PART I | Chapter 3
What’s in a Name?
Taylor Arnold and Lauren Tilton
“Labs Are for the Humanities, Too,” asserted a July 2016 Inside Higher Ed headline over its reporting on an NEH-funded conference exploring alternative models for humanities research and teaching among institutions of higher education. Collaboration, the author noted, was a primary aim and could produce exciting interdisciplinary research. The lab, a physical space that facilitates collaborative scholarship by building on individual strengths, offered a promising organizational strategy worth pursuing and assessing.1 Yet, less considered is how physical labs can foster as well as foreclose digital scholarship. Labs can be exciting spaces where collaboration and experimentation can lead to new avenues of scholarly inquiry and knowledge. However, the costs of the lab expansion movement for digital humanities can be challenging because the lab may be laden with systems of labor and budgeting that simultaneously obscure and reify hierarchy and privileges that can limit experimentation, collaboration, and access.
Across the United States, higher education institutions have launched initiatives to bring together those already engaged or interested in digital humanities. Often called digital humanities initiatives (DHIs), they have gained traction across large swaths of higher education. Current universities with DHIs or DH centers read as a who’s who of higher education: public research institutions including Indiana University, UCLA, and the University of North Carolina; private Ivies including Yale University, the University of Pennsylvania, and Columbia; and liberal arts schools including Bowdoin College and the Claremont colleges have all conducted institution-building exercises around digital humanities agendas. Most approaches have included talks by DH scholars within and beyond the institution to show the potential of DH, hands-on workshops for learning new methodologies, and meetings with key stakeholders to assess the kinds of DH the institution ought to pursue. Discussions of resources, procurement, and branding in the context of one’s peers were key elements. Generally, these initiatives were followed by an effort to create long-term formal structures to assure investment and production. In some cases, this effort gave a name to a constellation of activities that fit under the recognized rubric of DH that were nascent on the particular campus. For example, the University of Wisconsin Madison DHI comprises several units including the College Library Media Studio, DesignLab, and Digital Humanities Research Network. Similarly, the Maryland Institute for Technology in the Humanities at the University of Maryland is jointly structured between the College of Arts and Humanities and the University Library. These hybrid or joint investment structures proliferate at large public universities, where their size and rapid growth over the last several decades has necessitated extensive growth in infrastructure resulting in centers, labs, and studios across different schools and libraries.
Other universities have focused on centralizing DH within a physical space administered by a singular entity. These spaces have seemingly interchangeable names: center, collaboratory, institute, studio, and lab. For example, the Princeton digital humanities initiative resulted in a center in the library; the Rutgers initiative led to a lab; and Hamilton College’s Digital Humanities Initiative (DHi) is supported by a physical space on campus referred to as the collaboratory. At the University of Iowa, the digital humanities effort comprises a digital scholarship and a publishing component hosted at the library. Despite these different terms, the core values, labor systems, and administrative structures replicate a more traditional concept in higher education: the lab.
Efforts to develop lab spaces to pursue humanities scholarship have been led by those looking to institutionalize the digital humanities. Throughout the 1990s emerged some of today’s most prominent DH labs as a focus on interdisciplinarity alongside the cultural turn that reshaped the humanities. George Mason University’s Center for History and New Media (CHNM), University of Maryland’s Maryland Institute for Technology in the Humanities (MITH), and the University of Virginia’s Scholars’ Lab are internationally recognized for their success in building community and developing innovative digital humanities scholarship over that last decade. Their achievements and the resulting recognition of digital humanities by the larger academy has elicited much excitement about the digital humanities’ potential to change how we approach humanities scholarship. It is no longer possibly “the next big thing,” but “the Thing,” as Matt Gold wrote in the first Debates in the Digital Humanities.2 Some people have gone as far as to declare digital humanities a potential salve for the current (or never ending, depending on one’s position) crisis in the humanities.3
Funders have taken notice. Over the last decade, tens of millions of dollars of philanthropic support has flowed into universities and colleges to support the intersection of digital technologies and the humanities. Recipients include not only humanities programs, departments, and centers but also libraries, archives, and museums that intersect with the larger field. Most notably, the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation has been a key participant in the proliferation of institutional funding for the development of digital humanities. The Center for Digital Humanities at Vanderbilt University and the digital humanities initiative at Hamilton College each received $1.5 million in 2016 and over $1.6 million, respectively, since 2010. Peer small liberal arts and public research institutions have been quick to develop their own digital humanities initiatives with the hope of catching funders’ attention. Significantly, several Ivy League institutions have recently made large investments in DH. For the Ivies, this has been facilitated by their great wealth and extraordinary access to private philanthropy. In 2015, Yale University received $3 million from the Goizueta Foundation to open their Digital Humanities Lab. A year later, the University of Pennsylvania received $7 million from a private donor and another $2 million from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation to start the Price Lab for Digital Humanities. Such major investment in these labs brings opportunities as well as challenges.
