Memories, once again

I am not feeling motivated enough to rant, as the only things that rub me wrong are old ones I have not been able to change, or do not feel like changing. So once again I dredge up some memories, those which have made me what I am.

This is one of those bright memories I rub when it is dark, so that its comforting glow pulls me through those moments of despair.

It is not a tender memory, or even an extremely happy one. But it is satisfying.

A few years ago, in a business trip to Germany, to have some technical talks with critical customers, I flew to Frankfurt. There I was picked up by one of our agents there, a very nice person all around and quite a good salesman too. His name is Rainer.

We usually enjoy ourselves in those trips, as we enjoy the same things and have a similar attitude to technical sales (Omit some details if needed, but never ever lie to a customer), which is refreshing compared to the gung-ho attitude regarding truth of other salesmen. We also enjoy good food, but not necessarily the fancy restaurant ones, but also the hearty tavern fare. We both are malt whisky lovers, and drink heartily when the company and the circumstances allow it.

We were staying that night in Frankfurt, at a cozy small family run hotel. It was late summer, so we decided to walk around looking for a nice open air place for dinner. As my German is quite limited we were talking in English. Unlike most polymer commercial personnel, Rainer has actual interest in why things are as they are, and in learning about the products he sells, so although it was not a too technical talk we were discussing the advantages and disadvantages of emulsion polymerized SBR over solution-SBR, and similar things. While we were so engrossed we were interrupted by an attractive woman, in her thirties, asking in English if we were by chance Bayer people. Politely we explained that we were not, and she kept on, explaining that she was lonely, bored and wondering if she could join us as we were from some polymer industry, nice looking (we supposed she meant safe...) and English speakers. She was an American consultant working at a Bayer-Dow Chemicals joint-venture. Quite surprised, we were too well bred (or too classical male) to refuse her request, so she joined our search for Haxe and beer.

She was a quite pleasant company, although it was evident she felt quite unhappy in Europe, suffering with the variable customs, languages and attitudes. And she was so horrified when she found out what we intended for dinner, and what haxe was... So she sipped a white wine and had a salad while we faced our enormous plates and our almost as big beer mugs...

It felt so alien to us, and she was clearly so hungry for company that we stayed with her for a few hours more, having coffee, discussing corporate politics, the rootless living of high level consultants, and the advantages of small outfits as providers to small companies. The personal touch.

Afterwards we went to a coffeehouse to have Espressos and malts. The refined place agreed more with her, but that only confused her more than anything else, the exhibitionist banter with the owner about malts and distilleries and years of age. I confess we enjoyed breaking her prejudices about technicians, salesmen, small companies and European hedonism. And agreeing among ourselves that we were right in not working for a big multinational company.

At midnight we were having trouble finding someplace still open (it was a Monday, after all) with a bearable sound level, so we left her at her hotel and went for the last drinks at the Sheraton's cocktail bar.

That whole trip was extremely enjoyable, the most enjoyable I have had in business, both because we had only a meeting a day (instead of the usual two or three) so we were able to enjoy our afternoons, and the places and attitude we had that summer. The second day was at Luxembourg, and as it was my turn to choose food (and pay for it, but as it was actually the company who paid, I did not pull any punches), we had an excellent French food. It was a bit unreal later in a Jazz bar full of backpackers, as the waiter spoke only German and French, so we both could talk with him, but not at the same time. Our hotel was in the Main Square of the old town, so it was no good to go to sleep before one a.m. because there was a ball and a fair. So once again a nice evening out till late, comparing local, Belgian and German beers.

The third evening was at Düsseldorf, my host's home town, after a short detour to get true Belgian frites and sausages for lunch. The evening fun started at a brewery, one of those places where they note your consumption on your beer mat with a pencil, and at the exit you just give your beer mat and pay. We ended up at a cigar bar, enjoying smoky malts and in my friends case a cigar, of course.

The trip had the biggest advantage of mixing several pleasures in conversation, hedonism, seeing different places and then a second helping of conversation. No big revelations, as our relationship is not deep enough for that kind of stress. Just stories, anecdotes, chemical curiosities and mainly food and drink.

And I was specially reminded of this trip because we managed to combine work and pleasure in a way I have never had either before or afterwards. A drive to the customer company, a short talk, and a bit more driving till the intended end of stage. And then to hit the town.

That trip I discovered the guilty pleasure of currywurst, how nice must be to be able to afford to live in Luxembourg, that Düsseldorf is my favourite German town for a night out (confirmed six months later in a twelve day marathon fair, with twelve nights out), and that Rainer and I really enjoy being together sixteen hours a day. And that is not easy, considering my own weirdness.

And of course, that having all the money you need makes choosing much more interesting.  ¶ 10:07 AM 0 comments

  Tears, revisited

The other day I had one of those standardised tear-brimming moments, watching The Fellowship of the Ring extended DVD, the exit of Moria, where the combination of plot, music and acting always makes me cry. And realised that although I have been close to crying a couple of times this year (an airport and a live concert), only movies and books have really moved me enough to cry.

Besides revisiting a couple of guaranteed tear-hits (besides the Fellowship, The English Patient), the only moving moments were Un long dimanche de fiançailles, twice, when Mathilde races the car for the survival of Manech in her own mental bet, and when I understood what MMM meant.

For books, the utter feeling of waste at the end of West of the Border, South of the Sun, was enough to make me cry, in the middle of the night.

