Learning from Lukewarm Library Instruction

I said in my November post that it wouldn’t be the only one I wrote about library instruction. As someone who is still new to teaching and class instruction, learning how to be an engaging, fun, and informative teacher is one of my biggest learning curves as a first-year academic librarian. So, a few months later, I’m returning to this topic – specifically to talk about a library instruction session that didn’t go as well as the one that I prepared in 24 hours.

Teaching graduate students

In my role as a liaison librarian, I work with a specific department at Vanderbilt’s Peabody College. Within that department, I manage everything library-related for nine programs – five master’s degree programs, three Ed.D. (doctorate of education) programs, and one Ph.D. program. One thing you might notice from that list is that I only work with graduate students, which is something that I was both nervous and excited about when I accepted this position.

I was excited because I knew I would be able to relate to the students, having just finished two years of being a grad student myself. A lot of the programs I support are aimed at students who are coming back to school for a career change, or who want to further their current career by completing a degree while they continue to work full-time. As someone who worked for seven years before going back to school for my MSLS, I felt when I accepted the job like I would understand these students’ experiences, and working with them has confirmed this.

However, I was also nervous because I hadn’t worked with graduate students much before. I was a Graduate Assistant at a library at the university where I did my MSLS, but worked almost entirely with undergrads in that role. The only experience I had with teaching graduate students was one co-teaching experience with my supervisor.

The good news is that a lot of my nerves about teaching and working with graduate students dissipated during the fall semester. Most of what I was teaching was similar to what I had taught undergrads – the basics of Boolean and how to look beyond Google Scholar – usually with just a few more details or advanced database skills included. Although I knew I still had a lot to learn, I felt more confident in the content of my instruction sessions for graduate classes after a semester.

Teaching Ph.D. students – how different could it be?

Late in the fall, a professor asked me to teach a Ph.D. class of hers. She requested that I come for 10-15 minutes for a brief library overview, and if it went well, I could come back in the spring and teach the class again for a full session. I agreed, the fall session went well, and in December we scheduled a day for me to teach for an hour in mid-January.

Unlike most other lessons I had taught, this was a lesson that I needed to create from scratch. I had also never taught Ph.D. students, and had only a few vague ideas of what the professor wanted me to teach. However, I had worked with a lot of Ed.D. students one-on-one in the fall, so I decided to base the lesson on what I taught those students – the basics of Boolean, how to navigate a database, and an overview of the research-specific AI tools that we have. Both groups were doctoral students, I reasoned, so their needs were probably fairly similar.

I knew I was in trouble within the first five minutes of arriving at the classroom. I had prepared slides at the beginning of my presentation to explain who I was and give an overview of Vanderbilt Libraries’ resources – essentially a condensed version of what I had done in the fall. To my surprise, as I set up my computer at the front of the room, I realized that the group of students I was about to teach were the exact same students I had taught in the fall. Since this was the same class, I had figured the students would be different, because groups of students don’t usually take the exact same class in back-to-back semesters (or ever). But this was definitely the same group.

This made my first few slides obsolete, so I breezed through them like this was the plan all along, saying things like “since we covered this last semester, we’ll go ahead and move on!” I quickly reached my slides on Boolean. I cheerfully explained how databases speak a specific language, and that to be able to use them effectively, we needed to speak that same language. Then I asked how many people had heard of Boolean before.

Every hand in the room went up, and my heart sank. If all the students already knew Boolean, most of the rest of my lesson was also obsolete.

I pivoted as best I could, asking the students to generate terms for the example topic on my slide instead of explaining the terms I had already thought about. Then I used their terms to run some searches in the databases and talked about filters and peer reviewed articles. I was hoping to be able to move on to AI research tools and spend more of the lesson time there.

However, before I could change gears, the professor asked me to talk about searching by subject headings within a database. I hadn’t prepared anything on this topic but gamely pulled up the ERIC thesaurus and showed students how to use it for a search. No surprise that since it wasn’t a search I had prepared in advance, it didn’t return any results. My attempts to change the search or look for different subject headings didn’t help.

To make matters worse, by the time I moved on from subject headings, that conversation had taken up so much time that we only had 10 minutes left in the lesson to talk about AI tools – not nearly enough. Students had a lot of questions about the tools and there was no way I could answer them all. To finish off the fiasco, another event was taking place in the classroom right after the class ended, so as I wrapped up my presentation by telling everyone they could email me any time with questions, students were standing up and heading to the back of the room, where pizza was being set out in preparation for the event.

My hope from this lesson is that it will be one of the worst ones I’ll ever teach. If I only go up from here, I’ll be happy. I felt so awful about it all that when my friends and colleagues asked me how the class had gone, I mostly just said “It was okay” and left it at that. The only person I really talked to about it at the time was one of my former professors, S., who has become a mentor and friend over the last few years. I shared all the details with her and greatly appreciated how understanding she was. She didn’t try to sugarcoat it or to convince me that it probably hadn’t been so bad. Then, she gently moved the conversation to something even more helpful than empathizing with me – she started helping me think through what I could do differently to try to prevent a similar situation from happening in the future.

