Tag Archives: my evocative object

Book Review, Other

Content creation is not a linear process

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Making as a Source of Media-Theoretical Tools

Introduction

Throughout this class, we have explored many topics, but one area we have not yet deeply examined is social media, something that has had a tremendous influence on our everyday lives. After reading Tim Ingold’s Making: Anthropology, Archaeology, Art and Architecture, I began to see common parallels between his theories and the work of content creators. Ingold’s exploration of anthropology, ethnography, and the process of “thinking through making” can be directly applied to the practice of digital creation in the media. As a content creator myself, I found that many of Ingold’s concepts mirror the creative processes, challenges, and inspirations that shape content production for social media platforms.

The process of content creation

One of Ingold’s main arguments is that making is not a linear process, but rather an evolving relationship between the maker and the materials they work with. He writes that “making creates knowledge, builds environments and transforms lives” (Ingold, 2013, p.1). This perspective resonates strongly with the world of content creation. Many assume that creating online content is as simple as coming up with an idea and executing it, but in reality, it is a continuous process of experimentation and adaptation. A content creator may start with a basic idea, but as they film, edit, and engage with feedback the idea evolves. The “materials” of content creation are not just physical tools like cameras and editing software; they also include trends, cultural conversations, algorithms, and the audiences themselves. In this sense, social media creation is an ongoing dialogue between creator, material, and environment, much like Ingold’s conception of making.

Ingold’s example of the mason further illustrates this point. He explains that traditional masons learned their craft through practice and mentorship rather than formal education (Ingold, 2013, p.52). Their knowledge came from direct engagement with materials like “trowel, plumb line and string” (Ingold, 2013, p52) which guided their learning and skill development. This process closely parallels how many content creators work today. Few creators attend formal training programs in content creation; instead, they learn through trial and error, observing others, and experimenting with new techniques. For instance, when I first started creating videos, I did not have access to professional equipment. I used natural lighting, basic editing apps, and my phone to bring my ideas to life. Over time, I learned how different materials, for instance light, sound, and even social media algorithms shaped my work. Like the masons, creators learn by doing.

Anthropology and Ethnograpy relationship with content creation

Another key concept Ingold explores is that creativity is inherently relational; it develops through connections with people and materials. He writes, “We go to study with people, and we hope to learn from them” (Ingold, 2013, p.2). This anthropological approach aligns with how many creators learn and grow today. Being part of a creative community is important for inspiration and growth. Personally, I feel most motivated when surrounded by other creators because brainstorming new ideas, assisting on shoots, and watching others work spark my creativity and help me think differently about my own projects. Many creators also rely on their audiences for this same kind of learning. Asking questions like “What do you want to see next?” allows creators to engage in a dialogue that both inspires and informs their process. This is why anthropology in the making process is important as Ingold mentions. 

Ingold’s concept that “materials think in us, as we think through them” (Ingold, 2013, p.2) further deepens this connection. For content creators, the “materials” might include digital tools like editing software or even the social platforms themselves. When creators work with these tools, they are not just manipulating them, instead they are also shaped by the tools’ affordances and limitations. The platform’s design, algorithm, and audience behavior all influence how creators think and what they produce. This two-way relationship highlights Ingold’s notion that thinking and making are inseparable; our thoughts are formed through the process of working with materials.

While anthropology emphasizes learning through relationships, ethnography focuses on observing and documenting human experiences. In the context of social media, ethnography can be compared to how creators use data and analytics to understand their audiences. Engagement metrics, user-generated content, and algorithm trends all act as forms of documentation that inform creators’ strategies. Ingold, however, cautions against relying too heavily on documentation and accuracy, noting that “the speculative, experimental and open-ended character of arts practice is bound to compromise ethnography’s commitment to descriptive accuracy” (Ingold, 2013, p.8). This means that strict adherence to data or predetermined formulas can hinder creativity. The same applies to content creation while analytics can provide useful guidance, they should not dictate every decision. Even if a creator uses the information from the analytics for success, there is no guarantee that their content will resonate. Creativity thrives on uncertainty and risk-taking, not just replication.

The Art of inquiry


I also found Ingold’s discussion of the “art of inquiry” particularly insightful. He describes anthropology as an “‘’indispensable to the practice of anthropology as an art of inquiry’’” (Ingold, 2013, p.2). This suggests that makers, through their curiosity and exploration, embody the same investigative spark as anthropologists. Many content creators express a similar mindset that they constantly observe, experiment, and learn from the world around them. Interestingly, this also raises questions about influence and intention. Many creators resist the label of “influencer” because they associate it with inauthenticity or a label that they will have to rely on. However, Ingold’s theory suggests that all makers inevitably influence others through their work. Whether they intend to or not, content creators shape public conversations, trends, and perceptions. Recognizing this influence can empower creators to approach their work more thoughtfully, considering how their content might impact their audiences.

Concluding thoughts

The connection between Ingold’s theories and social media becomes even clearer when we consider the concept of evocative objects. Social media platforms themselves can be seen as evocative objects, tools that evoke emotions and dependencies. For many creators, these platforms are more than just spaces for sharing work; they become extensions of identity and creativity. However, this connection can also become overwhelming. For instance, if a creator stops posting for several months, they often see a drop in engagement, followers, and even income opportunities. I’ve experienced this myself feeling pressured to post regularly, not because I was inspired, but because I feared losing visibility. Over time, this reliance on social media can blur the line between passion and obligation. Ingold’s reminder that materials should support thinking, not control it. Creators need to maintain a healthy relationship with their platforms and use them as tools for creative exploration rather than letting them dictate their worth or direction.

