairs or other pieces of furniture in an academic contest over time-sharing. In particular, this happened to those who would have wished to apply less hierarchical rules of organizing, because they sensed the tensions most strongly in their body–mind. Fortunately, many of us quickly learned of these complications and invented ways to circumvent them. We lost our voices but we managed to regain them. We lost relationships but we managed to recreate them. But, in the process, much misunderstanding was generated among frustrated people, and many potentially rewarding relationships were never given the chance to germinate. 9.2.2

Reinterpreting the Account

Given that the experience, articulated in the written account above, continued to puzzle me, I made a ﬁrst attempt to reinterpret it in a conference paper (Ra¨sa¨nen, 2000). At that time, I focused on academic politics and practices of power, warning of the dangers of ethical statements. Then, I summarized the narrative in the following way (Ra¨sa¨nen, 2000, p. 19): The organisers of the conference in Leuven wanted to promote a relational and constructivist perspective to academic work. The whole program was planned to facilitate a gradual process of community building, proceeding from small groups to the whole group of participants joining together. I still ﬁnd the ideals valuable (cf. Ra¨sa¨nen & Ma¨ntyla¨, 1999). Building personal relationships, appreciating diversity, and non-defensive/co-operative communication are important values.

However, the expression of the ideals simultaneously evoked doubts, which I formulated in the following way. A critical mind asks right away: ‘‘Is somebody fooling me into building relationships for particular academic networks? Has someone already deﬁned what the ‘‘diversity’’ means in this case? Into what category of deviants have they placed me? Should I really reveal myself, drop my life-saving defences and trust these particular people?’’ In the end, this kind of skeptical reasoning leads on to the question of what kind of politics is implicated in the espoused ideals and actual practices. What can we ﬁnd in their shadows? In 2000, I emphasized that the deﬁnition of good academic interaction is politically a very complicated issue. It is a contextual issue, and it is hard to accept bold, universalistic statements about ‘‘shared values.’’ As evidence of this, I took the fact that certain Finnish academics strongly resented the ‘‘soft, democratic communication makes us all happy’’ — style of American interventionism.

9.3

A Revised, Practice–Theoretical Perspective

As many years have passed since that special event in Leuven, and since my most recent return to the experience as a coconvenor at another academic encounter, is it

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possible to recontextualize the account? I will attempt to here, with particular emphasis on further ideas drawn from a practice-based perspective. My previous way of understanding the account emphasized the power of (material) practicalities and the traditional, paper-based script in academic encounters. I was also concerned with the political dangers involved in intentional community building and with looking for a sensitive art of improving unsatisfactory practices (Ra¨sa¨nen, 2000). In the following account, my understanding of academic work in general, and the conference in particular, will be slightly different. I need to present some terminological ideas through which conference experiences can be connected to activities outside the conference circuit. This continues my recent attempts at exploring theories of practice with the intention of crafting meaningful accounts of ordinary academic work (Ra¨sa¨nen et al., 2005). I will thus suggest that the meaning of conferences, and speciﬁc working practices within them, is dependent on participants’ broader conceptions of academic work. In order to appreciate them, a mere focus on practicalities and political concerns needs to be complemented with sensitivity to moral motives.

9.3.1

Practice in Emergence

A promising way to read the diverse and expanding literature on practice(-based) theories is to focus on the concept of praxis, in contrast to the studies of speciﬁc, separate practices (in the plural). In the context of academic work, an academic praxis, as an epistemic object and a practitioners’ mission, is a distinct way of engaging in various academic practices, such as conference practices. Alasdair MacIntyre’s (1981, p. 175) often-quoted deﬁnition of ‘‘social practice’’ comes close to this way of employing the term praxis. MacIntyre’s explicitly moral and historical perspective on social practice emphasizes the human ‘‘virtues’’ required to realize particular ‘‘goods’’ (cf. The´venot, 2001, p. 59). In his view, rational moral arguments and judgments are meaningful only on the basis of, and within, certain traditions and speciﬁc practices. He deﬁnes practice in terms of the pursuit of ‘‘internal goods’’ in a speciﬁc, complex, and cooperative social activity. Those who participate in the practice aim at excellence according to its practice-speciﬁc standards. Only the members of the community of practitioners can judge the extent to which the standards are met in each case, since they can appreciate the practice-speciﬁc internal goods. In contrast, ‘‘institutions’’ are established and maintained to serve some ‘‘external goods’’ (such as fame, wealth, and status). However, they also are necessary for supporting certain practices. While external goods can be achieved through various activities, internal goods are speciﬁc to a social practice and achievable only by rehearsing it. Applying the terms to the case of academic work, the university can be considered an institution, and academics working in a university may engage in diverse practices, if any. In this view, academic professionals should know best what the internal goods are and what is virtuous in academic work. Consequently, the university as an institution should not (be allowed to) interfere with their autonomy in this respect.

