Mostrando las entradas con la etiqueta filosofía de la educación. Mostrar todas las entradas
Mostrando las entradas con la etiqueta filosofía de la educación. Mostrar todas las entradas

24 noviembre, 2018

LAS ENSEÑANZAS DE LA 'ÉTICA' DE SPINOZA

María Jimena Solé

Traducción de Alfredo Lucero Montaño

En el Tratado teológico-político (TTP),[1] [2] Spinoza postula que “el fin de la filosofía no es otro que la verdad” (GIII/179). Esta descripción se completa con las primeras páginas del Tratado de la reforma del entendimiento (TdIE) donde Spinoza presenta sus propios motivos para recurrir a la reflexión filosófica. En estas páginas, Spinoza afirma que la reflexión sobre la cuestión de si existe un verdadero bien fue originada por su experiencia de un sentido de futilidad en relación con la mayoría de las cosas que suceden en la vida cotidiana. Esta experiencia le hizo preguntarse si había un bien que, en sí mismo, lograra afectar al espíritu y le hiciera "gozar eternamente de una alegría” de una manera consistente (GII/5). Por ello, la necesidad de la búsqueda de la verdad se le impuso como resultado de lo que podríamos llamar una experiencia de vida.


Pero el deseo de encontrar el verdadero bien implicaba un cambio completo en su forma de vida. Tuvo que abandonar la búsqueda de lo que las personas generalmente asocian con los bienes más importantes: la riqueza, el honor y los placeres corporales, ya que éstos son bienes manifiestos e inseguros que distraen la mente y dejan a aquellos que los persiguen en un estado permanente de insatisfacción. Además, dice, a menudo terminan poniendo en riesgo la vida de la persona que los persigue cuando son buscados como bienes en sí mismos y porque representan ciertos males. En cambio, Spinoza escribe: “el amor hacia una cosa eterna e infinita apacienta el ánimo con una alegría totalmente pura y libre de tristeza, lo cual es muy de desear y digno de ser buscado con todas nuestras fuerzas” (GII/7). Spinoza admite, sin embargo, que no es capaz de realizar tal cambio. Reconoce que no puede dejar de ser afectado por la codicia, la lujuria y la gloria.

Entonces, ¿cómo se logra cambiar la forma de vivir de acuerdo con los requisitos de la filosofía? ¿Cómo se puede dejar atrás el modo de vida vulgar que relaciona la felicidad con los conceptos de riqueza, honor y placer para convertirse completamente en un reflejo del verdadero bien, en la búsqueda de la felicidad auténtica? La respuesta de Spinoza apunta a la posibilidad de reemplazar el círculo vicioso, que amenaza a la filosofía en convertirla en inocua, en un círculo virtuoso que refuerce constantemente su propia necesidad. Escribe:

Sólo veía una cosa: que, mientras mi mente se entregaba a esos pensamientos, se mantenía alejada de aquellos otros y pensaba seriamente en la nueva tarea. Esto me proporcionó un gran consuelo, puesto que comprobaba que esos males no eran de tal índole que resistieran a todo remedio. (GII/7)

Spinoza afirma que los momentos dedicados a la reflexión, que eran raros y breves al principio, aumentaron en frecuencia y duración en la medida que conocía la naturaleza del verdadero bien, lo que le permitió descubrir una primera, fundamental, verdad: que no hay bien o mal, no hay perfección o imperfección en la naturaleza, porque "todo cuanto sucede se hace según el orden eterno y según las leyes fijas de la Naturaleza”. (GII/8) La filosofía -- la búsqueda de la verdad a través de la razón-- que Spinoza había empezado presentándola como necesaria para hacer soportable la vida --como un medio para combatir la inutilidad de los acontecimientos mundanos-- se revela, al final, como algo valioso en sí mismo. Así, Spinoza identifica el "bien supremo" con la adquisición de una naturaleza humana que es más estable (menos expuesta a las fluctuaciones de las pasiones) y más perfecta (más potente). Esta naturaleza consiste en el conocimiento de la naturaleza y su unión con el ser humano.

La preocupación práctica (para alcanzar la felicidad y encontrar un bien que proporcione una alegría duradera) produce la necesidad de asumir una actitud teórica (investigar si existe el verdadero bien) que, a su vez, implica en sí mismo un cambio de conducta. Así, el cambio en la forma de vida se produce de una manera doble. Realizar una investiagación racional proporciona evidencia para descubrir el verdadero bien en esa misma investigación racional. Porque, mientras reflexionamos, conquistamos --aunque sólo sea en breves instancias-- un estado de verdadera felicidad. Además, las verdades que descubrimos debido a la meditación racional —por ejemplo, que no hay nada bueno o malo en la naturaleza o que los bienes que persiguen las personas comunes suelen tener efectos éticos adversos— nos hacen cambiar la forma en que valoramos el mundo. Además, eliminan los obstáculos que impiden nuestra adquisición del verdadero bien. El conocimiento y la felicidad se revelan como aspectos integrales de cada uno. Para encontrar el bien más elevado, uno debe entender la naturaleza, y mientras uno entiende, es decir, piensa racionalmente y adquiere un conocimiento verdadero de la naturaleza, uno posee el bien más elevado.

Spinoza entonces pregunta qué debemos hacer para adquirir el conocimiento de la naturaleza que es constitutiva de una naturaleza humana estable y que coincide con su bien más elevado. ¿Qué debemos hacer, es decir, para poder filosofar? "Pero, ante todo," responde, "hay que excogitar el modo de curar el entendimiento y, en cuanto sea posible al comienzo, purificarlo para que consiga entender las cosas sin error y lo mejor posible" (TdIE, GII/15). Spinoza reflexiona a continuación sobre los medios para aprehender: su método y la noción de certeza. El primer resultado de esta reexión, que ocupa a Spinoza durante las partes restantes de la TdIE, es que no existe un criterio para la certeza diferente de la verdad. Spinoza escribe que "para la certeza de la verdad no se necesita ningún otro signo, fuera de la posesión de la idea verdadera" (GII/15). Por lo tanto, Spinoza afirma, mientras discute implícitamente con Descartes, que el verdadero método "no consiste en buscar el signo de la verdad después de haber adquirido las ideas, sino en el camino por el que se buscan, en el debido orden, la verdad misma o las esencias objetivas de las cosas o las ideas (pues todo esto viene a ser lo mismo)” (GII/15).

