Classically Inclined

October 30, 2018

Gender equality and Stoicism

Filed under: Research — lizgloyn @ 11:24 am
Tags: ,

This is one of a series of posts designed to support students and teachers looking at the Love and Relationships unit of the OCR Classical Civilization A-level. You can find all the posts in the series by clicking on the OCR Seneca hashtag.

We’ve established that the Stoics believe it is possible to love another human without that leading to irrational behaviour. Now I want to think a little bit about why this matters in terms of gender equality.

While I wouldn’t go so far as to call the Stoics proto-feminist, they do hold one quite important belief – namely, that all people have the same capacity for virtue and the same ability to achieve virtue, regardless of their circumstances. In some ways, this is quite a radical proposition – contrast, for instance, Aristotle, who makes the case that those who have to work for a living will never be able to make full use of their reason (Politics 1258b and 1260b). That Epictetus, one of the most prolific Roman Stoics, was originally enslaved speaks to the way that the philosophy could occasionally transcend some rigid class boundaries.

This belief in the common human capacity for reason, the seed of the divine logos inside each and every person, meant that the Stoics held both men and women had the same capacity for achieving virtue. There was a recognition that social convention could mean women did not get the same opportunities to pursue that reason. In one particularly dry treatise, Musonius Rufus observes that we train male and female dogs and horses the same way and get the same outcomes, so if we train male and female humans differently, we have only ourselves to blame if they turn out differently (Discourse 4, ‘Should daughters receive the same education as sons?’). Equally, although the Stoics recognised that men and women had the same potential for virtue, they seem to have remained within very traditionally gendered social frameworks for how they might use and demonstrate that virtue; while in the same treatise, Musonius talks about human tasks being common to everyone, he uses examples of physical labour rather than allowing the possibility that women might go into the law or politics. Indeed, he explicitly says that being good at arguments would be pointless for women, since it won’t be any use in their lives!

We know that Seneca took the Stoics’ claim for the equal capacity of all humans to be virtuous on board. Two of his three earliest consolations are written to women, one of whom is is mother Helvia; he talks of the enjoyment he took in engaging with philosophical study with her, and urges her to return to her work as consolation for his absence in exile (Consolation to Helvia 17).

So we’re looking at a philosophy where women are seen as having the same moral potential as men – which means that the goalposts significantly shift when we are discussing marriage. We’re now not talking about the union of a superior intellectual being to an inferior one (again, a model that turns up in Aristotle), but of two equally competent individuals, who are much more likely to be Stoic disciples rather than Stoic sages.

Advertisements

October 16, 2018

Can you be a Stoic and be in love?

Filed under: Research — lizgloyn @ 8:47 pm
Tags: , ,

We’ve established how the Stoics thought emotions worked, and the problems they saw with the irrational passions. So where does love fit into all of this? Did the Stoics think that you should try and get rid of love?

This is where we get into the question of what precise words the Stoics use to talk about these kinds of emotions. Love, amor, does not fit into either the passions or the eupatheiai, so seems to be a bit betwixt and between. However, when the Roman Stoics talk about amor, they are not talking about the kind of romantic love you might find in the elegaic poets (or indeed in Sappho), but what the Greek Stoics called erōs. Our Greek sources are very clear that the Stoics did not think erōs was irrational, although the reasons they gave for this may not always have made a great deal of sense. They defined erōs as a wish to create a friendship with another person based on that person’s moral and physical attractiveness – so not inherently heterosexual, or indeed inherently sexual at all. The key element in erōs is that it is aroused by the promise of virtue (which is good for all of us proficientes, as otherwise we’d be stuck). The early Stoics also seem to have been very comfortable with same-sex erōs, provided of course that it came from a mutual appreciation of each other’s virtue.

By the time we get to Seneca, what was originally a quite queer position had been framed in terms of the heterosexual marriage relationship; Seneca talks, for instance, of married couples experiencing amor as a positive thing which draws on this idea of an affection grounded in appreciation for each other’s potential for virtue. However, another important word begins to appear, which is affectus. We get a bit of what this means in De Matrimonio V 26:

Furthermore, Seneca reports that he knew a certain distinguished man who used to bind up his chest with his wife’s fascea when he was about to go into public, and could not be without her presence for a moment; man and wife used to drink no drink except one touched by the lips of the other, performing other no less foolish actions in the same manner, in which the thoughtless strength of burning affectus used to burst out: the beginning of this love (amor) was indeed honourable, but its extent was shameful. Indeed, it makes no difference how honourable the reason is from which someone goes mad.