Reflecting on Ingold’s ideas through the lens of social media has given me a deeper understanding of my own creative process. I’ve learned that making is not about perfection or linear progress, it’s about engaging with materials, environments, and people in ways that generate knowledge and growth. Anthropology and ethnography offer valuable frameworks for understanding how creators learn and evolve within communities. They remind us that creativity is not isolated; it is social, collaborative, and constantly changing. Ingold’s theories encourage creators to think critically about their tools and to embrace the process of making as a form of inquiry. Social media should serve as a space for exploration, not a trap of comparison or pressure. By thinking through making rather than simply producing algorithms or trends creators can rediscover the joy and curiosity that fuel genuine creativity.Ingold’s Making ultimately challenges us to rethink what it means to create in the modern media.

Bibliography

Making. (n.d.). http://ndl.ethernet.edu.et/bitstream/123456789/8315/1/179.pdf

Images are all mine.

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The Game Controller: Mediating Between Virtual and Physical Worlds

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Introduction

What do the buttons on a game console controller represent for you? Each button most likely has different functions which vary among each game’s unique game mechanics. Take for example, the “B” button. In Splatoon, pressing it results in your in-game avatar to jump, in Hades, it makes you dash forward, whereas in Animal Crossing: New Horizons, holding it down makes your avatar run. Our real-life act of pressing a button translates into another action occurring in-game, as depicted on the screen. One could even say that the buttons having diverse effects in each game’s unique mechanics, representing their own specific set of rules, relies on their own system of signs.  

Avatar in Splatoon 3 displaying “jump” mechanic – Footage by Christine Choi
Character, Zagreus, in Hades displaying “dash” mechanic – Footage by Christine Choi
Avatar in Animal Crossing: New Horizons displaying “run” mechanic – Footage by Christine Choi

This fascination surrounding such concepts is precisely why I chose a game controller as my evocative object. Although there are so many different variations of a game controller, I am going to use the Nintendo Switch Pro Controller as an example as it is the controller I was mediated by the most and is also one of the more “standard” modern designs when it comes to game controllers (the existence of a joystick, four buttons with letters/symbols, L and R buttons, etc.). By analyzing the game controller, I will highlight the ways that it mediates between us, the player, and the virtual world that the game exists in. 

The Controller and the Player

As mentioned before, the game controller has the unique ability to mediate between us and the virtual world displayed within the hardware (whether that is the console or the PC). When it comes to “playing” a game via a controller, there is a unique set of feedback that is inputted and outputted mediating between our physical corporeal bodies and the incorporeal in-game virtual bodies. 

You would first take in the world through senses, like sight and hearing. Certain in-game index, symbols, and icons may evoke feelings of fear, especially if it had informed the player of it causing harm to the avatar in the past. Others may evoke curiosity, enticing the player to explore more of the game and the “rules” of this digital world. Once you have cognitively processed that, your instincts—shaped by in-game and real-world experiences—would inform you to react. You would react by pressing buttons or rolling the joystick to the direction you want it to. We know, or at the very least expect, that the controller has received input when we receive the tactile feedback of the button being pushed down then springing back as we release it from pressing down on it. Then you would see the fruition of your act of button-pressing/joystick pushing by seeing the pixels on-screen change to indicate movement/change within this virtual world. 

Feedback of input and output between virtual and physical worlds – Diagram drawn by Christine Choi

The feelings evoked from the virtual information would translate in the grip of our controller; dodging enemies evoking another emotion of relief and safety, the achievement leading to satiate more of our curiosity, all driving our progression of the game. Thus, the controller is the mediating object for the player’s input and the software (which would be the game). Without the game, there is nothing for it to control and without the player input, there is nothing being controlled. 

Exerting Control over in-game “bodies”

Much of what is being said about the “control” over avatars/characters is correlated to what is said about the “body” as a medium in Critical Terms for Media Studies. After all, the controller could be seen as an extension of our own body, which extends into what is being “embodied” in-game. Wegenstein, too, utilizes psychoanalytic theories of how video games allow us to play the role of the “other”, a virtual embodiment that differs from the embodiment of ourselves. She quotes Slavoj Zizek on “a figure capable of taking on, or projecting itself into, many simultaneous roles” (28). The concept of roles that we project onto is correspondent with how the controller that mediates and perpetuates this “ego” that we project onto, making the body of the playable character another medium. 

Thus far, I have only discussed characters and avatars that have an anthropomorphic body, which is easy to visualize as we easily project our human bodies onto these characters. But what about games with no “avatar” or humanistic representation of our own bodies? I would argue that there is still a “body” or “vessel” in which we, in our physical and corporeal forms, exert control over digitally. Take Tetris for example, the falling blocks would be the body that we project ourselves onto. As the blocks fall, we move with it left or right via the joystick or D-pad. 

Game Controller as a “Black Box”

Even the most avid gamers most likely do not know the internal computational and mechanical workings of what occurs in between the space and time in which we press the button and watch the game do its magic. The game controller generally works under the “black box” heuristics (a cybernetics theory coined by Norbert Wiener), in which the processes of the input from our button to the output in the game is shrouded in mystery for the average user (Wiener, page xi). However, I would argue that this knowledge we lack of our game controller’s internal workings is precisely the tool we use to immerse ourselves in the virtual space of a video game. What we do know as gamers is that eventually, its mechanics is burned into the memory of our bodies through “muscle memory” as the controls become second nature to us, thus “mediating” our physical bodies in the real world and the incorporeal bodies that exist in the virtual space of a video game.

Citations

Wegenstein, Bernadette. “Body.” Critical Terms for Media Studies, University of Chicago Press, Chicago, Illinois, 2010, pp. 19–34.

Wiener, Norbert, et al. Cybernetics: Or, Control and Communication in the Animal and the Machine. MIT Press, 2019.

Images and footage were all taken by Christine Choi

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Return to Sender: On Friendlier Cups and the Rage They Evoke

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The Friendlier cup program on campus presents itself as a reusable alternative to single-use plastics. With a $0.50–$1.00 deposit, a companion app, and a two-week refund window, Friendlier promises less waste and more responsibility. What it actually gave me was a latte I couldn’t finish and a new ritual of carrying an extra object that made my day worse. These cups are an evocative object: small, material, and infuriatingly demanding. The Friendlier cups evoke not just personal reflection, but genuine rage.

