architects, please pay your interns

My third year architecture students are supposed to start their internships at the end of this semester, and the pandemic has got them a little worried about their prospects. Last year around April and May, their seniors were stuck in a difficult situation – the lockdown here in India was in full force, and they all had to either find internships that they could do remotely or find internships in their hometowns which, for the large majority of them is here in Agra – a Tier II city in India that… erm… how do I put this… isn’t very high on the aspirational lists of places to do an architecture internship. Since the Covid pandemic had taken a major economic toll on many architecture firms who suddenly couldn’t do any work, and considering we were even wondering whether they would get internships at all, they were fortunate enough to all find positions somewhere. Now, the current batch of students is justifiably wondering whether they’ll be in the same situation in the next few months.

In such uncertain times, it’s hard to predict even a few months into the future, but I think things will be better by then, and they’ll be able to find work in other cities. The industry was hard hit by the pandemic and I don’t think it’s recovered fully yet, but things are better than they were nine months ago.

I spoke to them last week at length about preparing their portfolios, and near the end of our discussion we started talking about getting paid for internships. Yes… we opened that can of worms.

Now, before I say anything about this… this has been an oft-discussed, hot-button topic for a long time in the architecture profession (and in other design professions). There doesn’t seem to be much to add to the conversation, so I’m not entirely sure why I’m even writing this. Maybe just to put my own opinion on the record. Maybe because, despite all the debate and dialogue, we’re still nowhere near approaching any significant movement in the problem of unpaid internships in architecture.

While contemplating this topic as a blog post, I thought about starting with quotes from a few articles or opinion pieces on this topic, but… there are too many. It’s kind of like being a waiter at an all-you-can-eat buffet. You don’t need me to google that for you. Suffice to say, it’s an ugly aspect of our profession that somehow doesn’t want to go away.

In any case, my position on unpaid internships is that I’m thoroughly against it, both as a practitioner and an academic. I’ve hired interns of my own (and paid them), and I’ve sent my students out into the wild to become interns, and neither of my personas thinks it’s fair to not pay young people who perform work in your office that you’re getting paid for. If you’re not getting paid enough to pay your interns, then you have no business hiring them. Or you can take it out of your own income. I teach professional ethics in the classroom, and this is one of the clearest breaches of ethical practice that is somehow still commonplace in our profession.

That’s a rather ruthless way of putting it, I know. I have friends who run architecture practices that don’t pay interns. How can I continue to accept their behaviour in good conscience? How do I reconcile their otherwise good work with this arguably bad practice? The truth is that my position on unpaid internships is idealistically and unwaveringly clear, but I do retain some empathy for why it exists. I know that there are underlying problems in the entire profession itself that make unpaid internships a ‘necessary’ evil, and these problems don’t seem to be going away.

The central issue, of course, is that architects themselves aren’t paid enough. Given the length of their education and training, the breadth of their responsibilities, and the gravity of their legal liability in construction projects, architects are paid nowhere near what they deserve. Running an architecture practice is like riding a constant knife-edge between profitability and ruin, and the only reason we continue to flog ourselves through it is because of how stubborn we were taught to be in architecture school. That initial first year reading of The Fountainhead, as misguided as it ultimately turns out to be, makes it too hard to disassociate our internal Howard Roarks from our external selves. We’re going to make architecture, by God, even if we die trying!

But I’ll address the problem of finances in a minute. There are several other reasons people give in defence of unpaid internships, and the most common is that interns are apparently a net liability in a given architecture practice. The claim is that it costs more time, resources, and money to teach interns about the profession than the benefit derived from them. Interns (usually in their fourth year of education, here in India) are generally considered not much more than newborns in the life cycle of design maturity. They know some CAD, Sketchup, and Photoshop, and how to file away things, and perhaps know the basics of construction and materials. Interns are rarely asked to design anything, nor are they asked to manage construction. The reasoning is that the complex nuances of how to deal with labour on a job site require at least a few years of seasoning. Many architects tell me that they really don’t have the time to teach their interns anything, and the work that they do can be done by technicians and draftspersons who are already on staff and require much less oversight. In fact, some interns have told me stories about architects who, instead of paying them, demand to be paid a fee for taking on an intern. I’ve only heard about such incidents anecdotally; I can’t imagine any of my friends or colleagues being that pretentious and arrogant.