We know that labs can be useful hubs for digital humanities; that is proven not only by their success at securing external funding but also by the extensive public recognition of their larger programs. At the same time, the way that labs are structured increases for some constituents but impedes for others lab access, collaboration, experimentation, and credit. While Urszula Pawlicka-Deger discusses multiple types of labs in this volume,4 our chapter focuses on physical labs designed as community spaces and labs designed as research units with a narrower scholarly agenda. The former (i.e., labs centered on supporting the research and pedagogical goals of the community beyond faculty researchers) can be more inclusive and efficient because resources can be better shared and centralized, but they risk treating collaborators without faculty status as second-class citizens in the projects produced; the latter (i.e., labs organized around the scholarly agenda of a particular scholar or group of scholars sharing a similar approach) offer the ability to dive deeply into an object of study through collaborative scholarship. However, these labs often silo research and access to resources from the broader community. After delving further into the opportunities and challenges of these two models, we turn to how the labels we use—center, collaboratory, and lab—for digital humanities institutional formations signal who has access and funding. Each institution has particularities and therefore any effort to categorize and develop generalization will be partial. However, this does not mean that we can thus dismiss these challenges by citing our institutions’ uniqueness or idiosyncrasies. We recognize that this chapter is not exhaustive. Rather, it is designed to contribute to the debates that occur within and across our institutions about why and how to develop digital humanities (DH) labs and the impact of such institutional structures on digital humanities and higher education writ large.
DH Labs as Open Community Spaces
A driving motivation for the creation of many DH labs is to support the research and pedagogical goals of the university and its attendant community. An open, community-oriented DH lab offers a clear central location, shared technical and personnel resources, and spaces for broader collaboration. When someone asks where to learn about and pursue DH, there is a clear answer; head to the DH lab! Ideally, its physical space and equipment serve as a hub in which community and collaboration are fostered. Drawing on the approach and promises of a science lab model, it is a place to experiment with new methods to answer questions, enduring or otherwise. The outcome might be an extensive multiyear interdisciplinary project involving a team across fields or an informal conversation where one shares the pros and cons of a method that they explored. All these components work together to facilitate a place that enacts three of DH’s core tenets: collaboration, experimentation, and (open) access.5
Centering resources in a shared lab environment can come with fewer institutional or personal risks than funding equipment for a single scholar’s agenda. Particularly for smaller institutions, the lab can be the place where users access equipment such as scanners that would otherwise be inaccessible. The lab can also centralize resources that previously were dispersed and difficult to identify. Equipment available to the entire campus such as digitization resources, 3D immersive systems, and computers with specialty software can be more easily justified through user metrics and the proliferation of project use cases when they are congregated under a single lab umbrella. The investment in staff and technical infrastructure can be easier when a lab can show that needs across the institution are being met. Equipment for a one-off research project or scholar is difficult to fund and more likely to be supported if there are more use cases. Full-time staff can then be sustained in lieu of contingent labor, which often takes the form of consultants, postdocs, or students.