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From this perspective, the category of praxis is conﬁned to a speciﬁc form of social activity, and not every activity meets the criteria of this deﬁnition. Therefore, it is important to make a distinction between ‘‘practical activity’’ and ‘‘praxis.’’ All academics are involved in practical activity and engaged in various (work) practices, but their way of carrying out, and accounting for, their work can be called a praxis only in special cases. The distinction is sensible particularly when considering ordinary university employees who participate in various university activities, such as research, teaching, and external service (cf. Kalleberg, 2000). In this multiactivity context, it is unlikely that academics can easily recognize and consistently pursue speciﬁc goods internal to their work. In fact, the ability to articulate the internal goods of a social practice and to live according to the virtues needed to realize them may be an extraordinary accomplishment (cf. van Manen, 1994). Nevertheless, the concept of praxis reminds of the possibility, or the potentiality, that in some cases university employees may be able to construct a collective and morally motivated practice, which I deem to be a hope-generating view of academic work. There is at least the possibility that we may be moving closer to a meaningful, morally sustainable, and autonomous form of work, even if our daily activities and developmental efforts are less satisfactory and successful. Although only a few academics have been able to establish a recognizable and sustainable praxis, many academics may be in the process of building up one. Therefore, we need to be able to appreciate and account for academic praxis in emergence as incomplete and dispersed projects, the outcomes of which are not yet known (cf. Pickering, 1993; Czarniawska, 2004). In this view, it would be unwise for studies of academic work to concentrate solely on the extraordinary cases, given that the majority of academics work in less special and coherent ways — and in less favorable circumstances. Stories of the ordinary are needed no less, and the ordinary is not necessarily something stable, conservative or ignorant. Therefore, we need not assume that all academics pursue a particular praxis (of their own) but we can take it as an empirical question as to how, when, where and by whom particular forms of social practice are created and sustained. Even more importantly, we can respect academics in the process of trying to establish a practice of their own, and we should do this without assuming that the efforts were, or will ever be, successful. Our work as ordinary, ‘‘mediocre’’ academics may thus be worth narrating, and the concept of praxis can provide us with a potential plot for such narratives.

9.3.2

Three-stance Conception of Practical Activity

MacIntyre’s conception of social practice needs to be elaborated if it is to be used in crafting accounts of academic work. Firstly, is it too restrictive to focus only on the moral side of academic work, while — in practice — our work involves much more than mere moral reasoning and discussion. Secondly, how can we identify a praxis, and when can we say that someone is rehearsing a praxis or merely acting practically?

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In addition to these two questions, it must be noted that MacIntyre’s examples of social practices work on a rather large scale, since he writes on a time span of about a thousand years. If football and biological research are deemed practices by him, it is every bit as relevant for our purposes to consider diverse forms of practice within academic ﬁelds and in various local contexts. For instance, instead of looking at organization studies as a social practice, it is more meaningful to look for diverse ways in which organization researchers carry out academic work and understand their professional practice in different business schools and other institutional settings. A three-dimensional construct of practical activity and praxis helps to make the abstract ideas more concrete, researchable, and actionable. By the term practical activity, I mean a speciﬁc set of material and embodied, social activities that make sense to participants in this activity set, and possibly to knowledgeable outsiders, in terms of the three issues and respective stances that follow (Ra¨sa¨nen et al., 2005; cf. Ra¨sa¨nen, Merila¨inen, & Lovio, 1995): How to do this? What to do? Why do this and in this way?

Tactical stance Political (or strategic) stance Moral stance

The three questions are not mere technical or analytical devices. I suggest that practitioners actually encounter these issues in their work, even if they do not necessarily articulate them in terms of the question–answer logic. Rather, they are experienced as stances toward speciﬁc tasks, work practices, relations, and working conditions. A speculation based on the idea of ‘‘situated learning’’ (Lave & Wenger, 1991) may clarify this point: a practitioner may gradually move from one stance to another as she/he moves from the position of novice to a more central position among the practitioners. The ﬁrst and immediate challenge encountered in any (new) work is to know how to do it. Once one can perform basic operations, one may start to consider what one should actually do and accomplish in this particular ﬁeld. And, once one knows the rules and stakes of the game well enough, one can perhaps raise moral issues and question taken-for-granted views on the goals and means. A way of tracking efforts that seek to reorganize academic work into a form of praxis is to focus on the accounts (i.e., narratives) that the practitioners can give of their acts and activities. The accounts are moments intrinsic to the formation of experiences. They are also necessary for any social activity as a means of coordination and justiﬁcation. While the accounts are a necessary element in a practical activity, they also make the activity accessible to a researcher and an object of reﬂection for practitioners (cf. Gherardi & Nicolini, 2001, pp. 51–53). This leads on to an analysis of (narrative) answers given to tactical ‘‘how’’ questions, political ‘‘what’’ questions, and moral ‘‘why’’ questions, considered as articulations of attempts to resolve the basic issues. The issues are a (discussion) point where practitioners and outsiders interested in their practice can meet. The distinction between the three basic stances and respective issues is useful in taking into account the possible, and likely, incoherence in the accounts of practical

