Topologies of desire: Fantasies and their symptoms in educational policy futures

Abstract

This article studies topological reflexivity in educational policy discourse, when policy is considered in terms of eradicating the distances involved and increasing mobility and commensurability. Topological reflexivity is critically evaluated from a Lacanian point of view as a form of political fantasy which structures reality within the coordinates of desire. The article also unpacks two prominent symptoms of fantasy – dislocation and paradoxical elements – that subvert the functioning of these very same fantasies. First, while heralding imminent fulfilment and the promise of pleasure in new learning environments, these discourses are also obliged to keep the object of desire at a certain distance. Second, while educational policy discourse is founded on subjective autonomy and a freedom to develop learning environments, it implicitly requires teachers and schools to implement new learning environments and to take pleasure in doing so. Attempts to grapple with these symptoms of fantasy take the form of denying not only the repetition inherent in such discourses, but also the othering of teachers who express resistance to such changes.

Introduction: topological reflexivity

In their influential overview of the topic, Lury et al. (2012) refer to topology as a means of describing contemporary cultural dynamics. They argue that culture is ‘becoming topological’ in so far as capital, technology and information alike can be detached from their cultural and institutional surroundings and mobilised in a ‘space of flows’. All that used to be distant can now be brought close, all that was once incompatible and heterogeneous in nature can now be brought onto a plane of comparison. Topology refers here, not just to a set of cultural and governmental practices and discourses, but also to a mode of reflexivity – a tendency to think about and act with regard to policies and technological systems in society in terms of topological configurations (Hayles, 2016; Parisi, 2019). This topological reflexivity is reflected in both the abstract cognitive modelling of spaces as well as the more sensuous, visceral and affective registers in which we feel and sense the world about us (Lury et al., 2012: 28). The idea of friction-free mobility and communication has the potential to arouse excitement, and organising space by removing the barriers of work may be thought to unravel affective powers of creativity and innovation.

In the reflexive mode, topological discourses are at once descriptive and prescriptive. On the one hand, they anticipate the allegedly central role of innovations and new technologies globally; on the other, they produce norms as to how nations and organisations should adapt to these allegedly inevitable developments. ‘Lists’, ‘models’, ‘networks’, ‘clouds’ and ‘flows’ are concepts often used to serve this double role of the is and the ought (Lury et al., 2012: 4). This can be discerned, for example, in the claims that the global flow of labour and capital is transforming European societies to the extent that they must not only accommodate this flow, but also increase it to sustain economic competitiveness in the global market.

This millennium, educational policy studies have also been placing increasing emphasis on the importance of policy practices and structures that show a topological interest in establishing novel criteria for distance, continuity and commensurability (Saari, 2012; Sellar, 2015; Hartong, 2018). Although studies may not always actually use the term ‘topology’, attention has been drawn to the ways in which large educational policy actors, such as the EU, create policy spaces that transcend cultural and national distances by standardising concepts and degrees (Coulby, 2002; Hartong, 2018; Lawn and Grek, 2012), and through construction of digital education and policy environments (Hartong and Piattoeva, 2019; Landri, 2018).

An emerging body of literature has also begun to study the spatial aspects of education policy in tandem with certain affective and emotional registers – analysing how topological discourses may also incite, seduce and provoke; not just dictate or inform (e.g. Sellar, 2015; Webb and Gulson, 2012: 92; Webb et al., 2020). Topological instruments such as academic rankings and league tables can elicit anticipatory feelings of pride, anxiety or shame among students and staff in educational institutions, which in turn guide their expectations as well as individual and institutional strategies (Espeland and Sauder, 2016; Piattoeva and Saari, 2020). When it works, governing these anticipatory affects will reinforce the positive effects of liberal governance without the need for open intervention, commands or forbidding restrictions (Brøgger and Staunaes, 2016; Sellar, 2015).

Topological reflexivity is what also governs policy futures in education. It would explain ‘policy prolepsis’ (Webb and Gulson, 2012) and ‘anticipatory governance’ (Webb et al., 2020) – ways of managing expectations so that they prescribe the policies then enacted. Topological discourses can be used to

judge or evaluate the present and to decide on required intervention. Within this governmental configuration, the educational present appears as a state of affairs in need of reform or planning, that is, a type of intervention that is determined by a desired future and/or past. (Decuypere and Simons, 2020: 5)

In effect, topological discourses can thus be self-fulfilling predictions: they cultivate anticipatory affects and emotions that incite an attunement to change (e.g. the inevitable global trend of digitalisation), which in turn may fuel the realisation of these future visions.

In this article, I follow Lury et al.’s (2012) approach to investigate this topologisation as a mode of cognitive and affective reflexivity in educational discourses. In particular, I look at how the topological aspects of envisioning and enacting anticipated futures in education can be used as an overarching narrative framework to describe the transition from earlier rigid learning environments to new flexible ones. As a case in point, I focus on Finnish policy discourses that focus on new spatial innovations as drivers of sweeping change in comprehensive schools (on pedagogical, architectural and technological levels). These discourses govern emotions and affects by promising that fulfilment and elated experiences of creativity and play at school can be achieved through the careful design of learning environments and school architecture.

