CREATIVE

RESEARCH METHODS
IN THE SOCIAL SCIENCES
A practical guide

Helen Kara
CREATIVE RESEARCH METHODS
IN THE SOCIAL SCIENCES
A practical guide
Helen Kara
First published in Great Britain in 2015 by
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 Contents
List of figures and tables vi
Debts of gratitude vii
Foreword by Kenneth J. Gergen and Mary M. Gergen ix
How this book can help 1

one Introducing creative research 3

Introduction 3
Creative research methods 5
What do we know about ‘creativity’? 10
Creativity in research 13
Informal and formal research 16
Evaluation research 17
Conclusion 18

two Creative research methods in practice 19

Introduction 19
History of creative research methods 19
Good practice in creative research 21
Arts-based research in practice 22
Autoethnography in practice 25
Mixed-methods research in practice 26
Research using technology in practice 32
Conclusion 34

three Creative research methods and ethics 35

Introduction 35
Research governance 36
Theories of ethics 37
Feminist research 40
Emancipatory research 41
Decolonised research 42
Participatory research 45
Critiquing transformative research frameworks 46
Managing ethical dilemmas in creative research 47
Ethics in arts-based research 49
Ethics in mixed-methods research 50
Ethics in research using technology 51
Well-being of researchers 53
Conclusion 54

four Creative thinking 55

Introduction 55

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 Creative research methods in the social sciences

Ethical thinking 55
Creative thinking 55
Creative use of literature 59
Using theory creatively in research 63
Creativity and cross-disciplinary work 65
Imagination 66
Assessing research quality 68
Reflexivity 71
Conclusion 75

five Gathering data 77

Introduction 77
Ethics in data gathering 77
Reflexive data 78
Writing 79
Diaries and journals 81
Interviews 82
Video 85
Online and other secondary data 86
Transformative data gathering 86
Drawing 89
Mapping 90
Shadowing 91
Vignettes 92
Time 93
Mixed methods 94
Conclusion 97

six Analysing data 99

Introduction 99
Ethics in data analysis 100
Data preparation and coding 100
Quantitative versus qualitative data analysis 101
Secondary data 103
Analysing documentary data 104
Analysis of talk 105
Visual analytic techniques 107
Analysing video data 107
Mixed-methods analysis 109
Data integration 111
Data analysis using technology 114
Transformative frameworks and data analysis 115
Arts-based data analysis 117
Conclusion 119

iv
 Contents

seven Writing for research 121

Introduction 121
Ethics in writing for research 123
Audience 124
Feedback 124
Fact versus fiction 125
Journals 128
Blogs 129
Poetic writing 130
Collaborative writing 132
Mixed-methods writing 132
How to write better for research 135
Conclusion 136

eight Presentation 137

Introduction 137
The ethics of presentation 138
Data visualisation – dos and don’ts 142
Graphs and charts 147
Diagrams, infographics and maps 149
Conferences and meetings 150
Mixed-methods presentation 151
Arts-based presentation 154
Presentation using technology 158
Conclusion 159

nine Dissemination, implementation and knowledge exchange 161

Introduction 161
Ethics in creative dissemination and implementation 162
Online and other media 162
Mainstream media 164
Arts-based dissemination 168
Mixed methods of dissemination 170
Dissemination in transformative research 172
Implementation 173
Knowledge exchange 176
Conclusion 177

ten Conclusion 179

References 183
Index 213

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 Creative research methods in the social sciences

List of figures and tables

Figures
4.1 A simple concept map 62
8.1 Graph 144
8.2 Pie chart 145
8.3 Bubble graph 145
8.4 Block graph 146
8.5 Bar chart 146
8.6 Scattergraph 148

Tables
1.1 Neçka’s four levels of creativity 12
8.1 Data presentation #1 143
8.2 Data presentation #2 143

vi
 Debts of gratitude
So many people have helped with the creation of this book that I can’t name
them all. Inspiration and ideas have come from one-off conversations on buses and
at conferences; ongoing discussions with members of the UK’s Social Research
Association, the British Library’s social science department and the members
of the Arts & Sciences Researchers Forum at Cambridge University; as well as
innumerable exchanges on Twitter. I’m going to thank as many people as I can,
but if you should be in here and I’ve left you out – well, that’ll be the first of the
mistakes in this book which are, of course, all my own responsibility.
For specific advice on quantitative methods, I’d like to thank Andrea Finney
from the School of Geographical Sciences at Bristol University, and Patten Smith
and Chris Perry from Ipsos MORI. I’m grateful to Elizabeth Rodriguez, aka
@LibbyBlog, for pointing me to the crocheted model of hyperbolic geometry.
Special thanks for expert advice to Radhika Holmström, who helped with the
section about working with the mainstream media, and to Caroline Beavon, who
helped with the presentation chapter.
I am very grateful to three artist/researchers and endlessly patient sounding-
boards: Carol Burns, Su Connan and Anne-Louise Denyer. Also to Nick Dixon,
who pointed me to the work of David Edwards which I wouldn’t otherwise have
found, and who deserves extra special thanks for listening to me go on and on
and ON about this book for months and months. Amanda Taylor kindly pointed
me to Graham Gibbs’ YouTube channel.
I’m really grateful to Leigh Forbes for moral and technical support. Also to
Rob Macmillan of the Third Sector Research Centre, University of Birmingham,
for ongoing support and for straightening out some of my tangled ideas about
theory. And to Annette Markham of Aarhus University for taking an interest
purely on the basis of a slightly cheeky email, and passing on some really helpful
information.
My family are hugely supportive: Mark Miller, Julie Miller, Rosalind Hodge,
Carl Hodge, Jamie Round, Dave Round, Pauline Ward, Clare Miller, David
Miller, Vicki Miller, Bob Denyer, Lauren Denyer, Marie-Claire Denyer, John
McCormack, Anne-Louise Denyer, Gavin Daubney, Lowell Black and Aaron
Stevenson have all provided encouragement and love.
My friends, too, have been loving, supportive, and encouraging. In particular:
Ian Bramley and Kevin Turner, Gilly and Dave Brownhill, Carol Burns, Zöe
Clarke, Su Connan, Anne and Mike Cummins, Nick Dixon, Leigh Forbes, Sue
Guiney, Radhika Holmström, Sarah-May Matthews, Lucy Pickering, Wayne
Thexton and Katy Vigurs.
My partner, Nik Holmes, has helped far more than he realises, by making my
life run smoothly and happily in a hundred different ways, such as fixing computer
glitches, cooking delicious dinners and giving the best hugs.

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 Creative research methods in the social sciences

This book is immeasurably better as a result of input from four proposal

reviewers and especially two typescript reviewers, who did their job perfectly,
praising the good bits and gently pointing out where and how improvements
could be made.
Many of the staff at Policy Press have helped with this book, particularly Ali
Shaw, Julia Mortimer, Emily Watt, Victoria Pittman, Laura Vickers, Dave Worth,
Jo Morton, Kathryn King, Rebecca Megson and Helen Cook. I’d also like to
thank the world’s best copy-editor Judith Oppenheimer, who once again has saved
me from several bloopers. And I’m grateful to Emma Wright, aka @editorialgirl,
for designing my website and blog ([Link] and [Link]/blog) and
helping a great deal with my promotional work.
These few words seem like utterly inadequate recompense for the time, care
and expertise all these people have put into my work, but I hope the knowledge
that I am really very grateful for their contributions will go some way towards
rewarding their generosity. Also, I hope that when they see – and perhaps even
read – the book, they will feel their input has been well used, and their effort
was worthwhile.

viii
 Foreword
Kenneth J. Gergen and Mary M. Gergen

This is an important book. It is inevitably limited in length and selective in subject

matter, but its implications resound across the social sciences and further. For
almost a century the social sciences have allied themselves with a conception of
knowledge as inhering in propositions supported or verified by empirical evidence.
Whether it be knowledge of nature, of human behaviour, or psychological process,
statements about ‘what is the case’ should be based on carefully and systematically
controlled observation. Such a view presumes the fixed nature of the subject
matter, independent of anyone’s particular prejudices. Thus, sound and systematic
methods of observation and assessment are required, methods that will prevent the
contamination of knowledge by potential prejudices. Until recent years, virtually
all books on research methods sustained this conception of knowledge. Or, one
might say, books on methods functioned much like marching orders.
Times have changed, and most social scientists have now come to understand the
way knowledgeable propositions are constructed within various scientific enclaves,
carrying with them myriad assumptions and values that have no warrant save the
negotiated realities of the groups themselves. It is this realisation that has led not
only to wide-ranging critiques of the limitations of traditional empirical methods
(e.g. experimentation, measurement, statistical analysis), but to an enormous
flowering of qualitative methods. A new range of handbooks has emerged in the
past decade, offering a wide and exciting range of qualitative methods of inquiry.
Yet, there remains within these cadres a silent legacy from the preceding decades
of empiricist foundationalism. It is the attempt to set standards of excellence for
the various methodological practices. There are the endless lists and rationales
about what the researcher should and should not do if the work is to be creditable
within the particular enclave. Helen Kara’s present offering dares to question this
legacy. As she properly sees, there are no necessary or essential rules of inquiry;
the major question is what the researcher wishes to accomplish; what is worth
doing, and for whom? When the goals are established, then the creative juices may
begin to flow. ‘How may I, as researcher, create the form of inquiry that will best
suit my purposes and support my ethical concerns?’ Here is a bold invitation for
researchers to move beyond the available ‘cookbooks’, to mobilise their talents,
insights and passions, and create the means to valued ends. We applaud the effort.

Kenneth J. Gergen and Mary M. Gergen

Pennsylvania, USA
March 2015

ix
This book is dedicated to Nik Holmes in recognition
of, and gratitude for, his dedication to me

x
 How this book can help
This book is designed to provide you with an overview of, and insight into, the
huge range of creative research methods available to researchers in the social
sciences. Some of these may also be useful to researchers in the arts and humanities.
The book will also help contemporary researchers who may be facing research
questions that cannot be answered – or at least, not fully – using traditional research
methods. However, this is not to suggest that the more ‘creative’ a research project
is, the better the results will be! It is important to know and understand traditional
methods in social science research, such as questionnaires, interviews and focus
groups. It is also important to be familiar with good research practice, as the use
of creative methods does not supersede the basic principles of good research. If
you are new to research, you will find useful a number of well-written books
and other resources covering traditional methods and good practice, several of
which are referenced in this book such as Robson (2011) and Bryman (2012).
Doing research is an inherently creative activity at all stages of the process. The
more methodological tools a researcher is able to use, the more effectively they
are likely to be able to address the kinds of questions that arise today in social
science research.
This book gives a broad overview of creative research methods, with lots of
examples of their use in practice. Many of these examples are summarised in
boxes throughout the text. I have chosen to cover as many methods as possible
in brief, rather than a few in detail; therefore, if you are interested in using any
of the methods outlined here, you are recommended to seek out the original
reference(s) for more information.
For a relatively complete picture of creative research methods in practice you
will want to read the whole book. However, it has been structured and indexed so
as also to serve as a guide for readers who may be in need of ideas or inspiration
for a particular stage or element of their research work. The following overview
of the book’s content explains what you will find in it, and where.

Overview of contents
Chapter One introduces and outlines the four key areas of creative research
methods: arts-based research, research using technology, mixed-methods research
and transformative research frameworks (for example, participatory, feminist and
decolonising methodologies). It then considers what we know about ‘creativity’
and discusses how this operates in [Link] chapter also gives a brief overview
of informal and formal research and of evaluation research.
Chapter Two starts with a brief review of the history of creative research
methods and then takes a look at good practice in creative research. It then gives
a more in-depth introduction to arts-based research, mixed-methods research

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 Creative research methods in the social sciences

and research using technology, in practice. It also introduces autoethnography,

which can include all three approaches.
Chapter Three begins with a quick review of research governance and theories
of ethics. It outlines the transformative ethical frameworks of emancipatory,
decolonised, participatory and feminist research, and also considers ways of
managing ethical dilemmas in creative research. Then the chapter covers ethics
in arts-based research, mixed-methods research and research using technology.
Last but not least, the chapter considers the well-being of researchers.
Chapter Four covers creative thinking and creative reading. It explores some
options for using literature and theory creatively and discusses creativity in cross-
disciplinary work, and the role of the imagination in research. It also looks at
ways of assessing the quality of quantitative and qualitative research, including
the use of reflexivity.
Chapter Five looks at some creative methods of gathering data. These include
the use of diaries and journals, drawing, using video, making maps, shadowing
and vignettes.
Chapter Six reviews some creative methods of analysing data, including
secondary data, documentary data, talk as data and video data. Arts-based
analysis, mixed-methods analysis, analysis using technology and analysis within
transformative frameworks are also covered.
Chapter Seven is about writing for research and begins with the importance
of knowing, and writing for, your audience(s). The skills of receiving and giving
feedback on your writing are briefly addressed, and there is a short discussion of
the gaps and overlaps between fact and fiction. Then several methods of writing
are reviewed, including journals, blogs, poetic writing, mixed-methods writing and
collaborative writing. Ways of combining writing with other forms of representation
are discussed, and some advice is offered on how to write better for research.
Chapter Eight covers the presentation of research data and findings. This chapter
begins with the ethical aspects of presentation, and then looks at some dos and
don’ts of data visualisation, before covering graphs, charts, diagrams, infographics
and maps. The later sections address presentation at conferences and meetings,
and mixed-methods, arts-based and participatory presentation of information.
Chapter Nine is about the dissemination and implementation of research, and
knowledge exchange. It begins with the ethical aspects of creative dissemination
and implementation, and then looks at dissemination through the online and
mainstream media. Arts-based dissemination, mixed methods of dissemination
and dissemination in transformative research are all covered. The final sections
of the chapter look at implementation and knowledge exchange.
Further information and details of the examples referenced in this book have
been collated on the companion website, which can be accessed at [Link]
[Link]/resources/kara-creative/[Link]

This icon indicates that a link to the resource(s) mentioned in the text may
be found on the companion website.

2
 ONE

Introducing creative research

Introduction
The early 21st century is a dynamic and exciting time for research methods.
Methodological boundaries are expanding across all social science disciplines.
Over the last 20 years, Denzin and Lincoln have been tracking developments in
qualitative research methods through their edited collections, the most recent of
which was published in 2011 (Denzin and Lincoln 2011). Even in the few years
since then, the field has developed and expanded as researchers seek effective
ways to address increasingly complex questions in social science.
This book re-conceptualises creative research methods into four key areas:

1. arts-based research
2. research using technology
3. mixed-methods research
4. transformative research frameworks (such as participatory, feminist and
decolonising methodologies).

Of course these areas are not mutually exclusive. For example, it has been
suggested that mixed-methods research has a key role to play in the development
of decolonising methodologies (Botha 2011: 313). In this book you will find
examples of research that draws on two, three or all four areas. In time, other
creative methods may develop that don’t fit into any of these areas. But for the
time being this conceptualisation provides a useful way to think and talk about
creative research methods that will help you give full consideration to the methods
you might use to answer your research questions.
This book does not claim to provide a definitive account of creative research
methods – the field is growing and changing so fast that no book could capture its
entirety. You will find many excellent examples here, but many more have been
omitted, due to lack of space. However, there should be enough here to excite
and inspire researchers and to provide a snapshot of a stage in research methods
evolution: a stage where multi-disciplinary research teams are using creative
methods to help them vault out of silos and leap over boundaries. This will help
readers who want to break out of traditional disciplinary confines, or who need
to do so because their research questions are too complex to be restricted by the
traditional methods and techniques of a single discipline.
One point that it is useful to clarify at the start is the relationship between
‘methods’ and ‘methodology’, particularly as the conceptualisation above includes

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 Creative research methods in the social sciences

both. These terms are often used synonymously, but they actually denote
different aspects of research. Methodology is ‘a contextual framework’ (Grierson
and Brearley 2009: 5) for research, a coherent and logical scheme based on
views, beliefs and values, that guides the choices researchers make. Within this
methodological framework, methods are the tools that researchers use to gather
and analyse data, write and present their findings. Methodology and method
are thus intimately linked both with each other and with the research questions
(Mason 2002: 189). Researchers need to understand all three and how the
relationships between them work, to help research audiences understand how
and why researchers make decisions in the course of designing and conducting
research. Further, while some creative research methods may be tremendously
appealing in themselves, it is essential to choose methods for their ability to address
the research question within the methodological context (Ellingson 2009: 176).
Strictly speaking, this book should have been called Creative Research Methods and
Methodologies in the Social Sciences: A Practical Guide, but that was much too wordy!
Like many books on research, this book is structured around different aspects
of the research process: reading and thinking, gathering data, analysing data,
writing and so on. While this could give the impression that these aspects can
be separated from each other, in reality that is not the case. For example, writing
is an essential part of the whole research process (Rapley 2011: 286). Reading
is also likely to occur throughout the process (Hart 2001: 7).Notes from your
reading may be coded and analysed in the same way as data. Documents can
be categorised as data or as background reading (Kara 2012: 126). Treating
different aspects of the research process as separate makes them easier to consider
and discuss, but, like the conceptualisation above, this is an artifice; they are
inextricably linked. Some research methods in themselves are designed to
try to acknowledge this. For example, grounded theory, devised by Barney
Glaser and Anselm Strauss in 1967, is a method in which theory is developed
as data is gathered and analysed. Later scholars have built on this approach, for
example by demonstrating that various types of diagrams can be co-constructed
by researchers and participants as part of data gathering, data analysis, theory
development and research presentation (Strauss and Corbin 1998: 153; Williams
and Keady 2012: 218). For those who are particularly interested in grounded
theory, there are a series of useful videos on the subject presented by UK
researcher Graham Gibbs.
This book is written primarily for researchers working alone or in small teams
in the social sciences, humanities and allied subjects, to help them give full
consideration to the research methods they might use. In the Western world, there
are many more examples of qualitative than of quantitative research (Alasuutari
2009: 140), and the balance in this book reflects that. However, that is not to
say that qualitative research or the social sciences and humanities are inherently
creative, while quantitative research or the physical sciences are uncreative.
There is enormously creative work going on in quantitative methods and the
physical sciences, such as in large-scale national surveys (for example Burton

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 Introducing creative research

2013) and science, technology, engineering and mathematics (STEM) research

(for example Walsh, Anders and Hancock 2013: 20), but large-scale and STEM
research methods are beyond the scope of this book. It is perhaps useful to note
that, in social research, intangible subjects such as trust and intuition are being
investigated through the creative use of quantitative methods (for example Priem
and Weibel 2012; Burns and Conchie 2012; Hodgkinson and Sadler-Smith 2014)
in addition to creative qualitative methods.
This book assumes a reasonable general knowledge of basic research methods
terminology. If that is an incorrect assumption in your case, there is a useful
glossary of terms online, or you could use a good general research textbook
such as Robson (2011) or Bryman (2012). However, even if you do have a good
research methods vocabulary, you need to know that the terminology of creative
research methods is very fluid. For example, there are over 40 terms for the use
of poetry and poetics in research, such as poetic narrative, found poems and field
poetry (Prendergast 2009a: xx–xxi), and there are a similar number of terms
for autoethnography (Chang 2008: 46–8). Some of these terms are intended
to reflect nuances in emphasis. However, different terms may be used to mean
the same thing. For example, interviews with two people who are married or
partnered with each other have been called ‘couple interviews’ (as in Mellor
et al 2013: 1399), ‘relationship-based dyadic interviews’ (as in Morgan et al
2013: 1277) and ‘joint interviews’ (as in Sakellariou et al 2013: 1565). There
are a range of terms for dramatic presentations of research findings, including
ethnodrama (see Sangha et al 2012: 286), research-based drama (see Mitchell
et al 2011: 379) and research-based theatre (see Beck et al 2011: 687). While
it uses terms consistently, this book does not attempt to provide definitive
terminology for the field.
This chapter now continues by outlining creative research methods and their
four key areas. It will then consider what we know about ‘creativity’ and discuss
how this operates in research, before providing a brief overview of informal and
formal research and of evaluation research.

Creative research methods

‘Creative’ is not directly synonymous with ‘innovative’.There is growing pressure
on researchers to innovate, leading to a situation where innovation is often
overstated in an effort to get funding or to be published (Wiles, Crow and Pain
2011: 594). Of course some methods are innovative, and some that are both
innovative and creative will be featured in this book, but some methods for which
innovation is claimed are actually creative rather than innovative.
There is also scope for creativity in the use of traditional methods. For example,
focus groups have been used in qualitative research since the 1960s (Green and
Hart 1999: 21), so can hardly be described as ‘innovative’ today. But there is still
scope for creativity within focus group methodology. For example, Belzile and
Öberg (2012) draw on a wide body of literature to demonstrate that few researchers

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 Creative research methods in the social sciences

using focus groups pay attention to the interaction between participants, with
most researchers treating focus group data in the same way as data from individual
interviews. Belzile and Oberg use this insight to create a framework for researchers
that is designed to support the inclusion of participant interaction within focus
group design. There are many other examples of researchers taking a creative
approach to a traditional method.
Even some of the STEM disciplines are finding inspiration from creative
practices. For example, the problem of how to model hyperbolic geometry puzzled
mathematicians for centuries until, in the 1990s, Daina Taimina realised that it
could be done with knitting or, even better, crochet (Henderson and Taimina
2001). You can find a demonstration of crochet modelling hyperbolic geometry
online. [[Link]
It has been argued that social scientists are closer kin to creative artists and
performers than to the physical scientists with whom we are traditionally allied
(Smith 2009: 99). Most arts-based research methods draw on forms of creative
writing and/or the visual arts: drawing, painting, collage, photography and so
on. Other art forms used as the basis for research include music, drama, textile
arts such as quilting and sculpture. Social science research and art are natural
bedfellows in some ways, because the creative process works similarly for both
(Edwards 2008: 96). But there are also tensions between them. For example,
‘truth’ in art is a link between a unique artwork and a recognisable aspect of the
human condition, which is acknowledged by individual producers and consumers
of art (for example, Edwards 2008: 111; Raingruber 2009: 261; Gabriel and
Connell 2010: 517). The ‘truth’ in an artwork is not necessarily experienced in
the same way by everyone, so this formulation presents ‘truth’ as multiple and
contestable. Traditionally in research, ‘truth’ is a finding that can be replicated if
the research is repeated. This depicts ‘truth’ as a single, shareable and indisputable
viewpoint. More recently, some researchers have been considering that ‘truth’
may be as complex as artists suggest – multiple, partial, context-dependent and
contingent – and so may be best explored by ‘looking intensely from multiple
perspectives’ (Sameshima and Vandermause 2009: 277), such as through mixed-
methods research.
Research using technology includes internet-mediated research, such as research
through social media, as well as research supported by other kinds of technology
such as mobile devices or apps. Some technology is devised specifically for
researchers. This includes various types of data analysis software, such as SPSS
(Statistical Package for Social Scientists) for quantitative data or NVivo for
qualitative data; the online research management and sharing program Mendeley;
or dedicated online survey providers such as SurveyMonkey. Researchers also use
technology devised for non-research purposes, such as e-mail for communicating
with a team of co-researchers, a spreadsheet program for managing questionnaire
data or Twitter for gathering data from participants all over the world.
Technology itself has an influence on people’s creativity, yet the role of
technology in the creative process has not yet been fully understood or theorised

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 Introducing creative research

(Gangadharbatla 2010: 225). Also, technology is one topic in which students are
often ahead of their teachers (Paulus et al 2013: 639). Research using technology
is a very fast-moving field, adding many possible new dimensions to the research
process. This book focuses primarily on creative uses of technology in research,
rather than, for example, rehearsing the pros and cons of different software or
hardware.
The rapid movement of technology can be daunting for researchers. While
some people are fluent in web scraping, co-creation, APIs, mash-ups, blog-
mining, apps and data visualisation, for others this is a foreign language.
Unfamiliarity can be a deterrent; it can feel safer to stay in the land of surveys,
interviews and focus groups, where we speak the language and understand the
signs. In this situation it can be reassuring to know that nobody can keep up
with all the advances in technology. Even if you consider yourself a complete
Luddite, I recommend staying open to the possibilities that technology can
offer to your research, even if only in one or two parts of the research process.
And you can learn one step at a time. Almost all researchers are happy to use
e-mail, word processing and text messaging these days, and it’s only one more
step from there to using Skype, creating graphs from your data or tweeting.
The more of this kind of thing you do, the more confident, knowledgeable
and skilled you will become. Also, the great thing about using technology is
that if you get stuck on anything, at any level, you can almost always find a
solution online. For those at the opposite end of the spectrum, and in danger
of becoming over-dependent on technology, there is a useful talk online on
ways to manage your tech-life balance.
Mixed-methods research involves combining different methods of data gathering
and/or analysis, different types of recruitment or sampling, different theoretical
and/or disciplinary perspectives and so on. It is often considered particularly
useful for investigating complex social situations (Koro-Ljungberg et al 2012:
814; Gidron 2013: 306).

UK researchers Joanne Mayoh, Carol Bond and Les Todres studied the experiences
of UK adults with chronic health conditions who looked for health information
online. This is a complex phenomenon so the researchers decided to use mixed
methods, with the aim of ‘identifying and communicating both breadth and
depth of information’ (Mayoh, Bond and Todres 2012: 22). As there was not
much previous research in this area, the first phase of data gathering involved
two questionnaires, mainly quantitative, to gather broad data about patients’
experiences of finding information and about the barriers perceived by non-
users of the internet. The analysis of data from these questionnaires provided an
appropriate focus for in-depth interviews, which could not have been achieved
from the existing literature (Mayoh, Bond and Todres 2012: 27). Altogether, the
findings gave a much clearer picture of the complex phenomenon of adults with
chronic health conditions seeking health information online than could have

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 Creative research methods in the social sciences

been achieved by using any single qualitative or quantitative research method

(Mayoh, Bond and Todres 2012: 29).

Traditional research methods have been around for so long, and are so pervasive,
that they can seem to be ‘right’ and ‘natural’ (Dark 2009: 176–7). However, for
some researchers, traditional methods may fix and limit meaning in a reductive
way, while creative methods can more accurately reflect the multiplicity of
meanings that exist in social contexts (for example, Inckle 2010).This can lead to
methods being creatively layered alongside each other to build a richer picture.
For example, interviews have been enhanced by various other methods of data
gathering, such as photos in photo-elicitation (Smith, Gidlow and Steel 2012),
diaries in diary interviews (Kenten 2010) and fixed-narrative and interactive
developmental vignettes (Jenkins et al 2010). (See Chapter Five for more
information about these techniques.) In each case, the researchers are confident
that enhanced interviews produce richer and more insightful data than interviews,
or the associated method(s), would do alone.

UK researcher Dawn Mannay combined interviews with the use of photos,

mapping and collage production in her insider study of the experiences of mothers
and daughters on a social housing estate. Mannay had six participants. Two were
asked to take a set of photographs showing places and activities that had meaning
for them; two were asked to draw maps of their physical and social environments;
and two were asked to produce collages, using images and words from a range
of sources, to give a visual representation of their world. Each visual output was
used as a basis for an interview with its creator. For Mannay, these visual methods
provided a useful way of ‘making the familiar strange’, which enabled her to gain
a ‘more nuanced understanding of the mothers and daughters’ worlds’ (Mannay
2010: 100) than she could have done using interviews alone.

Dawn Mannay’s own story, which is inspirational, is available online.

It could be argued that ethnographers are at the forefront of multi-layered
methodologies. There are now many varieties of ethnography, including
performative, institutional, collaborative, embodied, arts-based, participatory,
virtual and narrative ethnography (Vannini 2013: 442). Ethnographers take the
most eclectic approach to data gathering, using a very wide range of vehicles, from
ecstatic dance (Pickering 2009) to mobile phones with GPS tracking technology
(Christensen et al 2011: 233). Ethnographers also take a very varied approach
to presentation and dissemination, using methods such as publicly exhibited arts
installations (Degarrod 2013) and private film screenings (Franzen 2013: 422).

8
 Introducing creative research

The same methods can sometimes be used creatively at different stages of the
research process. For example, vignettes have been used as part of data gathering
(see Jenkins et al 2010), data analysis (see Benozzo 2011), and writing (see Inckle
2010) (and see Chapter Five for more on vignette methodologies).

Even failure can promote creativity in research. UK researchers Mark McCormack,

Adrian Adams and Eric Anderson were interested in how the lives of bisexual
men were influenced by decreasing levels of homophobia. They obtained ethical
approval to conduct in-depth, face-to-face interviews with bisexual men in Los
Angeles, New York and London, with participants being recruited online. However,
this recruitment method proved both time consuming and ineffective; in two
full days in Los Angeles, the researchers managed to secure only two interviews.
With time running out, they decided to try a rather drastic recruitment method.
They went to Venice Beach, a crowded bohemian area of the city, and shouted to
people in the street that they were looking for bisexual men to interview. Using
this method, they were able to secure 14 interviews in five hours. They treated
this as a pilot, and repeated the experiment in several other crowded urban
spaces in each of the three cities, wearing cowboy hats, carrying brightly coloured
clipboards and shouting, ‘Bisexual men, we’re paying $40 for academic research,’
at regular, 20-second intervals (McCormack, Adams and Anderson 2012: 233).
Two of the three researchers did the shouting, while a third waited in a nearby
location such as a cafe, ready to conduct interviews; they rotated roles throughout
each day in the field. This proved a very successful recruitment strategy and they
were able to secure an average of around three interviews per hour.

Traditional research aimed to be value free, apparently without realising that

this is in itself a value. Traditional research methods are often presented as
usable independent of their context, despite being products of specific cultural
contexts (Gobo 2011: 433). Creative ethical research turns this on its head by
using transformative research frameworks that are flexible enough to take account
of relevant contextual factors. These frameworks are based on, and intended to
promote, positive social values such as equality and justice. Examples of these
creative ethical research frameworks include emancipatory or activist research,
decolonised research, feminist research and participatory research, known
collectively as transformative research frameworks (Mertens 2010: 473). These
will be discussed more fully in Chapter Three.
The categories of ‘arts-based’, ‘mixed methods’, ‘using technology’ and
‘transformative’ are not mutually exclusive. For example, mixed-methods research
may be conducted within a transformative framework (Sweetman, Badiee and
Creswell 2010: 452). Transformative research may also be arts based (Blodgett
et al 2013) and mixed-methods research may use technology (Hesse-Biber and
Griffin 2013: 43).

9
 Creative research methods in the social sciences

Amy Blodgett and her colleagues in Ontario, Canada conducted participatory

action research with a decolonising agenda in their investigation of the sport
experiences of young Aboriginal athletes who were moving off reserves to take
part in sport. Four academic researchers from Laurentian University in Ontario
worked in partnership with three Aboriginal researchers from Wikwemikong
Unceded Indian Reserve. The research team drew on the local and cultural
knowledge and experience of the Aboriginal researchers and the methodological
knowledge and experience of the academic researchers to ensure that the research
was ‘culturally appropriate and methodologically sound’ (Blodgett et al 2013: 316).
The research team decided it would be culturally appropriate to use an arts-based
method of gathering data, and chose mandala drawings because the circle is highly
significant in this Aboriginal culture and considered to be sacred. Participants
were asked to begin by drawing a circle and then to ‘reflect on their experiences
relocating for sport and draw anything that comes to mind’ (Blodgett et al 2013:
319). Each mandala was used to facilitate an individual conversational interview,
which respects the Aboriginal cultural tradition of storytelling. Both the creation
of the mandalas and the conversational interviews framed participants as the
experts on their experiences, which, together with the methods being culturally
appropriate, speaks to the decolonising agenda. At the suggestion of the Aboriginal
researchers, some of the findings were disseminated by printing the mandalas
on a community blanket and displaying them publicly at the Wikwemikong
Youth Centre. This enabled sport and recreation staff to use the mandalas as
educational tools for young athletes who were considering moving off the
reserve to take up sport opportunities, partly to explain what that experience is
like, and partly to encourage young people to pursue their dreams. Overall, the
‘knowledge production process ... reflected circular links between individuals and
their community, as well as research and action’ (Blodgett et al 2013: 328). This
is an example of transformative, mixed-methods, arts-based research.

Some transformative research uses mixed methods, including arts-based methods

incorporating technology. For example,Ashlee Cunsolo Willox and her colleagues,
conducting research with the Rigolet Inuit community in northern Labrador in
Canada into the impact of climate change, gathered data through participatory
digital storytelling, together with concept mapping and interviews (Cunsolo
Willox et al 2013: 132–3).This research will be discussed in more detail in Chapters
Five, Eight and Nine. Lament for the Land, a film output from this research
about personal experience of climate change, told through the voices of people
from northern Labrador, can be viewed online.

What do we know about ‘creativity’?

Creativity is complex and notoriously hard to define (Carter 2004: 25, 39; Swann
2006: 9; Batey 2012: 55, Walsh, Anders and Hancock 2013: 21). Creativity is

10
 Introducing creative research

also difficult to measure (Villalba 2012: 1), so it is under-researched and poorly

understood (Batey 2012: 55). Historically, creativity was viewed as a divine
attribute (Sternberg 2006: 6, Hesmondhaugh and Baker 2011: 3), with only the
gods being able to create something from nothing. A legacy of this is that some
creative people still refer to the capricious ‘muse’ or ‘inspiration’ that may arrive –
or not – at any time (Carter 2004: 25). Nowadays, creativity is more often viewed
as a process of creating something from elements that already exist by putting
them together in a new way (Carter 2004: 47; Munat 2007: xiv; Koestler 1969:
45, cited in Forceville 2012: 113). An interesting TED talk on creativity by the
author Elizabeth Gilbert is available online.
Some scholars of creativity subscribe to a ‘standard definition’ including the
criteria of originality and effectiveness (Runco and Jaeger 2012: 92), which
stems from the work of Stein (1953) and Barron (1955) (Runco and Jaeger
2012: 95). Yet this definition says more about what creativity does and how
it functions than about what it is. Also, creativity scholars now acknowledge
that this definition may not be entirely adequate; there is no clear consensus
that the criteria of originality and effectiveness are the best or only criteria to
use in judging creativity (Runco and Jaeger 2012: 95). Some commentators
take the view that originality is not a requirement for creativity (for example,
Fryer 2012: 22).
Creativity is understood differently in different countries. Research in Hong
Kong, China and America found that Chinese people tend to see creativity as
an external social attribute, focusing on what creative people can contribute to
society, while Westerners tend to see creativity more as an internal individual
attribute (Niu 2006: 386–7; Paletz, Peng and Li 2011: 95). In Germany,
creativity is seen as a process to help solve problems (Preiser 2006: 175), while
in Scandinavian countries, creativity is seen as an individual attitude that helps
people to cope with the challenges of life (Smith and Carlsson 2006: 202).
Some of this may be due to different linguistic approaches to creativity (Paletz,
Peng and Li 2011: 95). For example, of 28 African languages surveyed by Mpofu
et al, 27 had no word that directly translated to ‘creativity’. The exception was
Arabic, which has different words for creativity in secular and religious contexts
(Mpofu et al 2006: 465). Polish also has two words for creativity: twórczość which
refers to high-level creativity resulting in distinguished artistic or scientific
achievements, and kreatywność for more everyday, personal creativity (Neçka,
Grohman and Słabosz 2006: 272–3). But there is no suggestion that fewer words
for creativity means that the speakers of that language are any less creative. African
countries where no word for creativity is spoken are as rich in humour and crafts,
music and invention, arts and storytelling as any other countries. However, there
is evidence that being bilingual promotes creativity, although the reasons for this
are more complex than simply having access to more words (Kharkhurin 2011:
239; Swann, Pope and Carter 2011: 26).
Some scholars have theorised creativity by breaking it down into different
categories. Two-category examples include ‘small c creativity’ for everyday

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 Creative research methods in the social sciences

Table 1.1: Neçka’s four levels of creativity

Type of creativity Examples of use Duration

Fluid Creativity in speech; solving small problems using Seconds to
intelligence minutes
Crystallised Solving larger problems using intelligence and knowledge Minutes to years
Mature Creating new texts or artefacts using intelligence, Hours to decades
knowledge and skill
Eminent Creating new concepts or ground-breaking texts or Days to decades
artefacts

creativity and ‘big C creativity’ for notable creativity (Sternberg 2006: 6). Another
two-category example suggests historical creativity for anything recognised
as important over time and personal creativity for anything valued in its own
context (Boden 1994, cited in Carter 2004: 66–7). Other commentators have
proposed triple divisions, such as artistic creativity, the creativity of discovery and
the creativity of humour (Clegg and Birch 1999: 7). The Polish theorist Edward
Neçka has taken this approach one step further with his model of four levels of
creativity (Neçka, Grohman and Słabosz 2006: 274–5) shown in Table 1.1.
These theories are useful in helping us to think about creativity in practice.
Dictionary definitions can also help. The verb ‘to create’ in English simply means
‘to bring something into existence’. It is synonymous with ‘make’ and ‘produce’.
So you could create an apple [Link] would be bringing it into existence; it would
be your creation, not exactly like any other apple pie. But how ‘creative’ would that
process be? You would not be bringing elements together in a new way, because
countless apple pies have been made before. Unlike the verb at its root, the word
‘creative’ is synonymous with ‘original’ and ‘ingenious’.To be truly creative, you’d
need to create, say, a turnip and cockroach meringue. Which neatly illustrates
the point that the results of creativity are not always positive (Carter 2004: 48).
Part of the difficulty in discussing creativity is that the word has become so
ubiquitous in Western society that it can seem almost meaningless (Carter 2004:
140; Hesmondhaugh and Baker 2011: 2; Toolan 2012: 19). Also, there is a large
body of literature on creativity, from many different disciplinary perspectives, that
would take an entire book of its own to synthesise effectively. But we do know
some things about the creative process. It’s not about making something from
nothing; it’s about taking things that already exist and making new combinations.
And while creativity is often viewed as a type of behaviour (Walsh, Anders and
Hancock 2013: 26), it is not only about making things; creativity can also be
applied to thinking, reading, playing and other activities. Creative thought involves
lateral thinking, challenging accepted ways of seeing and doing things; defining
problems as well as solving them (Carter 2004: 41). Reading is an interactive
and embodied process: the reader is not merely a passive recipient of the text,
but an active interpreter, bringing their own understandings and feelings to the
process of creating meanings for themselves as they read (Pope 1999: 43, cited
in Loffredo and Perteghella 2006: 10; Howard 2012: 214). Creativity in research

12
 Introducing creative research

(and no doubt elsewhere too) is not solely about thinking in the cerebral sense: it
also involves elements of human ‘knowing’ such as intuition (Stierand and Dörfler
2014: 249), imagination (Lapum et al 2012: 103), ‘reverie’ (Duxbury 2009: 56)
and ‘wonder’ (Hansen 2012: 3). Creativity is an essential element of play (Swann
2006: 45), and the combination of the two aids learning (Furlow 2001: 30, cited
in Gillen 2006: 182). There is a good online TED talk about the relationship
between play and creativity.
Education is key to developing creativity (Yamamoto 2010: 345). Yet, some
education systems, such as those in countries like China and Singapore, focus on
rote learning, which does not help children and young people to develop their
critical and creative faculties (Teo and Waugh 2010: 206). Although creativity
is hard to define or measure, it can and should be taught (Katz-Buonincontro
2012: 264). One way to teach creativity is to teach the creative methods of a
given discipline (Teo and Waugh 2010: 212). This book is designed to enable
and support the learning and teaching of creative research methods.

Creativity in research
Research is a complex human activity. Historically, research was viewed as a process
in which experiments were conducted in conditions where all confounding
variables had been eliminated and the researcher was a neutral agent who did not
influence the findings. Now it is readily recognised that this is only one possible
view of research, and there are many others. For example, some kinds of research
are now seen as context-dependent, multifaceted endeavours in which a variety
of people have influence over the process and its outcome. In particular, it is rare
that social phenomena can be effectively investigated by following ‘rigorous and
pre-determined rules’ for conducting research (Tenenbaum et al 2009: 118). Also,
although some social science researchers still value the concept of objectivity,
many recognise that, at least in some contexts, this is impossible to achieve. For
example, people researching death and mortality cannot avoid having some kind
of personal angle on the subject matter (Woodthorpe 2011: 99). This applies to
other topic areas too, such as wealth and poverty, or health and sickness.
However it is viewed, any research project is the result of many decisions. The
research topic, questions, method(s) of data gathering and analysis, presentation
and dissemination all have to be decided. Within each of those areas lie numerous
smaller decisions. How many questions should we put into the survey? This
interviewee seems agitated; should I stop the interview and check what’s going
on with him? Which of three pertinent quotes should we use in the research
report? Should I present the findings as bar graphs or pie charts? Which word
can express what we’re trying to say here? Is it ethical to include this outlier? Is
it ethical to leave it out?
Research as an activity is suffused with uncertainty (Weiner-Levy and Popper-
Giveon 2012). Uncertainty is closely linked with creativity (Grishin 2008:
115; Galvin and Todres 2012: 114; Romanyshyn 2013: 149). There is also a

13
 Creative research methods in the social sciences

lot of overlap between creativity and problem solving (Selby, Shaw and Houtz
2005: 301). This renders research a fertile arena for creativity. In Neçka’s terms,
sometimes this will be fluid creativity, such as a joke shared in an interview or an
effective formula chosen for use on a spreadsheet. Sometimes it will be crystallised
creativity, such as an elegant research design, or buying a car to help with data
gathering by increasing access to community members and experiences (Stack
1974: 17). Sometimes it will be mature creativity, such as research presented to
homeless participants in the form of a graphic novel (Morris et al 2012). And
sometimes it will be eminent creativity, such as the invention of action research
by Professor Kurt Lewin in the 1940s. Researchers have recently demonstrated
that creativity is relevant for both problem solving and analytical decisions, based
on multiple criteria, aiming for new and useful outcomes (Čančer and Mulej
2013). This suggests that all research since the dawn of time has been a highly
creative activity.
One of the defining features of creativity in research is that it tends to resist
binary or categorical thinking. Mixed-methods research grew from people
thinking ‘Hang on a minute, why is it qualitative or quantitative? Why not both?’
Also, putting people into separate categories, when scrutinised, often seems not to
work as well as it might appear. For example, researchers in Asia and the Pacific
found that ‘The categories of “gatekeeper” and “vulnerable populations” are
unstable, complex and often interchangeable’ (Czymoniewicz-Klippel, Brijnath
and Crockett 2010: 339). Some researchers are reluctant to divide people into
mind and body (for example, Kershaw and Nicholson 2011: 2). For an increasing
number of queer and other researchers, gender is non-binary. And Jones is
confident that creativity is the basis for both arts and sciences, so in this dimension,
at least, they need not be separate (Jones and Leavy 2014: 1).
All creative researchers stand astride boundaries, and this can be uncomfortable.
For example, artists who are forced to squash their work into the unnatural
shapes required by academia may find the process agonising (Durré 2008: 35).
Alternatively, those who are required to keep their art separate from their scholarly
work may feel ‘the ache of false separation’ (Leavy 2010: 240). People working
within transformative frameworks are challenging power, and that can cause
great discomfort, particularly when the powerful resist (Ostrer and Morris 2009:
74–5) or when researchers’ peers in their own communities are as critical as those
outside (Smith 2012: 14). Mixed-methods research can be uncomfortable when
disciplinary norms and knowledge are challenged (Lunde et al 2013: 206). Yet,
it is in exactly these boundary-spanning situations, where roles begin to become
ambiguous, that creativity may thrive (Wang, Zhang and Martocchio 2011: 211).
Some research methods are reified in the literature as if they are indisputable
and fail safe, yet any method involves decisions at every stage. We have seen that
decisions are nodes for creativity. This may partly be due to the unconscious,
intuitive aspect of decision making (Gauntlett 2007: 82–3; Smerek 2014: 10) that
draws on the non-cerebral types of thinking mentioned above. Decisions also have
implications that it is not always possible to foresee in full (Mason and Dale 2011:

14
 Introducing creative research

1–2). For example, take the systematic review. This is intended to be a review of
all the research already conducted to address a particular research question. The
aim is to reduce bias (Petticrew and Roberts 2005: 10) by establishing selection
criteria for the inclusion of research in the review, such as methodological
soundness (Petticrew and Roberts 2005: 2). However, these criteria are defined by
researchers and are therefore likely to carry biases of their own because different
researchers will have different views of what constitutes ‘methodologically sound’.
For example, one researcher may think sample size is an important criterion,
and they decide that any study with a sample of fewer than 60 participants is
unsound. Another researcher may also think sample size is important, but they
decide that studies can be considered methodologically sound with a sample size
of 40 participants. The second researcher may further decide that the findings
of studies with 40 to 80 participants will be considered as indicative rather than
conclusive. This could mean that the first researcher leaves out several relevant
studies with 59 participants or fewer, while the second researcher doesn’t give
enough weight to relevant studies with 80 participants or fewer.
This may not sound very creative, compared to apple pies and graphic novels.
And indeed the place of creativity in research is still contested by some people. For
example, it has been demonstrated that some researchers, particularly in traditional
fields such as the physical sciences, can have negative attitudes towards creativity
(Walsh, Anders and Hancock 2013: 27). In other fields, some research methods,
particularly those used for studying social subjects, seem to encourage creativity
(Rapport F 2004: 4–5; Mason and Dale 2011: 2). I would argue that, in any
field, every research project is created by its researchers: we talk about ‘doing’ or
‘conducting’ research, but I would suggest that we ‘make’ research. Even where
the method seems to be strictly prescribed, there is in fact a remarkable amount
of scope for creativity, right from the setting of the research topic and questions
(Robson 2011: 64). In the social sciences, humanities and allied subjects, taking
a creative approach helps to expand the purpose of research: from simply finding
answers to questions, to enabling us to see and understand problems and topics
in new ways (Sullivan 2009: 62).
Creativity is sometimes conflated with art (Hesmondhaugh and Baker 2011:
1; Mewburn 2012: 126). We will see that the visual and performance arts have
a lot to offer to research and researchers (Rapport F 2004: 8–9; Jones 2012: 2;
Rose 2012: 10). And, indeed, this works both ways, as a wide variety of artists
need to develop and use research skills to support their creations (Hoffman 2003:
1; Jones 2012: 2). The processes involved in making art can be surprisingly
similar to the processes involved in doing research. ‘Higher level thinking (as
we like to call it) demands connections, associations, linkages of conscious and
unconscious elements, memory and emotion, past, present and future merging
in the processes of making meaning. These are the very processes which poets
actively seek to cultivate’ (Sullivan 2009: 121). I would argue that these are also
the processes many social science researchers seek to cultivate. Smith and Dean
speak of the ‘mutual reciprocity’ of creative arts practice and research (Smith and

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 Creative research methods in the social sciences

Dean 2009: 12), and Gauntlett says that ‘thinking and making are aspects of the
same process’ (Gauntlett 2011: 4). For the American education researcher and
‘fiber artist’ Judith Davidson, the relationship between research and art is cyclical:
‘I think, analyze, dissect, and write, and this leads to an idea that becomes an art
piece ... in the making of the art piece, I am also thinking, analyzing, dissecting,
and creating a new interpretation. This process and its product then become
fodder – experience, material, understanding – for yet another wave of work on
the project in its more academic form’ (Davidson 2012: 96). Artistic work seems
to bring the ‘making’ into ‘making sense’.
Beyond artistic practice, there are other aspects of creativity that are relevant
to research. Rapport divides creative research methods into arts-based, narrative-
based and redefined methods (Rapport F 2004: 8–12). For her, arts-based methods
are primarily visual and performative; narrative-based methods focus on stories,
often told verbally; and redefined methods take existing research methods and
rearrange them into something new. Mason and Dale view all creative research
methods primarily as redefined (Mason and Dale 2011: 22–3), which fits with
our understanding of creativity as bringing together existing elements in a new
way. In recent years, the move towards understanding and generating redefined
research methods has gathered pace, such that we now have a growing body of
literature covering creative methods. This includes creative methodologies, such
as the transformative research frameworks mentioned above. It also includes some
overarching methods, such as ‘netnography’, which is ethnography conducted
in online environments (Kozinets 2010). And it includes creative methods for
various parts of the research process, such as the use of diaries to corroborate,
gather or construct data (Alaszewski 2006: 42–3), or the involvement of members
of the public in publicly funded research with the aim of improving its quality
and relevance (Barber et al 2012: 217).

Informal and formal research

Research has been defined as ‘systematic enquiry whose goal is communicable
knowledge’ (Archer 1995: 6). Despite all those long words, research is also a normal
human activity. We gather, analyse and use data constantly as we live our lives.
Let’s say you go to make some toast one day and find your toaster isn’t working.
That presents you with a problem to solve. You might check that the toaster is
plugged in and switched on. If it is, and it still doesn’t work, that’s some data you’ve
gathered and analysed to help you decide what your next step will be: checking
the fuse box, perhaps. We also gather and analyse physical and emotional data. A
dry sensation in the mouth and slight headache, once analysed, might lead you
to drink a glass of water. Your phone ringing might make you feel excited (if
you’re waiting for important news) or happy (if you fancy a chat) or irritable (if
you’re hungry and someone has just handed you a plate of delicious hot food).
You would analyse the combination of your physical and emotional sensations
to help you decide whether to take the call.

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 Introducing creative research

Generally, we do this kind of informal ‘research’ without thinking of it as

such – sometimes, without thinking at all. Yet it can be surprisingly creative.
Traditional research doesn’t recognise the potential of informal research, focusing
instead on other tasks such as reading, thinking and writing. But informal and
formal research are not mutually exclusive, and using informal research creatively
can benefit more formal research (Markham 2013a: 65–6). For example, formal
research questions often develop from informal research (Madsen 2000: 42).
When you think about this, it seems undeniable that informal research
is inextricably linked with formal research, as physical and emotional data
processing is a constant and inescapable part of our lives. This is beginning to
be recognised, with more researchers privileging their informal research or
‘embodied experience’ and using their own sensory data as the starting point for
creative investigation of a wide range of subjects, such as dance (Barbour 2012)
and emotion (Stewart 2012).

Evaluation research
Most approaches to evaluation offer a high degree of flexibility about which
methods to use and how to use them (Arvidson and Kara 2013: 13).This enables
creativity in evaluation research. For example, Mertens (2010) conducted a
transformative mixed-methods evaluation using technology.

Donna Mertens, from Gallaudet University in Washington, DC, refers directly to

her work as transformative and describes this as ‘a framework of belief systems
that directly engages members of culturally diverse groups with a focus on
increased social justice’ (Mertens 2010: 470). Gallaudet is the only university
in the world specifically for deaf students, and staff are required to be fluent
in American Sign Language (ASL). The university has a teacher-preparation
programme to prepare teachers for working with deaf students who have an
emotional or physical disability. Mertens led a transformative evaluation of
this programme. Her first step was to gather a research team that reflected the
diversity of the community of teachers in deaf education: two were ‘culturally
deaf’ (born deaf and grew up using ASL), a third was also deaf but grew up
using her voice and lip reading and had a cochlear implant that enabled her to
function in the hearing world. The fourth team member was Mertens herself, a
hearing researcher, fluent in ASL and with over 25 years of experience working in
the deaf community. The team produced a mixed-methods design including an
initial phase of participant observation, interviews and document reviews. Initial
findings were used to develop an online survey to gather more quantitative and
qualitative data. The survey findings were then used as a basis for more interviews.
This proved an effective method for the evaluation, the findings of which led to
the Dean of the University making a commitment to changing the programme
(Mertens 2010: 473).

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 Creative research methods in the social sciences

An interview with Donna Mertens in which she talks about her views on
developments in the field of research methods is available online. Many of the
methods in this book could be used in evaluation research.