The Cup That Followed Me Home

I bought an iced latte one Thursday before a lecture. Instead of the disposable cold cup I expected, I was handed a reusable Friendlier cup meant for hot drinks. I agree that UBC goes through an excessive amount of disposable cups, and I welcomed Friendlier as a potential solution. But not only was my drink served in the wrong vessel—it was half full when class ended. My commute is over an hour and a half, and I carry a purse, not a backpack. That meant balancing a half-full drink on a rapid bus ripping through Vancouver while also trying to balance myself without a seat. And since I didn’t have class the next day, I kept it over the weekend until Monday to finally return it and see my $0.85 deposit again. When I got to campus, the café I’d bought it from didn’t have a Friendlier bin, so I had to track one down elsewhere. Once I found it, I stood there beside the bin creating a Friendlier account, an app I didn’t want, for at least a full minute before I could toss my cup in the bin. Two weeks later, the refund was still pending.

Getting a coffee is something I used to do almost every day. It was a small ritual that fit easily into my routine. Now, it feels like a chore. I’m not just annoyed, I’m enraged. This isn’t a personal failure to be eco-minded; it’s the result of a design that ignores real students and real routines. It assumes I can reshape my day around an object I never asked for. That friction is the point: these cups insert themselves into my everyday life, and they do it badly.

Rage, Routine, and the Objects That Shape Us

Sherry Turkle emphasizes that objects are “relational”: we form relationships with them much like we do with people, bringing expectations, attachments, and sometimes disappointments into these interactions. The Friendlier cup, intended as a reusable alternative to disposable coffee cups on campus, positions itself as a companion to daily routinesInstead, it has become a source of irritation. Rather than supporting my coffee habits, it mediates my interactions with campus life, sustainability practices, and even my own sense of efficiency in ways that frustrate me.

Turkle also notes that objects function as agents of reflection, prompting us to consider who we are, what we care about, and how we navigate the systems around us. The Friendlier cup forced me to confront the misalignment between the ideal of sustainability and the reality of campus infrastructure: missing bins, app registration delays, and pending refunds turned a daily ritual into a source of stress. What was meant to be a simple tool for environmental mindfulness became a reminder of friction in my already established routines, revealing how much our interactions with objects reflect broader social and institutional structures.

By framing the cup as both relational and reflective, we can see that its design is not neutral: it shapes behaviors, emotional experiences, and our relationship to sustainability, intentionally or not. I am passionate about sustainability, but my frustration with Friendlier has made me confront how a well-intentioned system can produce stress and resentment instead of care Rather than facilitating care and responsibility, it evokes rage, highlighting the tension between policy and lived experience.

Exchange, Deposits, and the Medium of Value

In David Graeber’s chapter “Exchange,” he helps explain the emotional politics underlying my frustration with Friendlier. A deposit is a token, a small piece of monetary media intended to guarantee return. Graeber argues that media of exchange can take on lives of their own: they may become detached from the social relations they were meant to mediate. The Friendlier cup’s $0.85 deposit is meant to be a simple economic nudge; in practice, it becomes a lingering IOU, processed by a corporate app, delayed, and sometimes never returned. This system transforms a socially oriented sustainability gesture into a market, in which the campus may even monetarily gain from unreturned deposits.

Reddit users on the r/UBC subreddit echo this logic. One commenter observes that the cups are “theoretically nice, but in reality […] stupid,” expressing concern that someone could snatch a cup from the bin and the original returner would never receive the refund. Others note that slow or unreliable processing could turn the deposit into a revenue stream. Another user flagged data privacy concerns: to get refunded, students must download an app and create an account, surrendering personal information to a private company for a campus sustainability initiative. These complaints are not trivial; they illuminate how the cup functions as a media of exchange that reconfigures obligations, trust, and data flows.

Viewed through Turkle’s lens, this is more than just a transactional failure: it is a relational failure. Turkle emphasizes that objects are companions to our emotional lives, carrying histories, expectations, and feelings into everyday routines. The Friendlier cup, rather than supporting sustainable habits, has become a companion of frustration, a persistent reminder of misaligned systems. Graeber helps explain why: when the cup’s deposit detaches from its intended social logic, it erodes trust and amplifies irritation, making me experience sustainability not as a shared ethical practice but as a set of obligations. In this sense, the Friendlier cup mediates campus life emotionally and materially, exposing the tensions between policy intentions and lived realities, and highlighting how even well-meaning objects can evoke rage when design and routine collide.

Affordances and Friction

From an affordances perspective, the Friendlier cup offers: reuse, reduced disposables, and potential normalization of a circular system. What it lacks is matched affordance for everyday bodies and schedules. A commuter with a purse, someone with irregular on-campus hours, or a person who has to wait days to return a cup are all disadvantaged by the program’s assumptions. The cup mediates access to a convenient beverage experience by adding layers of time, technology, and logistics. Instead of reducing friction, it slides friction into other parts of students’ lives.

Turkle’s point about objects catalyzing self-creation is helpful here: we do change around our objects when they become meaningful companions. But that process requires careful attention to how people actually live. A well-designed evocative object ought to invite incorporation; a poorly designed one forces compliance.

Sources:
Turkle, Sherry. Evocative Objects: Things We Think With. MIT Press, 2007. 

Mitchell, W. J. T., and Mark B. N. Hansen, editors. Critical Terms for Media Studies. University of Chicago Press, 2010.

https://www.reddit.com/r/UBC/comments/1mqewj0/thoughts_on_friendlier_resuable_containers_in_the

Photos:

“UBC Launches Reusable Packaging with Friendlier.” Food at UBC, University of British Columbia, https://food.ubc.ca/ubc-launches-reusable-packaging-with-friendlier/.