It’s the affectus which comes under fire here, and it’s the affectus that is the irrational drive or passion, drawing the couple into silly over-the-top romantic behaviour. The amor itself was originally quite rational and under control, but it has somehow lost its footing and spiraled into these kind of excessively sentimental antics.

What V26 tells us is that Seneca is quite happy with relationships which are based on a Stoic amor/erōs that takes as its foundation the beloved’s potential for virtue, but that he deplores those relationships where amor has turned to affectus, because reason (and a sense of perspective) has been lost. We come back again to the idea of the indifferents – love in and of itself is neither good nor bad; it’s how you use it that matters. In the case of affectus, where being in love becomes more important than the pursuit of virtue, things have gone pretty badly wrong – but that doesn’t mean that relationships based in grounded, rational amor can’t exist.

October 11, 2018

The irrationality of the Stoic passions and what they believe

Filed under: Research — lizgloyn @ 8:38 am
Tags: ,

This post is one in a series designed to help students and teachers working with the OCR Classical Civilization A-level special subject Love and Relationships and its focus on Seneca. All these posts are tagged with OCR Seneca.

One reason that the Stoics thought that the passions were a problem for people, and needed to be replaced with the eupatheiai, was that they caused an irrational disturbance in the soul. This was grounded in the fact that the passions were caused by incorrect beliefs about what will make us happy.

A related Stoic theory that becomes relevant here is that of indifferents. The Stoics held that everything which wasn’t virtue or vice was an indifferent – that is, in and of itself, it was neither good nor bad. Health, wealth, poverty, sickness, fame, obscurity… these were neither things to chase after nor things to avoid per se. By Seneca’s time, the Stoics had modified this a bit to allow for the idea of preferred indifferents; that is, health was a preferred indifferent that you’d choose if all other things were equal, but it wasn’t in and of itself necessary for achieving virtue. The family and marriage falls into this same category: if the opportunity arises and all other things are equal, then marrying a spouse and starting a family are preferred indifferents, not least because they’re according to nature. (More on that in a future post.) But they’re not actually worth going for by themselves.

The problem with the passions is that they haven’t got to grips with this idea of indifferents. They arise from the false belief that, for instance, getting lots of money is going to make you happy, and so you behave in such a way that will get you lots of money, but not in a way that is in accordance with reason or is virtuous. Due to your irrational passion, you might cheat or swindle or bribe or take on degrading or immoral jobs or commit any one of a whole series of acts which are not virtuous and which are not in accordance with reason – all because of your mistaken belief that you will be happy if you have lots of money.

One immediate result of these passions is that you experience internal mental upheaval as a result of them. For instance, when you lose the large bet you’ve placed on the sure-fire tip in the chariot race, you will be distraught because of the money you have lost; if you win the bet, you will be excessively delighted, because you have got closer to your unattainable financial aims. The sage, by contrast, probably wouldn’t have placed a bet in the first place, since money is an indifferent and not to be chased after (not to mention that the sage would be fully aware that trusting anything to chance or fate has pretty good odds of losing what you’ve put down as a stake, and that that’s a game not really worth playing). The result of that internal upheaval, experienced on a daily basis, in various different ways and on the basis of multiple incorrect beliefs, is that you can never achieve internal balance or calm.

The significance of this is that the Stoics believe one of the things which characterises the sage is her equilibrium, or balance – she cannot be upset by things going wrong, from a train delay to being thrown in prison and worse, because she is in tune with perfect reason and thus understands either why what has just happened has no bearing on her virtue and her happiness, or why it is the most rational and suitable thing to have happened in the universal scheme of things. In order for the Stoic disciple to get closer to sagehood, he needs to correct some of his mistaken beliefs which generate the passions in him, so he stands a chance of achieving a balanced and calm inner state.

October 3, 2018

Understanding Stoic ideas about the emotions

Filed under: Research — lizgloyn @ 8:31 am
Tags: ,

In order to understand the framework within which Seneca places human relationships, we need to do a bit of exploration into how he understands the emotional bonds between people working. The first, and most important, thing to say is that the Stoics do not think that all emotions, as we would describe them, are bad things. However, they do have a very particular set of beliefs about emotions and emotional states, which are easily misunderstood.