CONCLUSION
All research is creative, at all stages of the process (Leavy 2009: ix). However,
creative research methods, as discussed in this book, are particularly useful
in addressing the kinds of complex contemporary research questions
that traditional research methods are not able to answer (Taber 2010: 5).
Also, creative research methods can be exciting and inspiring. One word
of caution, though: the method(s) you use must flow from your research
question, not the other way around.

This book offers a unique toolbox of ideas for today’s [Link] next
two chapters look at some of those ideas in practice.

18
 TWO

Creative research methods in practice

Introduction
This chapter gives a more in-depth introduction to arts-based research,
mixed-methods research, and research using technology. It also introduces
autoethnography, which can include all three [Link] aim is to show some
of the opportunities offered by these methods, as well as some of the challenges
they present in practice. But first, to put the topic in context, we will briefly
review the history of creative research methods and make some relevant points
about good practice in creative research.

History of creative research methods

Throughout human history, people have turned to research to help them solve
practical and intellectual problems. Some of the earliest researchers whose work
we know include:

• Aristarchus of Samos, born around 310 BC, who was one of the first people
to work out that the earth moved around the sun, rather than the sun around
the earth;
• Eratosthenes of Cyrene, born around 275 BC, who was an early ethnologist and
argued that the division between ‘barbaric’ and ‘civilised’ people was invalid; and
• Hippocrates of Kos, born around 460 BC, who argued that there was no
merit in studying an illness without also studying the patient as a whole and
pioneered lifestyle changes as a remedy for disease.

In China, Zhang Heng, born in 78 AD, used research to invent the seismometer
for identifying earthquakes up to 500km away. Ma Jun, born around 200 AD,
used research to improve the process of silk weaving, making it possible to weave
more intricate patterns faster and more efficiently. He also used research to invent
a mechanical compass.
Islamic researchers include Jābir ibn Hayyān, a Persian/Iranian from the 8th
century, who was one of the founding fathers of practical chemistry, advocating
experimentation and devising many research processes that are still in use today.
Abbas ibn Firnas, who was born and lived in Andalucia in the 9th century, used
research to develop a process for cutting rock crystal that enabled Spain to cut its
own quartz, rather than having it cut in Egypt. And Muhammad ibn Zakariyā
Rāzī, a Persian/Iranian whose life spanned the 9th and 10th centuries, was the

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 Creative research methods in the social sciences

first doctor to differentiate between smallpox and measles, based on observational

research.
These are just a few examples of some of the earliest researchers we know about.
There must have been thousands of others. Also, each of the above-named men
was not a researcher in a single discipline, as the examples cited might suggest
to today’s readers. They were all polymaths, that is, people with expertise in a
number of different areas, enabling them to draw on a range of knowledge to help
solve problems. These polymaths didn’t even see the need to stick to the subjects
we would now regard as ‘sciences’. For example, Muhammad ibn Zakariyā Rāzī
also made significant contributions to the field of music; Zhang Heng was an
artist; and Eratosthenes was a poet.
By the early 20th century, research had become a discipline of its own. In 1906,
the editor of the journal Science, James McKeen Cattell, published a directory
of 4,000 ‘men who have carried out research work’ (Godin, Lane and SUNY
2011: 3). There have also been women researchers throughout history, from the
earliest times, such as Merit Ptah, a doctor who lived in Egypt around 2700 BC,
to contemporaries of Mr Cattell, such as Marie Curie, a Polish woman working
in France in the early 20th century, whose research into radiation led her being
the first woman to be awarded a Nobel prize. But, as Mr Cattell’s words suggest,
by the start of the 20th century, research had become part of the white, male,
intellectual tradition of positivism, which was focused on mastering the world
(Terre Blanche and Durrheim 2006: 14).
Because this tradition was so pervasive, social studies developing in the late
19th century, such as psychology, sociology and anthropology, tried to follow
the methods of the physical sciences – and, indeed, renamed themselves ‘social
sciences’ to indicate the link. Arguments about whether this was sensible raged
throughout the 20th century and still cause dissent today. This book is not intended
as a critique of scientific methods, which have revolutionised the lives of most of
the world’s inhabitants in fundamental areas such as food production, healthcare
and transport (Broussine 2008: 14). But the reification of scientific methods
makes it easy to forget that these methods were created to solve problems, and
new problems sometimes require new methods if they are to be investigated fully.
This is as much the case now as it was over 2,000 years ago, when Eratosthenes
was using research to create the discipline of geography, or Zhang Heng to
catalogue the stars.
One major problem with trying to apply the methods of the physical sciences to
studying people in society is that it works only up to a point (Broussine 2008: 15).
Most of the research methods in the physical sciences are quantitative: they employ
techniques such as counting, weighing, measuring, heating, cooling, dividing
and mixing to investigate physical aspects of the world. Of course quantitative
methods can be useful in social research. But if you want to investigate questions
like why some children have better exam results than others, or how to increase
adults’ participation in healthy lifestyle activities, or what is the nature of envy,
you will need more than quantitative methods.

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 Creative research methods in practice

Researchers in a range of fields began to notice this in the early 20th century,
and started to develop qualitative research methods. To begin with, the idea
was that qualitative methods should be verifiable and rigorous in the same
way as quantitative methods. But from the 1970s onwards researchers began to
build arguments for qualitative research methods to have their own validity in
particular contexts. These methods are now demonstrably able to make positive
contributions to, for example, policy development (Donmoyer 2012: 672). In the
1990s social researchers began to consider the merits of mixed-methods research,
combining quantitative and qualitative techniques to gain a fuller picture of the
subject under investigation.
The development of research techniques, whether quantitative or qualitative,
has involved enormous creativity (Gergen and Jones 2008: 1). The opportunities
for expanding these techniques that are offered by technology, arts-based
approaches, mixing methods and so on may be viewed by some as adding
complexity. On the other hand, we may be coming full circle and returning to
the view of the polymaths: that knowledge is worth having, no matter where
it originates, and the more diverse a person’s knowledge, the more likely they
will be able to identify and implement creative solutions to problems. If we
can overcome the idea of art and science being poles apart, the two approaches
could inform and sustain each other, as evidently they used to do (Gergen and
Gergen 2012: 15).
Some scholars are also questioning the compartmentalisation of different
disciplines. Working across disciplinary boundaries is becoming more common
(for example, Lyon, Möllering and Saunders 2012: 13), as is the conceptualisation
of research as too broad an activity to fit into any single disciplinary category. Some
argue that art and science need not be oppositional and can be complementary,
with no hard line between the two (for example, Ellingson 2009: 5, 60). For
example, phenomenologists tend to regard their research as both an art and a
science, although different phenomenologists may disagree about the relative
weighting of science and art in research (Finlay 2012: 27). Two videos
explaining phenomenology – an unmissable one by the Muppets, and a more
serious introduction – are available online.

Good practice in creative research

Creative solutions to research problems do not usually imply really wacky, left-field,
off-the-wall ideas. Formal research is a complex undertaking with a great deal of
history, and it helps to know about the workings and rationale for tried-and-tested
methods. This will enable you to build on existing knowledge and experience,
rather than, as the cliché has it, reinventing the wheel. Where creativity enters
into the picture is in knowing about various methods but not being bound by
that knowledge, such that, if the need arises, you can manipulate and develop

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theories and methods, within the constraints of good practice, to help you answer
your research questions (Mumford et al 2010: 3).
Good research practice dictates that you start by framing your research
question(s), then identify the method(s) which seem most likely to lead to a
useful answer (Tenenbaum et al 2009: 117). Some of the methods in this book
are beguiling in themselves, but it is not good practice to start a research project
by deciding on a method before you have framed a question – unless you are
making research simply to test the method.
Good research is also ethical, meticulous and links theory to practice. Creative
methods can never be an excuse for unethical, sloppy or self-indulgent research.
What this book will do is give you a wide choice of methods and, I hope, inspire
you to take a creative approach to your own, good-quality research.

Arts-based research in practice

As we have seen, a large proportion of creative research methods are arts based.
Equally, a large proportion of the arts are research based. Research is a fundamental
part of arts such as theatre and the performance arts (Kershaw and Nicholson
2011), scenography (McKinney and Iball 2011), fiction writing (Spencer 2013),
creative non-fiction writing (Brien 2013) and poetry (Lasky 2013). Research
in the arts can be conducted in many ways and for many reasons. For example,
research can be conducted into the history and background of a general aspect
of the arts (Davis et al 2011; Gale and Featherstone 2011), or of specific works
of art (Patten 2007), or in support of a work of art in progress (Hoffman 2003:
1; Atkinson 2010: 189; Coles 2013: 163), or to evaluate the audience’s response
to a work of art (Atkinson 2009, cited in Dixon 2011: 55–9). An example of
research in art practice is provided online.
It is increasingly recognised that creative practice can be a form of research
in itself (Sullivan 2009: 50; Hughes, Kidd and McNamara 2011). Inquiry
through creative practice privileges such things as play, intuition, serendipity,
imagination and the unexpected as resources for making sense. Those engaged
in creative inquiry have asked, ‘What are methods for, but to ruin our
experiments?’ (Kershaw et al 2011: 65). There is increasing acceptance of the
idea that artists can conduct research in the process of producing art, and that
the resulting artwork can be a valid research output in itself by embodying and
communicating the knowledge produced in its creation (Biggs 2009: 67). Art
can contribute to research by being documented and theorised, and research,
in turn, can inspire and contribute to art, in an ‘iterative cyclic web’ (Smith and
Dean 2009: 2). A good illustration of how art and science can work together
in practice is shown in a TEDx talk given by the Swiss photographer Fabian
Oefner, available online.
There is a vocal academic lobby suggesting that people who wish to use artistic
techniques within their research should be as skilled in the arts they wish to practise

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as they are in research techniques. It may seem difficult to compare skill levels
across different disciplines, but arts practitioners have their own informal version
of peer review (Smith and Dean 2009: 26). For example, if a group of skilled
musicians recognise someone else as a musician, then that person is a musician.
‘In the poetry world, many would be poets, but it is the domain itself and its
tacit yet established rules of quality that move a person into being considered a
poet by others’ (Piirto 2009: 96, citing Piirto 1998). Jane Piirto, an American
professor and published and award-winning poet and fiction writer, will permit
her postgraduate students to incorporate art into their research projects only if
they are either a professional artist in the relevant field or have studied the art
concerned at undergraduate level, because ‘Then the art itself and its ways of
knowing are respected’ (Piirto 2009: 97). This can be seen as a laudable attempt
to ensure quality and an understandable attempt to claim legitimacy for arts-based
research, which is sometimes regarded as neither one thing nor another, rather
than being viewed as a helpful inter-disciplinary step forward. However, Piirto’s
approach can also be seen as a rather exclusive and excluding position.
The counter-argument suggests that arts-based methods can be used by any
researcher as long as the methods are appropriate to the research and its context.
For example, a researcher wanting to gather data from children could use the
‘draw and write’ method (Wetton and McWhirter 1998) without being a skilled
draughtsperson (see Chapter Five for more details of this method). Anyone can
draw a picture, write a poem, make a collage. Creating a poor-quality artwork is
not necessarily a failure, as there is scope for learning from the process; creativity
involves taking risks, and it has been argued that it is in refusing to take those risks
where failure lies (Douglas 2012: 531; Gergen and Gergen 2012: 162). Indeed,
everyone has the right to artistic activity, which is usefully experimental and
promotes creative thought. Arts-based methods ‘have been used by a wide variety
of researchers and professionals to assist people in expressing feelings and thoughts
that ... are difficult to articulate in words’ (Blodgett et al 2013: 313). And there is
no reason why people cannot learn to make art in practice as they learn to make
research in practice, thereby using more of their potential (Douglas 2012: 529;
Gergen and Gergen 2012: 163). This is a more inclusive position, but, as with
any research methods, it is important to ensure that all aspects of the research are
conducted to a high level of quality (see Chapter Four for more on this).
If researchers think it would be helpful, they may choose to undertake some
training in an arts-based technique (Blodgett et al 2013: 317), although whether
this is appropriate will depend on the project and its context. Equally, for some
researchers it may be appropriate to choose not to undergo training, because
a researcher who is trained in an arts-based technique may be more likely,
whether consciously or unconsciously, to influence the arts-based outputs of
their participants (Cunsolo Willox et al 2013: 132).
Another option for researchers wishing to use arts-based methods, but themselves
having little or no expertise or skill in the methods concerned, is to bring an arts
professional onto the research team to provide advice and support. I have done this

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effectively and successfully in research projects with young people who wanted to
present their work through drama. I have no background in theatre, so I brought
in drama professionals who were experienced in working with young people and
were willing to join the research team. I was responsible for ensuring the quality
of the research; the drama professionals were responsible for ensuring the quality
of the drama. This perhaps offers a middle way between the academics, who seek
to ensure quality through artistic skill, and the researchers, who seek to use the
methods most likely to help them answer their research questions.
Arts-based techniques are particularly useful for gathering and disseminating
data. They also have applications in data analysis, writing and presentation. These
will be discussed in more detail, with examples, in the following chapters. While
the following is not an exhaustive list, arts-based techniques can be particularly
helpful for:
• exploring sensitive topics
• working with participants whose native language is different from the language
in which the research is being conducted
• working with people who speak different languages from each other
• working with people who have cognitive impairments such as mild dementia
• working with children
• honouring, eliciting and expressing cultural ways of knowing.

UK researcher Maggie O’Neill works with transnational refugees and asylum-

seekers ‘in the space between ethnography and art’ (O’Neill 2008: 3). She
collaborates with her participants, who come from countries such as Afghanistan
and Bosnia, and with a variety of professional artists including writers, poets,
photographers and performance artists. The aim is to enable refugees and
asylum-seekers to tell their own stories, and to use these stories to inform theory,
policy and practice. O’Neill’s view is that life stories, art and collaboration are all
transformative, that is they can challenge stereotypical perceptions and received
wisdom. She writes: ‘Art makes visible experiences, hopes, ideas; it is a reflective
space and socially it brings something new into the world – it contributes to
knowledge and understanding’ (O’Neill 2008: 8).

Arts-based research is often particularly useful for investigating topics associated

with high levels of emotion (Prendergast 2009: xxii–xxiii). Emotion is linked
with creativity, and some specific emotions, such as happiness and sadness, have
been found to promote creativity (Hutton and Sundar 2010: 301). Happiness
encourages creativity in general, while sadness promotes analytical thought, which
also supports creativity (Hutton and Sundar 2010: 301). This may go some way
towards explaining why a lot of autoethnographic studies focus on sad subjects
such as serious illness, grief, bereavement and trauma (for example Stone 2009;
Sliep 2012).

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 Creative research methods in practice

Autoethnography in practice
Autoethnography is ‘an approach to research and writing that seeks to describe
and systematically analyze personal experience in order to understand cultural
experience’ (Ellis, Adams and Bochner 2011: 1). It was devised by American
ethnographer Carolyn Ellis in the 1990s (Gergen and Gergen 2012: 44). ‘Auto’
comes from the Greek word for ‘self ’, ‘ethno’ from the Greek for ‘folk’ or ‘people’,
and ‘graphy’ from the Greek for ‘write’. Autoethnography has huge potential
for creativity, but it is not just a case of writing down your life experiences in a
clever way. Autoethnographers tend to focus on specific and intense experiences
such as crises and major life events, and link them with their cultural location
and identity (Ellis, Adams and Bochner 2011: 4). Literary conventions of
autoethnography link life experiences with wider concerns such as ethnicity,
gender, social class and key reference points in time (Denzin 2014: 7–8), as well as
relationships, the past, cultural themes, social constructs and theory (Chang 2008:
132–7). Autoethnography ‘transcends mere narration of self to engage in cultural
analysis and interpretation’ (Chang 2008: 43). A conference presentation on
autoethnography by Carolyn Ellis and Arthur Bochner is available online.
Like any research method, autoethnography needs to be linked with theory and
practice or policy – although at times it can be hard to see how this is achieved,
which has led to claims that autoethnography is self-indulgent and irrelevant
(Denzin 2014: 69–70). However, these claims are usually based on critiques that
compare autoethnography with traditional ethnography, wider social science or
arts disciplines, and find it wanting (Ellis,Adams and Bochner 2011: 10–11).Those
who assess autoethnography on its own terms are more likely to assert that it can
be a truly scholarly practice, and some have demonstrated its impact on practice
and policy (Chang 2008: 52–4; Lenza 2011).
Autoethnography has been used to focus on a diverse range of topics, such as:
the emotional aspects of a teacher’s return to learning (Benozzo 2011), anorexia
and psychosis (Stone 2009), cross-cultural performance (Fournillier 2011) and
outward-bound activities (Tolich 2012). Autoethnography can be used by a
single researcher or collaboratively (Dumitrica and Gaden 2009: 2). Also, it can
be used as a stand-alone method or as part of a mixed-methods study (Leavy
2009: 38). Autoethnographers often incorporate arts-based techniques such as
poetry, photography and creative fiction to ‘produce aesthetic and evocative
thick descriptions of personal and interpersonal experience’ (Ellis, Adams and
Bochner 2011: 5). The aim is to produce ‘accessible texts’ that ‘make personal
experience meaningful and cultural experience engaging’ (Ellis, Adams and
Bochner 2011: 5). For example, one classic autoethnographic textbook is written
as a ‘methodological novel’ (Ellis 2004).
Autoethnographic methods can also use technology.

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 Creative research methods in the social sciences

Delia Dumitrica and Georgia Gaden, from the University of Calgary in Canada,
spent six months collaborating on an autoethnographic project investigating
ways in which gender is perceived and performed in Second Life (SL), a huge,
online virtual world which has tens of thousands of users at any one time. The
researchers became interested in SL at an academic conference, joined SL at
the same time and spent a month exploring as individuals before joining up to
explore the virtual world together. Both researchers are female, but one chose
a male avatar (a symbol denoting the presence online of a human). They both
experienced technical problems, particularly at the outset, which led to frustration
and even despair at times, but they were able to overcome these sufficiently to
complete their fieldwork. Dumitrica and Gaden gathered data in the form of field
journals, which they re-read closely and discussed at length. ‘The collaborative
dimension furthered our critical self-reflexive process by allowing us to explore
and compare each other’s understanding and performance of gender in the virtual
world’ (Dumitrica and Gaden 2009: 8). This method enabled the researchers to
take an analytic and critical approach to their research questions and to conclude
that ‘How gender is “done” in SL resides not only at the intersection between our
own gendered perspectives and the platform, but also in the technical skills we
have’ (Dumitrica and Gaden 2009: 19).

Mixed-methods research in practice

Mixed-methods research has increased in popularity since the late 1980s
(Alasuutari 2009: 139). The term ‘mixed-methods research’ covers a whole host
of different approaches to the research process. It is most often used to refer to
research that contains both qualitative and quantitative elements, but can also
describe research which uses more than one qualitative method (Frost et al 2010;
Lal, Suto and Ungar 2012) or more than one quantitative method. The most
common ‘mixed methods’ research involves data gathered by using more than one
technique, usually surveys and interviews (Fielding 2012: 131). An introduction
to mixed-methods research by John Creswell can be viewed online.

Sabela Petros studied the support needs of older South African people who care
for children or grandchildren affected by HIV/AIDS. He and his colleagues surveyed
305 urban and rural carers of people living with HIV/AIDS and/or vulnerable
orphaned children. They then conducted interviews with 10 respondents,
purposively selected because they fulfilled two conditions: (a) they had given
responses to the survey that the researchers had not anticipated, and (b) they
were caring for both adults with HIV/AIDS and vulnerable orphaned children.
The data from these interviews was later used to construct case studies. Petros
also interviewed nine purposively selected ‘key informants’ (Petros 2012: 279),
that is, senior managers – six from the government and three from NGOs – to
find out about legislation and policy on HIV/AIDS. The datasets were analysed

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 Creative research methods in practice

separately before being compared so as to assess the level of corroborated or

divergent findings, which helped to contextualise the carers’ experiences (Petros
2012: 288). This was the first mixed-methods study of this topic in South Africa
and enabled a number of new comparisons, including of the differences between
urban and rural areas and the differences between carers’ and officials’ views of
the situation, as well as the identification of gaps in public policy and ways in
which these could be remedied (Petros 2012: 290–1).

It is also possible to mix methods in other ways, such as conducting research

that draws on more than one theoretical perspective (Kaufman 2010), or uses
a team of researchers from different disciplines (for example Sameshima and
Vandermause 2009), or analyses data in more than one way (for example, Frost
et al 2010). Presentation and dissemination of research almost always use more
than one method.

Andrew Robinson and his colleagues in Australia conducted a complex piece of

dementia research using mixed methods. They involved patients with dementia
and their family carers; gathered qualitative and quantitative data in nine different
ways; and worked to integrate the findings from their analysis. The research
team included expertise from the fields of arts and humanities, science and
neuroscience, psychology and neuropsychology, nursing, social work, counselling
and education. ‘These fields span both qualitative and quantitative research
traditions – we found this essential for informed decision making and functioning
in all stages of our mixed-methods research’ (Robinson et al 2011: 335)

A document giving more information about the creative approach of Robinson

and his colleagues to dementia research can be found online.
The point of combining qualitative and quantitative methods is that they
offer us different ways to understand the world. Quantitative methods show
us how much, which, when and where, based on a theory of normality and
difference: is this within the curve, or outside it? Qualitative methods show
us why and how, based on a theory of interactions, events and processes. But
mixed-methods research is not inherently ‘better’ than single-method research.
As always, it depends on the research question and its context. For some
questions, in some contexts, only a single method will be necessary to find an
adequate answer. Other questions, in other contexts, can be addressed fully
only by using mixed methods.
One technique for combining qualitative methods is known as ‘bricolage’,
from a French word meaning to make something using whatever materials are
to hand. In research terms, this means drawing on theory from any discipline or
disciplines, using a combination of data-gathering methods and analytic techniques
and taking a similarly eclectic approach to the presentation and dissemination of
research (Kincheloe 2005: 323–4). The researcher as ‘bricoleur’ can focus on the

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 Creative research methods in the social sciences

methods or techniques that they prefer or those that they feel are best suited to
their research (Broussine 2008: 79). While some find this too haphazard, advocates
of bricolage suggest that it provides more opportunities for sense making than do
other methods (Warne and McAndrew 2009: 857), perhaps because the researcher
is not fettered by a particular method or approach. This may also be because the
technique of bricolage is closer to the approach an artist might use than to the
approach a scientist might use, offering more scope for creativity, as well as the
chance to ‘make for making sense’. Indeed, scholars writing of bricolage often
use arts-based metaphors like weaving, collage or patchwork (Wibberley 2012: 6).

American researcher Annette Markham built on the concept of bricolage to

develop the technique of ‘remix’. She uses this in cross-disciplinary workshops
with scholars who work online and are new to qualitative research, to help them
explore creative approaches to research. There are five elements to Markham’s
conceptualisation of remix.

• Generate – expand your perception of data beyond what you purposefully

gather to include field notes, early drafts, doodles, photos, uncoded transcripts,
coded transcripts and so on, any of which may trigger useful ‘connections
among ideas’ in a ‘wonderful chaos of inquiry’ (Markham 2013a: 74).
• Play – either guided/rule-driven or free-form and open, but always using your
curiosity and imagination to drive exploration and experimentation.
• Borrow – ideas, approaches, perspectives, techniques and so on from other
researchers, disciplines and professions.
• Move – whether forward or backward, leading or following, move and allow
yourself to be moved, maintaining awareness that research is ‘always situated,
but never motionless’ (Markham 2013a: 77).
• Interrogate – constantly question data, literature, context, power, your own
motivation and so on; all aspects of the research project and the subject under
investigation.

Markham writes: ‘The concept of remix highlights activities that are not often
discussed as a part of method and may not be noticed, such as using serendipity,
playing with different perspectives, generating partial renderings, moving through
multiple variations, borrowing from disparate and perhaps disjunctive concepts, and
so forth’ (Markham 2013a: 65). Remix also implies creative reassembly of these
disparate parts, although that may or may not lead to a cohesive final output; it
may simply create a new connection between two hitherto unconnected elements.
The process focuses on meaning, rather than method as such, so its marker of
quality is the extent to which its results have resonance with their audiences.
Annette Markham’s blog, which contains more information about remix, can
be read online.
In combining quantitative and qualitative methods, some researchers embed
qualitative methods within a quantitative framework, and some do the opposite

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 Creative research methods in practice

(Plano Clark et al 2013: 220). Even some of the most reified traditional methods,
such as randomised controlled trials, are now being redesigned in some contexts
to incorporate, or be incorporated into, mixed-methods designs (Hesse-Biber
2012: 876).
Sue Robinson and Andrew Mendelson, at the University of Wisconsin-Madison
in America, studied the way photographs and text interacted for readers of a non-
fiction magazine article. Their research embedded qualitative methods within a
quantitative framework. For data gathering, they used pre- and post-test surveys
including open-ended questions, and a two-stage test involving a randomised
experimental stage and then a focus-group stage. In the experimental stage,
participants read one of three versions of the article: text only, photos only or text
and photos. Each focus group contained participants who had all read the same
version of the article. For data analysis, Robinson and Mendelson used inferential
statistics, frequencies and textual analysis for the surveys; discourse analysis and
inferential statistics for the experimental conditions; and narrative, discourse,
textual or content analysis for the focus groups. This enabled them to elicit rich
information about the meanings constructed by participants from their readings
of the article, and also to compare the ways in which those meanings changed
between the different types of media (Robinson and Mendelson 2012: 341).
Quantitative methods can be embedded within a qualitative framework using
the technique of quantitisation, where aspects of qualitative data are converted
into numbers for analysis. There are a variety of methods for this, including:

• counting, for example how many participants said X and how many said Y
• dichotomizing, that is, identifying whether a participant did, or did not, say
anything within a particular theme
• frequencies, for example, which code was used most frequently, and which
least often
• statistical analysis, which can ‘highlight patterns and relationships between
groups of participants, thus helping researchers identify meaningful comparisons
between contrasting cases (for example participants, social contexts, and events)’
(Collingridge 2013: 82).

It is possible to combine other aspects of research, such as theories or disciplinary

perspectives. Some researchers are working towards ‘integrated methods’, where
many different aspects and viewpoints are brought together.

Psychologists Anke Franz and Marcia Worrell, from the UK, and Claus Vögele,
from Luxembourg, studied adolescent sexual behaviour in Germany and England.
These multiple investigators drew on multiple theories to underpin their use of
mixed methods of data gathering, which led to multiple datasets. They used Q
methodology, questionnaires and measurement scales to investigate teenage
sexual health, discourses about gender roles, sexual assertiveness and sexual self-
efficacy. Data was at first analysed separately for each method of gathering data,

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then the findings were integrated ‘to provide a holistic explanation of cultural and
individual influences on adolescent behaviour’ (Franz, Worrell and Vögele 2013:
383). This enabled more robust conclusions than the initial separate analyses
because ‘The quantitative part could not explain the influence of discourses
on young people’s behaviour, whereas the discourse research could not make
inferences about the relationship of the discourses to individual characteristics’
(Franz, Worrell and Vögele 2013: 383–4). Essentially, integrating their methods
allowed Franz and her colleagues to gain a more complete picture of a very
complex situation.

A presentation by Australian researcher Gabriele Bammer, who suggests that

‘integrated methods’ could become a new discipline in itself, can be viewed online.
Mixed-methods research can be challenging (Hemmings et al 2013: 261–2).
Joseph Teye, from his doctoral analysis of the formulation and implementation of
forest policy in Ghana, identified several challenges of mixed-methods research,
including the following.

• Choice of sample size – quantitative researchers prefer large samples, while

qualitative researchers are happy to work with a few participants in detail; this
may be why the iterative approach of gathering and analysing quantitative
data, then using the findings to inform qualitative investigation, is so popular.
• Mission creep – the scope of the research can end up being wider than originally
planned, as new information is brought to light which is difficult or impossible
to ignore; this can lead to more data being gathered than was at first envisaged,
which then leads to the data analysis being more time consuming than expected.
• Resource constraints – using more than one method, for example for data
gathering and/or data analysis, takes more time and expertise than using a
single method.
• Difficulty prioritising research methods – prioritisation can be dictated by
mission creep or resource constraints or both, rather than by the researcher’s
plans; it is hard to give equal priority to both or all methods used.
• Conflicts in data interpretation – particularly between qualitative and
quantitative analyses.
• Difficulty integrating findings – this applies to analysis and reporting, and there
are a range of views about the benefits or disadvantages of integrating findings
at either stage or both, which means that no researcher’s solution is likely to
please all their readers.
• Managing power relations – gathering data from different groups of participants
can mean the researcher has to adapt quickly to changing power relations
(Teye 2012: 385–8).

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Åshild Lunde and her colleagues in Norway set out to investigate an

interdisciplinary research project on knee injuries in athletes. The original
research team involved researchers from different academic disciplines, including
physiology and phenomenology, and physiotherapy practitioners. They gathered
quantitative data about the nature and extent of knee injuries in athletes, and
qualitative data about athletes’ experiences of knee injuries. The intention was
to integrate these datasets, with the overall aim of predicting the outcome of
rehabilitation. However, despite being highly skilled and motivated, making careful
plans and trying hard, the original researchers found it impossible to integrate the
datasets. The research funders decided to commission some more interpretive
work from external researchers in order to investigate the barriers to integration.
Lunde et al took on this investigation and identified a number of barriers, including
different views about what constitutes good-quality research and lack of strong
project leadership to help reconcile these views. Perhaps more importantly, the
findings from the qualitative and quantitative datasets contradicted each other.
These contradictions could have been used as a resource for the research, in the
form of a springboard for further exploration, but instead they were seen as an
obstacle. Lunde et al stress that this is not ‘the typical narrative of expressed
prejudice and hostility between quantitative and qualitative researchers’ (Lunde et
al 2013: 206) and that considerable collaborative efforts were made. However, the
desired middle ground was not reached, perhaps because the process of reaching
that middle ground would have compromised the professional identity of all
researchers. There was not enough ‘external force’ or ‘internal drive’ to make this
happen (Lunde et al 2013: 209), so the disciplinary status quo was maintained.

It does appear that most difficulties in mixed-methods research occur when

disciplines collide (Hemmings et al 2013: 262). Some researchers advocate a
‘qualitatively driven mixed methods approach’, which is intended not to privilege
qualitative over quantitative research, but to ensure a good level of interpretation
(Hall and Ryan 2011: 106–7, citing Creswell 2006). Given the findings of Lunde
et al reported above, combined with evidence that some quantitative researchers
are not highly skilled in interpretation (for example, Laux and Pont 2012: 3), this
would seem worthy of consideration. Either way, for good-quality and consistent
mixed-methods research, it is important to plan from the start which methods to
use, within an appropriate theoretical and methodological framework for clarity
about why and how you will use those methods, rather than adding methods
or devising a framework as you go along (Franz, Worrell and Vögele 2013: 386).
There are a huge number of examples of mixed-methods research in the
literature, and only a tiny fraction can be represented here. There are at least two
journals devoted to the subject – the Journal of Mixed Methods Research and the
International Journal of Multiple Research Approaches – and some excellent books
(for example, Teddlie and Tashakkori 2008; Creswell and Plano Clark 2010).

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Research using technology in practice

Technology can be used to support and enhance all stages of the research process.
It is most commonly invoked for data gathering, transcription and analysis. For
example, data can be speedily and effectively gathered online using a dedicated
program such as SurveyMonkey or by trawling social media platforms such as
Twitter or Pinterest. Audio recorders can be used to record data from interviews
and focus groups and to play it back for transcription, which can be done straight
into a computer by typing on a [Link] are a number of software packages
to help with data analysis, such as SPSS (Statistical Package for Social Scientists)
for quantitative data and NVivo for qualitative data. However, technology can
also support other parts of the research process, such as ‘researcher reflexivity,
literature review, representation of findings, ethics, and collaboration’ (Paulus et
al 2013: 639).

Dutch ethnographer Niels van Doorn decided to use a smartphone to support

his ethnographic study of intimacy, spirituality and citizenship among lesbian,
gay, bisexual and transgender (LGBT) collectives in Baltimore, America. Initially,
he wanted the smartphone to help him navigate around a city designed for car
users when he didn’t have a car, but it soon became useful for other purposes:
recording interview data, taking photos and videos and making notes in the
field. It was also, of course, useful for communicating with people through calls
and text messages. However, using this technology to support research was not
problem free. On two occasions van Doorn had to end and reschedule interviews
when his smartphone’s battery ran down. He also lost some audio and video files
and photographs before he could transfer them to his computer; this may have
been due to user error, but that is not certain. The navigational information his
smartphone provided was not always accurate, and at times he would accidentally
‘pocket dial’ participants at inappropriate hours. Overall, using a smartphone both
helped van Doorn to do his research and changed the nature of that research
(van Doorn 2013: 392).

Many ethnographers have embraced the possibilities offered by technology, both

for use within conventional ethnographic studies and to shift the boundaries of
ethnography itself.

Technology enabled New Zealand researcher Clive Pope to create a ‘compressed

ethnography’ (2010: 134, citing Jeffrey and Troman 2004) of the Maadi Regatta.
This is New Zealand’s primary rowing competition, a seven-day regatta with
hundreds of races. Due to the time-bounded nature of this event, Pope could
not conduct a traditional ethnography using participant observation over an
extended period of time. Instead, he ‘spent 10 days and nights at the regatta
site, living the everyday life of rower and rowing’ (Pope 2010: 133). This was
an intense experience that did not allow for full understanding at the time, so

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Pope used digital photography and video to record parts of the regatta for later
consideration. These enabled him to ‘rewind, revisit and reframe the setting,
repeatedly seeking new learnings and understandings’ that ‘replaced the inductive
and emerging discoveries that often evolve in situ during prolonged conventional
ethnographies’ (Pope 2010: 135).

Doing research online can seem like a great idea in certain circumstances. For
example, some geographically dispersed communities, such as distance learners
and expatriates, come together in online environments. This can make it seem
very appealing to study members of those communities in virtual locations (Lewis
and McNaughton Nicholls 2014: 60), whether through observing them at the
locations they choose to use or by consensual interaction at a dedicated location
such as a chat room or forum set up specifically for research. There are logistical
advantages for the researcher: for example, you don’t have to go anywhere, and
your data can simply be copied and pasted from the web. This is economical in
time and cost, and can make the prospect of doing research online almost too
tempting to resist.
However, it is also important to identify and address the limitations of doing
research online, and the challenges it may present (Ignacio 2012: 239, Lewis and
McNaughton Nicholls 2014: 58). The following are a few of those challenges
and limitations.

• Technical skills – the researcher may need a certain level of technical skill, or
help from someone who has that level of skill, for example to create a forum,
or to make a web page of information about the research to use in seeking
informed consent from potential participants.
• Sampling – research online throws up all sorts of problems with sampling, for
various reasons; for example, not everyone has access to online environments,
or the identity of online participants may be wholly or partly concealed,
which can make it difficult to fill quotas. (This also, of course, applies to offline
research, but in different ways; for example, people in some online environments
routinely use pseudonyms and misleading avatars.)
• Quality of data – data gathered online may not be as rich, detailed or multi-
dimensional as data gathered in other arenas.
• Text from web pages – researching online text can be challenging because
it is subject to change or deletion. Also, it is necessary to decide what to do
with links from the researched pages: should those links also be followed
and researched? And what if there are further links from the resulting pages?
Screenshots can be used to preserve text from web pages, but they don’t allow
the use of embedded links.
• Consent – just because information is in the public domain, for example on
openly accessible blogs or Twitter, that doesn’t mean the person who generated
the information would be happy for it to be used in a research project. Yet
obtaining consent can be difficult.

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This is presented not as an exhaustive list, but as an illustration of the need to

think carefully when considering the option of doing research online. It is not
simply a case of transferring offline methods to an online environment (Markham
2013b: 435). Even with questionnaires, working online offers far more flexibility
than hard copy. For example, there is no need for traditional formulations such
as, ‘If yes, please continue with the next question; if no, please go straight to
question 8’. An online questionnaire can be designed to take respondents to the
next question that is relevant to them, depending on their answer to the current
question. Therefore, there can be various routes through an online questionnaire,
which makes online questionnaire design even more complex than the offline
equivalent. With qualitative methods, the complexity increases, such that any
researcher will need to think very carefully through all the ramifications and
implications of attempting to use these methods online. For some projects, a mix
of online and offline methods may be best (Ignacio 2012: 244). The blog of the
New Social Media, New Social Science? network contains useful information
about online research.

CONCLUSION
The worldwide history of research methods is full of multi-skilled people
working across [Link], by the start of the 20th century the Western
world had reached a point where most researchers did research in only
one area and were not expected to know about anything else. White male
positivists were in control, reasoning that research was a neutral activity,
conducted in laboratories (and thereby somehow separate from society),
and that researchers had no effect on the research process or its outcome.

In the second half of the 20th century the fallacies in that reasoning became
apparent. Researchers began to view their work as value laden, symbiotically
linked with society and inevitably affected by the researchers themselves. As
they developed this new paradigm, researchers began to reach out beyond
the bounds of conventional research to the arts, other research methods
and technology, to find more useful ways to explore the world around us.

Chapter One of this book defined four main categories of creative methods
for social research: arts-based research, mixed-methods research, research
using technology and transformative ethical frameworks. This chapter has
covered the first three of these categories. The next chapter will address
research ethics in general in creative research methods, and transformative
ethical frameworks in particular.

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 THREE

Creative research methods and ethics

Introduction
Ethical considerations need to permeate the whole of the research process. Ethical
issues in research are most often thought of in terms of data gathering and risk
of harm to participants, perhaps because historically that is where most harm
has been done in notorious studies such as the Tuskegee syphilis experiments
and Stanley Milgram’s studies of obedience (Iphofen 2011: 53). However, ethics
should underpin every single step of research, from the first germ of an idea to
the last act after dissemination. And ethical problems require ethical decision
making – which allows for creativity, even in places which may seem unlikely,
such as research ethics governance committees (Stark 2012: 166). Also, perhaps
surprisingly, there is a close link between working ethically and thinking creatively.

Michael Mumford and his colleagues, from the University of Oklahoma, in the US,
studied the relationship between ethical decision making and creative thinking
among scientists (Mumford et al 2010: 1). The ethics literature suggested four
domains of ethical behaviour which between them could account for most
instances of ethical misconduct. These domains were: study conduct, data
management, professional practices and business practices (Mumford et al 2010:
2). Mumford and his colleagues studied 258 doctoral students from the physical
and social sciences with 4–60 months of university experience. Participants
were asked to complete a range of tests and measures assessing their cognitive
abilities, personalities, creative-thinking skills and ethical decision making. Of
course this study did not assess – could not have assessed – all types of creative
thinking and ethical decision making. But it did find, conclusively, that among
doctoral science students there are strong and consistent relationships between
creative-thinking skills and ethical decision making (Mumford et al 2010: 13).

The work of Mumford et al (2010) suggests that taking a creative approach can
help to make your research more ethical. It has also been suggested that being
open about the creative aspects of your research, such as acknowledging that your
research design is new or your writing is semi-fictionalised, is an ethical position
(Piper and Sikes 2010: 572).This is because such a position recognises that research
is constructed, with aesthetic aspects; something that was hidden by the traditional
styles of social science writing and presentation (Rhodes and Brown 2005: 479).

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 Creative research methods in the social sciences

Research governance
Research ethics, particularly in biomedical research, is governed by groups of
people known as institutional review boards (IRBs) in the US, research ethics
committees in the UK and by other names elsewhere (McAreavey and Muir 2011:
391).This system developed in reaction to notoriously unethical research such as
the Tuskegee and Milgram studies noted above. Nowadays, most universities, health
authorities and other bodies researching people in society have their own ethics
committees, which scrutinise applications from researchers for ethical approval.
These committees aim to ensure that research is conducted ethically and, in
particular, to safeguard potentially vulnerable research participants. However, as we
will see, researchers and committee members hold a variety of ethical perspectives
and standpoints. This means that, in practice, the ethics of some committees can
conflict with the ethics of some researchers.
Librett and Perrone found that the requirements of IRBs actually hindered
the ability of ethnographers to conduct ethical research (Librett and Perrone
2010: 742). There were a number of reasons for this, such as that IRBs required
informed consent to be obtained in the form of a contractual agreement between
each individual participant and the researcher, while an ethnographer usually
acts as a participant observer of a group, community or organization (Librett and
Perrone 2010: 742). This makes it pretty much impossible to gain consent from
every individual member or resident, let alone all the visitors the ethnographer
might encounter. For example, Philippe Bourgois lived and worked in a ghetto
neighbourhood of New York for five years while he conducted an ethnographic
study of urban social marginalisation (Bourgois 2002). Also, Nigel Rapport
worked as a porter in a Scottish hospital for a year, to study national identity
(Rapport, N 2004). It would not have been possible for Bourgois to obtain
informed consent from every adult, child, shopkeeper, drug dealer and so on,
or for Rapport to obtain informed consent from every doctor, nurse, patient,
visitor and others. Also, any ethnographer who tried to obtain informed consent
in this way would disrupt the fundamental ethnographic method of participant
observation, which aims to observe and experience natural behaviour rather than
to influence the situation (Librett and Perrone 2010: 729).

Laura Stark (2012) turned the tables by conducting ethnographic research of

IRBs at American universities. She found that, quite independently of each other,
different IRBs used very similar techniques to reach their decisions. These were:

• looking for signs of good character in researchers’ applications

• claiming justifications for expertise on which they were drawing, such as
personal or professional experience
• relying on their previous decisions as precedents for making future decisions
• using meeting minutes as a tool for managing relationships, both with
researchers and between board members themselves.

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This methodological commonality didn’t lead to IRBs making the same decisions
as each other: different IRBs reached different conclusions about similar studies,
because they were made up of different people using their own discretion in
different contexts. Stark argues that the methodological commonalities exist
because the IRBs all have their roots in the same medical research scandals,
such as the Tuskegee syphilis experiments. Stark’s conclusion is that there are
flaws and inequities in the way IRBs enable and restrict research, and that IRBs
serve to protect institutional interests as much as – sometimes more than –
the interests of potentially vulnerable research participants or even the overall
quality of research.

A YouTube playlist is available with a range of videos on how to navigate

research ethics committees.
Some scholars have concluded that IRBs, and their equivalents in other
countries, are unable to address all the possible ethical difficulties that social
researchers may face during the research process (Blee and Currier 2011: 401;
Sieber and Tolich 2013: 46). In the UK, the Academy of Social Sciences, which
is the umbrella body for the UK social science community, has called for a move
away from the regulatory approach to research ethics and towards a more educative
approach, so as to equip researchers more fully for managing the ethical difficulties
they will face. Information about this initiative is available online.
Creative research can be highly ethical on the micro level, facilitating
improvements in the lives of participants. For example, MacKenzie and Wolf ’s
use of collage as inquiry with student teachers in America reduced the loneliness
of participants and helped to create an inclusive community of learners who
had deeper relationships with one another (MacKenzie and Wolf 2012: 17–18).
Foster’s use of drama with parents of pre-school children, in a Sure Start
programme in a deprived area in the UK, empowered participants, reducing
isolation and increasing their confidence (Foster 2013: 46). At follow-up, three
years later, this positive impact had been maintained and also extended to some
of the children, ‘several of whom continued to attend dance and drama classes
– which, [participants] admitted, would have been inconceivable prior to the
drama group’ (Foster 2013: 49). However, it can be more difficult for creative
research to make an ethical impact on the macro level. For example, Foster
found that national Sure Start evaluators weren’t interested in seeing the parents’
production, and that ‘those in the position to make changes on a larger scale
did not hear the stories that we intended them to’ (Foster 2013: 50).

Theories of ethics
Ethics is a branch of philosophy that deals with the rights and wrongs of human
behaviour. There are lots of books on ethics and research ethics that outline

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different types of ethical theory. Theories include deontology, which suggests

that acts are good or bad of themselves, regardless of their consequences, so that
telling a lie is bad even if it makes someone feel [Link] there is the opposite
view, consequentialism, which argues that the outcome of acts is what matters,
so if you make someone feel better, that’s good, even if you had to tell a lie to
achieve that outcome. These translate into research ethics such that those with a
deontological perspective support a universal code of ethical practice that should
guide research in any situation, while those with a consequential perspective
believe ethical practice should be determined with respect to the particular
research context (Kiragu and Warrington 2012: 176).A third position is virtue
ethics, which tries to argue that if you’re a good person you are likely to do good
things, but doesn’t really manage to convince anyone; there are too many instances
of good people doing bad things, and vice [Link] is also value-based ethics,
which suggests that people base ethical decisions on their personal values rather
than on external principles such as those proposed by deontologists (Liegeois
and Van Audenhove 2005: 453). In practice, most people draw on a combination
of theoretical perspectives when they are faced with specific ethical difficulties,
depending on the matter at hand (Sieber and Tolich 2013: 37).
The literature also covers different ethical standpoints, such as ethics of justice
versus ethics of care. Ethics of justice is a deontological standpoint that emphasises
the importance of obeying rules and sticking to principles, while ethics of care
is a consequentialist standpoint that focuses on the context of a situation as
paramount in resolving any ethical dilemma. Some people regard these as two
opposing standpoints, while others see them as complementary (Edwards and
Mauthner 2012: 21–2).
The most commonly cited ethical dictum is ‘do no harm’, which stems from
the Hippocratic oath taken by doctors since the 5th century BC, and fitted well
with the traditional view of research as a neutral, observational activity. However,
more recently some social researchers have decided to include a social justice
element within their research, seeing it as their responsibility to use research as
a force for good.

UK-based researchers Susan Kiragu and Molly Warrington took a social justice
approach in their study of girls’ school attendance in Kenya. They were very aware
of their privileged position as educated, comparatively wealthy women, and
responded as positively as possible to requests for help from teachers and pupils.
They gave food, water and pens to the schools and raised funds for a dormitory at
one school to help protect girls from a very real threat of rape by local boys. The
researchers shared their findings with people in power, successfully negotiating for
practical support, such as sanitary towel provision, and mentoring by successful
women. Some requests for help were particularly difficult to respond to, such as
those from girls who feared, or had been traumatised by, forced genital mutilation,
but the researchers did what they could to sympathise and support. ‘All in all, we
believe it is imperative for researchers to contribute in whatever way possible

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(material and/or non-material), not because they will benefit professionally from
publishing participants’ data, but because of the imperative of a social justice
agenda’ (Kiragu and Warrington 2012: 186).

It can be helpful for researchers to review ethical theories and standpoints if they
want to deepen their understanding of the philosophical basis for their decisions.
Researchers may also find it useful to review ethical codes and other resources
that suggest ways of putting these theories and standpoints into action. Many
professional groups and associations have codes of ethics, codes of conduct or
similar documents. There are also a range of resources online to help with ethical
decision making (for example RESPECT for research ethics, which synthesised a
range of ethical codes of practice into a single document, and the Association
of Internet Researchers’ Ethics Wiki, which contains a wealth of resources
for ethical decision making in online research).
Theories and resources are helpful only up to a point. It is not possible to
plan for every eventuality (Bowtell et al 2013: 652), so doing research ethically
means constantly making and reviewing decisions in a changing environment
(Iphofen 2011: 7). As children, we’re taught to make moral decisions in a binary
framework: our behaviour is defined as good or naughty, we are expected to know
right from wrong and the goodies always beat the baddies. Yet this won’t serve
us well as researchers, because the application of ethical principles to research
practice is much more subtle and nuanced than simply favouring what is good or
right and rejecting what is bad or wrong (Seal 2012: 698). Researchers are likely
to find themselves facing situations where there is no perfect ethical solution.
Nevertheless, they have to decide how to act – and, as we have seen, decision
making involves creativity.
Creativity is morally neutral, being as applicable to crime as it is to good
works (Schwebel 2009: 319). How people use their creative powers is their own
choice. As we have seen, traditional research was viewed as value neutral and
objective, existing purely for the pursuit of knowledge (Gergen and Gergen
2012: 30). However, traditional positivist research wasn’t nearly as value neutral
as it claimed to be, effectively privileging the privileged and contributing to a
climate where terrible abuses such as the Tuskegee syphilis experiments could
occur. By contrast, most researchers in the 21st century aim for some kind
of social benefit to accrue from their work. Transformative methodological
frameworks such as feminist, emancipatory, decolonised and participatory
research are creatively designed to be more ethical by addressing and reducing
power imbalances between researcher and researched. The ‘transformation’
aimed for is a move from oppressive to egalitarian practices, thereby supporting
a wider shift from oppressive to egalitarian societies. These frameworks privilege
researchers’ insider knowledge, which has been shown to help in elucidating
and contextualising the subjective experiences of research participants (Stierand
and Dörfler 2014: 255).

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There have also been claims for the ethical basis of arts-based research, in
particular the use of expressionistic and performative methods of presenting and
disseminating research. Gergen and Gergen (2012: 30–1) assert that ‘If the social
sciences are to play a significant role in society, it will not be through increased
sophistication in their research methods, but rather through a multiplication in
their skills of expression.’ I wonder whether it might in fact be through both.

Feminist research
Feminist research has been described as using ‘gender as a lens through which to
focus on social issues’ (Hesse-Biber 2014: 3). In the 1970s, UK researchers in the
second wave of feminism, such as Liz Stanley, Sue Wise and Ann Oakley, began
studying aspects of society relating to women, such as the family, housework,
motherhood and lesbian experiences of homophobia. In the same decade US
researcher Laurel Richardson was investigating the effect of gender on everyday
customs such as opening doors for people – and regularly having academic papers
rejected because her subject matter was seen as ‘too strident’ or only interesting
to women (Richardson 2014: 65). These and other feminist researchers around
the world were challenging the traditional research principles of objectivity and
neutrality, and asserting that the identity and context of both researchers and
participants was central to the research process (Ryan-Flood and Gill 2010: 4–5).
In the 1990s, third-wave feminists moved beyond using gender as a single lens,
recognising that gender interacts with other sites of inequality such as ethnicity,
sexual orientation and socioeconomic status (Ryan-Flood and Gill 2010: 4). This
is known as ‘intersectionality’, a concept used to acknowledge identity as both
multifaceted and closely linked with its social and geographical contexts (Naples
and Gurr 2010: 24). After all, nobody is ‘only’ a woman, or a person of colour,
or someone with a disability. An intersectional approach does not attempt to take
into account every aspect of someone’s identity, but aims to accept and reflect the
complexity of identity and examine the relationships between different aspects of
identity and their implications for power relations (Frost and Elichaoff 2010: 60).
The intricacies of intersectionality pose a considerable challenge to research
methods (Hughes and Cohen 2010: 189, drawing on Denis 2008). For second-
wave feminists, qualitative methods seemed most appropriate, and there is still a
strong belief that this is the case (Hughes and Cohen 2010: 190). However, some
feminist researchers, particularly in the US, recognise the value of quantitative
and mixed-method approaches for answering some research questions (Hughes
and Cohen 2010: 190–1).

Marianne Hester and her colleagues in the UK were involved in a mixed-method

investigation of domestic violence within relationships, including focus groups,
interviews and a questionnaire. Domestic violence is a complex phenomenon that
occurs in same-sex as well as heterosexual relationships and may be perpetrated
by women or men, although women and men have different experiences of abuse

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(Hester et al 2010: 255–6). The researchers used a feminist approach to develop

a questionnaire, informed by data from the focus groups, which was designed
to be ‘sensitive to the gender and power dynamics of domestic violence’ in
heterosexual and same-sex relationships (Hughes and Cohen 2010: 256). They
received 746 usable responses that, when analysed, enabled them to ‘differentiate
between forms of abuse and their relative impacts’ and ‘provided reliable data
on domestic violence in same-sex relationships’ (Hughes and Cohen 2010: 261).