Header made on Canva by Sam Garcea

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Blueberries, Body, and More

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I have always been attracted to fruit – as a girl with a sweet tooth, I resonate with their endearing size, flavour profiles, and delicate ties to femininity. During reflection on which one in particular I wanted to write about, I cycled through my favourites; mangoes, apples, grapes … they were all meaningful to me, but what came to the forefront of my mind and stayed there wasn’t remarkable at all. 

I don’t often have blueberries. It’s only when the circumstances perfectly align that they end up in my fridge and subsequently in my mouth – if there’s a sale I can’t ignore, a recipe I’m determined to follow, or a family member who made them appear in front of me. I specifically recall a recent memory where I was sitting at the kitchen table of my childhood home eating blueberries alone. I picked my way through the small blue fruits in the contrasting red bowl, rifling through to find the biggest, firmest, and most promising candidates. I remember seeing it as a gamble of flavours, a psychology experiment on associations between size and taste. If I felt particularly reckless, I would scoop up a handful and feel all the different flavours combine in my mouth. I was so inspired, in fact, that I took it upon myself to write my thoughts down in the form of a Notes app poem. Working a 9-5 internship made me feel uncreative and nostalgic of my more creative middle school times, so this is the product of such feelings:

if i was blueberry

i wonder if i’d still be small

i wonder if people would avoid me in the crowd, opting to pick my bigger counterpart

i wonder if finally, at the end, they would take the risk and spear through my soft skin

or if they would throw me away

i wonder if when they break through my flesh with their teeth

they would be pleasantly surprised by my sweetness

or if they would cringe from the tartness, and live the rest of their life avoiding other small blueberries

if i was a blueberry i wonder if you would still choose me first

Although this piece is unsophisticated and unnecessarily romantic, I learned that blueberries truly do evoke much from me. Blueberries afford me imperfection. Among a world of perfectly GMO’d fruits and perfectly edited lives, blueberries connect me to nature in a way that Susannah’s Apples did for her. They provide me with variety and natural bursts of joy that still manage to reach my overloaded dopamine receptors. They are a constant in my life, regardless of if I realize it or not. They top my yogurt, colour my smoothies, and are a delightful contrast in desserts. They are not my favourite, and they are not always the tastiest. Even among the cartons labeled Jumbo XL Sweet Blueberries, at least a few are bound to disappoint. Nonetheless, their flaws are exactly what makes them blueberries, and without the ones left squished at the bottom of the carton and the risk that comes with each bite, there is no experience being evoked – it all becomes quite boring.

The blueberry mediates my view on life and how life views me. In my tumultuous age within our current world, I find myself, more often than not, unconfident. Unsure about my place in my life, the workplace, and the world. In these times, it brings me comfort to consider the similarities between me and a little blue fruit. The blueberry also has a body, and moves through its life based on, and through, its body. Unfortunately, it also gets judged on its appearance, and predetermined stereotypes determine its fate. Despite all this, it thrives! And it does this without all the unique capabilities that we have as humans. The blueberry is its own medium and the final product. It does not have the privilege of embodiment, the dynamic living experience of being a blueberry – it simply is. Wegenstein notes in her chapter on Body that online personas, cosmetic surgery, fashion and architecture as mediums demonstrate that “current trends of thinking” about the body aim to nullify the rise of disembodiment in modern culture. Through the way we edit and adjust our own body and what it produces, we are able to control our experiences and design our life. This is how we end up with human experiences, rather than blueberry experiences. 

In this sense, blueberries afford me gratitude – appreciation of my uniquely human features, the dexterity of my fingers to create art, the earlobes that I intentionally pierced to make space for dangly jewelry, the still-developing brain that I fill with knowledge and skills. Wegenstein writes that our bodies, now mediated through technology, fashion, and self-representation, are not fixed but dynamic sites of creation – tools through which we experience, express, and even redesign life. Yet, as Mandel and Cézanne suggest, there is beauty in remaining tethered to the soil, in recognizing that even the most mediated body is still material. In the same way that Susannah’s apples ground her in a sensual awareness of being “part fruit, part earth,” my blueberries remind me that embodiment is a continuous act of negotiation between nature, self, and medium. The blueberry, then, becomes my counterpoint to digital disembodiment: a reminder of imperfection, decay, and the sweetness or tartness that cannot be filtered or replicated. Now when I encounter one, I feel my own presence with the world – how I consume it, and how it, in turn, shapes me. In this quiet exchange between fruit and flesh, I find an embodied media experience: a small affirmation that I am still here, still part of the earth, still alive.

Turkle, Sherry. “WHAT MAKES AN OBJECT EVOCATIVE? .” pp. 307–326.

Wegenstein, Bernadette. “Body.” Critical Terms for Media Studies, pp. 19–34.

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Tresses of Expression

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The tangles and knots of my morning hair don’t hurt anymore when I pull them out; I have become accustomed to the soft tug and immediate static separation of strands, like polarized magnet ends. I pried red wisps from my clothes as I readied myself today, and I recalled when the strands were black and orange and blue and blonde. My hair is an identity of mine, the style and cut can define who I become for a time – imbued with confidence or dysphoria. We use it to express or resist, but also to categorize, admire, or control. Hair evokes emotions, represents identities, provokes thought, and also, perhaps most importantly for me, remembers.

