Hartman’s Work—

Through the Lens of the Wright Brothers

C. Stephen Byrum, PhD

December 17, 1907 was a date that school children of my generation immediately identified as one of the greatest, most defining moments in human history. On that date, on the windy sand dunes of an isolated place on the outer banks of North Carolina named Kill Devil Hills, a human being—Orville Wright—flew an airplane.

         The distance and time of Wright’s flight were minuscule by today’s standards, but he was the first. The world would never quite be the same again after his flight, and humans would never quite think about themselves in the same way again. Now, because of the Wright brothers, Charles Lindberg could make his mark on history. Soon enough, given the speed of technological advances, there would be a Neal Armstrong, and when Armstrong became the first human to step out onto the surface of the moon, he carried with him a fabric swatch from the Wright’s first flying machine.

         The process of flight, which reached its high moment of crescendo on this famous date in 1907, had actually begun to take shape on May 30, 1899. On that day, Wilbur Wright—Orville’s older brother—had taken stationery embroidered with the brothers’ company logo, “Wright Cycle Company” (because they were previously bicycle builders) and written to the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C. Wright wrote: “I have been interested in the problem of mechanical and human flight since as a boy…” He went on to make reference to mechanical toys and the flight of birds. He defined the wonder of his life that had defined him, enchanted him, and compelled him. “I wish,” he continued, “to avail myself of all that is already known.”

         The material that arrived from Washington quickly revealed that this “all that is known” was not very much. People had dreamed and talked about flying for centuries—since the dawn of time itself—but had only accumulated a bundle of theories and opinions. Most of the opinions aggressively concluded that human flight was the weirdest of pipe dreams, and stood little or no chance of being accomplished. The Wright brothers would take this accumulation of information seriously, but as it was meticulously tested time and again with kites and gliders, it proved to be generally worthless. By the fall of 1900, Orville was writing, “We had to go ahead and discover everything ourselves.” Wilbur was saying, “Of primary importance was to find a way to achieve accurate measurements.”

         By the middle part of the twentieth century, and especially after witnessing first-hand the horrors of Hitler’s Germany, Robert S. Hartman was struggling to understand—and apply—his own problem, the concept of “goodness.” If the world could understand and organize “goodness” as Hitler had understood and organized “evil,” huge transformations in life might take place—transformations equal in their implication to flying machines.

         Hartman had—with Wright-like determination and hard work—availed himself of all that was known about “goodness” from Plato to the English philosopher, G. E. Moore. Most people felt that Moore’s philosophizing about “goodness” was the epitome of all that could ever be said. Hartman, on the other hand, saw only theories and opinions. He would have to go ahead and discover everything for himself. Above all, he knew that of primary importance was some means that would allow him to achieve accurate measurement. Hartman saw Galileo move from the experience of motion, to the establishing of a formula—M=S/T—that could be used in repeated and predictive ways. He wanted to do the same with “goodness,” just like the Wright’s wanted to do the same with flight.

         Hartman’s formative understanding came when he finally understood that “goodness” could not be grasped by simply looking at a few, common attributes of what someone might call a good watch, a good ballgame, a good person, or a good time. Such associations brought the conversation back only to theory and opinion. Words, whether aeronautical or axiological in their specific content, only had meaning and application when there was concrete measurement.

         Hartman’s breakthrough was the idea that “goodness” is a dynamic of a concept and not of an object, and that “goodness” is achieved when a concept is fulfilled. You do not find “good” on a car like you find a steering wheel or a rear-view mirror, but if any individual car fulfills your concept of what a car ought to be, you will call it a “good” car. This insight was Hartman’s Kill Devil Hills moment. In like manner, at the most minimal level of fulfillment, an airplane cannot be a good airplane unless it can fly. Without flight, it is nothing more than an idea in someone’s head or a drawing on a page. On December 17, 1903, at Kill Devil Hills, the Wright brothers achieved a high moment of concept fulfillment; for that day, was indeed a good day.

          I will never forget when my son was tall enough to ride Space Mountain in Disney World. A half-dozen times, he had run into the park to stand beside the ride’s measuring stick, only to find that his height was insufficient to pass the standard. On this particular day, he was tall enough!  We snaked our way through a long, summer vacation waiting line for almost an hour. It was hot and slow. Finally, we turned a corner at the top of the “mountain” where we could see the small, rocket ships being loaded that we—in a few moments—would ride in. My son—not typically given over to a great deal of emotion—was overwhelmed. In wide-eyed awe, he exclaimed: “Finally—finally—the dreams of a lifetime fulfilled.”  What a good day for my son—and for me. In that moment, he shared something of the experience of the Wrights and the insight of Hartman.