Emancipatory research
Emancipatory research, sometimes known as activist research, is a form of insider
research where, for example, gay and lesbian researchers will investigate the effects
of homophobia (Telford and Faulkner 2004: 549–50). This research framework
grew from political activism and changing conceptions of human rights across
Westernised nations in the second half of the 20th century (Morrow et al 2012:
8–10). Emancipatory research is intended to empower disadvantaged people.
A pivotal point in emancipatory research came from the disability movement.
Paul Hunt used a wheelchair, as a result of muscular dystrophy, and lived in the
first Leonard Cheshire home (Tankana 2007: 21). Hunt was a researcher and an
activist (Tankana 2007: 38), so, in the 1960s, when the then Ministry of Health
commissioned some research into the participation of residents in Leonard
Cheshire homes, he and other residents expected the researchers to support
their attempts to have some control of their lives (Barnes and Cotterell 2012b:
143). Sadly, the reverse was the case, as, on the whole, the researchers supported
the status quo, in which people living with disabilities were regarded as unfit to
participate fully in society. The residents were understandably upset and angry,
and Hunt wrote a searing critique of the research, arguing that it was ‘profoundly
biased and committed against the residents’ interests’ (Hunt 1981, cited in Barnes
and Cotterell 2012b: 144; emphasis in the original).
The creative work of Paul Hunt and of other disability researchers, such as
Mike Oliver, laid the groundwork for the creation of the ‘emancipatory research’
model. Emancipatory research developed new ethical dimensions by questioning
how social research is conducted and who controls its resources (Cotterell and
Morris 2012: 61). This anti-oppressive research practice spread into the fields of
mental health, feminist research, community research and numerous other areas.

Diana Rose and her colleagues in the UK carried out a piece of emancipatory/
activist research in the early 21st century, reviewing the effectiveness of electro-
convulsive therapy (ECT), in which electric shocks are applied to a patient’s brain
to induce seizures (Rose et al 2002). Several of the researchers had experience
of mental illness and mental health services, including ECT (Lloyd, Rose and
Fenton 2006: 265). The research team gathered 26 reports of research into ECT
by academic researchers, nine of which were produced in collaboration with or led
by researchers who had experience of mental illness and mental health services.

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They also gathered 139 individual accounts of receiving ECT that they found on
the internet. They found that purely academic research identified much higher
levels of satisfaction with ECT than either the research involving researchers
with experience of mental illness and mental health services or the individual
accounts. The highest levels of satisfaction were reported when data had been
gathered by a clinician immediately after treatment. Combining this finding with
their own experiences, Rose et al concluded that patients at this stage were likely
to overstate their satisfaction, in the hope of avoiding further treatments and
consequent negative side-effects, but would be more honest in discussion with
other people who had experienced mental illness and mental health services, or
when giving their own account online (Thornicroft and Tansella 2005: 2). This
research was widely disseminated, and its findings and conclusions influenced
both change to the UK’s national guidelines on ECT and a review of training and
information given on ECT by the Royal College of Psychiatrists (SCIE 2007: 9–11).

Two videos about user-led research, presented by Diana Rose, are available
online.

Decolonised research
Decolonised research is an approach that aims to detach research from imperialism
and colonialism (Tuhiwai Smith 2012: 4–5). Colonised people do not want their
story told for them by academics from other, more powerful cultures, however
well-intentioned those academics might be. Nor do non-Western people
necessarily accept Western views of situations or concepts (Smith, Fisher and
Heath 2011: 499). Indigenous people the world over would prefer to tell their
own stories and give their own views in their own ways. Traditional research
methods, such as surveys, interviews and focus groups, are rooted in Western
colonial cultural ways of knowing (Gobo 2011: 423–7). As with emancipatory
research, indigenous academics and researchers are working to redress social
injustice and increase self-determination (Tuhiwai Smith 2012: 4–6). This
involves considerable creativity in approaching research projects. A seminar on
decolonising methodologies with Linda Tuhiwai Smith, and a conversation on
decolonising knowledge with Linda Tuhiwai Smith, Michelle Fine and Andrew
Jolivette, can be viewed online.

Bekisizwe Ndimande investigated education in Gauteng province, a heavily

populated and racially diverse region of South Africa. Although apartheid had been
abolished, there were still many social inequities, with some townships remaining
segregated, black areas lacking resources and black students experiencing racism
in formerly white-only schools. Nevertheless, an increasing number of black
students were moving into formerly white-only schools. Ndimande wanted to

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understand black parents’ support for their children’s attendance at discriminatory

schools. He used a decolonising research framework ‘in order to privilege those
whose epistemologies have been marginalized and colonized, in this case the black
parents who live in the impoverished townships’ (Ndimande 2012: 220) (although
not all those parents were impoverished themselves). This framework included:

• treating participants with respect

• being aware, and considerate, of indigenous cultures
• conducting the research in community languages
• being open and honest about his own life and beliefs
• identifying with participants’ needs, experiences and concerns
• treating participants as partners in the research, rather than as data sources
• being aware of power imbalances between researcher and participants
• making an effort to connect the academic research world with the participants’
world.

Ndimande concluded that while South Africa can legitimately be described as

‘post-apartheid’, it is not yet ‘post-colonial’, as the marketisation of education,
in which parents and children are encouraged to choose between different
schools, is in itself a colonial system (Ndimande 2012: 224). Using a decolonising
methodology was intended to disrupt this system, but of course it usually
takes more than one research project to make a significant change. However,
Ndimande was able to identify this aspect of the colonial legacy and to make
recommendations for ways to bring South Africa’s indigenous communities back
to the centre of its children’s education.

In the research world, the English language is dominant (Perry 2011: 906–7).
This is a colonialist situation that privileges English-speaking researchers and
disadvantages those who do not speak English, no matter how clever or skilled
they may be (Gobo 2011: 419–20).Within research projects, non-English speakers
may be seen by researchers and research ethics committees as vulnerable or
incompetent participants, when in fact they may be entirely able to participate
in research if the research is conducted in their native language or a translator is
provided (Perry 2011: 906–7).
Another colonialist aspect of research is that Western methods are often regarded
as universal, when they may not be appropriate in other regions (Smith, Fisher
and Heath 2011: 485–6). For example,Western researchers may take it for granted
that consent should be given in writing, but this can prove problematic in cultures
where oral communication is privileged and writing rarely used even by the few
people who are able to write (Czymoniewicz-Klippel, Brijnath and Crockett 2010:
335–6). Ndimande conducted research in his native South Africa in indigenous
languages including IsiZulu, Sesotho, IsiXhosa and IsiNdebele, which helped him
to build rapport with his participants and enabled them to contribute more fully
than if the research had been conducted in English (Ndimande 2012: 216–8).

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However, Ndimande found that he had to be very careful in translating research

questions, originally formulated in English, into indigenous languages that had
no research discourse (Ndimande 2012: 219; see also Swartz 2011: 61). Similar
problems arise with cross-national surveys and are complex to solve, requiring
‘multiple skilled translators and survey specialists within each country working
to arrive at an optimal translation’ (Smith, Fisher and Heath 2011: 492).
As Ndimande’s experience shows, these points are relevant not only to
anthropologists and others who are likely to conduct social research beyond the
boundaries of their home country. Many parts of the world are now multicultural,
yet many research methods are monocultural (Gobo 2011: 418). It is important
for any researcher to be sensitive to the potential for the cultural norms and
experiences of participants and colleagues to affect the research process. For
example, it is often taken for granted by Western researchers that participants
should remain anonymous. However, working with young Sudanese refugee
boys in America, Kristen Perry found some of her participants highly resistant to
having their names changed, as her IRB required (Perry 2011: 899). On further
investigation, she discovered that ‘forced name-changing was a common tactic
of repression by the Sudanese majority’ (Perry 2011: 911). Perry’s participants
had – and, in at least one case, exercised – the choice of refusing to take part in
her research. But surely it would have been more ethical for the IRB to work
in a way that enabled researchers to respond flexibly to the needs of potential
participants, rather than effectively excluding them as a result of its strictures. It
has been argued that research governance organisations such as IRBs need to be
‘decolonised’ so as to enable researchers to be responsible to participants rather
than institutions (Denzin and Giardina 2006: 35).
Although, as we have seen, there is some ethical decision making within IRBs
(Stark 2012: 166), there is also considerable conflict between the values and
priorities of research ethics committees and those of researchers (McAreavey
and Muir 2011: 393). It can help if researchers are creative in presenting their
plans to committees (Czymoniewicz-Klippel, Brijnath and Crockett 2010: 339).

Gloria González-López, from America, conducted research on incest in Mexico.

Her IRB required participants to sign a formal document, including a detailed
description of the study, and be given a copy to keep. This worried González-López:
‘Would those who lived in extreme poverty have a private place to keep things
like this document? What if someone in the family found the document, someone
who had not known about the abuse? What if the person who committed the
abuse found the document?’ (González-López 2011: 447). Instead of trying to
complete the ethics application form, González-López contacted the director of
the IRB to discuss her concerns. The director was receptive, and presented her
case to the IRB, which agreed that González-López could recruit participants on
the basis of verbal consent (González-López 2011: 448).

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A video giving more information about Gloria González-López’ findings can

be viewed online.

Participatory research
Participatory research, also known as participatory action research, is another
transformative framework. Participatory research focuses on communities or
groups and emphasises the full involvement of participants at every stage of
the research process (Bhana 2006: 432). The research should benefit these
communities or groups, as well as the researchers (Wassenaar 2006: 69). The
aim is to empower disempowered groups, communities and individuals (Bhana
2006: 432). A video introduction to participatory action research can be viewed
online, and a website with resources for participatory research is also available.

Critical communicative methodology (CCM) is a particularly ethical type of

participatory mixed-method research. Developed by the late Jesús Gómez in
Barcelona, Spain around the turn of the century, CCM is based on the Habermasian
principle that everyone has the right to participate in intellectual discussion,
whether or not they are ‘an intellectual’ or can speak intellectual language.
Gómez’s view was that everyone has critical analytic abilities, and we can learn
a great deal from people who have different backgrounds from our own. In CCM,
every research project has a multicultural research team reflecting the diversity
of the society being investigated, so as to ensure full involvement throughout
the research process, from proposal development to dissemination of findings.
The team is supported by an advisory committee made up of representatives
from groups that are directly affected by the research. Thus, research participants
play an active role throughout, although this changes rather than reduces the
role of researchers, who are responsible for communicating academic knowledge
to participants. Data is gathered using communicative methods, such as stories
of daily life, focus groups and observations that are dialogic and involve the
researcher sharing their knowledge and interpretations with participants.
Quantitative data may also be gathered and analysed communicatively. Analysis
is designed to identify what perpetuates, and what changes, inequalities, and to
find solutions to society’s problems. This method has already had a significant
positive impact on some of Europe’s most excluded groups, such as the Roma
(Gómez, Puigvert and Flecha 2011: 239).

Outside a participatory framework, participants’ views on the research process are

rarely sought, though they may differ from researchers’ views, even on key issues
such as the value of anonymity (O’Reilly et al 2012: 220). However, even when
using a participatory framework, there are limits to participation – ironically, most
particularly in research governance, where participants’ voices are largely silent
(McAreavey and Muir 2011: 403). A short video about a participant’s experience
of taking part in dementia research can be viewed online.

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Critiquing transformative research frameworks

It is not the case that using a transformative research framework will, in itself,
iron out any potential ethical difficulties. For example, using a transformative
research framework does not remove power imbalances between people of
different races, genders, socioeconomic status and so on. Nor does it mean that
all involved will have the same kinds of knowledge (Lomax 2012: 106) or the
same understanding of what is, or is not, ethical (McAreavey and Muir 2011:
395). Researchers’ experiences of oppression, as in the case, for example, of
disability activist or feminist researchers, does not automatically mean that those
researchers will understand how oppression is experienced by other people with
disabilities or by other women (Mason 2002: 193). A transformative research
framework may help all concerned to address power imbalances and differences
within the research project, but doing so will still take time and effort above
and beyond that needed for core research tasks. In some cases, such as when
researching highly sensitive topics with vulnerable groups, it may be better to
offer a flexible approach to participation, with options for participants to move
through different levels of involvement at different times to suit their needs
(McCarry 2012: 64). While this could bring accusations of misuse of researcher
power, it is also true that researchers are trained and supported to make research,
and are likely to have many more professional and personal resources than most
vulnerable participants, and so have an ethical responsibility to know when and
how to offer involvement or participation (McCarry 2012: 65). And practicalities
can get in the way, because full participation involves a great deal of investment
in support, training and inclusion, particularly with vulnerable participants
(Gillard et al 2012: 252).
Also, transformative research frameworks can bring ethical difficulties of their
own. For example, using a participatory approach may seem like a marvellous
idea to a researcher, but considerably less marvellous to participants, who have
much less to gain. This becomes even more of a challenge in longitudinal
research, which has to compete with demands from participants’ families and
employers, among others (Weller 2012: 123). Conversely, little is written about
the extent to which participants may expect researchers to continue their
relationships with them after the end of a project, and the difficulty this can
cause for all concerned.

UK researcher Carla Reeves carried out ethnographic research with sex offenders
in a probation hostel. For many participants, the researcher was the only person
they could speak to in confidence. Anticipating this, Reeves had planned when
and how she would leave the research site, but unforeseen factors caused an
earlier exit. Some participants asked if they could keep in touch with her, and
she explained why this would not be possible – she would no longer have
permission to enter the hostel, and consent for meetings outside was unlikely

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to be granted. However, as Reeves lived nearby, she did sometimes run into her
former participants. This caused anxiety at times, such as when she was with
a female friend and met a male high-risk sex offender with a history of raping
adult women; Reeves couldn’t warn her friend, for reasons of confidentiality. This
made her wary of her former participant, which left her feeling ashamed, as if
she had simply used her participants for the benefit of her research. This internal
conflict was resolved only very gradually as her former participants were moved
out of the area (Reeves 2010: 328).

A video with more information about Carla Reeves’ research can be viewed
online.
Participants are not often involved in the writing or presenting stages of research
– although again there are notable exceptions, such as Ellis and Rawicki (2013)
(discussed in more detail in Chapter Seven – also, relevant videos can be viewed
online). And participants may be further marginalised, in a variety of ways, by the
publication process. For example, in the long and thorough text on participatory
action research by Chevalier and Buckles (2013), some participants are mentioned,
such as Alberto (on pages 239–42) and the female forestry officer (300–3).
However, these names do not appear in the otherwise comprehensive index;
there are many names in the index, but only the names of research professionals.
Structural aspects of research, such as project design, timescale and budget, may
need to be in place before a transformative research framework is implemented.
This effectively sets up potential inequalities for any research encounter, with a
framework being imposed on participants rather than agreed with them (McCarry
2012: 60–1). There is also ‘the question of who participates and how’ (Lomax
2012: 107). Factors that may exclude potential participants include logistics
(meeting times and locations, access to technology and communication systems,
languages spoken and so on) and the requirements of the research, for example
level of commitment and abilities required. This raises questions about the extent
to which participants are, or can be, representative of wider communities.
It is not always the case that more participation automatically leads to greater
inclusion and empowerment of participants (McCarry 2012: 65), or that
using decolonising methodologies actually ‘decolonises’ the research process.
Transformative research frameworks are always worth considering but, if their
use is appropriate, need to be used with thought and care, not ‘bolted on’ to put
a tokenistic tick in the diversity box. Also, it is important to remember that not
everyone views these approaches as ideal. For example, some researchers have
called not for decolonisation, but for cultural integration in research through a
‘geocentric’ approach (Li 2014: 28).

Managing ethical dilemmas in creative research

Academics, particularly those in the field of education, are often encouraged by
others to conduct activist research with the aim of reducing inequalities based on

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prejudice and so helping to create a more just social world (DeMeulenaere and
Cann 2013: 552). A video that explores research justice through transformative
research frameworks can be viewed online. While these transformative frameworks
are designed to be more ethical than traditional top-down research frameworks,
people working within them will still experience, and need to find ways to solve,
ethical problems.

UK researchers Suzy Braye and Liz McDonnell conducted participatory research

with young fathers acting as peer researchers to investigate the experiences of
other young fathers. The researchers offered support in the form of training as
needed and debriefing after interviews, and all participants were paid for their
time. The team encountered several ethical difficulties. Peer researchers were
unclear about whether they were ‘peers’ or ‘researchers’, which caused some
difficulty for them in managing confidentiality, especially during the post-
interview debriefing sessions. Also, the peer researchers found it difficult to be in
a position where they were not supposed to give advice to research participants
because, as peers, they wouldn’t hesitate. They also didn’t understand the rationale
and need for the debriefing, thinking at first that they just had to pass on anything
serious, rather than understanding post-interview debriefing to be a regular part
of research practice, both for harm reduction for researchers and participants and
for reflection on the interview in particular and the research process in general.
As the researchers had taken the peer researchers’ understanding for granted, this
led to a few problems. The researchers concluded that becoming peer researchers
changed people’s experience of power in relationships, and that the reasoning
behind some aspects of the research process needed to be more fully explained
and discussed, including ‘the political nature of the interview relationship’ (Braye
and McDonnell 2012: 278).

People who are new to ethics often expect a ‘top down’ approach, with a set
of rules or guidelines that can be applied to different research situations. More
experienced ethicists are likely to take a ‘bottom up’ approach, with each new
research project being ethically assessed in its own, unique terms and context.
Further, while there are some ethical absolutes – for example, causing harm in the
name of research is never justifiable – experience also brings more recognition and
understanding of the ‘grey areas’ in ethics, and acknowledgement that different
ethical decisions may be equally defensible and legitimate (Lomborg 2012: 21).

Danish researcher Stine Lomborg studied the ways in which Danish people use
personal blogs and Twitter, and how those social media were integrated into
their users’ everyday lives. Personal blogs and Twitter are publicly accessible and
fall under the Data Protection Agency of Denmark’s definition of ‘non-sensitive
information’, so they could be regarded as freely available for researchers to use
as data. However, they do contain a lot of personal and identifiable information,
which some social media users might regard as comparatively private. For

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example, they might intend their blog posts and tweets to be read by people
they know personally, for their own information and interest, rather than by an
unknown researcher for career advancement. Considering this, Lomborg decided
that she needed to ask permission from potential participants before using their
words as data (Lomborg 2012: 25).

Using direct quotes from people’s data, however that data was gathered, poses a
range of ethical difficulties. How do you frame the quote? Do you introduce the
person, give some of their key characteristics? Or would that lead your readers
to respond in a particular way? Should you use a pseudonym? This is another
of the many areas where the ‘bottom up’ approach to ethics is likely to be most
useful, giving full and careful consideration of your unique research project in
its own, individual context. When using direct quotes, it is helpful to clarify
the reasons for the selection of each quote (Taylor 2012: 393). There are many
possible reasons, such as: a single quote to illustrate a point in the narrative; a pair
of quotes to show the widest range of a spectrum of viewpoints; a series of quotes
to demonstrate a pattern in the data. Explaining the reasons for your decisions
is good ethical research practice because it enables your readers to make well-
informed judgements about the quality and rigour of your work.
Some ethical arguments have an equal and opposite argument. In her research
mentioned above, for ethical reasons Stine Lomborg offered participants the
opportunity to read her write-up in draft and gave them the option to ask for any
of their direct quotes to be removed. As it happened, just one participant asked
for one excerpt to be removed, and Lomborg granted the request. However,
in Lomborg’s view, this request was likely to have been made on account of
personal feelings and wishes, rather than as a result of considered judgement about
the extent to which the excerpt, in context, would add to the body of human
knowledge (Lomborg 2012: 28). This was problematic for two reasons: first, it
had the potential to undermine the quality of Lomborg’s research, and second, it
reduced the extent to which research decisions were the researcher’s responsibility
(Lomborg 2012: 28). The principle of ‘interpretive authority’ suggests that the
researcher is a type of cultural interpreter, who is responsible for the rigorous
analysis and interpretation of data (Markham 2012: 15). If this principle were
applied to Lomborg’s work, then granting her participant’s request for an excerpt
to be removed could be seen as unnecessary and inappropriate (Lomborg 2012:
29). Use of a participatory framework might have forestalled this problem – but
it may be difficult to use participatory frameworks in conjunction with this kind
of online data gathering.

Ethics in arts-based research

It can be argued that arts-based research requires a dual ethic: research ethics,
of course, and also the ethics of authenticity (Parker 2004: 70–1; Leavy 2009:
151). Authenticity implies recognition. People may recognise authenticity by

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external factors: an artist’s signature on a painting, or a certificate of origin from

a trusted authority. Or people may recognise authenticity by internal factors,
which are harder to describe: the experience of the artwork chimes with existing
cognitive and emotional knowledge to create a resonance, a feeling of rightness.
Of course, not everyone will experience an artwork in the same way, which is a
potential problem for arts-based research. But if enough people can reach a similar
understanding, through discussing and considering their individual responses in
the process of creating research, then arts-based research may be deemed authentic
(Clark, Holland and Ward 2012: 40).There are also micro and macro approaches
to ethics in arts-based research. The micro approach focuses on ethics within
the research project where, for example, it is particularly important to make ‘full
methodological disclosure’ (Leavy 2009: 20) by explaining which methods you
have used, why you chose them and how you have used [Link] enables your
audiences to understand your research more fully. The macro approach focuses
on wider issues affecting the research project, such as political considerations and
balances of power. Research is an inherently political activity, and many artists –
writers, musicians, actors and so on – are socially and politically engaged. These
artists may use research for ‘the artful posing of questions regarding important
social, political, and cultural issues by allowing them to be seen in a previously
unavailable light’ (Barone and Eisner 2012: 128). This is not in itself unethical,
unless researchers also try to convince or coerce people to share their point of view.

Ethics in mixed-methods research

As we saw in Chapter Two, mixed-methods research can present some complex
ethical dilemmas. Interestingly, some researchers have used qualitative methods
to study quantitative techniques in practice, with results that highlight the ethical
implications of the methods used.

Polish researchers Dariusz Galasiński and Olga Kozłowska made a qualitative

study of a quantitative research technique: people’s experiences of completing
questionnaires. The research participants were unemployed Polish people, and
the questionnaire was designed to examine feelings, behaviour and attitudes
around unemployment. The researchers asked each participant to ‘think aloud’
while filling in the questionnaire. This was not their original plan, but the first
participant did so spontaneously and the researchers found his comments so
fascinating that they asked all the other participants to do the same. The aim
was not to praise or criticise the particular questionnaire, or indeed to make
a qualitative attack on a quantitative method, but to show how participants
manage the tensions between their experiences and the answer categories
in the questionnaire. Questionnaires effectively assume that people are, or
can be, simply providers of information. Galasiński and Kozłowska found that
participants would ‘strategically navigate through the reality created by the
instrument, attempting to satisfy their own “life story” and their strategic goals

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while, at the same time, completing the task of choosing the options provided
by the questionnaire’ (Galasiński and Kozłowska 2010: 280). This experience
had a significant emotional dimension, often leading to outbursts of frustration.
As a result, Galasiński and Kozłowska suggest that it may be unethical to use
questionnaires to investigate difficult personal experiences such as mental ill-
health, divorce or bereavement (Galasiński and Kozłowska 2010: 280). They also
suggest that questionnaires may not be ideal for investigating ‘highly contested,
ideology-rich topics or events’ (Galasiński and Kozłowska 2010: 281).

These kinds of ethical issues can also cause problems for research.

Kariann Krohne and her colleagues, in Norway, studied the administration of

standardised tests by healthcare professionals. They focused on several tests of
cognitive and physical abilities administered by health professionals to hospital in-
patients. The administration of such tests is supposed to follow a rigid procedure,
right down to the health professional’s script, to ensure reliability and validity
(see Chapter Four for more on these quality criteria for quantitative research).
However, Krohne et al found that health professionals regularly deviated from
these procedures and scripts in response to patients’ needs (Krohne et al 2013:
1172–3). The tension between the research requirement of standardisation and
the care requirement of meeting individual patients’ needs is always present for
health professionals administering standardised tests (Krohne et al 2013: 1174).
The health professionals who participated in the research prioritised the care
requirement over the research requirement (Krohne et al 2013: 1176). This may
have led to bias in the test results.

This is an interesting example of navigation between deontological ethics of

justice – that is, the standardisation – and consequential ethics of care in a specific
practice context.

Ethics in research using technology

Technology can be helpful in overcoming ethical difficulties. For example, audio or
video ‘podcasts’ (short audio or video files published via the internet) can be used
to help ensure that research participants are able to give fully informed consent
(Haigh and Jones 2007: 81; Hammond and Cooper 2011: 267). A podcast can
be made age appropriate when seeking consent from children. Podcasts are also
useful for people who have memory or attention problems, as they can be played
over and over again. Because they don’t rely on the written word, podcasts are
also useful for people with literacy problems or some forms of learning disability.
Technology is also useful as a tool in teaching research methods. For example, a
video example can be viewed online of a researcher working through a consent
process with a research participant who has moderate aphasia (reading) and
limited verbal output.

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 Creative research methods in the social sciences

However, the use of technology for research purposes also raises a whole new
set of ethical problems for researchers to solve. For example, mobile devices such
as smartphones and tablets are increasingly used to communicate with research
participants and record audio and video data for research purposes. However,
these digital interactions can be traced by third parties, which may compromise
participants’ anonymity (van Doorn 2013: 393). Also, research using social media
can compromise participants’ safety if they are unaware of the extent to which
social media sites such as Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest can be linked together.
This means that someone giving their consent to participate in research via one
such site may inadvertently provide the researcher with access to their content
on other social media sites (Rooke 2013: 267).
The expansion of technology has created a lot of new opportunities for
researchers, with associated new ethical difficulties. For example, online research
can be passive, where people providing information online are not aware that
it is being used for research, or active, where participants are aware of and have
consented to be involved in the research. It would seem, at first sight, that active
research is more ethical. However, it can be difficult to ensure that consent given
online is fully informed. You can provide any amount of information about the
research, the participant’s opt-out options and so on, but it is impossible to be
sure that the participant has understood and accepted this information. This is
because a participant may give their consent through a single mouse click, without
actually reading the information you provide. For example, in the summer of 2014,
while this book was being written, researchers from Facebook published details
of an experiment manipulating Facebook users’ exposure to emotional content
in their timelines (Kramer et al 2014: 8788). This research was in accordance
with Facebook’s data-use policy. However, many Facebook users felt that they
had not given consent – certainly not informed consent – to participating in
such research. The outcry on social media was so vehement that the researchers
rapidly apologised and the editor of the journal that had published the research
printed an ‘expression of concern’ about its ethical status.
The Facebook research may have caused only alarm to most of those affected,
but research online that is not carefully carried out can put participants in actual
danger. For example, whether the research is passive or active, if researchers do
not maintain their participants’ privacy, anonymity and confidentiality they can
jeopardise those people’s personal safety by leaving them vulnerable to crime
through hacking or stalking (Rooke 2013: 267). It is essential for researchers to
be fully aware of the potential implications of the use of technology within any
research they conduct. For example, it is important to know that many participants
are unaware of the size and nature of their personal digital footprint (and this
probably applies to many researchers, too). Also, direct quotes from online research
can be traced back to participants by using a search engine, so semi-fictionalisation
can be particularly useful in reporting online research (Markham 2012: 5). If you
are ever in doubt as to whether you might compromise the safety of an online
research participant or cause any other unethical outcome, you should err on

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the side of caution (Rooke 2013: 268). It is essential that researchers should do
as much as possible, proactively, to act ethically when working online (Markham
2013a: 69).

Well-being of researchers
A great deal of attention is paid to the need for researchers’ duty of care to
vulnerable research participants during data gathering – and rightly so. Historically,
rather less attention has been paid to the potential vulnerability of researchers
(Librett and Perrone 2010: 739; Bowtell et al 2013: 654), with many codes of
research ethics failing even to mention that researchers need to protect themselves
and take care, both when working in the field and elsewhere. Also, some research
institutions fail to implement even the most basic health and safety regulations
in managing the potential risks to the researchers they employ and send out to
do fieldwork (Bahn and Weatherill 2013: 25).

Australian researchers Susanne Bahn and Pamela Weatherill studied the lives
of people with rapidly degenerating neurological diseases. In the process, they
considered the potential emotional impact for researchers gathering sensitive
data and the difficulties for researchers in recognising risk, and developed some
strategies for increasing researchers’ personal safety. They found that gathering
data in people’s homes can be risky, as the researcher is a stranger who does
not know who will be in the house, their state of mental or physical health or
what dangers may exist, such as aggressive dogs, or cables lying across the floor.
There is also emotional risk from the experience of interviewing people in very
distressing circumstances. Bahn and Weatherill offer a seven-point checklist to
help with identifying and managing risk.

1 Has a mobile phone call-in system been established?

2 Is the researcher experienced in working with these types of participants?
3 Can researchers work in pairs?
4 Can researchers be given personal alarms?
5 If data is to be gathered in participants’ homes, are other colleagues aware
of researchers’ whereabouts, and can researchers plan an exit strategy, for
example parking in the street for an easy getaway?
6 Is debriefing support or counselling available?
7 What types of safety training are needed? (Bahn and Weatherill 2012: 33)

Bahn and Weatherill’s final recommendation is that safer data gathering practices
should be included in research project plans, and budgeted for, and policies should
be developed to support this (Bahn and Weatherill 2012: 33).

Even the more mechanical aspects of research, such as applying for ethical
approval or using technological methods, can come with a heavy emotional cost

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(Monaghan, O’Dwyer and Gabe 2013: 73; Moncur 2013: 1883). Suggestions
for ways to manage this include: advance preparation, peer support, working
reflexively and seeking counselling when necessary (Moncur 2013: 1885). A
video offering a few thoughts on the emotional well-being of researchers can
be viewed online.
It is important for each of us, as researchers, to take care of ourselves throughout
the research process. Doing so will help in a range of ways, including promoting
our creativity. Empirical research has shown that self-compassion, or being kind
to yourself, is linked with higher levels of original creative thinking, while self-
judgementalism, or being destructively self-critical, reduces original creative
thought (Zabelina and Robinson 2010: 292). So taking good care of yourself will
help you to think creatively, which in turn will enhance your research.

CONCLUSION
You cannot rely on rules to help you to act ethically in research. Principles
such as ‘use research to do good’ and ‘guard against bias’ can be helpful. But
ultimately, to be an ethical researcher, you need to think ethically before,
during and after you make your research. Even this won’t protect you against
mistakes along the way and taking actions which, on later reflection, you
will realise were not the most ethical option. But if you’re making the best
decisions you can, on the basis of the information available to you at any
given time, then you’re doing all that anyone can ask.

This chapter has given an overview of what an ethical researcher should do.
The scope for creativity lies in how that is [Link] are ethical dimensions
to each aspect of the research process, so each of the remaining chapters in
this book will include a short ethical section focusing on ethical issues of
particular relevance to that stage of your research.

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 FOUR

Creative thinking

Introduction
Creative thinking is particularly useful at the start of a project, when all things
are possible. At the outset it is helpful to think through your project as creatively
as you can, including thinking creatively about methods (Mason 2002: 26) –
which this book is designed to help you to do. But creative thinking is needed
throughout your project, such as when ethical dilemmas arise or unforeseen
difficulties occur. This chapter will show you why creative thinking is important
and give you some ideas for ways to improve your abilities in this vital research
skill. A good TEDx talk on creative thinking by Raphael DiLuzio and an
interesting blog post on the same subject by Michael Michalko are available
online.

Ethical thinking
Some novice researchers think ethical considerations are irrelevant until you
get into data gathering. However, there are ethical questions to answer from
the moment you have an idea for a research project. Why do you think that
idea is a good one? What purposes would the research serve? These are ethical
questions you should be asking yourself at the outset. Then, throughout the
process, you need to identify and consider all the ethical issues that your research
presents you with – or may present you with in the near future. Something
that is often overlooked is a consideration of how your completed research
might be used – or misused – by others with different agendas from your own.
It’s well worth trying to think this through and consider whether you can do
anything to minimise the possibility of it happening. And, as we saw from Carla
Reeves’s work outlined in Chapter Three, there are even ethical considerations
after your research is finished.
A short video outlining five ways to think ethically can be viewed online.
Ethical thinking is closely linked to creative thinking, and this is discussed in
more detail below.

Creative thinking
Thinking is essential to the research process. However, when you’re thinking
creatively about one aspect of a research project it can become very difficult to
think creatively about other aspects – or, in some cases, even to think about them

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at all. For example, many early mixed-methods researchers were so focused on

the effectiveness of their new research designs that they forgot that a theoretical
framework could be valuable to guide their investigations (Evans, Coon and Ume
2011: 276). Creativity is a central ingredient of thinking, and the key to this is
to allocate time for creative thinking (de Bono 1999: 115). The importance of
taking time to think is often overlooked, perhaps because thinking is an invisible
activity and therefore seems less valuable than visible activity with visible results.
Thinking can be divided into fast and slow (Kahneman 2011: 12–13). Fast
thinking is intuitive, easy, even spontaneous, particularly where someone has
considerable expertise in a subject, and often is shallower and wider than slow
thinking. Slow thinking is rational, deliberative and effortful, often narrower
and deeper than fast thinking. Both kinds of thinking are involved in all stages
of the creative process (Allen and Thomas 2011: 115), although if there are time
constraints people are more likely to rely on their fast thinking abilities (Evans
and Curtis-Holmes 2005: 386). A video interview with Daniel Kahneman in
which he talks about ‘thinking, fast and slow’ can be viewed online.
Thinking can also be divided into convergent and divergent. Convergent
thinking is useful for finding the correct solution to a problem, while divergent
thinking enables you to generate lots of ideas. In this case, divergent thinking is
more relevant to creativity (Hong and Milgram 2010: 272). The more ideas you
generate, the more creative they are likely to be (Dippo 2013: 433). Divergent
thinking involves not only generating ideas, but also evaluating them (Runco and
Acar 2012: 70). Creative thinking and critical or analytical thinking are closely
related (Prager 2012: 272).
All these types of thinking are active, but some scholars endorse a more
receptive or reflective approach. For example, Galvin and Todres, drawing on
the work of Heidegger and Gendlin, promote the idea of ‘unspecialisation’ as
a way towards creativity through contemplative openness to new meanings
(Galvin and Todres 2012: 114). They advocate using the ‘empathic imagination’
to integrate ‘the head, hand and heart’ and thereby avoid ‘the excessive
compartmentalisation of attention to specialized tasks’ (Galvin and Todres
2012: 116–117). Romanyshyn agrees, using the poet Keats’s concept of
‘negative capability’, or the ability to be comfortable with uncertainty, which
Romanyshyn says will enable researchers to find new meanings (Romanyshyn
2013: 149). For Romanyshyn, as for Galvin and Todres, this supports integrative
practice and avoids compartmentalisation, although Romanyshyn describes it
differently as ‘research with soul in mind’ (Romanyshyn 2013: 149), that is, a
more holistic and experiential discipline than traditional research. The concepts
of unspecialisation and negative capability are akin to the concepts of wonder
(Hansen 2012: 3) and reverie (Duxbury 2009: 56), and all speak of the necessity
for researchers to be open to the unexpected.
Whichever way we approach it, thinking creatively helps us to look at the
world in different ways. What everyone ‘knows’ to be true may seem explicit
and clear, but in fact can make it difficult for us to examine our assumptions by

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preventing us from formulating questions we might otherwise ask (Shields 2002:

91). And it’s impossible to detect our own cognitive biases, although we can
sometimes identify those of others (Kahneman, Lovallo and Sibony 2011: 52).
But we can spot some of the assumptions we make, and the things we take for
granted, which can help us to think more creatively. One way to do this is to be
alert for ‘red flag’ or normative words and statements, such as ‘always’ or ‘never’
or ‘can’t’, or ‘everyone knows that’s just how it is’ or ‘it’s not how we do things
around here’. These kinds of words and statements can act as a helpful signal to
look afresh at the subject or situation and ask some different questions (Strauss
and Corbin 1998: 97–9).
Another useful way to identify assumptions and things we take for granted is
to work with people from different disciplines. For example, political science is
primarily interested in large, quantitative, national or international studies, while
area studies mostly focuses on small, qualitative, regional studies. Historically, these
disciplines have stood in opposition to one another. However, more recently some
scholars have suggested that they might make a more useful contribution if they
were treated as complementary, each with a worthwhile dimension to bring to
the work of theory building (for example, Ahram 2011).
As we saw in the previous chapter, Mumford et al (2010) found a positive
relationship between creative thinking skills and ethical decision making in
doctoral science students. They also found that ‘creative thinking seemed to
promote ethical decisions in multiple areas’ (Mumford et al 2010: 13). So it is
likely that working on your creative thinking skills will also help you to improve
your ethical decision making.

Mauthner and her colleagues, academics from the UK, consider ethical thinking
to be an essential skill for everyone in the modern world. As the pace of change
increases, researchers need to be able to think ethically on their feet if they
are to manage new and developing situations ethically, rather than expect to
depend on fixed, written guidelines. Mauthner et al (2012: 183–4) put forward
seven headings for questions researchers need to consider as they conduct
their research, from planning to dissemination. These are explicitly designed for
qualitative researchers, but I suggest that they apply equally to quantitative
researchers. The following is a brief summary.

1 Methods – is it OK just to use research methods, whether established or new,

or should a researcher also understand how those methods work?
2 Sampling – what are the ethical problems that might arise as a result of the
sampling strategy, and how might these be addressed?
3 Power – where are the balances of power between relevant individuals and
organisations, and how might these affect the research?
4 Actions – how do the researcher’s actions and choices affect the research, and
how can this best be communicated to participants and users of the research?

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5 Communication – what is the most ethical way to communicate about, and

disseminate, the research?
6 Data – to what extent should the data be shared and/or archived?
7 Autonomy and values – what are a researcher’s ethical and moral
responsibilities, and what are the consequences of that researcher’s ethical
choices?

Perhaps the central aspect of a researcher’s role is to interpret data, in the linked
processes of analysing and writing about that data, for readers and users of research.
If there were no need for analytic interpretation, there would be no research; no
need for a qualified specialist to stand between the data and the readers or users
of that data (Stenvoll and Svensson 2011: 574).

Scandinavian researchers Dag Stenvoll, from Norway, and Peter Svensson, from
Sweden, drew on conversation analysis techniques to identify three levels of
‘contextualisation’, or the way in which textual data can be interpretively linked
with its context, both within and beyond the data. To demonstrate this, they
analysed the English translation of a speech made by Belgian Prime Minister
Guy Verhofstadt in the European Parliament. The first level they identify is
‘literal contextualisation’, or context explicitly described in the text. For example,
Verhofstadt refers to specific and well-known historical markers such as the Prague
Spring and the unification of Europe. These provide a clear historical context for
the arguments put forward in his speech. Stenvoll and Svensson’s second level
is ‘cued contextualisation’, or context implicitly or indirectly described in the
text. There are many ways in which this can be done, such as through choice of
vocabulary, grammar, pronouns or rhetoric, the use of different ‘voices’ within the
text and interactional elements such as laughter or applause that are recorded in
the transcript. For example, Verhofstadt began his speech using the pronouns ‘I’
and ‘you’ (‘you’ being the European Parliament), then at a certain strategic point
began to use the pronoun ‘we’, presumably to signify that, to some extent at
least, ‘we are all in this together’. Then he brought in the pronoun ‘they’, which
set up a clear ‘insider’ and ‘outsider’ dynamic. The third level of contextualisation
identified by Stenvoll and Svensson is contextualisation through absences ‘that
the analyst can justify as significant’ (Stenvoll and Svensson 2011: 581). The
comments of others, or a political/theoretical perspective, or both, can be used
to help identify such absences. This three-level approach to contextualisation
is highly creative. It does not claim to yield a complete and conclusive analysis,
but to provide a set of transparent and well-justified interpretations that can
form a useful basis for further discussion (Stenvoll and Svensson 2011: 572).

Creative thinking is essential in the process of interpretation: to help us question

our own conclusions even as we draw them, remain open to others’ ideas and
keep searching for new connections to make and links to forge, both within our
data and beyond (Freeman 2011: 549–50). The method or methods used should

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be made clear for the reader. For example, a feminist theoretical perspective might
lead a researcher to interrogate a transcript for gender references. If none were
found, this could be construed as a significant absence, which might lead to the
question why the speaker has chosen to present his or her argument as if gender
has no relevance. But, either way, the researcher should outline their theoretical
perspective and any other factors relevant to the interpretation they make.

Creative use of literature

People often talk of ‘a literature review’ as if it is in itself a method or technique.
In fact there are many ways to work with literature and documents to give
context to your research. Some types of research, such as evaluation research,
may use little or no formal academic literature, instead providing context from
other sources. And some literature reviews combine formal academic literature
with other types of literature and documents. Sources for context beyond the
academic literature include:

• policy documents
• project documents
• web pages
• non-academic literature such as novels
• court transcripts
• documented testimonial evidence
• hard-copy ephemera such as leaflets or marginal notes
• digital ephemera such as tweets.

Reviewing literature is a creative endeavour involving the three pillars of research

work: reading, thinking and [Link] aim is to outline what is already known
about the topic (Bryman 2012: 98) and where your proposed research fits into
that. Unless you’re working in a very narrow field, you’re unlikely to be able
to read everything that is relevant to your subject. So, identify and read the key
texts, and then make creative decisions about what else to [Link] will need to
explain how you searched for literature and/or documents, so make a note of the
search terms you use online and the ways in which you find information offline.
In reading, you have ethical responsibilities to the people whose work you read:
to read carefully and thoughtfully, aiming to reach a full understanding of their
meaning and purpose.
There are many types of literature review, and new ones are regularly invented.
A useful discussion about literature and decolonising methodologies –
one of the transformative research frameworks we discovered in Chapter Three
– is available online. While there is no definitive typology of literature reviews,
some types you may come across include:

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• scoping review – to assess the amount and nature of existing literature, often
as a preliminary stage to help decide what type of review to conduct (Grant
and Booth 2009: 101)
• overview – a summary review, surveying the literature and describing its
characteristics (Grant and Booth 2009: 99)
• rapid review (sometimes known as rapid evidence assessment) – to review what
is already known about a policy or practice issue (Grant and Booth 2009: 100)
• historical review – a review that treats the literature chronologically and traces
its development through time (Kaniki 2006: 21)
• critical review – in which the literature is not only reviewed but also critically
evaluated (Grant and Booth 2009: 93)
• thematic review – structured around different perspectives, themes or debates
in the literature (Kaniki 2006: 21)
• integrative review – including both experimental and non-experimental
research (Whittemore and Knafl 2005: 547)
• theoretical review – a review of theoretical developments in a subject area,
sometimes linking these with empirical evidence (Kaniki 2006: 21)
• methodological review – a review focusing on a particular research method
• empirical review – a review focusing on the empirical findings of research on
a given topic (Kaniki 2006: 21)
• knowledge review – which includes other forms of evidence as well as academic
literature, such as ‘grey’ literature and documented testimonial evidence
(Fleischmann 2009: 87–8).

The important thing is to choose, or design, the type of literature review that is
right for your research project.

Canadian researchers Janice Du Mont and Deborah White conducted a worldwide

literature review to try to identify factors hindering the successful use of
standardised rape kits in cases of sexual assault. Rape kits are usually used by
health professionals or specially trained legal personnel to gather evidence, and
that evidence is then handed over to other legal officials to be passed on to
scientists for analysis. Therefore this needed to be a cross-disciplinary literature
review. Du Mont and White searched academic sources of documents from
the disciplines of psychology, sociology, medicine and law. They also searched
for ‘grey literature’, that is, research reports and other documents that are not
formally published and may be difficult to access. To find this grey literature, they
searched the websites of international organisations, national governments, non-
governmental organisations and research centres. Also, in 16 countries around
the world they ‘consulted academics, policy makers, and service providers with
expertise in the area for leads on published and unpublished materials’, some
of whom went on to contact colleagues in a further nine countries (Du Mont
and White 2013: 1230). And, as a third line of enquiry, they posted requests for

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information on two relevant online mailing lists. This creative search strategy
yielded over 400 documents for analysis.

Creative reading for research will be careful, interpretive and supported by note
taking. It also involves a fair amount of creative thinking. Advice on creative
reading from some great writers can be accessed online. When you read a book
chapter, journal article or other relevant text, to read creatively, you need to:

• read carefully to understand and digest the meaning of the piece

• evaluate the argument(s) put forward
• think about how the points made link with, or oppose, the arguments of other
writers.

It may help you to:

• write a summary in your own words after you’ve read the piece
• note down your thoughts about the argument(s) being put forward, and about
how those arguments relate to the arguments of others
• create a concept map, that is, a visual way of displaying major concepts from
the literature and the connections between them.

Concept mapping is a structured way of diagramming complex data to show

the relationships between ideas in a way that is easy to understand (Windsor
2013: 276). It was invented by Joseph Novak in the 1970s and can be used by
researchers working alone, in teams or with participants. Concept maps are
usually made up of concepts plotted hierarchically, for example from general
to specific, with connections between concepts shown by lines or arrows (Dias
2010: 29). A few words can be written on each line or arrow to clarify the
relationship. Concept maps are often used in education because mapping the
same topic at different times is a good way of showing changes in understanding
(Hay and Kinchin 2008: 171).

Reinildes Dias, from Brazil, conducted participatory action research with Brazilian
undergraduates who were learning how to read more effectively in English.
Students used open source Cmap software to create concept maps. The use
of software enables the concept map to include images, audio and video files,
animations and so on, as well as hyperlinks to web pages. Dias found that the use
of concept maps helped students to comprehend texts more fully and read more
thoroughly. In particular, Dias observed that ‘creating a visual representation of
a text can enable students to follow how authors organize and bring together
their arguments around a specific topic in the texts they write’ (Dias 2010: 32).
Also, concept maps can be shared, which enables discussion and collaboration.

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Figure 4.1: A simple concept map

Anyone can Only artists

use art in Using Art in Research: can use
research The Debate art in
Equity Quality research

Because Because

Making art Making art Art requires

Art requires of poor of poor skills that
abilities quality quality take years
which almost enables is unlikely of practice
everyone And learning from to advance And to develop
has the process knowledge

This argument privileges This argument privileges

Equality Important to
within ensure Quality of
the quality of the research
research research and its
Agree that Agree that output(s)
process overall

Figure 4.1 is an example of a simple concept map for my interpretation of the

debate about using art in research, which was covered in Chapter Two.
Concept maps are also useful in thinking about research and can be used to map
whole projects or aspects of a project, such as analytic themes and ideas. More
information about the use of diagrams in research can be found in Chapter Eight.
Another option for reading creatively is what Ellingson calls ‘reading subversively’
(Ellingson 2009: 58).This involves identifying as much as possible about influences
on the text itself and on your reading of that text. To do this, as you read, ask
yourself questions such as:

• When was this written? How might that time have affected it? How might
the time in which I am reading affect my understanding?
• What was the context for this work? How might that have affected it? How
might the context in which I am reading affect my understanding?
• What discipline(s) and/or profession(s) do the author(s) come from? How
might that affect their work? What impact does my own disciplinary and/or
professional identity have on my reading?
• Which institution(s) do the author(s) belong to? How might that affect their
work? What impact does my own institutional affiliation have on my reading?
• Who funded the work? How might that have affected the way in which it is
written? Does my own funding, or lack of funding, affect the way I’m reading?
• Who and what has been left out of this writing? Who and what has been
given centre stage? Why?
• What is being claimed as ‘truth’ in this writing, who is making that claim
and what political or ideological agenda does that serve? (Ellingson 2009: 58;
Gergen and Gergen 2012: 38)

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This approach to reading can lead to a deeper understanding of research, rather

than simply taking it at face value.

Using theory creatively in research

The role of theory in research is something that novice researchers, and even
at times the more experienced, can struggle to understand (Roulston 2010:
203). A theoretical perspective, drawn from available literature, acts as a lens
through which you can focus your investigation; a theoretical framework can
function as a navigational aid to help you steer a course from research questions
to findings and dissemination (Evans, Coon and Ume 2011: 289). Theory
can help you to think through most stages of the research process, particularly
designing and planning a study, and gathering, analysing and interpreting data
(Evans, Coon and Ume 2011: 276). ‘Tightly tying all phases of the research
process to a theoretical framework automatically provides a theory-based result,
increases credibility, and fosters transferability to practice settings’ (Evans,
Coon and Ume 2011: 289). It has been argued that the use of theory within
research is ‘ethically necessary’ (Childers 2012: 752). However, it is essential
to use a theoretical framework that fits with the study, because otherwise the
framework may distort your data and findings (Evans, Coon and Ume 2011:
289). A video presentation by UK-based researcher John Schulz about the
role of theory in research can be viewed online.
Traditional research usually drew on one theory per project, and rarely strayed
beyond disciplinary boundaries in search of theoretical inspiration. However,
creative researchers today are combining theories from a range of disciplines to
help them think about complex human situations. There are a ‘myriad of useful
theories’ in subjects including sociology, anthropology, psychology, geography and
economics (Kaufman 2010: 153). Integrating two or more theories in a single
research project can enhance data analysis and increase the scope for dissemination
(Kaufman 2010: 163). Combining concepts in this way has been shown to enhance
creative problem solving (Kohn, Paulus and Korde 2011: 203).
Arts-based researchers may be resistant to theory, fearing that it could constrain
their spontaneity and therefore reduce the value of their work (Smith and
Dean 2009: 25). However, artists are well able to ‘explore and explain complex
theoretical issues’ that can be significant across disciplinary boundaries (Sullivan
2009: 42). It is also true that theory is dynamic rather than static and, whether
personal or widely held, is open to exploration and change (Tenebaum et al 2009:
118; Corvellec 2013: 23). This suggests that creative research can contribute to the
building and development of theory as much as theory contributes to research: it
is the combination of the two that is most valuable (Smith and Dean 2009: 25).
As we saw in Chapter Two, there is also a growing understanding that arts
practice can help with the thinking process (Brearley and Hamm 2009: 40). This
works both ways: theorists can learn from arts practice as much as arts practitioners
can learn from theory. For example, American psychologist Ken Gergen has

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collaborated with several artists working with painting, drawing, etching and
photography. Gergen drew on the artistic ideas of his collaborators to explore
and develop theory, particularly relational theory and constructionism (Gergen
and Gergen 2012: 167–85). He also practised sculpture as a way of developing
relational theory (Gergen and Gergen 2012: 193–6). A lecture by Elliot Eisner,
entitled ‘What do the arts teach?’, can be viewed online.
You will have your own theoretical perspectives and understandings, developed
from your unique experience of the world. Many philosophers today hold
the view that our individual experiences influence the way we perceive and
comprehend the world around us, so that there can be no knowledge without
a theoretical perspective (Smith 2009: 94). However, in order to use your own
theoretical perspectives creatively as a researcher, you will need to identify and
understand them and, as far as possible, to be able to analyse their influence
on your perceptions and thoughts. Working reflexively offers a creative way to
approach this, and is discussed in more detail later in this chapter.
It is arguable that every decision in a research project should be taken in
accordance with that project’s theoretical context, for the sake of consistency
(Mason 2002: 178–9). However, in reality, some decisions will be taken for
more pragmatic reasons, such as resource constraints. This is understandable, but,
even when it is necessary, it is important to think through why each decision is
being taken. Even in apparently mechanistic processes such as the transcription
of data, there are a lot of decisions to be made, such as about whether – and, if
so, how – to represent non-speech utterances or silences (see Chapter Six for
more on this). A researcher who adheres to participatory and constructionist
theories, that is, who considers that data is constructed by participants and
researchers together, is likely to make different choices for transcription from
a researcher with a more essentialist viewpoint, that is, that participants provide
data for processing and analysis by researchers (Hammersley 2010: 553). As
researchers, our decisions will be guided by our emotions and the beliefs we
hold, unless we do the hard, but important, cognitive and emotional work to
ensure that all our decisions are in accordance with the theoretical framework
we have chosen for our research.
For example, some people may respond to this book by rejecting it without
giving it full consideration because they believe that traditional styles of research
are all we need, and so deem creative research methods to be irrelevant. Others
may become so enthusiastic about novel methods that they forget one of the most
basic principles of research: the method must flow from the research question. It
can be hard to remember that the important thing is to use the methods that are
most applicable for your research project, whether those methods are traditional,
creative or a combination of the two.

