This visual essay draws on an autoethnographic study to present snapshots of mundane academic practice during the pandemic, using these to reflect on care and care practices within academia. Our approach is inspired by a “pinboard” (Law 2007): we use an echo of the two-dimensional space the pinboard offers to present our material through logics of juxtaposition and resonance, rather than attempting to craft a linear argument.

In this visual essay we use the model of a pinboard to capture experiences of mundane academic practice during the pandemic, using these experiences to reflect on care and care practices within research. The pinboard is, for us, an inspiration to experiment with the form and presentation of scholarly argumentation: we use an echo of the two-dimensional space it offers to present our material—both visual and textual—through logics of juxtaposition and resonance, rather than attempting to craft a linear argument.

In what follows, we briefly outline the literatures—on care and on alternative forms of representation—that we are inspired by, and the autoethnographic project on which we are drawing. The heart of the essay is a “pinboard” that mixes textual fragments, longer reflections, and images and screenshots to create a snapshot of a set of situated academic practices during the pandemic. We close by reflecting on what we have learned from this experiment in representational practice.

Before we start, however, a brief note on who “we” are. This pinboard comes not only from a particular time but from a location—Vienna, in Austria—and from a group who, though we are different in terms of career stage, family status, experience of mobility, gender identity, and national and ethnic background, represent only a fraction of the kinds of identities, bodies, employment types, and personalities imbricated with this thing we are calling “academia.” Reflecting on our differences, and on how our situated privileges, troubles, and experiences relate, has been key to how we have been able to think about how academic work is differently structured and experienced, as well as about how the pandemic heightened such differences. For example, dealing with a lockdown was particularly challenging when having to care for children, and/or seeking to settle in a new country (some of us as third country nationals); in both cases, “normal” bureaucratic and organizational challenges were amplified by contact and mobility restrictions. Career stage was also important: entering academia at a time when in-person contact was impossible resulted in both challenges (isolation and confusion) and opportunities (to find one own’s way to “do” academic work), while, at more senior levels, gendered norms continued to structure our (self) expectations of how to perform the role of the “good academic.” But while these differences have been important to our analysis, ultimately we work together, at an institution that provides us with equipment and support, and live in a country with a well-functioning health system and public infrastructure. We therefore occupy highly privileged positions within the context of global academia. In this text we write as a group but make no claims for the generalizability of our experiences; rather, we offer this exploration as one snapshot of a set of local and mundane academic practices which may—or may not—resonate (Miller 2015) further.

Recent studies of both natural sciences and STS have started to explore notions of care as integral to academic practice. This work emphasizes that experiences of academia are affective and intimate, relating to questions of togetherness, identity, and self-worth (Lorenz-Meyer 2018; Schikowitz 2021). Care is central to these accounts: one might, for instance, care for one’s research subjects (Friese 2013), one’s colleagues (Davies and Horst 2015), one’s data (Pinel, Prainsack, and McKevitt 2020), or one’s own well-being or career (Fochler and Sigl 2018; Schönbauer 2020). Academia may also be framed as lacking in care (Davies 2021), to the extent that STS research with natural science scholars can be understood as a care practice in that it can create moments of reflection and recuperation (Müller and Kenney 2014; Martin, Myers, and Viseu 2015).

In the context of STS, discussions about care intersect with practices of reflexivity and with discussion of how to enable “sustainable STS research that has the potential to engender both interesting work and liveable lives” (Atkinson-Graham et al. 2015, 745). There is, in other words, a widely shared sense that engaging with care can help us to interrogate the question of how to live well within academia, and in particular of how to nurture good lives as STS scholars. Recent work has, for instance, explored how we are “implicated in the indicator game” (Fochler and De Rijcke 2017), reflecting on what it means to both study and be entangled with the ways that academic practice is evaluated. Such discussion merges political goals—the sense that “scholars in STS should take a stance on how to deal with positive and problematic governance dynamics in academia, both individually and collectively” (Fochler and De Rijcke 2017, 22)—with personal reflections on and experiences of navigating academic careers that are often framed through the very metrics that we critique (Bal 2017; Müller 2017). Similarly, the work of the Civic Laboratory for Environmental Action Research (CLEAR) has experimented with, and developed protocols for, just ways of working together as (interdisciplinary) STS scholars and citizens.¹ Through explicit reflection and agreements on aspects of academic practice such as authorship (Liboiron et al. 2017), reading and citing (Liboiron 2020), and group meetings (CLEAR 2021), this work brings to the fore not only the ways in which we currently live and work together as STS scholars, but how we wish to do so, and the goals we might have for our interactions and research.