Lesson 1 – Ask the faculty member for details

S. asked how much I had known about the class and students before I walked into the classroom. When I said not much, she told me that it was okay to ask the professor for more details. I think one of the things I’ve struggled with this first year is not wanting to be a burden to professors. It’s often so hard to get them to invite us into their classrooms in the first place, that I haven’t wanted to ask them too many things or push too hard for information. S. helped me see that asking for clarification and details is actually a part of my job, and that I can’t worry (much) about frustrating professors with my questions.

Lesson 2 – Consider giving higher-level students a pre-test

One of S.’s suggestions that I liked the most was to give doctoral students a pre-test before I teach in their classes. While undergraduate or even master’s students might not be willing to take a pre-test, doctoral students might complete one. If the professor agreed to distribute it, the responses would help me understand what those students know and don’t know – and therefore would help me tailor my lesson to fit their needs.

Lesson 3 – It’s okay to be honest with professors

One of the things I said to S. was that I felt like I could do so much better with the lesson if I could do it a second time – but that I doubted the professor would ever invite me back. She encouraged me to be honest with the professor, reach out, and simply say that I know I could do much better and would appreciate another chance to come to the class next semester to prove it. I haven’t reached out yet, but plan to do so along with my other fall instruction outreach, and hope that being straightforward helps.

Lesson 4 – View professors as colleagues

Something that I thought about, and decided against, ahead of the lesson was sharing my slides with the professor and asking if what I was planning to teach was in line with expectations. Again, I chose not to do this because I didn’t want to burden the professor. I was also afraid that I would get edits at the last minute, and would have to scramble to make changes the morning of. However, viewing professors as colleagues instead of people that I’m working for changes the equation on this for me. The next time I create a lesson from scratch, I’ll definitely send it to the professor in advance and make sure it matches expectations.

Lesson 5 – Remember that I have colleagues and mentors who can (and want to) help me

I think this is actually the lesson that, in retrospect, makes me feel silliest. Librarians are some of the most helpful and giving people I’ve ever worked with, but I was so scared of looking dumb by admitting that I was unsure about how to approach a doctoral-level class that I forged ahead on my own and forgot how many times fellow librarians encouraged me to ask for help. During my entire conversation with S., I kept thinking how much better it would have been if I had reached out to her before I taught this class and asked for her advice – and if I had reached out to any of my other librarian friends, mentors, or colleagues as well. This is definitely one mistake that I’ll never make again.

Moving forward

As much as I wish I could, I can’t go back and change how the January class went. However, I can change what I do in the future, and hopefully I can even come back to this class in the fall and teach a successful lesson. After this experience, I also have a much better understanding of how much instruction is comprised of way more than just a lesson that’s taught in the classroom. It’s about working with the faculty and department, my colleagues, and the library system to make sure I’m setting students up for success. My hope is that a few years down the road, with a lot more instruction experience to rely on, I’ll be able to look back on this class not as a failure, but as a turning point in my library instruction journey.

Let’s Discuss: How Should We Handle AI in One-Shots?

Whenever I teach a one-shot, there’s an AI-shaped elephant in the room. The rapid advancement of AI technologies has changed so much about how students approach completing assignments, which shapes the dynamic in the one-shot classroom. I worry that students, never the most enthusiastic one-shot attendees, now feel that library research skills are less relevant than ever.

On the surface, it appears that consumer-focused AI tools like ChatGPT are useful for student research. They can help students quickly locate sources, learn about a topic, summarize difficult peer-reviewed articles, and cite their sources—all tasks that are relevant to the learning outcomes of my one-shots. However, as I’ve discussed previously on ACRLog, I believe that higher education should be a place of particular caution when it comes to AI. The hazards of AI, such as copyright infringement, hallucinations, bias, lack of privacy, and the potential erosion of critical thinking skills, are particularly dangerous in an educational context.

Moreover, as Allison and DeRewal (2024) have pointed out, the missions of AI companies are directly opposed to our missions as libraries and universities. The goal of products like ChatGPT and Comet—and even AI tools built into educational products, like Primo Research Assistant—is to make tasks as easy as possible for the consumer. Our goal is to educate students, which cannot happen by making things as easy as possible. We intentionally build friction into our assignments and activities in order to help students develop the skills necessary to overcome inevitable difficulties in the research process. ChatGPT’s goal is to eliminate challenge; our goal is to strategically introduce it, because students can’t learn without it.

Here are the research-related AI applications I’m most worried about in regards to undergraduates I teach:

  • Using AI tools to find sources (“Find 5 peer-reviewed articles about climate change.”)
  • Using AI tools to learn information (“What are the main causes of climate change?”)
  • Using AI tools to summarize articles (“What are the main ideas of this article?”)
  • Using AI tools to generate citations (“Please format this list of sources into an MLA Works Cited page.”)

(In general, I’m also worried about students using AI tools to generate the text of their papers. However, that falls outside the scope of one-shot instruction, so I will not address it here.) 

With all of this swimming around in my head, it can be overwhelming to try to productively address AI issues in a 50-minute one-shot, especially when I have so much else to teach. Whenever I feel lost about how to tackle an AI-related issue, I return to three touchstones: clarity, transparency, and guidance. I believe that undergraduate students today deeply value these qualities in the classroom. So when I tell them a proactive, firm “no” (clarity), I immediately follow up with transparency (“here’s why the answer is no”) and guidance (“here’s what you can do instead”). 