Before my mother’s hands I recall sitting, gazing in the mirror as she guided a brush through my tresses, brown in this faded memory, and saying it reminded her of her mother; of youth spent under the sun, of gardening together, of running barefoot. Hair is a bridge for many, a symbol of what was lost or where you came from. It is at once a memory and memorabilia; it can provide us with identity or strip it, it constitutes our expressions but at once evokes it from us and from others. It separates us by aesthetic, vanity, and personhood, but connects us to our cultures – to our people, our interests, and our own lives. Hair is both an object of the body and an embodied object; we don’t just use it, we think using it. It affords us a sense of belonging, resistance and expression, but can afford others the ability to categorize and stereotype. It is a medium requiring thought – it is communication without words that shapes social interactions. Furthermore, Bill Brown would argue that hair is a material medium – it is not just symbolic, but has physical affordances. My hair has been braided, fishtailed, space-bunned, chopped, dyed, and styled an uncountable amount of times in my life. It becomes most visible as an object of the self when we manipulate it, but it is the perception (and often, preconception) that it affords us that defines it as an embodied medium, too. It is evocative because, as Turkle would say, it acts as the “companions to our emotional lives” and as a “provocation to thought”. As I lay the fresh blood-red dye in my hair last week, I thought of my mother doing the same to cover up her greys. I thought about whether people would notice that it stained my ears. I thought I looked a bit like Carrie at prom. It reminded me that hair is not only an object that sits on my head and tells people how much I rolled around in my sleep, but by understanding how it mediates our actions and thoughts, we can reconsider the boundary between medium and body. Our correspondence with the world is through these strands – through memories, rituals, and cultural practices. It defines how I interact with the world, and how society interacts with me. 

Hair is also a rare physical representation of a moment that has passed and yet remains unchanged. Some wealthy Victorians kept locks of hair from late loved ones in jewelry, and many cultures view the cutting of hair as a spiritual severing of sorts (grief, marriage, coming of age etc.). Hair, when it is detached from the human body, stops being part of the living self and becomes a “thing” – an artifact that represents an identity or relationship during a specific moment in time. Hair is no longer an object of mediation, but as Bill Brown may say, a “thing” once it has been removed from the context of its existence within the self. This “thing” is that which mediates memory and loss, but is also that which is in direct opposition to the very nature of hair – growth. Hair exists as an object between the transient and the permanent: on the head, it changes daily; off the head, it becomes a fixed representation of a particular time, person, or feeling. Like photographs or audio recordings, preserved hair mediates the present and the past, turning lived moments into material memorabilia.

Hair, as both living material and preserved artifact, reveals the complex ways media mediates identity, culture, perception, and time. Through our attentiveness to styling and care, hair functions as an embodied medium of self-expression, a form of communication without words. When it is cut, saved, or transformed, hair becomes a tangible record of specific moments, anchoring personal and collective memories in a physical form. Victorian mourning jewelry makes this especially obvious: hair becomes a medium that bridges presence and absence, life and death, permanence and change. The ways in which we view hair on both ourselves, others, or alone reveals how bodily objects participate in broader cultural systems of meaning. Hair is not simply something we have; it is something through which we express, connect, and remember. This perspective challenges us to look beyond conventional technologies and recognize how our bodies mediate the world, and how medias are woven like threads through the very fabric of our lives.

  1. Turkle, Sherry. “WHAT MAKES AN OBJECT EVOCATIVE.” Evocative Objects: Objects We Think With. 
  2. Brown, Bill. “Thing Theory.” Critical Inquiry, 28, no. 1 (2001): 1–22.
  3. Brown, Bill. “Materiality.” Critical Terms for Media Studies, edited by W. J. T. Mitchell and Mark B. N. Hansen, University of Chicago Press, 2010, pp. 49–63.
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Ordinary Old Rock—My Evocative Object

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I have this rock I picked up at a national park in Mumbai. A light-coloured, perfectly round rock with spiral lineation running along its surface. It may be an odd hobby, but I have always liked collecting rocks. However, I usually end up throwing them away within a couple day because pretty as they might be, there’s not much you can really do with a rock. I thought this would be the case for this rock to but surprisingly enough, even after all these years and a trip across the globe, I still have it with me.

At first I just didn’t have the heart to throw it away. It was too perfect a rock, almost circular with a completely smooth surface . So I just kept it on my desk and eventually forgot about it. It lay there catching dust until I was packing to leave for university. On an impulse, for some inexplicable reason, I decided to pack this rock to take it with me to Canada. I thought I could use it as paperweight, but that was just an excuse (after all, who even uses paperweight in this day and age?). 

I had never lived away from home. In all my eighteen years of existence, I had never faced a situation where I had to pack my entire life into a suitcase to move to a place entirely foreign to me. Even after cramming most of my belongings into a suitcase, there was still an entire house worth of my cherished items that I had to leave behind. My belongings have always been sacred to me. I did not even have the heart to throw away my elementary school textbooks but here I was, abandoning almost everything that I held close to my heart. My favourite books, my childhood photo albums, the old wooden box filled with random knick knacks that I had collected over the years; I had to leave almost all of it behind. I stuffed this tiny rock in between my clothes, a desperate attempt to lay claim to anything I could get my hands on. Though I could not take everything with me, I would do my best to take anything I could, even this tiny inconsequential rock.

Now, I have been living in Canada for almost four years. I have painstakingly built a whole new ecosystem of objects of my own. Books, clothes, shoes, and other random paraphernalia. Almost everything I brought over from India has either been discarded or replaced, and the few things I have left have melded into my  new life so well that I can hardly distinguish between my old belongings and the ones I acquired here. Everything changed, but that rock still remains. I have moved thrice, and every single time I have made sure to take the rock with me. A lot of people have asked about its significance and I never really know what to say in response to that. It seems a bit strange and even a little foolish to tell people that I brought this plain-looking rock from India. This is in line with Turkle’s statement that we are more comfortable with objects that have a specific use rather than considering objects as something with an emotional connection (5). Perhaps the rock’s lack of purpose is precisely why it has stood the test of time. If it truly had some use, it would have been abandoned once it stopped serving that purpose. 

The Rock as an Object of Transition and Passage

Of course, the rock is not the only object from India I have with me. But the rock has assumed a special place in my life, as an active reminder of home. Turkle claims that such periods of transition make a person vulnerable to the objects and experiences from that period of transition. She draws on Victor Turner’s idea of liminality, emphasising how times of transition are an important site for the creation of new symbols. Drawing from these ideas, I believe this period of transition granted this otherwise innocuous object the affordance of being a symbolic representation of home and my life at the time. A freeze frame, capturing a very specific moment in time.