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activity. While I want to consider the possibility of praxis, I am inclined to accept that all human enterprise and practical reasoning is more or less incoherent, incomplete, and open. This appeared to be the case in studying managerial logics of action (e.g. Ra¨sa¨nen et al., 1995; Eriksson & Ra¨sa¨nen, 1998), and it seems a reasonable starting point for focusing on academic work as well. In using the three-positional construct, practical activity becomes, in principle, a praxis when the actors are able to articulate and negotiate relatively coherent resolutions to the three issues, and actually work according to their notions of good practice. While this deﬁnition requires that practitioners’ accounts are deemed to be intelligible and ‘‘authentic’’ by relevant others, it is not sensible to expect any human activity to be totally coherent and free from hypocrisy. At best, actors will have direction in their quest for convincing ideals, and they will try to realize their conceptions of good work as best as they can. They can also switch stances of practical reasoning in a credible way between tactical, political, and moral frames of reference. Thus, the difference between a praxis and (mere) practical activity is a matter of degree, and it can only be known through the judgment of those who are intimately familiar with a particular practice. The distinction may, nevertheless, be useful in deﬁning both an epistemic object and, simultaneously, a type of mission for those who struggle to make sense of their work. What is most interesting is how ordinary university employees, over time, try to focus on and defend particular ‘‘good things’’ in their work, and deal with contradictions in their ideal answers to the three questions, and in their ideals and their daily activities. Studying emerging forms of praxis as moving targets and evolving missions is surely difﬁcult, if not impossible. Yet, making the effort would seem to be important.

9.3.3

Relating with Practice–theoretical Literature

A metaphorical use of literate worlds may help in clarifying the differences between the three stances to practical activity: in the tactical stance, one is oriented toward performing the task, in one’s own way if possible, as in de Certeau’s world using ‘‘tactics’’ in the space owned by others. In the political stance, one is concerned with the consequences of performing a particular task in terms of its effects on one’s position in the relevant context. In this orientation, it is natural to work out what tasks to perform and how well, as in Bourdieu’s world of ‘‘habitus,’’ ‘‘ﬁelds,’’ and ‘‘forms of capital.’’ Finally, in the moral stance, one is concerned with the motives and justiﬁcations of performing certain tasks in a particular way, as in MacIntyre’s world of internal and external goods. In speaking thus, it is necessary for me to articulate how I view the writings of Pierre Bourdieu and Michel de Certeau. Moreover, I try to relate the frame of practical activity outlined above to Theodor Schatzki’s practice ontology, and in particular, to his illustration of it with the case of the academic department. Nicolini et al. (2003) mention four current streams of practice-based theorizing: praxeology (Bourdieu & Wacquant, 1992), ethnomethodology (Lynch, 1993),

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actor—network theory (Latour & Woolgar, 1979; Callon & Law, 1982), and sociocultural activity theory (Engestro¨m, 1987). All four streams, exerting a degree of inﬂuence, have much to offer in terms of the development of the notion of practical activity. However, this notion is scarcely accepted by any of them as belonging to their genre of social research. Like many others who recognize the ‘‘practice turn’’ or return to practice, I have also been inspired by certain French scholars who have developed concepts of practice. Bourdieu, Foucault and de Certeau have all built on practice as a key concept (see also Lyotard, 1984). If there is a return to practice, they have been central in evoking this renewed interest, along with several other scholars (e.g. Giddens, 1979; Ortner, 1984; Lave, 1988; Taylor, 1989; and especially researchers in the ﬁeld of science studies, e.g. Knorr-Cetina, 1981; Pickering, 1993). On the other hand, the concept of praxis is over a thousand years old, and it has been carried forward by both pragmatist and Marxist researchers in particular, even before the recent turn (Miettinen, 2008; Nicolini et al., 2003). I made prior use of the notion of ‘‘logics of action’’ when I studied the practical activity of managers with my colleagues (e.g. Ra¨sa¨nen et al., 1995; Eriksson & Ra¨sa¨nen, 1998). The ﬁrst, direct source of this term was Karpik’s (1978) book but later I drew on Bourdieu’s work in particular. His empirical analyses of practical logics are especially impressive (e.g. Bourdieu, 1990; Appendix; cf. de Certeau, 1984, p. 50). The question is why his worldview does not sufﬁce — or, to be more precise, why it provides only a partial answer to my quest. The main point is that he characterizes social practice as primarily politically oriented and fundamentally an economic affair. For Bourdieu, human action is understandable in a broader, sociological frame of reproduction. Individuals struggle within the limits of their habitus, and gain various forms of capital to maintain or improve their position in objective social ﬁelds. In simple terms, all we do is concerned with our political interest in a given game. This is surely true to our experience but not the whole truth. Moreover, Bourdieu’s accounts are considered problematic with regard to their conception of subjectivity and change in practice (for critiques, see e.g. Evens, 1999; King, 2000; Lewandowski, 2000; Dillon, 2001; Throop & Murphy, 2002; Ortner, 2005; and Schatzki, 2001b, pp. 50–51; cf. McNay, 1999; Zipin & Brennan, 2003; Couldry, 2005). For our purpose, this is crucial because, as ordinary academics in search of a praxis, it is not sensible to think of ourselves and our hopes as mere products of ‘‘objective conditions.’’ If our quest for an ethic in academic work is predetermined by the objective conditions that determine our habitus, why bother? In contrast, MacIntyre’s (1985, chap. 18) view encourages a quest for coherence in one’s moral vision, at least on a local scale in these ‘‘dark, barbarian times.’’ If Bourdieu (often) deemphasizes ‘‘creative subjectivity,’’ de Certeau (1984) ﬁnds it in everyday life of consumers. While the ordinary consumer cannot inﬂuence what products are available, she/he can use them in creative and productive ways. In a space owned and ‘‘prefabricated’’ by others (such as a city square), ordinary people cannot really act strategically but they can rehearse various ‘‘tactics’’ and ‘‘make do’’ (de Certeau (1984) p. xvii–xx and chap. III). The ‘‘marginalized majority’’ acts creatively ‘‘as unrecognized producers, poets of their own acts, silent discoverers