Es importante advertir que el método así descrito no es un preludio de la filosofía. No es un medio para examinar ideas ya adquiridas por medio de una condición extrínseca. El método auténtico, afirma Spinoza, es el camino a través del cual uno busca ideas verdaderas. Por lo tanto, purificar la forma en que uno llega a comprender o adquirir conocimiento no es una condición previa de la filosofía. Por el contrario, podríamos pensar que el método verdadero para purificar la mente y liberarla del error es la filosofía en sí misma.

La filosofía, para Spinoza, es una práctica, una búsqueda, un camino que conduce a la verdad y la felicidad. Con este fin, y en la medida en que la Ética demostrada según el orden geométrico (Ética) es la exposición más completa y madura de la filosofía de Spinoza, no debemos entender que sus lecciones se limitan a la naturaleza verdadera de la naturaleza y la naturaleza humana. Debe considerarse que su lección más importante consiste en algo más: algo que no apunta ni al conocimiento que ya poseemos ni a las verdades que ya hemos descubierto, sino a los medios por los cuales es posible reconocer estas verdades como tales y producir nuevos conocimientos.

No es difícil encontrar en las cadenas argumentativas de la Ética los signos de esta idea. El espíritu de la filosofía de Spinoza no consiste simplemente en ser una doctrina positiva particular, sino algo más. Entre otros lugares, podríamos, por ejemplo, señalar: E1ap; E2p47s y 49s; E3pref, E4pref y E5pref. A continuación, un breve análisis de estos pasajes.

En el apéndice de la primera parte, Spinoza dice que ya ha explicado la naturaleza de Dios y sus propiedades. Señala que tantas veces como tuvo la oportunidad, ha tenido la intención de eliminar todos los prejuicios que pudieran impedir la concepción correcta de sus demostraciones. Sin embargo, como todavía quedan muchos prejuicios "que podrían y pueden, en el más alto grado, impedir que los hombres comprendan la concatenación de las cosas" (GII/77), dedica algunas páginas a examinar estos prejuicios y enseñar a los lectores cómo eliminarlos. Spinoza denuncia la existencia de un prejuicio original: "que los hombres supongan, comúnmente, que todas las cosas de la naturaleza actúan, al igual que ellos mismos, por razón de un fin" (GII/78), de donde surgen muchos otros prejuicios (como la idea de un libre albedrío, la idea de un Dios trascendental, personal y providencial que premia y castiga a sus criaturas y que ha creado la naturaleza para beneficio de los seres humanos). El apéndice está dedicado, primero, a demostrar por qué la mayoría de los seres humanos son propensos a aceptar estos prejuicios y, entonces, refutarlos todos a su vez y mostrar cómo todos están conectados a un error epistemológico común. Spinoza afirma, entonces, que en la medida en que cualquier prejuicio de este tipo aún permanezca en el lector, "cada cual podrá corregirlos a poco que medite" (GII/83).

Sólo eliminando los errores que sustentan los prejuicios de la mente es posible comenzar a captar la verdad más elevada; una noción de Dios que existe y obra en virtud de la necesidad de su naturaleza y que produce necesaria e infinitamente modos finitos que están en él. Ninguna de las verdades sobre Dios y la naturaleza que Spinoza ha expuesto durante la primera parte de la Ética puede ser confirmada por aquellos individuos cuya comprensión racional está confundida por los prejuicios mencionados en el apéndice. El spinozismo se revela, en este momento, como el proceso de reconocimiento de que la verdad implica el esfuerzo de liberarse de los errores que confunden a la mente y que, a su vez, están arraigados tanto en el conocimiento tradicional como en la naturaleza finita de la mente humana.

La segunda parte de la Ética se centra en la naturaleza de la mente y el cuerpo humano y, en medio de sus demostraciones, Spinoza continúa con el llamado manifiesto de liberarse de los efectos dañinos de los prejuicios, especialmente aquellos que surgen de la confusión entre imágenes e ideas. En el escolio a E2p47 que afirma que todos los seres humanos poseen una idea adecuada de la naturaleza de Dios, explica por qué los seres humanos están propensos a malinterpretar la naturaleza de Dios. La razón de esto, según Spinoza, radica en el hecho de que los hombres "no pueden imaginar a Dios como imaginan los cuerpos y a que han unido al nombre de Dios imágenes de las cosas que suelen ver" (GII/128).

Spinoza usa esta idea para demostrar, en las siguientes proposiciones, que la voluntad y el entendimiento son una y la misma cosa. De acuerdo con E2p49s, la mayoría de las personas ignoran la verdadera naturaleza de la voluntad porque confunden imágenes, palabras e ideas de las cosas entre sí. En efecto, aquellos que no distinguen entre ideas e imágenes consideran que las ideas son como “imágenes mudas en un panel” y no reconocen que las ideas, en cuanto son ideas, implican siempre una cierta afirmación o negación (GII/132). "Pero de tales prejuicios", sostiene Spinoza, "podrá desembarasarse fácilmente quien aienda a la naturaleza del pensamiento, el cual no implica en absoluto el concepto de la extensión, y entenderá así claramente que la idea (supuesto que es un modo del pensar) no consiste ni en palabras, ni en la imagen de alguna cosa” (GII/132).

El prefacio de la tercera parte de la Ética reafirma la necesidad de abandonar ciertos prejuicios generalmente aceptados como condición necesaria para un cambio radical en la forma de pensar. En las primeras líneas de este prefacio, Spinoza denuncia como un prejuicio la concepción del "hombre, dentro de la naturaleza, como un imperio dentro de otro dominio" (GII/ 37). Agrega un segundo prejuicio: la idea de que la causa de la impotencia y la inconsistencia humana, en lugar de ser natural, reside en un vicio de la naturaleza humana que las personas después "deploran, ridiculizan, desprecian o, lo que es más frecuente, detestan" (GII/137).