I address the allure of topological future discourses by looking at them from the perspective of the government of desire. Drawing on the Lacanian psychoanalytic tradition of critically analysing political discourse, this should provide a novel approach to the dynamics of topological reflexivity. I unpack two prominent aspects of governing desires by first asking how it is that a topological discourse can organise fantasies that incite and sustain desire in a ceaseless quest to address what is lacking in a subject’s existence. Fantasy here is understood as a fundamental way to make sense of social reality: it provides the coordinates for desire by presenting something not previously experienced as being desirable because it promises fullness, meaning and enjoyment in the future. I describe how these fantasies are used in topological discourse to spur people into taking action that they believe will eventually eradicate spatial divisions and boundaries in education, while enabling experiences of pleasure in schoolwork for pupils and teachers alike.

The second aspect is to look at the most prominent inconsistencies in these topological discourses and explore how they are dealt with, as fantasies will invariably contain certain incompatible claims, and aporias that preclude consistency. While topological discourses posit an object of desire, with its promise of enjoyment and fulfilment in the future, they are at the same time caught in a disavowed compulsion to keep the same object at a distance. Moreover, while such discourses are founded on a subjective autonomy and freedom to develop learning environments, they also involve an implicit injunction for teachers and schools to implement new learning environments and take pleasure in doing so. Such symptoms of fantasy lead to discursive strategies of disavowal and othering.

Finnish discourses of future learning

In my analysis, I use a selection of significant policy texts published since 2010 which I have found to feature topological reflexivity in envisioning future learning environments in comprehensive schools. The texts analysed here reiterate a widely shared future-oriented governmental configuration in educational policy discourse, envisioning a harmonious, ideal future brought about through sweeping reforms in learning environments and technology (Argenton, 2019). They are written and published by a host of both public and private organisations, with varying levels of involvement in education. In this, they are an example of network governance (Seppänen et al., 2020; Wilkins and Olmedo, 2018; Williamson, 2016) involving a dynamic array of policy makers, academic research institutions, IT and even furniture companies. This contrasts with a much longer tradition of informative, bureaucratic and technical discourse in Finnish educational policy (via parliamentary committee), where experts and stakeholders would be invited to prepare laws and policies. In the 1990s, this tradition came to be seen as ineffective and time-consuming, so was dismantled to make room for the think tanks, lobbyists and heterogeneous networks of today’s policy landscape (Kuusela and Ylönen, 2013; Seppänen et al., 2020).

The documents fall roughly into two categories according to their function: (a) pamphlets seeking to create the mindset that is a prerequisite for implementing decisive changes in learning environments – published by think tanks (Sitra, the Finnish Innovation Fund, 2015), lobbyists (Lipponen and Rönnholm, 2016) and state governmental bodies (Kuuskorpi, 2013; Kuuskorpi and Nevari, 2018); and (b) documents which are case examples, recommendations and norms for planning and constructing new learning environments (Finnish Education Group, 2015, 2018; InnoSchool, 2010; Kuuskorpi and Nevari, 2018). Perhaps the most influential of the latter category are publications by Rakennustieto, a company co-owned by central actors in the Finnish construction industry, which publishes so-called ‘construction cards’ that impose norms on built environments in Finland (Rakennustieto, 2019a, 2019b, 2020). Although these documents cover a range of economic and political concerns, they all express a similar level of topological reflexivity in demanding decisive changes in comprehensive school spaces.

In many respects, topological representations of the future contained in the discourses presented here are not exclusive to Finland. Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD) (Peña-López, 2017) and EU (European Commission, 2013a, 2013b) education policies also suggest that the superfluous boundaries between different school subjects – and indeed between school and society – should be broken down (Decuypere and Simons, 2020; Simons and Masschelein, 2008a). Here, the use of digital technology is a key driver of change. Allegedly, it enables personalisation, play and creativity in learning, and cultivates positive affects among pupils – such as joy and excitement. All of these features are thought to foster innovation and economic growth (European Commission, 2013a, 2013b).

But there are also contextual features in these documents that make Finland a distinct case in point. First of all, it is striking that these policy texts do not rely on ‘evidence-based’ discourses, that is, claiming that there is a firm basis of (semi-) experimental, statistical research backing the reforms. Instead, they often rely either on short, small-scale pilot studies of new learning environments, or on an alleged consensus in educational research about the superiority of ‘modern learning ecosystems’. Rather than seeking to back their demands for reform with evidence-based discourses, they try to convince the reader mainly by arousing excitement with promises that future learning will foster creativity and innovation without boundaries.