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of their own paths in the jungle of functionalist rationality’’ (de Certeau (1984) p. xviii). Although they are subordinated to the technologies of observation and discipline (analyzed by Foucault), as well as to the ‘‘economy of the proper place’’ (analyzed by Bourdieu), they can employ tactics, deﬁned in the following way (de Certeau (1984), p. xix): I call ‘‘tactic’’y a calculus which cannot count on a ‘‘proper’’ (a spatial or institutional localization), nor thus on a borderline distinguishing the other as a visible totalityy A tactic insinuates itself into the other’s place, fragmentarily, without taking it over in its entirety, without being able to keep the distance y. The weak must continually turn to their own ends forces alien to them.

What de Certeau is trying to capture with the notion of tactics may be a familiar stance and experience for many university employees, too. The feeling is that we are marginal at the university rather than that we are the university. Some ill-deﬁned ‘‘other’’ owns the working space, materially and symbolically. We are ‘‘making do’’ under various, alien pressures and with whatever resources happen to be available. It feels difﬁcult to orientate oneself professionally and maintain direction while urgent, unrelated tasks demand attention and quick, creative responses. By and large, one can convincingly maintain a personal style in carrying out the task and in relating to people and things. However, I am inclined to ask whether this is the whole story — or can academics go beyond this stance, at least in special circumstances? Theodor Schatzki (2001a, 2001b, 2005) has been developing a social ‘‘site ontology’’ of his own. His way of understanding practice is among the most elaborate formulations of the practice concept. In a recent article, he illustrates the concept with the example of the academic department (in general), in order to present a ‘‘site analysis’’ of an organization. This account can be summarized in the following way (Schatzki, 2005, p. 472, pp. 474–476): 1. The site of the social is a mesh of practices and material arrangements. An academic department is a bundle of (a) practices and (b) material arrangements. (a) The department embraces such practices as grading practices, research practices, advising practices, governance practices, administrative practices, meeting practices, community-building practices, and consultation practices. (b) It encompasses such material arrangements as layouts and material connections among individual ofﬁces, meeting rooms, hallways, front ofﬁces, lounges, and people’s homes. 2. Each of the practices, as an organized human activity, ‘‘possesses an organization’’ of the following type (or ‘‘is organized by’’ the following ‘‘phenomena’’): understandings of how to do things, rules, and teleoaffective structure. For example, North American educational practices are organized by (a) understanding of how to teach, impress instructors, conduct research, use electronic equipment and the like, (b) instructions, regulations, and rules of thumb about these matters (c) teleoaffective structure that embraces ends (e.g. educating students, obtaining good evaluations or grades, and gaining academic employment), tasks pursued for these ends, and uses of equipment.

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3. The practices overlap (via shared actions or elements), connect (via chains, places or elements), and conﬂict. 4. The department belongs to a college, a confederation of practice-material bundles. The bundles cohere or conﬂict. 5. The department, as a bundle of meshes, originated from a decision by administrators or the founders of the university. The decision was implemented by hiring a chair and other faculty members. As these acts were components of already existing administrative practices, the department resulted from existing practices. The chair extends and alters practices learned and carried out elsewhere, now amid new material arrangements and with a new cast of humans. What is acceptable in the department, its teleoaffective structure, is subject to discursive determination. The new personnel forge connections among practices and bundles, drawing on familiar practices. 6. The practice and material arrangement components of department are perpetuated by individuals being incorporated into and carrying them forward. 7. The bundle changes as circumstances change, opportunities and problems arise, personnel changes, new ideas arise and so on. The changes can be intentional or unintentional, known or unknown. They are typically piecemeal alterations in one component, but the bundle can also be changed wholesale by conscious intervention from the inside or outside.