The dynamics of care thus play an important role in lived experiences of academia generally, and STS specifically. Nevertheless, care can also be a “slippery word” (Martin, Myers, and Viseu 2015) that hides problematic relations of power. Instead of embracing a single specific notion of care, we understand it as a range of situated practices that are embedded in our academic lives. As a practice, it will be characterized by ambivalence and messiness (Lindén and Lydahl 2021)—features that we try to capture by using a pinboard as a means of thinking and representing.

For those interested in care practices in academia, the pandemic brought into relief many of the dynamics and inequities that exist within the academy (Gourlay et al. 2021; Lamb and Ross 2021; Casal 2021), acting as a lens through which we are forced to notice our infrastructures, privileges, and routines. In early 2021, as a newly formed research group,² we found that we wanted to develop ways of recording and further reflecting on these experiences, noticings, and surprises together.³ As a means of doing this, starting in March of 2021 we used an autoethnographic approach to systematically capture impressions of our pandemic lives.⁴ The method we chose (reacting to a prompt, collecting pictures and writing individual vignettes about our experiences, and discussing and interpreting them together) served several purposes. It allowed us to gather data that acknowledged the differences between us and our situations, but also afforded control over how to reveal personal stories and struggles, and to gradually build trust as a research collective. As one of us wrote, reflecting on this process, “the autoethnographic writing required a lot of vulnerability and honesty with ourselves and each other. Digitally sharing and communicating private situations, feelings, uneasiness, emotions and struggles added a whole new layer of emotional commitment.”

As we worked with this material, we felt that it was important not to flatten its heterogeneity and messiness, whilst also wanting to incorporate non-textual material into our publications. In thinking about how to do this, we have been inspired by several areas of STS scholarship, including that which has focused on “making and doing” representations that “extend beyond the academic paper or book” (Downey and Zuiderent-Jerak 2016, 223). Recent years have seen an acceleration of experiments with the forms and locations of STS work, from new modes of hands-on pedagogy or activism to the use of design fiction (Downey and Zuiderent-Jerak 2016). Such experiments are entangled with reflexivity: as Gary Lee Downey and Teun Zuiderent-Jerak write, making and doing “involves attending not only to what the scholar makes and does but also to how the scholar and the scholarship get made and done in the process” (2016, 225).

We also draw inspiration from feminist scholarship that has emphasized the importance of positionality and difference (Haraway 1988; Harding 1993; Bracke and Puig de la Bellacasa 2004). In addition to considering how our partial perspectives mediate individual sensemaking, we found that juxtaposing our experiences rendered the diversity of academic life in the pandemic visible. Our family and home lives (and the care commitments and dependencies they entail), disposable income, resources, and experiences and expectations of academic work vary significantly. Our situations are different, and we each see, reflect on, and write different things with reference to our experiences of academic work during the pandemic. Even where there were commonalities across our experiences, these were instantiated in very different ways. Presenting our analysis in a manner that maintains this diversity whilst still allowing for critical reflection has therefore been vital.

We thus chose to draw on John Law’s (2007) notion of the pinboard. A pinboard, Law suggests, allows us to use logics of “juxtaposition and difference” (2007, 135) to organize and engage with material, rather than thematizing it or turning it into a linear form. In using this form (for an exploration of the social science of puberty), Celia Roberts writes that her pinboard is “partisan, messy and changeable; something that lays out a set of stories [about puberty] for critical examination but which shows the fluid and contested nature of the discourses constituting the [early puberty] landscape. I want a map that instead of producing facts, raises interesting questions” (2010, 430).