My rebuttal to this defence is that, for millennia, architecture has been a profession founded on the principle of apprenticeship. It’s only been a century or so that architects actually go to college for an architecture degree; most architecture education was on-the-job training. This is still generally true – most experienced architects will agree that the majority of what is to be learnt in architecture comes after graduation. The five-year course is just teeing up the ball for the real training-in-practice; it’s a foundation that primes you to be in a position to learn further. Given this long tradition of apprenticeship, I find it unconvincing when architects expect fresh graduates to be fully groomed for the profession. Do they think that they’re absolved completely from being part of the education of their employees? Interns are simply apprentices. They are there to learn to become architects. There’s a well-acknowledged limit to what we as educators can do to prepare them for work. College may be a safe space for students to explore and stretch themselves in their investigation of design but it can’t also provide the entirety of their practical and rational knowledge. Every architect in practice has been an intern in some way, and learned something from a working mentor in some way. This is the tradition we carry on as one of the oldest professions in the world, and we should carry it with pride. An architect who doesn’t consider it their generational responsibility to pass on what they know to intern apprentices is not worthy of holding the license they took pains to receive. They aren’t a net liability if an architect factors in their own internship, followed by hiring interns themselves… as a generational way of paying it forward.

Some practicing architects like to point out to us academics that since we get paid to teach students, then why can’t practitioners also be paid? Are they not teachers, too? This is a tu quoque fallacy of a high order. The equation isn’t anywhere near the same. Educators are paid to teach, but we don’t earn a profit from the students’ work. We’re paid regardless of the students’ performance (well, sort of), and the creative work produced by them isn’t a commodity that earns us a design fee. Practitioners, on the other hand, earn income on the basis of the work produced by the workers in their employ. If an architect receives a fee, part of that fee is assumed to go toward the architect’s overhead expenses, in this case, paying their employees. If, for example, you dine at a restaurant, and you pay a tip to a server, you expect that tip to go to the server, or at least be shared with them. You’d be furious if you tipped a server for good service and then discovered that the restaurant owner pocketed the tip for himself. Try to imagine what a client would think if you had interns working on the drawings for their project and the client learned that you weren’t sharing any of their fee with the people who were actually working on it.

Getting back to this issue of finances… Yes, I understand the low margin of profitability in running a design practice. But should that excuse the questionable ethics of unpaid internships? If you can’t pay people to do the work that earns you profit, then you need to learn how to be a better businessperson and entrepreneur. Few other industries make it a practice to make a buck on the backs of slave labour. Even companies like Amazon and Apple get heat for underpaying their workers, but no one is accusing them of not even paying them. Yet somehow this is common practice in design and architecture. Somehow, despite all our discussions about doing good for people, and designing with social conscience, and making habitats for humanity, we forget these values when it comes to simple entrepreneurial economics.

Part of the reason this practice gets perpetuated is also because interns are so willing to accept it. In countries like India, internships are required for their degree and they will be forced to take an unpaid internship if no other options are available (especially during a global pandemic). I certainly don’t blame them; I’ve done it myself. Not necessarily because there were no options, but because there are architects I really wanted to work for and I didn’t need the money. My classmates and I once worked for one of our favourite professors on a competition and he warned us that he couldn’t pay us (although the parameters for competitions are different because the architect isn’t get paid either; more on that in a minute). Ultimately at the end, he did pay us a token amount (perhaps out of guilt? a job well done?), but we willingly took the work knowing that we would get nothing in return financially. In fact, it would’ve cost us money because we had to pay for daily travel and meals. But we were just eager to work in a real-world office environment for someone we admired.

If it wasn’t for the fact that our professor did end up paying us, I might have looked back at that episode with some regret. In the capitalist world we’re forced to survive in, our worth as a working professional is measured in monetary compensation; there’s no getting past that. In most circumstances, getting paid nothing for our work implies we’re worth nothing, and that shouldn’t be true of interns. So I tell my students now that, while I understand their willingness to work for nothing because they either have no choice, or they’re getting a good experience in return, I urge them to still ask for compensation. At least put it out there for discussion; don’t just accept it out of hand. The more interns who willingly accept it, the more practitioners who will perpetuate it.