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Creativity and cross-disciplinary work

Tapping into literature from other disciplines can help you think more creatively
about your own research, because researchers from different disciplines often have
different ideas about what is important. For example, researchers from different
disciplines will have different notions as to how the context for a research
project might be theorised. Some writers on social research methods see place as
neutral, irrelevant or to be anonymised (Anderson, Adey and Bevan 2010: 590).
By contrast, geographers see place as a highly relevant part of the context for
[Link]’s more, geographers view place as multi-dimensional, including, for
example, both geographical and social location (Cresswell 1996, cited in Anderson,
Adey and Bevan 2010: 591–2). Context may include a range of other elements,
such as context in time, political context, theoretical context, regulatory and/
or legal context, socioeconomic context, physical and/or material context and
cultural context. It is easy to see how, in the same way that a geographer might
privilege place within the context for research, a criminologist might privilege
its regulatory/legal context, a health researcher might privilege its physical and
socioeconomic contexts and so on. But for truly creative theorising, cross-
disciplinary exploration can help you to consider all the possible elements of
context and to ask: which elements are significant for my research? Which should
I consider in more detail as I progress with my project?
At the time of writing, Google Scholar is a particularly useful tool for this kind
of creative exploration. Generic search engines can also be helpful, particularly if
you are interested in ‘grey’ as well as academic literatures. If you enter a general
term such as ‘research context’ or ‘context for research’, you are likely to find
publications from a range of disciplines. The British Library curates ‘grey’
electronic literature from the UK on social policy, social welfare and associated
topics and makes it freely available through its Social Welfare Portal. Other
countries may have generated equivalent websites. Don’t restrict your reading
to texts from your own discipline or closely related disciplines; work from other
disciplines can open up new possibilities for your own work.

Danish researcher Svend Brinkmann used the novels of Michel Houellebecq as

data. Houellebecq plays with the boundaries between fiction and non-fiction,
particularly autobiography; he often gives leading characters one of his names
and a similar appearance to his own, and includes some narrative details that are
similar to those from his own life. He also plays with the boundaries between
literary and scientific writing, making many references to the theory and practice
of social science and conducting fictional experiments through his writing. For
Brinkmann, ‘Houellebecq’s writings contain precise sociological descriptions of
central aspects of human life in postmodern consumer society. In this sense, we
can read his works as ... sociology’ (Brinkmann 2009: 1386). Brinkmann’s argument
is that some literary works, at least, can be usefully included ‘in the great social

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and human science conversation that is currently going on’ (Brinkmann 2009:
1392).

Collaboration with people from different disciplines can also be useful in bringing
extra creativity to your research. For example, in their study of methamphetamine
addiction in the United States, Sameshima and Vandermause brought together
a research team including specialists in education, nursing, photography, theatre,
music and creative writing, as well as a participant who had experience of
methamphetamine addiction (Sameshima and Vandermause 2009: 283). Each
of these researchers brought individual expertise that, when combined with
the expertise of others, enabled the development of ‘new, greater, and deeper
understandings’, and the revealing of ‘complex patterns ... which are not evident
when researched separately’ (Sameshima and Vandermause 2009: 278).
This kind of approach has been called ‘crystallization’ by American researcher
Laura Ellingson. The concept of crystallisation was originally applied to research by
the American sociologist Laurel Richardson, and Ellingson developed Richardson’s
concept into a methodological framework (Ellingson 2009: 4). Crystallisation
involves multiple ways of analysing and presenting data. This includes at least one
fairly standard form of analysis, such as thematic or narrative analysis, alongside at
least one arts-based analytic technique (see Chapter Six for more on data analysis).
It also includes more than one type of writing – poetry, report and so on – and/
or other presentation medium such as painting or video (Ellingson 2009: 10)
(see Chapter Seven for more on writing and Chapter Eight for more on research
presentation). The researcher will take a deeply reflexive approach (see below
for a fuller discussion of reflexivity) and will embrace ‘knowledge as situated,
partial, constructed, multiple, embodied, and enmeshed in power relations’
(Ellingson 2009: 10). Crystallisation provides a range of perspectives that offer
a rich and complex analytic description that highlights subtleties in areas such
as emotion, relationships and power that may remain obscure if fewer methods
are used (Ellingson 2009: 11). However, crystallisation can be time consuming,
challenging and frustrating, and may sacrifice breadth for depth (Ellingson 2009:
17–18). But even if you don’t want to adopt it as a methodological framework,
the ideas offered by crystallisation are useful for researchers to consider as they
think through the process and presentation of their work (Ellingson 2009: 24).

Imagination
The imagination has been described as a ‘primary tool’ for research (Rapport, N
2004: 102). Imagination enables a researcher to examine the world in different
ways and from different perspectives (Lapum et al 2012: 103). It certainly seems,
from the history of research outlined in Chapter Two, that research would not
exist without imagination. And this is not a new or recent idea. Charles Wright
Mills, writing in the middle of the 20th century, was confident that imagination
was a central plank of the craft of social science research (Wright Mills 1959)

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and he would not have been the first to hold such a view. Indeed, every idea for
a research project must contain an element of imagination. The researcher has
to be able to imagine what a research project might be able to achieve and how
that might be done, and then work to make that happen. Within that process,
specific types or sub-sets of imagination are needed, such as moral imagination
for managing ethical dilemmas (Kiragu and Warrington 2013: 173) and analytic
imagination for interpreting data (James 2012: 562). A talk on creativity and
imagination by US creativity expert Gregg Fraley can be viewed online

UK researcher Allison James (2012) suggests that imagination might be

particularly useful when analysing secondary qualitative data. A researcher who
gathers primary qualitative data forms a relationship with participants as they
create meaning together, which inevitably will influence the researcher’s analytic
approach. A secondary analyst has a relationship only with words on a page. This is
not ‘better’ or ‘worse’; it is more freeing in some ways, more limiting in others. The
secondary analyst has no memory of body language, facial expression, physical
attributes, setting and so on to enrich her understanding of the data. But she
comes to that data with fresh eyes, influenced only by her existing knowledge
and worldview, which she can use, imaginatively, to help her build a picture of
the participants, reflect on their situations and consider why they say the things
they say. This approach may lead her to find some different meanings in the data
from those found by the primary analyst, which can enrich the overall findings.

Using your imagination within the research context is a creative process (James
2012: 569). Yet ‘imagination’ appears very rarely in the indexes of books about
how to conduct research.

UK researcher Rob Macmillan applied imagination to theory within a qualitative

longitudinal study of third sector organisations, with the aim of coming to
understand how those organisations’ activities operate, in practice, over time.
Macmillan outlines and discusses three ‘theoretical imaginings’ which informed
the research. These focus on time, space and action. The way time operates in
third sector organisations was conceptualised in terms of ideas such as duration,
sequences, cycles and speed, and considered in terms of ‘objective’ elements
such as calendars, clocks and deadlines, as well as ‘subjective’ experiences of,
or affected by, time, such as waiting and busyness. Space was conceptualised in
terms of ideas such as: distance or closeness between partners; an organisation’s
position in its field – and, in particular, whether it is central or peripheral; the
connections it has with others; and how the positions of organisations come to
improve or deteriorate. Action was conceptualised in terms of ‘agency’, that is,
who or what can act, and ‘structure’, that is, the context for that action. Each
of these ‘theoretical imaginings’, used alone, could close down more avenues of
exploration than it opens. Of course there are many other ‘theoretical imaginings’

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that could be used – but using these three together as ‘creative devices for raising
questions and possibilities’ helped the researchers to ‘make sense of what we ...
encounter empirically, rather than close down analysis’ (Macmillan 2011: 28–9).

One way to use your imagination is to read creative writing such as poetry and
fiction. Research suggests that this can lead to a better understanding of the social
world (Djikic et al 2009: 28). As we will see in Chapter Seven, researchers are
increasingly writing up their work using poems, stories, play scripts, screenplays
and other creative techniques. These kinds of writing can produce fuller
understanding of some aspects of a research project than traditional reporting
methods. In particular, creatively written research enables more understanding
of the emotional aspects of research than reports of research in traditional, non-
fiction style (Kara 2013: 70).

Assessing research quality

It is important to think about, and be able to discuss, the quality of the research
you are reading, using and conducting (Hammersley 2009: 26). Markers of quality
in quantitative research are generally held to be reliability, replicability and validity
(Bryman 2012: 46–7). Reliability refers to the stability of measures. A well-made
ruler is very reliable: it will measure a perfect centimetre every time. A scale for
measuring a human attribute or experience may be less reliable, and needs to be
tested thoroughly before its reliability can be confirmed. Replicability is a form
of reliability, and means that if an experiment is repeated – perhaps in a different
place, or with different participants – the results will be the same. Validity asks
whether the research findings are really what they appear to [Link] are several
kinds of validity, including:

• internal validity – whether there is a demonstrable relationship between cause

and effect within the research context
• external validity – the extent to which the results of a study can be generalised
beyond the research context
• measurement validity, also known as construct validity – whether a scale, test
and so on really measures what it sets out to measure
• ecological validity – the extent to which research findings have relevance to
real life.

Even the most creative quantitative researchers are likely to assess their work
against these markers of quality. In qualitative research, however, the situation
is different. Qualitative researchers began by using these quality markers, but
soon realised that they needed different criteria. In the mid-1980s, Lincoln and
Guba (1985, cited in Bryman 2012: 49) developed quality criteria for qualitative
research. These were:

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• confirmability, or the extent to which the researcher has allowed his or her
own values to influence the research (akin to the overarching quantitative
researcher’s value of objectivity)
• dependability, or the extent to which the findings could apply at other times
(akin to reliability)
• credibility, or how believable the findings were (akin to internal validity)
• transferability, or the extent to which the findings could apply to other contexts
(akin to external validity).

Over the last 30 years, the debate about quality in qualitative research methods
has continued, and new criteria have been suggested. Some academics have
resisted the use of quality criteria, seeing them as too regulatory and inflexible
for a developing field such as qualitative research methods, but others find them
useful (Tracy 2010: 838).

American researcher Sarah Tracy, in a much-cited paper, suggests that quality

criteria can help us to learn the principles and practice of our research craft (Tracy
2010: 838). Tracy analysed and considered the debates on quality in the research
literature and proposes eight quality criteria for qualitative research, designed
to be comprehensible, flexible, universal and supportive of dialogue and learning
(Tracy 2010: 839). According to Tracy, good-quality qualitative research would be:

• on a worthy topic – relevant, timely, significant, interesting

• richly rigorous – suitable theoretical basis, appropriate methods, enough data
• sincere – good use of reflexivity and transparency
• credible – enough detail and explanation, inclusion of different perspectives,
trustworthy findings
• resonant – aesthetic evocative presentation that has an impact on its
audience(s), transferable findings
• significant – making a contribution on a range of levels, such as: theoretical,
practical, ethical, methodological
• ethical – taking a holistic approach to research ethics
• coherent – doing what it claims, using suitable methods, making meaningful
connections between literature, research topics, findings and interpretations.
(Tracy 2010: 840)

Tracy suggests that adopting these criteria could have several benefits for
researchers, including:

• provision of a common language for excellence

• promotion of dialogue among qualitative researchers from different disciplines
• a useful pedagogical compass
• support for dialogue with people in positions of power (Tracy 2010: 849).

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 Creative research methods in the social sciences

Tracy points out that the criteria she suggests are not rules to be followed
slavishly. In real research contexts, they may at times conflict. For example, full
transparency might compromise participant anonymity, or a researcher may
have to choose between making a theoretical or a practical contribution due to
time or budget constraints. In such situations, Tracy’s view is that researchers’
primary obligation is to be truthful, both with themselves and with their audiences
(Tracy 2010: 849).

So, given that quality markers for qualitative research have moved some distance
from those used in quantitative research, where does that leave mixed-methods
research? Of course, many of the quality markers will be the same for mixed-
methods research as for any other research: ethically conducted, with sufficient
data, transparently presented and so on. But there are some issues of quality
that are specific to mixed-methods research. In the same year that Sarah Tracy’s
paper was published, the Office of Behavioral and Social Sciences Research
of the National Institutes of Health in the US commissioned some work to
begin defining quality in mixed-methods research (Klassen et al 2012: 378).
The resulting guidelines suggest that good quality mixed-methods research
will, among other things:

• be used when a quantitative or qualitative method, alone, cannot sufficiently

address the research question
• intentionally combine or integrate qualitative and quantitative methods so as
to maximise their strengths and minimise their weaknesses
• be underpinned by one or more theories
• be clear about where ‘mixing’ occurs – whether in data gathering, analysis,
interpretation or elsewhere
• have sufficient allocation of time and resources to manage all the methodological
and logistical issues that arise when multiple forms of data are gathered and
analysed by a team of people from different disciplinary backgrounds
• be explained succinctly and clearly for funders, participants, readers and so on
(Klassen et al 2012: 378–80).

The full guidelines can be accessed online.

There have also been attempts to establish criteria for arts-based research.
Canadian researchers Darquise Lafrenière and Susan Cox put forward four criteria
for arts-based research methods (Lafrenière and Cox 2013: 325).

1. Appropriateness – is an arts-based method an appropriate way to address the

research question?
2. Clarity – is it clear how the arts-based method has been used, and how it
helps the research?
3. Reliability – are the researcher’s interpretations verifiably rooted in the data?

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4. Rigour – how effective and trustworthy were the data gathering and analysis
processes? To what extent has the research question been answered?

Lafrenière and Cox also put forward six ethical criteria, covering access to data,
anonymity, assessment (of arts-based works), authorship, potential harms and
benefits to participants and creators of artistic work, and integrity (Lafrenière
and Cox 2013: 329).
None of these criteria is presented in this book as final or definitive; there
are other ways to think about research quality, and little or no consistency in
researchers’ approach to doing so (Roulston 2010: 201). Yet every researcher needs
to be able to make sound judgements about the quality of research (Hammersley
2009: 15). The above criteria are included here for two reasons. First, they can
be applied with some flexibility, which makes them more useful in assessing the
quality of creative research than rigid criteria or standards (O’Reilly and Parker
2013: 195). Second, they have been produced by people who have studied and
thought a lot about research quality, so they may help you in thinking about
how to assess the quality of the research you read, use and conduct. The way you
decide to think about and assess research quality will also, of course, be influenced
by your own theoretical perspective (Roulston 2010: 224).
Some researchers assert that there can be no stand-alone quality criteria, because
the quality of a piece of research will always depend on contextual factors such
as when and where the research is conducted (for example, Smith 2009: 92).
Yet ‘the whole point of research is to make ... claims that apply across time and
place’ (Smith 2009: 98). One creative way to manage this paradox is through the
application of reflexivity.

Reflexivity
Reflexivity locates you within your research (Mason 2002: 149). This stands in
opposition to the traditional view of research as an activity in which the researcher
is a neutral presence who simply manipulates variables, with no involvement
or disclosure of any personal quality such as emotion (Jewkes 2012: 64). Yet all
researchers have feelings connected with their research work, such as pride, anxiety,
curiosity, fear and compassion (Jewkes 2012: 64). Perhaps the most fully reflexive
type of research is autoethnography (Leavy 2009: 259–60), where reflexivity can
be ‘the primary vehicle for inquiry’ (Broussine 2008: 36). Autoethnography is
discussed in more detail in Chapter Two.
Reflexivity has been described as ‘the me-search within re-search’ (Pam
Burnard, personal communication, 6 September 2014) and as ‘critical self-
awareness’ (Broussine 2008: 36). The word ‘reflexive’ itself is a ‘slippery concept’
(Bryman 2012: 394) that has more than one meaning in research. It also has more
than one meaning in language. In grammar, it refers to a sentence where subject
and object are identical, as in ‘I feed myself ’ or ‘I wash myself ’ – or, of course, ‘I
research myself ’. Used descriptively, it means ‘able to reflect’. The grammatical

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meaning relates to the more autoethnographic approach to research, while the

descriptive meaning is relevant to research more widely.
Reflexivity in social research is closely related to reflective practice in social
care and health. This involves practitioners taking a step back to think about what
they know about their work, and how they know that (Taylor and White 2000:
201), with ‘a critical, learning perspective’ (Barnes and Cotterell 2012a: 231).
Researchers know things by drawing not only on their cognitive resources but also
on their emotional (Jewkes 2012: 71) and sensory resources (Hurdley and Dicks
2011: 277), which are central planks of reflexivity. Reflexivity is also increasingly
used by creative arts practitioners, for whom it ‘validates their intuitive instincts
within a framework of reflective enquiry’ (Candy 2011: 44).
Methodological reflexivity in research requires the researcher to consider many
interrelated questions, such as:

• How do I define my identity? How does that affect my research practice?

• What are my values and beliefs, and how are they operating in my research
work?
• Which of my biases and assumptions are relevant here, and how are they
affecting my research?
• What impact do my emotional responses have on my research?
• How does the time at which I am working affect my research?
• What effect has this research had on my relationships with others? What effect,
in turn, has this had on the research? What about relationships between other
relevant people?
• Which institutions are involved in my research? What effect have they had on
the research? What effect has the research had on them?
• What are the political aspects of my research? How do they play out in practice?
• Where are the relevant power balances and imbalances? Are they changing
during the research process? If so, in what way? What effect do they have on
my research?
• How do these considerations affect the choices I make in my research?
• How can I use these considerations to inform, enrich and develop my research?
• Am I being as honest and transparent as possible about all these factors in
presenting my research?

This is not intended as an exhaustive list, but as a starting point for creative reflexive
research practice. Reflexivity in research is, in theory, something that can – some
would say ‘should’ – permeate the whole research process. In practice, for that to
happen, a researcher would need to stop and consider many questions at every
stage of the research, which is clearly impractical. So another key question is
when to focus on reflexivity. Some researchers keep a regular reflexive journal
(see Chapter Five for more on journals), which is excellent practice. Others attend
to reflexivity at more irregular intervals. If, like me, you tend toward being one of
this latter group, I recommend that you make a ‘reflexivity plan’ for each research

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project and decide in advance when to focus on reflexive questions and how to
record your findings (Candy 2011: 44).
Working reflexively can be beneficial for any research, as it adds new dimensions
to the knowledge being gathered. It is most important to practice reflexively in
research that has extra layers of complexity. This includes insider research (Smith
2012: 138), interdisciplinary research such as arts-based research (Haseman and
Mafe 2009: 218–20) and research within transformative frameworks. Complexity
and creativity are intimately linked (Burraston 2011: 117). Traditional research
methods are ‘designed to manage and contain complexity by seeking to control,
limit and even deny ambiguity’ (Haseman and Mafe 2009: 220). Conversely,
creative reflexive research practice acknowledges and respects complexity. As
a result, practising reflexively can be an uncomfortable, anxiety-provoking
experience, requiring a high level of tolerance for uncertainty (Haseman and
Mafe 2009: 220).

Atsushi Takeda is a researcher working in Australia, studying international

marriage through the experiences of Japanese women married to Australian men.
More Japanese women marry Australian men than vice versa, perhaps in part
because of their cultural stereotypes, which label Australian men as sensitive
and gentlemanly, while Japanese men are seen as chauvinistic (Takeda 2013:
294). Takeda reflects on the effects on his research of gender, ethnicity and
marital status and of his own theoretical and cultural location, representing as
it does the negative stereotypes held by his female Japanese participants of ‘a
chauvinist Asian man as opposed to the theoretically sensitive western man’
(Takeda 2012: 294). Takeda is both insider and outsider. He is an insider as a
Japanese person in Australia, fluent in both languages, who ‘shared an ethnic and
national identity’ with his participants that ‘perhaps enabled them to recount
anecdotes about their experiences in relation to cultural and national differences’
(Takeda 2012: 292). However, Takeda notes the importance of acknowledging
that ‘such similarities may block access to some information, since assumed
understanding of a situation might mean that further commentary is deemed
unnecessary’ (Takeda 2012: 292). He is an outsider as an unmarried man ‘whose
life experience and gender meant that I could never entirely comprehend the
women’s experience of powerlessness or the horizons delimited by Japanese
and western gender expectations’ (Takeda 2012: 293). However, again, Takeda
recognises that the outsider aspects of his identity and status offer opportunities
that might not be available to a complete insider, such as a perspective involving
the ‘cultural and gendered ideologies’ (Takeda 2012: 291) which inform the
behaviour of women in international marriages. Takeda’s reflexive work enables
him to conclude that there is no clear dichotomy between the concepts of ‘insider’
and ‘outsider’, and that treating the concepts in this way ‘overlooks interactive
complexities in fieldwork that enrich the research relationships’ (Takeda 2012:
293). ‘Similarities and differences between researcher and research participants
interact in my fieldwork in a way that creates a fluid state between insiderness

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and outsiderness’ (Takeda 2012: 293). This reflexive approach demonstrates the
high level of ambiguity within Takeda’s research.

From the above discussion, it may seem that creative reflexive practice is relevant
only to qualitative, and perhaps mixed-method, research. However, a few people
are beginning to argue that this approach is also relevant to at least some areas
of quantitative research.

Charles Shimp is a behaviour-analysis researcher from America. Behaviour analysis

is a sub-discipline of psychology that developed from statistical learning theory
in the mid-20th century and aims to produce analyses of human behaviour using
traditional scientific methods. Shimp is attracted by ‘radical behaviourism’, which
‘asserts that if we are to understand science, the behaviour of scientists has
to be part of the subject matter of a science of behaviour’ (Shimp 2007: 146).
He says that, in his experience, quantitative research has ‘involved implicit and
unevaluated assumptions, incomplete descriptions of empirical and theoretical
methods, self-interest and conflicts of interest, strongly held opinion accepted
as fact, and political conflicts and angry disputes’ (Shimp 2007: 146). As there
has been no scientific analysis of the behaviour of behaviour analysts, Shimp
concludes that, by their self-defined standards, behaviour analysts don’t
understand their own behaviour in studying the behaviour of others. He believes
that this omission is due to the influence of traditional scientific methods and
that rectifying it would help us to understand the similarities and differences
between the behaviours of scientists and the wider population. For example,
Shimp asserts that human values are irrevocably embedded within quantitative
research, and its comprehension requires the understanding of the effects of those
values on that research. He also argues that different forms of reflexivity may be
relevant for other sub-disciplines of psychology, such as cultural reflexivity for
cognitive psychology: ‘There is no reflexive analysis of contemporary experimental
cognitive psychology ... There are many studies showing how cognition differs
across cultures, but cognitive psychologists generally appear to believe they can
rise above these differences and avoid the potential implication that their own
cognition, and therefore the science they construct, is itself culture dependent’
(Shimp 2007: 152). For these and other, similar reasons, Shimp argues that the
development of a reflexive quantitative behaviour analysis should be a high
priority within the sub-discipline of behaviour analysis. ‘[F]rom the perspective of
radical behaviourism, a reflexive analysis is not a luxury, it is a requirement: the
behaviour of behavioural scientists, like the behaviour of everybody else, should
be part of a science of behaviour’ (Shimp 2007: 154).

Shimp’s paper is creatively argued and convincing – at least, to this author. It may
not be so convincing to his quantitative research colleagues: according to Google
Scholar, in the seven years between its publication and the writing of this book,
his paper was cited only three times. Yet perhaps, in years to come, quantitative

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researchers will begin to take up the challenge of creative reflexive practice, and
so add new dimensions to the knowledge they generate.

CONCLUSION
Research is evidently a creative activity that requires creative thinking.
Thinking creatively can help you to use literature and theory creatively,
work across disciplinary boundaries, effectively assess the quality of others’
research, use reflexive and ethical practice and make imaginative research.
Yet, with the competing demands, deadlines and other pressures of everyday
life, combined with the low social value placed on the apparently inactive
process of thinking, time for creative thinking can be at a premium. It may
be necessary to think creatively about how to think creatively.

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 FIVE

Gathering data

Introduction
The title of this chapter is something of a fence-sitting exercise. Traditional
researchers speak of ‘data collection’. Another term is ‘data construction’, which
refers to the generation of data as a creative act, such as through writing a diary,
taking part in an interview or working as a group to make a collage focused on
a research topic. Which term you use depends on your standpoint. As this book
is intended for people conducting research from a range of standpoints, I have
chosen ‘gathering’ as a reasonably neutral term.
Traditional data collection involved research participants in effect being viewed
as repositories of data that could be transferred to researchers – who themselves
possessed no data until it was supplied by participants. Autoethnographers sit
at the other end of the spectrum, gathering data primarily from themselves:
their own memories, senses, emotions, thoughts, relationships, artefacts and
documents. Many researchers occupy a loose middle ground, with varying levels
of importance being placed on reflexivity, where the researcher’s actions and
reactions are examined as part of the investigation.

Ethics in data gathering

Gathering primary data is the most heavily scrutinised area of research ethics.
As you begin to gather data, you have a direct responsibility to gatekeepers and
participants, and an indirect responsibility to anyone else who has a stake in your
[Link] responsibility is to ensure that your research does not cause harm
to any of those people. It is always necessary to remember that while research is
understandably important to researchers, for gatekeepers and participants it is just
one of a myriad of competing priorities (Weller 2012: 123).
It is possible to be creative about the process of obtaining informed consent.
In fact, sometimes it’s essential.

UK researchers Sue Adamson and Margaret Holloway conducted a study of

spirituality in 46 UK funerals. There are considerable ethical difficulties in making
research with newly bereaved people at such a sensitive and emotional time in
their lives. Death and spirituality are often regarded as taboo subjects, and it was
more difficult to get consent from funeral directors to support the research than
to get consent from families to participate. The funeral directors who did support
the research, perhaps as a result of their own ethical practice, did not present the

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research as an option to most families suffering extra distress, such as through

the death of a child or a violent death. While from a purely research point of view
that could be seen as a limitation, from an ethical viewpoint it seems entirely
defensible. The intense grief of a recently bereaved person may make it difficult
for them to take in new information, which can reduce their capacity to give
informed consent to participate in research. Adamson and Holloway counteracted
this by using a staged and flexible process for consent (Adamson and Holloway
2012: 741). The funeral director usually made the first approach to the family,
and then each stage was negotiated separately, with families able to consent
to some stages but not others if they wished. For example, they could agree to
taking part in interviews but not to the researchers observing the funeral. Families
were also able to withdraw from the research at any point.

A UK newspaper article about the above research is available online.

Andrew Robinson and his colleagues, in Australia, studied people with dementia
and their carers, with the aim of investigating the cognitive and functional abilities
of people with dementia, the stress and well-being levels of their family carers and
their experiences of dementia services. The researchers chose a mixed-methods
approach, with quantitative and qualitative data being gathered in nine different
ways over 12 weeks (see below for more details). They regarded the gaining of
informed consent as a process rather than an event, offering discussion and
explanations to participants over a period of several weeks where necessary.
Telephone calls were made at participants’ preferred times; face-to-face and
telephone support was offered for participants’ diary-keeping; and the number of
researchers entering participants’ homes was limited. Robinson et al refer to their
approach as ‘progressive engagement’, which was intended to improve the quality
of the data gathered, and also built strong relationships between researchers
and participants (Robinson et al 2011: 331). The retention rate of participants
was 100%, which is unusual for a study of this length, and participants said they
enjoyed their involvement.

Of course, consent is not the only ethical issue in the data-gathering phase. It
is essential to treat gatekeepers and participants with care, respect and courtesy
throughout, and to look after your own well-being as a researcher. Also, because
of the burden on gatekeepers and participants in assisting with primary data
gathering, there is an argument that it is more ethical to use secondary data where
possible. See Chapter Three for more information on these issues.

Reflexive data
Some researchers use their own sensory and emotional experiences as data. This
is known as ‘reflexive research’ and includes a range of overlapping methods

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such as embodied research and autoethnography (see Chapter Two for more on
autoethnography). Embodied methodologies can be used to study ‘corporeal
experience’ such as body modification (piercing, branding, tattooing and so on)
or self-harm (Inckle 2010), or to study emotional experience such as grief (Sliep
2012).

South African researcher Yvonne Sliep wrote through the first years of her grief
for her son Thomas, who died suddenly in early adulthood. Sliep used the poems
and prose she wrote in the first four years after Thomas’s death as data for
autoethnographic research. In accordance with good practice, she revisited her
writings a number of times, which sometimes prompted amendments or new
writings. Although she is an experienced poet, her creative writing had never
been part of her professional life as a psychology researcher in applied human
sciences. The autoethnographic process was challenging: ‘I never thought that I
would invite the professional to scrutinise the personal’ (Sliep 2012: 64). Yet she
found that it offered ‘unexpected gifts of insight’ into grief and loss, above and
beyond her own personal experience (Sliep 2012: 65).

Staff from the Robert Wood Johnson Medical School in America have produced
a useful web page on reflexive research.

Writing
Creative writing outputs, such as novels or poems, can be collected or created for
use as data by social researchers (Watson 2011: 398).There is an interesting contrast
between the research aims of producing generalisations within a neatly wrapped-
up narrative and the artistic aims of depicting and maintaining ‘complexity,
ambiguity and openness’ (Watson 2011: 399). This tension is, of course, present
in all arts-based research, but is perhaps most apparent when creative writing is
used as data in research that itself must be written up.
Some researchers are also skilled artists or writers, and bring those skills to bear
on their research. For example, poets can engage themselves and others in ‘poetic
inquiry’, often used to investigate slippery and complex topics such as identity
(Guiney Yallop et al 2010) or emotion (Stewart 2012).

John Guiney Yallop is a Canadian researcher and poet who led a research project
with three graduate students investigating identity using the method of poetic
inquiry. They met for four sessions, each requiring preparatory reading and each
with a focus on discussion and writing. The topic of the first session was ‘Who
am I?’; of the second, relationships; of the third, ‘longing’; and of the fourth,
‘possibilities’. For the fourth session, they were joined by Lorri Neilsen Glenn, at
that time Poet Laureate for Halifax Regional Municipality. The participants wrote
during and between the sessions, and they performed their writing at a public

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reading for the community of Acadia University in Nova Scotia. This research
was evidently useful for the participants. ‘Our writing was therapeutic; we
make no apologies for research that is healing. We celebrate research that gives
something to participants’ (Guiney Yallop et al 2010: 28). Also, as the research was
disseminated through a public performance and subsequent academic publication,
it is potentially of wider use (see Chapter Nine for more on dissemination).

A TEDx talk by Douglas Hoston Jr about poetic inquiry that examines culture
can be viewed online.

Sheila Stewart is a Canadian educator and poet based in Toronto. She used poetic
inquiry to investigate shame, through reflecting on her own poems and other
work and writing. ‘My poetry might be called a kind of “data” though that word
sits uneasily with me ... I use poetry to inquire into the shifting space of memory
because poetry works with fragments, images, the symbolic and unconscious
– supporting transformative holistic learning and a knowing, embodied self’
(Stewart 2012: 116–17). For Stewart, this enables work at ‘the edge of knowing’,
because poetry has more chance of conveying complexity than does prose, and
comes closer to expressing the inexpressible.

Other researchers use creative techniques to help their participants produce

creative texts.

Gillian Fletcher is an English-born Australian resident who used metaphor

elicitation to study the differences and similarities between rhetoric and practice
in people’s experience of HIV prevention work in Myanmar. She found that
managers’ rhetoric included concepts like ‘mutual learning’, ‘participation’ and
‘two-way communication’ (Fletcher 2013: 1553). She then undertook metaphor
elicitation with field workers from HIV prevention projects. Metaphor elicitation
began with a question asking participants to describe an aspect of their work,
such as an HIV prevention session, using a metaphor of their choice. Once the
participant’s initial metaphor was established, Fletcher used the imagery therein
to interrogate and to help the participant to expand their metaphor. Metaphors
used were very varied, including traffic lights, making pots and a hen looking after
baby ducklings, but all represented the giving of instruction and/or information
as a way of caring for people (Fletcher 2013: 1556). This method showed a
disjuncture between the rhetoric of equality and the practice experience of
unequal power relationships between those with information and those who
need that information. Fletcher concludes that metaphor elicitation could be
used wherever there is a ‘commonly held rhetoric’ and a wish to discover whether
or not that rhetoric aligns with practice (Fletcher 2013: 1560).

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Metaphor elicitation is a technique taken from market research, where it was

devised by Gerald Zaltman in the mid-1990s. A description of Zaltman’s metaphor
elicitation technique (ZMET) can be viewed online.

Diaries and journals

Researchers from several disciplines, from psychology to anthropology, have asked
participants to record data in the form of individual diaries (Harvey 2011).These
are known as ‘solicited diaries’, to set them apart from pre-existing or ‘unsolicited’
diaries, which are most commonly used by historians (Alaszewski 2006: 43).
Solicited diaries can be used to record quantitative and/or qualitative data and can
be used alone or to complement other methods of data [Link] can also
be tightly or loosely structured by the researcher to meet the needs of the project
in [Link] method requires a good level of willingness and commitment from
participants, but if that is in place, diaries can be a valuable resource for capturing
all kinds of data, including quite personal, sensitive information (Kenten 2010).

UK researcher Charlotte Kenten, building on the work of Zimmerman and

Wieder (1977), combined diaries and interviews to investigate ‘the everyday
ways in which self-identified lesbians and gay men are made aware of their
sexuality’ (Kenten 2010:1). She asked participants to keep records, every day
for two weeks, of when they became aware of their sexuality. These records
were kept in a diary structured by the researcher, with one page of A4 per day,
including several prompts for the participants. The researcher also conducted
semi-structured interviews with participants at the start and end of the two
weeks. The interviews added value by providing context for the diaries, reducing
the likelihood of misunderstandings and offering greater depth of insight than
the diaries would have done alone.

Researchers’ own diaries, also known as field notes or field journals, can also be
used as data (Friedemann, Mayorga and Jimenez 2010: 462).

American researcher Judith Davidson made an autoethnographic study of her

post-tenure period using her own diaries, a few years after they were written. She
had not written her diaries with the intention of making them public or of re-using
them in any way. This meant that they documented her authentic experiences,
responses and emotions. There were 303 diary entries from a 21-month period,
which took her three years to transcribe, code, analyse and write into research.
As Davidson was studying herself, albeit from a short distance of a few years in
time, she found that ‘Notions of subjectivity and objectivity were convoluted,
intertwined, and downright hard to disentangle’ (Davidson 2011: 88). She made
artworks to help with this process and ultimately exhibited them at an academic
conference (see Chapter Eight for more details).

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A journal article on the use of diaries and field notes in research can be accessed
online. If permission is granted, the personal diaries of others can also offer
valuable data for social research.
Diaries are helpful in circumventing a classic form of bias in research: inaccurate
recall (Alaszewski 2006: 26). A related development of the diary method is
experience sampling, in which participants are asked to report their experience
through a short questionnaire at scheduled intervals. This was originally done
with paper diaries, but is now more commonly done with digital devices such
as tablets or mobile phones (Burgin et al 2012).

UK researchers George MacKerron and Susana Mourato studied the relationship

between the well-being of UK residents and their immediate environment.
They developed an app called Mappiness for the Apple iPhone, which was free
to download and would prompt participants, at random moments, to answer a
brief questionnaire about their well-being and their immediate circumstances,
such as who they were with and what they were doing. Participants could choose
the start and finish hours each day, and the frequency of prompts – the default
was two prompts a day between 8am and 10pm. Over one million responses
were gathered from almost 22,000 participants. GPS satellites were able to
find the exact location for each respondent and to define it using geographical
coordinates. The researchers used secondary data and existing categories to
identify the habitat type of participants’ locations and the prevailing weather.
They found that participants’ happiness was greater in natural environments. The
researchers conclude that the ‘geo-located experience sampling methodology’
they devised has many potential applications in psychology, health and social
research (MacKerron and Mourato 2013: 992).

A TEDx talk about the research by George MacKerron can be viewed online.

Interviews
Interviews are a common and worthwhile technique for gathering data, useful
in many research projects. They can range from highly structured, where all the
questions are predetermined, to unstructured, and even combinations of the two,
such as in the ‘Biographic Narrative Interpretive Method’ (Bolton, Vorajee and
Jones, 2005). In this method, the interviews are structured by the interviewer
asking just one basic question of all participants, such as, ‘Please would you tell
me your life story?’, with the aim of eliciting a full narration requiring no further
questions or interventions of any kind.
Conducting interviews is always a creative process, because interviewer and
interviewee work together to create meaning (Hollway and Jefferson 2000: 11).
A talk on creative interviewing by Jennifer Mason can be viewed online.

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However, in terms of research methods, the standard interview, with one

interviewer, one interviewee and at least one question, has been well rehearsed
in the literature. Here we are interested in enhanced interviews, where the
interview is supported with other methods, such as visual methods or artefacts.
As we saw in Chapter One, researchers have creatively enhanced the interviewing
process by basing interviews around other methods of data gathering, such as
diaries or photographs created by participants. Interviews can also be enhanced
by basing them around other objects such as images or artefacts (for example,
Sutton 2011: 193).

In their ethnographic study of religion, Catrien Notermans and Heleen Kommers,

from the Netherlands, found that interviews based on verbal stimuli were
hampered by participants’ emotions, which could make it hard for them to
communicate with researchers. Notermans and Kommers were working with
pilgrims travelling from the Netherlands to Lourdes in France, a sacred site
focusing on Mary, the mother of Jesus. The researchers collected approximately
30 cards with different visual representations of Mary and used them as a basis
for in-depth follow-up interviews two years after the pilgrimage. ‘The icons
helped ... to elicit the stories that otherwise would probably not have been told’
(Notermans and Kommers 2012: 615).

Artefacts are objects created by people, and were originally of interest to

archaeologists for what they could reveal about life in times gone by. Social
researchers have become interested in artefacts for what they can reveal about
life today, and this is often investigated through interviews enhanced by artefacts.

Jennifer Rowsell, working in Princeton, US, used interviews centred on artefacts

to develop a good understanding of school students aged 11–14 from African-
American and Caribbean-American backgrounds. Rowsell asked her participants
to bring artefacts they valued, and used the interviews to explore why they
valued those things. The artefacts ‘brought family narratives and attachments to
life’ (Rowsell 2011: 341) in ways the researcher was certain she could not have
achieved through verbal interviews alone.

There is more scope for enhancing interviews by conducting them online with
hyperlinked multimedia materials to stimulate responses. Electronic interviews take
more time and effort to set up than do face-to-face or telephone interviews, and
it is essential to pilot the interview thoroughly, as there is no scope for adjustment
during the interviewing process. However, once the system is set up, electronic
interviews take much less time to administer than face-to-face interviews and
remove the need for travel or transcription, which significantly reduces costs.

Kaye Stacey and Jill Vincent (2011) studied the quality of mathematics teaching
in Australia by interviewing 21 mathematics curriculum leaders from around the

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country. They created a structured interview format, with hyperlinked multimedia

resources such as lesson videos and textbook pages, and sent this to participants
on a CD. Participants typed their interview responses, with no prescribed minimum
or maximum length, and e-mailed them back to the researchers. The researchers
suggested that the whole process would take around five hours to complete; some
participants found it took much longer than this, but the quality and quantity of
responses was generally good. Fifteen participants took part in a brief evaluation
of the technique, with 12 (80%) reporting that they thought more considered
and higher-quality responses would be obtained from electronic than from face-
to-face interviews. The majority of interviewees found their electronic interview
to be a convenient and satisfying experience. The researchers concluded that
the method is quite inflexible, although support for interviewees by e-mail and
telephone was available. However, the disadvantages were far outweighed by the
advantages of obtaining higher-quality interview data from a lower-cost method,
particularly given the large distances between researchers and participants
(Stacey and Vincent 2011: 621).

The use of online video telephony systems such as Skype can help to fill the gap
between face-to-face and online interviews.

In his research into sustainable tourism, UK researcher Paul Hanna offered his
participants the choice of being interviewed face to face, by telephone or via
Skype. This was partly an ethical decision, as he recruited participants online, so
some were a considerable distance away, yet he expected participants who were
likely to be interested in sustainable tourism to choose to minimise travel for
ecological reasons. Indeed, all the participants who lived far away chose to be
interviewed by telephone or Skype, with both methods being equally popular.
Despite a few technical hitches, Hanna found that conducting interviews via
Skype was more useful than by telephone, as it enabled visual contact and non-
verbal communication in a similar way to face-to-face interviewing (Hanna
2012: 241). Also, it was easy to record both the visual and audio elements of
the interview (Hanna 2012: 241). And both interviewer and interviewee were
able to be in a comfortable, safe, personal location, without one imposing on
the other’s personal space (Hanna 2012: 241) or the need to find a (possibly
expensive) venue for the interview.

The use of visual methods, such as photos, may make it easier in interviews to
discuss sensitive or uncomfortable subjects that ‘can be difficult to articulate and
uncover through written or talk-based methods’ (Allen 2011: 488).

New Zealand researcher Louisa Allen obtained ethical approval to use photo-
elicitation for researching sexuality with young people aged 17 and 18 within
school settings. She asked participants to create a photo-diary of ‘how they
learned about sexuality at school’, using a 24-exposure disposable camera, over a

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period of seven days. Participants gathered data in ways the researcher would not
have considered, such as by structuring photos with the help of fellow students
posing in an embrace. Participants also gathered data in places the researcher
could not have gone, such as the boys’ locker room. Each participant then took
part in an individual semi-structured photo-elicitation interview. This process
enabled the discovery of ‘unknown unknowns’ about the ways in which young
people learn about sexuality in school: from adults, from the physical environment
and from each other (Allen 2011).

Photo-elicitation can be used alone, or as part of a range of methods to create

a richer overall dataset (Allen 2012: 446). A video about photo-elicitation can
be viewed online.

Video
Observational data can be gathered using [Link] can be particularly useful for
a full picture of the matter under investigation because the resulting data is richer
and can be analysed much more thoroughly than observational data gathered by
hand. However, such a thorough analysis is very time [Link] data is also
useful for studying the lives of people who communicate on a different level from
the researcher, such as people with dementia (Jost, Neumann and Himmelmann
2010) or children (Aarsand and Forsberg 2010). It is also possible to collect and
analyse pre-existing video data, for example from YouTube (Kousha,Thelwall and
Abdoli 2012) or from smartphone users (Willett 2009, cited in Rose 2012: 93–4).

Mary Ann Kluge and her colleagues in America and New Zealand used video in
their case study of Linda, a 65-year-old woman who had minimal experience of
sport and didn’t like exercise, yet decided to aim for master’s level as a senior
athlete. The researchers chose video because of its potential for capturing real-
time thought and action and the wider context of sporting events. The researchers
tracked the physical, emotional and social aspects of Linda’s experience from her
very first training session to her winning a race at the Rocky Mountain Senior
Games. They gathered many hours of video footage that, as well as providing
a comprehensive record, offered a view of changes in Linda’s physique as her
training progressed (Kluge et al 2010: 286).

The collection of research data using video has become increasingly common in
recent years (Knoblauch 2012). However, the process is fraught with problems,
requiring decisions at every level, including what and when to film, where to
point the camera and how to analyse the material (Luff and Heath 2012). This
presents considerable scope for creativity. One way to deal with this is to hand over
the responsibility to participants, as with Louisa Allen’s research outlined above.
A short video about observational research can be viewed online.

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Online and other secondary data

Technology has enabled researchers to gather all sorts of data online, both
qualitative and quantitative, at all levels, from a single individual tweet to ‘big data’.
Much of this is ‘secondary’ data, that is, data that has been created for a purpose
other than research. For example, researchers from the UK and US gathered
approximately 600,000 tweets from 9 to 11 August 2011 to study riots that took
place in London and other British cities (Tonkin, Pfeiffer and Tourte 2012).
Some research questions lead to secondary and primary data being gathered
both online and offline.

Spanish ethnographer Roser Beneito-Montagut argues that interpersonal

communication is the same online as offline, and that online social interactions
are often inextricably linked with offline social interactions (Beneito-Montagut
2011: 717). For example, two people in a room together may communicate with
a third somewhere else via Skype, and during the conversation a fourth may join
in via text messages exchanged with one of the other three. Beneito-Montagut
began her online ethnography by observing interactions over six months on
several social networks such as MySpace, Twitter and Facebook. She also gathered
and analysed quantitative data, for context and to help her design a theoretical
sample. She then recruited six participants who were frequent internet users, and
interviewed them face to face before following them online for five weeks. During
this time she copied data they put on the web, captured screenshots and saved
hyperlinks, to create a record of participants’ actions and interactions online. She
then interviewed each participant again, this time online. This process of gathering
secondary and primary data, both online and offline, was designed to capture
the complexity of social interactions and interpersonal relationships online, and
thereby provide us with a better understanding of how these relationships take
place (Beneito-Montagut 2011: 732).

The internet offers enormous possibilities for the gathering of secondary data:
documents, images, videos, dialogues, statistics, social media interactions and so
on, from all over the world. Secondary data can also be collected offline, such
as books, photographs and ephemera (that is, documents not intended to be
kept, such as leaflets or tickets). There is huge scope for creativity in the use of
secondary data in research.

Transformative data gathering

The transformative research frameworks discussed in Chapter Three require
research methods that are integrated with their philosophical and ethical

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perspectives. For example, decolonising methods require ‘methods that not only
work to deconstruct power dynamics between researcher and researched and
indigenous and nonindigenous but also are respectful of and resonant with the rich
oral histories and cultural practices of indigenous communities’ (Cunsolo Willox et
al 2013: 129). Participatory research requires researchers and participants together
to ‘effectively mix, sequence and integrate appropriate tools to support genuine
dialogue and the exercise of reason in real settings, including complex situations
marked by uncertainty and the unknown’ (Chevalier and Buckles 2013: 7).

As we saw in Chapter Three, critical communicative methodology (CCM) is a

particularly ethical type of participatory mixed-methods research. In the early
21st century, CCM was conducted with Roma communities across several
European countries. Having no territory of their own, the Romani people have
long been excluded from social decision-making processes and are subject to
high levels of individual and structural discrimination. One research project,
the WORKALÓ project, aimed to find out why the Roma are excluded from the
labour market, to identify ways to create job opportunities and to help individuals
become more employable (Munté, Serradell and Sordé 2011: 262). As with all
CCM research, participants – in this case Romani people – were involved from
the start on the project’s advisory committee, and were involved in planning
and designing as well as carrying out the research. Instead of focusing on what
the Roma lack, the project focused on what and how they could contribute to
European society (Munté, Serradell and Sordé 2011). The project team chose
communicative methods of data collection: stories of daily life, discussion
groups and observations in different workplaces (Munté, Serradell and Sordé
2011: 265). Their research was presented at the European Parliament, jointly by
academic and Romani researchers. This led (among other things) to more formal
recognition of the Roma communities in Europe and to the development of a
European strategy to ensure that Romani people can ‘participate effectively in
making the decisions that affect the lives and well-being of Roma communities’
(Munté, Serradell and Sordé 2011: 263).

The WORKALÓ project has its own website.

There are a wide range of data collection methods that will fit within
transformative research frameworks. These include:

• mapping (see below for more on this)

• culturally appropriate methods – storytelling, quilting and so on
• spidergram – on a very large sheet of paper, with the topic at the centre; again
for anyone to write or draw whatever they wish about the topic
• timeline – marked on a very long sheet of paper (even a whole wall long, for
participatory work) and extending into the past or the future or both, where
anyone can write or draw whatever they wish about the topic

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• ranking options – writing each option on a card or Post-It note, then putting
them in order
• ranking options against criteria – using a matrix with options down the side and
criteria for selection across the top, then ranking or weighting each combination
• overlays – using small stickers or symbols to prioritise items on maps or
spidergrams.

Open Space Technology (OST) is a highly egalitarian method of managing diverse

groups of people that can also be useful for gathering data within transformative
research frameworks. It is ideal for use when the research question carries some
urgency. It is a good way of managing complexity and is also helpful when there is
the potential for conflict among participants (Owen 2008: 16). Despite its name,
it doesn’t require any technology at all. You need a ‘bulletin board’ where people
can pin, stick or arrange cards or Post-It notes – this could be a wall, a table, a
floor; whatever is most appropriate. You also need a space where participants
can stand or sit in a circle or circles. I have used OST, slightly adapted, for data
gathering as follows. To begin with, anyone who wishes can write something
relevant to the research question on a card or note and put it on the ‘bulletin
board’ for all to read. When these are done, the cards or notes are grouped by
participants into sub-topics or themes, and each sub-topic or theme is placed
in a different part of the room, together with flip-chart paper and several pens.
Participants move around the room freely, discussing the sub-topics or themes
and writing key points on the flip-chart paper. New cards or notes, sub-topics
or themes can be produced at any stage. When everyone has said and written
everything they want to say or write, the data gathering process is complete. A
short video showing the process of OST in action can be viewed online.

Some research uses technology for mixed-methods, arts-based research, within a

transformative ethical framework.

Ashlee Cunsolo Willox and her colleagues in Canada used digital methods in their
participatory decolonising study of the impact of climate change on the people
of Rigolet, a remote community in northern Labrador. The researchers and their
participants constructed data in week-long digital storytelling workshops. Each
workshop began with idea generation and discussion around the local effects of
climate change, and concept maps were used as a visual representation of these
discussions (see Chapter Four for more on concept maps). Then participants
learned how to use computer software, design stories and edit and produce
videos. They brought in their own photographs, artwork and music to enrich
their stories. As the stories were being created, participants shared their ideas
and gave each other feedback on their plans. At the end of each workshop, that
week’s participants came together for a group screening of all the stories they
had produced (Cunsolo Willox et al 2012: 132).

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A participatory video project in which young people tell their stories of life
in Rigolet can be viewed online.

Drawing
In research involving children, data is often gathered by drawing (for example
White et al 2010; Sorin et al 2012). For example, ‘draw and write’ is a tried-and-
tested technique of gathering data that enables children to express their views
and opinions in their own terms. It was devised in Nottingham in the 1970s by
UK educational researcher Noreen Wetton, and used in the 1980s for a large
national piece of research into children’s perceptions of health [Link], it is not
a widely known technique, even though it is easy to administer and has a broad
range of potential applications.
To begin with, children are given a stimulus for ideas, which may be a drama
performance, video recording or simply a discussion. Then they are asked to
draw images that show what they think and feel about a specific issue. For
example, they could be asked to draw a picture showing how a character feels at
a particular point in a performance, or showing healthy and unhealthy foods, or
showing what helps them to learn their lessons. When they have finished their
drawing, they are asked to write a few words (or, if they are not able to do this
themselves, to tell an adult what to write) to describe the picture. The resulting
data can be analysed using qualitative and quantitative techniques (Wetton and
McWhirter 1998: 273).
The ‘draw and write’ technique is particularly useful for gathering data in the
classroom. I have worked successfully with teachers to devise ways of aligning
research with the curriculum, such that the exercise can serve useful educational
purposes for children as well as useful data-gathering purposes for research.
The ‘draw and write’ technique has been expanded in the ‘concentric circles
of closeness’ technique, which has been used by several researchers investigating
the relationships of children and adults (Eldén 2012: 71).

