Hartman’s
Work—
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.
