A Long March to Creativity (II)

I soon realized that this incident was directly relevant to our assigned tasks in China: to investigate the ways of early childhood education (especially in the arts) and, more broadly, to illuminate Chinese attitudes toward creativity. And so before long I began to include this "key-slot" anecdote into my talks to Chinese educators. I would tell audiences about what had happened and seek their reactions. Some of my Chinese colleagues displayed the same attitude as the attendants at the Jinling Hotel. Since adults know how to place the key in the key slot (they would say), since that is the ultimate purpose of approaching the slot, and since the toddler is neither old nor clever enough to realize the desired action on his own, what possible gain is achieved by having the child flail about? He may well get frustrated and angry—certainly not a desirable outcome. Why not show him what to do? He will be happy (those around will be happier), he will learn how to accomplish the task sooner, and then he can proceed to more complex activities, like opening the door or asking for the key.

We listened to such explanations sympathetically. We agreed that sometimes it is important to show a child what to do, and that we certainly did not want to frustrate Benjamin. But, as I have said, he was rarely frustrated by his fledgling attempts: "delighted" would be a more appropriate word to describe him. We went on to suggest that many Americans held quite different views about such matters.

First of all, we did not much care whether Benjamin succeeded in inserting the key into the slot. He was having a good time and exploring, two activities that did matter to us. But the critical point was that in the process, we were trying to teach Benjamin something: that one can solve a problem effectively by oneself. Such self-reliance is a principal value of child rearing in middle-class America. So long as the child is shown exactly how to do something—whether it be placing a key in a key slot, drawing a rooster, or apologizing for a misdeed—he is less likely to figure out himself how to accomplish such a task. And, more generally, he is less likely to view life—as many Americans do—as a series of situations in which one has to learn to think by oneself, to solve problems on one's own, and even to discover new problems for which creative solutions are wanted.

In retrospect, it became clear to me that this incident was indeed key—and key in more than one sense. It indicated important differences in the educational and artistic practices in our two countries. Even more to the point, this apparently little episode revealed important issues about education, creativity, and art that have interested thinkers around the world.

Dating back to the time of the Greeks, as Philip Jackson has pointed out, one can discern two contrasting approaches to educational issues. One dominant approach is the "mimetic" one, in which the teacher (and "the text") are seen as the unquestioned sources of knowledge. Students are expected to memorize information and then, on subsequent occasions, feed back the information that has been presented to or modeled for them. Opposed to this tradition is a "transformative" approach, in which the teacher is more of a coach, attempting to elicit certain qualities in her students. The teacher engages the student actively in the learning process, asking questions and directing attention to new phenomena, in the hope that the student's understanding will be enhanced. One might say that in the "mimetic" tradition, the cultivation of basic skills is primary; whereas in the "transformative" approach, the stimulation of the child's expressive, creative, and knowing powers is most prized.