Swedish researcher Sara Eldén (2013) used concentric circles of closeness to

research children’s relationships with their carers. She gave each child a sheet of
paper with several concentric circles, and asked them to draw a self-portrait in
the central circle. Then she asked them to draw pictures of people who took care
of them, people they took care of and people who were important to them, in
the surrounding circles, with the most important or closest people placed nearest
to the child and those least important placed furthest away. This enabled young
participants to produce a complex map of connections, demonstrating practical
and emotional care given and received.

Drawing can also be used as a method of investigation in its own right by

researchers who have some artistic skill.

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UK researcher Hannah Gravestock drew figure skaters in performance as the basis

of an interdisciplinary research method. Gravestock is herself a figure skater, and
an artist and theatrical designer of costumes and scenery. This range of experience
and expertise enabled her to ‘examine the role of the figure skater through the
eyes of the designer/drawer and the designer/drawer through the eyes of the
figure skater’ (Gravestock 2010: 201). This process increased her understanding
of each role and of the relationships between the roles (Gravestock 2010: 203).
Drawings of performance helped her to understand it more fully, and so to develop
her skating practice. Similarly, by reflecting on performance through her drawings,
she was able to develop her skills in costume design. As a result of the research
conducted through her drawings and performances, Gravestock developed a
new costume design and a new skating performance (Gravestock 2010: 201).

Hannah Gravestock has her own website, which shows more about her work
and the links she makes between figure skating performance, design and research.

Mapping
Some researchers use actual maps, drawn and/or annotated by participants, to
support and enhance the collection of verbal data through interviews or focus
groups. Maps can be drawn by hand, using a computer, or both. ‘Mental maps’,
that is, a map showing what someone thinks about a place, have been used for
decades in research investigating ‘the roles and meanings of space and place in
everyday lives’ (Gieseking 2013: 713). Map annotation can be useful in community
development, where participants can write, draw or place stickers or Post-It
notes on a map of the area to indicate desired facilities and/or areas in need of
improvement.
Mapping is useful for revealing complex relationships between thought,
emotion, places, objects and concepts (Newman 2013: 228). Using mapping for
data gathering can enable researchers to gain insight into the ways participants see
their world: ‘what is important to them, what their lived social relations are, and
where they spend their time’ (Powell 2010: 553). Most research participants are
likely to be familiar with one or more of the common varieties of map, such as
static road maps or hiking maps, or interactive maps such as Google maps and car
satellite navigation systems. However, it is important for researchers to remember
that maps are not used in all cultures, and so may need more explanation in some
contexts (Powell 2010: 543).

UK researcher Jacqui Gabb devised the technique of emotion maps in her mixed-
methods qualitative study of family life in northern England. She created a floor
plan of each family’s home and made coloured emoticon stickers showing love/
affection, anger, sadness and happiness. Then each member of the family, in some
cases including intimate friends and/or pets, was designated by another sticker

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of a specific colour. Each participant was then given a copy of the floor plan and
a set of stickers, and asked to put the stickers on the floor plan to show where
an emotional experience or interaction had taken place. The emotion maps were
appealing and easy for adults and children to use, and they also made it easy for
the researchers to compare participants’ data, even adults’ and children’s data,
which is quite unusual. Also, the emotion maps revealed very private acts such
as moments of shared intimacy, or children moving into parents’ beds at night,
which were not shown by any other method used (Gabb 2010: 463–4)

A video of Jacqui Gabb and her colleague Reenee Singh discussing emotion
maps can be viewed online.
Maps can include quantitative or qualitative data, or both. Geographic maps,
of countryside, city or ocean, are the most common type of map. But there are
many different types of map. Some kinds that may be useful for researchers include:

• thematic maps – often based on a geographic map, showing variations on a

theme between geographic areas, for example levels of unemployment
• topological maps – showing links between places but without accurate distances
(for example, the London Underground map)
• pictorial maps – drawn more for aesthetic purposes than for accuracy
• choreographic maps – to show people how and where to move during a
performance or event
• social maps – to show relationships between people and networks
• concept maps – to trace links between ideas
• cognitive maps – representing people’s perceptions of place
• transect maps – showing the location and distribution of resources and land/
space uses.

To use maps for data gathering, you need to make some initial decisions. What
is the frame of the map (Newman 2013: 230), that is, what will you include and
exclude? Is it a map of a workplace, school, street, community? Or do you want
your participants to decide on their own frames? At a practical level, what size
of paper and how many coloured pens do you need? Or, if working digitally, do
you have the necessary software, hardware and technical support?

Shadowing
Organisational ethnographers have gathered data through a range of non-research
workplace activities. For example, Nigel Rapport spent a year employed as a
hospital porter at a large teaching hospital in Scotland while researching the topic
of national identity (Rapport, N 2004: 100). Sophie Gilliat-Ray (2011) shadowed a
British Muslim hospital chaplain. Both ethnographers found that the methods they
used enabled them to gain wider and deeper insights into the working mores and
practices of their participants than traditional research methods would have done.

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Shadowing involves following a single person conducting an activity, over a

period of time, to find out what they do, think and feel, and as far as possible
to discover the reasons why. It is an intensive, tiring process, often involving
hours of data collection each day, with several more hours of data cleansing and
processing each evening. However, it enables the gathering of rich data within
a reasonably natural context, which can lead to more significant insights than
data gathered using traditional methods such as observation (Bartkowiak-Theron
and Sappey 2012: 8).
Shadowing can be used alone, or in combination with other methods, and
can also be used in a range of contexts. For example, researchers carrying out
a qualitative longitudinal study of motherhood shadowed mothers and young
children for a day, with the aim of emphasising and including as much as possible
of the complexity of a family environment in their study (Thomson et al 2012:
188). Thomson and her colleagues were developing a data archive to be used for
secondary analysis, so they used only a digital camera for recording while they
were shadowing, to take pictures of things rather than people. They also wrote
detailed ethnographic field notes at the end of each day. This method provided
‘a way of enriching existing understanding through a developing relationship’
(Thomson et al 2012: 190).

Vignettes
While vignettes can be used at several stages of the research process, they are
most commonly used for data gathering. They can be purposefully constructed
(for example, O’Dell et al 2012), or gathered from qualitative data or field notes
(for example, Trigger et al 2012).

Lindsay O’Dell and her colleagues researched ‘atypical’ roles for young people in
the UK. They used individual structured interviews based on four vignettes, two
depicting young people in typical roles (babysitter, part-time weekend employee)
and two in atypical roles (language broker, carer). The characters in the vignettes
were aged 14, a little younger than the 16- to 17-year-old participants, to
enable participants to identify with and relate to the characters. The researchers
found the analysis challenging because, in discussing the vignettes, participants
moved quite fluidly between their own perspective, that of the character and
a moral perspective of what ‘should’ happen. This led the researchers to advise
any future researchers planning to use this method to ‘design the materials with
appropriately structured questions that enable and facilitate the exploration of
participants’ voices and I-positions’ (O’Dell et al 2012: 712). The researchers used
dialogical theory to overcome their analytic problems, as it enabled them to show
that multiple voices could enrich rather than hinder the results of the research.

Vignettes can be particularly useful in researching sensitive issues, where they

enable the exploration of participants’ views without requiring personal disclosure

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(Bradbury-Jones, Taylor and Herber 2014: 427). A good example of vignettes

created to show some of the everyday challenges presented by early onset dementia
can be viewed online.

David Trigger and his colleagues are Australian anthropologists who used vignettes
from their fieldwork to demonstrate that dramatic events in the field, albeit
uncomfortable and awkward at times, can be very productive for researchers.
David Trigger was conducting research with an Aboriginal population in north
Australia when he unexpectedly had sorcery performed against him by a senior
man whom he had offended and who was trying to harm him in return. Martin
Forsey was reaching the end of his research into how students negotiate social
and cultural differences when he became an accomplice in vote-rigging for awards
at a student ball. Carla Meurk investigated feral pig management in the tropics of
Far North Queensland, which included shadowing marksmen on a pig hunt and
coming within metres of dangerous feral pigs running at high speed from the dogs
that were hunting them. These vignettes were held by their authors to ‘highlight
robust interpersonal dynamics between the researcher and the social fields that
form settings for our studies’ in a way that couldn’t be achieved through more
traditional techniques such as interviews (Trigger et al 2012: 525).

Other researchers have also used this technique, but – as so often in the emerging
field of creative research methods – use different terminology. For example,
Theresa Petray, another Australian anthropologist, experienced a dramatic event
when she found she had unwittingly become a witness in a murder investigation
(Petray 2012: 555). This event was every bit as uncomfortable, awkward and
productive as the vignettes explored by Trigger et al (2012). Lucy Pickering, a
British anthropologist who studied hippies and drop-outs in Hawai’i, had a less
dramatic but equally fruitful incident when one of her research participants and
her visiting mother gave opposing analyses of her experience of an ecstatic dance
in Hawai’i (Pickering 2009: 1). But neither Petray nor Pickering use the word
‘vignette’. Some anthropologists refer to these incidents as ‘revelatory moments’
(for example, Trigger et al 2012; Tonnaer 2012), but Petray and Pickering don’t
use this terminology either.

Time
Personal history and time are potentially useful resources for researchers studying
human experience.

UK researcher Joan Smith used life-history interviews to study the factors

affecting career decisions made by female secondary school teachers. This
research was prompted by the fact that women are under-represented as head
teachers of secondary schools in England and Wales. She asked participants
to tell her about their professional experience and what had influenced their

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career decisions. This method of interviewing enabled participants to define for

themselves the factors that had affected their careers, rather than responding
to a researcher’s preconceived ideas. Smith found that her method ‘allows for
profound understandings of the complex reasons that lie beneath people’s
decisions and actions’ (Smith 2012: 496).

A short video outlining rationale for and method of conducting life-history

interviews can be viewed online.

In New Zealand, psychologist Joanna Sheridan and her colleagues Kerry

Chamberlain and Ann Dupuis used timelines to research fatness and weight
loss. Their participants were nine women who were obesely overweight, had lost
weight representing 27–44% of their body mass and had sustained that weight
loss for at least five years. Each participant worked with a researcher to construct
a timeline on A3-sized graph paper. The vertical axis represented weight, the
horizontal axis represented time. Participants were asked to focus on the part
of their lives when weight was of concern; the durations varied from 10 years to
life. Participants were also asked to depict significant life events, activities and
experiences, and to produce material objects to illustrate these that could be
laid on the graph and form part of discussions with the researchers. ‘The timeline
creation process and the subsequent talk it provoked ensured a deeper, richer
and more nuanced (re)presentation of experience’ (Sheridan, Chamberlain and
Dupuis 2011: 557).

Mixed methods
Mixed-methods data gathering can be very helpful in the right circumstances.

As we saw earlier in this chapter, Andrew Robinson and his colleagues conducted
a complex piece of dementia research in Australia. They focused on the cognitive
and functional abilities of people living with dementia, the stress levels of their
family carers and their experiences of dementia services. To do this, they gathered
nine different kinds of data:

1 demographic data
2 scales and questionnaires assessing cognitive function and stress levels
3 participants’ self-assessments of whether they were happy or unhappy with
services (by telephone)
4 researchers’ notes of telephone calls
5 participants’ weekly diary of services received within and beyond the home
6 participants’ diary note of ‘the most significant event of the week regarding
services’
7 researchers’ notes of monthly interviews on pro formas

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8 researchers’ other interview notes

9 audio recordings of interviews.

This approach had some challenges: it was ‘complex, time consuming and
potentially prone to fragmentation’ (Robinson et al 2011: 342). However, it also
proved successful and rewarding for both participants and researchers.

Mixed methods don’t have to involve quantitative and qualitative research; they
can be entirely quantitative, with a range of different measurements, or entirely
qualitative.

Katrina Rodriguez and Maria Lahman, in America, investigated the ways in which
‘Latina college students make meaning of their intersecting ethnicity, class
and gender’ (Rodriguez and Lahman 2011: 603). They gathered data through
individual interviews and a culturally responsive focus group in the form of a
traditional Mexican dinner hosted in the home of one of the researchers. They
also used participants’ photographs and scrapbooks. This mixed-methods study
was entirely qualitative.

Canadian researcher William James Harvey and his colleagues (2012) devised
and tested a hybrid qualitative method of gathering data from children with
attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) in a study of their physical
activity experiences. This method is based on photography and collage.

William James Harvey and his colleagues in Quebec, Canada gave each of their
participants a disposable camera so that other people (teachers, friends, parents
and so on) could take pictures of participants engaging in physical exercise,
whether at home, in school or elsewhere. Then the participants chose which
pictures to use to create a scrapbook, with the help of a research assistant,
documenting their physical activity experiences. They also took part in semi-
structured interviews to ‘describe and discuss their experiences’ (Harvey et
al 2012: 65). Half of the participants were interviewed while they made the
scrapbook (concurrent technique) and half were interviewed after making the
scrapbook (consecutive technique). Each scrapbook-making session and interview
was recorded on videotape. Harvey et al found that the concurrent technique
led to longer interviews yielding more and richer data (Harvey et al 2012: 73–4),
with an average of 94 transcribed pages for the concurrent technique and 32 for
the consecutive technique (Harvey et al 2012: 69). The researchers concluded
that the concurrent technique was much more effective in enabling the voices
of children with ADHD to be heard (Harvey et al 2012: 74).

Another hybrid qualitative method was devised by designers and has since been
adopted by social scientists.

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Designers Kirsten Boehner, William Gaver and Andy Boucher worked with groups
of volunteers in Norway, the Netherlands and Italy to develop their method of
‘probes’. Their work was funded by the European Union and aimed to design new
technology for supporting older people in communities. The designers didn’t want
to take the conventional focus on problems and needs, instead choosing to find
out about participants’ ‘hopes and fears, curiosities and dreams’ (Boehner, Gaver
and Boucher 2014: 186). The ‘probes’ were carefully designed items that set tasks
for participants, such as specially made postcards with questions to answer, maps
of participants’ communities with suggestions and tools for annotating them
and customised disposable cameras for taking photos from particular locations
or in relation to particular topics. Participants were asked to use the probes that
appealed to them, over a time period of some weeks, and then to return them
to the designers. The process ‘disregards traditional utilitarian values in favour of
playfulness, exploration and enjoyment’ (Boehner, Gaver and Boucher 2014: 194)
and is designed to privilege partial, multiple, contingent findings rather than the
more usual certain and generalisable findings. The designers were comfortable
with uncertainty, error and surprises, and found participants’ responses to the
probes to be useful for exploration and inspiration about possible new products.
The first attempt at using probes was described as ‘inspiring and engaging’
(Boehner, Gaver and Boucher 2014: 186) and the method was developed
thereafter by designers and by social scientists.

A short video about probes and how to use them can be viewed online.

French researcher Jean-François Coget, now based in America, developed an

iterative mixed-methods qualitative approach for studying professional intuition,
which he called ‘dialogical inquiry’. This has four phases:

1 a one-to-one life-interview, to help the researcher understand the participant’s

relevant experiences and perspectives
2 shadowing and videoing the participant at work
3 using theoretical sampling to select relevant episodes from the video data
4 dialogue with the participant about the selected episodes to understand, in
particular, the unconscious causes of the participant’s actions.

Coget has used this approach to study the use of intuition in the work of movie
directors, emergency room doctors and winemakers (Coget 2014: 176). It has
proved to be ‘an interesting alternative method’ for studying unconscious aspects
of intuition in real-life settings (Coget 2014: 185).

Coget’s approach draws on participatory research in its first and fourth phases,
uses technology in the form of filming and editing equipment and relies on video,

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which is an artistic medium. So dialogical inquiry is a data-gathering technique

that incorporates elements from all four areas of creative research methods.
A useful article about Coget’s method of dialogical inquiry can be accessed
online.

CONCLUSION
As this chapter has amply demonstrated, there are many highly creative ways
of gathering data. In fact, there are many more than I have had the space
to include here. I hope that those I have included, to illustrate the breadth
and inventiveness of data-gathering techniques, will perhaps inspire you to
develop one or more of your own. As you will have seen from the examples
in this chapter, skills that would not usually be thought of as relevant for
research – from writing poetry to figure skating – can be put to use in data
gathering. In my own PhD research I developed and tested a method of
gathering data based on storytelling that was both enjoyable and effective.
If I can do it, so can you.

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 SIX

Analysing data

Introduction
In general, the analysis of data may be both the most specialised and the least well
understood aspect of making research. A common failing of research reports and
journal articles is not to explain the process of analysing data clearly enough for
readers to gauge their level of confidence in the findings or for researchers to
replicate the analytic method (Odena 2013: 364).
There are many ways to analyse any given set of data. Suppose that you hold
a focus group with eight first-generation immigrants from different countries of
origin. You begin by having each person share some basic demographic data by
way of introduction: where they have lived, how old they are, their occupation(s)
before and after immigration, who and where their family members are. Then
you facilitate a discussion of their experiences of emigration and immigration
around themes drawn from the academic literature, including wealth and poverty,
coercion and freedom, belonging, emotion, status, togetherness and separation.
The resulting data would be amenable to quantitative and qualitative analysis. In
quantitative terms, you could do only descriptive statistical analysis, as the size
and nature of your sample would not support inferential statistics. But it might be
interesting to calculate such things as the length of people’s journeys; the similarity
or difference of participants to the national picture of immigrants; the variance
in distances between family members. In qualitative terms you could of course
focus your analysis on the themes from the academic literature that you used to
facilitate the discussion in the first place. But you could also:

• use a recognised analytic technique, such as interpretive phenomenological

analysis (Finlay 2011: 140)
• look at the metaphors people used, to see what they might tell you (Fletcher
2013: 1555–6)
• analyse interactions between people in the focus group to find out what those
add to the analysis of data content (Farnsworth and Boon 2010; Halkier 2010;
Belzile and Öberg 2012)
• consider any silences, pauses or omissions in order to try to uncover what might
have been left unsaid and why (Frost and Elichaoff 2010: 56)
• ask someone else to analyse the data independently to see whether or not they
reach the same conclusions as you (Odena 2013: 365)

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• involve your participants in the analysis, for confirmation and reciprocal

learning (Nind 2011)

and so on.
It is not possible, in a single book chapter, to explain the many different
approaches to analysing data in sufficient detail for readers to use them all
effectively. The aim of this chapter is to give you an overview of some of the
more creative approaches to data analysis, together with an understanding of
where rules must be applied. This will help you to identify areas of data analysis
that you would like to investigate further, and provide some signposts to enable
you to do so.

Ethics in data analysis

As you analyse your data, you’re responsible to a lot of people: participants,
funders, commissioners, supervisors, examiners and so on. This applies whether
you’re analysing primary or secondary data, or both. Even analysis of historical or
archival data can involve responsibilities to the descendants of participants (Seal
2012: 689–90) and can be emotionally demanding for the researcher (Einwohner
2011: 423; Seal 2012: 689).
Data analysis is difficult and the process can seem impenetrable. It is essential that
you do not invent or distort your data, or misuse statistical techniques (Poon and
Ainuddin 2011: 307). For example, some people who are new to the quantitative
analysis software SPSS decide to run all the tests it can do. In this way you are
likely to find one or more which give a statistically significant result – if you’re
using a 5% level of probability, then five from 100 will do so by chance. This
kind of ‘fishing’ is highly unethical. The key is to know which statistical test or
tests are appropriate to use for your data-set (Davis 2013: 17).
An interesting panel discussion with American academics and practitioners
about data, analysis and ethics can be viewed online.

Data preparation and coding

Meticulous data preparation is essential; there is not much scope for creativity in
accurate transcription or data entry. Coding data can also feel quite tedious and
may be very time [Link] it has been prepared and coded, data usually
needs to be sorted into categories and sub-categories, a process that can become
very complex (Mason 2002: 151).
However, even these apparently repetitive and laborious processes require some
creativity. For example, take the transcription of data recorded by audio or video.
There are a large variety of decisions to be made about transcription, and there is
no ‘best way’ or ‘right answer’ (Hammersley 2010: 556). These decisions include
such things as: should you record non-speech sounds that people make, such

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as laughter, coughs, sighs and so on? If so, how? Do you record pauses? If so,
do you measure their length, or just note each occurrence? When transcribing
video data, should you include body movements, gestures, information about
the surrounding environment? How do you lay out your transcription on the
page, and how do you identify the different speakers/actors in the transcript?
(Hammersley 2010: 556–7). Similar decisions are required for quantitative data:
is it in a spreadsheet already? If so, is the spreadsheet fit for your purposes? If
not, what do you need to do to make it so? If the data is not in a spreadsheet,
how can you construct one to facilitate your analysis? How do you code missing
data? And so on. Gathering data online can often avoid the need for much, if
any, data preparation (Stacey and Vincent 2011: 621), but, in these cases, care
must be taken to set up your data gathering in such a way that the format of the
data gathered will enable the necessary analysis.

Quantitative versus qualitative data analysis

Quantitative and qualitative data need to be analysed separately, using different
techniques, and in research where both quantitative and qualitative data have been
gathered, the datasets will be analysed separately before the analyses are integrated
to produce the research findings.
Quantitative data analysis involves the use of statistical techniques to describe
data, compare different groups of data and make inferences about populations
from random samples. There is no room for creativity in the actual calculations,
unless you are a skilled statistician with enough knowledge and experience to
move the field forward by, for instance, creating a new algorithm (for example,
Mulder 2011: 15). There is also scope for creativity in taking an analytic technique
developed outside social science and using it within social science. For example,
sequence analysis was first developed in biological research to compare DNA
sequences and is now used in social research for analysing sequences that have
‘a specific order of crucial importance that cannot be changed’ (Brzinsky-Fay
and Kohler 2010: 360), such as life histories and career trajectories. But again,
considerable expertise is required to identify analytic techniques from one field
that can be usefully applied in another.

Chapter Five mentioned the research of UK and US researchers Emma Tonkin,

Heather Pfeiffer and Greg Tourte (2012), who gathered 600,000 tweets about
the London riots of August 2011. Their approach to analysis was interesting. They
began by identifying duplicate tweets (including retweets). Then they identified
references to other participants in the social network, which enabled them to
create a graph of participation. They also identified recognisable individuals and
locations, repeated phrases or hashtags and URLs. The researchers then used
natural language processing (that is, computerised analysis of language as it is
used) to identify interesting terms and index tweets containing those terms. That
enabled them to create frequency tables of those interesting terms, which meant

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that they could identify popular topics and show how those topics changed over
time (Tonkin, Pfeiffer and Tourte 2012: 52).

What is important in quantitative data analysis is to understand the rationale behind

any statistical technique that you might consider using, and so be sure that you
select the right technique(s) for the question you are aiming to answer. For most
people, creativity in quantitative data analysis lies in deciding which techniques
to use, and how, in the context of each unique research project – and, of course,
in interpreting the results (Bryman 2012: 592). However, it has to be said that
even professionals such as quantitative sociologists don’t always understand the
purposes of the statistical tests they use (Engman 2013: 257). Also, research has
shown that quantitative analysts are not always skilled in interpretation (Laux
and Pont 2012: 3).
There is more scope for creativity in qualitative data analysis. There are several
kinds of qualitative data analysis, including:

• content analysis – a semi-quantitative technique for counting the number of

instances of each category or code (Robson 2011: 349)
• thematic analysis – identifying themes from coded data (Robson 2011: 475)
• narrative analysis – analysing stories from primary or secondary data (Bryman
2012: 582)
• conversation analysis – detailed analysis of the verbal and non-verbal content
of everyday interactions (Bryman 2012: 527)
• discourse analysis – analysing patterns of speech and interaction in a detailed
and sometimes semi-quantitative way, for example by measuring the length
of pauses (Bryman 2012: 529)
• metaphor analysis – analysing metaphors from primary or secondary data
(Fletcher 2013: 1555–6)
• phenomenological analysis – analysing participants’ stories from, and
descriptions of, their ‘life-worlds’, or individual experiences and perceptions,
with a focus on meaning (Papathomas and Lavallee 2010: 357; Mayoh, Bond
and Todres 2012: 28)
• life course analysis – analysis of the ‘interaction between individual lives and
social change’ (Brittain and Green 2012: 253).

This is by no means an exhaustive list, but is intended to illustrate the range and
diversity of approaches to data analysis.

UK researchers Ian Brittain and Sarah Green used life course analysis to study
the rehabilitation of former soldiers after disabilities sustained in combat.
The ‘life course’ is the sequence of different roles and situations an individual
finds themselves in over time. The life course exists in a wider historical and
socioeconomic context, containing systems of opportunities and constraints
within which individuals can make choices and create their own life journeys

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(Brittain and Green 2012: 253). The researchers collected relevant newspaper and
internet articles from around the world, quoting former soldiers speaking about
their rehabilitation. They read each article several times, to familiarise themselves
with its content, and then carried out a more detailed analysis, noting preliminary
comments, associations and summaries. These notes were used as guidance
in identifying themes, which were clustered into subordinate and overarching
superordinate themes before being collated and discussed individually to deepen
the analysis (Brittain and Green 2012: 255–6).

Secondary data
Because there is so much that can be done with any dataset, and because data
gathering can be onerous for participants, researchers’ attention has turned more
and more to the opportunities offered by secondary data – that is, data previously
gathered for some other purpose (sometimes research, sometimes not) and that
can be used again.

Greek researcher Helen Briassoulis researched tourism and development by

analysing an online petition to stop the creation of a golf course at Cavo Sidero
in Crete. The petition website contained informative text and video, plus the
details of over 10,000 signatories from around 25 countries, and around 4,000
comments from signatories ranging from a single word to several hundred words.
Where possible, signatories’ identities (academic, tourist, golfer and so on)
were deduced from their comments or from wider web searches (this was not
possible in all cases because signatories could choose to remain anonymous).
Also, comments were placed into categories, which were initially defined from
the theoretical framework for the research and then refined during the process
of analysis. This approach to analysis helped the researcher to understand ‘the
patterns and determinants of opposition to golf development’ in local and global,
specific and general terms, over time and from diverse socio-cultural contexts
(Briassoulis 2010: 724).

For researchers used to gathering their own data, or for those who find the prospect
appealing, the idea of working with secondary data may seem less attractive. Some
may fear that it would feel too clinical or distant if they didn’t have intimate
personal knowledge of the context in which the data was gathered. Indeed, for
some research disciplines, such as ethnography, it is essential for researchers to
gather their own data (James 2013: 564). Being present for data gathering may
add layers of sensory experience that wouldn’t otherwise be available, but that
still doesn’t mean the researcher knows everything (James 2013: 567). Analysis
of secondary data can be just as creative as analysis of primary data, requiring
judicious use of the researcher’s analytic imagination (James 2013: 570). Careful

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and rigorous analysis of the same dataset as secondary and primary data may lead
to different insights, but that doesn’t mean either set of findings is ‘wrong’ (James
2013: 574).
Some of the other pros and cons of secondary data are conveniently listed on
a web page, while another web page provides access to some online sources
of secondary data – these are UK-generated, but other countries will have
close equivalents for most cases, which should be relatively easy to find online.

Analysing documentary data

Documents are not only containers of data, they can also be tools for people to
use as they act in the world (Kara 2012: 126), as the following examples show.

• Legal judgements are used by lawyers as benchmarks to assess new cases.

• An individual may use their ‘last will and testament’ to benefit a charity.
• An organisation’s statement of customer service standards may be used by
customers in negotiations with that organisation.

The analysis of documents will benefit from taking this into account. There
are three steps to analysing documents: superficial examination, or ‘skimming’;
thorough examination by careful reading and re-reading; and interpretation
(Bowen 2009: 32). During this process, ‘meaningful and relevant passages of text
or other data are identified’ (Bowen 2009: 32) and patterns, categories and themes
can be found within the data. In a mixed-methods study it is also possible to
apply pre-existing codes, for example those used with other datasets in the study
such as interview transcripts, to documentary data (Bowen 2009: 32). This can
be a useful technique for data integration.

John Vincent, from the US, and Jane Crossman, from Canada, used textual
analysis to examine gendered narratives and nationalistic discourses in
Australian newspapers’ narratives about Australian tennis players Lleyton
Hewitt and Alicia Molik during the centennial Australian Open Championships.
The researchers collected three national daily papers with extensive sports
coverage, chosen to appeal to three different types of readership, from the day
before the championships began to the day after they ended. They found 108
articles focusing on Hewitt and 79 focusing on Molik. Each was read twice and
narratives relating to gender and nationality were highlighted, and the articles
were then transcribed as MS Word documents. Then the researchers used open
and axial coding to generate ‘multiple and layered elements’ of analysis (Vincent
and Crossman 2009: 264). Open coding was used to organise the raw data into
themes and categories by searching and re-searching the transcripts for dominant
narratives, contradictions and inconsistencies. Axial coding was used to link these

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themes and categories with each other and with individual codes. When the
coding was done, the researchers used a multi-theoretical framework focusing on
gender, power and nationality to focus and amplify the findings of the research, to
‘uncover the textual constructions of gender and national identity permeating the
dominant discourses’ (Vincent and Crossman 2009: 265). Vincent and Crossman
found that multiple levels of coding, combined with a well-developed theoretical
framework, offered a rigorous and systematic approach to analysis that resulted
in a ‘dynamic and layered analytical framework that led to theoretical and data-
driven insights’ (Vincent and Crossman 2009: 265).

Analysis of talk
There are two central methods of analysing talk: discourse analysis and conversation
analysis. While neither method is new, both are highly creative, with scope for
further creativity in finding new ways to use and develop each method.
Conversation analysis (CA) is an evolving analytic method based on the idea
that any verbal interaction is worth studying to find out how it was produced by
the speakers (Liddicoat 2011: 69). CA requires a detailed form of transcription,
capturing not only the words that are spoken but also aspects of talk such as
intonation, volume of speech, pauses, non-word utterances such as ‘um’ and
‘er’, overlapping talk, interruptions and non-verbal sounds such as laughter
or coughs (Groom, Cushion and Nelson 2012: 445). The aim is to facilitate
a thorough analysis of people’s conversation in normal everyday interactions,
perhaps focusing on specific types of interaction such as greetings or leave-takings.
CA has also been used to study people’s talk in more artificial situations such as
research interviews (Groom, Cushion and Nelson 2012: 440). Unlike discourse
analysis, which focuses on talk within context and structure, CA focuses on what
people actually do as they talk (Liddicoat 2011: 8). When it was first devised
in the 1960s–70s, CA was used in isolation from theory, but more recently it
has been situated within theoretical frameworks around topics such as power
and identity (Groom, Cushion and Nelson 2012: 446). CA is a demanding and
time-consuming analytic technique (Mercer 2010: 8), although it doesn’t require
the gathering of much data (Bryman 2012: 525). There is considerable scope
for creativity in using CA with different theoretical frameworks and as part of
mixed-methods investigations.
Discourse analysis (DA) is based on the concept that the way we talk about
something affects the way we think about that phenomenon. ‘Discourse’ in this
context doesn’t refer solely to talk itself, it refers to talk that is constructed within
the constraints of a social structure. DA can be applied to other kinds of data,
such as written texts (Bryman 2012: 528) and images (Rose 2012: 195). CA and
DA are not mutually exclusive; it can be helpful to integrate CA into DA for a
more detailed analysis of talk or texts (Bryman 2012: 528).

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Michael Corman, from the University of Calgary in Qatar, took a constructivist

approach to DA in studying the way mothers talk about placements outside the
home for their autistic children. Nine mothers from western Canada had taken
part in semi-structured interviews in their homes for an earlier study. Corman
extracted relevant sections from those interview transcripts to use as secondary
data in investigating ‘how their talk accounted for placement and their social
reality surrounding placement’ (Corman 2013: 1323). He used predetermined
questions to orient himself as he analysed the data.

• What is the talk of participants accomplishing?

• Why is the subject matter being brought up now and in this way?
• How is participants’ talk being used to make claims?
• How do participants make their talk persuasive?
• What discourses do participants invoke to talk about placement, and why?
(Corman 2013: 1324)

This analysis allowed Corman to make visible the ways in which mothers
constructed their own realities by talking about, and making meaning of, their
experiences. This in turn enabled an increase in understanding of the mothers’
stress factors and coping mechanisms.

Some researchers choose to gather talk from people in more natural settings.

In the year 2000, four dual-income American families with at least one child
were asked to audio-record as many of their interactions as possible for one
week. This led to over 450 hours of recordings, and the transcripts ran to over 1
million words. The study was designed by American researchers Deborah Tannen
and Shari Kendall, and the aim was to find out how women and men talk at
home and at work, and how they use language to balance work and family life.
Part of the rationale for the methodology was that self-recording over such
a long period would lead participants to become habituated to the recording
device, and indeed the intimate nature of some of the data suggests that this did
happen to some extent. However, this was not the whole story. Cynthia Gordon,
a member of the research team, re-examined all the transcripts for evidence of
times when talk focused on the recording device. She found that all participants
focused on the recording device at times, giving it different roles such as ‘burden’,
‘spy’ or ‘audience’, and effectively using it as a resource within their interactions
(Gordon 2013: 314).

Gordon’s research is creative because she takes a fresh look at an aspect of the
research process, recording of data, which is often taken for granted or viewed
as neutral by researchers. Gordon’s analysis shows that research participants have
a very different perspective, which is helpful in enabling researchers to think
differently about this basic tool of our trade.

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Visual analytic techniques

Diagrams and maps can be particularly useful in data analysis to help you visualise
your data and the ideas and relationships that develop as you work through the
analytic process. Maps have been used in this way within a range of disciplines
including geography, psychology, sociology, anthropology and education (Powell
2010: 539–40). Diagrams have been used in grounded theory analysis for many
years (Strauss and Corbin 1998: 12) and are also relevant to other forms of data
[Link] visual techniques help the researcher to move from coding or theme
identification to conceptualisation (Strauss and Corbin 1998: 218).They are also
great vehicles for using, and stimulating, creativity and imagination (Strauss and
Corbin 1998: 220).

UK researchers Charles Buckley and Michael Waring used diagrams at various

stages of grounded theory studies of children’s attitudes to physical activity
(Buckley and Waring 2013). At the analytic stage, they found that creating
diagrams helped them to generate, explore, record and communicate insights
about their data. Drawing on the work of Clarke (2005), they also suggest that
using diagrams in data analysis can help to uncover some otherwise hidden
parts of the research process, and so rebut potential accusations of reductionism
(Buckley and Waring 2013: 150). ‘During the process of research, the use of
diagrams can help the researcher make sense of relationships that may not have
been previously explicit. In this way, they become an active part of the theory
generation and not only support developing conceptualisation but also actively
encourage clarity of thought.’ (Buckley and Waring 2013: 152).

Diagrams can of course be created by hand, or using specialist diagram software

such as Gliffy, or research analysis software that supports diagramming such as
NVivo. Similarly, maps can be drawn by hand or using specialist mapping software
such as Esri or Maptitude.

Analysing video data

Video offers a myriad of possibilities, and enormous challenges, to the data analyst.
‘Video allows us to document time in a complex fashion: action presents different
simultaneous layers of temporal conducts – such as talk, gestures, gaze, body
movements, postures of all of the participants ... One of the challenges of video
recording social action is precisely the continuous documentation of all of these
layers of timed action – which is often impossible to achieve with one camera
and difficult to solve with several’ (Mondada 2012: 305–6). It is also impossible to
transcribe everything that could possibly be relevant: all the physical movements
and gestures, directions of gaze and eye contact, handling of material objects, use
of technology, details of the environment and so on (Hammersley 2010: 566).

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Jessica DeCuir-Gunby and her colleagues in America gathered video data from
three cohorts of teachers in their longitudinal study of mathematics teachers’
professional development. Mathematics lessons were video-recorded, then coded
using a three-step process.

1 Lesson mapping – description of each lesson’s organisation and structure, with

categories based on teachers’ interactions in the classroom, for context and
to identify changes over time.
2 Lesson rubric coding – quantitative examination of teacher-initiated verbal
communication in specific categories such as ‘language matching’ (teacher
using child’s own language) and ‘illuminating thinking’ (teacher drawing
attention to and/or highlighting child’s understanding), to capture the number
of times each category was used by each teacher.
3 Transcription of verbal communication from the lesson rubric, to capture what
was said within each category.

ANOVAs and Bonferroni tests were used to analyse quantitative data from
this coding system and identify any significant differences between the three
cohorts of teachers. Qualitative data was analysed using a five-step method for
each individual lesson.

1 Use lesson mapping categories to provide structure and framework for the lesson.
2 Pair lesson rubric codings within events highlighted by lesson mapping.
3 Place comments from field notes within lesson mapping categories.
4 Match events of lesson with the teacher’s statements from group interview.
5 Integrate first four data sources to create individual cases.

The quantitative analysis enabled DeCuir-Gunby and her colleagues to provide an

overall view of what happened in the cohorts’ classrooms, while the qualitative
analysis enabled them to scrutinise each individual teacher and lesson (DeCuir-
Gunby, Marshall and McCulloch 2012: 212). This mixing of methods also enabled
the researchers to identify and describe several aspects of complexity within the
data, such as instances of some teachers’ data corroborating, complementing
or contradicting other data (DeCuir-Gunby, Marshall and McCulloch 2012: 207).

The wealth of video freely available on internet sites such as YouTube means
that scholars are increasingly turning to such sources for information and data
(Kousha, Thelwall and Abdoli 2012: 1710). The analysis of video data enables
researchers to examine aspects of social practice that it would be difficult or
impossible to study in any other way. Examples include the way that architects
use sketches and other drawings to help them think and communicate as they
collaborate (Mondada 2012: 317–22) and the processes of informal interaction
and tacit participation that enable people with different roles in emergency call

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centres to work together flexibly and effectively as they respond to the needs of
people in crisis (Fele 2012: 281).

Mixed-methods analysis
As shown above, it is possible to use quantitative and qualitative analytic techniques
in the same piece of research, and this can enrich your findings. For example,
cultural consensus analysis, a quantitative method, can be combined with cultural
modelling, a qualitative method (Fairweather and Rinne 2012). Cultural consensus
analysis asks three key questions about sharing of culture and then assesses the
patterns in the data using mathematical techniques (Fairweather and Rinne 2012:
477). Cultural modelling is based on DA, which enables researchers to understand
participants’ perspectives on thoughts, knowledge and the meaning of language,
and is used to demonstrate and explain relationships between cultural elements
in the data (Fairweather and Rinne 2012: 482). So, both analytic techniques are
used to investigate the extent to which culture is shared, albeit in different ways,
and using both together can give a more complete picture than using one alone
(Garro 2000: 285).

Reesa Sorin and her colleagues in Australia developed an analytical procedure

using three different methods to analyse children’s artworks. The first method was
content analysis, a quantitative technique: the researchers developed categories
for the salient features of children’s drawings such as animals, houses and trees.
The items in each category were counted for number and frequency. The other
two methods were qualitative. One was interpretive analysis, in which categories
were again identified, this time based on the mood or atmosphere of each drawing
and the story the child told about their drawing. The other was developmental
analysis, which suggests that stages in the development of children’s artworks can
be correlated with their ages. The researchers conclude that this combination of
analytic methods can ‘provide deep insights into young children’s understandings’
(Sorin, Brooks and Haring 2012: 29).

Q methodology offers another way of using statistical analysis with qualitative

data about people’s views, attitudes, beliefs and emotions (Ellingsen, Størksen
and Stephens 2010: 395). A short video introducing Q methodology can be
viewed online.
Alternatively, research can involve more than one type of quantitative analysis,
or more than one type of qualitative analysis, conducted either concurrently, or
consecutively in an iterative approach.

Erica Halverson and her colleagues in America studied four youth media arts
organisations across the US to investigate how video could be used to represent
young people’s identity. They describe video data as ‘multimodal’ because
it contains still and moving images, colour, a range of sounds and silences,

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sometimes text and so on. Halverson et al originally approached video analysis

by starting with dialogue, but then they encountered a film that had no dialogue,
which engendered their decision to develop a multimodal approach. Their aim
was to create a multimodal analytic framework, not to analyse data in different
chunks, but to reflect how the interaction of different chunks of data can create
new meanings. Following the work of Baldry and Thibault (2006), they divided
the film into ‘phases and transitions’, which were units of analysis that had some
kind of internal consistency, for example through a type of shot, a consistent
voiceover or the same music. Then they devised a coding scheme, based on the
work of Bordwell and Thompson (2004), for each unit of analysis. This involved
four broad categories based on filmmakers’ key cinematic techniques:

1 mise-en-scène: anything visible within the camera’s frame, such as setting

and characters
2 sound: anything audible, such as dialogue and music
3 editing: the filmmaker’s interventions that create the film
4 cinematography: the filmmaker’s techniques for altering the image from that
seen through the camera’s lens.

Within each category, more detailed codes were developed, such as facial
expressions, clothing, sound effects, flashback, freeze frame, lighting and close-up.
Halverson et al say that using this system ‘to describe the phases and transitions
of the films resulted in the creation of multilayered filmic transcripts that allow us
to consider each mode individually, as well as how they connect to one another
to help youth consider issues of identity in their films’ (Halverson et al 2012: 8).

Doing mixed-methods analysis well can be resource-intensive and time consuming,

particularly in international research.

Anne Shordike and her colleagues in America, Thailand and New Zealand
investigated the meanings of celebratory food preparation for older women
in three different cultures, to find out what commonalities might exist across
different cultural contexts. They developed a research design in which researchers
from each country would gather, analyse and report on the topic from their own
country, before they made comparisons between the countries. Data was gathered
using three focus groups in each country in 2000–01, and was transcribed and
analysed. Coding data collaboratively was difficult. A face-to-face meeting of
researchers from all three teams in 2002 facilitated the development of nine
initial codes, but it proved impossible to involve a Thai team member in the full
coding exercise, which was done over several months by one researcher from
New Zealand and one from America. Then the coding was reviewed by all team
members, using electronic communication. The team planned for one researcher
to write a memo about each code, incorporating data from all three countries,
and e-mail it to all researchers for feedback. This also proved impossible, so

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researchers met again for two weeks in April 2005, intending to discuss each of
the memos that had been written until everyone understood it and new insights
had been generated. For each code, this required each country’s researchers to
present their own interpretation of their own data, and then a full discussion
of the data under that code for all three countries. This process continued after
the meeting, using videoconferencing. The process of identifying commonalities
began at a meeting in October 2005 and took about 18 months, again with use
of videoconferencing and another meeting towards the end of the process in
early 2007. The research, including data analysis, was an effective collaboration
(Shordike et al 2010: 351) but, as this summary shows, the data coding and
analysis took around five years and a great deal of effort to complete.

A presentation by Professor Ray Cooksey about the analysis of quantitative and

qualitative data with the support of technology can be viewed online.

Data integration
The trend of combining data and findings from different datasets has increased
rapidly since the turn of the century (Ivankova and Kawamura 2010: 583; Hannes
and Macaitis 2012: 405). The data and findings may be from a single mixed-
methods study or from different studies, and may be qualitative, quantitative or
both. One of the most challenging aspects of mixed-methods data analysis is
integrating the findings from different datasets and/or different analytic techniques.
As so often with new research methods, a variety of terms are used to describe
the process of combining data and findings, including:

• data integration – usually within a mixed-methods study

• meta-analysis – usually for quantitative studies
• data synthesis – usually for qualitative studies
• meta-synthesis – for qualitative or quantitative studies
• evidence synthesis – for qualitative or quantitative studies
• systematic review – for qualitative or quantitative studies.

Data integration in mixed-methods research can be conducted for a number of

reasons, such as to address a research question from a variety of perspectives or
to bring together different parts of a phenomenon or process (Mason 2002: 33).
Within a research project, data integration has three main purposes: triangulation
of data, the development of richer analysis and the illustration of findings (Fielding
2012: 124). The aim is to synthesise equivalent or complementary findings and
make further investigation of contradictory findings (Fielding 2012: 125). The
precise methods of integration will vary, depending on the nature of the datasets,
but there are some basic questions that are likely to apply in any case, such as:

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1. How far can each of your datasets contribute to answering your research
questions?
2. To what extent can your findings be brought together to create an explanatory
narrative?
3. How much do the answers to 1 and 2 above benefit your research?

These kinds of questions can be difficult to answer, but there is no point integrating
data just for its own sake, so it is important to ensure that integration is rigorous
and meaningful (Mason 2002: 36).
Methods of combining data and findings from different studies usually start from
the researcher’s strategy for searching for, and identifying, studies that fit their
criteria. Although this happens at an early stage of the research, it is included here
because it is essentially an analytic process. Devising a search and identification
strategy is quite a creative process, with many decisions to be made, such as:

• which criteria to use for inclusion or exclusion

• which search terms to use
• which databases and/or websites to search
• how to manage studies that don’t fit with your inclusion/exclusion criteria.

The idea behind having predefined inclusion and exclusion criteria is to reduce
researcher bias in the selection of studies (Petticrew and Roberts 2005: 10).
However, as the selection criteria are defined by researchers they may themselves
include bias (Kara 2012: 21). A short video about researcher bias can be viewed
online. An initial question is how broad or narrow to make the criteria: broader
criteria increase the likelihood of generalisability, while narrower criteria are
likely to yield a more homogeneous evidence base (Salanti 2012: 81). Practical
considerations also come into play here, as some selection criteria can yield
hundreds of thousands of studies, which may encourage researchers to use
narrower criteria.
You may choose to replicate an existing search and identification strategy, either
because it has proved to be effective and would fit with your own research, or
because you want to compare your research with a previous study and using the
same strategy would facilitate this (Hannes and Macaitis 2012: 403). Or you may
prefer to devise your own strategy. When you have selected your studies, you
need to extract the relevant information and then re-analyse it as a dataset of its
own, using suitable analytic tools.
Australian researchers Pat Bazeley and Lynn Kemp considered the metaphors
used to describe integration in the research methods literature. These included:

• bricolage, mosaics and jigsaws – aiming for completion

• sprinkling and mixing/stirring – aiming for enhancement
• triangulation and archipelago – aiming to show that the whole is greater than
the sum of its parts

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• blending, morphing and fusion – aiming to explore through transformation

• conversation and DNA – aiming to explore through iterative exchange.

Bazeley and Kemp used their exploration of these metaphors within the research
methods literature to define the following eight principles for data integration
(Bazeley and Kemp 2012: 69).

1. There are many methods and techniques of integrating data.

2. Integration can start at any point in the research process.
3. Integration should happen at the earliest possible stage, certainly during analysis,
and always before conclusions are made.
4. The level of integration must be commensurate with the aims of the research.
5. The research report should provide clear evidence of the ways in which each
data element or finding depends on, or is enhanced by, others.
6. Data integration aims to obtain results that could not be obtained in any
other way.
7. The research is written up around the topics it investigates and its findings,
not around its methods.
8. If the requirements of other forms of publication, such as journal article word
limits, make it difficult to include all the components of an integrated study,
care needs to be taken to make sure the whole can be represented as well as
the relevant parts.

Norwegian researcher Sofia Hussain conducted research in Cambodia that aimed

to help the developers of prosthetic legs to obtain a deeper understanding of their
users’ needs. Hussain conducted semi-structured interviews with six Cambodian
children who had prosthetic legs, incorporating ‘child-friendly techniques such as
drawing, photography, and role play’ (Hussain 2011: 1430), and several follow-up
interviews with three of those children. She also conducted group interviews with
six professional rehabilitation workers and seven children who had no disabilities.
Five adults who had been using prosthetic legs since childhood took part first
in individual interviews and then in a group interview. Hussain also interviewed
five Buddhist monks and four shamans, to find out more about cultural views
of disability and health. An interpreter assisted the researcher, as most of the
interviewees were Khmer speakers, and all interviews were recorded. The materials
for analysis included audio tapes, field notes of interviews and observations,
transcripts in English and Khmer, photographs and drawings. Hussain took a
cyclical approach to her analysis, ‘working from parts to the whole and back
again’, and ‘looking for information that stands out, and might lead to a deeper
understanding in relation to the lived experiences of those being interviewed’
(Hussain 2011: 1431). This enabled the identification of themes, which were
refined through discussion with a colleague. Hussain used reflective writing as a
key part of her thematic analysis, viewing her material in the context of relevant
literature and reflecting on the changes in her own understanding in the process.

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This approach was drawn from the work of Gadamer (1975), who ‘wrote that
all parts of a text should be understood in the context of the entire text, and
that the entire text should be interpreted within the framework of its parts’
(Hussain 2011:1431). This analytic approach enabled Hussain to identify relevant
cultural and social attitudes, and so to establish ways in which the developers of
prosthetic legs, and support services such as NGOs operating locally whose staff
fit prostheses, could improve the lives of children with disabilities in Cambodia.

A Huffington Post article showing one way in which Sofia Hussain’s research
has been used is available online.

Data analysis using technology

Some researchers worry that a computer will take some of the control away
from the researcher within the analytic process (Bazeley and Jackson 2013:
9, Odena 2013: 358) and make the process mechanical (Bazeley and Jackson
2013: 7). However, it can equally be argued that computer-assisted data analysis
gives a researcher more control. For qualitative data, this is achieved by offering
increased flexibility in coding and ensuring that researchers can rapidly retrieve
every item with a given code. Also, it is still the researcher’s job to assign names
to codes and codes to data, and to derive meaning from the slices of data served
up by the computer in response to the researcher’s queries. For qualitative
or quantitative data, computer-assisted analysis enables work with far bigger
datasets than could be analysed by hand. We saw this earlier with the analysis
of 600,000 tweets carried out by Tonkin, Pfeiffer and Tourte (2012); even more
impressive is the analysis of 2.6 million tweets transmitted by 700,000 users of
Twitter during the London riots that was carried out by just three researchers
with the aid of computers (Procter, Vis and Voss 2013: 199). The computer
is a tool to help the researcher, and just as it’s usually easier to bang in a nail
with a hammer than with your hand, it’s easier to analyse most datasets with a
computer than with a pen and paper.
Electronic data needs to be coded with meticulous care, and this can be quite
a laborious process. Some computer programs offer automatic coding options
so that, for example, you can assign the same code to all the text under the same
heading in different documents in a single action (Bazeley and Jackson 2013: 109).
This can speed up the process of coding, although it is useful only up to a point,
because it is still the researcher’s responsibility to define the automated codes,
check which other codes may be needed and implement them, and interpret the
coded data (Odena 2013: 358). Concentrating on the detail of the data while
coding can help to reduce the impact of researchers’ unconscious biases about
broader themes in the data (Odena 2013: 365) and so can lead to interesting
surprises at the analytic stage.
Once the coding is done, analysis is comparatively straightforward. However,
whether analysing qualitative or quantitative data, it is essential that the

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researcher uses analytic techniques appropriately. You need to choose what to

consider, compare or calculate, and those decisions should be based on a credible
methodological rationale. It is not acceptable to run queries or calculations simply
because the software enables you to do so (Cooper and Glaesser 2011: 45–6); you
need to know why you’re running those queries or calculations.
There are a large number of proprietary software packages to support different
kinds of data analysis. Excel and SPSS (Statistical Package for Social Sciences)
are probably the most common packages used for quantitative analysis, with the
open source R software gaining popularity. For qualitative analysis, [Link]
and MAXQDA are popular, and there are a number of open source packages
available (list on Wikipedia at the time of writing). You can also find packages for
the analysis of specific types of data, such as observational or visual data. There
are an increasing number of packages being adapted or designed to help with
the analysis of large datasets (Cooper and Glaesser 2011: 31; Crowston, Allen
and Heckman 2012: 523; Angus, Rintel and Wiles 2013: 261). And there are
numerous providers of custom-built software if you can’t find the functions you
need in any off-the-shelf packages.
Few packages support the analysis of both qualitative and quantitative data, and
at the time of writing perhaps the best-known software that does is NVivo. This
enables you to import and code across a wide range of data sources, including
documents you have created, documents created by others (in word processing
or PDF formats), spreadsheets, text files (.txt), images, audio, video, web pages
and social media (Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, YouTube and so on) (Bazeley and
Jackson 2013: 195–209). NVivo is very effective for qualitative data analysis, and
reasonably effective for quantitative data analysis (particularly surveys). And it is
extremely effective for mixed-methods analysis, supporting a consistent approach
to coding across all kinds of data source and so enabling coherent integrated
analysis of different types of data (Bazeley and Jackson 2013: 213). Furthermore,
NVivo can be useful in the building and development of theory. Grounded theory
is often seen as particularly compatible with NVivo (for example, Hutchison,
Johnston and Breckon 2010), but the software’s modelling and other functions
can also be helpful in working with other types of theory.