Housed in the library, the University of Virginia Scholars’ Lab is an early example of a lab primarily motivated by the need to engage with the university community and support a wide range of projects. It now houses administrative and managerial staff, design and visualization experts, GIS, 3D, augmented reality experts, and DH developers as well as large open lab space in the library accessible to all members of the university community. The lab functions as a central community hub for multiple constituencies and various projects across fields. The Praxis Program, for example, funds a cohort of graduate students to collaboratively develop a project or tool, and the LAMI program provides summer DH fellowships for undergraduates with the aim of supporting demographically underrepresented students who pursue graduate education. Smaller institutional labs may consist of only a single director, whereas larger labs consist of extensive teams with staff including area specialists, librarians, programmers, and outreach coordinators. It is also a place where members of the institution can access technologies such as 3D scanners, computers, scanners, and virtual reality equipment. Office hours with coffee, workshops, and lectures are programmed to foster experimentation and collaboration. The lab is intended to be a gathering place for the pursuit of DH scholarship by multiple stakeholders simultaneously.
Yale University’s DH Lab, founded in 2015 while we were graduate students at Yale, is another good example of a community-focused lab. Housed in the library, the DH Lab has become the focal point for DH work on campus. If a member of the community is looking to support a project or learn a new method or is DH-curious, there is a clear physical location open daily during the week. The staff includes a director, programmers, an outreach coordinator, and a user experience designer. Their extensive expertise supports the entire pipeline of selected projects from conception to final output and publicity. The space includes equipment (mostly focused on digitization) to develop projects. Internal grants are awarded to support projects, initially led by faculty and students. Yale community members can attend drop-in hours, workshops, and talks. For three years, postdocs were hired to develop and share their research and expertise, but the program was halted. The lab is an accessible and open space where people can experiment with new methods, develop projects, collaborate with DH Lab staff, and meet others engaged in digital humanities. When buzzing with people, it is an exciting space that proactively builds connections across institutional boundaries.
Despite the enormous potential of DH labs to advance access, support collaboration, and nurture experimentation, structural and institutional constraints offer difficult challenges for achieving these lofty goals. Amy Earhart has outlined the great promise as a “space in which collaboration might occur” and where “equal participation” might be fostered.6 Labs’ orientation around developing and supporting projects can result in a series of nonrelated stakeholders seeking access and the bulk of staff labor used to build projects. Priority is often given to ladder faculty, who are employed by the institution to pursue new scholarship and depend on research output for tenure and promotion. At best, faculty-led projects are collaborative and acknowledge the labor of these critical experts. At worst, they are built entirely by the lab and this labor is rendered invisible; the project is presented as a single-author piece, effacing the affective, intellectual, and technological labor of colleagues. Many junior digital humanists who have worked in labs can recount colleagues talking about “their” and “my” projects.
The practice of effacing collaborative work is so acute that in a Mellon-funded survey of over forty institutions about how to support DH, a main concern was the exploitation of (often contingent) labor. As one respondent wrote, “[we] need to conceive of staff working on projects as coauthors and not merely as labor.”7 Survey participants suggested that care be taken to discourage the exploitation of contingent labor, and that the model be partnership not servitude. The sciences have long struggled to properly credit staff, who are key intellectual interlocutors; a practice those who work with DH Labs often replicate.8 Continuing to efface the labor and resources required not only risks being unethical but can also harm long-term funding for the lab. This is particularly true when considering differing community norms regarding authorship and credit.