Esta visión de la naturaleza humana es la que impide que las personas reconozcan a los seres humanos como modos finitos de la sustancia al igual que todos los demás seres y como modos con esencias que no son más que un esfuerzo por aumentar el poder de ser. En el esfuerzo por perseverar y aumentar de poder, los afectos comunes del amor, el odio, el miedo y la esperanza juegan un papel fundamental. La vida afectiva --que la mayoría de los hombres entiende erróneamente como arbitraria e imposible de decodificar--, puede desarrollarse, al igual que todos los demás aspectos de la vida, de acuerdo con las leyes necesarias que explican y permiten a los hombres comprender y, de esta manera, ordenar los afectos.

En el prefacio de la cuarta parte de la Ética, Spinoza ofrece una explicación general del origen de la concepción tradicional de las nociones de perfección, imperfección, bien y mal. Lo hace para probar que estas concepciones surgen de ideas inadecuadas que son el resultado de una comparación entre las cosas, tanto naturales como hechas por el hombre, y los modelos universales de estas mismas cosas, producidos de acuerdo con la propia experiencia y disposiciones. Al atribuir estas ideas a las cosas, lo que percibimos equivale a una errónea interpretación de la realidad que conduce a una ética trascendental falsa. Pues no hay un bien absoluto y verdadero por el cual todas las criaturas deban esforzarse. Cada uno debe aprender a reconocer por sí mismo lo que es verdaderamente bueno para uno mismo.

A lo largo de la cuarta parte de la Ética, Spinoza se dedica a explicar un camino hacia el bien y el bienestar que es independiente del método de los modelos universales del bien, el mal, la perfección y la imperfección. Proporciona evidencia sobre la afirmación de que lo verdaderamente bueno para todos y cada uno, en toda y cada instancia, es aquello que aumenta el propio poder de obrar. Al hacerlo, Spinoza afirma que "el supremo bien del alma es el conocimiento de Dios, y su suprema virtud, la de conocer a Dios” (E4p28) y que “no hay cosa singular en la naturaleza que sea más útil al hombre que un hombre que vive bajo la guía de la razón” (E4p35c1). El esfuerzo por conocer --la decisión de vivir de acuerdo con la razón--, no puede ser el resultado de una imposición externa; no puede ser el efecto de una obediencia pasiva de una ley heterónoma. Todos deben por sí mismos llegar a conocer el objetivo ético-político de esforzarse por lograr un mayor conocimiento que es común a toda la humanidad. La búsqueda del verdadero bien es siempre e infaliblemente un acto de libertad. Por lo tanto, es absolutamente necesario desprenderse de los prejuicios nocivos de que hay un bien y un mal absolutos en la naturaleza y que las cosas finitas, en sí mismas, pueden ser más o menos perfectas.

La última y quinta parte de la Ética está dedicada a desterrar aquellos prejuicios que probablemente están más arraigados en la naturaleza humana. Spinoza se ocupa en el prefacio de la quinta parte a combatir la idea de que la mente tiene un poder absoluto sobre los afectos --una idea que atribuye tanto a los estoicos como a Descartes. Aceptar la creencia bien establecida de la completa dominación de la mente sobre el cuerpo, Spinoza argumenta, nos impide reconocer la lección ética fundamental enseñada por Spinoza: que el único remedio para las pasiones es el conocimiento verdadero y que la virtud consiste en nada más que en el conocimiento intelectual y el conocimiento de la naturaleza y de nosotros mismos (cf. E5pref). En el mismo prefacio, Spinoza también se enfrenta con otro de los prejuicios comunes con respecto a la felicidad humana que mantiene a los seres humanos en un estado de servidumbre en relación con los afectos pasivos. Aquí escribe sobre una extendida creencia que es difícil de combatir precisamente porque está fomentada por la mayoría de las religiones tradicionales. Es la idea de que la mente individual es inmortal y que la verdadera felicidad consiste en la recompensa de Dios después de la muerte para los piadosos. Tal es quizás el principal obstáculo para una aplicación práctica de la ética de Spinoza. En la penúltima proposición de la quinta parte [Ep41], después de haber demostrado en orden geométrico qué significa la auténtica eternidad de la mente y el verdadero amor de Dios, Spinoza afirma que la eternidad de la mente no es relevante para las decisiones morales. Incluso si no somos conscientes de la eternidad de nuestras mentes, dice, consideraremos la estabilidad y generosidad de nuestros espíritus (que es a lo que apuntan las enseñanzas racionales) como algo esencial para lograr el aumento de poder que todos naturalmente buscamos.

La Ética, el trabajo que encarna la filosofía de Spinoza, es la exposición racional de un sistema. Consiste en un desarrollo ordenado y exhaustivo de los conceptos fundamentales de ontología, gnoseología, antropología, política y ética. Pero no termina con eso. Además, y es lo más importante, la ética es el llamado a todos nosotros para que individualmente, y con nuestros propios poderes, abordemos y construyamos el camino que conduce al descubrimiento de cada uno de estos conceptos fundamentales y a las verdades que se siguen de ellos. Este descubrimiento, condicionado como está por nuestra propia producción de ideas verdaderas (la actividad que lleva al conocimiento y la comprensión), es la única forma en que podemos llegar a aceptar estos conceptos fundamentales y hacerlos propios.



Bibliografía

Spinoza, Baruch, Opera (G), 4 volúmenes, Carl Gebhardt (ed.), Winter, Heidelberg, 1925.
_____, Ética demostrada según el orden geométrico (E), trad. Vidal Peña, Alianza, Madrid, 2011.
_____, Tratado de la reforma del entendimiento (TdIE), trad. Atilano Domínguez, Alianza, Madrid, 2014.
_____, Tratado teológico-político (TTP), trad. Atilano Domínguez, Alianza, Madrid, 2003.

Notas

[1] Solé, María Jimena, Spinoza’s Ethics Teachings, en Michael A. Peters M. (ed.), Encyclopedia of Educational Philosophy and Theory, Springer, Singapore, 2018.
[2] Las citas del Tratado teológico-político y el Tratado de la reforma del entendimiento corresponden a la traducción de Atilano Domínguez y las de la Ética demostrada según el orden geométrico a la traducción de Vidal Peña (Alianza Editorial).