I want to use the remainder of this post to share three of the strategies I’ve been using to address AI in one-shots—but I am just one librarian, liaising with the social sciences at a regional comprehensive university in the midwestern United States. My context may be very different from yours. I would love for folks to jump into the conversation and share strategies, thoughts, and questions in the comments below. 

Strategy #1: Address AI upfront

I always start my one-shots by talking about AI for a few minutes. I don’t want students zoning out the entire session, thinking “I’ll just use ChatGPT for this,” so I try to capture their attention by posing the question: Why don’t you just use ChatGPT to research this paper? Why are you here at the library today? Per my transparency touchstone, I’m explicit about my intentions with having this conversation. I know this is something some of you might be wondering, and I often get questions like these from students, so I wanted to take a couple of minutes to talk about this before we dive in.

I state that in general, when students ask me this question, I do not recommend the use of AI for completing research assignments. I share specific examples of times I’ve witnessed AI-assisted research going wrong: Cornerstone students combing the stacks for books that were never written, law students tearing their hair out as they search for Supreme Court cases that don’t exist. I try to get vivid and lean into the storytelling. 

I don’t want that to be you, I say. So today, we’re going to walk through how you can research this paper without running into any of those issues. Sound good? 

Strategy #2: Demonstrate better open web searching

Let’s be honest: Using Google is miserable. Half the websites are paywalled, and the other half are sponsored links that relentlessly spam you with pop-up ads. No wonder students are increasingly turning to Google’s AI overview and AI chatbots to find information. The interfaces are far cleaner and easier to navigate; this not only provides a better user experience, it also appears more professional and, therefore, reliable. 

But as information professionals, we know these AI tools aren’t actually more reliable, considering the frequency and magnitude of hallucinations. To provide an alternative when students want to search the web for information on a topic, I show them how to limit their search results by site domain (or even a particular website, if relevant to the course). I generally recommend .edu, but I sometimes show .org and .gov as well. I may also show how to use phrase searching or the intitle command in a basic Google search. Students are often surprised and excited to see how simple tricks can make Google searching so much easier. 

Strategy #3: Cultivate college-level research skills 

In most cases, it is currently illegal for a student at the University of Northern Iowa to download an article from one of our subscription databases and then upload it into a generative AI tool, such as ChatGPT. In some cases, it is not the student who would be liable for this action, but the library. 

Whenever I tell students this, it makes an impression. They’re especially shocked to hear that in some cases, their actions could lead to the library getting in trouble. I clarify that this is a result of the agreements we make with scholarly publishers in order to make their books, articles, and other materials available to UNI students. I explain that students often ask whether or not they can use ChatGPT to summarize sources for their research papers, and this is part of why their librarians and professors are telling them no.

However, I emphasize that I understand why students ask me this question—because, truly, I do. It’s difficult enough to understand peer-reviewed research when you’re new to academia and/or to a particular discipline; on top of that, many students are never actually taught how to read research, how to read in college. It’s very different from how we read for leisure or how they read to perform well on standardized tests in high school. Students may feel lost, like asking ChatGPT to summarize a difficult passage or even an entire article is the only way they can succeed in class. 

There’s only so much I can do in a one-shot; reading research is a skill, and real skill development takes guided practice over an extended period of time. Nonetheless, I try to plant a seed. I reassure students: It’s okay if reading peer-reviewed research is hard. I provide a few tips about strategic reading, such as starting with the abstract and conclusion, making multiple passes, and annotating key points. I love this guide from Brown University and often share it with students. I also take a few minutes to explain citation chasing. Citation chasing is another college-level research skill that seems second nature to us, but it won’t occur to most freshmen until somebody takes the time to teach them about it. You don’t need to ask a generative AI tool for “5 sources about climate change” because once you find one good article or book chapter, there are tons of additional sources right there at the end. 

—

I am in no way an expert on AI or one-shot instruction; this is only my second semester of teaching. I don’t come to this with the intention of sharing expert knowledge, but with the hope of starting a conversation. I would love for the comments section to become a place for folks to share experiences and brainstorm strategies around addressing AI in one-shots. Here are some questions to get started: 

  • How have you been thinking about AI in your one-shots? 
  • What strategies have you used to address AI in your one-shots? What has worked well, and what has not worked as well?
  • What kinds of conversations have you had (or not had) with your faculty about classroom AI policies, AI usage in research assignments, and so on?
  • Any other thoughts or questions that this post prompted for you!

Teaching with Twenty-Four Hours’ Notice

The Setup

This likely won’t be my only FYAL blog post about library instruction. When I started my master’s degree, I initially looked for a path in an aspect of librarianship that didn’t include instruction. I’ve never enjoyed public speaking, and although I got better at it before I went back to grad school, standing in front of a group of people with everyone’s eyes on me has never been in my comfort zone.

