Introduction
On the first day of spring break, I find myself scouring the internet for an article I mentioned to my Modern Art class at Brooklyn College. The piece I have in mind makes a compelling connection between painting and writing, offering an analogy that can transform how my students approach their own academic essays. After checking saved articles, old emails with former colleagues and professors, and sifting through stacks of Manila folders brimming with PDFs, I come up empty-handed. I fear that my students, enthralled just days before by the prospect of reading "a beautiful piece about how to structure an academic essay like a painting," will be disappointed. Motivated to use the rare free time I have over break to enhance my students' understanding of art history writing, I persist—searching for similar essays and determined to find an inspiring resource.
This search, though seemingly small, reflects the broader dynamics at play in the humanities today. As an adjunct professor, my work is often overburdened and undervalued by a system that treats teaching as a labor to be economized, pushing the humanities into a precarious state where there is less and less time for new research. It's a frustrating reality to live in, especially when I am equally committed to my academic work and the quality of my teaching. However, this challenging position has revealed the resilience and creativity that I, and my colleagues in similar roles, possess. We respond by experimenting with teaching methods that not only push back against the demanding pressures of capitalism but also resist its effects to stifle critical and open-ended exploration for us and our students.
I never did find the exact article I was originally searching for but my exploration led me to a like-minded approach rooted in the ideas of the 19th-century French historian Jules Michelet. In his dissertation on the Hellenistic philosopher Plutarch, Michelet praised the thinker's ability to "paint with sound" and write "like a poet" (Hannoosh 2019, 19). Michelet argued that writing was a way to vividly convey ideas through the language of art, enabling readers to envision possibilities beyond what they can see. His work, influenced by Plutarch, exemplifies how the humanities have long valued imagination and creativity. History has passed down these characteristics, shaping the common belief that art and writing are worthy pursuits with the power to make a lasting impact. I believe this lineage of thought must continue to encourage the flourishing of the arts and related disciplines, challenging conventional, profit-driven models of education. This perspective is certainly what I want my students—many of whom are artists and creatives—to consider in their own writing. As I do, I want them to understand that their creativity is essential to the humanities and can sustain and revitalize the field.
It is even more advantageous to encourage students to publish their work. It enables students to actively contribute to the development and transmission of knowledge, affirming the value of their ideas. Elaine Scarry argues that educators in the humanities—whether in literature, philosophy, art history, music, religion, or languages—have a social responsibility to nurture the imagination (Scarry 2000, 21). She believes that the beauty found in poems, plays, novels, and paintings forms the heart of education, as they ignite the desire and passion for learning. While some might view her perspective as overly optimistic or assume that she sees beauty as a solution to pedagogical challenges, Scarry’s point is more profound. She claims that beauty is where the true work of the imagination begins. Although beauty may initially come to us effortlessly, she argues that it ultimately prepares us, particularly as educators, "to undergo a giant labor" (ibid.).
Both Michelet and Scarry would agree that writing and teaching about art are far from superficial pursuits; they require serious commitment. Rather than simply conveying facts, information, or data, educators in the humanities should adopt creative and unconventional methods to unleash the imagination, inspiring their students to do the same. Many colleges and universities, as noted by bell hooks, adhere to the principles of the dominant culture, maintaining power and control through hierarchical structures between professors and students (hooks 2003, 128). Therefore, we need resistance to question these traditional teaching methods and enable a pedagogy that is truly committed to art and beauty. So, knowing the value of this resistance and its impact on the humanities, what might it look like? How can educators effectively implement such approaches for their students?
Overlabored and Undervalued
To effectively empower our students to thrive in the humanities, we must first confront the labor challenges faced by those teaching humanities courses. As a philosopher-art historian who has spent much of my life as both a student and faculty member, I have witnessed firsthand the troubling marginalization of the humanities in academia. This decline was not always so pronounced. In the latter half of the twentieth century, the humanities expanded beyond traditional Eurocentric views to embrace critical social movements such as Black and queer studies, feminism, and anti-colonialism. During the postwar years, public education flourished: according to the National Center for Educational Statistics, the number of institutions increased from 2,000 to 3,595 between 1960 and 1990. Community college enrollment experienced significant growth, rising from 400,000 in 1960 to 6.5 million by 1990. To support this growth, federal aid rose from $5.1 billion to $11.2 billion, and research funding increased from $2 billion to $12 billion during the same period. To provide teachers for the increased number of students, the number of doctoral degrees granted grew from 10,000 to over 38,000 a year (Kernan 1997, 4).