Transformative frameworks and data analysis

Data preparation, coding and analysis are the aspects of research that are perhaps
most resistant to participation. At these stages, research work can be quite tedious,
repetitive and time consuming, which puts some people off. There are many
barriers to participation in research, and even within transformative frameworks,
levels of participation vary considerably between one project and another
(Chevalier and Buckles 2013: 174). Also, levels of participation can vary within a
research project. Participation is often presented as static and binary – something
people either do or don’t do – but, in reality, participation fluctuates constantly
alongside other demands of life (Jochum and Brodie 2013: 380). However, if

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people have been fully involved as co-researchers such that they feel the project
is truly theirs as much as anyone else’s, then they may be willing or even keen to
go through the analytic process.
If you want to involve participants in data analysis, you’ll need to make early
decisions about gathering data and using an analytic process that can be accessible
for your participants.

As we saw in Chapter Five, Mary Ann Kluge and her colleagues in America and
New Zealand (Kluge et al 2010) used video in their case study of Linda, a 65-year-
old woman who had minimal experience of sport and didn’t like exercise, yet
decided to aim for master’s level as a senior athlete. They gathered many hours
of video footage, from Linda’s first-ever training session to her competing in,
and winning, a race at the Rocky Mountain Senior Games. The video footage
was viewed several times by researchers and participant together, with the aim
of recognising material that was visually significant and could be used to reflect
the associated narrative. This collaborative process enabled the participant to
verify as significant the themes identified by the researchers.

Some participants may need more support with analysing data than others, such
as children, or people with learning disabilities (Nind 2011: 375). Whether or
not participants have extra support needs, the key to maximising participation
in the analytic phase is to make the process as accessible as possible. It may also
help, if appropriate for your project, to integrate data analysis with data gathering,
at least to some extent.

Critical communicative methodology (CCM) is a particularly ethical type of

participatory mixed-methods research that aims to identify and solve social
problems through dialogue. A key aspect of communicative analysis is to identify
a successful or ‘transformative’ case and interrogate it thoroughly. For example, a
study of the economic crisis, aiming to find effective alternatives to the capitalist
system, focused on the Mondragon Corporation, a very successful and ethical
group of cooperatives. Mondragon was founded in 1955 and by 2008 had become
Spain’s third-largest industrial group by employees, with almost 100,000 staff.
It works in industry, distribution, finance and knowledge and is successful in
overcoming inequalities such as social exclusion, with a range of ways in which
staff can participate in management and decision making. Mondragon was able
not only to maintain but also to create employment during the economic crisis.
The case of Mondragon was interrogated to find out what made it so successful
and whether its success could be replicated. Statistical and interview data was
gathered, coded and analysed with reference to identified barriers and enablers
to social inclusion, within Habermas’s ‘system’ and ‘lifeworld’ distinction, that is,
the social/organisational or the personal/experiential. Identification of barriers
helps to identify reasons why those barriers continue to exist, and identification

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of enablers helps to show what may be transferred to other contexts (Redondo

et al 2011: 282).

Arts-based data analysis

The arts offer many creative ways to enrich the analytic process. Here are just
three examples: screenplay writing, I-poems and a mixed-methods arts-based
approach using poems, photographs and diagrammatic metaphors.

Lisbeth Berbary, an American researcher, used screenplay writing as creative

analytic practice in her feminist research. She studied discourses of femininity
among young women in an American sorority (college students’ social club for
women). Berbary gathered data through participant and informal observation,
in-depth and informal interviews and artefact collections. Her analysis began
with coding against her research questions, but the resulting categorisation
seemed unsatisfactory because it didn’t reflect the complexity of her data. So
she looked for a way to deconstruct her analysis and chose to write a screenplay,
albeit one that is ethnographic rather than intended for production. Berbary
structured her screenplay carefully to reflect the themes from her data. She
used seven different settings from the university campus, taking details from
her observational field notes and making changes only where necessary to
protect participants’ confidentiality. Four main characters were created as
composites from research participants, differing from each other in as many
ways as possible while remaining true to the data. Scenes were written showing
settings, characters, dialogue, action, interaction, non-verbal communication
and gesture. Berbary also included ‘director’s comments’, which enabled her to
include the connections she made between perspectives, themes and data. This
‘writing inquiry’ enabled illumination of sorority women’s experiences of gender
and femininity (Berbary 2011: 186).

Given that written text is so dominant in research outputs, it is perhaps not

surprising that creative analytic practice is also dominated by written art forms.

I-poems are a way of identifying how participants represent themselves in

interviews, by paying attention to the first-person statements in the interview
transcripts. This technique was developed by Carol Gilligan and her colleagues in
the 1990s and used more recently by UK researchers Rosalind Edwards and Susie
Weller in their longitudinal research investigating change and continuity in young
people’s senses of self over time. The interview transcripts are carefully read to
identify the ways in which interviewees speak about themselves, paying particular
attention to any statements using the personal pronoun ‘I’. Each instance of ‘I’
is highlighted, together with any relevant accompanying text that might help a
reader to understand the interviewee’s sense of self. These highlighted phrases
are then copied out of the transcript and placed in a new document, in the same

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sequence, each instance beginning in a new line, like the lines of a poem. I-poems
can be very helpful in identifying participants’ senses of self by foregrounding
the voice, or voices, that they use to talk about themselves. This is an adaptable
technique that can be used with participants of different ages, genders, abilities
and backgrounds (Edwards and Weller 2012: 206) although working with I-poems
is quite time consuming, so they’re best used with a small sample or sub-sample
(Edwards and Weller 2012: 215).

It would also be possible to construct we-poems, they-poems and so on, if relevant

for your dataset.
Researching complex human experience suggests, to some people, that they
could reflect that complexity by mixing analytic methods.

Jennifer Lapum and her colleagues in Canada used arts-based analysis in their
investigation of patients’ experiences of open-heart surgery. Participants took
part in two interviews after their operations, the first while they were in hospital
but out of intensive care and the second when they had been home from hospital
for 4–6 weeks. Between the two interviews, participants kept a journal of their
experiences (Lapum et al 2011: 102). The multi-disciplinary research team used
an arts-based method of analysing patients’ stories. They began by imagining
how patients felt physically and emotionally during their experiences. Patients’
stories were presented in chronological order, so this was used as an organising
framework. The framework had five phases: pre-operative, post-operative,
discharge from hospital, early and later recovery at home. Within this framework,
key words, phrases and ideas from the patients’ stories were documented and
categorised. These key words, phrases and ideas were used to form free-verse
poems. The team also developed concepts for photographic images that would
highlight the main narrative ideas of each poem. This process yielded several
poems and photographic images. Reflective discussions about the poetry and
images, drawing heavily on imagination, were used to seek fuller understanding
of patients’ experiences. In a second phase of analysis, the images were further
developed and the poetic text refined so as to ‘further illuminate the complexities,
ambiguities, defining features, tensions, and sensory details’ of participants’
stories (Lapum et al 2011: 104). This was done through ‘a process of iterative
dialogue, systematic inquiry, visualization, concept mapping, and metaphorical
interpretation’ (Lapum et al 2011: 104). The researchers discussed, wrote, and
drew their findings as visual and diagrammatic metaphors. This analytic technique
was explicitly used to work towards a public exhibition that would be used to
disseminate the research findings and that is discussed more fully in Chapter Nine.

A video output from this research can be viewed online.

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CONCLUSION
There are many ways to analyse primary and secondary data and to integrate
different datasets, and more are being devised all the time. This means that,
although parts of the process can be laborious and repetitive, there is still
plenty of scope for creativity in data analysis. However, it is important to
ensure that your analytic method produces findings that are firmly rooted
in your data. It is equally important to ensure that your analysis and its
results will be helpful in the next stages of the research process: writing,
presentation, dissemination and implementation.

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 SEVEN

Writing for research

Introduction
Writing is the one art form with which all researchers must engage. Sadly, many
researchers ‘are not willing or able to write engaging prose’ (Ellingson 2009:
57). Traditional research writing is ‘depersonalized and alienating’ (Gergen and
Gergen 2012: 50) and some academics, in particular, write in such a ‘dense and
convoluted’ style that their ideas are hard to grasp (Jones and Leavy 2014: 6). But
it does not have to be like that. This chapter aims to help you write creatively and
well. Also, a number of useful resources to help you write well for research
are available online.
Good, creative research writing will always be:

• Clear, at every level, from each individual sentence to the overall structure
• helpful
• understandable
• free of waffle and jargon
• properly spelled and punctuated
• original, without clichés or plagiarism
• written with the requirements of its audience(s) in mind.

Good research writing will also have a clear narrative. Even the most quantitative,
statistical research can be communicated only through stories made of words
(Smith 2009: 99). Numbers in research are not neutral, they are value-laden
communication devices that – like words – can be used in many different ways.
However, the ways in which numbers are used to communicate are not always
clear in and of themselves, because numbers do not ‘carry within themselves
everything that is needed to interpret their meaning’ (Verran 2014: 118). Therefore,
researchers using numbers need to explain how those numbers are being used,
and interpret their meanings for their readers.

Australian researcher Helen Verran has identified three main ways in which
numbers are used by researchers:

1 iconic numbers, used to order our social world, such as the calculation of
Gross National Product; these numbers are generally accepted as correct by
most people

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2 symbolic numbers, used to represent value in a theoretical context, such as

the headline ratio of a Social Return on Investment study
3 indexical numbers, used for ‘an ongoing project of ordering and reordering
effected partly in response to values that become calculable through the
ordering moment’ (Verran 2014: 123), such as the Global Peace Index, which
is an annual calculation of the relative peacefulness of nations around the
world.

Helen Verran suggests that ‘researchers in the social sciences should know what
they are doing with their numbers and how, and most importantly be able to
articulate why they want to work with numbers in those ways’ (Verran 2014: 123).

The UK Government Statistical Service (GSS) has produced some useful guidance
on writing about statistics (GSS undated). It recommends choosing a descriptive
title. The writer should understand the context for the research and the factors
that could influence the findings, and should be able to explain these clearly
for readers. The most important and relevant messages from the data should
be summarised and highlighted. More detailed background information, such
as methodological details or raw data, should be presented in appendices. It is
useful to include other statistics for context, where possible: for example, if your
data is collected locally, there may be parallel national figures that could indicate
whether the local situation is below, above or on average. Overall, the GSS stresses
the importance of good interpretive commentary that informs readers about
the meaning and relevance of the data, rather than simply describing the data.
It suggests that interpretation ‘should explore relationships, causes and effects,
to the extent that they can be supported by evidence ... and present a balanced
picture.’ (GSS undated: 14) The GSS guidance is available online.
While some quantitative researchers struggle to communicate their research
in writing, so too do some artistic researchers. As this book demonstrates, many
artistic researchers understand that their artistic practice is a form of research and
that it can make a significant contribution to research. However, with the possible
exception of the word-based arts such as poetry and storytelling, in the language-
dominated world of the academy these practices often fail to be understood or
recognised as legitimate research (Blom, Bennett and Wright 2011: 360). Yet
writing itself is an art form, a creative process, and this will be discussed in more
detail later in the chapter.
Writing occurs throughout the research process. Research proposals and plans;
e-mails; funding applications; ethics applications; minutes of meetings; to-do
lists – writing is a fundamental building block of research.

Sheila Henderson and her colleagues in the UK conducted qualitative longitudinal

research for the Inventing Adulthoods project. They interviewed 121 people

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growing up in England and Northern Ireland up to six times each over 10 years.
The process for turning the resulting huge volume of biographical information
into comprehensible written accounts developed as the research progressed. After
the first set of interviews, the researchers conducted straightforward thematic
analysis and wrote a reasonably conventional account linking theory, research
questions, findings and social policy (Henderson et al 2007). As the dataset grew,
the researchers began to work towards writing individual case studies to show how
participants’ lives changed over time. Narrative analysis formed an intermediate
step after the second set of interviews, and they built on this after the third set
to write condensed ‘case profiles’ that showed at a glance how circumstances
changed over time, and summarised key themes from interviews, researchers’
notes and initial connections with the research questions. These case profiles
then formed the bases for the case studies, which were structured to give a sense
of chronological order while also focusing on four key biographical fields: work,
play, education and family (Henderson et al 2012: 21).

The Inventing Adulthoods website provides more information about the project.

Ethics in writing for research

When you reach the writing stage, you develop a new set of responsibilities: to
your potential readers, as well as to participants, researchers whose work you are
building on and all the others who hold a stake in your research. For your readers,
you need to write well and clearly, so as to help them read and understand your
work as easily as [Link] need to do justice to your participants by ensuring
that you represent your data accurately and interpret your findings fairly in your
writing. And you need to be fair to researchers whose work you build on, by
citing their work accurately and not plagiarising (Löfström 2011: 263).
There are many ethical decisions to be made in writing. For example, qualitative
researchers often use direct quotes from participants in their writing. This is
seen by some as an ethical approach because it gives participants ‘a voice’. Most
researchers will use a pseudonym, unless their participants object. But how do you
choose a pseudonym? Is it best to choose a name that indicates the same gender,
age, race and so on as the actual participant? Or not? Suppose your participant
was called Wilfred Arthur Brown. What constitutes a good pseudonym? Arthur
Wilfred Smith? Bilbo Baggins? Jamila Patel? Should you ask your participant to
choose their own pseudonym? Are there contexts in which using a pseudonym
will not protect participants’ anonymity?

As we saw in Chapter Three, Danish researcher Stine Lomborg studied the ways
in which Danish people use personal blogs and Twitter, and how those social
media were integrated with their users’ everyday lives. She gathered an archive
consisting of six months of posts from several blogs and one month of tweets

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from several Twitter accounts. In writing up her data analysis, she realised that
she needed to quote excerpts from some of the posts and tweets. However,
this would compromise her participants’ anonymity because entering a string
of text from such an excerpt in any internet search engine would lead straight
to the blogger or tweeter. The data was already, in a sense, in the public domain
and it fell under the Danish Data Protection Agency’s definition of ‘non-sensitive
information’. Nevertheless, Lomborg decided that it would not be ethical to
compromise her participants’ anonymity. Instead, she shared her write-up in draft
with her participants and gave them the option to remove any direct quotes that
they didn’t want to share through her research (Lomborg 2012: 26).

There is huge scope for creativity here, and it may be useful to think about what
you want your readers to understand and take from your research. But then, how
ethical is it to try to influence your readers? Should you revert to trying to be
somehow ‘neutral’? Is that even possible?

Audience
Writing, while in one sense a solitary pursuit, is also a relational activity (Tierney
and Hallett 2010: 683). Even a private personal diary is written by a current self
for a future self. And any other form of writing will have at least one reader
in mind, such as when you write an e-mail or a card for a single recipient.
Research writing is likely to have several audiences, some at different stages of
its development. For example, a dissertation may be critiqued by fellow students
and supervisors before it is marked by examiners. An academic journal article
may be critiqued by colleagues before it is assessed by an editor, reviewed by peer
reviewers and eventually read by scholars and other interested [Link]
you are writing, whatever you are writing, you need to keep your audience(s) in
mind and write for them.

Feedback
Receiving feedback on your research writing, whether from a fellow student,
supervisor, commissioner, colleague, peer reviewer or someone else, can be a
daunting experience. A survey of 150 postgraduate students from a range of
disciplines found that, for most of them, feedback took too long, arrived too
late, was over-critical and didn’t help them to improve their writing skills (Catt
and Gregory 2006: 23). To use feedback creatively, seek it at an early stage, from
someone who can and will discuss it with you to help you improve. But ask that
person to give you their feedback in writing first, then take some time to read
and digest the written feedback before moving into the discussion [Link] not
to be defensive; rather, be open to suggestions and ideas – although of course the
final decision is yours. Good feedback, helpfully offered, can help you to improve

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your writing and your research work far more – and more creatively – than you
could achieve alone.
Giving feedback is also a creative process. When giving feedback, you need to
read someone’s work carefully, at least twice, and make notes as you go. Don’t
spend ages correcting typos or grammar, just make a passing comment if there
are a significant number of errors. Instead, think about what could be improved,
and how this could be done. Is the narrative coherent? Does it flow well? Do the
arguments make sense? Is the structure helpful? Are there any specific flaws such
as unnecessary repetition or waffle? How can you help the writer to improve their
work? Having said that, don’t expect the writer to accept all your suggestions.
The work is, after all, theirs not yours, so they have the final decision. Offering
feedback is helpful, but doesn’t entitle you to part-ownership of the writing work.
A video presented by Nick Hopwood about how to give effective feedback on
academic writing can be viewed online, and the principles and practices discussed
have application beyond the academy.
The international Committee on Publication Ethics (COPE) published a set
of ethical guidelines for peer reviewers in March 2013, which are freely
available online, just five pages long and well worth consulting by anyone who
is thinking of giving someone feedback on their work. The following are some
of the key points.

• Make sure you have time to do a proper critique before you agree to take it on.
• Only critique work where you have the necessary expertise in the subject
matter (unless the writer wants a critique from a layperson’s perspective, or
for some other reason).
• Read the work thoroughly.
• Make constructive comments about the text, not personal comments about
the writer.
• Give your feedback within a reasonable length of time.
• Keep the work, and your feedback, confidential.

Fact versus fiction

Writing doesn’t come naturally, because it isn’t natural: it is a craft, a skill, that
has to be learned. One aspect of the craft that novice writers often find hard to
grasp is that every piece of good research writing will go through several drafts,
and revision and editing are essential parts of the process (Becker 2007: 17). This
can be an intensely creative practice, even for those producing academic writing
(Lillis 2006: 31). Creativity is highly relevant to academic writing, even in ‘hard
science’ subjects such as engineering (Ahearn 2006: 117).
Writing is creative in many ways, not only in creating sentences and paragraphs
and meaning, but also in helping the writer to think creatively while they review,
re-evaluate and refine their ideas as they write (Colyar 2009: 425–6). Given that

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writing is an integral part of research, and most research outputs are written,
it seems odd that few books on research methods give advice on how to write
(Murray 2011: 2). Those that do usually treat research writing as factual, non-
fiction prose. Yet writers of fiction and non-fiction use many of the same skills
(Stein 1998: 7), which suggests that even prose non-fiction may be more creative
than it appears (Brien 2013: 35). For example, any piece of good writing, whether
academic or romance or autobiography, will be written using a consistent ‘voice’
or persona. Finding the right ‘voice’ is part of the creative process of writing.
Writing in English, which is rich in synonyms, means that we have choices to
make in almost every phrase. A writer’s choices must be guided by, and consistent
with, the voice in which they are writing. And choices mean decisions – where,
as we have seen, creativity resides. In some contexts, using fictional forms in
research writing may be a sensible ethical choice, such as when it is vital to protect
participants’ identities because of the sensitivity of a research topic (Piper and
Sikes 2010: 572). Indeed, it has been argued that the distinction between fact and
fiction is not clear (Brinkmann 2009: 1390; Ellingson 2009: 66; Vickers 2010:
561) and that ‘writers both beyond and within the academy have been blurring
the fiction-nonfiction divide for centuries’ (Leavy 2012: 517).
Patricia Leavy is now a full-time creative academic writer and her website has
lots of useful information for people who want to write creatively in research.
Some writers of research have found that using the techniques of literary
fiction helps to solve research problems at the writing stage, such as by showing
‘other truths and different perspectives that were not available in the nonfiction
realm’ (Vickers 2010: 563). For example, the ethnographer Kay Inckle, in her
investigation of gendered embodiment and body-marking practices informed by
queer theory, and Helen Kara, in her PhD research into the emotion work of
managers in public sector partnerships informed by social policy and organisation
theories, reached similar conclusions about this, despite their very different areas
of study. Both concluded that their research was best written using fictionalised
accounts, rooted in the experience of real people, that portray actual but
anonymised experiences and are directly applicable to real-life situations (Inckle
2010: 37; Kara 2013: 81). Both Inckle and Kara placed their fictional accounts
within a conventional academic framework, but not all scholars have done so.
For example, the ethnographer Jessica Gullion writes her study of health and
natural-gas drilling in north Texas using a short abstract that leads into an entire
article of creative non-fiction based on her field notes and in-depth interview
transcripts (2013).

Katrina Rodriguez and Maria Lahman, from the US, investigated how messages
from family and peers influence the ways in which Latina college students
understand their intersecting ethnicity, class and gender, and the value of
education. They chose to write up their findings as a full-length three-act play
script titled Las Comadres: Cuentame su Historia (‘Girlfriends: Tell Me Your Story’),

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made up of both direct quotes from interview and focus group transcripts, and
fictional dialogue created by the researchers. The aim was to place participants
at the centre of the research. ‘Creating intersections of race, class, and gender
in the dramatic script allow for a complex view of participants and their
multidimensionality’ (Rodriguez and Lahman 2011: 603). The original plan was
to use only quotes from transcripts in the play script, but, used alone, these
‘sounded flat and sanitised’ (Rodriguez and Lahman 2011: 611). The researchers
had to perform a difficult balancing act as they rewrote the text: making sure
the words would work as performed dialogue, while maintaining the integrity of
participants’ experiences and messages. While this play has not been performed,
the researchers did enlist the help of colleagues in reading the script aloud during
the writing process, which helped to enhance the authenticity of the characters’
dialogue and interaction.

Perhaps this is, at least in part, due to the communicative power of stories. Stories
are an economical way to communicate ideas, emotions and experience directly
and vividly, make sense of complex situations and share knowledge (Gabriel and
Connell 2010: 507–8). There is evidence that reading fictional stories influences
the way people feel and think (Djikic et al 2009: 27). Yet, creative writing has
traditionally been seen as separate from academic writing; but more recently this
division has been described as ‘perplexing’ by academic writers (Young and Avery
2006: 97) and ‘falsely separated’ from the creative writing side (Lasky 2013: 16).
And indeed researchers today are being much more creative with their writing.
They are telling research stories through a wide range of prose and non-prose
forms, including poetry, dialogue, vignettes, play scripts, screenplays and memoir.
Some researchers argue that this is an entirely legitimate way to convey social
scientific truths about human experience (for example, Brinkmann 2009: 1381).
Others go further, calling for research to be written in ‘aesthetic, literary forms
turning the reading of research into an experience in itself ’ (Finlay 2012: 29).

Kitrina Douglas and David Carless are UK researchers who are interested in how
sport and exercise can contribute to recovery from severe and enduring mental
illness. As part of their research, they set up and ran a nine-week golf programme
for men with severe and enduring mental health problems. They analysed the
resulting data using thematic analysis and then narrative analysis, but neither
technique proved adequate to communicate the ‘richness and complexity’ of
the data to the researchers’ satisfaction (Douglas and Carless 2010: 337). The
researchers then turned to writing as a form of analysis, and experimented with
poetic representation, autoethnography, songwriting, creative non-fiction and
ethnographic fiction (Douglas and Carless 2010: 338). Like all research methods,
each of these has advantages and disadvantages. Douglas and Carless learned
from this process that the methods of data analysis and presentation chosen by
researchers have an impact on the types of knowledge they produce and also
have a reciprocal influence on the researchers themselves, in terms of the types

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of researchers they become (Douglas and Carless 2010: 351; see also Barone
and Eisner 2012: 5).

A short performative video based on the research of Douglas and Carless, and
that shows some of the ways alternative styles of writing can be used, can be
viewed online.
Researchers are also acknowledging the limitations of writing. For a start, it’s
not possible to tell everything that could be told (Lemert 1999: 440), so every
writer has to be selective. For a second thing, writing is not able to convey the
totality of human experience (Barbour 2012: 67; Romanyshyn 2013: 5), although
words can ‘pin experience to meaning, at least temporarily’ (Lockford 2012: 236).
Some writers argue that traditional academic writing conveys less about human
experience than more creative approaches (for example, Tamas 2010; Kara 2013).
And it is certainly the case that creative approaches such as fiction evoke more
emotion in readers than non-fictional writing, even when the level of interest is
the same (Djikic et al 2009: 27).
Academic writers usually wear a mantle of certainty (Vannini 2013: 447).
There is a convention in academic writing that authors should reveal some of
their uncertainties, such as the problems they encountered during the research
process, and some of the limitations of their research. But even this is cloaked
in a sense of certainty: as if everything that could be revealed has been revealed.
The words ‘author’, ‘authority’ and ‘authoritative’ are closely linked. This effect
is partly created by the passive voice so common in academic literature, which
conveys events as if they were fixed and unarguable: ‘Potential participants
were given a copy of the leaflet and an opportunity to discuss the research and
question the researcher. Those who agreed to take part were then asked to sign a
consent form.’ This is partly because the passive voice is a legacy from traditional
research methods, within which the researcher was supposed to be a fulcrum
for the research process rather than part of that process. It is also because the
passive voice uses a form of the past tense, which gives the impression that we
are dealing with fixed facts, rather than acts, speech, experience and events that
are open to interpretation (Vannini 2013: 447). Some academic authors now
choose to use the present tense for a more active voice, which allows the process
being described to unfold within the narrative as if it is happening before the
reader’s eyes (Vannini 2013: 447). It also allows the researcher’s involvement in the
research to be made clear: ‘I give a copy of the leaflet to potential participants,
and offer them the opportunity to discuss the research and ask me questions. If
they agree to take part, I ask them to sign a consent form.’

Journals
One tool in the researcher’s box that has the potential to be very creative is the
research journal. The kind of reflective thinking required to keep a research
journal has been found to promote creativity (Cohen and Ferrari 2010: 71), so,

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for researchers wishing to be more creative, a journal can be very helpful. There
are several types of research journal, including:

• field journal – originally used by ethnographers as a daily diary

• reflexive journal – borrowed from health and social care, in which the researcher
exercises ‘self-surveillance’ (Alaszewski 2006: 12) to help develop and improve
their research skills
• arts-based journal – for example, based on poetry (Slotnick and Janesick 2011:
1353) or sketched cartoons
• photo-journal – where visual images are important, such as in tourism research
• audio journal – useful for researchers who can’t carry much equipment, or
who have difficulty using a pen or keyboard
• video journal – helpful for researchers who want to make a fuller record than
is possible with text, images or audio alone
• online journal – this can be mixed-media, including text, images, audio, video,
hyperlinks and so on; a number of researchers now keep research journals
online in the form of weblogs.

Journals can be entirely private, for the researcher’s own use; entirely public, as
in an openly accessible blog; or part private, part public. The latter case could,
for example, be a journal initially intended to be private that the researcher later
decides to harvest for data to use as part of the project, some of which may end
up being quoted in the final report or other output. Or a researcher could keep a
public online journal, plus a separate offline journal for confidential and sensitive
material, as well as odd jottings and notes that are too unformed for public view.
Slotnick and Janesick (2011) suggest that researchers can use journals in a
number of ways, including:

• to help them clarify and articulate the purpose of their research

• to reflect on their own thinking patterns, with the aim of increasing their
understanding of the ways they do – and can – work
• to reflect on their own role, to gain a fuller understanding of its meaning and
possibilities
• to reflect on, and thereby gain a fuller understanding of, participants’ responses
• to vent emotions such as frustration
• as data for analysis to ‘create cohesive, coherent, and deeply textured analysis’
through writing (Slotnick and Janesick 2011: 1354)

Blogs
Researchers are increasingly using blogs to write about their research. Blogs
can be used at a late stage in the research process for dissemination (Mewburn
and Thomson 2013: 1111). They can also be used throughout the process as an
online equivalent to a field journal, although of course omitting any confidential

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or private content, as a blog is in the public domain (Vannini 2013: 448–9). If

comments are enabled, or blogs include the researcher’s e-mail address (or it can
easily be found online), the researcher can gather feedback, ideas and suggestions
during the process, which can be very helpful for the research (Vannini 2013:
449). Blogs can even help researchers to recruit participants, by giving details
of what kind of persons will be needed, where and when (Vannini 2013: 449).
Blogs are content heavy and demanding of time, and so are probably easier to
manage as a field journal equivalent than for dissemination alone (see Chapter
Nine for more information on setting up and managing a blog). But the actual
writing process is reasonably straightforward. A compelling blog post will be
500–700 words in length and well written, in plain English and with a good
narrative arc. It is useful to embed hyperlinks for readers to click on if they want
more information, but the blog post should stand alone so that time-poor readers
can take something from it without having to click on the links.

Poetic writing
We have seen that poems have been used to support data analysis. They are also
used in writing research. This can be done in a range of ways. Poetry can be
formed or extracted from data, like the I-poems constructed by Edwards and Weller
(2012) as discussed in Chapter Six. Speech is often as close to poetry as to prose
(Carter 2004: 10), yet written speech is usually represented in prose. For example,
the following is a piece of data from my PhD, a quotation spoken, in fact, by me:

I think that applies to all, all research methodologies, really, because

it’s, I mean one of the things about this is that it is novel, it does, you
know, it is thinking out of the box, but it will create its own box, in
time, if it goes on, in the way that interviewing has done and you
know focus groups have done.

If I render this quotation word for word as a poem, it reads as follows:

I think that applies to all

All research methodologies, really
Because it’s
I mean one of the things about this is
That it is
Novel
It does
You know
It is thinking out of the box
But it will create its own box
In time
If it goes on

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In the way that interviewing has done

And
You know
Focus groups have done

Poems, demonstrably, make people feel and think differently (Dark 2009: 182–3).
I contend that the ‘poem’ above has a different effect on the reader than the prose
quotation, even though it contains the same words in the same [Link] may
be a couple of reasons for this. First, precisely transcribed speech often reads rather
badly, like rambling, ill-formed [Link] gives the reader a negative perception
of the speaker, because the speaker’s words are set out on the page like properly
written prose, while in fact they are transcribed speech (Mark Miller 2013: personal
communication). If the speaker’s words are set out like a poem, with one unit per
line, the meaning and impact are clearer; perhaps because, as we have seen, spoken
language has more in common with poetry than with prose (Carter 2004: 10).
Second, setting out this spoken language as if it were a poem highlights some
of the devices that speakers and poets both use for effect, such as repetition and
rhythm (Swann 2006: 10, 44). It is not in any sense a ‘good’ poem, but it could,
in some contexts, be a useful one.

Kate Connelly was part of a research team investigating the lives of people
on welfare benefits in Victoria, Australia. She noticed that the recordings and
transcripts comprising the research data were poetic in nature, with speakers using
devices such as pauses, repetition and changes in tone or volume for emphasis.
Connelly decided to re-present participants’ voices in poetic form, with the aim
of creating emotional connections between their stories and her readers. This
reader found the poems to be powerfully affecting when read from the page, and
Connelly reports that several of her colleagues were moved to tears by reading
them aloud (Connelly 2010: 32). She concludes that the poems have potential
as a tool for use in social policy (Connelly 2010: 39).

Poetic representation in research writing is most commonly seen in the form of

free verse. However, there are exceptions. For example, the American researcher
Darlene Drummond used traditional forms of poetry, including the villanelle,
rondeau and roundel, to depict the intra-racial experiences of White college
women. Drummond used these traditional forms to ‘address serious issues of racial
identification, identity negotiation, and enactment’ and ‘employs the principles
of variation, alliteration, and rhyming to underscore the impact of various
ethnicities and nationalities in making Whiteness visible within the United States’
(Drummond 2011: 332).

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Collaborative writing
Researchers regularly collaborate, which can increase creativity, particularly when
they come from different disciplinary backgrounds. Perhaps more creatively still,
some researchers now co-write with their participants. There are several ways of
doing this, from simply adding a participant’s name or pseudonym to the list of
authors, to full-scale collaboration.

Carolyn Ellis and Jerry Rawicki’s relationship began as researcher and interviewee,
when she interviewed him as part of a larger study of Holocaust survivors in
America. During the initial interviews, Ellis decided to do a small number of
follow-up interviews with survivors who were interested in talking further about
their experiences, one of whom was Rawicki. Ellis wrote drafts of Rawicki’s stories
and made initial interpretations, then they worked together to edit and revise
the stories, ‘passing them back and forth numerous times over a two-year period
during 2009–2011’ (Ellis and Rawicki 2013: 367). They use the present tense and a
literary style with the aim of engaging readers’ emotions as well as their thoughts.
Initially, Ellis assumed that Rawicki would tell the stories and she would provide
the analytic interpretations. However, Rawicki challenged Ellis’s interpretations
and offered many of his own, while Ellis used all the details and analytic insight
provided by Rawicki to help tell his stories. Ultimately, their roles overlapped to
such an extent that they have now co-written several publications, some with
Ellis and at least one with Rawicki as lead author.

Many of Carolyn Ellis’s interviews with Jerry Rawicki are available on YouTube.

Mixed-methods writing
It is possible to use several different writing techniques, even within one short
journal [Link] can be confusing, difficult to read and understand, but, if done
well, can be very effective.

Ben Clayton is a British lecturer and researcher who chose to write up some of
his findings from two related but separate research projects using a combination
of techniques from fiction, creative non-fiction and traditional academic writing.
He had conducted an ethnographic study of male football (soccer) players, and
a study of students’ experiences of learning about ‘gender and difference’ in
sports-related courses, at a British university (Clayton 2010: 373). Some of the
participants in the first study were also participants in the second. Clayton’s write-
up was framed by traditional academic writing, with an abstract, a scene-setting,
contextualising introduction and a conclusion. In between came ‘the tale’, a story
of a 10-minute classroom interaction informed by empirical data. This tale was
framed by creative non-fiction-type prose in the third person, interspersed with

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fictionalised scenes incorporating standard elements of fiction writing such as

dialogue, speech tags, description and sensory writing. Clayton’s intention was
to ‘show’ his readers, rather than ‘tell’ them about, some aspects of masculinity
and the gender relations of male, football-playing students.

It is also possible to add visual elements to text, such as by using different fonts.

Rosemary Reilly, a Canadian researcher studying the effect of violent trauma on

communities, used a range of techniques, including creative non-fiction and poetic
transcription, in her writing about the murder of a young girl. Her aim was to
‘communicate the depth of grief, loss, and disconnection’ as well as the difficulty
of researching trauma (Reilly 2011: 599). The paper begins with a conventional
academic voice, then moves to the researcher as narrator in creative, non-fiction
style. Some of the narrator’s words are set out as poetry, some as prose, although
the voice is consistent throughout. Two research participants are each given their
own voice, set out as poetry, introduced by name (using pseudonyms) and each
in a different font, which is different again from the font used for the researcher’s
voice. For this reader, Reilly’s mixed-methods writing achieved her aims.

More and more researchers are choosing to use other forms of representation
alongside their words. This has long been done in quantitative research, with
tables, charts and diagrams forming an integral part of many articles and books.
Historically, it has been less common in qualitative research, perhaps partly
because of the higher printing costs of pictures, perhaps because they are seen
as less valuable than words within the academy (which seems odd, in contrast
with the journalist’s dictum that ‘a picture is worth a thousand words’). It can
be more difficult to achieve formal publication of mixed-methods accounts of
research (Ellingson 2009: 61). Also, if not carefully constructed, these texts can be
incoherent and exhausting to read (Ellingson 2009: 61). However, if done well,
mixed-methods accounts can both tell and show, by combining a rich evocation
of an experience with a critical view (Ellingson 2009: 61).

UK researcher Helen Owton used narrative poetry and artwork, alongside

conventional academic prose, to show and tell readers about her research into
sport and asthma. Her aim was to align and unite these three methods so as to
enrich the reader’s experience of her narrative by explicitly evoking ‘emotional
and visceral’ responses to add to the inevitable cognitive ones (Owton 2013: 600).
For Owton, this is important because asthma is a sensory experience and sport
is an embodied activity, so her view is that ‘Narrative poetry and art might help
explore personal and shared bodily-felt sensory experiences of asthma’ (Owton
2013: 602). For me (asthmatic and not very sporty), her approach was effective,
perhaps in part because she is a published poet and a skilled artist.

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It is difficult to write a report or article about research involving embodied methods

(Cherrington and Watson 2010: 278).This is partly because academic writing rarely
uses the vocabulary of embodiment, apart from a few metaphorical usages such
as ‘standpoint’ or ‘perspective’, with visual words being heavily dominant and few
words evoking the other main senses of hearing, touch, smell or taste. Yet,‘people’s
knowledge of themselves, others and the world they inhabit, is inextricably linked to
and shaped by their senses’ (Sparkes 2009: 23–4).And this includes other senses such
as movement and rhythm (Sparkes 2009: 27). Fiction and poetic writing techniques
encourage sensory writing, while analytic, non-fiction techniques, conventionally
used to report research, make it difficult to convey sensory experience (Vannini et
al 2010: 380).Yet it is hard to judge whether fictionalised or poetic writing conveys
information effectively, as these writing techniques are specifically designed to
evoke individual emotional responses. New digital technologies have a great deal
of potential for adding extra dimensions to writing, such as a soundtrack, images,
animation, film and other ways to engage the senses more fully (Sparkes 2009: 33).
However, as yet, this potential has barely begun to be realised. Some books and
journals, for example Robson (2011) and Qualitative Research in Sport and Exercise
vol 2 no 2 (2010) (and, of course, this book too), contain links to websites where
extra resources, colour images and video clips can be viewed, but in terms of the
potential of digital technologies to add extra dimensions to writing, this is barely
scratching the surface. In the meantime, researchers are doing all they can to add
extra dimensions to their writing on the page.

Karen Barbour is a Pakeha (white) dancer and researcher from New Zealand
who aims for ‘methodological fusion between my autoethnographic writing
and solo contemporary dance practices’ (Barbour 2012: 67). Her paper begins
with a conventional academic abstract, keywords and short introduction. Then
there is an ‘activity’, in two columns; the left-hand column contains instructions
for a yoga-type exercise and the right-hand column contains an academic
commentary. Then there is a paragraph of creative non-fiction, followed by a
photograph of the author engaging in the first activity. Then a second activity
with commentary; a paragraph of creative non-fiction; and a photograph of the
author engaging in the second activity. This format is used three more times, and
the paragraph of (presumably) creative non-fiction before the fifth photograph is
in te reo Maori (the language of New Zealand’s indigenous people), which is not
translated. An endnote for this paragraph explains that the author’s intention is
to ‘draw attention to the way in which understanding other languages provides
opportunities to know and communicate embodied experiences in different ways’
and ‘to highlight that’ te reo Maori is ‘a living treasure’ (Barbour 2012: 71). A final
section of the paper is written in conventional academic language, and then ends
with a short poem that the author asserts contains some of the sentiments also
included in the te reo Maori piece. Then come the acknowledgements, a final
photograph of the author dancing, the usual declarations about conflicts of
interest and funding, end notes, references and so on. I found it quite difficult to

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digest and understand Barbour’s work while moving back and forth between these
registers, although the concluding section did a good job of bringing together
the apparently disparate points made in the body of the article.

Within Ellingson’s methodological framework of crystallisation, outlined in

Chapter Four, she describes this kind of mixed-methods account as ‘integrated
crystallization’. This refers to ‘a written and/or visual text consisting of multiple
genres’ (Ellingson 2009: 97). For Ellingson, this refers solely to qualitative research,
but I would contend that quantitative research could also be included, certainly
within a mixed-methods project, and perhaps, for some research, alone.

How to write better for research

It often seems to be assumed that researchers can write. Writing is rarely dealt
with as part of research training, and many how-to books about research say
nothing about writing skills, although two recent exceptions are Robson (2011:
509–13) and Bryman (2012: 684–707). Yet some people find it very difficult
to write research, and it can be even harder to admit to having problems with
writing (Murray 2009: 2–3).
Many people cite lack of time as a major barrier to the writing process (Murray
2009: 34), but there are many ways to manage time effectively for writing, such
as setting goals, making a plan, learning to write in short bursts and establishing
writing habits and routines (Murray 2009: 69–85). Also, it’s easier to claim lack
of time than to own up to feelings of fear and inadequacy, which may sometimes
be the bigger obstacles. What novice writers don’t know is that all writers have
these feelings, but more experienced writers have, on the whole, learned to
manage them – by writing (Becker 2007: 56).
Language itself may be part of the problem. The English language can be
‘hopelessly fuzzy’ (Smith 2009: 94), with many words that can be descriptive,
evaluative, predictive or explanatory, depending on how they are used. Think of
the word ‘kind’. ‘She is a kind person’ – descriptive. ‘She gave me her gloves to
warm my hands because she is kind’ – explanatory. ‘She is kind, so I like her’ –
evaluative. ‘She will help me; she is a kind person’ – predictive. There are probably
hundreds, maybe even thousands, of other words in the English language that are
similarly flexible. This is a gift to rhetoricians, but a challenge to writers, who
need to work with all the resources of grammar and structure at their disposal if
they are to write clearly.
However, writers of research have a great advantage over many other writers.
Writing is an integral part of research work at every stage, from planning to
analysis. Therefore, by the time you reach the point of writing a research output
such as a report or dissertation, you will have already written thousands of words.
Some of this will be ready to use as it stands – a paragraph here, a couple of
paragraphs there – while other parts can form a basis for sections of your writing.

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You rarely have to start from the proverbial blank sheet of paper (or screen), so
there should be no reason for you to suffer from ‘writer’s block’.
It is true that some parts of research writing are harder than others. Writing
recommendations for an evaluation, or constructing an argument for a thesis
or journal article, are challenging parts of the process. The way through these
difficulties is to keep writing, reading, thinking and writing again. Some people
find it helpful to set themselves a daily or weekly word count for the first draft,
and a page count at the editing stage. As we have seen, it is also helpful to keep
your reader(s) in mind, as this is the key to finding the ‘voice’ you want to
use. ‘Voice’ is a term from fiction writing that is also applicable to non-fiction
(Morgan 2011: 128). The ‘voice’ of a narrative you write is not quite the same
as your own voice (Neale 2009: 181), which is partly because written grammar
is rather different from spoken grammar (Carter 2004: 10). It is also because you
will want to write persuasively.
The language of persuasion is known as rhetoric. Rhetoric is sometimes
derided or dismissed as being too far removed from reality – and indeed, when
rhetoric becomes spin, where people such as politicians use language to give a
positive gloss to negative news, there is some justification for that view. But the
true meaning of rhetoric is to help your audience to comprehend your message
through the use of clear language and understandable meaning, using the best
possible combinations of words to convey your argument (Greenwell 2009: 196).
Writing research is about identifying links and connections, and interpreting them
for your readers. There will be links and connections within the research, such as
between your research questions and your data, and beyond the research, such as
between your findings and the findings of other relevant research. Interpretation
is a crucial part of research work. Anything you feature within your writing – a
table, a quote, a graph, an image – needs to be interpreted for your readers, to tell
them what is significant or important or relevant. Don’t assume they can and will
decode a table or an image just like you will; point out which figures in the table,
or elements in the image, are worthy of their notice, and explain why.

CONCLUSION
This chapter has covered a range of creative writing techniques. One key
question is: which method of writing to use? Thinking about your audience’s
requirements will help you to decide. Commissioners of contract research are
unlikely to be impressed by a poetic presentation; most research participants
will not appreciate lots of technical language; academic conference delegates
generally prefer writing that is both stimulating and accessible. But, ultimately,
decisions about writing methods are highly creative decisions that should
not be taken lightly, but should be thoroughly thought through.

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 EIGHT

Presentation

Introduction
All researchers will need to present their research to at least one audience, such as
a written report for commissioners, a PowerPoint presentation for stakeholders or
a dissertation or thesis for examiners. Presentation is a form of dissemination, but
usually requires the researcher to be present, while on the whole dissemination
happens through media that people can access independently, ranging from
academic journals to art exhibitions to websites. Dissemination will be covered
in Chapter Nine.
Most research is presented through the written word (Jones 2006: 68; Watson
2009: 528). Yet conventional presentation techniques, such as written research
reports, or conference papers read out word for word, can be stultifyingly dull
(Cutcher 2013: 39). If we want to make our research have an impact, we need
to present it in ways that audiences appreciate (Tracy 2010: 838; Kirk 2012: 32;
Jones and Leavy 2014: 3). Luckily, there are many creative ways to make your
research presentations more engaging, such as visual, performative and other
arts-based techniques (Gergen and Gergen 2012: 12, 25–6). However, as with
all creative research methods, it’s essential to make sure you choose methods of
presentation that suit your purposes and are appropriate for your audience(s),
rather than using a method just because someone you admire has used it or
because it appeals to you.
Just as research methods should be chosen because they are most likely to help
answer research questions, so methods of presenting and disseminating research
should be chosen because they are most likely to help convey the key messages of
the research to the audience(s) (Kelleher and Wagener 2011: 826). This chapter
and the next are designed to help you think creatively about possibilities for
presentation and dissemination. When you have been immersed in a research
project, it can be difficult to step back and think about the needs of individuals
and groups for whom your work, or its findings, are news. Yet, it is essential
always to keep your audience(s) in mind. Consider questions such as the following:

• What is the audience’s demographic profile? Consider factors such as: age range,
status (whether professional, community or other), gender balance, ethnicities.
• Are there cultural factors you should take into account?
• What emotional response(s) to your findings do you anticipate? Will your
audience be interested, bored, hostile, welcoming? Or a mixture?

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• How attentive do you think your audience will be? Are they likely to be
riveted by your fascinating findings? Or distracted by hunger, Facebook or
other preoccupations?

Answering these kinds of questions will help you to design your presentations to
meet your audience’s needs. For example, take the cultural question. It is important
to remember that particular colours and shapes may have different meanings in
different cultures (Evergreen 2014: 106–7). For example, in Europe red means
‘danger’, as in ‘red alert’, and is often used for traffic warning signs. In China,
however, red means good luck. In some cultures, a circle is just another shape,
while for others, such as the indigenous peoples of Canada, the circle is a sacred
shape to be treated with reverence (Blodgett et al 2013: 319). So, in preparing
presentations, it helps to understand the cultural relevance for your audience of
shapes and colours.
If you can’t answer questions about your audience precisely, use intelligent
guesswork. Knowing your audience will help you to choose suitable methods
of presentation, at appropriate levels of detail, using relevant imagery and so on.
Good practice in research presentation suggests that more than one method
should be used at a time. For example, a written report should contain charts
or pictures, or a spoken presentation should be accompanied by images or
video. Even a simple illustration can be useful, in adding another dimension
to the presentation of research. An image or video clip can liven up a statistical
presentation and make the research seem more relevant or real, while a graph or
chart can clarify specific aspects of complex qualitative data (Fielding 2012: 127).
Juxtaposing text and images enables you to present more of the complexity of
research (Mandlis 2009: 1358).

The ethics of presentation

Over ten years ago Paul John Eakin (2004: 1) stated that very little had been
written about the ethics of presentation, and not much has changed since then.
Yet, all presentation both reveals and conceals (Tamas 2009: 617). As researchers
aspiring to be both creative and ethical, we need to consider both sides of any
presentation we create: what does it reveal, and what does it conceal? Methods
of presenting research are no more neutral or value free than any other research
methods (Ellingson 2009: 6).
In every aspect of research, we need to care for our participants’ confidentiality
and anonymity. This can cause particular difficulties for the presentation of
research.

As we saw in Chapter Five, UK researcher Jacqui Gabb conducted mixed-methods

qualitative research into family life in northern England. Family life is generally
regarded as very private in Western societies, and family research has to achieve
a careful balance between worthwhile social investigation and intrusion into

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people’s personal spaces and relationships. This caused significant problems in

presenting the research to participants. While it is easy to protect someone’s
identity from strangers reading a research report, it is virtually impossible to
conceal their identity from other family members doing the same. Case studies
were key to Gabb’s comprehensive analytical strategy. Gabb acknowledges that
this caused some of her ethical problems, but thought that the benefits of the
method outweighed the disadvantages (2010: 468–9). In the end, she published
just one case study, of a family whose only child was already aged 17. The family
were themselves reflexive, open and welcoming of new insights, and, even then,
the case study was carefully edited.

However, some participants want to be seen in research presentations, which may

conflict with the researcher’s tenet that participants’ anonymity should always be
preserved (Wiles et al 2012: 45).Where participants want to be shown and heard,
researchers have a responsibility to accept and work with this, albeit with an eye
to safeguarding and the minimisation of harm (Wiles et al 2012: 45–6).
Presentation within transformative frameworks can also be ethically challenging.

UK researcher Victoria Foster conducted participatory research with a Sure Start

programme (a UK government initiative to support families with pre-school
children in deprived areas). Her participants decided that they wanted to present
the research as a pantomime. Foster took care to involve her participants fully
in every stage of the research process. However, she was not able to persuade
or enable them to reflect critically on the research findings. As a result, the
performance, in Foster’s view, was skewed towards the positive and ignored
some of the negative but very real problems in the Sure Start programme, such
as tensions between service users and programme staff. Reflecting on this ethical
problem in order to learn for future projects, Foster was unsure whether she
would challenge the story her participants wanted to tell, thinking that this might
compromise the participatory methodology (Foster 2013: 47). However, she
was sure that, on another occasion, she would include an element of discussion
with the audience after the performance, thinking that this ‘would enable more
critical reflection of the findings’ (Foster 2013: 48).

Here again, you gain a new level of responsibility: to your audience(s). It is

particularly important to be clear about who your audience(s) are (Kirk 2012: 33).
Responsibility to participants is not limited to ensuring their anonymity and
confidentiality. It is important to remember that ‘Reframing our participants’
words within our theoretical frames benefits us far more than them, and may even
serve to harm participants’ (Ellingson 2009: 37). Fortunately, some presentation
methods are specifically designed to be ethical. One example is ethnodrama, a
form of ‘reality theatre’ based on participants’ reports that is designed to highlight
social (in)justice and provoke social action. There has long been a link between
theatre and activism/social justice movements, such as through the work of

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Ernesto Boal in the 1970s, who used drama performances in public places to
support political resistance, inviting people who found themselves spectating to
take part in the drama and so breaking down the barrier between ‘performers’
and ‘audience’ (Gergen and Gergen 2012: 162). Gergen and Gergen have called
for ‘performative social science’ to be a ‘center of social critique and political
action’ (Gergen and Gergen 2012: 37).

Jasjit Sangha and her colleagues studied the lived experience of workers in
precarious jobs in Toronto, Canada, most of whom were women and immigrants.
The researchers chose to present their findings using ethnodrama. They wanted to
convey the complexity of their participants’ experiences, bring those experiences
vividly to life and show how workers in precarious jobs struggled and managed to
navigate their difficult working lives. The ethnodrama was made up of six short
scenes, with three scenes showing women working in a call centre, supermarket
and garment factory, followed by three more in the same settings but focusing
on the workers’ resistance (Sangha et al 2012: 288). Minimal props and costumes
were used. Casting was intentionally disruptive, for example a woman of colour
played a male manager called Tom, to both challenge stereotypes and show how
roles in the workplace, rather than personal attributes, create certain responses
and behaviours (Sangha et al 2012: 294–5). The ethnodrama was created by a
group of researchers and refined over two years as a result of the researchers’
experiences of performing the ethnodrama and receiving feedback from their
audiences. This method of presenting research findings proved accessible to non-
academics, and thought-provoking for all types of audience. It also benefited the
researchers, who found that creating and performing the ethnodrama enriched
their analysis and expanded their ‘understanding of how academic research should
be represented and understood’ (Sangha et al 2012: 295).