We have used this notion of the pinboard as a tool to think with and structure our discussion here, collating key aspects of our experiences without flattening them, juxtaposing similarities with what is different, and using the 2D space of the pinboard to create connections along multiple lines. The pinboard thus sensitizes us to the ways in which different intersecting identities structured (our) experiences of the pandemic, whilst also allowing us to find kinship in common struggles.

In what follows we offer up a pinboard of images, screenshots, field notes, reflective comments, and other material gathered during the autoethnography, arranged in several clusters. In closing we reflect on what we have learned from this experiment in representation.

“I have invested...money in objects supporting our new digital academic lifestyle: increased bandwidth (300 MBps), headphones, L-desks, expensive working chairs, and file cabinets are only some examples.”

Figure 1. A close-up of an open laptop. The screen shows a menu for setting up the new device

Figure 2. A plugged-in laptop on a white table with a presentation slide on full screen. There’s a notepad on the left of the laptop and clothing on the table and chair behind it

“I spent the first couple of days [at the university] without a computer; I had to stand close to the window and open it in order to get internet access on my phone. The first hurdle was activating my [university account] in order to get WI-FI access and be able to use the online database of the university’s library. While I was waiting for my work computer, my private laptop came in handy.”

“I would have never imagined a year ago that the visit of an A1 [Austrian internet service provider] technician to my new place in Vienna would be such an emotional roller coaster. I am in panic. A1 does not have a cable in my building! I had to schedule a visit by Magenta [another internet service provider] as I was not aware of such conflict between communication companies in Austria. This panic is grounded in the absence of Wi-Fi at home for more than ten days. This means, the impossibility of conducting Zoom meetings, working online, conducting database and Google Scholar searches, and the impossibility of carrying out home schooling using online material, engaging with the school’s app, or just entertaining the kids while finding a short time to catch up with the daily work.…I therefore realise how my emotional resources in the last year or so have been exhausted by the fear of someone I care about being affected by the pandemic, but at the same time the anxiety when certain material conditions fail in permitting the normal operation of online digital technologies crucial to my work. These infrastructure-anxieties have become part of post-pandemic everyday life.”

What does one need to work as a researcher? While that question could be answered in different ways—a university degree, an institutional affiliation, the respect of one’s peers—one response that emerges from our field notes and reflections is that one needs stuff: a computer, a stable internet connection, a chair and desk to work at. The pandemic involved a scramble by both individuals and institutions to ensure that such stuff was available within new working patterns and spaces, and within new care obligations, such as home schooling.⁵The extracts above point to this scramble, but also to how the challenges of accessing infrastructures are differently experienced. Can you afford a new laptop as an early stage researcher? Are you familiar with Austrian internet providers when newly arriving from abroad? Care for one’s research, students, and family is, it seems, dependent on our access to different infrastructures. It’s striking that so many of our anxieties related to internet access. Is being a researcher (in our Austrian context) now impossible without access to online flows (Markham and Gammelby 2018)?

“If I’m at home alone, the living room turns into a working place, although a temporary one. We have the rule to remove working stuff from the living room when we don’t work. Thus, the laptop, notepad, and books materially turn it to a working place, and removing them means that it turns back into a living room.

Apart from this, reproductive work (cleaning, doing the laundry, doing the shopping and cooking) and recreation get more entangled in home office—which I sometimes enjoy and sometimes not. When it works well, I use phases where I need a break from work anyways for doing things in the household or to go running (which I like especially in winter, because then I can still get some sun during the day). In phases when I have trouble to focus, it gets even harder when I am working at home. Then I try to work at my desk in the office rather than in the living room, because this helps me to blind out other things better.”

“A conference via Zoom is about to start. The keynote speaker is someone I know from before and most of the participants are former colleagues. Yet, I make sure to wear a decent shirt, clean up the space behind me in the temporary house I am living in, and transfer all the mess made by my kids behind the screen of my (borrowed) laptop. When I decide to ask a question, I quickly check that my older kid is correctly “plugged into” Disney Plus. Once the conference is over, I feel relieved that I managed to ask a decent and uninterrupted question, all things considered.”