I’m not saying there isn’t dignity in working for free when the situation demands it. Throughout the entirety of my career, I’ve done some design work for free – pro bono and charitable work. Or professional courtesy for friends or family. Even as a teacher, I’ve given lectures and workshops for no compensation and I’ve invited people to do the same in my own classes. The difference, however, is that when we take on such work from others, both sides are usually on equal footing. When I invite a friend or colleague to give a guest lecture, they do it as a professional courtesy and they know I would happily do the same in return. We both choose to do it, and we accept the choice. It’s different with interns. They’re not on the same professional footing as their employers. The power dynamic is completely different, and they often take unpaid work because they have little or no choice otherwise. This is what makes it not a professional courtesy. It’s simply unfair.

One advice I give my students is to bring it up in the interview by asking “What would be my expected compensation?” as opposed to asking “Will I be compensated?”. This language at least signals to the employer that getting paid is expected and assumed. Even if they balk at it after that, the subtle message is sent. If the intern chooses to work for free at this point, at least that’s a negotiation from a reasonable baseline.

Of course, a major exception I have in my disfavour of students accepting unpaid internships is when the employers themselves are not getting paid for the work. This can cover pro bono projects, competitions, and working for charitable NGOs. If there’s no income being made on the project, then the student shouldn’t have a problem taking on unpaid work, assuming they can afford to do it. (Although to be honest, in one project in which I was doing the work pro bono, my interns on the project still got paid, simply because my reasons for doing it pro bono were not their reasons, and it would be unfair to treat it that way.)

If a salary (even a low one) for profitable work is still not in the cards, then I advise students to at least ask for a token payment that covers their expenses of daily commuting and workplace meals. I ask the same of any employers I know that are hiring my students. An intern shouldn’t have to pay out of pocket to come work for you every day. Of course, it’s hard to cover accommodation in this way. As I mentioned, many of my students aspire to work in larger cities, away from home, and this requires paying for accommodation which, in cities like Delhi and Mumbai where many good firms are situated, the housing rates are exorbitantly high. Of course, the deeper problem with this is a class issue; students who can afford to pay for accommodation and unpaid internships are the ones who will be more likely to grab such opportunities, skewing the balance inordinately against students of lower income brackets. Other biases like gender and caste also exist. In such cases, I ask students (of all income groups) to do a simple cost-benefit analysis and determine if they’re really getting what they’re paying for in this internship. And I ask them to think of their own self-worth in the larger picture.

What else can be done to solve this problem? I think in India at least, the Council of Architecture (our overall regulatory body) should acknowledge it as an ethical conundrum and take on the burden of resolving it. The Council has established minimum fees for architectural compensation, and they require all licensed architects to practice ethical behaviour. The same should be expected for internships since the Council anyway mandates them in college curricula. To me, this is a no-brainer, and I’m frankly surprised why this isn’t already on the table. Perhaps with new leadership in the COA, it will be.

There are other things being done around the world. Some countries are prohibiting architects from working on high-profile public projects if they make use of unpaid labour. Some governments have started the process of potentially banning unpaid internships outright, across all industries. Many university placement offices who help students find internships now require all recruiters to pay their interns a nominal compensation; no unpaid internships are allowed, and it’s great for a college to be in a position to enforce that. All of these are steps in the right direction. And certainly more needs to be done amongst the various professional guilds in each country, like India’s COA and the AIA in the United States. In almost all countries, the practice of architecture – unlike most other design disciplines – is tightly regulated. Why can’t this be included as well?