However, despite this progress, disinvestment in public higher education, beginning in the 1980s, has profoundly altered institutions and increased the financial burden on students. To offset these budget cuts, institutions have raised the cost of tuition, with average tuition increasing 164 percent at public four-year universities since the 1980s (Basaldua 2023). The prioritization of STEM fields, perceived as economically valuable, has further marginalized the humanities and limited their capacity to foster critical thinking and imaginative inquiry, shifting higher education away from a liberal arts education (La Berge 2018).
Additionally, the individuals teaching humanities courses heavily rely on the labor of contingent faculty members. As universities prioritize financial efficiency over intellectual investment, contingent and adjunct faculty—who are overworked, underpaid, and often excluded from institutional support—have become responsible for teaching a growing student population. By 2021, 68 percent of faculty members held contingent appointments, a stark rise from 47 percent in 1987, with nearly half employed part-time. Full-time tenured appointments fell dramatically from 39 percent in 1987 to just 24 percent in 2021, reflecting an unsettling shift toward precarious academic labor (Colby 2023, 2). These conditions have profound implications not only for contingent faculty members' professional stability and academic freedom but also for the quality of education for students taking these courses. Faculty teaching humanities courses face a new challenge: how can we instill a sense of value in their students' writing, given the widespread undervaluation of this work's monetary value?
The erosion of stable, tenured faculty positions and the rise of contingent labor threatens the sustainability of long-term academic careers in the humanities. While systemic changes are essential to address this imbalance, adjuncts play a pivotal role in shaping minds and potentially their future within the humanities. The sidelined nature of adjunct work calls for innovative teaching methods, such as employing open-access syllabi and coursework and amplifying the value of both teaching and student contributions. These kinds of approaches nurture critical, independent thinkers and challenge the flawed notion that financial compensation is the single defining value of one’s labor (Graeber 2021). As instructors in today's tenuous education system, we are responsible for demonstrating the importance of imagination and the arts, as well as fostering critical thinking in our students. By guiding them to examine how and why the value of labor is determined, we can spark ethical discussions and empower them to advocate for a societal shift that aligns with their input and values.
To give a concrete example of how such pedagogical innovation can transform the learning experience, I will now turn to an explanation of diverse strategies in my course, “Modern Art: OER Writing Seminar,” published on the CUNY instance of Manifold. This course demonstrates how the digital humanities can serve as a collaborative site of resistance, re-imagining pedagogical possibilities to counter the systemic undervaluation of adjunct labor. My decision to convert an existing Modern Art course on Blackboard into an Open Education Resource (OER) opened space for transparent discussion with my students about experimental course design and encouraged their input. Through social annotation assignments and cooperative self-grading, we cultivated an empowering and liberatory learning environment, one that fostered active student engagement and ownership of their writing. In addition, student input and publication—crucial for preserving and continuing the humanities—emerged as a key pedagogical tool. By enabling students to write in their distinctive voices and share their work, we built a collaborative space that affirmed their ideas as necessary intellectual contributions to the field.
The Switch to Open
For years, my art history courses functioned and relied on Blackboard. Over the years, several CUNY campuses have hired me as an adjunct, sometimes providing me with pre-existing syllabi and materials or wordlessly expecting me to create one from scratch. The last-minute nature of adjunct hiring and student registration often leads to the quick assembly of courses, ensuring that faculty and students will likely continue with familiar and available resources. As a contingent faculty member, I initially did not feel like I had the time or resources to question Blackboard as a tool for learning. Since I mostly taught classes to students who were not new to CUNY, my students were already familiar with Blackboard (as well as its nineties aesthetic and software glitches), and it soon became familiar to me. However, after joining the expansive discourse on open pedagogy through courses, grants, and fellowships within the CUNY community, I started to give Blackboard and learning management systems, more generally, a sidelong glance [1]. I soon realized that the solution to the value-to-labor ratio as an adjunct was not to simply continue using something just because it exists or is commonly used. As Curtis Fletcher (2019) argues, we can do better for ourselves and our students than continue to “just use what is lying around.”