Figure 5. An open, plugged-in laptop on a dining table surrounded by notebooks, a pen, a coffee mug, and a glass of water

Figure 6. A dining table with an open, plugged-in laptop and a lamp on it. Clothing on one of the chairs. Pieces of paper, clothing, and a vase on the windowsill in the back of the image

“Truthfully, in times of the pandemic and as someone who is already quite prone to feeling anxious about germs and cleanliness, I have to admit that the ability to work from home gives me comfort. Being able to work digitally, without much constraints in terms of the very practices of working, is something I am therefore very grateful for. I am acutely aware that I am privileged to be have the spatial, infrastructural and socioeconomical possibility to work from home in such a comfortable way.”

“I can’t stand sitting in one place, in one position, for too long. Sometimes this makes spending all day in the office difficult. My small, light laptop is very cooperative in this regard. I can easily move from the kitchen, to my desk, to the fauteuil, to the rug (sometimes I use a wooden footstool as a mini desk when I work on the floor) and alternate positions.”

Figure 7. An electric adjustable desk in front of two floor-to-ceiling windows. A lamp, a book stand, a notebook, a laptop that is plugged into a curved monitor, a webcam stuck on top of the monitor. A keyboard and trackpad, a coffee cup, a class of water, and various sticky notes and pieces of paper are spread across the table

“I can work at home—I have plenty of space, even a desk in a more-or-less dedicated office—but I really don’t like to.…This desk [in my university office] and the way all my stuff and devices are configured on it feels like a luxurious workspace and, perhaps because of this, it has become the ‘zone’ in which I feel like I work well.”

Figure 8. A collage capturing working from home: screenshots of a desktop taskbar and open folders, a researcher resting on an armchair, a wooden stool to place a laptop on, a laptop on the floor, an extension cord under a table, and a mug, glass, bottle and jug on a table

What constitutes a space where (academic) work is being done? The pandemic brought about an increased dissolution of spatial separations between home, work, leisure, and family. Especially during the lockdowns, we needed to fit different kinds of spaces into one place or location.

While this also created the freedom to move between spaces according to our personal needs and rhythms—to cook lunch or move our bodies during the work day or to work on the floor—managing the boundaries between spaces required the disciplining and coordination not only of our bodies but also those of the members of our household and of the materialities of our homes: taking work equipment out of the living room in the evening, turning off the computer and disabling notifications at certain times, literally opening or closing doors, engaging family members in distractions, putting on headphones with music to drown out the presence of other people in a room, a change of dress. Again, the ability and conditions to manage these different spaces and to create a stable (or even “luxurious”) working arrangement is unevenly distributed. The ability to constitute the “right” kind of space depends on the degree of obedience or resistance of the people and materials constituting our homes, the resources we have access to, and our own ability to switch between spaces and ignore distractions—an ability that can be structured by gendered identities, norms, and household roles.

“I take turns with my colleague in using the office at the university, coordinated through a shared calendar (which also our partners share with whom we need to coordinate childcare and home schooling). We coordinate our schedules, considering our respective tasks and (infrastructural) needs, feelings of (un-)safety, if our partners and children are at home, etc. If for some reason there are still collisions, we ‘manage’ the risk of infection by wearing masks and taking COVID tests beforehand, making sure that everyone feels safe.”

Figure 9. A screenshot of a chat history on Slack amongst two colleagues coordinating their shared office use

“Taking the [personal] laptop with me in this initial phase [of my employment] surprisingly made me less spontaneous in my everyday life. Where was I planning on sleeping on the weekend? Would I be able to stop by at my flat to pick up the laptop before Monday? The arrival of the iMac [provided by the university] brought this to an end. With the iMac my focus shifted to transferring data and software from one device to the other. Before I got access to [the university cloud storage provider], I saved all my files in my private email account (surely there would have been more efficient alternatives). [The cloud storage] made things a little bit easier for me. I developed the habit of regularly uploading all new literature and material, so I could access my files from home too.”