There are significant incentives for certain members of our communities to emphasize single or primary authorship. Momentum makes it easy to fall back into tendencies that a lab might otherwise challenge. Whereas organizations such as the American Historical Association (AHA) and the Modern Language Association (MLA) are trying to change the landscape, guidelines for tenure and promotion in the humanities still often privilege single authorship. It is easier to borrow the label of the lab from the sciences than it is to adopt the norms of multiauthor scholarship that undergird the laboratory model. In practice, the disconnect between the collaborative space created by DH labs and practices within the humanities result in the presentation of such work as single-author scholarship. Such an approach often reaffirms the idea of scholarship as a finished product, a condition that is actually uncommon in the digital humanities and undermines efforts to build a DH inflected by intersectional feminism.9 This issue is particularly acute because one of the most prominent currencies in the academy is not monetary compensation but credit through labor attribution, so it is equally important to be aware of the kinds of labor rewarded for each contributor and how credit is distributed and valued within and beyond an institution.10
Not only is collaboration often obscured, but the radical possibilities of fostering equal participation are often thwarted by the very structure of lab projects. DH projects have started to borrow the language of a primary investigator (PI). External funding agencies such as the NEH often require one or two people to be designated as a PI. This same language is applied to internal grants. For example, Yale’s DH Lab offered two kinds of grants for the first three years with funds from an external grant. The largest and most prominent was the faculty-only project grants, which offered $20,000 for a project. Considerations that lead to these policies include the institutional status of faculty who are considered the prominent researchers on campus, concerns about how to hold people accountable if the funds are mismanaged, and allocating limited resources, which is among the most prominent challenges.
Experts in labs are often collectively labeled staff, a term that is premised on a meaningful distinction between service providers and service receivers. Faculty become the DH lab’s client, which can cut against genuine collaboration. The lines are further blurred when institutions offer faculty status to members of the community such as librarians. Faculty status can be a major asset because it often allows the person to be a PI as well as be an instructor of record. This kind of institutional status can also signal that staff members are equal collaborators with valued expertise. Yet, their position as staff often works against the kind of collaboration intended by providing a status such as research faculty. As Alan Liu argues, DH must engage with cultural criticism in order not to be “merely servants” and “purely instrumental” to the humanities but also to consider how the ways that we organize DH labs are creating unequal partners within DH and within our institutions. If the DH lab is a service center for humanities professors, DH marginalizes its own labor and its own institutional position.11 The labor of staff, students, and community members is at risk of being treated as second-class in the scholarly projects produced. Because of the problematic hierarchy produced by such kinds of labs, Muñoz argues that “digital humanities in the library isn’t a service” because such a figuration “center[s] the focus of the discussion on faculty members or others outside the library . . . [and is] likely to stall rather than foster libraries engagement with digital humanities.”12
Because resources are limited, labs must decide to what degree they will support a project, ranging from offering a few hours of expertise on database design to building and hosting a project. If the lab chooses not to support a project, it is difficult for projects to access resources and institutional legitimacy. The lab functions as a gatekeeper determining who and which projects are part of the lab. The result is that certain work is legitimized institutionally and beyond, a condition made more acute by the absence of a standard peer-review system for digital projects.13 The emphasis on faculty-led projects further limits the opportunities for other members of the community. This approach to resource allocation often means that a member who develops a project must find a faculty member, usually either ladder or nonladder with research status, to be the PI. Even within the sciences there have been many critiques of the two-tiered structure created by the PI designation, which is one more reason why DH should adopt the model critically and carefully.14 For ideas about how to address these issues, see the chapters by Christina Boyles and Kelsey Corlett-Rivera et al. in this volume.15
DH Labs as Research Units
Another motivation for constructing a DH lab is to support a specific research agenda of one or two scholars. Undergraduate students, graduate students, or postdocs cohere as research teams under the faculty members’ leadership. Activities may be supported by a few dedicated staff members. A lab may be oriented around a particular project or focused on methodological experimentation. This formation most closely mimics the lab models of the experimental sciences. Driven by a single faculty member’s interests, a lab often becomes hyperspecialized. A lab with a defined scope allows for a deep dive into method and disciplinary questions, a level of specialization and experimentation that is difficult and often unsustainable for a central DH lab.