Those in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones, right? So what can we academics do to help, besides having a real, honest discussion with our students about the realities of the profession they chose? Personally, I think architecture (and design) curricula teach you almost nothing about how to be a businessperson, despite the fact that a disproportionate number of architects start their own businesses earlier and more often compared to other disciplines. Students are rarely taught how to manage their personal finances and save money, how to invest, how to pitch an idea to investors, how to seek and apply for loans and funding. Few graduates are armed with the knowledge of how to set their fees, how to indemnify themselves in their contracts, how to protect their intellectual property. Most of them are taught only to do architecture, and not how to use their broad design talents to diversify into other fields that can earn them steady incomes. I’m talking about things like: managing projects; building their own work (turnkey/design-build); making images and visualisations, or designing furniture, furnishings, lighting, accessories, or fabrications. One of the architects I used to work for had a 3D printer in the office (back when they weren’t ubiquitous) that was mostly sitting around unused. I had read an article about people charging $300 a piece to make 3D-printed figurines of their friends and family members based on submitted photographs. I told my boss that he should hire someone just to do that and have that 3D printer humming 24 hours a day, churning out cheesy knick-knacks so that it could subsidise our salaries, which we often had to forgo when our clients ‘forgot’ to pay us.

Many architects and interior designers are finding other ways to earn a living besides simply offering architectural services; they have retail shops that sell furnishings and lifestyle accessories. Such a thing used to be frowned upon by my architecture professors, as if it cheapened our lofty and noble profession. I now realise that architects and designers who do this are very, very smart. Why is there such a romantic association in architecture circles of the ‘starving noble architect’? Why aren’t we taught the skills needed to earn a livelihood and follow our passions? It’s high time we teach our students to learn how to balance ideological integrity with earning an honest living. Prepare them to understand their self-worth and be confident about their expectations. There’s a lot that we as academics can do for them, if we open up our curricula and find ways to include this.

Ultimately though, architects – and architecture students – need to raise their voices in their respective guilds, associations, and other public forums to speak about this problem, and start dismantling its silent toleration. More opinions need to be heard and more rational discourse needs to happen across the board. More solutions need to be shared. We have to stop assuming someone else will fix the problem and encourage a grass roots movement to fix this. Raise awareness and speak sincerely about the problem, and take a strong stance.

So in the end, I guess that’s why I’m writing this.

architect or teacher?

The Problem with Professional Labels

In the last year I’ve become a sort of an academic freelancer, teaching classes and workshops at various colleges on a contract basis. In order to reach out to different institutions for work opportunities, I’ve had to develop a way to “sell myself” and amongst the many difficulties for someone like me to do that, I’ve particularly grappled with the question of whether I’m an architect or a teacher. Sure, people love to say that they don’t believe in labels, and I’m no exception. But ultimately people do want to know what exactly you are, and they don’t want a long-winded explanation of it. A professional networking site like Linked In sort of requires you to indicate your “title”, and offers a wide range of readymade options. Since my career – both the academic and professional parts of it – has been somewhat complex, I chose to simplify things and just call myself an “Architect and Educator” and left it at that.

But aside from required labels, I do often wonder about my own professional identity. Am I an architect or an educator? The easy answer is “both”, of course. But I’m thinking more deeply about it. Is it really 50/50? Which do I identify with more? I need to think about this.

If I consider it chronologically, then I was an architect first (by training and then profession), and became a teacher later. I graduated from undergraduate architecture in 1998 and after working as an intern for several years and taking my registration exams, I was finally licensed as an architect in 2007. I started proper teaching a few months later, working as a part-time adjunct faculty at my alma mater about 2-3 days a week. So even though I worked in the field of architecture for several years before teaching, I could only legally call myself an architect a few months before I started teaching, and even then I was only teaching part-time. So, am I an architect because that’s what I was trained for, and that’s what I was first?

The type of professor that I like to think of myself as (Courtesy of The Leewardists, https://leewardists.com/)

In 2009 when I moved to India, I started teaching full-time (mostly by necessity) and enjoyed it so much that I didn’t really look back at full-time practice again. A few stints here and there, working on projects as a consultant, but for the last 12 years, I’ve been a full-time academic. So, if you consider what I am currently, then am I primarily a teacher?

What about the fact that I teach… you know… architecture? The two labels are not as distinct as they might appear because while I may have been an architect first and took up teaching later in life, I didn’t stop being an architect. So that’s a further argument for putting the architect label above the teaching label – one sort of encompasses the other. Or it furthers the argument to just say that I’m both?