“I regularly match the entries from the paper notebook with my digital calendar and my digital files.…Translating the handwritten notes into digital files introduces reflection and ordering and it helps me to decide what is relevant and what I don’t need to keep. For me, going back and forth between material and digital practices is an important work technique and I couldn’t do with only one of them. I once tried to make handwritten notes on an iPad (because I thought it was simply the bodily practice of handwriting that was productive) and then save them in my files—but this did not work out. Apparently, it is the re-ordering and translation process from handwritten notes in a physical notebook to typing them into different computer files and through this also making them ready for further processing at the computer, that proves productive for me.”

Figure 10. A corner of an office desk, with a notebook, stacks of paper, pens, a water bottle, a book with a glass on top of it

Figure 11. A screenshot of a laptop desktop showing multiple windows and programs that are being used

We need both stuff and spaces to carry out academic work, and these have to be coordinated. While our spatial mobility was in many respects reduced during the lockdowns, we experienced and performed diverse (new) ways of moving around the heterogeneous elements that made up our academic lives in this period: our bodies, devices, data, and tasks, but also our partners, children, medical masks, tests, and our home infrastructures (chairs, routers, kitchen tables). These entities and the intersections between them needed to be coordinated and moved between different spaces. Arranging these intersections, however, requires work—coordination work, emotional work and bodily work. Our notes reveal both attempts to create seamlessness—the ability to stay in place and maintain a continuous workflow—and to use the seams between infrastructures and digital tools as a means of ordering our thoughts and work (such as switching between physical and digital notes).

Has anything resonated? Maybe you have felt a pull towards one of the fragments, images, or arguments we have put onto this pinboard. Perhaps our experiences of academic life during the pandemic bear some similarities with yours, particularly in the ways that we managed our spaces and infrastructures.

It is clear that during chaotic and disorienting experiences of lockdowns and other restrictions, individuals very quickly found workarounds and home-crafted infrastructures to allow them to continue to work—and indeed to be “productive”—despite the challenges of home office, the stress of the pandemic, and differently challenging circumstances (child care, finding an apartment, beginning an academic position). This is evident both from the experiences we have reported here, and from early research from others. One thing the fragments above particularly highlight, though, is the labor involved in such productivity: leading academic lives during the pandemic required us to take responsibility for bringing diverse and scattered infrastructures, spaces, and people together, and for coordinating ourselves, family members, devices, data, and tasks in order to create environments in which we could fulfill (what we saw as being) our work. As a group we have been referring to these coordinated and heterogeneous spatiotemporal movements as choreographies (Cussins 1996). Such choreographic work included, among other things, the management of intersections between different infrastructures (home and work devices, digital and paper notes, different internet connections and Wi-Fi networks), the creation of particular kinds of spaces through organizing the presence or absence of particular objects or people (in Zoom calls, for instance, children are out but smart clothes are in), and taking care of one’s colleagues through how and when a university office is used, by whom, under what conditions (PCR testing, for instance).

How does this relate to care? As noted above, we approached care through a bottom-up exploration of situated practices. As such we find it in a number of sites: in attentiveness toward each other’s needs and struggles; in the (unequally distributed) ability to care for the coordination of multiple infrastructures that we have described; in practices of taking care of our home office requirements (bandwidth, desks, chairs). Perhaps one of our most revealing reflections, however, revolved around the notion of responsiveness (Tronto 1998, 2013). In our experiences, as they were performed as notes and stories for the others in the group, we realized that responding to care given by others is also a type of competence. Our readiness to receive care from other members of the group was crucial during the periods of extra pressure of academic work imposed by the pandemic. On a more performative note, we also think of our non-linear, messy method of autoethnography as a practice of care-ful research (Law and Lin 2020), allowing us to be attentive to each other’s differences and to the diversity and situatedness of our epistemic living spaces (Felt and Fochler 2012).