The story of the academic department is based on certain basic ideas and positions. Firstly, Schatzki (2001b, p. 43) suggests a concept of social order that ‘‘declines to assimilate order to regularity and does justice to dispersion and interconnectedness,’’ i.e., variable connections among things. He deﬁnes order as arrangement — that is to say, ‘‘layout of entities in which they relate and take up places with respect to one another.’’ For him, social order is ‘‘arrangements of people and the organisms, artifacts, and things with which they coexist.’’ This view is relational: in his example, teachers ‘‘lecture to students because of who they are, just as who they are depends on this orientation and activity.’’ In this way, he ties meaning and identity — being — to arrangements. ‘‘Site’’ is another key term in Schatzki’s ontology (Schatzki (2001b, pp. 46–49), see also Schatzki, 2005). Site is a context in a speciﬁc, inherent sense: a site constitutes an activity, and the activity is constituted by the site. Practices are sites of human activity, and social orders are established within them. A practice is what people do: a set of actions, practically intelligible, sensible doings and sayings. It is organized by understandings (of how to do), rules (observed), and a ‘‘teleoaffective structure.’’ By the term teleoaffectice structure, Schatzki (Schatzki, 2005, p. 53) refers to an orientation toward ends and what matters to people: a range of acceptable or correct ends, tasks to carry out for these ends, beliefs, and emotions. Thus, Schatzki suggests that hopes and emotions are central in determining practical intelligibility. Unfortunately, the exemplary story of the academic department does not yet speak directly to the issue of accounting for, and renewing, ordinary academic work. This may be due to the fact that his example relates to an institutionally and formally

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deﬁned object, namely the department, while I am concerned with academic work itself. Of course, there is also a difference in the level of abstraction. Anyway, it is difﬁcult to draw any clear conclusion from his ontology as to the possibility of intentional construction of a revised ‘‘site,’’ or a new praxis in the sense that I understand the term. On the one hand, Schatzki argues that human activities bring about the arrangements. On the other hand, as components of the arrangements, humans (and nonhumans) posses ‘‘instituted’’ meanings and identities (Schatzki, 2005, p. 53). Human activities constitute practices as sites, and practices constitute human activities and spaces of their intelligibility (Schatzki, 2005, pp. 468–470). In this language, what I do is ‘‘inherent to practices,’’ ‘‘constitutes’’ them, but what does that mean? It is clear that my current practical activity is a mesh, or even a mess, but yet I feel bound to ask if some meshes are more meaningful and satisfactory than others.

9.3.4

Narrative Accounting for Academic Work from Within

While some of the most visible versions of ‘‘practice studies’’ emphasize the material aspects of practice (objects and artifacts) and report detailed analyses of embodied practices, it is not sensible to ignore or simplify the human side of practice — especially when accounting for our own activity. To account for own experiences, we need to be able to live with emotions, express meanings, and articulate moral motives and justiﬁcation. And all this is unavoidably and concretely ‘‘relational’’ — that is to say, we academics learn, carry out, and account for our work in speciﬁc relations with certain other practitioners, with friends, allies, and enemies. The category of meaning is central and unavoidable in the relevant versions of practice-based theory (cf. Schatzki, 2001b). How can we go beyond emotionally and morally empty — meaningless or disengaged — analyses of material practices distanced from any human experience? Nonhuman entities can be actors or actants in some sense (as the actor–network theory suggested), but what drives human ‘‘entities’’ who do not know what they do and who they are? Sherry Ortner (1997, p. 157) comments on this issue in the following way: Thus we are now in the ironic situation that the theoretical position [of Foucault/Said 3] generally taken to be more radical is that which excludes an interest in the ‘‘meanings’’ [of Geertz] – the desires and intentions, the beliefs and values – of the very subjects on whose behalf the workings of power are exposed.

How can we be sensitive to the different ways practitioners deal with their experiences? Detailed but detached analyses of ‘‘material practices’’ and their effects may overlook the practitioners’ working conditions and their opportunities for tactical, political and moral reasoning. They may also miss what all this — i.e., their frames of interpretation and practical reasoning — means to the practitioners. Instead, we must respect ‘‘the actor’s point of view’’: establishing meaning by means 3

Ortner refers in her article to Foucault (1978), Said (1979) and to several publications by Geertz (1973).

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of representations and those particular practices ‘‘through which people come to believe deeply in those representations’’ (Ortner, 1997, p. 145; see also Ortner, 2005). The increasing interest in narrative studies can be seen as a response to the problem of lost meaning. Narrative methods provide scope for communicating in ways that respect the actor’s point of view, and express both emotions and moral commitments. Getting to grips with meaning in academic work is to identify narratives on which academics draw in order to account for their future-oriented projects: what can we be and what do we want to be professionally, and how do our current efforts and troubles contribute to that desired future. The term ‘‘meaning’’ (in Finnish tarkoitus or merkitys) means just this: what is the purpose and possible signiﬁcance (and even effect) of particular events, acts, and occurrences in regard to an actor’s beliefs, intentions, and values (i.e., moral positions) — her/his life projects? Grasping the meaning of an event is to see it as a part of a ‘‘bigger picture’’ (cf. MacIntyre, 1985 and Taylor, 1989 on the importance of narratives).

9.4

Returning to the Conference: From Practicalities to a ‘‘Praxis in Emergence’’?