However, it didn’t take me long to realize that what I loved most about librarianship – working with students in an academic setting – was going to come with teaching as a job component. With that in mind, I made a point of finding opportunities while completing my MSLS to get more experience with instruction, working with my supervisor at my Graduate Assistant position on campus to co-teach library instruction sessions and taking Library Instruction & Pedagogy, which turned out to be one of my favorite classes.

The Situation

Fast forward to October. That month, I had a lot of one-on-one reference consultations for a specific master’s program. The small program is fully remote, but in mid-October a few students mentioned that they would be at Vanderbilt for a full program convening that upcoming weekend. After the second student mentioned the convening, it clicked in my head that, since I had worked with about half the students in this program already, this would be a great opportunity to meet them in person, as well as a chance to introduce myself to the ones I hadn’t worked with yet (and encourage them to make appointments too).

Thankfully, I had already had some interactions with the professor who runs that program, so I felt like it would be okay to reach out at the last minute. The very last minute. The Friday morning before the Saturday & Sunday convening, I emailed and asked if there was a break in the programming on Saturday when I could pop in and see everyone. I would have preferred to ask about doing some actual instruction, but I was hesitant to offer that with so little time to prepare. Coming by for some informal conversation seemed like a good middle ground.

The professor got back to me at 4:03pm on Friday afternoon. What a great idea! They would love to have me come by the convening! If it was convenient for me, they could give me time for a 20-minute presentation at 4pm on Saturday. 24 hours minus three minutes of notice for an instructional session.

As I read the professor’s email (twice, to make sure I had gotten it right), I could literally feel my heartbeat speed up. My palms started sweating. I hope to get more comfortable in the future with instructional sessions, but right now I prefer to have my slides done at least a week in advance and to be able to practice a couple of times to make sure I’m saying the right things and showing the best searching examples in each class. I didn’t think there was any way I could pull off an instructional session with one day’s notice. One of my work friends happened to be in my office when I received this email. “I just got asked to do an instructional session tomorrow afternoon. What do I do?!” I asked her.

The Decision

In my Library Instruction & Pedagogy class in graduate school, one set of readings that our professor assigned was about saying no to instruction requests. Those articles have stuck with me, because saying no to instruction – or really any faculty request – wasn’t something I had thought of as an option before I read them. The authors and librarians in the articles made good points about why they had said no to instruction, including a lack of preparation time. Now, just three months into my first job, the thought flashed through my mind: was I in a situation where I could – or should – say no to this instruction request?1, 2

There weren’t many other options to think through – with so little time, and the students only here for one weekend, I felt like I could either politely decline the request or try to throw together a lesson in a day. I realized quickly that with only 20 minutes, I wasn’t going to be able to do much actual searching demonstration, which right now takes up most of my preparation time. That would make it more doable. Additionally, my predecessor in this role was incredibly organized and generous when she left, and gave the library team access to a lot of her materials – including slides and lessons. Was there a lesson for this group of students?

I checked the folder, and sure enough, a “library 101” lesson was there, tailored for this master’s program. I quickly clicked through the slides and felt myself calming down. Talk about the library; I can do that. Explain the basic resources and databases that are recommended for education students; check. Emphasize that I’m here and available for research help and any questions big or small; no problem. Maybe I could do this.

Despite all of those thoughts, though, my decision to say yes to this instructional request came down to feeling like I couldn’t say no – for two reasons. First, I’m a new librarian trying to find my footing and build relationships, and declining this opportunity felt like it would be a step in the wrong direction. Right now, every opportunity to teach a group of students about the library feels like a chance I can’t miss. Second, because I was the one who had volunteered to come to the convening in the first place. Even though instruction wasn’t originally what I had volunteered for… I did volunteer.

Either way, it would be a leap of faith – and a learning experience. Around 4:45 on Friday, I emailed the professor back and told her that I would love to come teach for 20 minutes the following afternoon. Then, I started updating and personalizing the slides for the next day.

The Outcome

We actually had a separate library event that Saturday, so after volunteering at that event, I spent a few more hours in my office working on my slides. Then I walked across the quad to go teach – a little less than 24 hours after setting up the session.

In this case, everything worked out really well. The students who already knew me were excited to see me, and their excitement was contagious. Maybe partially because the turnaround was so fast, I wasn’t very nervous and so I was able to be more myself while I was presenting, which helped me land the material better. I had more fun, and I think the students did too. My 24-hour teaching turnaround was a success. (I’m still a little in disbelief that I pulled it off.)

I also learned some important lessons from this experience that I can take with me moving forward:

  1. Being more “me” while teaching made it more fun, and I think made me a better teacher, too. Hopefully, as I keep gaining experience, my nerves surrounding public speaking will continue to decrease and more of my personality can come through.
  2. Building relationships with students and professors really matters. A big part of why I was able to do this was because I already knew the professor and about half the students in the class, so I knew I would be walking into a friendly environment.
  3. Practice is key. I was supposed to teach for 20 minutes, but ran over, largely because I hadn’t been able to do a full run-through of my presentation with so little preparation time. I also got lost at one point and started mentioning Boolean searching, only to remember mid-sentence that I didn’t have time to fully explain and show what that meant. I ended up saying something like, “I can explain more about Boolean in research consultations” – not ideal, but not the end of the world either.
  4. Only volunteer to “come by” a class if I’m prepared to get up and teach too!