As we discussed what care-ful research should look like, however, we also saw some of the ambiguity of pinboard as a representational approach. On the one hand, it forced us to notice that, at times, the strategies we developed to maintain the flow of our academic work failed to protect us from exhaustion or other negative effects, and led us to protect ourselves. On the other, it rendered those very selves open to public analysis. In compiling this pinboard—the version we are presenting here—it has been important to us to take care of our personal boundaries, and to be mindful of what pieces of information we would like to keep within our group. This is why, for instance, we do not disclose the different patternings of our privileges and situations, although we are highly aware of the different individual hierarchical positionings, dependencies, vulnerabilities, and resources. Rather, we understand the pinboard as a way of seeing as a group, reflecting on similarity and difference, thinking theory together, blurring the boundaries between individual and collective sensemaking.

In understanding care as a multiplicity of practices and notions, we have also been led to discuss how it can become a selective mode of attention that can produce exclusions (Martin, Myers, and Viseu 2015). This understanding brought us to reflect, on the one hand, on the privilege of our situatedness as academics based in a European university in the Global North who can afford to arrange a new connectivity infrastructure at home, rearrange our working spaces following particular preferences, and work from home. On the other hand, we also gained a better understanding of how institutional responsibilities for work infrastructure (connectivity, network, equipment, access to internet) were delegated and merged with already existing care tasks of our own. At the same time, it has become more evident how our work is sustained by various other infrastructures (from childcare to healthcare and other infrastructures of care) that, despite being less visible or usually taken for granted, play a crucial role in the development of our academic careers even in the absence of pandemic restrictions. In such ways, our findings point to the complexity of care: our care for each other, for our research, and for ourselves has at times helped to maintain problematic working practices and heightened the responsibilization of individual researchers, and raises the question of how we can care for each other without contributing to larger problems. Perhaps we should more often have responded with “I don’t care” when it came to fixing the problems that emerged for our academic work during the pandemic—or at least, with Martin, Myers, and Viseu, have said, “What we must do is take better care of how we care” (2015, 631).

There is much more to say about this project, and about what we have learned from the autoethnography, as well as using a pinboard to represent it. We continue to take some of the ideas raised—questions of infrastructural anxiety, choreographic work, how to live justly and well in the academy—forward in our research. But we also feel it is important not to end neatly. A pinboard is about raising interesting questions (Roberts 2010), not answering them. So we will just…stop.

² Our group came together in February 2021, although two of us (Davies and Pham) had started our positions in 2020.

³ At the time, these autoethnographic notes were collected, the University of Vienna was taking precautionary measures, which meant that we were asked to work from home and limit the number of physical meetings. Teaching took place entirely online. Outside of the university, schools and shops were largely closed until May 2021.

⁴ In doing so we drew on a long tradition of autoethnography in the academy: see, e.g., Trahar 2013; Rutter et al. 2021; Winkler 2013; Wilkinson 2020. Our particular method made use of a prompt (“Take 3 (+/-) photos that reflect your working spaces and practices, then write field notes or text fragments that respond to these images”) to help us create images and field notes, then repeated cycles of discussion and further data collection as we explored and made sense of our different experiences.

⁵ Indeed, one way of framing this is that our homes were “requisitioned” (Jenkins 2020): we are grateful to one of the reviewers for pointing us to this idea.

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Sarah Davies is a Professor of Technosciences, Materiality, and Digital Cultures at the University of Vienna. Her research explores the digital as material practice.

Bao-Chau Pham is a PhD candidate at the Department of Science and Technology Studies, University of Vienna. Her doctoral research explores artificial intelligence policy in the European Union.

Esther Dessewffy is a PhD candidate at the University of Vienna’s STS department. She researches practices and materialities engaged in making computer simulations for architecture and spatial planning.

Andrea Schikowitz is a Postdoctoral Researcher at the Department of Science and Technology Studies, University of Vienna. Her current research focuses on knowledge practices in distributed urban planning and controversies.

Fredy Mora Gámez is a Postdoctoral Researcher at the Department of Science and Technology Studies, University of Vienna, and a Senior Lecturer at the Department of Gender Studies, Linköping University.