But it gets more complicated than that. Because I don’t just teach architecture; I also teach design. And architecture is just one of the many design disciplines. So am I then a designer above all? And to make it even more confusing, for a a few years I wasn’t even really a teacher but an academic administrator. When I became a Department Head and then a Dean, I did very little teaching and even less architecting, and became more of an academic strategist. But it sounds kind of pretentious to call myself an “academic”.

So when I meet new people and they ask me what I do for a living, I default to the statement “I teach architecture and design” because that neatly covers everything, but it’s still a statement and not a title. And surely, if you’ve read this far, you must surely be saying “Hey. You are overthinking this. What does it matter?” to which I have to respond that it does matter. It has to do with my self identity, and even if I only come away realising that I’m equally a teacher and an architect, that still needs to be resolved. It’s not about labels but about how I’m perceived – by myself and by others, and unless you choose to live an ascetic life, such things are still important.

I also wonder how teachers in other disciplines classify themselves. I guess every teacher has, to some extent, an expertise in something. A history professor is a historian at the root of it. An economics professor is an economist. A physics professor is a physicist. So I guess and architecture professor is, ultimately, an architect. The architect part is more definitive of what my expertise is, and I guess that’s closer to how I’m perceived professionally. The fact that I teach doesn’t make me not-an-architect, it just redefines how I practice architecture… not by designing buildings, but by teaching others to design buildings. Architecture is what I am (professionally), and teaching is what I do with it, so I guess the architect label is probably more important (and not just alphabetically).

I wonder about the rest of of you who teach. How do you identify or label yourself? By your teaching or by your discipline? By your vocation or by your profession? Please comment below (even if you’re not a teacher… or an architect…. or whatever.)

The type of professor that my students probably see me as. (Courtesy of The Leewardists, https://leewardists.com/)

six levels of reflective learning

Last semester I taught several classes to final year architecture students and, as I often do, I required them to maintain a reflective journal for each class. One of the classes was Dissertation where students write a 10,000 word academic research paper on a topic in contemporary architecture. The journal for Dissertation was meant to be a research journal, in which they would compile summaries of the data they were gathering and any inferences they were making from it. I also asked them to fill in any thoughts or musings they might have on the class, what they were learning, and what it meant for them as future architects.

I did a similar thing with my Professional Practice class, except it wasn’t a research journal; it was meant to be a reflection on their learnings from the class – day by day, week by week. I asked them to keep the journal informal, and write entries as they would in a diary, but reflecting only on the learning of the class and expressing their real thoughts and opinions.

I reviewed their journals periodically, reading through all the entries, and after a few weeks I realised that the students were unable to reflect deeply on their learning. Every entry was some version of “Today in class we did this. It was very interesting.” It was reportage, not reflection – a shallow summary of the class, without any indication of how the learning affected them on a deeper level. They rarely critiqued the classes; at most, they would admit to not understanding it fully, or maybe finding it boring. But there was little or no reflection on what the learning meant in the context of their professional education, whether there were consequences of the new information, or whether it changed their existing viewpoint about an issue.

It occurred to me that the students, now in their mid twenties, had never really been taught to reflect on anything in their lives. If I asked them about a movie they watched, they responded with “It was fun”. If I asked them why they liked a certain song, they answered, “It’s really good”. It’s not that they don’t have opinions about things (I assure you, they do). They simply didn’t know how to articulate that opinion. Many of my students speak English as a second language, so I thought it might be a language issue, but even when I asked them for their opinions in their native language, they still find it challenging to express themselves with any degree of articulation.

This was when I realised that reflecting was the problem, and I immediately decided to conduct a tutorial on reflective learning, and to help them understand that meaningful reflection happens at a much deeper level than they were currently attempting. I naturally asked myself if I was qualified to teach this, but I reflected on it (meta-reflection!) and reminded myself that I do a lot of navel-gazing and pondering deeply about things. I’m no philosopher for sure, but as a natural lifelong introvert whose favourite thing to do is to sit quietly in a corner and read, I feel I can at least help the students learn how to reflect better than they were.