References:

  1. Meulemans, Y. N & and Carr, A. (2012). Not at your service: Building genuine faculty-librarian partnerships. In Reference Services Review, 41(1), 80-90. doi: 10.1108/00907321311300893
  2. White, A. (2023, October 11). Let ‘no’ be ‘no’: When librarians say ‘no’ to instruction opportunities. In the library with the lead pipe. Retrieved November 10, 2025, from https://www.inthelibrarywiththeleadpipe.org/2023/let-no-be-no/

Reframing Traditional Models: Research Needs in the Performing Arts

I occupy an unusual position in academic librarianship. As a continuing appointment performing arts librarian serving the School of Music, Dance, and Theatre, I straddle multiple worlds: subject specialist and generalist, curator and reference provider, researcher and daily practitioner. In other words, my work constantly shifts between different expectations and evaluative frameworks.

By comparison, my colleagues in music librarianship benefit from established professional infrastructure: specialized graduate training, the Music Library Association’s networks, standardized practices, and decades of scholarship. By contrast, librarians working with theatre and dance inhabit a professionalization gap. There is no dedicated graduate program, little in the way of shared training, and only fragmentary community infrastructure. As a result, this absence is not simply inconvenient; it shapes how tenure committees evaluate our work, how we articulate our expertise, and how effectively we support our constituencies.

Scott Stone (2023) notes that 40% of Music Library Association members now work beyond music specialization. Nevertheless, evaluation systems often remain grounded in older categories—either the “deep specialist” or the “broad generalist.” Hybrid roles like mine don’t fit neatly into either, even though performing arts librarianship often demands more disciplinary expertise, not less.

Consequently, this essay argues that performing arts librarianship requires frameworks that recognize creative research as distinctive: recursive, embodied, community-centered, and often resistant to the models libraries have traditionally used. To illustrate these dynamics, evidence from five studies—Fleming-May, Marini, Mayer, Dalal & Shane, and Stone—underscores both the gaps and the opportunities. My own practice with students demonstrates why new approaches are urgently needed.

Complementary Studies

Rachel Fleming-May’s (2025) meta-ethnography combines findings from 23 studies on how creative artists seek information (2019–2024). She sees that professional artists and scholars view emotions, memory, and experiences as valid sources of information. They describe creation as “dynamic information making.” This means research happens alongside practice, not before it (558). Artists seldom feel frustrated when they can’t find information. Instead, they see engagement as “an opportunity for creative dialogue rather than [addressing a deficit]” (558). Fleming-May shows how creative research differs from traditional academic work. Similarly, artists see making as a learning process. Even when alone, they keep a dialogue going. They also value exploration and chance discoveries.

Fleming-May examines professional artists in a broad manner, while Francesca Marini focuses her attention on theatre scholarship and its specialized practitioners. Marini’s 2007 study included 41 interviews. She spoke with theatre scholars and performing arts archivists from Italy, the U.S., France, and Belgium. Performing arts information professionals share five key traits with the scholars they help:

  • Attention to context.
  • Sensitivity to time and ephemerality. 
  • Creativity 
  • Passionate engagement 
  • Interdisciplinarity

Significantly, many have backgrounds as practitioners, like actors, directors, dancers, and designers. They also point out that there isn’t just one method, like there isn’t one form of theatre. Archivists and librarians are key research partners, helping users spot connections, both inside and outside the material, that might go unnoticed. By documenting proactively—arranging recordings, soliciting materials, they promote the creation of sources that would not otherwise exist. As one archivist puts it, “The archive has to be alive; it has to be an active entity… Theatre cannot be a dead issue” (29).

Impact on student experience

At the same time, these patterns become visible—and often troubling—in student researchers. Jennifer Mayer’s (2015) case study of upper-division performing arts students at the University of Wyoming found they struggled with multimedia discovery, couldn’t reliably distinguish primary from secondary sources, and found interdisciplinary research challenging to navigate. Dance students turned to Google, Wikipedia, and YouTube before library tools—not from laziness, but because these platforms matched their visual and exploratory habits (419). Students’ image selections often diverged from faculty expectations, revealing visual literacy gaps. Costume and scene design students reported unmet research demands and “tension between what sources the professors want versus what is realistically available” (423).

One sustained intervention demonstrates how to address these challenges. Heather Dalal and Robin Shane’s (2023) seven-year collaboration at Rider University embedded the librarian in courses and shifted toward collaborative, in-class research. Instead of demonstrating databases, they had students share images in Google Slides and conduct peer evaluation using prompts: “Is this first-hand research? What helps you know that? Does this feel like good research?” (1). Pairing iterative practice with ongoing feedback reduced anxiety and improved outcomes. Their approach succeeds because it treats creative research as distinctive practice requiring specialized support—not deficit remediation.

These studies mirror my experience: the gap between struggling students and expert practitioners is significant; traditional systems don’t fully serve creative researchers; and effective support begins by reconceptualizing what counts as research and how libraries partner in it.

Supporting MFA students

I work closely with MFA students whose research challenges assumptions about information-seeking. They often investigate connections between and embodied experience and knowledge; direct plays through non-linear, emotionally driven, community-centered processes where performance itself becomes research—creation and investigation happen simultaneously, not sequentially.