28 julio, 2010

Nina Power: Axiomatic Equality. Rancière and the politics of contemporary education

Is it necessary to presuppose the intellectual equality of those you teach? To be an educator at all it seems likely that one would have at least an implicit theory of mind, such that one knows what one is doing (or, at least, what one aspires to be doing) when standing at the front of the classroom. Is education merely the transplanting of gobbets of information onto the blank slate of a student's mind (we could call this the Lockean approach), or are we drawing out forms of rational and creative capacity possessed (equally?) by students qua rational beings? Jacques Rancière contributes much to this debate, particularly in his work on the unusual educator Joseph Jacotot in The Ignorant Schoolmaster. This paper attempts to analyse the possibility of what could be called the "utopian rationalism" of Jacotot (and of Rancière himself), within the context of the modern university. Rancière's work will be read alongside that of Pierre Bourdieu and Ivan Illich as other crucial figures in the understanding of the way in which educational achievement relates to certain assumptions about what teaching involves. Ultimately, it may be that the modern university is antithetical to any possibility of establishing true equality among its players – Rancière's position at times invokes the possibility of a radically de-institutionalized autodidacticism that predicates all learning merely on the basis of the will of those desiring to learn. This stance is the very opposite of the Lockean approach, which emphasizes the passivity of the student-receiver. Can the contemporary university bear the weight of Rancière's challenge?

Mainstream education arguably operates with two major contradictory imperatives: that one should in principle be able to teach everyone openly and equally and, at the same time, one must constantly rank these same students via tests, marks, and, in the case of higher education, final degree classifications. The rationalist educator is constitutively torn. But how to reconcile the desire to – on some level – treat students equally, with the simultaneous recognition that injustice necessarily lies at the heart of all assessment?

Here I will primarily draw on elements of the university system in the UK, although some claims will be recognizable in the US context. This paper tries to make some sense of the links between, on the one hand, the "everybody knows" type of social fact we repeatedly have to hand – for example, that 7 per cent of people in the United Kingdom attend private schools, that class mobility in Britain is at an all-time low, that some schools get all their pupils to apply to Oxbridge, while others send none (regardless of their A level scores), etc. – and the theoretical and philosophical assumptions that underpin any conception of education. From the start, I think it is important at once to recognize "the facts" but also to put the anger generated by them to both practical and theoretical use. When we see the missed educational opportunities, the subtle but pernicious mechanisms whereby students are told or, more often, tell themselves, "I can't do this," "this is not for me," "I don't belong here," we should recognize that all these things are cause for intense frustration, but to stop with the acknowledgment of them would be to concede too much to the existing state of affairs. Furthermore, there is a way in which these kinds of sentiments, far more often held by those who are more carefully reflecting on their increasingly schizophrenic role as students than those assured of their place in "the world" after years of confidence-bolstering at expensive schools, may possess a utopian kernel if their collective and class dimensions are exposed.

But what if one were to reverse the order of observation and begin not with concrete inequalities in education, of which there are almost too many to enumerate, but with a seemingly impossible assertion: that education is a question of what all students equally have, namely a baseline intelligence? As Socrates puts it in the Meno with reference to the slave boy: "This knowledge will not come from teaching but from questioning. He will recover it for himself."[1] Equality may also be something one wishes for in a future to come, after fundamental shifts in the arrangement and order of society. But this is not Rancière's point at all. Equality is not something to be achieved, but presupposed. Even Socrates – perhaps especially Socrates – is too much of a master figure: "Socrates interrogates in order to instruct. But whoever wishes to emancipate someone must interrogate him in the manner of men and not in the manner of scholars."[2] Perhaps Rancière is a little harsh on Socrates, especially as Rancière opposes to him the idea of "someone who effectively knows no more than the student" – didn't Socrates systematically demonstrate his own lack of knowledge?[3] Nevertheless, there is much to this idea of thinking of education without hierarchy, of paying attention to what is most generic in thought, for student and teacher alike.

The supposed relationship between rationalism and education has a long and intricate history, from Plato's demonstration of mathematical capacity in the Meno to Paulo Freire's humanist conception of pedagogy as a political strategy. But what exactly is the relationship between pedagogy and rationalism in practice? What might a contemporary rationalism in higher education look like, given the myriad economic and social contradictions at work in the contemporary academy? Theories about the supposed "naturalness" of intellectual inequality between classes are once again in the ascendancy, as if genetics, or IQ tests for that matter, were directly translatable into the life-experiences and choices of individuals.[4] Even aside from such reactionary idiocies as the supposed genetic hierarchy of classes in education, what we could call "market cynicism" reigns supreme, with a degree increasingly understood as the product purchased for a certain amount of money and a certain quantity of time served.[5] This cynicism emerges both from within the institution and is increasingly to be found in students as well, forced by their financial status and the rhetoric of the university to think of themselves in purely economic terms.

If one thing characterizes the current status of students in the university, it is confusion. Confusion about their status – are they clients, as the university brochure is at pains to assure them, or are they subjects-supposed-to-be criticized (or even failed)? Are they buying a degree, or are the students themselves the "product" to be sold (or to sell themselves) to employers? The "split student" of contemporary academia is depoliticized precisely because he or she is uncertain what his or her demands might be, or to whom to make them. The pressure on universities, too, to serve up as many adequately qualified students as possible has led to well-documented grade inflation and an ambivalence towards previously abhorred practices such as plagiarism.[6] Torn between the imperative to behave "more like a business," to increase its income through extra-academic activities, such as hosting corporate events, and its historical drive to explore and build upon the accumulated knowledge of centuries, the modern university is as confused as the split students who attend it. We could update Foucault's question – "Is it surprising that prisons resemble factories, schools, barracks, hospitals, which all resemble prisons?" – with the amended query "what is so astonishing about the fact that our universities resemble our businesses, our shopping malls, our corporate meeting rooms – all of which in turn resemble our new proto-privatized universities?"[7] The shift from disciplinary societies to control societies, so acutely described by Foucault and Deleuze, means that, indeed, "[c]ontrol is short-term and of rapid rates of turnover, but also continuous and without limit, while discipline was of long duration, infinite and discontinuous."[8] The university has been transformed from a "closed environment" to an eminently porous one, with spaces of further and higher education doubling up as conference centres, spaces for credit card companies to hawk their wares, where books are replaced by corporate-sponsored computers and lab equipment.

