Word clouds

Word clouds

Word clouds are one of the many new forms of writing that can no longer meaningfully be read aloud – they break the tie between speech and writing which the alphabet introduced almost four centuries ago.

What links the words in word clouds is not grammar, but relative salience, proximity, and composition. Looking at the example above, the relative salience of the words could tell us, perhaps, that boys are more important than girls, and schools more important than hieroglyphics. The proximity of the words to each other could tell us, perhaps, that there is some relation between scribes and hieroglyphics, and between mothers and babies.  Composition could tell us, perhaps, that hieroglyphics existed before school. We may even construct sentences, in broken English, “Girls went write school learned” or “Many scribes hieroglyphics”. But for the most part word clouds are precisely what the word ‘cloud’ suggests, passing shapes that we can read different things in, endlessly variable semantic fields that can be interpreted in many different ways which are nevertheless constrained by the words that are and are not included – in the example above we may have ‘school’ and ‘learned’, and we may have butchers, fathers, mothers, weavers, scribes, lawyers, and accountants, but we do not have teachers.

What word clouds do have is aesthetic value – compositional balance, typographic finesse, colour. In word clouds, once they are fixed, words become decorative, a setting for everyday practices that we need not be consciously aware of but that is yet always reassuringly there – on the wall of the lobby of an English Department, in the banner of the website of a forthcoming conference, on the cover of the annual report of a Library, to mention just a few I have seen recently.

“What do you see in the clouds, Charlie Brown?”
“Well, I was going to say I saw a duckie and a horsie, but I changed my mind”

(Charles, M. Schultz, The Complete Peanuts, vol 5)

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Baby laptops

Baby labtop multimodal blog van Leeuwen
Taking a dog (or other animal) to school was once a common theme in children’s stories. The moral was always the same. The dog was disruptive, could not sit still, didn’t understand what the teacher said, and eventually had to leave the classroom.

In this baby laptop, recommended in an accompanying leaflet as “a foundation for language and literacy development”, a puppy dog is the teacher. “Hello”, he says, in a childish voice, his face lighting up: “Do you want to play? Can you find the number two?”

When baby presses the orange button with the number two on it, he responds enthusiastically: “Number Two! One-Two! Orange triangle! Wraf Wraf!”. When she presses the blue button, he sings the alphabet, to a happy tune. And so on. “40+ learning activities and songs for baby to explore”
But learning is piecemeal, prone to distraction, interrupted by play. “Can you push my biscuit up to my paw? Thank you”.

“Do you want to play peek-a-boo?” (this can be done by lifting and closing the lid – “Peek-a-boo”, says the dog when the lid is opened again).

So baby learns – about letters and numbers and geometrical shapes, but above all about what a laptop is – a constant to and fro between learning and distraction, instruction and entertainment. And an object that must be loved – a faithful dog wanting to be touched, but ultimately taking you by the lead.

Wraf wraf.