When they request research support, traditional frameworks often fail. Their processes are recursive: create, reflect, research, create again. Students draw from personal experience, community knowledge, and bodily understanding alongside scholarly sources. These are sophisticated behaviors, yet library systems and instruction models don’t consistently recognize them as legitimate scholarship.

Here, Marini’s framework helps me understand why certain approaches work. When I function as research partner rather than service provider—actively suggesting connections, participating in interpretation, understanding the ephemeral nature of their work—students respond differently. When I acknowledge my own theatre engagement (attending performances, understanding rehearsal processes), I build credibility.

Further more, theatre research still contends with Eurocentric frames that push materials into anthropology or religion rather than “theatre.” Play discovery remains challenging: cataloging rarely enables browsing by practitioners’ actual access points—theme, playwright demographics, historical setting. Eurocentrism persists not only in who appears in standard histories, but in the very definitions of “theatre” those histories assume.

Meeting these needs demands subject expertise most LIS curricula barely touch. These studies, combined with my observations, illuminate where library frameworks don’t yet align with creative research processes:

Photo by Ahmad Odeh on Unsplash

Gaps Between Traditional Library Models and Performing Arts Research

  • Performance as research. Artists don’t separate research from creation—performance itself generates knowledge. Traditional library models assume research precedes creation; systems do not yet account for knowledge emerging through practice.
  • Embodied knowledge. Academic and library frameworks often do not recognize bodily practice, kinesthetic learning, or experiential understanding as legitimate forms of research and knowledge generation.
  • Community expertise. Students focus on lived experience alongside published scholarship. Traditional hierarchies that privilege formal publications can undermine the legitimacy of community-based work.
  • Non-linear processes. Creative research is recursive and is frequently characterized by strong emotions. One-shot library instruction focuses on systematic searching. This often misses intuitive leaps and unexpected connections.
  • Visual information primacy. Artists across disciplines rely on visual representations, creating image “morgues” for research. Text-based discovery systems don’t yet serve visual searching well.
  • Serendipity over efficiency. Artists value browsing and accidental discoveries as sources of inspiration. When plays collocate with novels and poetry, or scores scatter across classifications, browsing becomes challenging. Library systems optimize for known-item retrieval, creating tension with exploratory investigation.
  • Interdisciplinary navigation. Students investigating trauma draw simultaneously on psychology, neuroscience, performance studies, and feminist theory. Disciplinary call number organization scatters related materials across locations.
  • Ephemeral materials. Theatre requires an understanding of materials that are “instantaneously past”—social, political, and artistic contexts and creative processes that disappear without documentation.

The Dalal and Shane Model: A Practical Approach

Fortunately, Dalal and Shane’s collaboration demonstrates several principles applicable to broader performing arts librarianship:

  • Sustained embedded partnerships rather than one-shot sessions. Developing evaluation sophistication, strategic approaches, and comfort with ambiguity takes years of practice. Mayer found that students who missed classes or transferred stayed behind. This shows that front-loading alone isn’t enough.
  • Peer learning occurs through practice rather than abstract instruction. Students build a “critical eye” by talking about real research choices and learning from their mistakes. Students develop intuitive judgment alongside analytical skills.
  • The need for explicit visual and primary source literacy teaching. 
  • Recognition of legitimate differences. Framing creative research as distinctive rather than deficient validates the sophisticated behaviors that Fleming-May and Marini document. 
  • Ongoing feedback and adaptation. By embedding themselves in courses and providing non-graded comments on individual submissions, Dalal and Shane offered point-of-need instruction. When they shifted to flipped classrooms with collaborative in-class research, “collaboration and source-sharing improved outcomes and reduced anxiety” (3).

Challenges and Ongoing Conversations

However, implementing these approaches faces significant challenges, particularly for tenure-track librarians in these specializations:

Within libraries: How do we prioritize sustained embedded relationships when staffing is limited? How do we assess impacts beyond traditional counts? How do we build subject expertise when LIS programs don’t teach it? Sustained partnerships, proactive documentation, and creative programming require resources many libraries lack.

For tenure and promotion: How do we make cases when creative research support doesn’t fit established categories? Stone notes the shift toward generalists means broader subject coverage, yet evaluation criteria remain designed for specialists or generalists—not hybrid positions requiring deep expertise across multiple performing arts.

Between libraries and academic units: How do we partner with faculty who may not recognize libraries as collaborators in practice-based research? The tension between desired sources and realistic resources means librarians must educate faculty about expectations while advocating for improved collections.

Professional infrastructure: We need more interconnected communities of practice like those music and art librarians have established. The Theatre Library Association (founded 1937) exists but remains largely inactive.

Training and standards: How do we advocate for specialized training in practice-based research? ARLIS/NA Core Competencies call for understanding users’ “research behaviors” and “visual literacy,” but no comparable framework spans music, dance, and theatre together. No specialized educational program for performing arts archivists and librarians matches film archivist training.

Community engagement: Prioritizing materials from BIPOC, LGBTQ+, and historically marginalized creators requires transparent stewardship models and long-term commitment. How do we balance proactive documentation with ethical engagement that doesn’t extract or appropriate?

