The Autism Spectrum has not collapsed.

Dame Professor Emeritus Uta Frith has recently suggested in an article in the Times Education Supplement that autism should no longer be understood as a spectrum. In her view the category has expanded so far that it has “widened to the point of collapse”.

I think she is wrong. However, I am not going to attempt a line-by-line refutation of her argument. Several other writers have already done that very effectively. I just want to offer some more situated insights.

Speaking from the inside, the expansion makes perfect sense.

I say that both as an autistic person (diagnosed or, as I prefer, “professionally identified” as such by psychologists) and as someone who has spent much of his working life thinking about how different minds organise perception, attention and creativity.

The idea that autism is a spectrum is not an abstract theory to me. It simply and effectively describes the sheer range and variety of autistic people I have known, worked with and read over many years.

For most of the twentieth century autism was defined quite narrowly. It was primarily associated with children who had very visible developmental differences and who were usually diagnosed early in life. Many other people who would now be recognised as autistic simply passed through life under different descriptions: shy, eccentric, obsessive, socially awkward, gifted, difficult. Some struggled quietly, while others built lives that accommodated their differences in various ways.

What has changed in the past two decades is that these experiences have begun to coalesce into a shared language. Adults have started recognising themselves in descriptions of autism. Women who were overlooked in childhood have begun receiving diagnoses later in life. Autistic people themselves have increasingly written about their experiences in ways that were largely absent from earlier research.

To some observers this widening of recognition looks like diagnostic inflation. I believe instead that we have simply become better at recognising autism.

Part of the tension here is historical. Much of modern autism research developed around a set of cognitive theories that attempted to explain autistic behaviour in terms of deficits. The most influential of these was the idea that autistic people struggle with “Theory of Mind”: the ability to infer other people’s thoughts and intentions. This idea, which was partly developed by Uta Frith herself, has been enormously influential and helped shape research agendas for decades. But it has also caused great harm to autistic people.

Once autism is framed primarily as a deficit in understanding other minds, it becomes easy to make assumptions that autistic people lack empathy, lack imagination, or lack insight into their own experience. Those assumptions have travelled far beyond academic psychology to become part of the cultural story about autism.

What has changed in recent years is the arrival of autistic writers, researchers and advocates into a space that was previously populated by non-autistic psychologists. Their presence alone contradicts the idea that autistic people lack a theory of mind.

These autistic writers and researchers have increasingly challenged the notion that social differences can be explained simply as a one-sided deficit. Damian Milton’s “double empathy problem”, for example, suggests that misunderstandings between autistic and non-autistic people arise from differences in perspective on both sides. Communication difficulties may reflect a mismatch between neurotypes rather than a failure on one side alone.

I should add a personal observation here, although it is not a scientific one. In my own experience I often find that I “click” more quickly and more comfortably with autistic people who have significant learning disabilities and little or no spoken language than I do with many neurotypical people. Communication takes a different form, of course, but the sense of mutual understanding can be surprisingly immediate. Experiences like this make it difficult for me to see autism as a collection of unrelated conditions. There is often a recognisable affinity across the spectrum itself. If the spectrum had truly “collapsed”, as Frith suggests, that affinity would be much harder to explain.

The growing diversity of people identifying as autistic is not evidence that the concept has broken down. It reflects the fact that autism was never a single uniform condition to begin with. Even among those diagnosed in early childhood there has always been enormous variation: in language, cognition, sensory experience, interests and ways of engaging with other people. The word “spectrum” was introduced precisely to capture that diversity.

To be clear, I am not especially attached to the term “spectrum” itself. It is often misunderstood as a simple linear scale running from “mild” to “severe”, which is not a very good description of autistic variation at all. A more accurate image might be something closer to a circle, or perhaps a landscape, in which different traits appear in different combinations. Two autistic people may have very little in common on the surface and yet still recognise something of themselves in each other.

It is also not possible to infer very much about someone’s intellectual abilities simply by looking at them. Some autistic people who speak little or not at all have extremely rich inner lives. Equally, people who appear highly articulate, successful and independent may still find themselves overwhelmed in particular situations and, at those moments, require a great deal of support.

My disagreement with Frith is therefore not really about terminology. It is about the argument that the growing diversity of autistic people somehow invalidates the concept altogether. In my view the opposite is closer to the truth.

What has expanded is not the category of autism, but our recognition of how many different forms it can take. My own experience illustrates the point. Once I had the diagnosis, many aspects of my own history suddenly became easier to understand.

Much of my music is built from rule systems, permutations and constraint-based processes derived from areas of focus that are often non-musical. This is a way of working that many autistic people immediately recognise. What I have described as a “stubborn literalism” often gives rise to abrupt formal changes in focus, rather than smooth and continuous transitions.

Only since my diagnosis did I begin to recognise how closely these habits of thought aligned with descriptions of autistic cognition. Ideas such as monotropism, intense focus or Flow and pattern-based reasoning are highly appropriate. The autism was not new. What was new was finally having a name for it.

When I speak with other autistic people, I often hear similar descriptions of attention and perception: a pleasure in pattern, an attraction to detail, an instinct to explore structures very thoroughly. These ways of thinking can sometimes create friction in social environments that rely heavily on implicit expectations and rapid intuitive signalling. But they can also be powerful creative resources.

None of this means that autism brings no difficulties. For many people it involves real challenges, and some autistic individuals require substantial support. But it also involves distinctive patterns of attention and perception that are part of the richness of human cognitive diversity.