Second, in Finland there has been a growing tendency – over the last decade or so – to focus on school architecture and the future of the comprehensive school network. Since the turn of the millennium, Finnish schools have been involved in a public debate about public buildings with dangerously poor indoor air (Lampi et al., 2020), leading to either expensive renovations or building new schools altogether. Finland also has a rapidly ageing population (Statistics Finland, 2018), which – combined with growing urbanisation (MDI, 2019) – means that schools are being closed in rural areas, while new and bigger units are being constructed in metropolitan areas. In addition, the country’s success in PISA (Programme for International Student Assessment) has meant there has been a surge in establishing education export initiatives (see e.g. https://www.educationfinland.fi/), not only with regards to pedagogical expertise, but the whole ‘package’ of schools with curricula, technology and well-equipped facilities. All these features have created a bustling market for school architecture and new learning environments, which in turn would explain the increasing number of policy documents about future learning environments in the last decade.

Fantasies organising desire

Psychoanalytic theories and concepts have traditionally been only marginally covered in educational research (Taubman, 2012), and until recently, Lacanian theories in particular have remained almost non-existent in educational policy analysis. It may seem counter-intuitive to use psychoanalytic theories to analyse policy discourse, as psychoanalysis is primarily understood as a way to understand consciousness at the individual and personal level (Clarke, 2015: 73–74). Nevertheless, in addition to using Freudian insights in critical theory (Frosh, 1999), Jacques Lacan’s (1990: 5, 2001: 329–330) oft-cited view that the unconscious is structured like language has provided an entry point for looking at political discourse through a psychoanalytic lens, and it has provided a means of structuring and carrying out methods of discourse analysis as well (Glynos and Howarth, 2007; Stavrakakis, 1999). In this article, I am using Lacanian discourse analysis to unpack the affective and fantasmatic elements in topological reflexivity. Here, discourse analysis figures not so much as a ‘method’, but more as a toolbox for employing Lacanian concepts and models in textual analysis (Neill, 2013; Parker, 2010).

While the infamous complexity of Jacques Lacan’s texts is clearly a significant obstacle to their wider use in policy studies, there is now a growing interest following the use of Lacanian theory in cultural studies and critical political theory (see e.g. Clarke, 2019; Levine-Rasky and Ringrose, 2009; Salter, 2016). The Lacanian themes of desire and fantasy used in this article, for instance, have been employed in policy studies to signify a significant torsion which fuels the psychic life of individuals and societies (Glynos and Stavrakakis, 2008; Sharpe and Turner, 2020). Here, desire is seen as being indelibly etched in the constitution of the ego and subject – founded on a particular form of lack or loss, which the subject incessantly repeats to make sense of reality. Thus the concept of desire aids in explaining the subject’s anticipatory and fantasmatic engagement with the environment and shows how such engagement makes visions of future learning spaces fundamentally unstable and incoherent.

To better understand the characteristic of desire behind this spatial and temporal orientation, it is useful to look more closely at the concept of lack (or loss) at the heart of Lacanian subjectivity theory, which exists in the three registers of the imaginary, the symbolic and the real. In the imaginary register, lack manifests itself as the ‘specular constitution of the ego’ (Lacan, 2001: 2–3, 5–6). This means that recognising one’s self as a separate entity always requires a split, or a detour, through external ‘mirror images’ provided by others. This also entails that an ego can never have direct, immediate access to itself. In other words, the internal and private ‘I’ is always imbued with an external space of the other – it therefore lacks presence, identity and fullness (Fink, 1995).

In the symbolic register, ‘lack in the subject’ emerges when a child acquires language and, with it, the ability to express and symbolically represent thoughts, needs and emotions. At this point the undifferentiated existence and uninhibited enjoyment of infancy is lost (Stavrakakis, 1999: 42). A subject’s sense of lack in the symbolic register also comes from the fact that language always precedes and exceeds individual existence and so the subject can never fully master extracting and expressing meaning in it (Fink, 1995).

Meanwhile, the Lacanian ‘register of the real’ refers, on the one hand, to the extra-linguistic world which cannot be signified; this ‘something’, beyond the screen of symbolic structures, is at the same time the foundation of all language – providing its meaning – and an effect created by the signifying function of language itself (Fink, 1995: 25–29). On the other hand, the real also refers to an encounter with the ineffable – unlimited enjoyment and undifferentiation – yet the experience of lack is not pleasurable and can even cause revulsion as it threatens the whole constitution of subjectivity (Dolar, 1990).

In relation to the three registers of subjectivity, desire is an anticipatory attunement to space in the subject’s ceaseless quest for the fullness and enjoyment that seems to have been lost. This encapsulates the profound paradox of being a subject because, strictly speaking, the subject has not lost anything – the very notion of loss and the ability to desire is established retroactively: they emerge with the constitution of the subject (Fink, 1995: 93–94).

In Lacanian terminology, the marker for this lost ‘something’ is the object known as ‘a’ (Fink, 1995: 91; Lacan, 2001: 356–358). This a is an ‘object cause of desire’ and has a ghostly essence, as it lingers somewhere between existence and non-existence. It actually has the effect of doubling material reality so that this or that digital device, or classroom couch in itself – as a straightforward tangible object – remains irrelevant to the subject. Instead, objects such as an iPad acquire meaning by being positioned as a gateway to anticipated pleasure in acquiring object a through edutainment (McGowan, 2016).