Stanford’s Literary Lab (LitLab), which focuses on the computational analysis of literature, offers a nationally recognized model of the lab as research unit. Led by Department of English faculty member Mark Algee-Hewitt, LitLab works with a team of postdocs, graduate students, and undergraduate students. Importantly, however, anyone interested in literary text analysis cannot turn to the lab for support for a project unless the lab sees value in collaborating. What value is evaluated often remains murky to those outside the lab. In the case of LitLab, the lab is physically located in the Department of English, where it began and was initially funded. The lab continues to flourish because the prominence of the lab meant that Stanford was willing to support a new director after the founding director retired. The growing institutional commitment to digital humanities also resulted in the formation of the Center for Spatial and Text Analysis (CESTA), which recently began offering the LitLab financial and administrative support. The connection to CESTA has provided the LitLab further institutional stability.
LitLab applies computational criticism to study literature. The LitLab team is also able to support and train graduate students as well as build collaborations across institutional boundaries because of their specific and shared object of study. Although there are risks of exploitation labor, this model can be particularly fruitful for student collaboration and coauthorship. Often such labs borrow the multiauthor model from the sciences. However, the humanities’ slow and cautious recognition of coauthorship often results in collaborative work either being attributed to the most prominent author (as is often the case in the sciences) or being characterized (incorrectly) as lesser work.16 It can also be difficult for junior faculty members who run such labs because they have to explain how their scholarly production, often collaborative articles or digital projects, is equivalent to more traditional forms such as books that are better recognized by institutions.
At the same time, institutions can support as many parallel labs as they see fit. A major challenge then is that multiple labs can require extensive university resources, focus on (most often senior) faculty research agendas, and risk fracturing possible collaborative interdisciplinary work across campus. Multiple labs mean multiple spaces and technologies that can be redundant, underutilized, difficult to maintain, and siloed on campus. In contrast, one lab means sharing resources by aggregating expertise and infrastructure, increasing the possibility of supporting more projects, and developing a collaborative cross-disciplinary space. Because they are individual labs, it is nearly impossible to procure support for a lab for a community member other than a ladder faculty member, a practice borrowed from the sciences. Those interested in pursuing DH may find themselves locked out of institutional support if there is no central DH lab to turn to. If one is able to set up a lab, however, it comes with institutional cache that can help assure at least nominal support. Particularly for faculty at small or underresourced institutions, a lab could be a strategy for shoring up their research agenda, supporting their colleagues, and maintaining an institutional commitment to DH. As the rate of administrative turnover increases, labs can be a mechanism for weathering the (often rapid) shift in agendas implemented by upper-level administrators.17
Perhaps the biggest challenge of a lab built around a singular research agenda is the inherent lack of stability. Because of its narrow focus and singular leadership, much rests on the ability of the director to find support for the lab in the form of financial support and social capital. Funds often come in the form of grants or as a part of a prominent faculty member’s research budget. The narrow focus of such lab’s funding is often dependent on that person’s employment by the university as well as linked to a specific academic department or positioned under a research division such as the Provost’s Office. Colleagues, particularly faculty members, may then view them as fiefdoms that need either to be opened to all or disbanded, or may argue that they should have access to the resources to start their own. These conditions can cause instability and lend the lab a sense of precariousness, which often comes to a head when the director of a lab leaves or retires. With the person could go the lab, as is common in the sciences; either the lab is relocated to the new institution or closed. Alternatively, a lab can help maintain an investment in a particular research agenda and the people working on it having already invested significantly in it, as was the case with Stanford’s LitLab. Upon the departure of the first director, Stanford did a national search and hired Mark Algee-Hewitt.
The Digital Scholar Lab (DSL) at the University of Richmond, where we are affiliated as research fellows, offers an example of the opportunities and challenges of a lab centered around a singular research agenda. The DSL sits at the intersection of several institutional challenges including labor, space, and management. The focus is on spatial analysis of nineteenth- and twentieth-century American history. The University of Richmond is a small, private liberal arts school. The School of Arts & Sciences is focused solely on undergraduates. Founded in 2007, the lab’s research agenda is led by historians Ed Ayers and Rob Nelson. Fortunately, the university has made a commitment to the lab, supporting the three-person staff on hard money. However, housed at a small institution, the DSL often looks toward expertise beyond its grounds. The lab’s projects, ambitious in scale, can require significant funding to support collaboration across institutions and paid undergraduate labor.