So before preparing my lecture, I naturally reflected on the nature of reflection (again, meta!). I wanted to express the value of reflection in a way that could be easily understood, but I wanted to avoid reducing it to just “thinking deeply”. So I came up with a framework for reflection, represented as a series of progressive layers of internalised thinking. It is, by necessity, reductionist, but I hope that doesn’t take away from how meaningful I intend it to be. In any case, for better or worse, here are my patented 6 Levels of Reflection™.

Let me explain the levels in more detail…

Level 1 – Documentation (FACTUAL)

This is the easiest and most shallow level of reflection. It barely even counts as reflection but is nonetheless an important preliminary step to deeper reflection. Level 1 is simple reportage, describing what has occurred, narration. It is highly objective and unbiased, and although it can be detailed, the information doesn’t really have much meaning. Here are some examples of 1st Level reflective learning:

  • “Today we were taught _______.”
  • “First we did _______, then we did _______.”
  • “The teacher told us _______.”
  • “We did an exercise that involved _______.”
  • “We were asked to do _______. Then we discussed it.”

This is what students do easily, and usually by default. When you ask them to reflect on their learning, they simply tell you what they learned, without articulating what the learning meant to them. The only thing I would ask students to improve about this level is to document the activity or learning as a cohesive narrative rather than a flat description of events. Otherwise, there’s not much else to say about this initial level; it’s fairly straightforward. So let’s swim a bit deeper.

Level 2 – Appreciation (EMOTIONAL)

At this level, students express their immediate emotional response to the learning – whether they liked it or not. It doesn’t go much beyond this, however; rarely will a student explain why they liked it or disliked it. I imagine that part of the reason for this is their hesitation to express disappointment to a nominal authority figure, which is still how many students (in India at least) see their teachers. If they do feel open enough to share their honest feelings, they will often be cagey about it, expressing their dissatisfaction in simple, uninformative terms, often writing things like:

  • “The activity was pretty fun.”
  • “We never did something like this before; it was exciting.”
  • “The feedback we received was demotivating.”
  • “Yesterday’s class was interesting, but today was boring.”

Even at this relatively low level of reflection, much can be improved within it. Students can be more emotive, more articulate, and more descriptive of what exactly they liked or disliked about the activity, and why it provoked an emotional response. But even if they’re able to do this, Levels 1 and 2 are usually about as far as most students will go. This is the Rubicon that they seem unwilling or unable to cross.

Level 3 – Relevance (APPLICABLE)

A minority of students I’ve had are able to venture down to Level 3, which is about evaluating the importance or value of the learning relative to their existing context. It’s about questioning whether it was helpful, harmful, or neutral for their ongoing learning. Reflection on relevance is not necessarily biased, but focused on what is applicable to them. Some examples of this are:

  • “This will help me organise my thoughts.”
  • “The examples clarified my doubts and now I know what to do.”
  • “This will add to my body of knowledge.”
  • “I don’t see how this will help me get unstuck with my project.”

Finding relevance is particularly critical for younger generations; Millennials and Gen Z are often characterised (perhaps unfairly) by their inability to focus on things that they’re not directly interested in, or things that aren’t going to help them in the here and now. My ongoing theory on why this is so (which I’ll perhaps discuss in a later blog post) is based on video game culture. Younger people will rarely involve themselves in a video game until they know what the game’s objective is. Are you supposed to kill all the Nazis? Accumulate treasure? Rescue a princess? Complete a mission? Until the objective is known, the player won’t “buy in” to the game, and won’t play it. Similarly, with learning, Millennials and Gen Z – generally speaking – must have a buy-in before engaging in their learning, and a deep reflection on the relevance of their learning is absolutely necessary for them to move on and apply that learning further.

Level 4 – Provocation (INTELLECTUAL)

This level is characterised as “intellectual” because it requires the student to question whether the learning provoked some intellectual thinking. Whether it reminded the student of some prior thought, or triggered a chain of new thoughts or realisations on the subject. The student might reflect on this in the following ways:

  • “The video made me realise that my project is not actually about _____ but about _____.”
  • “The lecture reminded me of a poem I read last semester.”
  • “Afterwards, it made me think about my previous mistakes.”
  • “This _____ is actually the same as _____.