Desire has the effect of doubling and distributing objects not only in space but also in time. A person may desire a new car, a change of companion, or a job, for instance, that would finally make them happy, but once this ‘something’ is acquired, it ceases to radiate the anticipatory aura of exceptionality and fulfilment, and returns to exist among other regular objects of the world; meanwhile the status of a is transferred onto yet another object of anticipation (McGowan, 2013: 69; Žižek, 2006: 66–68).

Another characteristic of desire is that it seeks to extend the sense of loss and thereby the act of desiring itself. In this respect, desire expresses repetition of a fundamental interruption, a timeless moment where the subject loses time and again what it never really had, a fullness and harmony of being (Fink, 1995: 90–91; McGowan, 2013: 28–29). Desire therefore has a function for sustaining subjectivity: if it were removed, the subject would be left open for an encounter with space as the real – an unbearable enjoyment detrimental to its constitution – in which the self could no longer express itself as a separate entity with will and desire, nor seek recognition from others.

Object a nestles in fantasy – a wider framework that provides the coordinates of desire. This means that desire is never completely private or internal, but always mediated through the other, that is, the wider symbolic system of signifiers and images of others (Safouan, 2004). Fantasies can also function as a constituent of political identities and programs insofar as they can provide symbolic articulation for what one has lost (the object a) and also the means for appropriating it (McGowan, 2004; Mura, 2015: 160–161). In a political discourse this can be expressed as the possibility of gaining a common state of individual and societal harmony and fulfilment (Clarke, 2020; Stavrakakis, 1999: 46–52) – the aforementioned EU and OECD discourses, for instance, promise that economic competitiveness will improve and creativity will be unleashed, but only after decisive reforms in education are implemented. Yet, as noted above, due to the constitution of the subject, such a state can never actually be reached – and so political discourses (like subjects) paradoxically project the existence of what can never be possessed in the first place. Fantasies must constantly keep the object of desire lingering in the distance for them to have an appeal and meaning (McGowan, 2016).

Like subjects, fantasies are never coherent either. They entail symptoms; various structural dislocations that interrupt their consistency and, as such, indicate confrontation with an impossible reality. They are, in a sense, paradoxical phenomena that do not seem to make sense within a given discourse yet are at the same time essential to the operation of fantasy (Žižek, 1989: 16–17). As I will show below, political discourses that highlight epochal rupture with traditional school environments necessarily contain repetition of this very notion of rupture, which therefore undermines the idea of unique and decisive change. These symptoms of fantasy may also lead to different forms of disavowal where they are dealt with through mechanisms of exclusion and othering (Stavrakakis, 1999; see also Clarke, 2020).

Spatial fantasies in educational policy

Miguel de Beistegui (2018) has identified a historical change regarding the role of desire in the rationale behind governing European societies. Since the 18th century, liberal economic and political theories have placed increasing emphasis on the fulfilment of the individual’s needs and desires as a central driver of the economy and society in general. This has, in turn, intensified with the ascent of neoliberal discourses founded on the figure of homo economicus – an entrepreneurial subject who behaves according to his or her individual economic interests (De Beistegui, 2018; see also Bröckling, 2016). Such individualist discourses have also assimilated formerly countercultural demands of cultivating creativity, personal empowerment and emancipation in the management of work (Boltanski and Chiapello, 2005; Cruikshank, 1999; Mouffe, 2013: 27). In educational policy discourses, the role of desire and its fulfilment is discernible in the way they portray entrepreneurial individuals as the subject of education, seeking to realise not only their own rational self-interest (Simons and Masschelein, 2008b), but also their unfolding creativity, freedom of expression and even spirituality (Saari and Harni, 2016).

From a Lacanian viewpoint, such entrepreneurial individuals are, for the most part, not subjects of knowledge. They do not act solely on the basis of rational calculation and reflection, but on the basis of what they desire (McGowan, 2013, 16). The emergence of liberal governance has heralded a gradual change in how desires are organised in fantasies: the indefinite postponement or extinguishing of pleasures (as a necessary means of organising desire) has been replaced by the fantasy that one’s innermost wishes can be consummated and that self-realisation in all areas of life is now possible without delay or sacrifice (McGowan, 2016; Sumic, 2016). It is as if an authoritarian, paternal figure (either at home, school, or in the workplace), who formerly demanded unconditional obedience, has been replaced with the collective imagery of a coach who constantly validates and reaffirms everything you do with ‘you may!’ (McGowan, 2004; Žižek, 1999b).