What was actually taking place in Leuven in 1997, if we think of it in terms of the perspective outlined above? Was it the case that the conference organizers were trying to engage in and demonstrate an academic practice that they considered valuable? Thinking in this way somewhat changes the interpretation presented in my original account.

9.4.1

A Subtle Shift in Feeling

Answering the questions is difﬁcult methodologically. I have severely limited knowledge of the organizers’ broader intentions, of their experiences in organizing and participating in the conference, and of their other engagements before and after the conference. However, I can begin to develop tentative answers by reﬂecting on my own experiences in relation to my expectations and hopes for the conference. By questioning my own hopes and concerns, I can hopefully become more sensitive to other issues going on beyond my original horizon. This kind of attempt at both engagement and reﬂexivity is a key idea in my understanding of participatory research. As a researcher, I am a participant engaging in speciﬁc practices — such as conferencing — with others, and I can try to articulate my feelings and observations in the situation, turn them into narratives, share and revise the narratives, and perhaps tease out in due course some conceptually clear statements from them (cf. Reason & Bradbury, 2001; cf. Cunliffe, 2003). In order to gain access to the practices, I need to be skilled enough in them — a relatively competent practitioner among others. Reﬂexivity is, however, a tricky business, and it can be difﬁcult to

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recontextualize experiences in the context of embodied, repeated, and embedded practices (Rose, 1997; Ellis & Bochner, 2000; cf. Lynch, 2000). Therefore, I must include in this report a piece of reasoning, or a ‘‘subtle shift in y feeling’’ (Hudson, 1970, p. 114), that led me to a new way of thinking about the Leuven conference. The story, written in 1997, is revealing with regard to my hopes. I appreciated the ideals and principles expressed in the invitation: multiple voices in dialogue and in communal relations (see also Bouwen, 1998; Bouwen & Steyaert, 1999, Bouwen & Hosking, 2000). I also liked the stated intention to use new working methods and deviate from the paper-based pattern in favor of a script that values human encounters. However, my attention focused on the actual conference procedures and on their contradictory relationship to the ideals. In particular, the paper-based script, traditionalist chairpersons, and the unsuitable premises bothered me at the time. Later on, I was also worried about the politics that the statements on ideals may obscure (Ra¨sa¨nen, 2000). For me, the actual conference procedures were very important at the time of the conference. I had just learned a couple of years earlier that it is crucial to know who is in the room, how to arrange the room and its seating, how to communicate, and how to structure the participants’ roles and potential authority relationships. My focus was on the question of how to go about conferencing. While I felt that I shared some ideals with the organizers, the gulf between the ideals and the actual operations resulted in my frustration. Perhaps, I failed to see beyond the details to the bigger picture. Now, the practicalities can be seen in a different light. Were they not obstacles that the organizers had to deal with in order to realize their ideas? There certainly were good, ‘‘practical’’ reasons for the solutions, both in terms of the local circumstances (e.g. available space) and the traditions of academic conferencing with its emphasis on the potential for publication of papers and the consequent acquisition of funding for the conference trip. Institutionalized forms of conferencing did not accord very well with the intended script for collaboration. Perhaps, the organizers got into difﬁculty in trying to turn their answers to the ‘‘why’’ question into answers to the ‘‘how’’ questions. On the other hand, I also now realize that some of the other participants appeared to question the ideals, and they seemed to be quite happy with the traditional working methods. The key actors, chosen to act as chairpersons, did not all share the same view of appropriate working methods that I did, in spite of the careful instructions. Even if their moral motives had been similar, they had different views on how to ‘‘do’’ conferencing and what should be accomplished at the meeting. Were we involved in a clash between different notions of academic practice: a more traditional practice ranged against a deviant one. The invited collaborators had no common plan to rehearse the same practice and perhaps the organizers themselves were still in the process of developing coherent and workable answers to the how, what, and why questions in respect of their own practice. In line with the above reasoning, we can ask if the conference was a success or failure, and in what respect. I would now argue that the conference was a failure, if it is judged on the basis of my high (procedural) ideals, and of the invitation as well.

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However, from the perspective of academic praxis in emergence, the conference can be seen as a success. It helped many of us to articulate and sustain values and ideals, and it gave us an experience of trying to live up to them in the key context of an international conference. While my original account emphasizes the shortcomings of the event, my revised understanding is much more accommodating and positive. As an ordinary academic, I can see hope in the challenge to renew academic practices — notwithstanding how effective the actual attempt was. Moreover, the experience contributed to an improved understanding of how one can organize the kind of conference that is desirable. I at least learned something that I could deploy in other sites and on other occasions (as reported in Ra¨sa¨nen, 2000). Rehearsal is a necessary prerequisite for learning the art of organizing. It is only through experience that we can learn to know the extent and the manner in which one can deviate from the traditions and institutionalized practices. And it is only by trying to articulate ideals that we can enter into open negotiations about differences in them. In respect of the art of organizing (conferences), it is these negotiations, and the ways of arranging them in situ, that are at the heart of practical wisdom.