For example, Mapping Inequality: Redlining in New Deal America involved a partnership with University of Maryland, Johns Hopkins University, Virginia Tech, and Stamen Design, a data visualization and map studio in San Francisco. The public digital humanities project explained the history of housing discrimination in the 1930s through text and cutting-edge visualization techniques. Scholars at the institutions contributed area expertise, undergraduates and graduate students created data, and Stamen lent design and visualization expertise. The acknowledgment section of the “About Mapping Inequality” page lists every institution and person involved.18 The exchange of expertise that made Mapping Inequality possible produced an award-winning project that pushes the field of digital history and the history of redlining in America; however, it comes with a significant investment of time and money that might not have been possible without significant support from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation. For small and underfunded institutions, the significant investment is difficult to sustain. The DSL’s focus on a particular subdiscipline (American history) and approach (spatial analysis) makes for a specific, well-focused research program that allows the lab to be a recognized national leader in digital history.
At the same time, such a specialized lab in the humanities (and in history specifically) is highly unusual. It is particularly unusual for a liberal arts school for which undergraduate education and research is a major driver. The lab has limited capacity to support classroom instruction and student research, which is done on an ad hoc basis. Classroom DH projects therefore are handled by the Center for Teaching, Learning and Technology; however, this unit does not support a project that expands beyond a course, which is a major issue for DH projects. Those seeking to start a project or programmatic offerings such as workshops or trainings find themselves stuck between institutional silos.
There is also no clear institutional home for this kind of lab, unlike its equivalent in the sciences. University of Richmond’s American studies program and history department are not currently designed to support such a lab in the way that the biology department has the budget and physical space to open a new lab. As a result, the lab sits precariously within institutional structures, currently within the library that privileges a service model of which this lab was not set up to be a part. The University of Richmond DSL’s position in the university’s structure reveals how institutions of higher education need to grapple with how to support humanities or interdisciplinary research–oriented labs; a particularly acute issue as the humanities lab movement continues to gain traction.19
Questions for Future Practice
Institutions are proactively working to realize a more accessible, experimental, and collaborative model. For example, UVa’s Scholars’ Lab, is attempting to offer an alternative model. The Praxis Program supports a cohort of graduate students who work collaboratively to develop a DH project that is usually outside of their specific area of study. For example, the Scholars’ Lab challenged the 2015–2016 cohort to develop a project about alternative ways to build timelines for representing time. The team developed ClockWork, a project that uses sound—what they call “sonifications”—to visualize time, applying this method to a particular case study. The next year’s cohort was provided with the same prompt, to which they responded by developing a project of a very different sort called Dash Amerikan, which distant reads social media about one of America’s cultural phenomena, the Kardashians. The emphasis on this kind of collaborative work is informed by the lab’s broader approach to the job market. The lab is committed to training graduate students for academic jobs as well as positions in industry, for which former Scholars’ Lab director Bethany Nowviskie coined the term alternative academic positions (alt-ac).20 Not everyone wants to be a professor, she has noted, arguing that graduate training needs to acknowledge and destigmatize these alternative career paths. As a result, the Scholars’ Lab is doing important work through their programs to offer a feminist-inflected model of labor, which emphasizes nonhierarchical experimentation and project development that challenges the logic of the single author or PI model from the sciences that DH labs have embraced.