During that transitional period, when I was thrust into a completely new environment, this rock served as a comforting reminder of home. A real, tangible proof that I was once familiar with the land that now feels so foreign to me. This lines up with Turkle’s observation that during traditional rites of passage, when person is forced to part with all that they consider to be familiar, they are more susceptible to objects and experiences of that time. At a time my life was in constant flux, this rock was the only constant. Not only does the rock embody a specific time and place, but it has also come to represent that version of myself—one who was so desperate to hold onto the past that she clung on to anything she could, even a tiny old rock. 

Since then, I’ve moved several times, and with each move, I’ve grown more comfortable with the idea of letting things go. Change no longer unsettles me the way it once did. So now, after all this time, the rock no longer serves solely as a reminder of home. Instead, I’ve come to see it as a thread linking together the different versions of myself that have emerged through each transition in my life.

Works Cited

  1. Turkle, Sherry. “WHAT MAKES AN OBJECT EVOCATIVE.” Evocative Objects: Objects We Think With, 307–326. 
  2. Turkle, Sherry. “INTRODUCTION: THE THINGS THAT MATTER.” Evocative Objects: Objects We Think With, 3–10. 
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Mediating Childhood Memories and Identity Through Lunch Bags

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Introduction

I was helping my parents move into their new house this summer when I found my favourite lunch bag from primary school. It was a small, green rectangular bag, patched with two cute cats playing the piano. Although the bag was covered with an unidentifiable stain, I refused to let my parents throw it out. The lunch bag reminds me of the best parts of my childhood with all the things it once held. I remember the sound of my Mother placing my lunchbox on the kitchen counter before the school bus arrived. I remember the soft clatter of glass containers and metal utensils as I walked down the school hallways. Finally, I distinctly remember unpacking my lunch as the bell rang. Every hearty meal leaving me full and content. To me, salvaging this stained artifact was not at all gross, but rather a symbol of surviving years warm home cooked meals. 

Mediation

For more than a decade, my childhood lunch bag was a significant part of a daily ritual of nourishment and affection. It is an object that mediates between the self and the social world, serving as a middle ground for the private space of my home and the public sphere of my school. To reflect on the words of Sherry Turkle, she writes that theory enables us to “explore how everyday objects become part of our inner life” (Turkle). By taking a moment to appreciate how we use these mundane objects, we extend the reach of our sympathies for the memories, the people around us, and the world within it. Moving to Canada alone from Vietnam marked the moment I began packing my own lunches for the first time. Although the food in my new glass container was edible, and occasionally tasty, it was never the same without my Mother’s special touch. I realized that it is more than just about sustenance. A meal is a medium through which care, culture, and identity are communicated. We associate food with different cultures, nutrition, health, community, human rights, and so much more. As someone who has migrated a lot, I have always struggled to fully identify with my Vietnamese culture and heritage. Hence, this lunch bag is a testament to my belonging in all the places I have lived in as a child, when I was completely clueless to the gravity of any societal pressures to fit in. The rediscovery of this beautiful object of great sentimental value reminds me of the intimacy of past homes, friendships, and worries that are no longer in my life. 

Media Theory

Looking at my lunch bag through a media theory lens, I find that it echoes Marshall McLuhan’s ideas about objects being more just a vessel but the message itself. I vividly recall being in middle school, waiting for my friends to pick up their lunch bags off the shelves at the cafeteria table. I watched the abundance of colorful lunch bags go by, each a unique pattern and shape with the familiar names of my pupils scribbled in ink. The lunch bags are full of personality, their visibility communicating care, tradition, continuity, but also internationality. As I look at my own lunch bag now, I realize just how much objects can communicate, not through words but through materials, textures, and smells. Beyond just communication, the lunch bag can also be linked to Michel Foucault’s theory of the disciplinary society, which discusses how ordinary objects have the power to inscribe social norms into our bodies. Additionally, Bernadette Wegenstein’s chapter explores how the body as a medium of expression, through practices like dieting, can also shape how culture is lived and performed (Wegenstein). The lunch bags in the school cafeteria disciplines appetite and behaviour, as it is where we all learned the socially acceptable ways of eating, making social interactions, and what to subconsciously mask or perform. 

Conclusion

To my peers reading this who may also be navigating hybrid identities, I hope my exploration of childhood lunch bags speaks to a shared experience of mediation. Objects from the past are evocative, and often serve as important reminders that making peace with our identity does not only happen through language or policy, but it can happen through small, material gestures. I do not need to know the root cause of the bag’s stains and loose threads to admire its ability to translate love into something edible, something visible. That visibility is doing what Turkle says evocative objects do, “bringing philosophy down to earth” (Turkle). As the lunch bag mediates between theory and lived experience, it becomes a marker of difference, my personal signal of foreignness, and ultimately embodies the distance between my Mother’s kitchen at home and my rental space in Vancouver.

How about you? What do you carry with you when you move between worlds?

References

Turkle, Sherry. “What Makes an Object Evocative?” Evocative Objects, by Sherry Turkle, The MIT Press, 2007, www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt5hhg8p.39. Accessed 6 Oct. 2025.

Wegenstein, Bernadette. “Body.” Critical Terms for Media Studies, by W. J. T. Mitchell and Mark B. N. Hansen, University of Chicago Press, 2010, pp. 19–34.

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My Evocative Object – An Obsession Over The Fantasy Of Perfection

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In my reading of Turkle’s collection of evocative objects, I came across the very interesting chapter called “Ballet Slippers”. In which the author, Eden Medina, presented a story of passion and dedication of her own, from childhood to maturity, and for me, it is also one that rang rather close to home. As a child at the age of 4, she had started training in her first pair of ballet slippers, with its presence soon became symbolic in her mind. As her skills develop, so does the complexity of her ballet slippers, and soon, the object becomes a mediator for her ideal image of the professional ballerina. 