             Then, after that first flight, the Wrights flew again, and again, and again, and again. As they perfected their craft—and their art—they questioned every element of their machine and every element of their flying technique. Each flight became a platform for further conversation, discussion, and dialogue. They spent hours on end in deep consideration, sometimes heated in their convictions. Above all, they measured every minute detail of everything they did. Their diaries and fact books were filled with data. When they were not flying, they were experimenting with new materials, new wing angles, and new propeller designs. If some reality could not be measured, it held little value, and value could only be found—ultimately—by going out and flying.

         In a similar sense, what gives the Hartman interpretations credibility—and accuracy—is the hands-on “flight time” with the assessment instrument. The tens of thousands of interviews, best-performance studies, outcome analyses, and validations concurrent with real accomplishment has given the tool great predictability and great confidence in its use. Hartman was almost obsessed, like the Wrights, in his work. He wanted outcomes “isomorphic with the phenomenal field.” That is, he wanted numbers that matched with real people in real situations in life. When his “machine” was used, he wanted it to “fly.”

         Wilbur Wright became convinced in his flying experiments that the “goodness” of flying ultimately involved an intricate integration of several, vital realities. He famously said, “This soaring problem is apparently not so much one of better wings as of better operators.” In other words, having a “good” machine was only part of the issue of flight. The skills of the operator (the pilot) must also be “good.”

         This perspective is totally in keeping with our emphasis on skill sets, and the absolute statement that our assessment tool is not about skill sets. Without skills, you can have the best machine ever built and still have problems. Conversely, an inferior machine can do wonders in the hands of a highly-skilled pilot; consider Captain Chesley Sullenberger landing the crippled U.S. Airways jet in the Hudson River. Wilbur also knew that skills were a matter of training and repetitions in real flight. Some of his greatest satisfaction came in teaching others the skills of flying. To some extent, good outcomes will always involve skill sets and training.

         But… in one of the most interesting aspects of the Wright brothers’ story, Wilbur moves beyond good machines and good skills. His “movement beyond” brings him immediately to the threshold of one of Hartman’s most important insights.

         The original, first flight was set for December 11. A flip of a coin determined who would fly first. Both brothers were fully competent in skills to fly the plane. Wilbur won the coin toss, and climbed aboard the “Wright Flyer.”  Orville ran beside it as it moved along the take-off ramp to balance the wings. The plane, the motor, the ramp, the wind—everything—was perfect. The plane raced along the ramp, took flight for maybe a millisecond, and crashed straight down into the sand. There was nothing here to legitimately count as a first flight, and—as they had done many times in the past—they began to pick up pieces, closely debrief the event, and move on toward their next attempt.

         Wilbur had an immediate explanation: “Everything was reliable. I pulled too hard on the hand controls when I reached the end of the take-off ramp. It was all an error in judgment.”

         Now, we have the third element—the indispensable, ultimately differentiating element. The machine can be perfect, and the skills can be among the very best, but without judgment, the entire enterprise can fail. In fact, we know after over one hundred years of aviation history that the majority of accidents that have occurred have been caused primarily by judgment errors. The primary value with Hartman’s work without a doubt is his emphasis on judgment, and with his assessment instrument to have the ability to measure judgment.

         Ultimately, after years of experience, observation, and reflection, Wilbur moved all of his findings in the direction of precise formulas. Hartman’s use of the word axiom in his axiology—his science of value—parallels the Wright brothers emerging science of aeronautics. The formula/axiom is not magical in itself, but it does become a very useful, iconic shorthand for condensing experience to its most formative relationships.

         The Wright formula, arrived at in 1905, was WV/AC: W = weight, V= velocity, 1/A = the ratio of drift to lift, and 1/C = the efficiency of propellers. Of course, as with any formula, the Wrights are outlining what they called “general cases.” There will always be variables. Some variables such as the size of wings, the power of engines, or the pitch of propellers may be easier to calculate. Other variables such as the unexpected movement of winds that do not always allow for what Wilbur called “usual conditions” are not so easily calculated. While he did not talk about it, were there to also be the ability to calculate “human factors” such as confidence, attention to detail, focus in the midst of distraction, or the ability to handle stress, predictability would be increased. The Hartman tool certainly moves distinctively and effectively in the direction of the measurement of these “human elements.”