The Stoics argue that, as proficientes, we are gripped with passions (pathē). These are irrational impulses founded on irrational beliefs which guide our behaviour. They are movements of the soul over which we have no control, precisely because they are irrational. Since the Stoics think that acting in accordance with reason is the highest good, you can see why they think living under the control of the passions is suboptimal. The four passions are appetite, fear, distress and pleasure, each driven by misguided beliefs about what we should want, what we should worry about, what should upset us and what we should enjoy.

The Stoics don’t say that we should get away from feeling emotions altogether, but instead argue we should extirpate or remove these irrational beliefs and the passions that go with them, and replace them with the eupatheiai or ‘good emotions’. These are based on the correct beliefs about what will make us happy (that is, acting in accordance with perfect reason); they are caution, volition and joy. There’s no need for a fourth emotion since the Stoic sage doesn’t need any way to feel distress or pain – she will be perfectly content whatever happens because she will be in tune with reason. (This isn’t the same as saying she won’t go ‘ouch’ if she pricks her finger, but that she won’t be emotionally upset if she loses her wallet.)

As you can see, this is a very different framework to thinking about emotional responses than we usually use, and it’s firmly grounded on whether or not your underlying beliefs about how to value and respond to certain things are correct or incorrect.

September 26, 2018

The difference between the Stoic sage and the Stoic disciple

Filed under: Research — lizgloyn @ 8:26 am
Tags: ,

One really important distinction to be aware of in Stoic theory is the line that the Stoics draw between the sage and the proficiens or disciple. This division has big knock-on effects for the practical application of Stoic ethics, and thus for how we read what Seneca says about relationships.

The Stoics saw the sage as someone who was living in perfect harmony with reason, and thus was perfectly happy. It’s worth noting that although you’ll often see references to the Stoic wise man, this should more accurately be translated as the wise person, since the Stoics believed women had exactly the same capacity as men to achieve virtue – more on this coming soon. The sage was the template for moral behaviour; they would always make the right decision and behave in the correct way because of the correct internal motivations whatever happened to them. This led to the rather odd position (which their rival school the Epicureans rather got at them for) that the sage would be happy even when being tortured, because physical pain would not affect her ability to be rational or virtuous.

The sage, being perfectly in control of their rational facilities, will always make the right decision and thus is morally perfect. However, the Stoics were realistic – the sage is also as rare as a phoenix (Alexander, De Fato 196.24–197.3, Long and Sedley 61N). They recognised that the likelihood of someone reaching sagehood was vanishingly small; although various people, including Socrates and Cato the Younger, were held up as examples of the Stoic sage, the Roman Stoics recognised that most people were not going to reach these levels of moral excellence.

The Stoics thus labelled the rest of us who are trying to live our lives according to the principles of Stoicism as proficientes, best translated as ‘tryers’ or ‘disciples’. The proficiens hasn’t got to grips with mastering their own reason yet, but they’re trying. They seek to clear their minds of anything that might draw them away from reason and clear it of irrational beliefs, but they’re still prone to making mistakes. The reassuring thing about this statement is that Seneca is quite clear that even the sage has to have gone through this process of making mistakes and getting it wrong in order to achieve sagehood; as he says in On Clemency 1.6.4, even in someone has reached the position of sagehood and is so secure that nothing can unbalance him, he has only got there through making mistakes.

So when Seneca is writing about relationships, he is writing with an audience of disciples in mind; he doesn’t need to write for the sage, because the sage’s own inner reason will always lead her to the correct decision. His writing is meant to help those striving towards virtue to identify the roadblocks in their journey and take action on them, fully in the knowledge that the overwhelming probability is that they’ll never get rid of all the obstacles between them and sagehood. The sage is an encouraging figure, a point of reference and a position to aspire to, and Seneca deploys him as an ideal in his writing. However, he never loses sight of the fact that the vast majority of people in relationships are actually going to be normal proficientes, each at their own stage on the path to virtue, struggling to make the best of things and act as rationally as their limited abilities will let them.