9.4.2

Recognizing an Emerging Praxis: ‘‘Good Things’’ of Academic Work

As I suggest above, the Leuven conference can be seen as an attempt to rehearse and further develop a particular practice. Is it then possible to say something about the nature of this particular practice? I clearly cannot assess the extent to which it is a locally established and recognized form of academic work nor describe it as a whole. However, I can recognize a few aspects of it; in particular, those aspects that meet my conception of good academic work. In principle (MacIntyre, 1985), this is possible to the extent that I am a practitioner in a similar practice. In some other respects, I may be an outsider who cannot recognize what the organizers consider good or bad. As the ﬁrst characteristic, I would highlight the open expression of (deviant) ideals. This is rather rare in academia. Expressions of neutral and disengaged stances, combined perhaps with cynicism, sarcasm or irony, are much more usual. It would appear that the organizers had gradually developed a commitment to particular values and were ready to express them and act on them. Another visible element in the particular practice seems to be relational sensitivity and a cooperative stance to academic and other relations. The organizers invited collaborators with whom they had previously engaged in joint endeavors. The whole idea of community building is based on a collaborative position. In order to work in this way, the activists cannot be egoistical and focus on boosting their own achievements and originality. The contrast with the more usual, competitive stance in academic affairs is stark. Thirdly, the conference explicitly emphasized aesthetic qualities in its organization (cf. Steyaert & Hjorth, 2002). Introducing music to the venue and paying attention to the style of conference documents were examples of this aspect of practice. This meant that the practice concurrently maintained an open conception of the borders between

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‘‘science’’ and other human affairs. This aspect I found striking — perhaps because I had not given much conscious deliberation to aesthetics in my own work. The experience made me ponder whether minimalism could be considered a valid style in this context. This emphasis on the aesthetic aspect is also exceptional in relation to current ‘‘conference business’’: the number of conferences is increasing, academics are expected to attend, and organize them, more often, and organizing tasks are increasingly outsourced to specialist agencies employing standardized procedures, forms, and internet programs. This hectic business does not leave much room for careful preparation, original style, and human contact. Fourthly, without knowing it in any detail, I got the impression that the aim of the organizers was to work in an integrated manner across various university tasks. At least, the conference program was partly organized along the lines of a large-group intervention, as an aid to community building. The same skills used in organizing researchers’ encounters can be taught to students and used in expert tasks, too. Such approaches, for example, Appreciative Inquiry, have a meaning in all these contexts: a practical and useful method for students to learn, a set of developmental practices that can be studied in research work, and a tool of development efforts in work organizations (cf. Fineman, 2006). Again, this is something distinct because many academics try to strictly separate out research from teaching and specialist activities. And, most universities support this separation by treating these basic activities as if they were not related, which makes it hard to accomplish any forms of integration, beyond such usual phrases as offering ‘‘research-based teaching.’’ Finally, the way the conference was organized indicates that the organizers have regard for their capacity and willingness to improve their own practices. They are not just saying how others should think and act but they are renewing their own ways of carrying out academic tasks. This presupposes a willingness to learn and to use skills in so-called development work — i.e., different approaches for changing activities and relations. It also requires an ability to reﬂect on one’s own dispositions and reﬂexes. This willingness to focus on one’s own practices is quite rare in academia, and this gives the practice a distinct ﬂavor and status in relation to its alternatives. The emerging practice provides an example of approaches that can renew the academic world from inside out. It encourages autonomous development work in academia, in contrast to mere adaptation to externally induced, forced changes. This is promising and politically important nowadays as universities are bombarded with various measures that move them toward the model of managerially controlled enterprises. While the space for autonomous development work is diminishing, any attempts to continue them need to be appreciated greatly. While many university employees are losing control of their work, and in consequence becoming alienated from its internal goods, it is ever more important to share stories of accomplishments in sustaining a willingness and capacity for self-governed renewal. Taken together, the ﬁve elements provide a partial sketch of an academic practice. My understanding of it emphasizes the courage to speak out, relational sensitivity, aesthetic and embodied qualities, integration of activities, and self-reﬂexive and autonomous attempts at renewal.

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There remains the question of what these ‘‘elements’’ are in terms of the conceptions of practice presented in the previous section of this essay. As to MacIntyre’s concept of practice, the elements largely represent a rough listing of possible ‘‘internal goods’’ peculiar to this practice. However, my characterization also includes suggestions for human virtues — necessary, acquired dispositions — needed to realize these goods. As to the three questions of ‘‘why,’’ ‘‘what,’’ and ‘‘how,’’ the elements provide partial answers to each of them. They touch on the organizers’ moral stances, their conceptions of what are worthwhile accomplishments in academia, and their art of skilled organizing of both people and practicalities. There seemed to be a praxis in emergence. Any elaboration of the above suggestions, as well as relationships between the ‘‘elements’’ as articulations of embodied activity, would require a richer base of experience than that provided in my story of the conference. Moreover, given the lack of comparable descriptions of other practices, it is impossible to be precise in assessing whether the ‘‘goods’’ mentioned are really internal to the particular practice or achievable through engagement in other forms of academic work as well.