Theories of universal pedagogy, that is to say, "a pedagogy that takes nothing for granted," and the attempt to put these into practice may seem out of place in this brave new world of student consumerism and universities-as-businesses, an archaic throwback to outmoded, optimistic Enlightenment models of generic capacity and the promise of knowledge for all.[9] Yet, perversely, the assumption of universalist, egalitarian, rationalist (although not in the sense the market would understand it) principles (or axioms, as we shall see) in education may be precisely the way out of a certain deep cynicism that pervades the attitudes of students toward their degrees, of lecturers to their students, and of the university to its responsibility to educate, and not merely to train. As Deleuze puts it: "For the school system: continuous forms of control, and the effect on the school of perpetual training, the corresponding abandonment of all university research, the introduction of the 'corporation' at all levels of schooling."[10] Although he is certainly prescient with regard to the omnipresence of the corporation, it is interesting (and depressing) to note that university research has itself become encoded in another kind of control and monitoring of information (the Research Assessment Exercise results, the continual quest for rankings, the pressure to have as many citations as possible). The idea of "perpetual training" is indeed one of the hallmarks of contemporary political thinking about education; Labour's key manifesto pledge to get 50 per cent of young people into higher education would create a heavily indebted, desperate workforce, and prevents too many 18-year olds appearing on the job market for employment that doesn't exist.

Rancière, pedagogy, and immaterial labour

Here we turn to contemporary theories of intellectual equality in the work of Jacques Rancière, in the light of certain empirical conditions and factors (above all the confusion noted above). The utopian elements of his work on education help to reveal just how bad things are as they stand, which is all the more reason to move so far away from a mere noting of "the facts" of contemporary university life.

First a few words about what I take to be Rancière's position on education. I take this reading from The Ignorant Schoolmaster, originally published in France in 1987. Although his work is by no means prescriptive, and is characterized above all by a careful and detailed historical intricacy, we can take elements of his work on education as a relatively clear framework. The most important of these for my purposes is the axiomatic assumption of intelligence. Rancière's conception of intelligence is worthy of careful exposition in this regard. Rancière's claim is disarmingly simple yet explosive the moment it touches on educational practice. Rancière takes his cue from the maverick nineteenth-century pedagogue Joseph Jacotot, whose simple question was "[w]ere all men virtually capable of understanding what others had done and understood?"[11] What this means, as Peter Hallward puts it, is that:

Everyone has the same intelligence, and differences in knowledge are simply a matter of opportunity and motivation. On the basis of this assumption, superior knowledge ceases to be a necessary qualification of the teacher, just as the process of explanation – together with metaphors that distinguish students as slow or quick, or conceive of educational time in terms of progress, training, qualification, and so on – ceases to be an integral part of teaching.[12]

Rancière, via Jacotot, asserts that "all people are equally intelligent," and that furthermore, knowledge is not necessary to teaching nor explication necessary to learning.[13] This might of course mean that we are undermining the role of the lecturer or teacher from the start. The educator is no longer the source of or repository for greater understanding or knowledge, nor does he or she remain the figure behind the original meaning of "pedagogue" (leading the child). To rid education (and politics too, for that matter) of the figure of a certain kind of "master" is Rancière's guiding ambition.


If, against the backdrop of really existing social hierarchies and class divisions, we make a decision to place concrete observation and description to one side and rather make equality both "a point of departure" and a "practice," what can we mean? Would this even be possible when the grossly divided and divisive reproduction of economic and cultural capital in all its entrenched and repetitious forms greets us at every turn?

There is an important link to be made between the pedagogical situation I am describing here and broader changes in the nature of work. Paolo Virno, in particular, has made much of the idea that it is only now, when the differential traits of the species (i.e., that which separates us from other animals, namely verbal thought, the transindividual character of the mind, and the lack of specialized instincts) are the "raw material" of capitalist organization, that we can return again to the question of a politics of human nature.[14] This immediately touches upon the question of "generic capacity" in an educational context, and links directly to what Marx referred to as the "general intellect" – the knowledges that constitute the heart of social production in the broadest possible terms.

The question of "generic capacity," the idea of an intelligence shared by everyone and no one in particular, is both the omnipresent manifestation of contemporary immaterial labour and yet the question most strangely obscured in education.[15] Massimo De Angelis and David Harvie have gone a long way to making clear the connections between the more general tendencies of intellectual labour in the post-Fordist context and the demands of contemporary academia:

Work in academia seems to capture the basic features of immaterial labour: a form of directly social work, in which the form of social cooperation is crucial in defining the "output," a form of doing that is necessarily grounded on relational awareness, and that produces affects (our students are, after all, our "customers" and they will be compiling a "customer satisfaction" ques¬tionnaire at the end of their courses with us). It goes without saying that academic work is also a context for the production of ideas, research papers and books; moreover that this production is "biopolitical" and can occur at any moment of the 24/7 span: we both have experienced waking up in the middle of the night with the solution to a problem insoluble during 9 to 5, or have reached an insight that will find its way into a paper while playing with a child.[16]

The proximity between the "social" nature of the work undertaken by both the student and the lecturer is both menacing and potentially promising. Once the illusion of mastery has been broken and students and staff alike feel themselves "on the same side" as part of an institution nominally committed to learning and wider social issues, then the generic, social nature of the pedagogical scenario may take on a more significant role. In Virno and others, this potentiality involves the "peculiar public character of the intellect" as the site of both current practices of exploitation and potential sites of resistance.[17] All of these questions come into sharp focus when geared towards educational institutions and players – the "school," the "university," the "student," the "teacher." If we are to accept the claim that we live in an age in which "flexibility," the capacity to communicate, and the ability to manipulate lan¬guage have more importance in the graduate job market than the facility of doing any one thing in particular (summed up in the ubiquitous but meaningless phrase "transferable skills"), then students and their lecturers are really very much on the same side, whether they like it or not.