From that perspective, the claim that the autism spectrum has “collapsed” looks less like a discovery than a reaction to a changing conversation.

For many years autism research was shaped almost entirely by clinicians and psychologists observing autistic people from the outside. Today autistic people themselves are participating in the discussion about what autism means, as writers, artists, scholars and researchers. What Frith describes as the “collapse” of the spectrum looks rather different from the inside. What has expanded is not autism itself, but our ability to recognise it.

That shift inevitably unsettles some older frameworks.

Autism may not be a straight line running from “mild” to “severe”. It may be closer to the circle or landscape I described earlier: a space in which different patterns of perception, attention and communication appear in many different combinations.

The autism spectrum has not collapsed: it is the people describing it who have changed.

Dealing with scepticism

Lately, I’ve found myself repeatedly trying to explain to people how my autistic experience differs from their neurotypical one. I'm often asked about this: how I perceive the world, how I relate to people, how I think, how I process sensory information, and so on. I like to talk about it, not in order to put myself at the centre of the discussion, but to try to make a connection with others. I’ve always done it really, but before I was diagnosed I did not know exactly what I was doing. 

Most of the time, people respond with interest. I’m good at articulating things and they seem to appreciate that. Perhaps they are just curious, or perhaps something I say resonates more deeply than they expect. While it can be exhausting to translate my lived experience into terms they can relate to, I persist because I have a sense of responsibility to advocate and to try to counter some of the negative myths that surround autism.

But every so often, I run into someone who, for reasons of their own, decides to tell me who I am not.

It usually begins innocently enough, perhaps with a compliment like “I can’t believe you’re that age!” (I’m 67). I do look young for my age ( many autistic people do), but what starts as a friendly comment often morphs into something more sceptical.

Sometimes the first target is my balance disorder and hearing loss. Those are both invisible disabilities, so they’re not always easy to spot, especially since I subtly use a lot of technology to help mask them. But demonstrating their reality is generally fairly straightforward, because they are “measurable”. I shouldn’t have to do it, but occasionally I have actually shown someone my audiogram to prove the point. 

But those are not the heart of the issue. What people really want to contest is the autism. The scepticism takes forms that will be familiar to other autistic people:

“But I have some of that myself.”
“You’re just trying to be different.”
“Everyone I know has a diagnosis these days.”

What’s being questioned here is not just the label, it’s the validity of my experience. Beneath these remarks lies a suspicion that I’m exaggerating, mistaken, or seeking attention. 

I suspect part of the problem lies in the language I’m forced to use. When I try to translate autism into language that neurotypical people will understand, I have to describe lifelong realities using words that, in their world, describe fleeting, temporary things. For example, whereas I may be over-sensitive to certain sounds, disoriented by some lighting, violently distracted by certain fabrics, or overwhelmed by particular smells, they will experience the same thing as a temporary annoyance that can be filtered out. Likewise, if I talk about hyperfocus and attention tunnels, they will think of being absorbed, unaware that for an autistic person the cognitive resources are so dominated that switching out is difficult. Similarly, masking = just putting on a professional face, or playing a role. Literal or patterned ways of communicating, or in my case scripting, are just seen as enjoying clever language and not a core identity. The absolute need for predictability and routine translates into a flexible desire for the same in certain situations. The ongoing background anxiety caused by social and sensory issues in the environment becomes temporary stress triggered by specific situations and not tied to the basic structure of everyday life.

I recently wrote: “I’m not trying to be different. I’m just not pretending to be the same.” That sums it up really. I don’t seek difference, I live it. Yet I’m occasionally treated as though I’ve chosen this path for dramatic effect, as if autism were a lifestyle or a fashion statement, rather than a fundamental state of being. Someone wrote to me recently “you’re not the person you pretend to be”, which is about as double-edged a “compliment” as it is possible to get.

Translating lived experience across neurotypes is always difficult. But I wonder why I have to defend myself so often against this kind of scepticism. I can see that my advocacy opens me up to challenge, especially since I have chosen to make my autism public. It would be easier, in a way, never to mention the fact and to leave it out of the conversation. 

At the same time, I think it is important, since I am a reasonably prominent person, that I challenge people’s expectations. Just because my neurotype or disability does not conform to what they expect does not mean that I should have to minimise it to make it more palatable. It’s a simple gesture of respect to listen to and believe others when they speak about themselves. And that small shift - from doubt to trust - can make a world of difference.

Interviews and Autism: some thoughts

During my academic career, I have chaired or sat on hundreds of interview panels. I went through the necessary HR training more than once and have read many guidance documents and briefing notes. Since being professionally identified (or “diagnosed”) as autistic in 2018, various issues that have always bothered me have come to the fore. I believe I have had some small impact on changing the interview process itself. However, and despite that, interviews remain a game designed by neurotypicals for neurotypicals. Given that they are a heightened and unnatural situation, those who understand how to role play and dissemble, how to engage in all those small social cues that provide mutual reassurance amongst groups of like-minded people, are the ones who normally succeed. The same would be true of an interview situation comprising mainly autistic people, but those are relatively rare. The structure and HR approach to interviews is most certainly designed by neurotypicals, although there have been attempts recently to be more inclusive. As always, those attempts are a bolt-on to standard practice: “if you are interviewing an autistic person then you should…”. It is often impossible to know that the person you are interviewing is autistic!