Moving an entire course to OER is not an easy task but my mind was immediately free to think creatively beyond the limitations of the LMS and reassess how I could utilize my labor. Using an LMS not only stagnated my pedagogical practice but also skewed my personal teaching principles. Educational technology companies like Blackboard, Inc., and Instructure, the company that made Canvas, are based on profit and competition, just like any other business or private equity firm (Young 2019). Unfortunately, these companies are not motivated by a drive to build intelligent software that can cater to the diverse needs of learners and teachers that use their platforms. Instead, the foundation, upkeep, and enhancement of these businesses stem from the exploitation of learners, especially students. Often, companies render student labor invisible and uncompensated, ignoring student consent in the process. Blackboard’s quiet acquisition of iStrategy, a private company that uses data from college students’ information, human resources, and financial aid, helped inform its own Blackboard Analytics, a data collection system set up in order to “improve programs and institutional performance” (Schaffhauser 2011). Ironically, companies such as iStrategy provide this data to enhance the educational experience of these learners, only to circulate and retain it long after their graduation.
In addition to this violation of student privacy, I began to see that the very structure of the LMS inhibited open and creative learning. The established framework of assignments and gradebooks, coupled with its insular design that conceals privacy through data management, stifles both the lecturer and the students' imaginations. It was clear to me that I intended the exact opposite effect from my course—to empower, liberate, and pique students' curiosity about art history by considering their input and consent. Uploading assignments, syllabi, PowerPoints, and readings to Blackboard didn't save me time or energy; it was draining me. Thinking back to Graeber's argument that work is societally defined by the actions we perform to accomplish the goal of earning money, I realized I had to change—or substitute—the labor and value I was blindly sacrificing to the LMS.
OER Writing Seminar Text
Student publishing through a digital humanities platform like Manifold empowers students to actively participate in the creation and dissemination of knowledge rather than passively consuming it. Utilizing Manifold for my course, “Modern Art and OER Writing Seminar,” provided several opportunities for my teaching: I was able to highlight the significance of writing and discover one's authorial voice, which is a vital aspect of my modern art course, as well as explore new assignments and grading practices. I composed the OER Writing Seminar Text as a culmination of the writing assignments and lectures I had delivered over several semesters in Modern Art and other art history classes. As a result, my previous self had already completed most of the writing work, which freed me up to focus on the key points I wanted to highlight for my students. The sections of the OER Writing Seminar Text, which I created as a Manifold text, are:
- Why Write?
- Goals of the OER Writing Seminar Sessions
- Formal Analysis
- Thesis Statements
- How to Approach an Argument
- No Fear of the Blank Page
- Outlining
- Editing
As the semester went through different modern art movements, I occasionally sprinkled in an assignment using the social annotation function on Manifold. I wanted my students to think about writing at the very start of the semester but not go into the headspace of thinking about the particulars of the papers for the course. During the first week of class, I aimed to explain the concept of Open Educational Resources (OER) and its purpose in the course. To achieve this goal, I assigned materials and included a class discussion on the topic. By week four on Cubism and Early Abstraction, I gave them their first annotation assignment on one of the OER Writing Seminar text chapters, “Why Write?” They had read the chapter and answered the question, “Why should I write in my courses at CUNY? Why should I write at all?” I read their responses over the week, and what I absorbed struck me. Many students talked about how writing allowed them to express themselves, which led to more intimate parts of their inner thoughts, solidifying their beliefs, and honing a distinct voice. Student Maddie Acosta stated that writing offers a “unique avenue for intimate self-expression” (Acosta 2024). Writing leads us to "self-discovery, gaining deeper insights into ourselves," as Aisha Ali similarly described (Ali 2024). Writing, according to my students, helps us slow down and look inward, sometimes eliciting more clarity than speech. Another student, Marquis Ellis, wrote that “I know from my own experience that I am a lot more coherent in my writing. Not only do people understand my thoughts... but I’m also getting a better sense of the same for myself” (Ellis 2024).