Whilst Rancière is critical of the entire apparatus of learning and the term "pedagogy" in particular, deeming it tainted by its association with the division between passive student and master explicator, his posing of the question "who has the right to think?" – i.e., the question of equality – is the guiding one here for several reasons.[18] Higher education no longer operates in terms of excluding those not deemed suitable to attend, but rather operates on a principle of what we might call "differentiated inclusion". That is to say, almost anyone can go to university, and indeed is encouraged to do so both by governments keen on avoiding having to find jobs for 18-year olds and by loan companies who make a profit on the interest on student debt. In this sense, the discussion of cultural capital in Bourdieu must be updated to reflect the fact that education is less about excluding those who "shouldn't" be there, than of including everyone within higher education in a hierarchical way (the same kinds of students tend to go to the same kinds of universities, like attracts like). Not all universities carry the same weight, socially or academically, and it is clear that there has been a lock-down, a kind of social stasis, in terms of the kinds of people who go where. One among many recent reports tells us that Oxford and Cambridge have failed to raise the share of students they take from state schools.[19] Clearly there are plenty of mechanisms in place to ensure the more-or-less smooth reproduction of class hierarchy, many of which in Britain are hundreds of years old. Class, and the entrenched generational repetitions of private school privilege, for example, cannot be ignored. However, these empirical facts can temporarily be suspended, and regarded anew, when one begins with a certain form of abstraction vis-à-vis education, namely the axiomatic assumption of equality. Pitching the question of capacity to learn at this level invites the open-ended question of whether universities are necessary at all. It is worth briefly remembering the ideas of Ivan Illich in Deschooling Society, at least one of which prefigures the pedagogical possibilities of the Internet (or at least a certain kind of use of the Internet):

I will use the words "opportunity web" for "network" to designate specific ways to provide access to each of four sets of resources. "Network" is often used, unfortunately, to designate the channels reserved to material selected by others for indoctrination, instruction, and entertainment. But it can also be used for the telephone or the postal service, which are primarily accessible to individuals who want to send messages to one another.[20]

If someone wanted to discuss an article, a book, a theorem or even simply a word, they could enter their interest and details onto a database and make matches. Illich conceives of these meetings taking place in coffee shops during lunch-breaks or after work, but it's clear that the Internet goes further than this by allowing the discussion to take place in the very domain in which the initial desire is announced.

The planning of educational institutions must begin, Illich argues, not with the question, "'What should someone learn?' but with the question, 'What kinds of things and people might learners want to be in contact with in order to learn?'"[21] Rancière takes this abolition of mastery even further when he argues that one can teach and learn together something that one knows nothing about: "[Jacotot] proclaimed that one could teach what one didn't know, and that a poor and ignorant father could, if he was emancipated, conduct the education of his children, without the aid of any master explicator. And he indicated the way of that 'universal teaching' – to learn something and to relate it to all the rest by this principle: all men have equal intelligence."[22] Illich's networks and Jacotot's axiom, combined with an understanding of the nature of contemporary immaterial labour, may well render the university obsolete, too much the bastion of cynical marketing and a lack of any genuine learning. As Mary Evans puts it in her attack on contemporary higher education, Killing Thinking: "perhaps the real democratization of the universities will lie in the departure of future generations from them."[23]

Intelligence for all

Let's say we haven't yet given up on the university completely and want to apply Rancière's ideas in practice. What dangers lie ahead? There are certainly temptations at work for both the lecturer and the student in the classical teacher-pupil hierarchy.


One temptation is the patronizing attempt to over-identify with the imperative "not to learn" supposedly possessed by students. We could call this the "slacker" temptation – of course all students want to do is smoke dope and play Playstation! This model of teaching presupposes two intellectual classes: those who (contingently) want to learn (the lecturer him- or herself) and those who do not (most students, and by extension, most everybody). This approach is a kind of mastery, disavowed in this case and all the more pernicious for it – I know enough to tell you that you do not need to know. It is the supercilious attitude of the newspaper columnist who chucks in references to Marx, postmodernism, etc. before airily informing the less-informed reader that he or she doesn't need to bother finding out anything about them for him- or herself. Equality of intelligence is here smothered by the laziness, not of the students, but of the teacher, who churns out information without really believing that the audience will be interested in receiving it. As Rancière puts it, "explication is the work of laziness".[24] The fear masked here, both by assuming student apathy and by preserving the knowledge you yourself possess, is the idea that actually there is nothing "special" about your capacity to learn. As Bourdieu and Passeron put it:


The whole logic of an academic institution based on pedagogic work of the traditional type and ultimately guaranteeing the "infallibility" of the "master," finds expression in the professorial ideology of student incapacity, a mixture of tyrannical stringency and disillusioned indulgence which inclines the teacher to regard all communication failures, however unforeseen, as integral to a relationship which inherently implies poor reception of the best messages to the worst receivers.[25]

Of course, the question of mastery cannot simply be sidestepped as easily as all that. While autodidacticism, individual or collective, may well be the ideal mode of learning, the one closest to both the will and the intelligence we presuppose belongs to all, simply turning one's back on the systems of domination and hierarchy that characterize the society of which education is merely a part is impossible. Stimulating, rather than instructing, students will hopefully encourage an already existing will to learn, rather than "stultify," in Rancière's terms; but the question of other, perhaps more pernicious, desires is never too far away. Plato is one of the first to recognize, in the Phaedrus, "the way in which the speaker who knows the truth may, without any serious purpose, steal away the hearts of his hearers."[26] Even if the more straightforwardly oppressive elements of education are stripped away, the erotics of pedagogy, and those forms of hierarchy that are predicated on a romantic attachment to the teacher on the basis that he or she "knows more" than the student are hard to deny and perhaps even harder to prevent.

Perhaps recognizing these residual forms of pedagogical asymmetry, Rancière will not, in the end, simply cut the head off the teacher-king or queen. As he puts it, for Jacotot, on the one hand, "the method of equality was above all a method of the will. One could learn by oneself and without a master explicator or when one wanted to, propelled by one's own desire or by the constraint of the situation." On the other, "[t]he students had learned without a master explicator, but not, for all that, without a master."[27] Jacotot's method transfers the mastery inherent in the pedagogical situation from the figure of the teacher to the solidity of the book. It is the book that becomes the more democratic (admittedly), though none the less sanctified, teacher: "Instead of paying for an explicator, couldn't a father simply give the book to his son and the child understand directly the reasonings of the book?"[28] The danger of shifting the master from person to object doesn't necessarily overturn the hierarchy of student and teacher, just shifts it from the classroom to the library.