When I compare my experience as an interviewer with my experience as an interviewee, a marked difference emerges. I have had four major jobs in my career, and I have not been interviewed for any of them. In every single case, somebody has decided that I am the right person for that role and has invited me in. In other words, I have always been headhunted. I have only ever done two actual interviews. The first was for an academic lecturing post at a different university. The interview went as badly as might be expected, with all the usual autistic anxieties about the venue, the situation, and sensory issues, combining to lead me to overshare massively in answer to their first question. (I did meet the chair of the panel at a conference several years later and he was kind enough to express regret that they did not appoint me, which was very generous of him). 

The other interview was internal, when I was encouraged by the Vice-Chancellor to apply for a senior management position. The interview was conducted in a vast glass and metal building in central London by a slick team of HR consultants. I had no opportunity to familiarise myself with the building beforehand, no idea where I was going or who I was to meet, and no efforts were made to create a suitable sensory environment for me. My brain cannot be active if I am sensorially overwhelmed, as I was on this occasion. The interview was disastrous because they asked me what I thought of the Vice-Chancellor and I gave a full and honest reply which was pretty negative. Autistic people are always honest and direct in their answers to interview questions, regardless of the consequences for their own prospects. Looking back, though, I reckon I had a lucky escape!

Before becoming an academic at the age of 29, I survived in a haphazard way on a mixture of unemployment benefit (“the dole”, without which I would probably not be here today) and occasional casual work. I never held down casual work for long (it included things like collating traffic surveys, screwing the baseplates on mannequins, and working in a food warehouse) and I was never interviewed because I was placed in these positions by the dole office. Avoiding being interviewed was a key part of the reason for my lack of regular employment. I also did quite a lot of copying music parts for publishers and composers, something that again I could do without being interviewed and which I could do at home. At the time, I was unaware that it was the prospect of being interviewed that drove me away. Now, of course, I realise that that was a major reason, alongside the fear of having to mix with colleagues, working in unfamiliar environments, etc. 

Since my diagnosis in 2018, I have become much more aware of the issues facing autistic people who go for an interview. To give one example, I have repeatedly challenged HR (Human Resources) departmental advice to interviewers that they should assess a person’s body language and eye contact. This seems to be something all HR people are taught and fits with ridiculous clichés such as the idea that people are more honest if they look you in the eye. The whole idea of “body language” seems suspect to me. As far as I can tell, neurotypicals lie with their bodies all the time, and the notion that they share mutual understanding that way is just a comforting myth to make them feel reassured, a form of social bonding if you like. Needless to say, autistic people find all that utterly baffling and generally do not conform to normal expectations of how their bodies should behave.

Reinventing the interview process is a massive and probably unrealistic task. Organisations generally do not have sufficient time and resources to devote more to interviews. However, the downside is that many autistic people then either fail at interview or, more often, never get to the interview in the first place. There are numerous statistics around about the disproportionately low levels of employment in the autistic community. The National Autistic Society sets it at 30%.

What can be done? Ideally, I would like to do away with interviews altogether and replace them with a kind of probationary working model where people are given an opportunity to experience the real environment of the job for a week or two (during which time they would be paid, of course). One of the commonest mistakes autistic people make is to assume that they should try at all costs to get the job for which they are being interviewed. This is wrong because interviews should be a two-way process, in which both interviewers and interviewees figure out if this is the right ‘fit’ for them. Allowing a longer time to come to that judgment is the best solution, and would lead to far fewer bad appointments or, indeed, devastating rejections, being made.

Failing that, there are some practical steps that organisations can take to help autistic people who come for interviews. There are numerous good pieces of guidance online from, for example: the University of Bath, Autistica and the Buckland Review of Autism Employment. I’d distil these into the following key points:

1. Provide the candidate with videos of the interview venue in advance, or even a visit.
2. Give candidates the questions they will be asked in advance too.
3. Do not try to make candidates “think on their feet”. (That phrase is a typical example of metaphorical language to be avoided. Even as I write it, I become confused, even though I know exactly what it is trying to express). Even if the job involves having to respond quickly to situations, there is a great difference between doing so within a secure context and doing so in an interview.
4. Be sure to use clear language without metaphors and ambiguities. Speak literally.
5. Be very careful about the physical environment. Potential sensory issues include strong lights (strip lighting is the worst), unexpected sounds, strange smells, and so on. It is best to check with the candidate beforehand what bothers them. 
6. Avoid interruptions and stick closely to schedule. Include breaks if the process is long, and stick to them too.
7. Explain the process and make it clear that the interview is two-way.
8. Allow (even encourage) the candidate to stim during the interview. This has the advantage of being reassuring for them but also is an important signal that you understand their needs.
9. Provide a quiet room where candidates can decompress in private. Don’t make the candidates engage in social interaction with one another.
10. Be aware that autistic people may seek to comply with whatever it is you seem to be wanting.

For autistic candidates, the traditional interview process is often deeply flawed. The importance given to social cues and quick thinking under pressure works against autistic people. A more inclusive and effective approach would be to shift toward practical, real-world assessments that allow candidates to demonstrate their abilities in a supportive environment. To be realistic, though, the bets we can hope for is small but meaningful adjustments, such as: clearer communication, sensory accommodations, and a genuine commitment to neurodiversity. Where such changes happen, there are small victories which will eventually combine to change the culture as a whole. 