Bibliography

Long, A. A., and D. N. Sedley. 1987. The Hellenistic Philosophers. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

September 18, 2018

Seneca’s De Matrimonio or ‘On Marriage’ – The Fragments

Filed under: Research — lizgloyn @ 10:47 pm
Tags: , ,

I mentioned in my post about sources for Seneca on love and desire that our best chance of understanding Seneca’s views on marriage is the now fragmentary De Matrimonio. I’ve written elsewhere about the reason that this text is only known in fragments, but I thought it might also be useful to post my translations of the fragments which Fernand Delarue identified as being most likely to be genuine Seneca. The fragments are numbered according to the edition of Vottero. A cautionary note – because these are fragments, they cannot be used as absolutely certain evidence for Seneca arguing a particular point on their own, but they can be used in the broader framework of Stoicism and Seneca’s other writing to construct a likely position.

 

V23

Although his pupil Metrodorus had Leontion as a wife, Epicurus, the champion of pleasure, seldom says that the wise man should take part in marriage, because many troublesome things are mixed up with marriage, and just as riches, honours, the health of our bodies and other things which we call indifferents are neither good nor bad, but become either good or bad by use and by chance, as if placed in the middle, so too are wives placed on the border of good things and bad things; however, it is a serious matter for a wise man to be uncertain about whether he is about to marry a good or a bad woman.

V24

Chrysippus absurdly advises the wise man to marry in order not to outrage Jove Gamelius and Genethlius. Of course, according to this logic, among the Latins a wife must not be married, because they do not have a Nuptial Jove. But if the names of the gods, as he thinks, are prejudicial to the lives of men, accordingly the man who willingly sits off ends Jove Stator.

V26

Furthermore, Seneca reports that he knew a certain distinguished man who used to bind up his chest with his wife’s fascea when he was about to go into public, and could not be without her presence for a moment; man and wife used to drink no drink except one touched by the lips of the other, performing other no less foolish actions in the same manner, in which the thoughtless strength of burning affectus used to burst out: the beginning of this love was indeed honourable, but its extent was shameful. Indeed, it makes no difference how honourable the reason is from which someone goes mad.

V27

Of course, all love for somebody else’s wife is disgraceful, as is too much love for one’s own. The wise man should love his wife with discernment, not with passion; he controls the impulse of pleasure and is not carried headlong into sexual intercourse. Nothing is more vile than to love a wife as if she were an adulteress. (more…)

September 4, 2018

On Monsters and Heroes

Filed under: Research — lizgloyn @ 10:20 am
Tags: ,

This post originally appeared as a guest post on The Future Fire blog as part of the publicity for the Making Monsters anthology, which I have an essay in titled “Caught in Medusa’s Gaze: Why does the ancient monster survive in the modern world?” and clearly you should all go and get a copy.

As I have been thinking about the manifestations of classical monsters in the modern world, one critical thing I have learned is that they have an unhealthily co-dependent relationship with their heroes. Monsters are often ported into narratives purely for the hero to slay them; retellings of classical stories frequently take the moment at which a hero slays a monster as the story’s anchor. Perseus and Medusa, Theseus and the Minotaur, Hercules and a wide variety of supernatural fauna – although the slaughter of one by the other is predicated by the mythic tradition, they have clung to each other to survive through the centuries.

But now, in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, are we starting to see monsters break out of this toxic relationship? Certainly, more classical monsters are making lives for themselves in which they distance themselves from their heroes, or where the story they have to tell decentres conflict and death. I wonder how much of this is due to a relatively recent move in representations of monsters which has started to see them as sympathetic, enticing characters. Vampires are perhaps the best example; from Anne Rice’s brooding and sensual Vampire Chronicles, the erotic horrors of The Hunger (1983), and the sparkly romance of Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight saga, the act of being transformed into a monster has become something to be courted rather than avoided. As the balance between fear and desire has begun to shift, monsters have become more complicated, less obviously evil.

The parallel development has been that we have started to see that the heroes are less nice. For the ancients, this would not have come as a surprise – they knew Hercules was horrible to his family, that Odysseus was duplicitous and self-centred, and they talked openly about these men’s failings as much as their virtues. However, nineteenth century versions of classical myths sanitised and valorised heroes, mainly so they could work as moral exemplars for impressionable youths; as such, heroes’ violence, white supremacy and patriarchal abuses were celebrated as worthy of emulation. Looking at these heroes and their sense of self-entitlement, their belief in their own right to trample over the earth and take whatever they felt like, the injustice of their actions and the way some post-classical cultures have uncritically honoured them now makes their heroism look much less appealing.

