Kip Jones

KIP JONES, an American by birth, has been studying and working in the UK for more than 20 years.
Under the umbrella term of 'arts-led research', his main efforts have involved developing tools
from the arts and humanities for use by social scientists in research and its impact on a wider
public or a Perfomative Social Science.

Jones was Reader in Performative Social Science and Qualitative Research at
Bournemouth University for 15 years.
He is now a Visiting Scholar and and an independent author and scholar.

Kip has produced films and written many articles for academic journals and authored chapters
for books on topics such as masculinity, ageing and rurality, and older LGBT citizens.
Jones' most recent work involves working with Generation Z youth to tell their stories using
social media.
His ground-breaking use of qualitative methods, including Auto-fiction, biography
and auto-ethnography, and the use of tools from the arts in social science research
and dissemination are well-known.

Jones acted as Author and Executive Producer of
the award-winning short film, RUFUS STONE, funded by Research Councils UK.
The film is now available for free viewing on the Internet
and has been viewed by more than 14,000 people in 150 countries.

Areas of expertise
• Close relationships, culture and ethnicity
• Social psychology, sociology
• Ageing, self and identity
• Interpersonal processes, personality,
individual differences,
social networks, prejudice and stereotyping
• Sexuality and sexual orientation
• Creativity and the use of the
arts in Social Science

Media experience
His work has been reported widely
in the media, including:
BBC Radio 4,BBC TV news,Times
Higher Education, Sunday New
York Times, International
and The Independent.

Thursday, 30 March 2017

Words I Hate by Curmudgeonly Kip

Over-used scholarly words that I hate:

Gushy words used to describe serious work that I hate:

Made-up touchy-feely words that I hate:
Indepthness (Just saw this one in a title!)
[I once gave some Phenomenology Zealots a list of 2874 pre-existing perfectly fine words ending in –ness. They couldn’t be bothered.]

Some examples of usage of the words that I hate (totally made up):
“This report contains thick description”. 
Means: “There was so much data that I didn’t’ know what to do with it”.

“The project took a rigourous and robust approach”.
Means: “We couldn’t think of anything specific to describe our method”.

“However, the moon is made of cheese”.
Question: However, what? Where are we? What preceded this grand theory? Can you really bounce a meatball?

“Her statement was evocative of other states of mind as well”.
Means: “The interviewee really confused me, but I probably wasn’t listening”.
Words that I like:
Nonetheless (as a salve for ‘However’)

Monday, 13 March 2017

“Oxford Comma, 4 a.m.”


“Oxford Comma, 4 a.m.”

When I write, I.

When I write dreams, I write poetry.

When I write us, I write script.

When I write before, I write biography.

When I write sensation, I write philosophy.

When I write place, I write history.

When I write love, I write chances.

When I write truth, I write fiction.

When I write poetry, I write religion.

When I write, I.

When I write, I.

When I write.

Friday, 3 March 2017

"The sweat on their bodies” Redux

I was introduced to live musical theatre at the Valley Forge Music Fair. It was summer stock for New York actors, singers and dancers performed in a tent on the East coast of Pennsylvania, outside of Philadelphia.

I lived my simple, country boy life about 30 miles to the west. It was at Valley Forge that I saw shows like Pajama Game and Damn Yankees and, for the first time, fell in love with live musical theatre.

Theatre in the round and being so close to the sweat on the dancers’ bodies made me believe that there was a possibility of connecting somehow. As a teenager, these theatrical encounters were a part of my growing-up world of serious sexual awakening. I had put aside my childish desire to be Robin to Batman or follow Flash Gordon around in his lamé hot pants. These new experiences were comprised of all the senses; but mostly, it was the smell of the greasepaint mixed with the dancers’ sweat. I was breathless from the experience.

Every summer I would look forward to these performances under that tent, the actors in such intimate proximity, darting up and down the aisles, making their exits and entrances. The tension of wanting to reach out and touch them was palatable.

I would hang around the parking lot after the shows, hoping that one of the cast would come along and say hello. I lie. Come along and take me away with them. I wanted to join this musical circus; I wanted to fall in love and get laid. I still get these three things mixed up.