Ever since I discovered the form, I’ve had an obsession for collecting syllabi. A folder on my computer titled, “_Study” would be bursting from its seams if it existed as a collection of paper. The idea was this: contained within this folder was years and years of guidance from people who had dedicated their lives to the process of producing and disseminating knowledge. I’d build this archive and, as my life unfolded, return to this guidance as a structure for some form of schooling beyond the walls of the institution. Perhaps it was moving to remote-learning during COVID, or a relic of transferring universities twice, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I would continue to yearn for the counsel of these maps long after I’d ceased being extorted for access to them.
So, I kept collecting them, thinking of each as a guided stroll that I might wander on, someday. Perhaps these strolls would cross paths, perhaps they would diverge so totally that they would appear to be on different planes of existence. Either way, they went in the folder, tucked away for the inevitable moment in which I would need to be reminded of another way of doing things, or another way of thinking. Over the years, I’ve visited my archive of potential walks and stepped on their trails in solitude. Frankly, I barely remember these moments and their seclusion produced more of a plodding than a promenade. These maps are not meant to be trod solo, their power being derived from the conversation produced between the texts, not by their mere apprehension. So, this is the Stolen School, a series of seminars from stolen syllabi — in a way, a school stolen from other schools. Isn’t that how ideas flow through history, anyway?
It is, of course, a unique and invaluable experience to sit in a circle alongside academic professionals adept at steering a group of students through the complex sludge of thought. However, the socratic seminar is a powerful tool as a result of its inherent simplicity — all that it requires is a text and a group of people who have read it. From this simple structure emerges the radicality of the classroom, a form that we must, especially now, cultivate.
Is "disruption" enough?
Is *the future* a necessary construction for the organization of people? If not, how can action build on itself? Does action need a collective orientation?
What does it mean for something to be "political?" Does it have to be actionable?
How do you cook enough food for the week?
What are the politics of indeterminacy?
How might we consider a question like an indeterminate readymade?
Is art-making anything but a game of call and response?
How does fiction theorize differently from theory?
How does sound build boundaries that delineate one location from another? How does sound's inherent leakiness disrupt this construction?
Can you even look at the following question at it without hearing it? I can’t. Isn’t that amazing?
Does “oooo—-ocyT—-jPaa” provide you with a compelling visual experience? It follows the rule of thirds…
If so, what does it do when it ‘seen’ without being ‘heard’?
Is a word a picture?
If making visual artwork is a way of working through an idea using visual means, how is writing different? Each is observed with the eyes, one is explicitly noisy and the other may or may not be.
What other images outside of letters are ‘read’? What do these sound like?
If these there exist relationships between symbol, meaning, and sound, can one manipulate the symbol to modulate its imagined sound and its meaning while maintaining its demand to be ‘read’?
What is the relationship between text as a symbol (icon/image), its meaning, and its sound?
Can a picture sound like what it means? Can it sound far from what it means? Can it sound without meaning anything at all?
Can a picture be a word?
Do ideas sound like something?
Inversely, when you see ❤️🔥, do you hear something that you can’t quite place?
How do you ask someone to ‘read’ an image as they would a text?