However, this does not mean that desires are no longer channelled in any way. Quite the opposite – the government of desire has become more important than ever. It is the central task of governmental discourse to encourage subjects to feel they are fulfilling their inner needs and desires in whatever they do, whether it be work, education, entertainment, or social relationships (Han, 2015: viii). This is particularly visible, for example, in the way forms of play and humour are used to cultivate innovation and productivity in business organisations (Andersen, 2009; Fleming, 2005). What is less explicit in these discourses of unbound pleasure is that they contain a double bind that has the tendency to be internalised as the subject’s consciousness or ‘inner voice’ – an injunction that you not only may but also must be ‘free’, ‘playful’ and ‘spontaneous’ and experience pleasure in whatever you do (Fleming, 2005; Žižek, 1999b, 2006).

This economy of desire also seeps into the topological reflexivity of Finnish educational policy rhetoric and the way future learning is framed. First of all, the economy of desire is reflected in the general aims directing the design of learning environments. The documents highlight joy, excitement, creativity and play as central to organising school learning in the future. Pupils should be encouraged to use their imagination and act according to their ‘internal motivation’ (Finnish Education Group, 2015: 30; Jordman et al., 2015; Parpala, 2013; Sitra, the Finnish Innovation Fund, 2015). The imagery of education as inherently enjoyable is present in the very name of a document by Sitra, the Finnish Innovation Fund (2015), which, translated into English, is ‘A Land Where Everybody Loves Learning’. The Finnish Education Group, for its part, envisions a school of the future which can be an ‘innovation platform that inspires pupils and teachers alike to seek, experiment with, and create new solutions in collaboration with others’ (Finnish Education Group, 2018: 15).

Second – and this is where topological reflexivity becomes most prominent – pleasure is allegedly enabled by carefully designing learning environments that make effortless communication, creativity and play possible. Policy documents claim that future schools should remove any obstacles to the creative use of diverse pedagogical methods, to allow ‘free movement’ and ‘free communication’ (Finnish Education Group, 2015: 50) by designing network-like learning environments and ‘ecosystems’ without isolating walls and distances (Ministry of Education and Culture, 2010: 24–25; Sitra, the Finnish Innovation Fund, 2015: 8).

These promises and demands are further reinforced by spatial metaphors strewn across the texts. For instance, a global transition from valuing formal to informal learning ‘outside’ school walls is constantly reiterated (Finnish Education Group, 2015: 35; InnoSchool, 2010; Kuuskorpi and Nevari, 2018), the guiding principle for designing future schools being to ‘tear down the barriers of learning’ (Lipponen and Rönnholm, 2016: 31). Moreover, the word ‘ubiquity’ is often found in these documents: learning and communication are and must be ‘ubiquitous’, as are certain digital technologies (Finnish Education Group, 2018: 12).

According to the Finnish National Agency for Education’s guidelines for school architecture (2010), schools should not be thought about in terms of isolated classes anymore, but rather as ‘learning spaces’ that can be modulated according to different purposes. This is the same ‘multi-space thinking’ that is used in designing office spaces (Kuuskorpi and Nevari, 2018: 59–60). It also means that schools should follow the latest research in work management – rather than any ‘personal work stations’, there should be functional spaces for silent, mobile and group work, and for pupil presentations and festivities. This is even reflected in the Finnish Education Group’s definition of learning as being ‘multi-sited and mobile work in an environment designed for the purpose’ (Finnish Education Group, 2018: 14; Kuuskorpi, 2013; Kuuskorpi and Nevari, 2018). The Finnish Education Group also demands that:

Single-use spaces must be minimised and replaced with multi-purpose spaces. The transparency between spaces must be adjustable. Furniture must be easily movable and amenable to grouping according to changing learning methods and activities. This flexibility will allow for pupils’ individual characteristics and strengths to be acknowledged. (Finnish Education Group, 2018: 13)

‘Diversity’ and ‘pedagogical flexibility’ are principles that, when properly carried out, should ensure a learning environment where those in it can ‘use the space according to their wishes’, whatever the future pedagogical methods and technologies may be (Finnish Education Group, 2015: 39; Kuuskorpi and Nevari, 2018). In this situation, every aspect of the space – the placement of walls, chairs and equipment – should bend and twist according to the fantasy of immediate pleasure. In these visions of future learning, school becomes a non-place (Augé, 1995) – a fluid state in which nothing should remain fixed or demand adaptation from the learner (Harni, 2015). As Parviainen (2015) has noted, Finnish policy documents for developing new learning environments highlight schools of the future as a pedagogical amusement park of sorts. There are no mentions of future schools being disciplinary institutions where power, authority and traditional hierarchies are reproduced, or where one’s own pleasure must sometimes be postponed and interests sacrificed; rather, it is a space for cultivating experiences of enjoyment.

These fantasies have the potential of having very tangible effects on the construction of school buildings and learning environments, as the documents go so far as to provide architectural recommendations and norms. These guidelines express a widely circulating imagery in architecture and urban planning which trade on both textual and visual visions of open, harmonic and thoroughly enjoyable environments (Gunder, 2005). The construction cards show no classroom designs which organise pupils into seated rows with the teacher’s desk in the front. Instead, they accentuate the multi-purpose use of open spaces with mobile elements within them, or spaces for different ‘functions’ of knowledge construction that are easily accessible and alterable (Rakennustieto, 2019a, 2019b, 2020; see also Kuuskorpi and Nevari, 2018; Mattila and Miettunen, 2010).