Awaydays, and how to include autistic people

Awaydays have become commonplace in most organisations. They are a day-long event for employees and managers to spend time away from their usual workplace or environment. They typically include team building exercises, training, or brainstorming activities. They are mainly used in the belief that a change of scenery would enhance creativity and relaxation. 

In practice, many awaydays have gradually lost this original sense of purpose. They often take place just in a different building or room on site, so they are not really ‘away’ at all. They can be full of unstructured or very loosely structured exercises using lots of post-it notes. They are frequently characterised by a sense of futility. This erosion of what seemed like a clear concept reflects their true function: to enable neurotypicals to feel more comfortable with one another. Sometimes the group will bond together in disapproving of the awayday itself. Funnily enough, that outcome can be productive.

From an autistic perspective, this amounts to a nightmare. Awaydays cause more anxiety and distress than almost any other activity. Having established a working pattern and set of routines at work, the autistic employee is suddenly required to stop all that in order to undertake a series of activities that rely on social interactions whose purpose is often unclear and in an unfamiliar environment that may or may not be well suited. 

Since most organisations contain autistic people, it is very important to plan awaydays effectively and inclusively. Here are a few thoughts. N.B. These are just my thoughts - others may disagree or want to add things!

First and foremost, an awayday needs to have a clear purpose, a set of aims and objectives. That should include a statement of why it is necessary to go away, rather than staying in familiar surroundings. If you cannot come up with a convincing reason for going away, then please don’t do it!

I would strongly recommend having autistic people involved in the planning. It seems obvious, but they will be best placed to advise on what will work and what will not.

You should provide information and guidance well beforehand, including an accessibility map and, preferably, a video, or at least photos, of the venue and the approaches to it. There should be a quiet room available and you should have adjustable non-fluorescent lighting and use microphones for speaking. 

You should space out noisy activities or, preferably, segregate them into separate areas. Avoid using balloons or other objects which may cause distress. Make great use of visuals, signs and timetables. Provide a clear running order, highlighting anything particularly bright, noisy or unexpected.

Every activity should be clearly structured, with a defined purpose and statements in advance about what is expected. Give people the option to drop out if need be. Never make “one size fits all” assumptions. Make sure that you know in advance if there are to be any fire drills or alarms. Those can really disrupt everything, for the whole day.

If you want to encourage unstructured social interaction (of course, there is no reason why the entire day should be made just for the benefit of autistics) then signal that clearly and give people who do not want to participate some acceptable way of ducking out. At some autistic events, people wear coloured communication badges to indicate whether or not they are open for conversation.

Bear in mind that autistic people can take longer to process information and may also struggle to explain how they are feeling, so build in plenty of space and time to get the best results. It’s ok to get personal – autistic people love talking about themselves! – but only in a way that gives the sense that we are contributing to a worthwhile exercise. In other words, there has to be an obvious reason. Avoid indirect and metaphorical speech and, obviously, expect social communication that lacks real and clear meaning to be greeted with incomprehension or anxiety.

To summarise: if the autistic person understands the reason for everything, can follow a clear structure and schedule that is stuck to rigorously, and is encouraged to share their insights, then you can get great results. On the last point, be ready: autistic people can talk for an hour or more without stopping on certain topics. It’s a good idea to specify before asking someone a question whether you want a short answer, a long answer, or a very long answer!

Finally, check in on spoons https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spoon_theory Most autistic people have a sense of how they are doing during the course of a day. Ideally, you want to end an awayday with enough spoons to be able to get home safely. If spoons are getting dangerously depleted, then please allow the person to duck out, to avoid having a meltdown or shutdown later.

Unconscious Bias and Autism

Recently I have undertaken unconscious bias training. This will probably be familiar to anyone who works in a large organisation, but for those who have not come across the idea before here is a brief summary. 

I should say at the outset that I think unconscious bias is real and the training I received was effective and made its points well. There is a paradox at the heart of the matter, though, which is this: once one becomes aware of unconscious bias, it is no longer unconscious and is then just plain bias. That tends to reduce the amount of self-forgiveness available (given that we all have these biases) which is a bit tough to take. But so be it.

My purpose in this post is specifically to think about how autism and unconscious bias may or may not connect. Of course autistic people are just as likely to exhibit unconscious bias as anyone else. However, there may be differences in the way it works.

During the online training, there was an exercise (not part of the final test). We were presented with nine images and asked to group them into three groups. I immediately saw that three of them were red, three blue and three yellow/green. So I dragged and dropped them into those groupings. It did strike me as slightly odd that yellow and green were together, but I quickly rationalised that by thinking of the colours of the earth wires in a plug.

I clicked the “submit” button and the system responded:

“That’s an interesting selection. Most people would have grouped them as cars, lorries and motorcycles”.

I was stunned and, to be honest, felt rather foolish. Making taxonomies is a frequent part of my research work and yet it had never occurred to me to group the images by what they depicted! I thought of Magritte and his “ceci n’est pas une pipe”. Perhaps a lifetime of contemplating surrealism had led me to disregard depiction and focus on the properties of the image itself? But no, that was not it. It was just my autistic brain doing what it does. I realised that my interest in surrealism has probably been a way of seeking to understand its processes all along. Another moment of epiphany!

But now my attention turned to the training and the comment “Most people would have…”. I began to feel very different. Of course, autism means I do not think like “most people”. I started to resent the tone of the comment, which then led me to ask: is the test itself showing unconscious bias? 

