By Emily Kang, History of Art
Teaching Effectiveness Award Essay, 2024
In Fall 2023, I was a first-time GSI for History of Art 101: Theories and Methods for a Global Art History. The challenge (and joy) of this course was that the “content” of the lectures ranged from Italian Renaissance painting to the Techialoyan manuscripts and beyond. The goal of the course was not to teach students about any one of these topics but rather to build a toolbox of methodological strategies, taking a meta-approach to the texts then selecting methods for a final, independent research project. This is a challenging reorientation. I heard students express that they didn’t know where to start when planning their papers, or that they wanted to choose the “right” method. Underlying these conversations was usually a sense of fear: fear of being wrong, fear of “being stupid.” Theory sounds abstract and slippery, and it can catalyze these fears. Theory-phobia is an acute case of imposter syndrome, and it was endemic in my sections.
Exacerbated by pandemic-era online learning, and complicated by generative AI, how do you combat theory-phobia and ask students to lean into difficulty? I wanted to reassure students that they already possessed many of the skills they needed. At the same time, I wanted to acknowledge their fears. I found that the most impactful lesson for teaching methods was not centered around parsing the nuances of a particular theory. It started with close reading.
First, I began by showing my own annotations of a very challenging reading and talking through my strategies for approaching a difficult text. By inviting students to think with me and showing them my annotations, I admitted to not immediately understanding the reading, either. None of my strategies were particularly novel, and in fact, it was helpful for students to see familiar strategies: color-coding, reverse outlining, and margin notes. I encouraged students to use dictionaries shamelessly. As a first-time GSI, I had my own fears and empathized deeply with students. I let that shared fear show and brought it directly into class conversation. By acknowledging fear in the classroom, it became possible to use actionable skills to address it.
I then divided students into pairs and asked them to practice untangling a key passage through annotations. I chose a paired activity to alleviate some of the intimidation of speaking in front of the whole class and to encourage all students to share their own strategies. I walked around to check in with students, and I found that the tone of empathy carried into these interactions as students openly discussed what was stumping them. Students worked through their concerns using the strategies discussed in class with impressive enthusiasm and positivity. Finally, we came together, and I shared common challenges I heard, helping students to see that they were not alone without putting anyone on the spot. This opened the door for students to reflect on what that they found useful and share what they learned from the reading. As a class, we reached an interpretation. The theory, at last, had been deciphered.
After class and in office hours, I was surprised by the number of students who thanked me for admitting that I still found some texts difficult, even as a PhD student. It wasn’t something they hear often, they said, and it helped them see difficulty not as a failure but as part of their learning. Following this lesson, I saw students become more open in their questioning. As they became less afraid of being wrong, they were more willing to explore challenging, abstract concepts. It’s clear to me that imposter syndrome, in all of its manifestations, is a deeper-seated issue in contemporary academic culture, but this activity was a powerful reminder that embedding empathy and honesty into lessons goes a long way in combatting theory-phobia.