Rather than merely informing readers of the guiding concepts and norms of constructing future learning environments, this kind of educational policy discourse is creating a topology of desire – that is, proposing new spaces for pleasurable learning that are immediately within reach (see also Clarke, 2020). Such topology endows furniture, walls and technology with the powers to fulfil the subject’s desire – it takes stock of the subject’s sense of lack, and translates desire into specific needs, interests and motives that can be met through design (Gunder, 2005; cf. Sumic 2016: 33). As such, this topology also resonates with the aforementioned wider societal imagery of homo economicus – positioned as a self-interested consumer-like individual who should desire in such a way that it cultivates creativity and innovation.

Topological symptoms

The fantasmatic elements of structuring desire, as described above, resonate with Baudrillard’s (1988) ‘ecstasy of communication’, in which all distances and barriers between humans are broken down and the possibilities for experiencing pleasure become seemingly unlimited. The paradox here is that the ability to desire and experience pleasure becomes practically impossible due to a lack of distance. As Han writes, ‘fantasy is essential for the economy of pleasure. An object offered bare turns it off. Only the withdrawal and concealment of the object kindles it. Not enjoyment in real time, but imaginative preludes and postludes, temporal deferrals, deepen pleasure and desire’ (Han, 2015: 16; see also Mura, 2015: 166–167). In other words, as long as discourses identify something that should and can be overcome as a barrier to enjoyment, then they will function, as the subject cannot continue to desire if it already has what it craves (Stavrakakis, 1999: 43–44). The problem is, according to Han, that this economy of desire has all but disappeared in contemporary societies.

Yet such a dystopian reading does not fit with the anticipatory character of educational policy discourse analysed here, because its topological reflexivity is involved in a double gesture – it not only articulates an object of desire and the promise to attain it, but also has to identify the obstacles which prevent this. Moreover, the very function of this barrier as a catalyst of desire must not be articulated within the fantasies of immediate enjoyment lest its lure will be dissipated. This ‘symptomal torsion’ (Žižek, 1999a: 150–151) is something that is essential to the functioning of the fantasy, but it must remain suitably obfuscated. This double gesture means that topological policy discourses are caught in a repetitive movement of articulating over and over again those obstacles which they seek to overcome. As such, this anticipatory governance is a strategy of ‘limitless postponements’ (Webb et al., 2020: 290), and I will explore this more fully below.

Reform and complaint – repeating narratives

The double gesture can be discerned in the binary use of spatial metaphors such as ‘barrier’ or ‘isolation’ in contrast to ‘network’; and adjectival pairs of ‘closed’ versus ‘open’, ‘distant’ versus ‘near’ and ‘stationary’ versus ‘mobile’ (Finnish Education Group, 2018; Kuuskorpi, 2013; Kuuskorpi and Nevari, 2018). Lipponen and Rönnholm (2016: 9–10) even go so far as to warn that school in Finland ‘might be the last island lingering outside the network of our society’. One central way to use these dichotomies is to express them in a narrative form as movement from a dreary past towards a better future. Such a strategy claims that there are ‘old’, ‘traditional’ or even downright ‘obsolete’ forms of hierarchical, teacher-centred education which are far removed from pupils’ ways of experiencing the world (see e.g. Jordman et al., 2015; Kuuskorpi, 2013; Sitra, the Finnish Innovation Fund, 2015). In this respect, existing school furniture and the way it is organised perpetuate ‘traditional’, ‘static’ and ‘passive’ pedagogies (InnoSchool, 2010; Kuuskorpi and Nevari, 2018; Mattila and Miettunen, 2010: 27–28; Parpala, 2013: 51).

Contemporary Finnish schools have therefore been left not only outside, but also ‘behind’ society, and as a remedy, the ‘traditional’ and ‘rigid’ architecture of schools must be completely done away with:

As dynamic developments in information technology and new learning methods seep into our school culture, our tradition of formal and rigid education is being shaken. Informal learning, taking place outside school environments, demands a whole new form of flexibility, which the spatial structure of a traditional school can rarely offer. (Finnish Education Group, 2015: 8)