The test was designed to make a simple point - that we unconsciously tend to group people based on appearance. But what if your whole way of grouping people is not at all based on the way they appear, but on some other attribute? I’ve never understood racism, for example, because skin colour and the various other stereotypical characteristics are just not what I notice. Does that mean I have no racial bias? Probably not, but it is buried under a mountain of other stuff that filters it out, on the whole. I unconsciously group people, for example, by the extent to which they try to make eye contact, or by the sounds they emit, or by their smell. I’ve always done that. I know that racism exists, and I hate and try to resist it when I find it, but I don’t understand it. It just makes no sense.

The same is true of body language and eye contact. I’ve done quite a few interviews recently and the HR guidance we’ve received emphasizes the importance of not giving the wrong impression to candidates through inappropriate body language. And of course I, like everyone else who uses Powerpoint, have seen the kind of advice, or even assessment criteria, that give plus-points to a presenter who makes “good eye contact” and shows “positive body language”. 

Whenever I encounter these kinds of advice, which are everywhere, I kick back against them by pointing out that not everybody can control their bodies and not everyone is able to make eye contact. Why should people be penalised for that? Is it not the very essence of bias to do so? I am deeply sceptical about the very concept of “body language”. Like many autistic people, I have spent a lifetime studying it, trying to figure out what on earth neurotypicals are communicating, or believe they are communicating. What I find is that there is a kind of “language” there, but it is one that continuously reveals untruths, deceptions and confusion. People use body language to reassure others, but in doing so they frequently engage in a collective self-deception that is comforting to the group, I suppose, but also delusional.

Here, it seems to me, is a real unconscious bias: against people who do not appear to go along with these incredibly subtle modes of non-verbal discourse. Since people do not understand body language, but just deploy it “instinctively”, they are completely unaware of the extent of its influence on their attitudes and decisions. It would be extremely difficult to unpick this in practice, and I imagine that nobody would be motivated to do so, so it looks to me that this kind of bias is here to stay and will escape my paradox by remaining perpetually unconscious. 

So, to get back to the training test, I’m afraid I did come to the conclusion that it was designed by neurotypical people for neurotypical people. The slightly sneery comment the system made just reinforced this impression. As an autistic person, I tend to view neurotypicals as a separate group, almost a different species. I guess that could make me biased against them, but I have spent a lot of my life trying to measure up to their standards, so actually I tend to think I am more biased against myself. Autistic advocates call this “internalised ableism”, which is about right. I reckon many of the difficult moments I’ve had in life have come about because of this failure to understand that I am judging myself by the wrong criteria. Now that is unconscious bias.

Navigating awkward situations

Christmas is coming, that time of year when social interaction is not just encouraged but required. From an autistic point of view, it is challenging, as I have mentioned before.

I’ve been reflecting recently on the strategies I use to navigate awkward situations. These situations mainly occur at work. In general, I can manage them because there are rules of engagement for academics, such as disagreeing without it becoming personal (“disputation”, as it was once called). However, those rules do get broken and sometimes situations become highly charged and even personal too. 

I have three approaches to any interaction: silence, scripting, or casual. 

Silence occurs when I find myself confronted by complete unpredictability (for example being approached by a stranger, or too many people all at once). In such situations, I can get quickly overwhelmed. It is mostly involuntary. I don't choose to be silent - silence chooses me.

Scripting involves anticipating every likely path a meeting might take and being ready with a response. It’s like branching literature, or computer code. I find myself “reading” the dialogue in my mind as if it were written on the pages of a book, complete with “he said/she said”s. I was talking to a colleague the other day, who commented that I seemed to have anticipated every possible way in which the conversation could go. This was scripting in action. 

Casual interaction can only happen if it follows the pattern of something I have experienced before. Since I am now of fairly advanced years, many situations fall into this category. Even so, things can quickly shake me out of casual mode. Sometimes just the question “how are you?” leaves me floored, especially if I don’t know the person I am speaking to. I never really know how I am. I also know that people who ask that question do not really want to know how I am. It’s a minefield!

Whichever mode I adopt, there is always a possibility that a situation could take an unexpected turn. This can be very difficult to deal with. To try to manage these more awkward situations I have spent a lot of time over the years studying strategies. I read books of theory so that I can at least give the appearance of understanding what is going on. I can’t pretend that this approach is always successful, but I do try hard. Let me give two examples.

Back in the 1980s, Gavin Kennedy wrote a terrific book called Everything Is Negotiable, subtitled “how to negotiate and win”. I have not used it much for getting deals, as it intends, but I have deployed some of its principles in other situations. For example, there is a technique called “the Lazarus shuffle” in which you refer to someone who is not present in order to apply leverage. I have used that many times and it is often successful. The advantage of an absent authoritative figure is that they cannot easily be challenged. At the very least, you can achieve a delayed resolution with this technique.

Another idea I have studied and used many times is Bruce Tuckman’s theory of group formation, which basically goes: forming, storming, norming, performing. I am currently experiencing this scenario in an academic setting and, once again, it is proving to be incredibly accurate. It really helps my autism to be able to analyse the situation when we reach the “storming” phase. That way, I can avoid getting too distressed by the fraught social interactions taking place. It fulfils a similar function to being able to see photographs of a place before I visit, rendering it more predictably familiar and so reducing anxiety.

Now, of course, anybody could use these kinds of theories.There’s nothing particularly special about the fact that I do this. However, I think it is the rigour and consistency with which I apply them that is the autistic part. It is my attention to detail and awareness of how interactions conform to these patterns that sets me apart. I see similarities with chess: being able to anticipate moves and combinations of moves and being able to respond accordingly. Without some kind of “manual” of neurotypical behaviour like this, I would be completely lost.