         In spite of variables in the winds, which might never be perfectly predicted, the wind had to be accepted for what it was, and calculation had to be accepted as never absolutely perfect. Yet, practical-minded Wilbur was not looking for perfection; he was looking for the highest level of “reliable” that he and his brother could accomplish. The Wrights knew full well that “no bird soars in the calm.”  They also were constantly spurred on by the belief that “the best dividends on the labor invested have invariably come from seeking more knowledge rather than more power.”  The implication of this last statement moves far beyond the power of greater and greater airplane engines. “More knowledge” certainly would relate to a better understanding of judgment. In fact, once judgment is better understood through Hartman’s lens, a higher understanding of the limits of rational knowledge can also be gained.

         Hartman’s own axioms move in two directions: (A) the formal structure of transfinite mathematics that informs his primary writing, The Structure of Value and, (B) the portal formulas that drive the algorithms of his assessment instrument, The Hartman Value Profile (aka, The Judgment Index). These portal formulations become the basis of interpretative, predictive formulas that have evolved over half a century now.

         The key elements of Hartman’s axiology are—in very brief detail—I, E, and S, with the I standing for Intrinsic/people judgment, the E standing for Extrinsic/task judgment, and the S standing for Systemic/strategic judgment. The broad and varied interaction of these factors of judgment allow for greater clarity in workforce selection, promotion, teambuilding, and development of all kinds. Hartman is also capable of calculating “judgment clarity” and “judgment consistency” as it relates to both work/external world judgment and self/internal work judgment. He is also able to assess with concrete metrics the presence of various forms and intensities of stress and other factors that can derail judgment. The degree of quantitative and qualitative judgment capacity with which a person engages reality can also be measured. Finally, after years and years of experience—just like the Wrights—it is possible to become more distinctive and predictive with the assessment’s calculations.

         In our own work, after more than four decades of experience, we have been able to arrive at our own “formula.”  We advance our discussions under the banner of the following: E0 = (CSS + CP + GI)^J meaning “Excellent Outcomes are achieved by combining assets of Competent Skill Sets, Competent Processes, and Good Information, exponentially empowered and enhanced by Good Judgment. While appropriate expertise is demanded in achieving all of the components of the formula, we make our contribution by bringing measurement to the factor of judgment. Then once some reality can be measured, it can be intentionally pursued and consciously integrated and developed. “Cultures” can even be assessed to determine whether they are enhancing or diminishing the possibilities of good judgment being available.

         In David McCullough’s wonderfully written book[1] on the brothers—from which many of my facts about them and their conversations have been taken—it is abundantly clear that the brothers had unique “personalities.” In fact, McCullough’s book gives us a wide field of almost exotic “personalities” that captured the attention of the world as it headed into the twentieth century. But, it is also more than abundantly clear that while “personality” dynamics were interesting, they were absolutely not the major drivers in ultimate achievement. Many people had “personalities” not unlike the brothers, yet they were not the first to fly. Hartman, in his work, does not see “personality” as a major driver in any way that compares with judgment, and his assessment tool is certainly not a “personality” tool like the majority of vendor assessments available today.

         To me, the most eloquent quote in David McCullough’s book comes from a man named John T. Daniels, Jr. Daniels was a member of the Kill Devil Hills Life-Saving Station, one of a random series of fairly primitive rescue stations scattered along the North Carolina coastal areas. Daniels had extended every help and courtesy to the Wrights when they worked on the dunes at the beginning of their ventures. They saw his friendship as indispensable to their work. He was the person, carefully instructed on how to use the brothers’ camera, who luckily snapped the famous picture of that first flight, now memorialized by history and engraved into the back of North Carolina’s commemorative state quarter.

         Daniels’ profoundly insightful statement tells us a great deal about the “spirit” of people like the Wright brothers. I believe it is also an apt description of Robert S. Hartman.

                  It wasn’t luck that made them fly; it was hard work and

                  common sense. They put their whole heart and soul—and

                  all of their energy—into an idea. They had the faith.

Hard work, skill sets, and common sense all powered by good judgment is the vital equation for success. And with an expenditure of energy and faith in your idea, people and machines can fly. Life is still about people and machines, maybe with the kind of technology we have today even more so, and how those machines are used, whether they will succeed, or what kind of world they will produce—just as it was with the Wrights—is powerfully a matter of judgment.

        

        

        

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[1] David McCullough, The Wright Brothers. New York: Simon & Schuster, 2015.