Although this narrative expresses a historical transition from traditional to modern and future learning environments, it remains decidedly ahistorical in another register. What it fails to mention is that, mutatis mutandis, similar decisive changes have been anticipated in Finnish educational research and policy discourses over the past several decades. Even in the mid-20th century, pedagogical textbooks were reiterating the pressing need to leave hierarchical, formal modes of instruction behind as obsolete remnants of the past, and to instead tailor learning environments to better suit pupils’ individuality, motivation and needs in a free, network-like communication between pupils and the teacher (Saari, 2011; Simola, 2015). Similar demands have also been made in national curriculum discourses since the 1950s (Saari and Tervasmäki, in press; Simola, 2015). Since the 1970s, some of the most important educational research projects in Finland – not to mention teacher training courses – have focused on enabling such transitions (Saari, 2017; Sitomaniemi-San, 2016). Moreover, from the late 1980s to the turn of the millennium, the rhetoric surrounding the ‘information society’ has accelerated the imminent dismantling of formal school learning environments, to replace them with more agile networks supported by information technology (Lehtinen, 2006; Nivala, 2009). This corroborates Webb et al.’s (2020: 290) claim that ‘anticipations of education circulate and repeat staid habits of both educational practices and temporalities, often under the pretense of a “promising future”’ This does not mean to say that there are no changes in learning environments but, at the level of fantasy that doubles material reality, the space of enjoyment lingers forever in the very near future.

It should be added that a characteristic of reform-oriented education policy documents is that these earlier discourses are never mentioned as forming part of a tradition which envelops the present. Instead, the change proposed is presented as happening uniquely here and now, and thus repetition in the narrative gesture becomes rather conveniently obfuscated. As Argenton (2017) notes, oblivion seems to be the fate of futures past in contemporary reform-oriented educational discourses: they necessarily have to disavow preceding attempts at implementing change so as not to give the impression of policy spinning its wheels. By heralding a spatial configuration to call off the search for anything else, discourse repeatedly ‘exploits the lack it installs in the subject as a way of reproducing itself’, as Sumic (2016: 32) puts it.

This also resonates with Clarke’s (2019: 104–107) notion of a structure of ‘complaint’ widely circulated in educational policy discourse. While it aims at mastery over education in the imminent future, this state never arrives as it is made impossible by the aforementioned lack in both subjects and discourses. This failure, in turn, leaves sufficient room for ‘hysterical’ engagement (Lacan, 2007), where policy discourses rail at the inability of existing forms of education to fulfil their (impossible) promises, and in turn, offer their own solutions to finally achieve harmony and fullness. Ultimately, this leads to a vicious circle of repetition where demands for change alternate with failure to achieve it. As Clarke puts it, ‘there is always something to be done, which is incapable of getting done, and so yet more must be done’ (Clarke, 2019: 107). This illustrates the need to sustain desire in discourses – as the object of desire, a better society must always remain enticingly on the horizon for it to have any effect on subjects (McGowan, 2013: 16–19).

The Finnish education system’s much vaunted status as an ‘education miracle’ makes such complaints even more peculiar. Since the turn of the millennium, Finland has been portrayed as a global example for education, largely due to the success in PISA comparisons (Sahlberg, 2015; Simola, 2015). This poses a challenge for national policy discourses which criticise the present situation and want decisive changes to be made – why fix something that is not broken (Saari and Säntti, 2018)? As a response, the texts analysed here would argue that decisive change is inevitable by reframing Finland’s success as being due to fearless innovation, flexibility and sensitivity to mega-trends; and by arguing that self-satisfaction and pedagogical conservatism is a serious threat to sustaining Finland’s status as a global benchmark (Lipponen and Rönnholm, 2016; Mattila and Miettunen, 2010).

Unruly subjects – teachers as naysayers

In addition to its repetitive nature, another symptomatic feature of topological policy discourse is that spatial fantasies might not actually motivate subjects at all (Gunder, 2005). These discourses are built on the premise that, rather than being forced to conduct themselves in a certain way, pupils and teachers are instead given the opportunity to experience pleasure through play and creativity. Moreover, compared to many other European countries, Finnish schools (and the teachers in them) are relatively autonomous in how they implement the national curriculum and develop learning environments (Saari et al., 2014; Sahlberg, 2015). This is reflected in the way the documents highlight the importance of establishing a ‘common state of wills’ (tahtotila) among teachers, principals and planners before constructing learning environments together that will create the ‘world’s best pupils, best teachers and best schools’ (Kuuskorpi and Nevari, 2018; see also Mattila and Miettunen, 2010).

But these future visions of learning environments have not beguiled everyone. For example, there are statistical surveys which show that Finnish schools and teachers have been comparatively reluctant in taking up digital devices in teaching (see e.g. Ministry of Education and Culture, 2010; OECD, 2015). This runs against the widespread narrative that Finland is a fully fledged information society with technologically innovative schools and teachers that get consistently high PISA rankings. It is conspicuous that, rather than seeing this reluctance as an indication that there is no real pedagogical need for new learning environments and digital technology, these discourses instead put the blame on outsiders that do not really belong to the community or betray it in some way (cf. Clarke, 2015: 79). A mild way to express this is to say that a truly systematic and holistic reform still requires ‘support’ and ‘encouragement’ to convince those teachers still expressing ‘resistance to change’ (Kuuskorpi and Nevari, 2018: 9, 100; see also Jordman et al., 2015: 79). A more straightforward way in which this unbelonging manifests itself is when teachers simply object to these proposals:

The greatest potential for changing school culture effectively lies in pupils, while the greatest obstacle to this being allowed to take place can be the teachers, who often want to keep on teaching just as they did before [. . .]. (Finnish Education Group, 2015: 38)

These teachers are allegedly in hopeless denial, as they refuse to acknowledge that the world has changed, and as such, pose a serious threat to the ability of Finnish schools to flourish (Lipponen and Rönnholm, 2016). In anticipation of further resistance, these documents portray a strategy of planning school spaces so that they prescribe certain forms of interaction (team work, silent study in various spatial configurations) and inhibit certain forms of teacher-led instruction which will make it ‘impossible for teachers to teach in a traditional way’ (Finnish Education Group, 2015: 38).