Yale’s Digital Humanities Lab continues to adapt as well. Previously tucked away in Sterling Memory Library, the lab has moved to a newly renovated space on the first floor that greatly increases visibility and access. The lab also recognizes the difficulty of being a one-stop shop and has thus identified four areas of experimentation: image analysis, network analysis, spatial analysis, and text analysis. With less funding for internal project grants since their external private philanthropy grant was completed, they have changed their grants process. Project grants, which were only available during the first three years of the lab, have been replaced with rapid prototyping grants and are now open to all students, faculty, librarians, and curators. The grants fund three one-week meetings with the lab to draft, design, and develop a project. Although such grants still result in lab staff prototyping (i.e., actually building the projects), the Yale DH Lab site now lists on individual project pages which DH Lab staff made the project. Because of the amount of work and intellectual labor that actually goes into building a project, it is critical that such collaborators be listed.
As DH labs continue to open and adjust, we share Earhart’s optimism that a lab can “actively build, examine, and rebuild institutional environments” that foster a more equitable mode of collaboration and credit.21 We also share James Malazita’s call in this volume to “resolve the divide between critical inquiry and technical expertise” in order to create politically engaged interdisciplinary spaces that challenge rather than replicate “instrumentalist epistemic infrastructure.”22 In realizing this goal, institutions must think critically about the ways that communities form around the physical and imagined spaces constructed by the laboratory model. Being attuned and explicit about the potential and challenges of building and maintaining DH labs is a step to creating more equitable, inclusive structures. There is no one-size-fits-all approach to building DH, much less a DH lab, as Maria Cecire and Susan Merriam’s chapter in this volume demonstrates.23 Rather than prescriptive suggestions, we end with questions to consider:
- Should a lab be created?
- What kind of lab should be created?
- Who will have access to the lab, and how is this communicated?
- What is the structure of labor?
- How is work by members of the lab credited?
- How are resources allocated?
- If necessary, how will projects be sustained?
- What does success look like?
One final note. In the excitement to establish and maintain labs, an often-overlooked question is when might it be time to close a lab. Such questions are being asked increasingly about digital projects because few are in a position to be continually developed endlessly. Shuttering, merging, or shifting the mission of a lab can be difficult to consider, particularly when full-time staff are involved. Care should be taken to support all involved. At the same time, as with digital projects, it is helpful to acknowledge from the beginning that there may be a horizon. Modes of inquiry change, and a shift in course might mean rethinking, adjusting, and even closing a lab.
Notes
We would like to thank Catherine DeRose, Quinn Dombrowski, Jennifer Guilano, James Malazita, Robert Nelson, Anelise Shrout, Brandon Walsh, and the volume coeditors for their generous feedback on this chapter. We would also like to thank Mark Algee-Hewitt for speaking with us.
Joselow, “Labs.”
Gold, “Digital Humanities Moment.”
Gretman, “It’s the End of the Humanities.”
Pawlicka-Deger, “Laboratory.”
McCarthy and Witmer, “Notes toward a Values-Driven Framework”; and Spiro, “This Is Why We Fight.”
Earhart, “Digital Humanities as a Laboratory,” 396.
DLAx, “Will This Make Us Famous?,” 10.
Barley and Bechky, “In the Backrooms of Science.”
Losh and Wernimont, Bodies of Information.
Nowviskie, “Two & a Half Cheers.”
Liu, “Where Is Cultural Criticism?”
Muñoz, “Digital Humanities in the Library.”
The landscape is changing with developments such as Reviews in Digital Humanities, edited by Dr. Jennifer Guiliano and Dr. Roopika Risam (https://reviewsindh.pubpub.org).
Hyman, “Biology Needs More Staff Scientists.”
Boyles, “Intersectionality and Infrastructure”; and Corlett-Rivera et al., “In Service of Pedagogy.”
Deegan and McCarty, Collaborative Research; and Koh, “Challenges.”
Kiley, “Searching for an Answer”; and Mann, “Attrition.”
Nelson et al., “About Mapping Inequality.”
Joselow, “Labs.”
Nowviskie, “Two & a Half Cheers.”
Earhart, “Digital Humanities as a Laboratory,” 396.
Malazita, “Epistemic Infrastructure.”
Cecire and Merriam, “Custom-Built DH.”
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