This is an important sticking point. If we take the somewhat Lutheran line that true learning is the will-driven learning of an individual with a text, motivated by the admission of the shared ignorance of the "master," then what, say, of Illich's plans mentioned above regarding more collective modes of learning? If the hierarchical mode of teacher-student learning involves one person in a position of power over many, then Rancière's solution seems to propose instead a one-on-one relationship between the reader and the text. But wouldn't a collective – if paradoxical – form of autodidacticism be more egalitarian, precisely because it would accept the minimal empirical claim that each of us has something to learn from the other? Books can be just as dogmatic masters as any human.

Autodidacticism nevertheless clearly remains a superior political model to that of the "master" inscribing on the tabula rasa of the passive student's mind. Rancière's radical notion of equality entails both that any individual can teach him- or herself and that teachers can teach what they don't know. The empirical nags away at this, bit by bit, however. What about those radically different starting points? What, to be blunt, about class?

Reproduction

In order to finalize some of these thoughts on Rancière and the academy, it is worth placing the insights of Jacotot alongside those of another important thinker of education and inequality: Pierre Bourdieu. Rancière is extremely critical of Bourdieu, despite some seemingly shared concerns. Overall, Rancière mounts a kind of disciplinary critique of his countryman, arguing that Bourdieu attempts to inaugurate a new science, a new form of mastery, a kind of sociological structure to reinstate the separation between those who understand and those who do not. Sociology suffers, argues Rancière, from the need to make secret what lies on the surface:


Condemned to remain within the apparent movement of doxa, prevented from returning it to a real movement that would no longer be a part of his domain, [the sociologist] divided the apparent movement into two. He hollowed out a dimension of paradox in the platitude of the doxa: it is because everybody knows that nobody can know.[29]

Nevertheless, Bourdieu and Passeron's claims were a revelation to a generation of thinkers who wanted other explanations than the purely economic for the ways in which class reproduces itself. One is struck, Rancière says at least, by the "original commonality" of Bourdieu's problematic. "Cultural capital" includes all of those forms of knowledge (not capacities) that directly relate to one's educational and cultural status. One of these forms of cultural knowledge, according to Bourdieu and Passeron, is aspiration itself, which has a self-perpetuating effect in the context of education and the likelihood of going to university. Their theory of cultural capital tries to make sense of the advantages that tend to accrue to the same kinds of people from the same kinds of background. In this sense, it is usually understood in isolation from exam results or other kinds of academic achievements, which aim to measure native intelligence. Instead, it incorporates modes of comportment such as attitude towards study, information learned outside of the school, and the cultural knowledge possessed by the family of the student in question, particularly those regarded as elite (opera, theatre, art, classical music, "serious" literature, etc.).[30]

"Cultural capital" began life as a primarily educational term, and it can be used as a tool to explain why middle-class parents are much better able to understand the "rules" of their child's school and seek improvements – for example, asking for extra help for their child or knowing the right "language" to be able to talk to teachers on parents' evenings. It became a central term in attempts to understand why class mobility is often so limited, even when intelligence is taken into account. It describes the forms of extra-curricular knowledge that students from certain backgrounds possess, which, although not directly transmitted by the educational institution, are highly valued by it. Cultural capital went on to become important in more general studies of class culture, beyond its narrower educational focus, and is widely used to explain various kinds of "elimination," examining the process which ensures that middle class children go on to get middle class jobs, for example.

The problem of analyzing such self-perpetuating social processes is of course that one can end up tangled in them, trapped within their sticky webs. Rancière is extremely critical of the structures by which Bourdieu seeks to explain working class involvement (or lack thereof) in higher education, such as the theory of cultural capital outlined above. He summarizes Bourdieu's claims about working class students in the following way: "they are excluded because they don't know why they are excluded; and they don't know why they are excluded because they are excluded."[31] Without the axiomatic assertion of equal intelligence underneath his analysis, Bourdieu runs the risk of reproducing his theories of reproduction without thereby also providing the tools to undermine them.

In this vein, Rancière argues that "the sociologist's weapons are those of his adversary" – the statistical tables, the "everybody knows" kind of facts, opinion polls – mediums that can mask as much as they reveal.[32] Nevertheless, Bourdieu's claims about cultural capital cannot fail to continue to resonate in an educational system that increasingly privileges the empty form of higher education as a marker of aptitude for a certain kind of job, a certain kind of lifestyle, and, above all, the replication of a specific and increasingly divisive class system. A speech by Lord Plummer, an Old Etonian, beautifully exemplifies the importance of sheer form over educational content: "They taught us nothing at Eton. It may be so, but I think they taught it very well."[33]

Rancière's master without mastery points to a way in which the assumption of egalitarian intelligence might be understood, but what happens when the assumption of generic intelligence reaches the analysis of educational practice? Might not Bourdieu and Passeron be of some use after all? Their classic claims regarding reproduction in education and the concept of cultural capital arguably remain of relevance to any understanding of the mechanisms at play "behind the back" of the agents concerned:

An educational system based on a traditional type of pedagogy can fulfil its function of inculcation only so long as it addresses itself to students equipped with the linguistic and cultural capital – and the capacity to invest it profitably – which the system presupposes and consecrates without ever expressly demanding it and without methodically transmitting it.[34]

It has to be said that taking on board both Rancière's Jacotot as well as Bourdieu and Passeron is complicated. In the first place, the context for both, as noted in the earlier, was one of exclusion – of those deemed "not cut out" for education or for the university, the literal poor or the culturally impoverished.