For me, my evocative object is somewhat similar to the author of my chapter, having been training in badminton competitively for most of my middle and high school life, I relate strongly to this theme of “desire and discipline”. Therefore, for me, the “badminton racquet” is an object that evokes memories of my whole youth and, of course, the metallic smell of graphite that came with each racquet still lingers in the back of my mind. As a beginner, I started with a cheap racquet, but as soon as my skills improved and I was able to convince my parents to get me the branded ones I’ve been seeing on TV. Throughout my career, I went through 8 different racquets, each representing a different era in my development as a player and also personally as my relationship with the sport changes. 

I still remember when I first got a branded Yonex racquet, thinking back, it was quite an overkill considering my skill levels at the time anyway. But just like how the author’s experience of the ballet shoes mediated her idea of an ideal physicality, that racquet – the Yonex Nanoray Z Speed made me feel one step closer to the professional players I see on TV. Thinking back, perhaps the mental confidence that it affords was worth more than any technological advancements that came with it. In my games, I had no excuses but to only blame myself, for in my mind, my equipment is no longer the limiting factor for my performance, having this great a racquet in my hand. I realise that the mediation that the racket provides has allowed me to be immersed in a reality that I’ve yet to actually reach, and as such, acts as a device for my fantasies of perfection in my sport of badminton.

As such, in relation to Turkle’s theory, what makes this object evocative for me is exactly this connection that it currently mediates for me, between myself and the ideal image of badminton perfection. As Eden Medina has experienced, her ballet slippers have “helped [her] identify with the image of the professional ballerina that [she] upheld as [her] physical ideal.” Even more than that, for me, the badminton racquet is, in essence, also affording me my sense of identity, rather than being just an extension of my physical self. It has become part of who I am in my mind, “reaching out to me to form active partnerships,” as Turkle would say. The badminton racquet derives its meaning from its belonging to me, and I derive my identity as a player from having that specific racquet in my hand.

Yet, my dependency on this object to mediate my reality has its limitations; the more I am immersed in this somewhat fantastical identity of a professional player, the more I am disconnected from my real self. I soon find myself in a state of apathy toward the sport I once loved with all my heart, as I am caught in an infatuation with this fantasy that the racquet made possible. This would get worse as I grew to blame my bad performances on my racquets, thinking that they didn’t cater to my evolving play style. For a few years, I drifted away from the essence of the sport into the gimmicky world of its marketing. 

Now looking back, I realise that it is altogether wrong to depend so strongly on an external object to mediate something as important as my sense of self, let alone what I hold as my ideal. Perhaps, it would be healthier for me as an individual and beneficial for me as a player to be fixated on my game, with my racquet simply a bodily extension, than to obsess over an object of mere aesthetic value. As now somewhat reached maturity, my relationship to badminton has greatly improved, as I’ve rediscovered the joy in playing badminton for the game itself, and not for some fantastical ideal from childhood. As for any objects one may find to be evocative, perhaps, the fact that it appears to be so in the first place may be due to an imbalance in one’s relationship with oneself. Thus, an object appears as evocative due to its ability to fill in such gaps and inadvertently creates a dependency that appears obsessive, especially in this area of the passions of desire and discipline. 

Bibliography

Medina, Eden. “BALLET SLIPPERS.” Evocative Objects: Things We Think With, edited by Sherry Turkle, The MIT Press, 2007, pp. 54–61. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt5hhg8p.10. Accessed 8 Oct. 2025.


Turkle, Sherry. “WHAT MAKES AN OBJECT EVOCATIVE?” Evocative Objects: Things We Think With, edited by Sherry Turkle, The MIT Press, 2007, pp. 307–27. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt5hhg8p.39. Accessed 8 Oct. 2025.

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My Evocative Object: What is life without my phone.

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Introduction

I decided to focus my evocative object project on my phone. It’s something people use everyday some more than others and I definitely fall into the everyday category. I’ve had either an iPhone or iPod since I was ten, and the moment I got it, my life changed forever. When I was younger I didn’t rely on my device as much. I would mostly use it to contact my friends, listen to music or take photos and it was what introduced me to photography. But with the rise of short-form content, I’ve become even more connected to my phone because it allows me to enter a new space or world. Social media apps for instance Tiktok or Instagram help me create a new identity online as a person who is more reserved. However my attention span has significantly gone down and it has made it hard to focus on any content or conversation lasting more than 5 minutes. Whether I am eating, cleaning or working out, I constantly feel the need to check my phone. It’s the dopamine rush from the content, and the emotions tied to the information stored within it. Even if I don’t want to use it, whether I want  to contact someone or see what’s happening in the world, I will eventually need my phone.

I remember my anthropology teacher once asked the class why so many students always have AirPods in their ears. I didn’t raise my hand to answer, but I realized that like my phone and my AirPods have a similar effect. It’s not a coincidence these technologies are designed to capture our attention and keep us hooked, which is the scary part but it all relates to our conversation about semiotics. Even though I am aware of this it’s a habit I can’t seem to break. Instead of waking up craving breakfast I crave the instant feeling of gratification that this piece of technology releases.

Connection to Turkle

My evocative object reading ” My laptop” also highlights my relationship with my phone. The protagonist describes unable to ‘’complete a thought without cracking it open and accessing a file of old notes, or hopping online and Googling a fact or two’’(Turkle, 2007) Ironically, I was on TikTok when I saw someone mention that she needed to stop using autocorrect because she had become so dependent on it that she struggled to spell words on her own. It’s small features like autocorrect, Grammarly and others that keep me tied to my phone. Without them I sometimes feel uncertain about my ability to form correct sentences or spell familiar words. I don’t think technology should replace our human abilities but rather support them. Unfortunately, for myself and many others that balance has been lost. 