Moving Forward: What This Means for Practice

Taken together, these studies argue for reconceptualizing library practice across many domains:

  • Information literacy. Shift from one-off sessions to embedded, semester-long partnerships that blend deliberate practice with ongoing feedback. Teach visual and primary-source literacies explicitly; treat creative research as distinctive rather than deficient; address strategic information avoidance as a legitimate professional boundary; emphasize synthesis and argumentation alongside tool mechanics; and confirm embodied ways of knowing as part of inquiry.
  • Collections & discovery. Foreground visual browsing invites serendipity, supports robust multimedia search, and proactively documents ephemeral performance. In practice, build thematic (not only disciplinary) pathways for discovering plays; furnish designers with heterogeneous formats (such as photographs, ephemera, pattern books, and technical manuals); surface increasingly interdisciplinary sources for dance; and collect popular/non-scholarly sources when they best serve creative work.
  • Reference & research support. Develop deep subject expertise—including knowledge of creative practice. As Marini shows, this often emerges through practitioner backgrounds, sustained engagement with performances, or targeted study—not LIS training alone.
  • Archives & collection development. Adopt proactive—rather than reactive—approaches. Following Marini, “promote the creation of sources” by arranging recordings, soliciting documentation, and engaging artists during their processes. Stone describes symposia that teach dance companies fundamental archival practices to preserve ephemeral work. This challenges traditional neutrality, but the ephemerality of performance makes intervention necessary; without it, evidence disappears.
  • Professional development and evaluation. Recognize performing arts librarianship as specialized expertise even when roles span multiple disciplines. Build competencies through ongoing learning, practitioner engagement, and institutional support.

The Specialization Question

Stone’s data reveal a striking trend: between 2009 and 2016, MLA members not solely focusing on music increased from 31% to 40%—a 9% shift in seven years. This acceleration toward generalist positions reflects budget constraints that make specialists seem inefficient, pressures to “do more with less,” and assumptions that information literacy skills transfer seamlessly across disciplines.

Yet paradoxically, the work demands deeper specialization. Mastering dance knowledge, visual skills for theatre design, community research methods, and archival documentation requires years of practice. The result: a professional identity crisis. Are we generalists serving the performing arts, specialists spanning multiple disciplines, or something neither framework describes?

For tenure-track librarians, this tension is acute. Traditional evaluation rewards either deep specialization or broad excellence. Hybrid roles must prove both: generalist flexibility and specialist competence. Current frameworks rarely account for that duality.

The irony is stark: the interdisciplinary nature of performing arts often requires more specialized expertise, not less. Supporting a dance scholar exploring trauma and embodiment involves performance studies, psychology, neuroscience, somatics, and feminist theory—far more epistemically varied than guiding a chemistry student to journals. This isn’t about “different databases.” It’s about how practice produces knowledge, how to evaluate embodied evidence, when strategic information avoidance is appropriate, and how community knowledge interacts with scholarly sources.

Proactive documentation depends on relationships built over time—impossible through transactional, generalist reference. Closing representation gaps requires community history, trust-building, and culturally responsive practice. Visual and primary-source literacy demand specialized pedagogy—the sustained, embedded collaboration Dalal and Shane demonstrate. Flexibility alone cannot deliver this.

Making the Case for Expertise in an Era of Generalization

How, then, do we make the case institutionally? Casting generalist breadth as “transferable skills” rarely satisfies promotion committees or honors the depth of expertise required. The question may be less “specialist or generalist?” than whether we need new frameworks that recognize boundary-spanning expertise anchored in deep disciplinary knowledge. Music librarianship built such infrastructure over decades; theatre and dance have not received equivalent investment. Building it now will require long-term advocacy—or a redefinition of specialization itself when disciplines are inadequate to the work.

For now, many of us are improvising hybrid practices while documenting their impact in promotion-readable ways: publishing on the epistemology of creative research, presenting at library and performing arts venues, developing adoptable frameworks, leading professional initiatives, and evidencing sustained intellectual partnerships beyond service statistics. We argue—often from positions titled “generalist”—that the work requires specialized expertise.

The structural contradiction remains: institutions want flexibility and efficiency; the work demands long-term, deep engagement. Until evaluation criteria recognize hybrid expertise—or positions are re-scoped to acknowledge it—individual librarians will continue bearing the burden of reconciling incompatible expectations.

Conclusion

The professionalization gap in performing arts librarianship beyond music creates both challenges and opportunities. We can build frameworks that recognize creative research on its own terms—including performance as research, embodied knowledge, affective experience, community-based practice, and non-linear processes.

What does this mean in practice? For those of us in tenure-track positions, advocating that supporting creative research forms scholarly work deserving of promotion and advancement is essential. Moreover, it means publishing not only about collections or instructional methods, but also about epistemological questions: What is research? How is knowledge generated? What role do libraries play in creative and community-based inquiry?