The general question of who gets to be a hero, and what makes someone heroic, turns our gaze back to the monster – because maybe, just maybe, monsters get to be heroes as well. Again, this is part of broader patterns of reclaiming what society might consider monstrous. There is a long tradition of coding monsters, particular in Hollywood cinema, as queer, giving LGBT+ audiences the uncomfortable experience of identifying with a villain only to see them vanquished as part of a heteronormative plotline. In recent decades, the LGBT+ community has reclaimed monstrosity – just think of how much Lady Gaga means to her Little Monsters who feel alienated and marginalised because of their sexuality – and with that reclamation comes power. Power to see the monster as important and valuable in and of itself, rather than simply as a victimised adjunct to somebody else’s story.

Where does this leave classical monsters? Certainly they will always be connected to their heroes; they have been fellow travellers for centuries. But perhaps we will see, in retellings of their stories in future years, a loosening of that binding, a relaxing of the tie, a shrugging off of the conventions which claim the classical monster’s only value lies in its defeat. Perhaps, after watching the catastrophic effects of letting heroes tell us what to do, it is time to see what lessons the classical monsters can teach us.

July 31, 2018

On writing 2000 words a week

Filed under: Research — lizgloyn @ 5:13 pm
Tags: ,

This post, part of my general attempting to unwind from the experience of writing the Monster book at speed, is inspired by a long-ago request from Laura Varnam on Twitter (which she may now have well forgotten!) about a period when I was setting myself of writing the goal of two thousand words a week. She wanted to know why I ended up taking that approach and how it worked – and I admit, it’s not exactly the sort of thing that I’d recommend to most people for most projects.

I came to the ‘two thousand words a week’ approach at the end of summer 2017, when I had a May 2018 deadline for delivering my book manuscript. (You’ll note I didn’t quite make that, but never mind, that was the plan.) I had five chapters in draft and was starting to write chapter six, and was wondering how on earth I was going to make it up to a manuscript of 85k words in time… so I sat down and did some maths and thought about process. I knew I wanted to have a completed draft by Christmas, if at all possible, so I could send it to friendly readers and work on first round revisions myself, and have a chance to work in changes by the May deadline or as close as possible to it. I reckoned I wanted to get to about 80% of my word count to be ‘happy’ with the manuscript length, allowing for edits inevitably making the thing longer and for things like the bibliography, the introduction and conclusion and so on. To get there, I needed to be writing 2000 words a week.

So I did. Which sounds… well, simpler than it was, but I should note that by this point I was writing up thoughts on Xena: Warrior Princess and Doctor Who, before moving on to two case study chapters where the main point was working through receptions and plotting how they all worked together. The writing fell into manageable chunks quite easily, either in terms of episode-by-episode or case study by case study, which meant having it all together in my head was less of a problem than trying to write ten thousand connected words for an article would have been at that speed. It took a while to get up into gear for the writing; roughly half of the weeks, two thousand words didn’t happen, although I usually managed to bank somewhere over a thousand which was still great progress, particularly during term. Equally, when I had planned to be winding down at Christmas with 80% of my word count in the bag, I found myself actually there but with a whole chapter still to write! So I kept up the 2k a week word goal until the middle of February, when there was a full manuscript (bar introduction and conclusion). There was a lot of writing at home; there was a lot of writing on the train during the commute. I got surprisingly good at that, although again I wonder how much the material made it easier than it might have otherwise been.

What did I learn about this? That I could do it, mainly. I also pushed myself far too hard to get it done and finished, and I paid a bit of a price for that, particularly around the turn of the year when pushing out those words made doing other things very hard. I should note that, in order to make those words happen, I blocked out my research day and didn’t let anything else in; I don’t think that was the problem, and indeed it’s a habit I want to make sure I don’t break. The problem was that it put me under enormous pressure to produce and move that word count along to meet my target. I’m not sure the book would be finished now without that level of discipline, and I’m pretty sure that I’d be even more frustrated with the whole process if I were still finishing off a first draft. But the drive to meet the contract deadline, given the general flexibility of academic publishing around this sort of thing, was pretty self-inflicted. Nonetheless, it’s taught me a very valuable lesson – I shan’t be signing a book contract again until I’ve got at least a half-completed manuscript under my belt!

July 27, 2018

The ending of eras

Filed under: Research — lizgloyn @ 4:43 pm
Tags: , , , , ,

Today is a pretty huge day. I have just sent off the complete draft manuscript for the Monster Book, now under the working title of Tracking Classical Monsters in Popular Culture.