Heather Mosher is a public ethnographer, a discipline that straddles the divide

between academic and public communities. Public ethnographers aim to
disseminate their work as widely as possible through public media such as film,
blogs and [Link] this, Mosher is particularly concerned about accurate
re-presentation of participants’ and researchers’ voices within the research.
She suggests four key questions to consider when planning to present public
ethnography:

‘1. How does the research, including the report, give voice to participants?
2. Is the selected communication medium for reporting/disseminating research
adequate for presenting the plural structure, multiple voices, views, departures,
and agreements leading to multiple possible actions and interpretations?
3. Does the report make clear the researchers’ positionality (in relation to politics,
intentions, etc) in order for audiences to understand the process through which
data were interpreted and represented?

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4. How have community members been involved in reviewing the material with
the researcher and challenged researchers’ interpretations and representations
of them?’ (Mosher 2013: 435)

Mosher suggests that considering these questions carefully, and taking any resulting
action that may be necessary, will help to ensure high-quality presentation of research.
Ethical presentation of research data is presentation that gives the audience the
best chance of understanding and remembering the information you wish to
convey. Researchers who focus on this as they prepare presentations are likely to
make full use of, rather than to misuse, their authorial power and control. It helps
if researchers can remain reflexively aware of the details they choose to include
and leave out, and of the consequences of their decisions (Ellingson 2009: 39).
When we present research, it is not possible to reveal everything about that
research. We can show that research is messy and complex, but we cannot show
all the mess or every facet of the complexity. Presentation is necessarily partial, a
story we tell – but, if it is a good story, it will engage, instruct and entertain. And
I would argue that it is unethical to tell poor-quality stories: it does no justice to
our participants and wastes the time of our audiences. Storytelling skills are not
the same as writing skills (McKee 1998: 27). As we saw in Chapter Seven, writing
skills are essential for research at all stages of the process. But for presentation and
dissemination, storytelling skills are also essential, being ‘the creative conversion
of life itself to a more powerful, clearer, more meaningful experience’, whether
in prose, poetry, drama, film, dance or any other form of presentation (McKee
1998: 27). As stories are economical ways to communicate experience, ideas
and emotions, and effective in making sense of complexity, they are particularly
valuable at times of information overload (Gabriel and Connell 2010: 507).
It is also necessary to present enough information to enable audiences to judge
research for themselves. We are all subject to a wide range of cognitive biases, such
as confirmation bias, which causes us to ignore evidence that contradicts what
we believe, and hindsight bias, which makes us see an event as more predictable
when it has already taken place than we would have done beforehand. We cannot
identify our own cognitive biases, but we may be able to detect those of others
(Kahneman, Lovallo and Sibony 2011: 52). However, we will be able to do
this only if we are given enough information. Therefore, ethically, researchers
should strive to present enough information to enable audiences to identify those
cognitive biases that may have affected the research.
One activity that does not enhance presentations is reading aloud. Reading a
presentation is guaranteed to bore your audience (Cutcher 2013: 39; Evergreen
2014: 5). There may be justification for reading a short part of your presentation,
such as a poem, brief excerpt from a novel or a piece of spoken data. If you
choose to do this, don’t display it on screen until you have finished reading,
because most people can read much faster than you can speak (Evergreen 2014:
22). Otherwise, speak from very brief notes, designed simply to help you keep
track of the structure of your talk, and tell your story in your own words. If

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this sounds like a daunting prospect, think about how often you tell stories to
colleagues in the course of your work; all you need to do is draw on those same
everyday skills. An instructive short video about how not to present research, and
another with five top tips for good-quality presentation, can be viewed online.
Arts-based research often aims for authenticity and integrity in presentation,
rather than absolute truth (for example, Parker 2004: 70–1; Carroll, Dew and
Howden-Chapman 2011: 629).

UK researcher Cate Watson presented a paper focusing on constructions of the

‘home–school partnership’ at a research seminar on professional development
for inclusion in education. Watson’s paper centred on the narrative of a child
being diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, from the mother’s
perspective. As the mother saw it, her son’s diagnosis was the consequence of
a series of trivial events, beginning with him forgetting his school tie. Watson
scripted a set of satirical scenes, quoting the mother’s narrative, adding her own
interpretations, with some parts fictionalised, but all based on the mother’s
experience. The intention was to use satire to highlight the absurdity within the
rational; to question where the ‘madness’ actually lies. In her presentation, Watson
asked members of the audience to play the roles in the scripts. Feedback from
the audience suggested that this was a powerful and effective way to present
the issues (Watson 2011: 402).

Whatever type of presentation you are making, one key rule is to keep it as
simple and straightforward as possible. To this end, it can be useful to write a
short summary of what you want to convey – a single sentence for a graph or
chart, a brief synopsis for a verbal or dramatic presentation – and use it to help
you stay on track.

Data visualisation – dos and don’ts

Visualising data effectively is not easy (Kirk 2012: 12) but it is important, because
the use of visual methods will help your audience(s) to understand and remember
what they read or hear in your presentation (Evergreen 2014: 18). Here are some
examples of presentation of differing levels of quality. First, let’s consider the
following presentations of fictional data about the favourite holiday activities of
1,500 researchers.

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Table 8.1: Data presentation #1

Favourite holiday activity Number of researchers

Spending time with family 157
Sightseeing 118
Lying on beach 242
Watching TV or DVDs 105
Trying new foods and drinks 219
Sleeping 379
Reading fiction 103
Physical activities 9
Checking e-mail 47
Working or studying 121

Table 8.1 contains the data, but it’s not very user friendly. It’s hard to see what
conclusions could be [Link] may be able to pick out that physical activities
are unpopular with researchers on holiday, but it’s not easy to spot much else at
a glance. Let’s try a different format.

Table 8.2: Data presentation #2

Favourite holiday activity Number of researchers Percentage

Sleeping 379 25%
Lying on beach 242 16%
Trying new foods and drinks 219 15%
Spending time with family 157 10%
Working or studying 121 8%
Sightseeing 118 8%
Watching TV or DVDs 105 7%
Reading fiction 103 7%
Checking e-mail 47 3%
Physical activities 9 1%

Table 8.2 is easier to understand and interpret because the data is ranked in the
second column from favourite to least favourite activity, and percentages are given
as well as the total numbers. So we could add a paragraph of analysis, such as:

The key finding from this research is that researchers love to use
holidays to catch up on sleep – and don’t like to do physical activities.
This causes concern about the implications for researchers’ health,
although of course it may be that, when not on holiday, researchers

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do lots of physical activity and that is what leaves them so tired. It is

a cause for concern that only 10% of researchers prefer to spend time
with their families; this suggests a need for more research into the
relationship between research work and the quality of family [Link],
over 10% of researchers seem to favour work-type activities while on
holiday – working, studying or checking e-mail – and, overall, this
data suggests that researchers’ work–life balance needs attention.

Ranking numerically is only one option for sorting data. In some cases it may
make more sense to sort alphabetically, for example if you’re comparing data from
different countries, so that readers can quickly find the countries that interest them.
There is also the option to present data visually. The following figures present
some examples based on the data used above (colour versions are available online).
Is Figure 8.1 a ‘good’ graph?

Figure 8.1: Graph

No. The axes are clearly labelled, but the graph has no title and the data is not
ranked. It’s easy enough to pick out the highest and lowest figures, but hard to
differentiate clearly between others – the triangular shape of the column gives
you little idea of where it actually ends.
Let’s look at a few more bad examples. Figure 8.2 is a pie chart.

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Figure 8.2: Pie chart

Sleeping

Lying on beach

Trying new foods and

drinks
Spending time with family

Working or studying

Sightseeing

This is really hopeless, even in colour, and almost illegible in black and white.
The smallest ‘slice’ is barely visible. There is no title and the legend includes
only six of the ten categories. Pie charts are occasionally useful when there are
a small number of categories, such as when you want a visual way to represent
a percentage of a whole. But generally they are best avoided, as they ask far too
much of the reader.
The bubble graph in Figure 8.3 is equally abysmal.
Figure 8.3: Bubble graph
450

400
Sleeping
350

300 Trying new foods and

250 drinks
Working or studying
200

150
Watching TV or DVDs
100

50 Checking email

0
0 0.5 1 1.5
-50

Again, it contains only half of the categories; the horizontal axis is incomprehensible
and the vertical axis starts at minus 50, which makes no sense. Also, most humans
are not good at judging area (Evergreen 2014: 8), which is a strong argument
against using area-based graphics such as pie charts and bubble graphs.
The block graph in Figure 8.4 is perhaps the worst offender of all.

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 Creative research methods in the social sciences

Figure 8.4: Block graph

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This graph presents the data as continuous, when it’s not. Also, three of the labels
on the horizontal axis are truncated, ending in an ellipse so their full meaning is
unclear. And it’s in a bizarre kind of 3D, although the extra perspective is of no
practical use. Generally, more complication just makes life harder for your reader.
Two-dimensional presentations, on paper or screen, should generally be kept
in two dimensions, and variations in colour, shape and so on should be used to
help readers visualise multi-dimensional data (Kelleher and Wagener 2011: 823).
In my view, the best way to present this data visually is through a straightforward
bar chart (Figure 8.5).
Figure 8.5: Bar chart
400
350
Researchers’ favourite holiday activities
300
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200
150
100
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Figure 8.5 is a better graph. While you still can’t pick out the exact figures, you
can get a much clearer idea of the relationships between the different categories.
The data is ranked, and the graph has a title. Together with Table 8.2 above, this
would make a reasonably competent presentation.
These graphs were all created using Excel software. As discussed in Chapter
Six, with respect to data analysis software, they provide a good illustration of
why it is important to understand the capabilities of the software you’re using

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and how to achieve the effects you want, rather than simply selecting options
that the software can provide.
Drawing on the work of Kelleher and Wagener (2011) and Evergreen (2014),
some basic elements that are common to all good presentations include:

• legible text, images, graphics and so on

• a combination of visual and textual/verbal elements
• predominantly essential information – no ‘chart junk’, that is, unnecessary and
superfluous elements
• non-essential information used only where necessary for emphasis
• metaphors
• simple visualisation, where it is used
• headings noticeably different from other elements
• use of headings to direct the reader and formatting to set the order of
information
• clear fonts, used consistently
• no more than three fonts per presentation
• most text printed in black on a white background
• careful and consistent use of colour, with sequential shades of one colour for
sequential data, and contrasting colours to emphasise major variations
• no more than two contrasting colours.

Graphs and charts

When you’re working with numbers and statistics, it is an essential research skill
to identify the key messages and present them appropriately for your audience
(Laux and Barham 2012: 1). This kind of data visualisation brings together arts and
science skills (Kirk 2012: 12). It can be useful to start with a summary overview
of the main messages, perhaps making contextual comparisons with relevant
regional, national or international findings, and then home in on details specific
to your research and likely to be of interest to your audience. Guidance on the
presentation and dissemination of statistics from the UK’s Government
Statistical Service is available online.
Graphs and charts are often helpful for presenting quantitative data (Robson
2011: 422). Most people are familiar with basic graphs such as:

• bar chart – usually comparing frequency and distribution of nominal or ordinal

data, for example the number of people in socioeconomic bands (bars are
separated from each other)
• histogram – usually comparing frequency and distribution of interval data,
for example the number of people in each income bracket (bars are adjacent
to each other)

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 Creative research methods in the social sciences

• pie chart – to show relative proportions, such as the percentages of employees

in each role within a company
• line chart – for correlations between two variables, such as age and weight
• scattergraph – to give an overview of the relationship between two variables.

Line charts and scattergraphs can be useful for comparing different conditions.
For example, a line chart could be used to compare the number of service users
presenting with a particular problem over two 10-year periods, one decade being
represented by a red line, the other by a blue line. A scattergraph could be used
to show relationships between three variables, such as the body weight, age and
gender of research participants, with body weight and age on the two axes, and
each participant plotted using a diamond for a man and a star for a woman.
Let’s say the scattergraph in Figure 8.6 is showing the relationship between the
length of someone’s nose, in millimetres, and their annual income, in thousands
of dollars. We can see that there is, broadly, a positive relationship between nose
length and annual income, that is, the longer someone’s nose, the higher their
income is likely to be. However, there are some exceptions; some people with
comparatively short noses still have comparatively high incomes, and vice versa.
And this tells us that there is more to the relationship between nose length and
income than meets the eye.
Figure 8.6: Scattergraph
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Annotation can be useful to help direct the reader to important information,

such as by identifying outliers and highlighting their significance. Colour and/
or shape can be used to highlight important or extra elements. For example, in
the scattergraph in Figure 8.6, if you wanted to add the element of gender (and
were happy to regard gender as a binary characteristic), you could use red for
men and blue for women, or squares for men and circles for women.
More complex types of chart include forest plots, funnel plots and slopegraphs.
There are also many other kinds of simpler graphs and charts available, such as
column graphs, area graphs, doughnut charts and radar charts. A short video

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showing how best to work with graphs and charts can be viewed in a live
presentation online.

Diagrams, infographics and maps

Diagrams can be useful for presenting qualitative or mixed-methods research,
as they offer the option to show complex and simultaneous relationships more
clearly than text or narrative (Buckley and Waring 2013: 149). Diagrams can
be helpful for researchers working in teams, to present aspects of their work to
each other in the course of the project (Buckley and Waring 2013: 163), as well
as for researchers to present their methods and findings to various audiences.
They are particularly useful for conceptualisation (Buckley and Waring 2013:
168), although some researchers worry that diagrams can be reductive. But for
others, diagrams in conjunction with other forms of communication, such as
text, allow deeper understanding for broader audiences than text alone does
(Buckley and Waring 2013: 169). Even if you love diagrams, though, one word
of warning: don’t be seduced into using too many, because diagrams are most
effective when they really have something to add to the presentation (White
et al 2014: 397).
Some types of diagram, such as the flow chart and spidergram, are well known.
Others, such as the schematic diagram, which shows the elements of a system or
process, are less well known but no less useful. Anthropologists offer other types
of diagram that may be useful beyond the boundaries of the discipline, such as
the kinship diagram, which shows a participant’s relationships with other people
in his or her family, whether created or ended by birth or death, marriage or
divorce, or other types of attachment or separation (Chang 2008: 82). There is
also the ‘culturegram’, used by autoethnographers to display the different facets
of their own identity, with categories such as gender, ethnicity, race, nationality,
religion and so on (Chang 2008: 97–8).
There are an infinite number of possible diagrammatic representations of
research findings, which makes diagrams a very creative way to present aspects
of research. However, the sheer range of possibilities can make the production
of diagrams daunting to contemplate. A useful way to approach this is to think
about what you want the diagram to achieve and to ensure that your diagram fits
with both your data and your theoretical stance (Mason 2002: 170–1).
‘Infographic’ is short for ‘information graphic’, that is, a particular kind
of diagram that is designed to present complex information clearly. A good
infographic will tell a story about some useful or interesting data or findings,
helpfully supported by visual information in an appealing and relevant style. A
website is available with dozens of examples of good infographics.
There are some excellent online tools to help you create infographics, such as
Piktochart and [Link]. Infographics can be animated, and some examples of

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animated infographics, including a wonderful TED talk by Hans Rosling,

can be viewed online.
Diagrams and infographics are good for showing connections and explanations,
while maps are most helpful for showing relationships, particularly if there is a
geographic component. Maps are also useful for representing other aspects of
research, including data and ideas (Powell 2010: 539; Newman 2013: 228). Maps
can offer greater levels of complexity than diagrams.

American researchers Kimberly Powell and Peter Aeschbacher taught field

research to an interdisciplinary group of students. They spent a month studying
development strategies in the El Chorrillo neighbourhood in Panama City. This
fieldwork involved a lot of conventional mapping, but they also wanted to map
the lived experience of the neighbourhood’s residents. Most of the residents
were poor, and many were immigrants from Central and South America, the
West Indies and Africa. Powell and Aeschbacher encouraged their students to
use visual research methods and to push the boundaries of traditional mapping
methods. As a result, three of the students developed ‘collage maps’. Brian Squires,
a student of landscape architecture, used collages of photographs superimposed
on a transect map of the waterfront, and framed the photographs in different
colours (blue for ‘positive’ and red for ‘negative’) to make clear visual links. Gillian
Speers, a student of integrative arts, used photographs to document the layers
and textures of the neighbourhood, supported by interviews to investigate the
way women perceived architectural spaces and defined space in and around their
homes. She used the photographs to make collage maps that she called ‘reflective
maps’, to show the confusion she felt as an outsider in the community (Powell
2010: 550). Trieste Lockwood, an interdisciplinary arts student, used photographs,
sketches, tissue paper and text to create collage maps of residents’ experiences
of music. Collage is a particularly powerful method for acknowledging ambiguity
and multiple perspectives, as well as non-linear and multi-sensory dimensions,
in the presentation of research (Powell 2010: 543).

Many examples of diagrams, infographics and maps can be found online.

Conferences and meetings

Traditionally, research has been presented in written or spoken prose. The
convention is that, to do this well, you should tell an understandable story with a
clear narrative arc. However, presenting research in this way can occlude much of
the complexity and messiness of the research process. In recent years, researchers
in the arts and humanities have been experimenting with ways to convey more
of the multifaceted totality of the research experience to their audiences. For
some researchers, drawing on techniques such as poetry (Prendergast, Leggo and
Sameshima 2009), staged storytelling with digital installations (Cutcher 2011,
cited in Cutcher 2013: 39), dance (Blumenfeld-Jones 2006, cited in Cutcher

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2013: 39) and even mediaeval musical forms (Gadow 2000; Humphries 2012),
enables them to offer a fuller, richer insight into the matters under investigation.
Presenting research in traditional ‘non-fiction’ prose is as much of a created
construct as presenting research through haiku, sonata form or a patchwork quilt
(Watson 2011). For many researchers it makes no sense to privilege traditional
forms of research presentation. The quest now is to find methods of presentation
that will do as much justice as possible to each individual piece of research. This
offers considerable scope for creativity.

Janice Fournillier, a Trinidadian scholar in America, found a conceptual framework

very helpful in presenting her research into the experiences of immigrant women
in US higher education. Her own heritage is one of slavery, and when she moved
to study in the US at the age of 50 she found it painful to experience the ‘divide
and rule’ culture of higher education, where most of the power is held by white
people and it can feel very risky for people of colour to speak authentically.
After some years, she received an invitation to participate in a conference with
a theme of ‘the plantation’. This offered a conceptual framework for her own
research: the ‘plantation system’, with its masters and slaves. For Fournillier, this
offered a direct parallel with the academy. She performed her presentation, using
a stream-of-consciousness type of monologue spoken in a Trinidadian dialect.
She also incorporated the Caribbean musical form of calypso, choosing a highly
regarded traditional song that describes the horrors of slavery and the search
for freedom through rebellion. Fournillier asked her audience to participate in
a call-and-response style, to make her performance more interactive. Viewed
from one angle, this could look like a whole lot of risks to take in the context
of an academic conference. However, it was evidently very effective, as ‘the
audience responded lustily and shook their heads and shed a tear after hearing
the presentation’ (Fournillier 2010: 59).

Others have also noted that arts-based performance can enable greater connection
with audiences than traditional lecturing does (Douglas 2012: 530; Gergen and
Gergen 2012: 161). In the UK, some researchers are even presenting their work
through stand-up comedy, for example through the Bright Club movement
(Ridley-Ellis 2014: 57). A short video example of academics performing at a
Bright Club event can be viewed online.

Mixed-methods presentation
Live presentations use mixed methods almost by definition, with something to see
and something to hear. This may simply be a person speaking, or a speaker using
visual aids. These don’t have to be technologically generated. Designers such as
Jose Duarte, from Colombia, and Nadeem Haidary, from America, have shown
that everyday household objects can be used to help people visualise research

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findings. For example, you could use tall glasses filled with liquid to different
levels to represent the bars on a bar chart. This would be particularly powerful if
you could use a liquid relevant to your findings. So, if you were researching the
relationship between economic well-being and stress levels in dairy farmers, you
could use milk; if you were researching factors affecting injury and death in road
traffic accidents, you could use fake blood. Of course, precision will be difficult
if you are pouring liquids in front of a live audience – or blowing up balloons
to different sizes, or drawing a map by hand – but Duarte says on his website
(viewed 8.10.14) that, while you need to attend to proportion, accuracy is much
less important than conveying a clear idea. More on Duarte’s and Haidary’s
work can be viewed online.
Also, information can be presented in a variety of ways in the same document.

Arianne Reis is an Australian researcher who studied conflict between hunters

and ‘trampers’ (aka hikers, ramblers or bushwalkers) in outdoor environments in
New Zealand. She chose to use photographs in a written presentation in three
different ways. First, she embedded photographs in the text, with words printed
across part or all of the picture, in an attempt to provoke an emotional response,
although she had no wish to try to dictate what that emotional response – or any
meaning drawn from it by the reader – might be. Second, she used photographs
to represent some particularly vivid memories from her fieldwork, to support the
points she was discussing. Third, she used photographs to illustrate other people’s
experiences, some of which were actually her participants’ photographs. These
were used adjacent to (but not overlaid by) quotes, with the intention of giving
the reader more insight into the nature of her participants’ experiences. Taken
in total, Reis’s aim was to ‘add layers of meanings and emotions’ to the written
narrative she had produced (Reis 2011: 15).

As stated in Chapter Seven, Karen Barbour is an autoethnographer and a

contemporary dancer. She too used photographs in the presentation of her
research, but in a very different way from Arianne Reis. Barbour writes: ‘My
aim in dancing is to embody through autoethnographic performance that which
I am unable to write on the page. The aim in this article is to playfully represent
my embodied methodologies and some of my “findings” through creative
writing and images of performance’ (Barbour 2012: 67). Her article includes
six ‘images’ or photographs, each more or less blurred, presumably to convey a
sense of movement. Barbour is trying to do something extremely difficult: to
convey aspects of the experience of dance in writing. I have a great deal of respect
for Barbour’s attempts to span this enormous gulf, although I don’t think they
entirely succeed. It is really hard to express something in one medium and then
communicate that through a very different medium (Gergen and Gergen 2012:
166). Dance would perhaps be better represented using another medium, such
as video (Kousha, Thelwall and Abdoli 2012: 1710), perhaps with some overlaid

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text. A video presentation of research by Rosemary Reilly can be viewed online

that uses photography, text, voice, music and art and that, in my view, is more
effective in conveying aspects of the experience of research participants – in this
case, users of a community arts studio. However, Barbour’s article was formally
published in a journal, so it will presumably it help her academic career, while
Reilly’s video is self-published on YouTube, so presumably it won’t, even though
it may reach many more people overall.
I think this illustrates another potential problem with some creative research
methods, and perhaps particularly the arts-based methods. Because many art
forms are difficult to communicate in writing – and writing is the primary
communication method of the academy – attempts that fall short run the risk of
being condemned as self-indulgent. There are arguments against this, as we saw
in Chapter Two, but at the present time arts-based presentation of research does
remain a risk, both within and beyond the academy. For example, in the case
of the pantomime performance mentioned above from UK researcher Victoria
Foster’s participatory research with a Sure Start programme, the national Sure Start
evaluation team didn’t want to see the pantomime – or even the video that was
made – accepting only a short summary. However, local community members
and programme staff received the pantomime warmly, finding it powerful and
authentic, and the video was well received by academic communities (Foster
2013: 49). So every researcher considering arts-based methods needs to decide
whether using those methods is worth the risk – or, perhaps, which of their
audiences to prioritise.
To some extent, perhaps the risk can be reduced by using a semi-formal
technique with a semi-formal name, such as infography (not to be confused
with infographics). Traditional research texts set out to frame and orchestrate the
reader’s experience, while infography aims to enable more interactive reading, in
order to stimulate creative thought and discussion.

Michael Atkinson is a Canadian researcher who made an ethnographic study of

fell running in England. Fell running is off-road, countryside running that includes
steep ascents and descents, and obstacles including woodland, streams and rivers.
Atkinson presents part of his research using infography, that is, photographs of
fell runners in action alongside short quotations from field notes and interviews.
Atkinson asserts that ‘the representation of bodies with only “limited” analysis
encourages/forces/challenges readers to connect with the photo in order to make
sense of them’ [sic] (Atkinson 2010: 119). Among other things, infography is:

• easy and enjoyable to read

• fluid and dynamic in its integration of words and pictures
• able to reveal information that other methods might conceal
• open to multiple readings (Atkinson 2010: 120).

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So, although infography is a recognised method of presenting research using

arts-based techniques, it is a method with considerable scope for creativity and
requiring no great artistic skill to use it effectively.

Arts-based presentation
Some researchers evidently do think it is worth risking some negative reactions
in order to present their work using arts-based methods. For example, Kimberly
Dark is an American professor of sociology and a professional performance poet.
She uses poetry to present research to a range of audiences within and beyond
the academy. This gives her work ‘a broader reach’ than either her research or her
poetry would have on their own (Dark 2009: 173). Her work also has a much
more profound impact on her audiences because of the combination of research
and poetry presented in person. ‘I have experienced how audiences are moved
in ways that are deeper than language can convey ... Research-poetry represents
an ability to bring what truly connects people into the forefront while the
social critique remains an ever-present backdrop’ (Dark 2009: 184). A video by
Kimberly Dark talking about presentation through performance, with particular
relevance to autoethnography, can be viewed online.
Kitrina Douglas is a British professional golfer, researcher and songwriter.
She writes songs from her data and research experiences, and performs them
to present her research to academic and other audiences. For Douglas, writing
songs is like a reflective analytic technique that uses a largely wordless process
to reflect on the non-verbal aspects of research: ‘I wasn’t attending to what we
“actually” talked about, but rather the spirit of the interaction, the chemistry,
of something shared that went unsaid’ (Douglas 2012: 527). Douglas created
a performance to explore her songwriting journey that included some of her
songs and that has been presented at academic conferences in New Zealand,
the US and Britain. At the close of the British presentation, as usual the
chairperson invited comments or questions, but the audience remained silent
for a prolonged period. ‘It seemed that what delegates wanted was further
time to reflect, and to remain within the space created by the performance
... the discussions that eventually flowed suggested that the songs did indeed
facilitate ... deep reflection’ (Douglas 2012: 531). This suggests that musical
presentations of research may offer a way for a researcher to communicate non-
verbal aspects of their experience to their audiences. You can find out more
about this by viewing the online video of Kitrina Douglas’s research-based
song ‘Gwithian Sands’.
I would contend that the above presentations were so effective because both
researchers were skilled in research and performance poetry or songwriting.
You may remember the debate around the use of arts-based methods in research
that was reviewed in Chapter Two: some researchers argue strongly for only
those skilled in artistic techniques to use them in research, while others believe

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everyone has a right to use artistic techniques. While I can see the arguments
on both sides, at the point of presentation there may be a stronger case for the
need for artistic skill. Yet the counter-argument also holds true, to some extent.

Lisbeth Berbary, an American researcher investigating the gender-related

experiences of sorority women who we first met in Chapter Six, used an
ethnographic screenplay to present her data. An ‘ethnographic screenplay’ is
written using standard screenplay writing techniques, but not to production
standard, thereby allowing more flexibility in its narrative. This approach enabled
Berbary to depict complex characters acting and interacting in specific settings,
effectively showing readers her participants’ experiences, rather than telling
them. The ethnographic screenplay rendered Berbary’s research accessible to
her participants, many of whom reported that they enjoyed reading her work,
and to non-academic readers, who were surprised by its readability. For Berbary,
this approach ‘encourages involvement, inspires curiosity, creates inclusivity,
and constructs depictions that remain in the thoughts of readers in ways that
traditional representations sometimes do not’ (Berbary 2011: 195).

For some artist researchers, arts-based presentation offers an opportunity to

develop and use new artistic skills.

You may remember from Chapter Five that Judith Davidson is an American
researcher who is skilled in sewing, spinning, weaving and felting. She conducted
an autoethnographic study of her post-tenure experience by analysing her own
diaries, and presented her findings at an academic conference in the form of an
interactive art exhibition with nine pieces of art that she had created, based on
her findings. Although she is an experienced artist, this was the first time she
had ever curated an exhibition. The art she displayed was mostly mixed-media
collage and sculpture, made primarily from textiles, including a felted prayer
bowl with a sign inviting conference delegates to write a prayer for someone
they cared about who needed help and to place it in the bowl. The process of
creating this exhibition added unexpected dimensions to Davidson’s analysis.
She had to decide how to place her artworks for viewing, which made her ‘think
about the new meanings created by juxtaposition’ and change her ideas about
‘the meanings I thought they conveyed’ (Davidson 2011: 97). Several of the
artworks needed framing, which required Davidson to define their edges, so as
to fix their meaning (Davidson 2011: 97). For Davidson, exhibiting research as art
makes sense, because they both seek for their outputs to be ‘viewed, discussed,
and absorbed’ (Davidson 2011: 97).

Mitchell et al (2011) conducted a three-year impact evaluation of the effect

on audiences of dramatic performances based on research findings, specifically
dementia research. They found seven types of impact:

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1. seeing things differently

2. recognising and acknowledging truths
3. people locating themselves in a wider context
4. reactions eliciting embodied metaphors (for example, ‘it was like a slap in the
face’)
5. meaningful learning
6. greater understanding of different perspectives
7. reminder and affirmation of personal knowledge.

The researchers concluded that dramatic performances make research findings

more accessible for audiences from a range of backgrounds, and are likely to create
changes in the understanding of audience members (Mitchell et al 2011: 390).
Some research may not seem very dramatic, but even research on topics such
as health and safety can usefully be translated into theatrical performances for
presentation. For example, a report of research into school safety in America
was adapted for the stage, thereby enabling 500 new teachers to engage with
the findings and recommendations of the research (Goldstein and Wickett 2009:
1565). The staging was carefully designed to make the audience feel involved,
almost part of the action (Goldstein and Wickett 2009: 1564). It is highly likely
that this form of presentation had much more impact on its audience than a more
conventional PowerPoint or paper presentation.
Poetic presentations, too, can have a significant impact on their audiences.

Penelope Carroll, Kevin Dew and Philippa Howden-Chapman, in New Zealand,

used research-based poetry to represent the realities of participants living in
marginal housing such as tents, buses, sheds, vans, garages and caravans. They
interviewed rural and urban dwellers and began by conducting a thematic
analysis of the transcripts. Then they identified phrases and sentences from the
interviews that illustrated something unique to the participant’s perspective
or their life events, or illustrated a theme from the analysis. These were noted
alongside descriptions from field notes, and were then arranged into poetic
stanzas, with the aim of ‘remaining true to the flow and meaning of participants’
narratives and focusing on what appeared to be central in their narratives’
(Carroll, Dew and Howden-Chapman 2011: 628, citing Clarke et al 2005). This
approach was appreciated by participants, who told the researchers they had
accurately captured the realities of their lives. It also enriched the research from
the researchers’ perspective, as the poems ‘provided context for the thematic
analysis, created empathy which allowed for a felt sense of the phenomenon
and not merely a detached cognitive understanding, and afforded an alternative
framework for insight into the complexities of informal housing in Aotearoa/New
Zealand’ (Carroll, Dew and Howden-Chapman 2011: 629).

A video of a presentation by Dr Karlo Mila, New Zealand academic and poet,

can be viewed online.

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As Breheny tells us, poetry’s use of metaphor means that poems can enable us to
‘explore the social patterning that structures individual lives’ (Breheny 2012: 157).
Drawing on narrative theory, Breheny suggests that this can work on three levels:

1. individual – the personal story that someone tells

2. interpersonal – the relationship between the storyteller and their audience
3. public – stories of social life that are publicly available (Breheny 2012: 157).

On this basis, the use of poems to present research can have a range of purposes,
including:

• to represent the multiplicity of the self shifting through space, place and time
• to represent the nature of human existence: disorganised, fluid and inconsistent
• to explore topics in which a prominent feature is time
• to represent any number of accounts that are similar in outline but different
in detail
• to highlight the role of character within a narrative
• to use that/those character(s) to represent different facets of experience and
perspective
• to show how embodied, discursive and social aspects of an experience cannot
be separated from one another (Breheny 2012: 157–8).

Poetic presentation is a form of interpretation, by a researcher, of the experiences

of their participants as portrayed in their data. Because poetry is such a condensed
form of presentation, it may prompt further interpretation from its listeners or
readers. This may be at Breheny’s individual level, enabling understanding of the
individual’s story; at her interpersonal level, beginning a dialogue about what
the poem might mean; or at her public level, enquiring about the contextual
circumstances that made this social project possible (Breheny 2012: 165).

Canadian researcher Lane Mandlis is a transsexual researcher with a professional

background in art and design. His research into transphobic violence engaged
with feminist post-structural theory. In the process of writing a seminar paper,
he began to understand the extent to which that theoretical stance excluded his
experience and his self. He chose to express his resulting feelings of powerlessness
by cutting the text of his paper into phrases, which he presented in the shape of a
river flowing across each page. He used ‘fragmented tangents of thought’ (Mandlis
2009: 1357) to form the banks of the river, and added images and drawings that
he describes as ‘strong depictions of liminal positions; empowered representations
of transformation; positive cultural symbols of transition’ (Mandlis 2009: 1357).
The paper grew physically as well as conceptually, as he added cellophane tape
so that his words could both spill off, and be contained within, standard-sized
pages. The result is a multi-directional, multi-layered presentation, showing
something of the complex relationships between disenfranchisement and power.

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Presentation using technology

The technologies most commonly used for presenting research findings are film
and video, with accompanying audio soundtracks.

American researcher Sarah Franzen conducts ethnographic research on

community-based rural development. She uses a range of methods, including
participant observation, interviews, oral histories and ethnographic filmmaking.
This is an ‘ongoing cyclical process’ in which Franzen makes films collaboratively
with her participants, and questions audiences at viewings to find out how
they construct and interpret knowledge and meaning from the film (Franzen
2013: 421). She supports and enables her participants to direct and edit short
films for three audiences: the participants themselves, other farmers and rural
organisers and other stakeholders in rural development, including universities
and government. The films are presented to small groups, from a handful to 50
audience members at most, to facilitate feedback and discussion. This approach
enables Franzen to use the films to communicate and produce knowledge at
the same time. It also helps her to learn more about how different audiences
understand and interpret information provided by film, which in turn renders her
better able to communicate and share knowledge with such audiences by film.
This is a form of public scholarship that ‘involves more than providing public
access to academic knowledge; it involves collaborative knowledge production
and emphasizes audience reception and engagement with scholarship’ (Franzen
2013: 420).

The ethnodrama produced by Sangha et al, outlined in Chapter Three, was

recorded and put into DVD format (Sangha et al 2012: 295). This enabled members
of the research team to re-present their research findings in different contexts for
different purposes, such as by using the ethnodrama as a teaching tool for students.
As we saw in Chapters Five and Six, Mary Ann Kluge and her colleagues in
America and New Zealand used video in their case study of Linda, a 65-year-
old woman who had minimal experience of sport and didn’t like exercise, yet
decided to aim for master’s level as a senior athlete. They gathered many hours
of video footage, from Linda’s first-ever training session to her competing in,
and winning, a race at the Rocky Mountain Senior Games. Linda also kept a
journal of her thoughts and feelings about her sports-related experiences. The
researchers also used video to present their findings, working with Linda to
select and edit footage into a 23-minute film. This film was narrated by Linda
using three techniques: straightforward voice-over, recounting excerpts from her
journals and live accounts from the original recordings. The aim was to produce a
film with significant levels of authenticity and credibility (Kluge et al 2010: 286).
Another option for presentation using technology is the webinar, or online
seminar. There are a variety of technologies, many of them free to use in basic
form, which enable tens or hundreds of people worldwide to take part in an

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interactive online session. Webinars can be recorded for later dissemination. Time
differences and technical malfunctions can cause problems (Armstrong 2014:
22), but webinars are a very useful and cost-effective way to present research to
a global audience.

CONCLUSION
This chapter has given a flavour of some of the many creative ways in which
researchers can present their findings and results. Presentation is important,
but one researcher – or even a team of researchers – can reach only a
comparatively small number of people through direct presentation: tens,
maybe hundreds, occasionally perhaps thousands over time. Dissemination
can, in theory at least, reach millions of people, and creative ways of doing
this are the topic of the next chapter.

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Dissemination, implementation and

knowledge exchange

Introduction
Dissemination of research is essential to inform people of your findings and
conclusions and to build the global knowledge base. There is a strong argument
for it being unethical not to disseminate research, especially any research that is
publicly funded. However, dissemination methods are under-reported in the
methods literature (Vaughn et al 2012: 32). The purpose of this chapter is to
help fill that gap.
As we saw in Chapter Eight, presentation is a form of dissemination, but
usually requires the researcher to be present, while on the whole dissemination
happens through media that people can access independently, ranging from
academic journals to art exhibitions. There are of course areas of overlap between
presentation and dissemination: for example, research can be presented online
and therefore, in effect, be disseminated at the same time.
Historically, creative approaches to dissemination were in the minority (Jones
2006: 67). More recently, research has begun to be disseminated in a range of
creative ways, including art exhibitions (for example, Davidson 2012), graphic
novels (for example, Dahl et al 2012), films (for example, Kluge et al 2010),
DVDs (for example, Franzen 2013), cartoons (for example, Bartlett 2013),
drama performances (for example Kontos and Naglie, 2009) and novels (for
example, Leavy 2012). Each of these has been used in projects focusing on a
range of subjects. For example, static or animated cartoons have been used for
dissemination in projects focusing on subjects including HIV/AIDS (Petersen
et al 2006), youth violence (Vaughn et al 2012) and dementia activism (Bartlett
2013). While these creative methods focus on arts-based dissemination and
dissemination using technology, they can also be used for disseminating mixed-
methods and transformative research.
Academics are often seen as people who communicate in a rarefied and
specialist way that is accessible only to other academics, such as through expensive
conferences or subscription-only academic journals that require impenetrable
language to be used in particular ways. Yet, more and more academics are taking
a creative approach to dissemination using popular media. This chapter provides
many examples of creative dissemination methods. However, one word of caution:
it is always important to think of your audiences and to choose the methods of
dissemination that are most likely to transmit your messages to them effectively

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(Finlay 2012: 28; Souza 2014: 83). In some cases, this will mean using more
traditional dissemination methods. It is important not to let a fascinating new
method seduce you away from good research practice.

Ethics in creative dissemination and implementation

In these final stages of your research process, if you disseminate your work in the
public domain you are responsible to every potential reader or viewer. Alternatively,
if you are required to sign over the ownership of your work to a commissioner,
funder or institution you may have no control over its dissemination (a situation
I regard as unethical, particularly if it results in research not being disseminated at
all). Dissemination is an ethical act in itself, and you should plan a dissemination
strategy at the start of your research project, in order to ensure that your findings
reach as many members of suitable audiences as possible. Knowledge exchange
is a particularly ethical form of dissemination and is covered in more detail later
in this chapter.

Online and other media

A blog can be quickly and easily set up using a hosting provider such as Blogger
or Wordpress. However, if you are tempted to start a blog, it is worth thinking
through some of the pros and cons before you put finger to keyboard. I kept a blog
from 2005 to 2009 (now deleted), and started another while I was writing this
book, so I can tell you that blogs are content-heavy and demanding of time. Can
you commit to producing a well-written and interesting 500- to 700-word post at
least once a week, responding to comments and e-mails daily and publicising your
blog through a variety of channels? This is probably the minimum requirement
for a blog to succeed in gaining and keeping readers – and unless you have readers,
you are not actually disseminating your work or ideas.
A number of people do use blogging to disseminate research. Mewburn and
Thomson analysed the content of 100 academic blogs and found that 40% of
them contained research dissemination (Mewburn and Thomson 2013: 1111). If
you are going to use a blog for dissemination, it is helpful to link with the wider
blogging community, using blog-to-blog links, networks of blogs – for example,
the well-established science blogging networks such as [Link]
(Shanahan 2011: 903) or newer networks such as the public ethnography network
e.m.a.c. at [Link] – or blog aggregators such as the Huffington
Post (Vannini 2013: 449). This will mean making time to read other blogs in your
field – which is worth doing, in fact, before you start your own (Webster 2014:
75). If you decide that you don’t want to start a blog of your own, you could
consider writing a guest post here and there for other people’s blogs (Campos-
Seijo 2014: 102) – many bloggers are delighted to find people to provide their
content from time to time, as long as it’s well written and relevant. It is also useful
to link your blog or guest posts with other social media platforms, such as your

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Twitter account, Pinterest, Tumblr or whatever you prefer to use. And do, always,
add a copyright statement to protect your work and ideas (Lantsoght 2014: 26).
If you can manage all this alongside your other commitments, there are
rewards to be gained. Blogging can be particularly useful for sharing ideas and
receiving feedback (Vannini 2013: 449). Newer blog platforms, such as Medium,
are bridging the gap between the length of a conventional blog post and the
brevity of a tweet (and, no doubt, by the time you read this, other options will
be available too). Alongside Twitter and other social media, blogging enables
conversations to be conducted regardless of geographical location, time zone,
discipline or status. This can be enormously useful for the pursuit of knowledge.
Also, blogging can enable communication about scholarly work to cross the
boundaries of the academy.

Ed Yong is an award-winning science writer, journalist and blogger based in the

UK. In 2010 he wrote a blog post disseminating the work of Zhao et al that
had just been published in the academic journal Nature. This work showed that
some chickens could be gynandromorphic, that is, have an equal balance of male
and female cells. Yong received comments on the post from a range of people,
including a scientist who was one of the authors of the original paper, and a farmer
who had a gynandromorphic chicken on his farm and wanted to know more about
his unusual bird. Yong put the scientist and the farmer in touch with each other,
which led to a full-scale collaboration. The farmer recorded observations, took
photographs, arranged for blood samples to be taken and shared all this data
with the scientist. The collaborators also kept Yong informed of their progress,
which meant that he, in turn, could inform his readers (Shanahan 2011: 911–13).

YouTube also enables communication about scholarly work (Barrett 2014: 23).
It is the third most popular website after Google and Facebook and has been
used for dissemination since it was founded in 2005. There are now thousands of
research projects being disseminated via YouTube, and it’s probably not surprising
that there is a steady increase in the citation of YouTube videos in research articles
(Kousha, Thelwall and Abdoli 2012: 1710). A video is available on YouTube,
presented by UK researcher Melissa Terras, about how to disseminate research
using social media.

As we saw in Chapter Eight, Penelope Carroll, Kevin Dew and Philippa Howden-
Chapman in New Zealand used research-based poetry to represent the realities
of participants living in marginal housing such as tents, buses, sheds, vans, garages
and caravans. The poems were recorded onto CDs. It was not possible to arrange
for participants to make the recordings themselves, so readers were chosen with
voices that more or less matched the participants. The voices of those in marginal
housing are rarely heard in discussions of housing and health in New Zealand,
but these poems were heard by academics, policy makers and the general public
(Carroll, Dew and Howden-Chapman 2011: 628).

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Podcasts, webcasts and recorded webinars (see Chapter Eight for information on
webinars) are also useful ways to disseminate research online. Podcasts are static
audio files that are easy to create and upload to the internet using technology
available on most laptops and smartphones (Blake 2014: 67). They can be used
to add value to other forms of dissemination, for example by telling listeners
why a research project came to be done, or what has happened since an article
was written. A webcast is a real-time online broadcast of a presentation, which
is a little more complicated, but conference and other venues may have facilities
for doing this. The URLs for podcasts, webcasts and recorded webinars can be
disseminated using social media such as blogs and Twitter.
Finally, you can curate resources relevant to your research online – that is,
collect and present those resources, including links to your own blogs, podcasts
and so on, in an appealing way. There are various ways of doing this, such as
setting up a dedicated website or other web presence, perhaps using a tool such
as Bundlr or Pinterest, or using an online curation tool such as Storify. There
are dozens of free and helpful resources for online curation. Creating a specialist
online library of relevant resources in this way can also be useful for your own
future reference (Westbury 2014: 106).

Mainstream media
If you want to disseminate research through the mainstream media, you will need
to write a press release (for newspapers, radio and TV) or a pitch (for magazines).A
press release is a one-off piece of writing that can be sent to as many newspapers,
radio and TV stations as you like, all at the same time. A pitch should be individually
written, or at least carefully tailored, for each magazine you send it to. Whatever
medium you’re aiming at, it will be helpful to have some good-quality photos
available to accompany your article (Crofts 2002: 91).
If you want to disseminate your work through magazines, you should be
prepared to write an article yourself. Do be aware that magazines commission
articles months in advance of publication, so, for example, if your research
focuses on Diwali, you would need to pitch it to editors early in the calendar
year (Formichelli and Burrell 2005: 71).
You will need to begin work on your pitches by researching each potential title.
Some will have guidelines for writers, which will be available either online or
by e-mail from one of the commissioning editors. If you can get hold of these,
read them carefully and do exactly as they say. You will also need to read several
copies of the magazine, paying attention to the types and lengths of articles, the
writing style(s) used and the advertisements, which can tell you a great deal about
the magazine’s readership. Make sure that no article on a similar topic has been
published by the magazine or any of its direct competitors in recent months.
When you have a clear idea about the magazine’s readership and the editor’s likely
requirements, you can begin to prepare a pitch.

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Preparing a pitch for a magazine

• Aim for three short paragraphs.

• The first paragraph should answer the six key journalist’s questions – who,
what, when, where, how, why? – and do this in a way that is clearly targeting
the magazine’s readership.
• The second paragraph should explain the story more fully, with some juicy
details.
• The third paragraph should demonstrate why you’re the best person to write
this article for the magazine.
• Don’t bother saying how wonderful you think the magazine is; just make sure
your pitch oozes understanding of the publication.
• Write well, using plain English.
• In your writing, ‘show, don’t tell’ wherever possible; try to bring your research
to life for the reader.
• Say what kind of article you are proposing to write, and how long you intend
it to be.
• E-mail the pitch, with the proposed article title and your name in the subject
line.
• Include your phone number – ideally your mobile – and make sure you’re
available at any time to answer questions, as editors often work to very tight
schedules and this can make the difference between your research being
disseminated or not.
• If you have published similar articles before, attach copies as examples.
• Don’t give the editor a timescale or deadline for their response.

If you’re new to magazine journalism, it may be useful to write your article before
you send in your pitch. Of course, you may decide that you don’t want to use
your time that way, in case the editor doesn’t accept your suggestion – which
is more likely than not. However, if the editor does come back to you, he or
she will usually want a quick response. So if you don’t want to write the article
upfront, make sure you’ll be able to do a good job at short notice, otherwise you
will have wasted both time and opportunity.
When you’re ready to send in a pitch, find the name, direct phone number and
personal e-mail address of the relevant editor. You may be able to find these on
the internet, or you may have to ring the magazine (Formichelli and Burrell 2005:
66). Don’t send your pitch to ‘The Editor’, which is a sure sign of an amateur.
Identifying the appropriate person and contacting them by name makes it much
more likely that they will take your idea seriously.
Make sure that you’re easy to contact and able to respond quickly, as editors work
at high speed (Perrin 2014: 44). If you don’t hear from the editor after pitching,
you can ring or e-mail them after a week or two to chase it up (Formichelli
and Burrell 2005: 64). If you e-mail, forward your original e-mail with the new
message, to save the editor hunting for it. Editors do receive a lot of pitches, so

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it’s entirely possible that yours has just been overlooked. Be polite, not pushy, and
don’t try to persuade them if they say ‘no’; you can always pitch the article to a
different magazine. A web page is available with more tips for successful pitching.
If the editor does come back to you to commission the article, make sure
that you write down any further instructions or suggestions they offer. You
are likely to be given a deadline; if you can’t meet it, be honest and ask for
more time. Be as professional as you can: write the article well and quickly, and
don’t keep ringing or e-mailing the editor with questions. Take care to write
in the style the publication uses: for example, if they write about ‘non-profits’,
don’t use ‘charities’. Also, write to the required length; don’t write more than
a handful over or under the word count you’re given. If you find that you’re
unsure about something, use your own networks first, and only contact the
editor as a last resort.
If you’re lucky enough to have two editors come back to you for similar
articles, don’t just forge ahead, or you will risk alienating them forever. Accept
the commission from the one whose magazine you most want to publish in (or
the one who got back to you first, if relevant). Then tell the other editor what
has happened and suggest a twist to the article that would be appropriate for their
publication while making it sufficiently different from the first one.
When you’ve written your article, the editor may well ask for changes. This
can mean a lot of changes or just a few tweaks – and either way, they will want
them done quickly. Once the changes have been made and the article has been
accepted for publication, it will be worked on by a sub-editor, who is responsible
for making sure that your article is in the magazine’s own style. It is very unlikely
that your article will be printed using exactly the same wording that you sent to
the magazine, so it’s essential that you make it clear if there are any expressions
that must be used or avoided, such as terms that might have particular sensitivity
for your participants.
Alternatively – or in addition – you may choose to send out a press release
about your research, giving the key points and suggesting that a journalist might
like to find out more. A press release is similar to a pitch: you’re aiming to capture
someone’s interest and leave them wanting more. However, a press release has
a slightly different format from a pitch. Also, rather than being tailored for one
magazine, a press release can be sent to as many newspapers, radio and TV stations
as you like.

Preparing a Press Release

• Do not simply send out an abstract or executive summary to editors.

• Aim for 250 words, 500 at most.
• Begin by using the classic journalist’s prompts: who, what, when, where, how,
why.
• Explain why your research is news, that is, what is new, unique, original, and/
or timely and why it is relevant to people today.

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• Keep the headline short and attention grabbing.

• Make the content compelling and persuasive.
• Write in the third person and use plain English.
• Don’t use superlatives.
• In your writing, ‘show, don’t tell’ wherever possible; try to bring your research
to life for the reader.
• You can include a quotation or (at the most) two, from yourself and/or other
people, but make sure they are from people who will be available and willing
to be interviewed by a journalist if necessary, and always include their name
and role or job title.
• Edit carefully before sending.
• Give your credentials at the bottom, in a single sentence.
• Include your phone number – ideally your mobile – and make sure you’re
available at any time to answer questions, as journalists often work to very
tight schedules, and this can make the difference between your research being
disseminated or not.
• Send the release in the body of an e-mail, as plain text, rather than as an
attachment; the subject line should begin with the words ‘PRESS RELEASE’.
• Include a photo or other image, if relevant and publishable; make sure images
are low resolution, so the e-mail won’t be too large.
• All your press releases should be sent at the same time. They can either be
marked ‘for immediate release’ or be ‘embargoed until [date and time]’. The
latter can be useful to give journalists time to prepare, but don’t embargo for
more than a few days at most, or your release may be forgotten.

There are lots of examples of press releases available online.

If a newspaper, radio or TV editor takes up your press release, they will prepare
the story themselves, although they may want to interview you (and/or other
relevant people, possibly those you quoted, possibly their own sources) for more
information. Again, they are likely to edit your work – sometimes to the point
where it’s almost unrecognisable – and they may, in the end, not use it after all
(Crofts 2002: 91–2).
Bear in mind that journalistic ethics are, in some ways, different from research
ethics. For example, journalists generally see it as unethical to use a pseudonym
for an informant, as news is based on real people’s actual experiences. This is
occasionally waived for articles on very sensitive subjects, but that is rare, and
on the whole editors don’t like to use pseudonyms. So if you’re interested in
disseminating any or all of your findings through the mainstream media, plan for
that from the outset; make sure that your participants are aware of and support
your plans; and, if necessary, also seek approval from your ethics committee. Phillip
Vannini asks his participants to check his written submissions at different stages
for accuracy and appropriateness (Vannini 2013: 450), which is worth considering
as an approach if it would be workable in the context of your own research.