How can neurodivergent artists market themselves?

 "How can neurodivergent artists market themselves"?

This was a question I was asked during a webinar entitled ‘Neurodivergent artists and practitioners discuss how they work with digital’ last week. The Space, the BBC’s digital agency, had invited me to speak because of my recent commission for ‘Spectrum Sounds’ which will be broadcast later in the year.

Autism does present real challenges in this respect and I found myself giving a fairly downbeat answer. Reflecting on my compositional life, I realised that many of my contemporaries have carved out pretty successful careers, winning frequent commissions, prizes, recording and publishing contracts, broadcasts, and generally being talked about and listened to. My compositional career has been less obviously successful by comparison.

Why might that be? One possibility is that my music is not as good as theirs, but I would counter that argument with the evidence of all the fantastic reviews and comments I get whenever something is performed or broadcast. The most common epithet used to describe my music is “beautiful”, which can’t be too bad, right? I mean no disrespect to my friends and fellow composers now in their 60s when I say that my music stands alongside theirs perfectly well.

No, I think the real problem has been my almost pathological inability to “network” and “self-promote”. Funnily enough, I wrote about the importance of this in my book ‘The Digital Musician’, but I realise that I am lousy at practising what I preach, at least in this department. I’ve never set much store by fame, nor have I ever expected to make any significant money from composing, but I have wanted to communicate and express myself through music. 

I remember when Island Symphony premiered in 1995, a senior figure in the musical world declared it was “brilliant” and “a very important composition”. Then he said: “now what you have to do is to convince everyone else of its importance”. At that point, I realised that I had no hope of doing so. I simply lack the social and networking skills for that kind of endeavour. Island Symphony has a small and enthusiastic fan club, but it remains largely unknown, I think.

This is a facet of autism, I’m afraid. The whole system of marketing and self-promotion depends on one’s ability to get out there and talk to the people that matter. To be a presence on the scene. To indulge in the kind of back-slapping and mutual praise that makes the wheels turn. Performers rely on composers having reputations that will advance their own careers. Composers rely on commissions from organisations that can invest in them and expect a worthwhile return. Record companies and publishing houses are completely driven by marketing, of course. And then there are competitions, which form the life-blood of contemporary music these days. Panels of respected judges select works from a pool. What guides their choices? Some notions of musical excellence, no doubt, but these are surely shaped in no small measure by the reputations that precede people. Even judged anonymously, one can sense a zeitgeist in contemporary music that shapes opinion. If you do not make your presence felt, then you are not part of that zeitgeist. How do you make your presence felt? Through social interaction.

What can autistic people do about this? It requires constant presence. You have to be seen and mingling, so that when opportunities arise people think of you. You have to be visible, both online and offline, on the arts scene. How can you do this if social interaction is a challenge? I honestly don’t know. Some people say: get an agent. But that involves having constant and ongoing social interactions with the agent. Not to mention finding one in the first place. No doubt if you can get the right agent it will be great. But what happens if you get the wrong one? 

I do have something positive to say, though. Times are changing. There seems to be a new willingness to listen or to try to understand or include neurodivergent people. The Arts Council has woken up to this, but I also think wider society is engaging too. When I was young, there were very few people who identified as autistic. Now there are at least 700,000 in the UK. Many of those are working in music and the arts. It is hard to ignore so many people. 

I won the commission for Spectrum Sounds by entering a competition. That is only the third time in my life that I have submitted an application to a call like that. I would not have done so, were it not for some kind people at the Attenborough Arts Centre who pushed me into it. Of course, I am pleased to have won the commission (although still rather anxious about those who applied and were not successful). It has brought me back to composing in ways which are very rewarding for me, following my hearing loss. 

But I wonder what would have happened if the BBC, for example, had taken more of an interest in my work all along. I received several BBC commissions back in the 1980/1990s, but then they fell away. Because of my inability to network, I have never attempted to engage in any of the contemporary music festivals that run annually. Nor have I tried to get involved with performers unless they specifically asked me for something, or I could pay them from some commission money. Once I have a commission, I do hire people and pay well, but the commissions are few and far between. I’ve never had any idea how to approach a publishing house or a record company.

What’s great now is to see some young autistic composers breaking through and supporting one another. I saw it at the Sound Festival in Aberdeen recently, and I am seeing it around the place more and more. I wish them all the best and look forward to seeing the fruits of this societal shift that is going on. The increase in diversity in contemporary music can only be a good thing, in my opinion, and is long overdue.

Emerging from lockdown

A year in lockdown has affected everyone in ways which will only become fully apparent over time. There are the immediately obvious issues of mental and physical health, loneliness and grief, which are a sharp reality for many. But beyond those is a profound change in every aspect of human society and culture. Returning to ‘normal’ is not only undesirable, it is actually impossible.

From my autistic perspective, one of the biggest changes has to do with ‘masking’, that is: performing or presenting as neurotypical in order to fit into society. I learned to do this as a child and have been doing it ever since, to the point that it is impossible for me to remove ‘the mask’ because I do not understand where it begins and ends. Most of the time, I pass as assured and socially capable. People never see the mask, which is a sign of just how well I have learned to wear it.