The last fortnight or so, as I’ve worked towards this point and it’s looked increasingly likely that it would happen when I thought it would, has been surprisingly emotional. As I put everything into a single file yesterday, I found myself feeling nauseous with a fear which didn’t seem to have a particular cause; this morning, walking into the British Library reading room to check some final references, I found myself tearing up. This feels very emotionally different to sending off the manuscript of the Seneca book, perhaps because that was tied up with the completion of the PhD and rode on the waves of emotional exhaustion caused by that, perhaps because it is a hot, hot summer and I am anxious about far more in the world at large than I was when I was working on the Seneca book. (It is not a surprise that I have free-floating anxiety when the most common conversation I am having with friends at the moment is about our respective plans to stockpile medicines.)

But it is the end of an era in other ways too. Today was one of the summer meet-ups for Shut Up and British Library, a loose group of academically inclined people who get together at the BL every two or three weeks to carve out some research time in good company. I came up with the idea at the start of my sabbatical in autumn 2016, a way to make sure I still saw humans despite being on research leave. Rather than stop  at the end of my sabbatical, the group’s now become a bit of an institution; it’s contributed to the completion of a handful of articles and chapters, and a PhD dissertation – and now this book. Shut Up has always been about the Monster Book for me. I’m going to have to find something else to do.

Because another era that ends (or starts to end) here is obligations that I put myself under pre-infans. I signed the contract for this book before he was born. He has never known life without this project (although he’s been very understanding about it). One of the biggest shifts in becoming an academic parent, for me, has been a streamlining of effort – I can no longer work on more than one project at once, and having the contract has meant that finishing the Monster Book has been (from necessity as much as  from choice) the priority. Now this is off the table, I can look at my research agenda with more of a critical eye, not driven by what I’ve agreed to do for other people, thinking about what I can realistically achieve and produce, and indeed what I want to get done. It marks the change in how I order my research work-flow – a change I’ve been working up to mentally for the last few months, but now that it is here, quite an unnerving one to be facing.

Part of the reason for that change is my attempt to move towards a more sustainable work pattern. The risk of moving into mid-career is that you take along habits which are going to mean you burn out. It is not sustainable to work at the intensity of the ECR years without that taking a massive toll on you; you have to find other ways of doing things (including, for instance, establishing personal workload limits to stop yourself getting overloaded without you noticing). While doing the Monster Book has been fun, it has also been really quite intense. I went through a period of at least five months where I was writing around two thousand words per week to try and get the manuscript finished by the contracted deadline. I have written 88,000 words more or less from scratch in (very nearly precisely) two years. It’s been made easier by the fact that the material is fun to work with, and that I haven’t had to become familiar with what the nineteenth century Germans thought on this issue, but that doesn’t make this any less big. It’s been a big job. And now it’s… not there.

One of my reasons for wanting to get the manuscript sent off, besides the fact that the original 1st May delivery date is now well behind us, is that now I have the month of August empty. No conferences, no deadlines, a few research things to think about, some light teaching prep and admin to do. I’ve been pushing myself pretty hard to get to this stage – and while I’m not taking a month off, I’m looking forward very much to taking my foot off the pedal and cruising.

Phew.

November 21, 2017

Why do we need monsters?

Filed under: Research — lizgloyn @ 11:03 am
Tags: , ,

I almost feel I should be apologising for the radio silence over here, but I shan’t – I’m just coming out of a very busy period for my admin job at work, plus I’m teaching and trying to write two thousand words a week on the monster project, and I recently realised that while I am doing very well at not committing to more things than I have promised myself I will this year,  I seem to have agreed to do the vast majority of them this term. This means I can look forward to a summer of lying on the lawn and reading critical theory, but it does mean that my bandwidth for blogging at present is rather limited.

However! One of the things I have done is talk as part of an evening put on by the Institute of Classical Studies about ‘Why Do We Need Monsters?‘ This was great fun for a number of reasons, not least the chance to hear from other people working on monsters in one way or another, and some audience-led experimentation with making our own digital monsters (nothing like seeing where hybrids take people’s fancy). I know that a lot of people were interested in this event but weren’t able to make it, so I’m delighted to say that it was all recorded and is available on Youtube! I link to it here for your delection – enjoy. I start talking at about 40 minutes in, but you should definitely listen to the other talks if you have the time.

Next Page »

Blog at WordPress.com.