When I resumed class the next week, I began with a discussion about the question they had answered. "Has anyone ever asked you why you write or what you write about?" A resounding “no” spoke back to me, followed by several comments about how it seemed that professors were more interested in giving a grade and moving on than engaging in a conversation about what writing means to them. My students informed me that testing was a big part of the high school system in New York, a pedagogical practice that spilled over into many of their college courses, and there were no opportunities for them to reflect on why they were learning and what it meant to them. Memorization and regurgitation were the keys to progress in their academic careers, or so it seemed their teachers and professors were telling them. I was sympathetic but also exhilarated that these declarations were coming to the surface. I had already gained a deeper understanding of some of their expectations. By having these honest discussions together, I was able to point out that I did not want them to memorize or regurgitate art history but to develop their own unique perspective through writing practices. My goal was to make them feel empowered to write on their own, without solely the fear or reward of a grade.
Naturally, the idea arose: maybe I could try self-grading with this group. In the past, I had admired colleagues who used self-grading techniques but I was concerned that it would dispel motivation in my courses. However, I was already beginning to feel a sense of connection with the students in front of me after having witnessed their earnest responses in the social annotations and in class discussion. To my delight, rather than simply responding with a yes or no to the question about self-grading, my students provided immediate feedback and ideas. “Will you create a rubric for us to self-assess?” they asked. I thought that making a rubric was a decent start but that they should also write an explanation for the grade. Other students agreed and pointed out that this could allow a space for the grader to provide information about the student's life circumstances. Maybe it would be an extra-busy week or a hectic home environment but they still completed the assignment to the best of their ability. Given this conversation, I felt I could trust my students to not only take self-grading seriously but use it as an opportunity to take pride in their efforts and show themselves compassion.
Throughout the semester, I maintained consistent communication with my students, both in and out of class, to support their writing progress. Art history, like other disciplines in the humanities, encourages students to think critically about what they see, drawing connections between the visual and historical context of artworks. The materiality of these works allows students to connect with specific moments in history, making social, political, and empirical connections that resonate with their own lives. To facilitate this engagement, I assigned a homework project through the "Thesis Statements" section of the OER book, where students drafted a thesis on George Seurat’s Circus Sideshow (Parade de Cirque) (1887–88) using a social annotation platform. Building on lectures that discussed Seurat’s pointillism and its ties to anarchist beliefs—particularly those of Kropotkin and the broader influence of socialism—students were able to experiment with their ideas on the platform. This digital space became a place for them to apply lecture concepts directly, testing their analytical skills and integrating historical insights into their thesis statements. The visibility of feedback allowed for collaborative learning, where students could refine their arguments and incorporate observations about how the artists' radicalism, expressed both in style and content, challenged societal norms and prompted discussions on art’s revolutionary potential (Block 2003). This process nurtured not only their writing skills but also their ability to connect lecture material to broader analyses, leading to a more enriched understanding of art history's social relevance.
This collaborative and reflective approach shifted the course expectations away from relying solely on my authority. Instead, students took ownership of their learning, actively engaging with course materials and valuing their contributions as essential to their growth. By fostering this shared learning environment on Manifold, the course design counteracted the isolation often experienced by adjuncts and their students, who may lack dedicated office space or flexible schedules for further discussion. The collaborative space we built together on Manifold allowed my students to truly connect with their work, break down the usual barriers to access and discussion, and create a more inclusive and inspiring educational experience for everyone involved.