Fleming-May’s meta-ethnography reveals that creative information behavior differs fundamentally from academic models. Marini demonstrates that performing arts specialists who share characteristics with the scholars they serve can function as true research partners. Mayer documents that students cannot intuit the skills their work requires. Dalal and Shane prove that sustained, practice-based, collaborative approaches can bridge these gaps. Stone illuminates the breadth of support needs across theatre and dance, from play discovery to interdisciplinary collection development to emerging technologies.

Together, these studies provide evidence-based foundations for reconceptualizing performing arts library practice. The work ahead includes turning insights into action, building support systems, and advocating for resources. That future requires us to question traditional models, build new frameworks, engage in ongoing conversations across institutions and disciplines, and commit to supporting creative research with sophistication and resources.

I am most hopeful when I see the library function as a living partner in the creative process—alive to context and generous with curiosity.

References

Musings on Reference Services as Instruction and Formation

Some thoughts on the reference desk as a space for teaching, student formation, and care

It has been a few weeks since commencement, and the switch that many of my colleagues said would happen at the start of the summer when I began my role almost a year ago has happened. The reading rooms and common spaces in my institution’s main library are near-empty, the only commotion coming from staff conversations, campus tour groups, and facilities workers going to and projects in the building. Traffic at the reference desk has also slowed considerably, creating the benefit of a much slower pace and offering the benefit of more time to get work done but also the challenge of staying vigilant of users who might approach with questions. As I’ve adjusted to this change in atmosphere and tempo, I’ve started to think more deeply about the past semester and how I can improve my own reference practice. One improvement I have been thinking about is how to better incorporate instruction into interactions I have with users, especially students.

Reference as Formation and Care

As I think about how I can connect my reference and instruction work more closely together, I am also trying to be realistic that most of the questions I will receive will likely be directional and about our policies, while fewer will concern the type of needs (namely research or citation support) that would make formal instruction necessary. Despite this, I want to make sure every interaction I have, no matter how brief or transactional, has instruction as part of a continuum of formation and care. Within the context of my Catholic Jesuit institution, this continuum looks like putting into practice the term cura personalis (“care for the whole person” in Latin) which is a Jesuit spiritual practice that emphasizes holistically paying attention to and caring for the mind, body, and spirit of ourselves and others (Otto, 2013). This continuum also looks like forming users into individuals concerned not just with acquiring knowledge but also better understanding their moral and ethical centers and how their bodies respond to social conditions around them

Who do I Serve?

In the eight months or so that I have staffed my library’s reference desk, I have encountered a range of different requests. Undergraduate and graduate students in search of help finding sources for an assignment or dissertation, course reserves, or a quiet spot to study. Prospective students and their families requesting building directions and the best place to get lunch on campus. Faculty searching for access to an award-winning film or an out-of-print novel. New staff from other departments wanting confirmation that, yes, their benefits do extend to library material access. Visiting scholars from other states or countries bearing a page full of call numbers. Alumni requesting copies of yearbooks or transcripts from the last century. Residents of communities surrounding the university who inquire about using WiFi or guidance on navigating municipal government services. 

These are just a few of the users who have stopped by the reference desk, usually short on time and having unsuccessfully looked for the thing they needed on their own, even if that thing might not be fully understood and require dialogue with someone else to define and find. I have found when dialoguing with users that I have had to practice engaging with and excavating the explicit and implicit elements of users’ needs with patience, empathy, care, and respect, making sure that interactions end with a path toward a thing (be that a physical or electronic material or a referral to another area of the library) they can hold. I am constantly trying to improve my use of dialogue to chart a path for users in their scholarly or information search. I am also recognizing more and more that reference is also not just about getting to users’ core needs but using those interactions as opportunities to provide instruction on library-use, research, and more.

Fostering Connections Between Reference and Instruction

Though it might seem easy to categorize reference work and library instruction as two different areas, I have noticed quite a bit of overlap between them. In the case of reference and one-shot instruction, both appear to have a transactional quality: users receive information they need or are referred to someone/place else with an answer, and the interaction ends without expectation that the user will come back in the future. Both require adherence to strictly marked out time slots and teach users directly or indirectly fundamental skills in searching for and evaluating information and navigating library systems. On the flip side of the transactional overlap I mentioned, both carry the opportunity, even if not guaranteed, of relationship-building. There is a name and face that a user gets for the help they received, making it possible that they will return with another need. 

Where do I hope to go?

Going forward, one other point of overlap between instruction and reference work I want to focus on is the potential of both to help form students into informed citizens and critical thinkers. There are a few ways I think I could make this happen. First, I might devote more time to providing attention and care in each reference interaction by not rushing a user to an answer but slowing down and working with them to discern from source/s of information: “what do I need?” “What am I curious about?” “What questions am I discovering?” Second, I might help patrons interrogate sources of information for power dynamics, privileged voices, biases, and harmful and oppressive ideas and systems of knowledge embedded in them. Third, I might model the habit of getting informed about the somatic and psychological condition of others and how they are searching for and processing information by asking how their semester has gone, what they have enjoyed, and what they are struggling with. While I know these three approaches won’t be possible in every interaction, I do want to keep them available as another tool in my reference kit that I can bring out when the moment is right.

References

Otto, A. (2013, August 15). Cura Personalis. Ignatian Spirituality. https://www.ignatianspirituality.com/cura-personalis/