We must acknowledge a changed landscape: not exclusion, straightforwardly, but a peculiar form of staggered expansion. The supposedly elite institutions are still there at the top, the old-boys and girls networks still churning out elite fodder for the same kinds of jobs – politics, diplomacy, high-end culture industry work, etc. At the same time, the expansion of higher education and the re-branding of ex-Polytechnics as universities in the UK has created a situation in which no one need be excluded. It is no longer a question of keeping them out, but of ensuring they go where they are supposed to. A further change comes at the economic level. As noted, fees have created a kind of split-subject of the university: the "client" who pays for a service and yet is still a subject "supposed to be criticized" or even failed. Endless feedback forms, along the lines of customer satisfaction surveys, entail that students are supposed to know how well that which they don't yet know is being conveyed. We could call this "the subject supposed to know how it will know what it doesn't yet know." It is a subject a long way from possessing Rancière's "method of the will," and getting further away from it all the time.

A notion of "intellectual will" not predicated on academic approval would be an¬other, more positive, matter altogether – but for that we might need a new Jacotot:

The problem is not to create scholars. It is to raise up those that believe themselves inferior in intelligence, to make them leave the swamp where they are stagnating – not the swamp of ignorance, but the swamp of self-contempt, of contempt in and of itself for the reasonable creature. It is to make emancipated and emancipating men.[35]

Conclusion

It seems we are stuck then, between a broken, cynical university and an incomplete, problematic, autodidacticism. Trying to think beyond the university from within it remains a serious problem. It is hard not to imagine that best of all would ultimately be to entirely detach knowledge, understanding, and intellectual enquiry from the university completely. But how? Rancière's axiomatic positing of the equality of intelligence allows us to answer the key educational question, "who has the right to think?" with the simple answer: "everyone." Bourdieu's observations and Illich's networks could help us to fill out Rancière's insight with the empirical weight of how far we have to go and the utopian promise of a pedagogy to come. Much is yet to be done.


[1] Plato, "Meno," Plato: The Collected Dialogues, ed. Edith Hamilton & Huntington Cairns (New Jersey: Princeton university Press, 1999), 370.
[2] Jacques Rancière, The Ignorant Schoolmaster, trans. Kristin Ross (Stanford: Stanford university Press, 1991), 29.
[3] Ibid., 29-30.
[4] See, as the latest particularly egregious example, Bruce Charlton's claim that "higher social classes have a significantly higher average IQ than lower social classes" in Rebecca Attwood, "Elite institutions' class bias simply reflects 'meritocracy,'" THE, May 22, 2008.
[5] See, for example, Mary Evans's claim that "The surveillance between teachers and pupils is, of course, mutual. Teachers are expected to record the presence of their students, while students are asked to record comments on their teachers." Killing Thinking: The Death of the universities (New York: Continuum, 2004), 59. See also her claim that "[t]he spectre of the student who attends no lectures or seminars and yet emerges with an outstanding degree in final examinations is clearly a terror to the QAA [Quality Assurance Agency for Higher Education]." Ibid., 117.
[6] See, for example, John Gill, "Keep it Stupid, Simple," THE, October 23, 2008.
[7] Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison, trans. Alan Sheridan (London: Penguin, 1977), 228.
[8] Gilles Deleuze, "Postscript on the Societies of Control," October 59 (Winter 1992): 3-7.
[9] This summary of Bourdieu's position can be found in Roy Nash, "Bourdieu on Education and Social and Cultural Reproduction," British Journal of Sociology of Education 11. 4 (1990): 436.
[10] Deleuze, "Postscript on the Societies of Control," 7.
[11] Félix and Victor Ratier, "Enseignement universal: Emancipation intellectuelle," Journal de philosophie pancécastique, 5 (1838): 155. Quoted in The Ignorant Schoolmaster, 4.
[12] Peter Hallward, "Staging Equality: On Rancière's Theatrocracy," New Left Review 37 (January-February 2006): 114.
[13] Rancière, The Ignorant Schoolmaster, 16.
[14] See Paolo Virno, The Grammar of the Multitude, trans. Isabella Bertoletti, James Cascaito & Andrea Casson (New York: Semiotext(e), 2004).
[15] It should of course be noted that "immaterial labour" refers, in the context of education, to the kinds of general skills seemingly inculcated in and "desired" from contemporary graduates, not as a general claim about global labour, which remains overwhelmingly ma¬terial. There is no doubt, however, that the student produced by contemporary British universities is primarily a creature with no skills other than "transferable" ones that lack content, as well as being entirely in hock to debt.
[16] Massimo De Angelis and David Harvie, "Cognitive Capital and the Rat Race: How Capital Measures Ideas and Effects in UK Higher Education," Historical Materialism (2009).
[17] Paolo Virno, "General Intellect," trans. Arianna Bove, Generation-Online,
www.generation-online.org.
[18] "Who has the right to think?" is Kristin Ross's gloss on Rancière's approach to education. See her "Rancière and the Practice of Equality," Social Text 29 (1991): 57-71.
[19] "Oxbridge takes fewer state pupils," BBC News, June 5, 2008.
[20] Ivan Illich, Deschooling Society (London: Penguin, 1973), 55.
[21] Ibid., 111.
[22] Rancière, The Ignorant Schoolmaster, 18.
[23] Evans, Killing Thinking, 152.
[24] Rancière, The Ignorant Schoolmaster, 117.
[25] Pierre Bourdieu and Jean-Claude Passeron, Reproduction in Education, Society and Culture, 2nd ed., trans. Richard Nice (London: Sage, 1990), 111.
[26] Plato, Phaedrus, trans. Benjamin Jowett (London: Dover, 1994), 66.
[27] Rancière, The Ignorant Schoolmaster, 12.
[28] Ibid., 4.
[29] Jacques Rancière, The Philosopher and His Poor, trans. John Drury, Corinne Oster, and Andrew Parker (Durham: Duke university Press, 2003), 170.
[30] Bourdieu and Passeron, Reproduction in Education, Society and Culture, 9.
[31] Rancière, The Ignorant Schoolmaster, xi.
[32] Rancière, The Philosopher and His Poor, 168.
[33] 'Systems of Education and Systems of Thought', in M.F. D. Young, ed. Knowledge and Control: New Directions for the Sociology of Education. London: Macmillan, 1971. Quoted in Pierre Bourdieu: Agent Provocateur, Michael Greenfell (New York: Continuum, 2004), 72.
[34] Bourdieu and Passeron, Reproduction, 99.
[35] Rancière, The Ignorant Schoolmaster, 101-102.

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