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Arts-based dissemination
Visual arts, creative writing, textile arts and performance arts have all been
used to disseminate research. Some researchers have created works of art and
exhibited them in public spaces. The aim is to increase public engagement with
research; to find an audience beyond the specialist academics and practitioners
who might read a journal or attend a professional conference. Sometimes this
has worked well (for example, Calver 2012), sometimes not so well (for example,
Pahl, Steadman-Jones and Pool 2013). If you have little or no artistic skill, it may
help you to involve someone who does – although Pahl and her colleagues did
this, so it’s clearly no guarantee of success; however, it should at least add another
dimension of interpretive skill.
Arts-based dissemination often incorporates technology. For example, virtual
quilts have been used online for purposes as diverse as reconciliation between
nations and fundraising for charity. A virtual quilt exists on a website, with a
front page which looks like a quilt (usually a grid of square blocks), and clicking
on any block or ‘patch’ leads through to another page (sometimes called the
‘stuffing’ or ‘batting’) that holds information and perhaps other links. Lori Koelsch
constructed a prototype virtual quilt as a way of disseminating information from
interviews with participants in her research into the unwanted and unlabelled
sexual experiences of young women. This enabled her to ‘present participant
data as both unique and part of a larger whole’ (Koelsch 2012: 823). The surface
of Koelsch’s quilt – aka the homepage – is a block of brightly coloured squares
with traditional patchwork designs, some squares bearing a woman’s name. A
viewer can click on any named square to find out more about that woman’s
story, which includes a narrative as well as hyperlinks exploring ‘additional
threads’ of her situation (Koelsch 2012: 826), such as potentially useful resources
about legal information, alcohol use and so on. Koelsch’s virtual quilt is not
online, for ethical reasons, but she suggests that future research projects could
use this method for simultaneous data construction and dissemination within
a participatory framework. A virtual quilt ‘can be viewed, adjusted, criticized,
and built by many’ (Koelsch 2012: 825), and can be linked in with resources,
debates, information, social media and so on. It is a living text, fluid, connected
and accessible (Koelsch 2012: 828).

American researcher Abigail Schoneboom exhibited her sociological research in an

arts centre in Scotland, as an interactive multimedia installation about work–life
balance called Project Skive. The installation included six light-hearted stories
about six English workers with excellent work records who were also very good
at ‘skiving’, a playful practice for wasting or creatively reclaiming time in the
workplace. For example, one would set up fake meetings with her colleagues so
they could sit on comfortable sofas and catch up on gossip; another would write
posts for his personal blog or do the Guardian crossword. At the suggestion of
the arts centre curator, visitors were invited to enter their own ‘skives’ into a live

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internet database. Some of these were highly creative, including writing satirical
songs and building bicycles out of bamboo, while others were more mundane,
such as reading newspapers online. This method of exhibiting research increased
its accessibility, inclusivity and social relevance (Schoneboom 2010: 14) as well
as enabling new sociological insights (Schoneboom 2010: 12), partly by using
the process of interactive dissemination to gather new data.

Project Skive is accessible online.

Canadian researcher Lane Mandlis’s paper-based presentation of his research

on transphobic violence, discussed in Chapter Eight, included cut-up text,
images, drawings and cellophane tape. This was unsuitable for dissemination
because it was too fragile and could be engaged with by only one person at a
time (Mandlis 2009: 1361). Mandlis, who has a professional background in art
and design, converted his presentation into an art installation. The focus was a
bathroom, a ‘space of transformation’ (Mandlis 2009: 1366) where, in an intimate,
private space, a public self is created. One of Mandlis’s key aims was to focus
on complexity. Words from his original presentation, and newly constructed
drawings, were taped onto transparent shower curtains that hung like a maze
for viewers to negotiate. White walls behind the shower curtains were covered
with perpendicular graffiti, offering a layered effect to viewers moving through
the maze and encouraging them to ‘glean different levels of meaning based on
their own understandings and interpretations’ (Mandlis 2009: 1364). Two mirror
panels were used, covered in text but not obscured, so that viewers could see
their own reflections and those of other viewers, effectively placing them within
the installation. Shower mats underfoot made the floor uneven and multi-
textured, adding another dimension to the viewer’s experience. The installation
was accompanied by a weblog that advertised the work through pictures and
podcasts, enabled some engagement with the installation by people who were
not able to visit the actual gallery and provided another form of engagement
with the installation through online discussions.

A newspaper article about Mandlis’s exhibition can be read online.

A few academic journals are willing to let researchers present their work in
entirely artistic form (Rodriguez and Lahman 2011: 604), with just a brief,
context-setting abstract to position the reader. For example, Monica Prendergast
presented ‘a fragment of arts-based inquiry’ as a poem in the journal Qualitative
Inquiry (Prendergast 2009b), and Jocene Vallack presented her research into life
as a university student in Tanzania as the script for a play in the journal Creative
Approaches to Research (Vallack 2012). But most journal editors and reviewers look
for a less experiential, more academic article, in which overt connections are
made between any artistic presentation, social theory and professional practice.

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Mercilee Jenkins, an American professor of communication studies, poet and

playwright, presented her research in the form of a full-length play. The Fabulous
Ruins of Detroit is based on ‘the author’s autoethnography, oral histories, archival
materials, and the imaginative re-creation of actual events’ (Jenkins 2010: 90).
The play was staged in Chicago, Phoenix, San Francisco and Detroit, and was
selected for the 2008 Theatre Bay Area Playwrights Showcase (Jenkins 2010:
103).

UK researcher Kip Jones spent four years researching the lives of older gay people
in rural England and Wales. He used the findings as the basis for a film script
and, during its writing, he developed the concept of a ‘fictive reality’ (Jones
2013: 10). This is ‘conceived as the ability to engage in imaginative and creative
invention while remaining true to the remembered realities as told through the
narrations of others’ (Jones 2013: 10). Jones was able to secure funding to engage
a professional film company and director to produce the film, Rufus Stone, which
had its premiere in Bournemouth in 2011 and went on to win two awards at
the 2012 Rhode Island International Film Festival. This is a highly creative way
of disseminating research and has the potential to reach a very wide audience.

Kip Jones’ website contains information about the research and making of
Rufus Stone.
Patricia Leavy, an American researcher and novelist, spent 10 years interviewing
young women about identity issues, including sexuality, body image and
relationships, and teaching a range of courses on subjects including gender and
sexuality. She drew on these experiences in writing a novel for women, Low-Fat
Love, with the aim of helping her female readers to reflect on their own self-
perceptions and how these might affect their relationship choices. The novel has
proved very useful in undergraduate teaching with both female and male students,
generating ‘rich and powerful conversations’ (Leavy 2012: 522). Writing a novel
may be beyond the powers of most of us, but Leavy’s work usefully demonstrates
the importance of disseminating research in ways that will appeal to those we
want to influence, if it is to have any impact (Watson 2011: 402).
Patricia Leavy’s website contains information about her novels.

Mixed methods of dissemination

It is arguable that most of the methods of dissemination reviewed in this chapter
are, to some extent, mixed. Methods of dissemination can be mixed within
one public exhibition, installation or production – and this can then be further
disseminated using technology.

As we saw in Chapter Six, Jennifer Lapum and her colleagues in Canada used arts-
based techniques to study patients’ experiences of open-heart surgery. The multi-
disciplinary research team spent over a year planning, designing and preparing

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an exhibition of their findings, alongside patients and health practitioners. Their

aim was ‘to develop a dissemination method that could immerse audiences in
patients’ experiences, such that they intimately feel the emotional, psychosocial,
and embodied effects of heart surgery’, in order to ‘underscore the salience
of humanistic health care practices’ (Lapum et al 2011: 103). The researchers
designed a 1,739-square foot installation, including 35 photographic images
and 13 poems, exhibited on layered textile compositions that hung within the
installation. The poems were constructed from interview data and patients’
journals to illustrate ‘the key narrative components’ (Lapum et al 2011: 106).
The photographic images were ‘constructed with close attunement to patients’
perspective of their world’ (Lapum et al 2011: 106). The installation was arranged
so that viewers would follow a one-way route through seven sections: departure
for hospital, pre-operative, operating room, post-operative, leaving the hospital,
home and the aftermath. The operating room was at the centre, and throughout,
aesthetic elements such as light, colour and texture increased and reduced in
intensity to reflect the changes in patients’ experiences. Textures included the
cool and clinical, such as metals, and the warm and organic, such as fabrics,
to highlight the contrast between hospital and home. The route viewers took
through the installation was twisting and winding, echoing the uncertainty felt
by open-heart surgery patients. The aim was to give viewers the opportunity
to imagine what it might be like to undergo open-heart surgery and to ‘employ
emotional and aesthetic cognitive faculties in their interpretation of research’
(Lapum et al 2011: 112).

A video presentation of the above research was further disseminated through

YouTube.
Some researchers use a number of different ways to disseminate their findings.
For example, Janice Fournillier, a Trinidadian scholar who conducted insider
research into immigrant women’s experiences in the US higher education system,
disseminated her work in a variety of ways, including an encyclopaedia entry, a
book chapter and an autoethnographic paper (Fournillier 2010).

As we saw in Chapter Eight, Sarah Franzen is a public ethnographer in the US

who is interested in the ways in which audiences engage with scholarship.
She worked with participants to create ethnographic films that could be
disseminated in various ways: online, for example via YouTube; on DVDs; or
through private or public screenings to audiences of various sizes. One problem
with disseminating research online or through DVDs is that the output is viewed
remotely, which doesn’t give the researcher much opportunity to gather reactions
from their audiences. So Franzen chose to present her work at small screenings
with audiences of no more than 50 people – although she also disseminated
her research by giving DVDs to participants so that they could share them
with families and friends if they wished, and by providing online versions for
stakeholders who had their own websites (Franzen 2013: 422). This mixed-

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methods approach to presentation and dissemination enabled Franzen to ‘receive

feedback, interpretations, and corrections, which build upon my research data
while contributing to the knowledge of participants and audiences involved’
(Franzen 2013: 424). It also enabled her to disseminate her work more widely
than she could have done through presentations alone.

Within Ellingson’s methodological framework of crystallisation, outlined in

Chapter Four, she uses the term ‘dendritic crystallization’ to refer to the use of
multiple methods of dissemination. For example, a researcher might publish a
journal article, a book chapter and a newspaper feature, write and perform in a
play and present at a conference, all based on one research project. The form of
any presentation carries a message, as well as its content, and it is worth bearing
this in mind when deciding how to present and disseminate your work, because
the more closely you can align the message of the form with the message of the
content, the more powerful your message will be (Gergen and Gergen 2012:
113). Dendritic crystallisation is another form of mixed methods, and can help
researchers to say more about their work than they could through one method
alone, as well as to reach multiple audiences, which can be very satisfying (Ellingson
2009: 128–9).

Dissemination in transformative research

Traditionally, research is concerned to disseminate its findings as far and wide
as possible, outwards from those involved in the research process. Conversely,
transformative research is particularly concerned to disseminate its findings among
the participants of that research and their communities (Vaughn et al 2012: 30).This
can be done using any method that is accessible to those people and communities
and is aligned with the ethos and aims of the research. For example, we saw
in Chapter One that Amy Blodgett and her colleagues in Canada conducted
participatory action research with a decolonising agenda in their investigation of
the sport experiences of young indigenous athletes who were moving off reserves
to take part in [Link] research team, which included academic and indigenous
researchers, decided to ask participants to create mandala drawings for them to
use as data. At the suggestion of the indigenous researchers, some of the findings
were disseminated through the mandalas being printed on a community blanket
to form a collective narrative that could be displayed publicly at the youth centre.
This enabled sport and recreation staff to use the mandalas as educational tools for
young indigenous athletes who were considering moving off the reserve to take
up sport opportunities – partly to explain what that experience is like, and partly
to encourage young people to pursue their dreams (Blodgett et al 2013: 324).

Nicole Vaughn and her colleagues in Philadelphia, America conducted community-

based participatory research into youth violence, in communities where youth
homicide was five times the national average. They used traditional methods to

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disseminate their findings through academic communities, at conferences and

through formal publication, and looked for alternative methods that would be
effective for disseminating their findings to participants and their communities.
They began by working up eight vignettes from the data, then linking these
with 55 evidence-based tips for reducing youth violence. These were positively
received by the community, but community members were less impressed with
the researchers’ plans to disseminate through the local paper, pointing out that
young people would not read information written in newspapers. One community
member suggested creating a comic strip for the local paper, as something
that might be more appealing to young people. So the researchers asked some
local young people whether they thought this would work, and they said that
animated cartoons, disseminated online, would work better. Young people were
then involved in an iterative process of choosing a professional artist to work with,
reviewing storyboards produced by the artist, voicing characters and advising
on which online platforms to use for dissemination. These young people were
rewarded for their input through cinema tickets, travel tokens and refreshments, as
well as advice from the professional artist on careers in media art and animation.
On the young people’s advice, the animations were disseminated through YouTube
and Facebook. Static advertisements were also developed, with the help of young
people, and placed on local public transport vehicles, bearing the web links for
the animations. This whole process was slow and time consuming, which made
it difficult at times for the academic researchers to manage their own time and
budget constraints. Young people and older community members did not always
see eye to eye, so there was a balancing act to be performed. However, overall,
this participatory dissemination strategy made a positive contribution to youth
development and capacity building within participants’ communities (Vaughn
et al 2012: 31).

The Facebook page for the above research contains links to the animations.

Implementation
If research is conducted simply to increase knowledge for its own sake, then
dissemination alone is enough. However, research designed to identify ways
to improve a situation will be wasted if the knowledge generated is not
used in practice. ‘Implementation’ means ‘putting research into practice’, and
‘implementation science’, the study of methods for putting research into practice,
is a form of research in itself (Eccles and Mittman 2006).This is a fairly new field
that is developing in recognition of the finding that, in fields such as healthcare,
interventions that were found to be effective were not being used to improve
patient outcomes.

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‘Implementation’ is a term used in the UK and Europe, while other countries

and continents use different names. For example, American health researchers
may use the term ‘translational research’, which refers to ways of implementing
laboratory and clinical research within applied healthcare (Drolet and Lorenzi
2011). Some Canadian health researchers call this ‘knowledge translation’
(Straus, Tetroe and Graham 2011). There are dozens of other terms with no
common definition (Tugwell, Knottnerus and Idzerda 2011: 1). However, there
is general agreement that implementation is both necessary and complicated. A
webinar about dissemination and implementation research is available online.
The UK has a unique procedure for assessing national statistics against a
code of practice (Laux and Pont 2012: 5). The aim is to ensure that statistical
information gathered within the UK is usefully implemented, because ‘Statistics
realise their full potential only when they are used in ways that serve the public
good’ (Laux and Pont 2012: 3). The code of practice contains 75 specific
requirements that must be implemented by over 200 bodies that produce
official statistics in the UK. The first programme of assessment ran from 2009 to
2012, and within it the assessment team reviewed about 250 published reports
containing approximately 1,100 sets of statistics. The programme identified
five main areas for improvement.

1. Improve the quality of the text that is written to support statistical

information.
2. Increase understanding of the actual or potential use of statistics.
3. Improve documentation of sources and methods.
4. Where possible, maximise the use of existing administrative data, for example
from hospitals or schools.
5. Improve comparability of statistics between the four UK administrations
(England, Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland).

Now that we know what needs to be done to implement research, the big question
is, how should that be done? The topic of writing good text to accompany statistical
information was covered in Chapter Seven. There is also considerable scope for
creativity in how to increase understanding of the use of statistics in research,
maximise the use of existing administrative data, and improve the comparability
of statistics. I suggest that this also applies to qualitative data. It is beyond the
scope of this book to explore these processes in detail, but it would be useful to
consider how they might apply in relation to the implementation of your own
research. Online guidance produced by the UK’s National Statistician may help
if you want to investigate this further.
There are many obstacles to the implementation of research findings (Straus,
Tetroe and Graham 2011: 7). For example, Canadian researchers Janice Du Mont
and Deborah White, whose literature search strategy was highlighted in Chapter
Four, studied the implementation of rape kits in cases of sexual assault around

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the world. Rape kits are standardised methods for gathering evidence of sexual
assault that are used in criminal justice systems worldwide. However, they are
often not used successfully. Du Mont and White found three main reasons for
this: incompetence of professionals, contempt for women reporting rape and
corruption in professional settings (Du Mont and White 2013: 1234). So while
the rape kits have been implemented to the extent that they are in common
use around the world, they are not being fully implemented, due to social and
structural factors. In a more localised example, Swedish researchers Andersson
and Kalman studied interactions between care managers, care workers and
residents in care homes for older people. They found that differing perspectives,
knowledges and understandings of seemingly everyday concepts such as ‘time’ and
‘care’ presented serious barriers to the implementation of social and institutional
policies (Andersson and Kalman 2012: 70).

Laura Damschroder and her colleagues in America developed the Consolidated

Framework for Implementation Research (CFIR). They looked for theories about
how to put research into practice and found 19, one of which was itself based on
almost 500 pieces of literature (Greenhalgh et al 2004, cited in Damschroder et
al 2009) and 18 of which had been published in peer-reviewed journals; the 19th
was included because of its scope and depth. The researchers then assessed the
constructs, or concepts, on which each theory was based, within five domains:
characteristics of the intervention, outer setting (that is, wider context), inner
setting (that is, within the institution concerned), characteristics of individuals
involved and the process of implementation. Thirty-seven constructs were
identified in total, with between 4 and 12 in each domain; each construct
appeared in at least two of the 19 theories. Each of the 19 theories aimed to
enable effective implementation. However, when Damschroder et al compared
the constructs used in each theory, they found that each of the 19 was missing
important constructs that had been included in other theories. This led them to
create the CFIR, which describes all the domains and constructs in detail, and so
can be used to guide the process of implementation.

The CFIR is not a rule book for implementation. In fact there is not, and
cannot be, any such thing. Every situation is different, and a creative approach
to implementation is needed. But there are some guiding principles, so, if your
research is intended to generate improvements,

• start planning your implementation process from a very early stage

• try to use your research to identify features of the subject under investigation
that make it more (or less) effective in generating improvements
• draw on the CFIR for constructs that will be helpful in the context within
which you are working

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 Creative research methods in the social sciences

• be aware of the possibility of unexpected barriers to or enablers of

implementation, and aim to address problems and maximise opportunities as
soon as possible
• keep a record of what influenced implementation, whether positively or
negatively, and how and why these factors operated.

One big enabling factor for implementation is to root the research firmly in its
context. Participatory frameworks can be particularly useful here. A short video
on participatory research and implementation can be viewed online.

Knowledge exchange
Even within participatory frameworks, dissemination and implementation are both
activities that are done by researchers to or for others. Knowledge exchange is a
more egalitarian approach that implies a two-way process of sharing knowledge
between researchers, practitioners, service users and other interested people.
The process of knowledge exchange is dynamic, social and complex (Ward
et al 2011: 298). Knowledge exchange is embedded within transformative
research frameworks at all stages of the research process (Gagnon 2011: 28), but
in other paradigms is more often seen as something that happens after findings
have been established. Either way, it is not feasible to exchange all knowledge,
because different people have different knowledges and different understandings
of knowledge (Martin, Currie and Lockett 2011: 214). This can make attempts
at knowledge exchange rather like attempts at conversation between people who
don’t speak each other’s languages. Time pressures are another barrier (Martin,
Currie and Lockett 2011: 216). So it makes sense to prioritise the knowledge
you wish to exchange, and to encourage others to do the same. Whether you
are working within a transformative research framework or not, it may help to
work out how to do this by first agreeing on the problem that needs solving, or
on what needs to change (Ward et al 2011: 302).
Knowledge exchange increases the likelihood that ‘research findings will be
used and ... the research ... will achieve a greater impact’ (Gagnon 2011: 28).
Gagnon identified four factors that can help knowledge exchange to succeed:

1. a team of people who are experienced and competent in both research and
knowledge exchange partnerships
2. a plan for working together, with specified roles, named responsibilities and
regular reviews
3. a process for developing a shared understanding, language and perspective on
the problem or issue at hand
4. a strategy for ensuring that trust among the team is built and maintained and
for resolving any conflicts that arise (Gagnon 2011: 28–9).

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 Dissemination, implementation and knowledge exchange

Even if full-scale knowledge exchange proves too difficult or time consuming, it

makes considerable sense to involve research participants and potential research
users in working out how to disseminate and implement research (Gagnon 2011:
25).
A website is available about knowledge exchange, and an animation and a
presentation on the topic can also be viewed online.

CONCLUSION
Dissemination is not an optional extra, it’s an integral part of research.
Without dissemination, research has little value or relevance. The ultimate
aim of dissemination is for your research and its findings to take on a life of
their own and be disseminated further by other people talking and writing
about your work. For this to happen, it helps to ensure there are easy ‘take-
aways’ for your readers or viewers (Nespor 2012: 458). For example, it’s
advisable for any abstract of a journal paper, or executive summary of a
research report, to contain at least one sentence summarising a key finding
or findings. Equally, any drama performance or film should include one or
more soundbites giving the same kind of summary. For example, the dramatic
performance of the research into school safety discussed in Chapter Eight
finished with several characters in turn each speaking the sentence ‘How
can we do our part?’ (Goldstein and Wickett 2009: 1565).The performance
was designed to convey the message that school safety is everyone’s concern,
and this ending was chosen to leave that key question resonating in the ears
and minds of audience members, and so inspire them to discuss the message
of the performance and take responsibility for its implications within their
lives. So, when you’re planning your dissemination, think about what you
want your readers or viewers to remember. How can you encapsulate that
in memorable language?

177
 TEN

Conclusion

Traditional research methods were, of course, creatively devised, but in use their
aim was to avoid [Link] advocated a procedural approach and valued hard
facts and replicability. By contrast, creative research methods advocate a considered
approach, and value contextual specificity. This book has shown that a creative
approach to research methods is not only widespread but also now recommended
for use in many areas of the social sciences, humanities and neighbouring fields.
If you take away just one learning point from this book, it should be that
knowledge, experience and skills from almost any arena can make a useful
contribution to research (Gergen and Gergen 2012: 49; Jones and Leavy 2014:
6). To do research well, of course, you need a good understanding of its basic
principles and practice: research ethics, how to plan research, gathering and
analysing data and so on. But all sorts of other knowledge and experience can be
helpful too. Do you practise judo? Renovate steam trains? Know how to prune
an apple tree? I have no idea about any of those subjects – but I will bet that
people who do could make useful contributions to research.

Marco Gemignani is a trained counsellor and psychology researcher working in

America. In his research on refugees from the former Yugoslavia, he analysed
the phenomenon of countertransference, well known to counsellors and
psychotherapists, to enhance his interview data. Countertransference is ‘the
influence of the patient on the therapist in the here and now of the clinical
relationship’ (Gemignani 2011: 704), which manifests as emotional reactions for
the therapist (or researcher), most of which are unpredictable (Gemignani 2011:
703). While not every researcher will be a trained counsellor or psychotherapist,
anyone can identify and examine their own emotional reactions to participants.
Gemignani suggests that doing this will have a range of benefits for researchers
and their research, including:

• increased sensitivity and empathy

• better rapport with participants
• deeper reflexive analysis
• improved self-awareness and performance
• richer experience
• more creativity (Gemignani 2011: 705).

Doing this is not without risk, as increasing awareness of emotional reactions

can leave people open to vulnerability. However, Gemignani’s view is that ‘the

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 Creative research methods in the social sciences

potential for personal engagements, heartfelt interpretations, collections of

complex data, and nuanced analyses well-justifies the risk’ (Gemignani 2011: 707).

Taking a creative approach can be particularly useful when research doesn’t go

well, or doesn’t go according to plan, or obstacles are encountered. For example,
creativity can be useful when recruitment strategies don’t work (McCormack
et al 2012), when data integration plans don’t bear fruit (Lunde et al 2013) or
when the shyness of researchers threatens to cause problems (Scott et al 2012).
And of course, even creative methods can go wrong. Here is a cautionary tale
from a doctoral researcher who found herself having to be extra creative when
the creative method she originally chose didn’t work as planned.

Denise Turner’s PhD research offers an interesting example of what she calls
‘meandering methodologies’ (Turner 2014). Her aim was to improve practice
following sudden and unexpected child death. A social worker and bereaved
parent herself, she chose to do this by exploring the experience of other bereaved
parents. She was attracted to the Biographic Narrative Interpretive Method
(BNIM), which was developed by German sociologists exploring accounts from
Holocaust survivors. This method is based on interviewing, and takes quite a
structured approach to both the interviews and the data analysis. Turner found
this method useful for the interviews, which – as we saw in Chapter Five – are
structured through a single question; this worked well, enabling bereaved parents
to tell their stories in their own terms. Turner then transcribed the interviews and
tried to condense them into the complex structure of documents prescribed by
the BNIM, but this proved unhelpful and in the end she used only one part of the
suggested structure. The documents she produced were presented to panels of
three people for discussion as part of the analytic process. Panel members were
known to Turner but were not specialists in the research topic. The BNIM suggests
that small chunks of data from a small number of interviews should be presented
to the panels, but Turner struggled with this, feeling that such an interventionist
approach to her data would inevitably alter the ‘reality’ presented by her
participants and that selection raised ethical issues of inclusion and exclusion.
In the end, she went with her instincts rather than the BNIM’s instructions and
presented large chunks of data from five of her eight interviews to the panels. For
many panel members, the data elicited acute emotional responses, something
the BNIM methodology had not led Turner to expect and that neither Turner nor
her ethics committee had foreseen. Ultimately, between the structured nature
of the BNIM and the unexpected difficulties faced by the panels, Turner became
distanced from her data. She sought a new method to repair this breach and
chose to use the Listening Guide developed by Doucet and Mauthner, which
recommends multiple readings of data from different perspectives. This enabled
her, in effect, to become a ‘one-woman panel’, reading from her own perspectives
as bereaved parent, social worker and researcher.

180
 Conclusion

Research is a political activity, and creativity is also political (Gauntlett 2011:

19). Therefore creative research methods can be a contentious topic. More than
once in my research career I’ve suggested a creative method and been told, ‘No,
we’d better play it safe.’ Which implies that creativity is dangerous. And perhaps
it is – for people’s careers in particular, and for social science in general (Gergen
and Gergen 2012: 47) – although mostly, in my opinion, it’s dangerous for the
status [Link] is a very real danger that people who use creative methods will
find ways to express themselves, learn and have fun.
The subtitle to this book is ‘A Practical Guide’. The book has aimed to help
you by including a wealth of examples of creative research methods in practice,
and to offer ideas and inspiration, as well as an overview of current debates and
some ‘dos and don’ts’ about various approaches to research. But creativity in
research is indisputably context specific. It depends on: the skills, knowledge and
abilities of the individuals involved; when and where the research is conducted;
and other contextual factors (see Chapter Four for fuller discussions of context).
The key point – which has been made several times in this book, and which bears
repeating – is that methods must flow from research questions, and not the other
way around. No step-by-step instructions can be given for your own particular
research. What this book has done is guide you through the process, providing
ideas and provoking thought at every stage. Maybe your own work will feature
in the next edition. Who knows?

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 Index

Index
Note: Page numbers in italics refer to tables.

A authenticity 49–50
autism 106
Aboriginals 10, 93
autoethnography 25–26, 77, 79, 81–82,
Academy of Social Sciences 37
152, 155
action 67
active research 52
active voice 128 B
activist research 41–42 Bahn, Susanne 53
Adams, Adrian 9 bar charts 146, 147
Adamson, Sue 77–78 Barbour, Karen 134–135, 152
Aeschbacher, Paul 150 Bazeley, Pat 112–113
African-American teenagers 83 behaviour analysis 74
Allen, Louisa 84–85 Belzile, J. 5–6
analysis of talk 105–106 Beneito-Montagut, Roser 86
analytic imagination 67 Berbary, Lisbeth 117, 155
Anderson, Eric 9 bereavement 77–78, 79, 180
Andersson, K. 175 bias 15, 57, 82, 112, 141
annotation 148 big C creativity 12
anonymity 44, 52, 123–124, 126, 138– bilingualism 11
139, 167 binary thinking 14, 39
apartheid 42–43 Biographic Narrative Interpretive Method
apps 82 (BNIM) 82, 180
Arabic 11 bisexuality 9, 32
Aristarchus of Samos 19 block graphs 146
art 15–16 Blodgett, Amy 10
artefacts 83 blogs 48–49, 129–130, 162–163
arts-based data analysis 117–118 Boal, Ernesto 140
arts-based dissemination 168–170 Boehner, Kirsten 96
arts-based presentation 151, 153, 154–157 Bond, Carol 7–8
arts-based research methods 6, 16, 22–24 Boucher, Andy 96
ethics 40, 49–50 boundaries 14
quality markers 70–71 Bourgois, Philippe 36
theory 63–64 Braye, Suzy 48
asthma 133 Breheny, M. 157
asylum-seekers 24 Briassoulis, Helen 103
Atkinson, Michael 153 bricolage 27–28
attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder Brinkmann, Sven 65–66
(ADHD) 95–96, 142 Brittain, Ian 102–103
atypical roles for young people 92–93 bubble graphs 145
audience 124, 137–138, 139, 155–156, Buckley, Charles 107
161–162
Australia 73, 104, 131

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C key areas 3
creative thinking 35, 55–59
care homes 175
creative writing 65–66, 68, 79–81,
Caribbean-American teenagers 83
126–127
Carless, David 127–128
creativity 10–13
Carroll, Penelope 156, 163
and ethics 35, 39
categorical thinking 14
four levels of 12
Cattell, James McKeen 20
in research 13–16
celebratory food preparation 110–111
credibility 69
Chamberlain, Kerry 94
critical communicative methodology
charts 147–149
(CCM) 45, 87, 116–117
children 51, 89, 95–96, 106, 107, 109
cross-disciplinary work 21, 31, 65–66
chronic health conditions 7–8
Crossman, Jane 104–105
class 95, 126–127
crystallised creativity 14
Clayton, Ben 132–133
crystallization 66, 135, 172
climate change 10, 88–89
cultural consensus analysis 109
coding 100–101, 110–111
cultural diversity 44, 45
Coget, Jean-François 96–97
cultural modelling 109
collaboration 66, 163 see also cross-
cultural stereotypes 73
disciplinary working
culture 138
collaborative writing 132
culturegrams 149
collage 95–96, 150
Cunsolo Willox, Ashlee 88–89
colonialism 42–45
Curie, Marie 20
communication 86, 127
complexity 73
concentric circles of closeness 89–90 D
concept mapping 61–62 Damschroder, Laura 175
conceptualisation of creative research dance 134–135, 152
methods 3 Dark, Kimberley 154
conferences 150–151 data analysis 32
confidentiality 138–139 see also anonymity arts-based 117–118
confirmability 69 data integration 111–114
confirmation bias 141 documentary data 104–105
Connelly, Kate 131 ethics 100
consent 36, 43, 44, 51, 52, 77–78 mixed methods 108, 109–111
consequentialism 38, 51 preparation and coding 100–101,
Consolidated Framework for 110–111
Implementation Research (CFIR) quantitative versus qualitative 101–103
175–176 secondary data 103–104
constructionist theories 64 talk 105–106
contemplation 56 technology 114–115
context 65 transformative frameworks 115–117
contextualisation 58 video data 107–109
convergent thinking 56 visual techniques 107
conversation analysis (CA) 58, 105 data analysis software 6, 32, 100, 107, 115,
Corman, Michael 106 146–147
counselling 179–180 data collection 77
countertransference 179–180 data construction 77
Cox, Susan 70–71 data gathering 32, 77–78
creative reading 61 diaries and journals 81–82
creative research methods 5–10 drawing 89–90
ethical dilemmas 47–49 ethics 77–78
good practice 21–22 hybrid qualitative data gathering 95–96
history 19–21 interviews 82–84

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mapping 90–91 E
mixed methods 94–97
education 13, 38–39, 42–43, 84, 142, 151
online data 86
Edwards, Rosalind 117–118
reflexive data 78–79
Eldén, Sara 89–90
shadowing 91–92
electro-convulsive therapy (ECT) 41–42
time 93–94
electronic interviews 83–84
transformative 86–89
electronic literature 65
video 85–86
Ellingson, Laura 62, 66, 135
vignettes 92–93
Ellis, Carolyn 132
writing 79–81
emancipatory research 41–42
data integration 111–114
embodied methodologies 79, 134–135
data preparation 100–101
eminent creativity 14
data visualisation 142–147, 148
emotion 24
Davidson, Judith 16, 81–82, 155
emotion maps 91
deaf education 17
emotional well-being, researchers 53–54
decision making 14–15, 35, 64
empowerment 37, 41, 45
decolonised research 42–45, 87, 88–89
engagement 168
DeCuir-Gunby, Jessica 108
English language 43, 44, 135
degenerative diseases 53
Eratosthenes of Cyrene 19
dementia 27, 46, 78, 93, 94–95
essentialist theories 64
dendritic crystallisation 172
ethical decision making 35
Denmark 48–49, 123–124
ethical dilemmas 47–49
deontology 38, 51
ethical research frameworks 9
dependability 69
ethical standpoints 38
Dew, Kevin 156, 163
ethical theories 37–38
diagrams 107, 149, 150
ethical thinking 55, 57–58
dialogical inquiry 96–97
ethics 123–124
diaries 81–82
arts-based research 40, 49–50
Dias, Reinildes 61–62
creativity 35, 39
digital research methods see technology
data analysis 100
DiLuzio, Raphael 55
data gathering 77–78
direct quotes 49, 123, 124
dissemination 162
disability researchers 41
journalistic ethics 167
discourse analysis (DA) 105, 106
mixed-methods research 50–51
dissemination 161–162
presentation 138–142
arts-based 168–170
research governance 36–37
ethics 162
technology 51–53
mainstream media 164–167
writing for research 123–124
mixed-methods 170–172
ethics committees 36–37, 44–45
online media 162–164
ethics of care 38, 51
transformative research 172–173
ethics of justice 38, 51
divergent thinking 56
ethnicity 95, 126–127
documentary data 104–105
ethnodrama 139–140
domestic violence 40–41
ethnographic films 171–172
Douglas, Kitrina 127–128, 154
ethnographic screenplays 117, 155
drama 24, 37, 126–127, 139–140, 155–156
ethnography 8, 32, 36, 83, 86, 91–92,
draw and write 89
140–141
drawing 89–90, 109
evaluation research 17–18
Du Mont, Janice 60–61, 174–175
Evergreen, S. 147
Dumitrica, Delia 26
exercise see sport
Dupuis, Ann 94
experience sampling 82

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F good practice in creative research 21–22

Google Scholar 65
Facebook 52
Gordon, Cynthia 106
fact versus fiction 125–128
graphs 144, 147–149
families 91, 106, 138–139
Gravestock, Hannah 90
fast thinking 56
Green, Sarah 102–103
fathers 48
grey literature 60, 65
fatness 94
grief 79
feedback 124–125
grounded theory 4, 107
fell running 153
Guiney Yallop, John 79–80
femininity 117, 155
Gullion, Jessica 126
feminist research 40–41
feminist theory 59
feral pig management 93 H
fiction 65–66, 68, 126–127 Halverson, Eric 109–110
fictive reality 170 Hanna, Paula 84
field notes 81–82 Harvey, William James 95–96
field research 150 healthcare professionals 51
figure skating 90 Henderson, Sheila 122–123
film 158, 170, 171–172 Hester, Marianne 40–41
fishing 100 Hewitt, Lleyton 104
Fletcher, Gillian 80 higher education 151
fluid creativity 14 higher level thinking 15
focus groups 5–6, 99 hindsight bias 141
food preparation 110–111 Hippocrates of Kos 19
football 132–133 Hippocratic oath 38
formal research 17 see also traditional histogram 147
research methods historical creativity 12
Forsey, Martin 93 HIV 26–27, 80
Foster, Victoria 37, 139 Holloway, Margaret 77–78
four levels of creativity 12 Holocaust survivors 132
Fournillier, Janice 151 home-school partnership 142
Franz, Anke 29–30 homophobia 9
Franzen, Sarah 158, 171–172 homosexuality 32, 81, 170
funerals 77–78 Houellebecq, Michael 65–66
housing 156, 163
G Howden-Chapman, Philippa 156, 163
Hunt, Paul 41
Gabb, Jacqui 91, 138–139
hunters 152
Gaden, Georgia 26
Hussain, Sofia 113–114
Galasiński, Dariusz 50–51
hybrid qualitative data gathering 95–96
Galvin, K. 56
hyperbolic geometry 6
Gaver, William 96
gay people 32, 81, 170
Gemignani, Marco 179–180 I
gender 95, 117, 126–127, 155 Ibn Firnas, Abbas 19
feminism 40–41, 59 Ibn Hayyãn, Jãbir 19
and sport 132–133 Ibn Zakariyã Rãzï, Muhammad 19–20, 20
gendered narratives 104–105 identity 40, 79–80, 109–110, 117–118
geographers 65 images 83
Gergen, Ken 63–64 imagination 66–68
Gilliat-Ray, Sophie 92 immigrant women 151
Gilligan, Carol 117–118 imperialism see decolonised research
Gómez, Jesús 45 implementation 173–176
González-López, Gloria 44–45

216
 Index

inaccurate recall 82 Kozłowska, Olga 50–51

incest 44 Krohne, Kariann 51
Inckle, Kay 126
indigenous languages 43–44, 134 L
indigenous researchers 42–43
infographics 149–150 Labrador 10, 88–89
infography 153–154 Lafrenière, Darquise 70–71
informal research 16–17 Lahman, Maria 95, 126–127
informed consent see consent language 11, 43–44, 134, 135
innovation 5 Lapum, Jennifer 118, 170–171
institutional review boards (IRBs) 36–37, learning disabilities 51
44–45 Leavy, Patricia 170
integrated methods 29–30 Leonard Cheshire homes 41
interdisciplinary working 21, 31, 65–66 lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender
international marriage 73 (LGBT) collectives 32 see also
international research 110–111 bisexuality; homosexuality
interpersonal communication 86 lesbians 32, 81
interpretive authority 49 life course analysis 102–103
intersectionality 40 life-history interviews 94
interviews 8, 82–84 line charts 148
intuition 5 linguistics see language
Inventing Adulthoods 122–123 Listening Guide 180
I-poems 117–118 literacy 51
isolation 37 literary fiction 126–127
literature 59–63, 65–66
Lockwood, Trieste 150
J Lomborg, Stine 48–49, 123–124
James, Allison 67 London riots 101–102
Janesick, V. 129 loneliness 37
Japan 73 Low-Fat Love (Leavy) 170
Jones, Kip 170 Lunde, Åshild 31
jouralistic ethics 167
journals 31, 81–82, 128–129 M
Ma Jun 19
K Maadi Regatta 32–33
Kalman, H. 175 McCormack, M. 9
Kara, Helen 126 McDonnell, Liz 48
Kelleher, C. 147 MacKenzie, S. 37
Kemp, Lynn 112–113 MacKerron, George 82
Kendall, Shari 106 Macmillan, Rob 67–68
Kenten, Charlotte 81 magazine journalism 164–166
Kenya 38–39 magazines 29
key areas of creative research methods 3 mainstream media 164–167
kinship diagrams 149 Mandlis, Lane 157, 169
Kiragu, Susan 38–39 Mannay, D. 8
Klassen, A. 70 maps 90–91, 107, 150
Kluge, Mary Ann 85, 116, 158 marginal housing 156, 163
knee injuries 31 Markham, Annette 28
knowledge exchange 176–177 marriage 73
knowledge translation 174 see also mathematics teaching 84, 108
implementation mature creativity 14
Koelsch, Lori 168 Mauthner, M. 57–58
Kommers, Heleen 83 Mayoh, Joanne 7–8

217
 Creative research methods in the social sciences

meandering methodologies 180 novels 65–66

media see mainstream media; social media numbers 121–122
media arts organisations 109–110
meetings 150–151 O
Mendelson, Andrew 29
mental illness 41–42, 127–128 Öberg, G. 5–6
mental maps 90 objectivity 13
Merit Ptah 20 observational research 20, 85–86
Mertens, D. 17–18 O’Dell, Lindsay 92–93
metaphors 80, 112–113, 157 older people 96, 110–111, 175
methamphetamine addiction 66 O’Neill, Maggie 24
methodological reflexivity 72 online data 86
methodology 4 online interviews 83–84
methods 4 online media see social media
Meurk, Carla 93 online petitions 103
Michalko, Michael 55 online questionnaires 34
Mitchell, G. 155–156 online research 33–34, 52
mixed-methods data analysis 108, 109–111 online seminars 158–159
mixed-methods data gathering 94–97 Open Space Technology (OST) 88
mixed-methods dissemination 170–172 open-heart surgery 118, 170–171
mixed-methods presentation 151–154 organisational ethnography 91–92
mixed-methods research 7–10, 26–31, originality 11
40–41 Owton, Helen 133
challenges 30–31
data integration 111–114 P
ethics 50–51 Panama City 150
journals about 31 participant observation 36
quality markers 70 participatory research 10, 45–46, 87,
mixed-methods writing 132–135 88–89
Molik, Alicia 104 difficulties with 46–47, 48, 139
Mondragon Corporation 116–117 participatory theories 64
moral imagination 67 partnership working see collaboration
Mosher, Heather 140–141 passive research 52
mothers 92, 106 passive voice 128
Mourato, Susan 82 patient experience 118
multiculturalism 44, 45 peer researchers 48
multi-layered methodologies see mixed- peer review 23, 125
methods research Perry, Kirsten 44
Mumford, Michael 35, 57 personal blogs 48–49, 123–124
personal creativity 12
N Petray, Theresa 93
narrative-based research methods 16 Petros, Sabela 26–27
nationalistic discourse 104–105 Pfeiffer, Heather 101–102
natural language processing 101–102 phenomenology 21
Ndimande, Bekisizwe 42–43 photo-elicitation 84–85
Neçka, E. 12 photography 95–96, 152, 171
negative capability 56 physical activity 107 see also sport
netnography 16 Pickering, Lucy 93
neurological diseases 53 pie charts 145, 148
New Zealand 32–33, 134–135, 152, 156, Piirto, Jane 23
158, 163 pitches 164–166
non-fiction magazine 29 place 65
Notermans, Catrien 83 podcasts 51, 164

218
 Index

poetic inquiry 79–80 R

poetry 68, 117–118, 130–131, 154,
race see ethnicity
156–157, 163, 171
racial segregation 42–43
Polish 11
radical behaviourism 74
polymaths 20
rape kits 60–61, 174–175
Pope, Clive 32–33
Rapport, Nigel 16, 36, 91–92
Powell, Kimberley 150
Rawicki, Jerry 132
power 46, 80
readership see audience
precarious jobs 140
reading aloud 141–142
presentation 137–138
reading subversively 62–63
arts-based presentation 151, 153,
reality theatre 139–140
154–157
receptive thinking 56
conferences and meetings 150–151
redefined research methods 16
data visualisation 142–147
Reeves, Carla 46–47
diagrams, infographics and maps 149–150
reflective thinking 56
ethics 138–142
reflexive data 78–79
graphs and charts 147–149
reflexivity 71–75
mixed-methods presentation 151–154
refugees 24, 179
technology 158–159
rehabilitation 102–103
press releases 164, 166–167
Reilly, Rosemary 133, 151–152
primary data 67, 86
Reis, Arianne 152
privacy 52
reliability 68
probes 96
religion 83
professional development 108
remix 28
professional intuition 96–97
replicability 68
professionalism 23, 24
research ethics see ethics
progressive engagement 78
research governance 36–37
Project Skive 168–169
research implementation 173–176
prosthetic legs 113–114
research using technology see technology
pseudonyms 123–124, 167
researchers’ well-being 53–54
psychotherapy 179–180
rhetoric 80
public engagement 168
Richardson, Laurel 40
public ethnography 140–141
Robinson, Andrew 27, 78, 94–95
Robinson, Sue 29
Q Rodriguez, Katrina 95, 126–127
Q methodology 109 Roma communities 87
qualitative data analysis 67, 99–100, Romanyshyn, R. 56
102–103, 108 Rose, Diana 41–42
qualitative research methods 21, 27, 50–51 Rowsell, Jennifer 83
quality markers 68–70
quality assessment 68–71 S
quantitative data analysis 99, 101–102
safety 52, 53–54
quantitative research methods 4–5, 20, 27,
Sameshima, P. 66
50–51
Sangha, Jasjit 140
quality markers 68
scattergraphs 148
reflexivity 74–75
schematic diagrams 149
quantitisation 29
Schoneboom, Abigail 168–169
questionnaires 34, 50–51, 82
science, technology, engineering and
quotes see direct quotes
mathematics (STEM) research 6
screenplays 117, 155
Second Life (SL) 26
secondary data 67, 86, 103–104
self-compassion 54

219
 Creative research methods in the social sciences

sex offenders 46–47 T

sexual assault 60–61, 174–175
tables 143
sexuality 29–30, 81, 84–85, 170
tablets 52
shadowing 91–92
Taimina, Daina 6
shame 80
Takeda, Atsushi 73–74
Sheridan, Joanna 94
talk, analysis of 105–106
Shimp, Charles 74
Tannen, Deborah 106
Shordike, Anne 110–111
teachers 94, 108
skill 22–23
technology 6–7, 25–26, 32–34, 96
Skype 84
data analysis using 114–115
Sliep, Yvonne 79
data gathering 82, 88–89
Slotnick, R. 129
dissemination using 168, 170–171
slow thinking 56
ethics 51–53
small c creativity 11–12
presentation using 158–159
smartphones 32, 52
teenagers see young people
Smith, Joan 94
telephone interviews 84
Smith, Linda Tuhiwai 42
tennis 104
social class 95, 126–127
terminology 5
social interactions 86
textiles 155
social justice 38–39
textual analysis 104–105
social media 48–49, 52, 86, 101–102,
Teye, Joseph 30
123–124, 162–164
theatre 24, 37, 126–127, 139–140,
software packages 6, 32, 100, 107, 115,
155–156
146–147
theoretical imaginings 67–68
soldiers 102–103
theories of ethics 37–38
solicited diaries 81
theory 63–64, 67–68
song writing 154
thinking 56
Sorin, Reesa 109
third sector organisations 67–68
sororities 117, 155
Thomson, R. 92
South Africa 26–27, 42–43
time 67, 93–94
space 67
Todres, Les 7–8, 56
speech 130–131
Tonkin, Emma 101–102
Speers, Gillian 150
tourism 103
spirituality 77–78
Tourte, Greg 101–102
sport 10, 31, 85, 116, 127–128, 132–133,
Tracy, Sarah 69–70
133
traditional research methods 8, 9, 17, 39,
Squires, Brian 150
42, 43
Stacey, Kaye 84
data collection 77
standardised tests 51
ethics 139
Stark, Laura 36–37
theory 63
statistics 122, 174
trampers 152
Stenvoll, Dag 58
transcription 100–101, 105, 107, 131
stereotypes 73
transferability 69
Stewart, Sheila 80
transformative cases 116–117
stories 127
transformative research frameworks 9–10,
storytelling 141
17, 39
students 83, 84–85, 93, 95, 126–127
critique 46–47
subjectivity 13
data analysis 115–117
subversive reading 62–63
data gathering 86–89
Sure Start 37, 139
dissemination 172–173
surgery 118
ethical dilemmas 47–49
Svensson, Peter 58
translation 44
systematic reviews 15

220
 Index

translational research 174 see also Western research methods 42, 43 see also
implementation traditional research methods
transphobic violence 157, 169 White, Deborah 60–61, 174–175
trauma 133 Wolf, M. 37
Trigger, David 93 WORKALÓ 87
Trinidad 151 workers 140
trust 5 work-life balance 168–169
truth 6 Worrell, Marcia 29–30
Turner, Denise 180 writing 65–66, 68, 79–81
Twitter 48–49, 101–102, 123–124 writing for research 121–123, 135–136
audience 124
U blogs 129–130
collaborative writing 132
unemployment 50–51 ethics 123–124
unsolicited diaries 81 fact versus fiction 125–128
unspecialisation 56 feedback 124–125
improved writing 135–136
V journals 128–129
validity 68 limitations 128
van Doorn, Niels 32 mixed-methods writing 132–135
Vandermause, R. 66 poetic writing 130–131
Verhofstadt, Guy 58
Verran, Helen 121–122 Y
video data 85–86, 107–109, 109–110, 116 Yong, Ed 163
video presentation 151–152, 152–153 young fathers 48
vignettes 9, 92–93 young people 83, 109–110, 117–118
Vincent, Jill 84 atypical roles 92–93
Vincent, John 104–105 sexuality 29–30, 84–85, 170
violent trauma 133 youth media arts organisations 109–110
virtual quilts 168 YouTube 163
virtue ethics 38 Yugoslavia 179
visual analytic techniques 107
visuals 83, 84–85, 133, 151–152
Vögele, Claus 29–30 Z
voice 126, 128, 136 Zaltman, Gerald 81
vote-rigging 93 Zhang Heng 19, 20
vulnerability of researchers 53–54 Zhao 163

W
Wagener, T. 147
Waring, Michael 107
Warrington, Molly 38–39
Watson, Cate 142
Weatherill, Pamela 53
webcasts 164
webinars 158–159
weight loss 94
welfare recipients 131
well-being 82
well-being of researchers 53–54
Weller, Susie 117–118
Western culture 11

221
 CREATIVE RESEARCH METHODS IN THE SOCIAL SCIENCES • Helen Kara
“Creative Research Methods is a ground-breaking work that will change how
engaged scholars think about and practice research.” Professor Laura Ellingson,
Santa Clara University, USA
“Helen Kara’s accessible book is a treasure trove addressing every aspect of
the creative research process – inspiration for students, teachers and practitioners
of methods grappling with how best to investigate complex social worlds.”
Rosalind Edwards, University of Southampton, UK
“Forever contrasting with traditional research methods Kara demonstrates with
engaging and useful examples that there is a remarkable amount of scope for
creativity in unlocking the worlds we research.” Martin Tolich, Otago University,

CREATIVE
New Zealand

Creative research methods can help to answer complex contemporary questions, which are hard
to answer using traditional methods alone. Creative methods can also be more ethical, helping
researchers to address social injustice.

This accessible book is the first to identify and examine the four areas of creative research
methods: arts-based research, research using technology, mixed-method research and
transformative research frameworks. Written in a practical and jargon-free style, with over 100
boxed examples, it offers numerous examples of creative methods in practice, from the social RESEARCH METHODS
IN THE SOCIAL SCIENCES
sciences, arts and humanities around the world and links to further materials which are all collated
on the book’s companion website at [Link]/resources/kara-creative/[Link]

Spanning the gulf between academia and practice, this useful book will inform and inspire
researchers by showing readers why, when and how to use creative methods in their research.
A practical guide
HELEN KARA has been an independent social researcher in social care and health since 1999, working with
statutory and third sector organisations and partnerships, and is also an Associate Research Fellow at the
Third Sector Research Centre, University of Birmingham. She is on the Board of the UK’s Social Research Helen Kara
Association, with lead responsibility for research ethics. She also teaches research methods to practitioners
and students, writes on research methods and is author of the highly successful Research and Evaluation for
Busy Practitioners (Policy Press, 2012). Foreword by Kenneth J. Gergen and Mary M. Gergen

RESEARCH METHODS / SOCIAL STUDIES

[Link]
@policypress PolicyPress

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