9.5

Conclusion

This essay presents a reinterpretation of a conference experience. The plot for the revised account is academic praxis in emergence. It is about academics who try to renew their own practices in order to engage in a meaningful and satisfactory form of academic work. Meaningful forms of academic work are relatively coherent combinations of tactical means, political goals and moral purposes. However, these forms are diverse and situation-speciﬁc, and this essay characterizes the discrete elements of a particular practice. As a result, I now understand the conference experience in a new light. What once felt like a failure in organizational innovation now seems to be a step in a longer process of developing a new academic practice. And, in my view, this practice represents qualities that are urgently needed in universities. In particular, it encourages university employees to adopt autonomous development efforts instead of passive adaptation or critical thinking without deviant action (e.g. Walker, 2001; Merila¨inen et al., 2009). Such an approach to, and method of, working in general requires courage to speak out, relational sensitivity, and self-reﬂexivity. The emphases on aesthetic or embodied aspects of work are less visible in highereducation research into local development efforts. The latter is perhaps gaining more attention due to the inﬂuence of feminist approaches and activists in academia. The embodied nature of practical activity is also a central theme in practice–theoretical discussions. As to the former, attention to aesthetics may go hand in hand with an interest in virtue ethics, in contrast to other strands of moral philosophy. As the ‘‘moral is in the practice’’ (Hansen, 1998), so is it with aesthetics. However, one should not exaggerate the importance of the particular, evolving practice identiﬁed in this essay. It is only a speciﬁc and local attempt to make

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academic work meaningful. Further research will bring up quite different projects, in various disciplines, universities, and countries — if we are able and willing to recognize them. The practice–theoretical perspective, in its various forms, makes it very clear that changing academic work is a laborious task. Improving it is even harder. It is an easier task to ﬁgure out normative models on how this, or any other, work should be focused and executed than to change the practices of daily work. The latter require an intimate feel for the practitioners’ tactical, political, and moral concerns. The managerial logic of governance and change that is now penetrating universities approaches this problematic by prohibiting the raising of moral issues (cf. Zipin & Brennan, 2003) and by dictating goals when and where possible. Consequently, public space is left only for opinions about technical ‘‘how’’ issues. Although the managerial rhetoric and related tools of control are politically powerful, it is fortunate that they fail to assert total control over academic work. Paradoxically, the reason for this is to be found in their inability to deal with and answer the moral issues. The various forms of academic praxis — and future forms of praxis — will have their own answers to the question of why speciﬁc goals and means are valuable. And these answers do not limit their horizons to what MacIntyre calls external goods: namely, fame, wealth, and status — the only perks that managers can offer. Unfortunately, intensiﬁed managerial control can make it harder and harder to sustain belief in the internal goods of an academic practice. However, this threat only tests the ‘‘virtuousness’’ of academic practitioners. MacIntyre’s (second) deﬁnition of virtue clariﬁes the nature of this challenge (MacIntyre, 1981, p. 204, quoted in Mulhall & Swift, 1992, p. 89): The virtues are therefore to be understood as those dispositions which not only sustain practices and enable us to achieve the goods internal to them, but which will also sustain us in the relevant quest for the good by enabling us to overcome the harms, dangers, temptations and distractions which we encounter, and which will furnish us with increasing self-knowledge and increasing knowledge of the good.

While MacIntyre’s view can be questioned by drawing on studies on how ethics are products of the (given) ‘‘technologies of the self’’ or determined by the ‘‘economy of the proper place’’ (Foucault, 1997; Bourdieu, 1990), his thoughts are still encouraging for those who wish to provide for the possibility that in certain circumstances people can pursue a quest for the goods speciﬁc to their own practice. My guess is that such people can likewise be found among the ordinary, less-celebrated academics; accounts of ordinary work in academia can show whether this conjecture is right or wrong. Yet, there is one speciﬁc issue in MacIntyre’s conception of practice that needs to be discussed further. The emphasis on the internal goods of a practice, as detailed in his example of playing chess, can be interpreted to mean that practices serve only the practitioners themselves. However, another understanding of the notion of ‘‘internal good’’ would suggest that practices may be based on their own conceptions of the difference that they make to the lives of other people and of nature (cf. Nixon, 2004;

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Fielding, 1999). An internal good may, in this sense, include ‘‘good’’ done to others (cf. Lander, 2001), achievable only through this particular practice. In the case of academic work and scholarship, the problematic is currently very crucial: what are the internal and external goods achievable in different forms of academic work? I believe that it is possible to ﬁnd a range of alternative answers to the question. Examples of practices that have an inherent interest in serving others are offered by various forms of participatory research (e.g. Reason & Bradbury, 2001), including action research carried out by the developers of the practice characterized in this essay (e.g. Bouwen et al., 1999). I am grateful to the organizers of the Leuven conference for giving me the opportunity to sample their practice. If it was, and remains, in a state of emergence, it at least maintains hope. The irony of this story lies in the fact that it took me many years to see hope in what I ﬁrst experienced as failure.

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