Since being professionally identified in 2018, a few close friends/family have commented that I seem to be acting more autistic. This is a complicated thing to unpick, not least because I don’t feel my behaviour has changed much, if at all. It may be that their awareness of the diagnosis makes them see things in me that they did not notice before, or it may be that having acknowledged my autism I am now trying less hard to appear non-autistic, or it may actually be that I am indeed ‘acting more autistic’ or performing my autism in the same way that I used to perform neurotypicality. Probably it’s a combination of all three. 

But this is where the lockdown has had an effect. A year of interacting face to face with very few people is making me forget how to do it. I am losing confidence in my ability to behave appropriately. I have a strong suspicion that, when I do start returning to the neurotypical world, people will notice a difference, not because I am ‘acting more autistic’ but because I am not acting so non-autistic. Eye contact, for example, was something that I did with relative ease before lockdown. Now I am finding it harder to do again, in a way which harks back to childhood. Similarly, my ability to read facial expressions has been  compromised both by online interaction and by the wearing of physical masks. When I observe body language on TV or in the street, I am once again starting to struggle with deciphering what it means.

There have been occasions recently where I have been very aware of echoing back to people the way they are talking to me. It’s something I have always done. In the past, once I have felt confident enough with the person, I can move out of that mode and even redirect the interaction somewhat. But now I have forgotten that skill and will probably come across in ways that are not ideal, just because I am reflecting back the mannerisms of my interlocutor.

It’s not that lockdown is making me more autistic. Autism is a steady-state kind of thing. It’s just that masking requires constant practice and I have always had plenty of opportunities for that over the years. The university recently sent me a request to come to campus when lockdown ends, in order to show prospective students and their parents around our splendid new computer labs. I have to admit I find that prospect very daunting. I am getting anxious about my ability to cope in that kind of social situation. I think I need some less ‘mission-critical’ practice before I start re-engaging with the world in that way.

In ten days from now my second vaccination (which happened last Saturday) will have given me full protection. Covid is at a low level locally, so there is really nothing to stop me re-emerging into the world. But I am unsure about it. I think some limited forays will be a first step. Perhaps a visit to the office for an hour, maybe with a coffee thrown in, to get familiar again with that environment. Some low-anxiety social interactions with trusted colleagues too. 

During lockdown I have barely been out of the house. I have only visited the chemist once a month to collect my prescription and, on fewer than five occasions, I have gone to the Co-op to buy one or two items. I have always had a shopping list and have entered and exited as quickly as possible. Although the pubs have reopened, at least outside, I have avoided going back there, even though I do enjoy a pint. I have even become reluctant to consider moving house, something that actually would be a good thing because the present place is inadequate in many respects. I think I want to protect myself from the world. I know this has to change, but the anxieties of doing so are considerable.

Designing autistic spaces

One thing that my identification/diagnosis has revealed to me is my mostly unwitting role in designing autistic (or, more precisely, autism-friendly) spaces.

During my academic career, I have often been in the fortunate position of being asked to create spaces. On every occasion, I have been the Director of a Centre or an Institute, or the holder of a large capital grant that has given me the right to dictate how the space should be designed. To give some examples, I have built: two recording studios, a multidisciplinary research lab, a performing arts space, a usability lab, and an enormous institute full of digital technology and experimental equipment. Furthermore, I have frequently been asked to advise on the construction and design of spaces outside the university. Back in 2009, for example, I designed a digital gallery/workspace in a local arts centre, and I have recently been consulted on the design of a laboratory in a science park. 

Now, I should stress that I have no qualifications for building and designing spaces. However, I do have some quite strong opinions about how it should be done and since I was “in charge” in these situations, I took some key decisions. What I now realise is that every one of those decisions arose directly from my autism. Of course, I had no idea at the time what was going on!

In my life, I have always navigated the world by trying to find autism-friendly spaces. So, for example, on arriving in an airport, the first thing I would do is to seek out the multi-faith room. This is generally a quiet space with low-level lighting and low stimulus colours, often wood. It would have a transient population, so there was no real danger of unwanted social interaction (unlike churches, where there is always someone who wants to chat). As a child, at school, I created a “war gaming club”, which had only two members. The reason was that I could then take occupancy of a basement room that was otherwise unused. After a time, it became apparent to the other member that this was really about something other than “war gaming”, so he left. I had a silent room all to myself. There are many more such examples. 

When designing spaces in universities, or elsewhere, my main priority was to control the environment and especially the sound and lighting. All my spaces had the kind of sound-proofing that would be used in noisy industrial spaces. In other words, they were as close to silent as I could get, whether they were recording spaces or not. The colours would be simple - a white, or a pale blue - and uniform. This would extend to the ceiling and even the floor, but with differences in shade or texture making it clear where the boundaries were. This is important for me, because my proprioception requires location points to be able to function. Lighting would be LED and not fluorescent. As with many autistic people, I can see the flickering of fluorescent tubes and find it very disturbing. There would be no irregular patterns, no asymmetrical features, no irrelevant “features”. The spaces needed to be predictable and functionally elegant. They also had to be flexible and have technology built in, including silent air conditioning to remove any smells (again, my autism means that I have always found certain smells intolerable) and moderate the environment to a steady temperature. 

Now, when I look at the BBC’s Sensory Environment Checklist https://bbc.github.io/uxd-cognitive/ I see that these spaces of mine all conformed to those standards. I used them for my personal wellbeing, but what was interesting was how much neurotypical people also liked them. It is often that way: the environmental changes that suit autistic people also suit neurotypicals. Luke Beardon wrote: autism + environment = outcome. I now understand that I have somehow been aware of that formula all my life. 