Connecting back to the meaning of evocative, Turkle, in her essay ’’What Makes an Object Evocative?’’ explains how everyday objects become part of our ‘’inner life’’ (Turkle, 2007) and ‘’help us make our minds, reaching out to us to form active partnerships’’(Turkle, 2007). Though my phone isn’t human it still has an emotional impact on me as if it were. This connects to our in-class discussion about signs, semiotics and meaning. For example, if someone texts me, ‘’I need to tell you something!’’ my reaction changes depending on that single exclamation mark it signals urgency and triggers an emotional response. Similarly, emojis on our phone can have multiple interpretations and digital communication can easily be misunderstood. 

However I don’t think technology is inherently bad as Turkle also notes when discussing the invention of the clock and how it changed how people viewed time. I believe my phone can support me rather than control me but that requires effort. I can set limits on my apps, put my phone away during smaller tasks, and focus on connecting with people in person rather than scrolling through social media.

The discussion around technology ‘’taking over our lives’’ is important because it raises questions about the future, what direction society is healing in and how we can ensure technology supports rather than dominates us. There’s no easy solution since people use devices for different purposes. For instance, schools use technology for research, libraries use it to preserve historical archives and corporations rely on it for data storage and communication. As individuals, we must learn how to use technology in ways that enhance our daily lives instead of replacing essential human experiences. 

Conclusion

In conclusion, I enjoy my phone and sometimes feel I can’t function without it, but I’m learning to find balance. I want my phone to support me, not control me. Turkle’s collection of readings highlights the emotional and psychological connections we form with these evocative objects and how they can influence us. Learning about Ferdinand de Saussure and Charles Sanders Peirce has deepened my understanding of how technology can effect us emotionally through language, signs and symbols. Overall, phones are great tools but we need to learn how to use them without letting them control our emotions and actions.

Biblography

Turkle, S. (2007). Things we think with. The MIT Press; JSTOR. https://doi.org/10.2307/j.ctt5hhg8p

Turkle, S. (2007). WHAT MAKES AN OBJECT EVOCATIVE? In S. Turkle (Ed.), Evocative Objects: Things We Think With (pp. 307–327). The MIT Press. http://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt5hhg8p.39

Newitz, A. (2007). MY LAPTOP. In S. Turkle (Ed.), Evocative Objects: Things We Think With (pp. 86–91). The MIT Press. http://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt5hhg8p.14

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To My Online Self — My Evocative Object(s)

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I had countless nights seeing the clock going past 3:30 a.m.; dim lights emitted from my devices are invigorating yet soothing my nerves at the same time.

Upon reading the chapter "My Laptop" by Annalee Newitz, I instantly feel connected to the topic. Yet to describe it to the most accurate extent, it is better to say that my evocative object is not only limited to a single laptop, but all electronic devices I own.

Yes, all my devices — the omnipresent yet pathetic extensions of my existence.

Laptop is the object I feel the most connected to out of all the given chapter choices of the evocative objects, at least I can guarantee that to myself. Maybe I could even assume it to the entire Gen Z generation.

I was almost bred up by devices. I’m also lucky to say that I have responsible parents, and overflowing and chaotic internet memes and cultures didn’t get to slam an injuring crater on my brain.

But they mean something else when it ultimately comes down to socializing.

Growing up as a city boy, I didn’t get any chance to experience any kinds of "socializing" that I would perceive as "normal" in a common sense. Almost all my social activities have been moved online, whether it’s just asking a question or sending out hang-out requests to a classmate in middle and high school. I didn’t have any neighborhood friends that I can hang out with, nor any buddies or pals either; I didn’t have any classmates asking me to go get drinks with them after class; I didn’t have any moments as seen from books or TV shows that I thought I would have……All that’s left are encounters, whether with people online or online contents — the encounters as mediations of my hopes and dreams; the encounters that remind me of my reality ;the encounters that send out all the glow from my devices.

That inundating, clogging, torturing, soothing, colourful, plain, and infinite-to-nothing glow.

I can still remember the last time where the glow shines my tears.

"My laptop computer is irreplaceable, and not just for all the usual reasons. It’s practically a brain prosthesis. Sometimes I find myself unable to complete a thought without cracking it open and accessing a file of old notes, or hopping online and Googling a fact or two."

—— Annalee Newitz (page 88, "My Laptop")

Newitz’s words at the start of her chapter naturally presents a slice-of-life observation which bears resemblance to my socializing experiences. After having all my connections on my devices, my overthinking and anxious would sometimes presume that someone’s dead if they haven’t been active online; I often feel scared to imagine what would happen if I’m totally detached from internet while all the social presences are deeply tied to the online realms. However, her words still hit on points that connect back to another work by Sherry Turkle, the author of this chapter collection book. Her book Alone Together provides valuable insights on the interesting dynamic between technology and societal loneliness. In the Chapter 9 Growing Up Tethered1, Turkle discussed the effect of technology on loneliness through different interviews with high school students. The main idea behind the chapter is generally about explanations behind this influence through sociological knowledge. Although it would be immense to use the entire chapter to frame the entire idea for my evocative objects, it is a precious piece of material that you can’t ignore to understand the everlasting impact of social media on psychological development. As complex, high-dimensional real-life social interactions are constantly mediated into compressed, low-dimensional formats online, the study of social media and interpersonal connections should not be only limited as one of the fields in media studies, but rather to be regarded a pressing global issue.

Maybe I hope that this simple blog article could change something. Maybe it wouldn’t.

Or I hope that the glow could be less clogging perhaps.

Works Consulted

Newitz, Annalee. “MY LAPTOP.” Evocative Objects: Things We Think With, by Sherry Turkle, The MIT Press, 2007, www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt5hhg8p.14.

Turkle, Sherry. Alone Together : Why We Expect More from Technology and Less from Each Other, Basic Books, 2011. ProQuest Ebook Central, https://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/ubc/detail.action?docID=684281.

Footnotes

  1. The Chapter 9 spans across pages 197-213. ↩