This kind of othering strategy reflects the broader rhetoric of ‘praise and blame’ (Puustinen et al., 2015; Saari and Säntti, 2018) circulating in Finnish educational policy discourses, where teachers are at once recognised as highly trained professionals, while at the same time blamed for their reluctance to adopt new pedagogical methods. From a Lacanian point of view, teachers who resist are clearly an indication that the fantasmatic elements of structuring desire are being undermined, as Finnish topological discourses cannot properly accommodate them. Although they express the very autonomy and freedom that such discourses evoke, they are doing so in the wrong way – by objecting to (or refusing to enjoy) the implementation of new learning environments.

Conclusions

Coming back to the existing research on topological reflexivity mentioned in the introduction to this article, I will conclude with some theoretical reflections on the value of a Lacanian approach to the topic, and argue that an analysis of the fantasmatic organisation of desire adds important analytical insights to how space and time are enacted in educational policy discourses.

Prominent Deleuzian and new-materialist approaches to governing education in sociomaterial networks and assemblages have recently problematised the naturalised forms of (Euclidean) space and (chronological) time as being ‘already there’ and ‘given’, and have instead focused on the multiple ways of enacting (rather than representing) national, institutional and individual boundaries, strata and rhythms in education (Decuypere and Simons, 2016; Webb and Gulson, 2012). This approach has also allowed the emergent conduits of power and knowledge in education to be traced in their digitalised, mediatised and datafied forms (see e.g. Thompson and Cook, 2015).

For instance, following Deleuze’s (1995) notion of the emergence of control societies, several studies have shown how the entangled nature of contemporary education spaces – transnational policy arenas, virtual learning environments, and classrooms (Piro, 2008; Thompson and Cook, 2014; Watson 2010) – are founded on a ‘modular’ logic of governance. By not confining governance to educational or workplace institutions, modular logic involves ever-shifting assemblages of technology, materials and discourses, as well as ways of thinking and feeling. These elements constantly reconfigure proximity, differences and mobility, while simultaneously ensuring carefully calibrated modes of individual freedom. Today, such modular logic takes place in education, for instance, in embedding traditional classrooms into malleable learning ecosystems or digital learning platforms (Webb et al., 2020).

What a Lacanian approach can add to these analyses is a means for explaining the paradoxical, self-conflicting and disavowing characteristics of governance enacted in such space-times. Primarily this stems from the focus on the doubling of a material object or space. As noted above, there is always a necessary distance between fantasmatic and ‘real’ space-times; what motivates subjects are not the real spaces or objects themselves, but the ephemeral objects of desire which can never be actually attained.

This focus enables a particular explanation of the anticipatory or proleptic nature of policies. As mentioned above, topological discourses are fuelled by a desire for future fulfilment in the form of uninhibited communication, creativity and playfulness – both in education and at work. This often takes the form of overcoming various obstacles to enjoyment – such as the boundaries between branches of an organisation, between school subjects, between different company–customer interfaces, or between education and ‘real life’. What is paradoxical here is that, in order to harness this desire, these discourses invariably require the existence of those very boundaries that they claim to be abolishing.

Furthermore, the characteristic of space-times as fantasmatic objects may explain the endless repetition and somewhat ‘hysterical’ (Clarke, 2019) demands inherent in topological discourses; hysterical insofar as they incessantly seek to achieve what can never be attained to begin with, and that is why no amount of digital technology, partitions or furniture can ever satisfy these demands. The inevitable failure of these efforts then fuels anticipation of seemingly new ways to overcome the obstacles to enjoyment. So, in spite of evident changes in material spaces, at the discursive level, topological reflexivity is caught in a timeless moment of spinning wheels.

Finally, it is often reiterated in critical education policy studies that governmental discourses in control societies consistently emphasise the freedom of those being governed. This means that subjects must be lured into implementing certain changes in the name of their personal freedom, fulfilment and well-being. Yet it is also reminded that this form of governance is never totalising in the sense of subduing all opposition and dissent – its topological assemblages always leave room for evasions and forms of resistance. What a Lacanian approach can add here is that it aids in locating the tension between domination and resistance at the stage of desire; subjects must be enticed into desiring certain environments as the gateway to their enjoyment. It also shows how political fantasies grapple with those naysayers by othering them – not necessarily for hosting false beliefs or violating explicit norms – but for refusing to desire in the right way.