This is a more momentary and instantaneous type of reflection; it represents the moment of provocation; the spark or light bulb that goes off when the student is able to make a connection to an existing idea, or find a pattern – through synthesis – from seemingly unrelated bits of data. Although the moment of provocative reflection may be fleeting, it leads to the next deeper level of response.

Level 5 – Response (CRITICAL)

Following the provocation is usually the response to the learning. I don’t mean the emotional response of appreciation (Level 2), but the critical response ignited by the provocation in Level 4, which embodies a deeper evaluative reaction to the points raised in the learning activity. It can be either a “gut reaction” or a “measured response”, and the student can either agree or disagree with the information. This level involves finding nuances, flaws, or strengths in the learning and formulating a responsive argument. For example:

  • “I disagreed with the teacher’s statement because ______.”
  • “This is a valid point, but it doesn’t cover all the reasons behind the problem.”
  • “This won’t work because ______.”
  • “Instead I think we should do ______.”

Some of my students have asked “What’s the difference between Levels 4 and 5?” I see Level 4 as the moment of a realisation and Level 5 as the rationalisation behind it. First, acknowledging that this is something new or different or wrong or right, and then reflecting on why it might be so. You can probably reach Level 4 and not go further, but it’s hard to reach Level 5 without first reaching Level 4. And Level 6 is usually the natural result of both.

Level 6 – Consequence (ACTIONABLE)

The final (?) and deepest level of reflection in my framework is when the student ultimately asks “Now what?” The student has to figure out what needs to happen and what can/should they do with this information. To reflect on this is to ponder the next steps, and it encourages a call to action, perhaps requiring a change in thinking or behaviour. In my experience, very few students dive as deeply as Level 6 – at least consciously. They may document their learning, gauge their appreciation of it, find relevance, and then ignite a provocation and subsequent rationale or response, but they rarely take it forward into the next learning domain, which requires students to say things like:

  • “How do I move forward?”
  • “I need more information.”
  • “I need to change my focus and find a new direction or approach.”
  • “I will try to fix the problem.”
  • “I need to practice this more.”

Reflection for its own sake – especially in design education – is usually not enough. It must lead to some resolution of learning, an action that results in progressive growth. It’s not enough to navel-gaze and ponder the mysteries; one has to think of the consequences and decide what to do with it. I consider Level 6 to be the most meaningful and important level because it results in forward motion, impetus, and potential innovation. As a teacher, I don’t want students to reflect on what I teach them and just mimic it; I want them to critically respond and then find their own direction and their own design identity.

Image for post
Competence model of skill development. Source: https://medium.com/@zainabz/the-four-stages-of-competence-ee5c6046b205

People who are experienced in reflective learning don’t necessarily go through these layers in sequence, but I do suggest that my students try to do so in the beginning. When learning how to drive a car, a new learner will go through each step sequentially and consciously, until familiarity is gained and sequential thinking is no longer required, and the driver is unconsciously competent at driving. The same applies roughly to reflective learning. It’s not automatically intuitive (especially after years of indoctrination by schooling), so in the beginning it’s better to do it step by step, layer by layer, with the conscious intention of reflecting in each of the six ways separately.

No doubt some of you reading this will be aware that mine is hardly the first model or framework of reflection that anyone has come up with. Indeed, after ideating these six levels, I googled to see if perhaps I was unconsciously coming up with something that I’d already seen before. The closest I found was Gibbs’ Reflective Cycle, which was remarkably (and embarrassingly) similar to my own six levels, with minor differences. On the one hand, I wondered whether I’d known about Gibbs before and had just suppressed it, but I didn’t think so. So I just assumed that Gibbs and I had independently come up with similar frameworks because, uh, great minds and all that. That made me feel slightly better.

All I can say is to reflect (!) on this however you like, and if it helps you be a more critical thinker, then that’s great. In any case, it’s an evolving framework (I’m already thinking of a 7th level) and I would certainly love to hear your thoughts and, ummm… reflections.