Most recently, a local media/arts centre started talking to me about extending a space that I had designed back in 2009. This is a digital gallery. It is set off from the main area by a corridor, so many people do not go into it. I created a beautiful autism-friendly environment in complete contrast to the bright, buzzy café nearby. It has a floating floor, silent aircon, LED lights, and buff walls that can easily be repainted. Over the years it has hosted many superb exhibitions and installations and the directors of the centre obviously assumed that its purpose was solely digital art. Little did they, or I, realise that it is also a space for autistic people to retreat to when they arrive at the centre. Interestingly, they are now asking my advice once again about how to extend it. This time they are talking to me not because of my academic position or expertise in digital arts so much as my identity as an autistic man. I’ve been very frank with them about the purpose of the space, how it could attract a new autistic audience, what is required of the extension to make its dual purpose clear. We’ll see what actually emerges, but it is a sign of how far we have come that such things are now being openly discussed and in a most positive way.

Looking back on lockdown

Over a year of lockdown has passed, so I thought it would be interesting to reflect on my experiences from an autistic perspective. Needless to say, these are only my experiences. I do not speak for all autistic people, many of whom have had a very different time, as I well know.

There are many things I like about lockdown. It has made me realise just how challenging it has been to travel into work each day, for example. The sensory issues in commuting alone have drained me far more than I realise. I’ve got used now to ending the day with more spoons, which is a welcome relief. Some days I used to get home from work practically unable to speak or think, or I’d catch the wrong train and end up in Kettering, or some other disaster. Now I end the day tired but relaxed in a familiar environment, which is lovely.

This has meant that I can be somewhat more flexible about routines. Before lockdown, I would follow a very strict sequence of actions every morning in order to conserve spoons for when I arrived at work. So, the morning routine has included the same ordered sequence of washing and ablutions, dressing and eating, packing up my bag and leaving the house, every day for years. My main problem in lockdown has been that Frank Cooper’s Original marmalade, which I eat in Spring and Autumn (Fine Cut in Summer, and Vintage in Winter) seems to be completely unavailable. So I am eating Fine Cut out of season, which is a bit disturbing, but in the grand scheme of things not a major problem.

I generally find social interaction online preferable to face to face. It is entirely predictable and managed. There are no unstructured meetings or casual encounters. Whether it is a management meeting, a class, or just a “zoom coffee”, I know about it in advance. I enjoy that I don’t have to work at reading body language. Again, it has been lockdown that has made me realise how much effort that took every day. People often say that autistic people cannot read body language. I’m not sure that’s entirely true. I spend a large amount of time reading body language, because I understand that it is an important method of communication amongst neurotypicals. I’m not saying that I really understand it, but I am pretty good at spotting details and often notice things that others miss. It does require a lot of effort, though, so it is a great relief not to have to do it.

However, this absence introduces a new anxiety: have I now lost the skills to be able to decode body language and facial expressions? Those would take an enormous amount of work to rebuild. I have noticed that I am losing the ability to pretend not to be autistic. Now, many people will say that’s a good thing because masking is bad and we should be authentically ourselves. I would not disagree with that point of view, but the problem is that I then lose confidence in my ability to interact socially and start to become anxious about meeting people at all. Over the last few months I have started to get nervous before I meet someone. This is unusual for me and potentially a big problem in my line of work. 

There has been a major downside in interacting online with my students. They simply refuse to switch on their cameras, so I would not recognise any of them if I met them face to face. This is very strange. They know exactly what I look like, but to me they are just circles with initials inside. This creates quite a pressure on what will follow when we finally do meet. One other problem with online interaction is automated captions. Because of my hearing impairments, I do rely on these quite a lot. But the error rate is quite high and they can create as many barriers as they remove. An example of technology not being good enough for its intended purpose.

One benefit of all the extra energy I have saved up is that I have become much more active as an autistic advocate, both at work and in the world at large. Again, I think lockdown has contributed to that development. It has been easier to sign up for things, such as advising the NHS in Birmingham, or giving a presentation about my experiences to an EDI conference at Edinburgh University (both things in my calendar for this month) when I know that I don’t have to travel to a new place, meet people, etc.

My main anxiety at the moment is the end of lockdown. I really do not want it to end. I am not looking forward to going back onto campus with its chance encounters, random events and sensory challenges. My university’s campus is pretty typical. Every building is a mess of flickering fluorescent lights, asymmetrical patterning, haphazard “design”, high arousal colours, confusing signage, noisy spaces, drifting smells, bizarre heating, reflective surfaces, and so on and so on. On the plus side, my office is nice and quiet and hidden away, so I can be fairly surreptitious. If all the buildings were more autism-friendly it wouldn’t be so daunting, but I’m afraid they are pretty horrid. I’m trying to change that through my work on the disability action group, but it is not easy.

Overall, then, I find lockdown quite agreeable, and I am not aware of any negative impact on my mental health - quite the reverse, in fact. But I do have some anxieties and I am noticing some changes in myself. To what extent these will become a major problem remains to be seen. My survival bag, which would never leave my side before lockdown, has now been gathering dust in a corner for over a year. I am going to have to get it out soon and check that everything is fully charged up and up to date, from the noise-cancelling headphones to the personal air purifier, from the sunflower lanyard to the clip-on shades, and so many more bits and pieces that I use to make life tolerable. That will be a big moment!