The End of the Semester and Beyond
As the semester reached its end, students devoted three weeks of class to finishing their final papers. Students engaged with me and each other about their paper topics in these final weeks. My objective for this time was to replicate the format of an academic seminar or conference workshop. I designed three distinct seminars: 1) Formulating a Research Question 2) Writing an Outline, and 3) Proofreading and Editing. I fairly easily transformed the pre-existing content from the OER Writing Seminar manual into cohesive PowerPoint presentations that the class could view collectively. This strategy was effective as I guided them through the book using illustrative examples that were not originally there. Since they were helpful to a handful of students, I am planning to incorporate these illustrations into the text on Manifold for future versions of the course.
Occasionally, I had students at various stages of the writing process; some were still in the process of selecting paper themes, while others had already created an outline. In prior courses where I have taught writing in art history, I may have found it challenging to accept and be patient with this but since I devoted three classes to writing seminars, I was able to go along with my students' pace. Additionally, since I wanted them all to have access to Manifold as we worked through the seminar themes, I used one of the computer labs in the Brooklyn College library. This worked well because it provided the opportunity for some students to work autonomously on computers while simultaneously enabling me to focus on individual students and address specific challenges. For example, if a student had not yet decided on their research question, we could openly discuss the reasons for why this was and come up with straightforward recommendations. This ended up being much better than using email or office hours alone, since most students do not always utilize these options outside of class. In other art history classes that I've taught, I endeavored to emphasize writing and encompass a broad range of modern art history but I pushed myself too far. Frankly, it led to sloppier grading and less, if any, feedback on final papers. In the end, CUNY only compensates adjuncts for one paid office hour per week, and emails can quickly become a burden if a student and professor are not understanding one another clearly.
This brings me back to an earlier question about how we expect the humanities to continue if their survival is dependent on part-time professors. If we accept the systemic erasure of critical thinking and imagination, how can we, as contingent faculty or otherwise, safeguard the humanities and our students' future? I propose a solution: support and publish student work using Manifold or another digital platform. There are a few reasons CUNY faculty should feel inclined to use Manifold for publications. The CUNY instance of Manifold already has institutional affiliation, which gives the platform credibility and purpose. We should regularly encourage students to utilize freely available resources throughout their academic careers. As we emphasize library and museum passes to students, we should also inform them of publishing opportunities. Furthermore, when students publish their work on Manifold, they can reach more readers and broaden their professional networks. These actions create a ripple effect, informing universities and publishers worldwide about the availability of student work both within and beyond their local communities.
All of this effort encourages students to invest in their writing as an intellectual contribution rather than just a path to a grade. Supporting and publishing student work challenges the devaluation of the humanities by fostering critical engagement and adding new previously unsung scholarly value, transforming students from passive learners into active contributors to the field. As Elaine Scarry has said, this practice is a social responsibility, essential to the survival and growth of the humanities. Beauty in poems, plays, paintings, and novels sparks both learning and the desire to explore deeper meaning. Reimagining my course on Manifold allowed me to step away from conventional structures and focus on inspiring my students to develop their voices and perspectives within art history, thereby affirming their creativity as an integral part of the discipline.
A selection of my students chose to publish their beautifully crafted final essays on Manifold on a range of topics. Iggy Strickland wrote about how Nick Cave’s Soundsuits, which transcend “contemporary art and fashion [...] with groundbreaking wearable art, incite a profound dialogue about social change and Black queer identity (Strickland 2024). Jeannine Cannon studied how the Avant Garde challenged societal norms about the representation of the human body by subverting female nude representations (Cannon 2024). These students' essays, along with others, can be found on Manifold. These students represent not only what experimenting with radical course design can make possible but also what integrating our students into the humanities can make possible. Dedicating oneself to students in the humanities goes beyond being a ‘good teacher’. It involves a deep commitment to fostering imagination and creativity for a future we hope will come.
Notes
- I use this phrase following Krysta Thompson’s term ‘sidelong glance,’ which she uses to describe the gesture African diasporic history gives to the art history canon. Thompson also refers to Kara Walker's use of a sidelong gaze in artwork depicting enslaved persons and scenes of white violence as a "little look" "full of suspicion" toward racialized and gendered representation in art history. See Thompson 2011.