But I do not intend to write about that film or book, but, as usual, about myself.

What strange mechanism makes me cry with certain ease in movies and makes me unable to cry about my own troubles, and there has been loss and anxiety these months.

The anonimity of a darkened room? Then why I cannot cry alone in a hotel room, even when deliberately wanting to (ah, the sweet release of tears)? Why I can embarrass myself in front of friends (how many times you say you have seen this film?) and cannot do it with my wife?

In fact, if someone else is crying, I feel my disposition for tears, that physical clenching of the heart and plugging of the nose, just evaporate. I go either into support mode, or if irritated or angry, into uncaring selfishness. None of which have tears as an option.

I suspect it is tied to my own capacity to focus so completely in a book or movie to be oblicious to my surroundings. Only in those circumstances I am free enough to allow myself tears. And I do not allow them because I do not think I have earned them. I know it is foolish, but that is my automatic reaction when some event puts me close to tears. And of course, it always comes short. Because the world is a terrible place for most people, and my life has nothing horrible in it.

So, unless my heart breaks, or at least bends terribly, or I lose one of those unconscious pillars I am basing my life on, I still will deny myself tears. And as I do enjoy the release of tears, I will keep crying with books and movies. Small tricks to make the days lighter.  ¶ 6:54 PM 0 comments

  Edition

I have decided to change my ways and correct the most glaring mistakes in previous posts, which means I will probably end up rereading and editing most of the posts here. I will also add some context in a few cases, and explain myself, I hope, a little better.

Because although the unedited version is more faithful both to my stream of consciousness writing method and my own freudian slips, once the emotion that caused the rant to take form has disappeared it is at times painful to see a glaring mistake when rereading.

It is some kind of mental masturbation to reread my own work, and it has the same virtues, familiarity and reassurance. It also serves as a way map of how I am changing or staying the same. Yet it is better to reach out and read others.  ¶ 10:00 AM 0 comments

  Memories again. Islay.

A group of friends will be spending a week soon in Scotland. Having been there twice, both times for a fortnight, they have been asking me a lot of questions about places to visit and things to do. That brought many memories back. The first time, it was with a friend, backpacking around, using train and local coaches, trying the excellent Scottish Youth Hostel association and generally being as cheap as possible (24 hour bus trip to London, followed by another eight hour bus trip to Edinburgh. The stamina of youth). The second time I was with my wife, we flew directly into Edinburgh, we rented a car, and we went mostly by good B&B. How age and money affect the travel experience.

But what I wanted to comment on is how media and our previous experiences colour expectations and experiences.

In the first trip, one of the best moments was visiting the small town that had been the setting for the film Local Hero (Arisaig, close to Mallaig), and joining with a few freak foreigners willing to camp in the beach with a driftwood fire. Indeed, there was very little interaction with Scots in that trip, as we mostly met young people like us, traveling light and exchanging places to go, tips on ways to get somewhere and how to cheat BritRail. Our pace was fixed by coach stops and hostel locations.

The second time we were much more independent. Some places I revisited, most were things I had been unable to reach the first time around. We met and talked with more "natives", who also were much more willing to interact with us. They helped solidify an idea we had had, to visit Islay, a much less "touristy" island than the Hebrides or Skye. And I wanted to see the Laphroaig distillery and my square foot of peaty bog...

So we reserved at one of the two hotels in the island, and took the ferry in. The first impression was one of difference. After twelve days, it was the only flat piece of land we had seen, and you could see how gales could fly straight over it. You could also feel the different rhythm of life. There were some twenty tourist cars in the whole island, which was lucky as all the roads were one lane only. Everybody was polite, so we strangers were polite too, in reflection. And we were invited to a ceilidh, just because they are unused to strangers, but recognize they do help the island. Maybe we have become snobbish, but the absence of backpackers made it a more relaxed, mature affair, talking about harsh winters, the very real danger of low flying geese, the qualities of the five local distilleries, and how remote some of the world problems seem, and how close others still are (oil cost, for instance).

One of those places where they still offer you a tea and a scone in exchange for some news of where you are from, and how life is "in the Continent".

But what I wanted to mention is that the whole Islay experience seemed surreal but at the same time familiar. Till I realised it just felt like the fictional town of Cicely, from the TV series Northern Exposure. An isolated place, yet connected to the wide world outside, filled with open and friendly people (probably because the only people we could meet were the open friendly ones, but still...). In a way, a fictional experience just helped to cope with an unfamiliar real experience. It was at the ceilidh, listening to the local band while discussing fishing when I realised why it felt familiar. And it helped, as the locals could pick up who was comfortable, who was bored and who just did not get it. The power of mediated experiences.  ¶ 10:32 AM 0 comments

  Art as Brand

This arose a few years ago as a series of ideas about Art and art, and a recent talk with a friend forced me to verbalize it and develop it beyond a series of disconnected musings.

It is very difficult to define Art, mostly because in this post-modern influenced world, Art usually is in the eye of the beholder. And yet, most people recognize art, understood as anything that moves the recipient in some way, whether it is through beauty, truth, disgust, anger... And once again we get the recipient as a measure of success. Is a beautiful sunset art when it is photographed and not when I see it as such? Is the simple beauty of a naked blade art, or necessity?

Is an artisan, making an useful object, less than an artist? Can I differentiate without context without their works? I say no. Which is why it is so hard to differentiate the work of a master and that of one of his students, copying one of his works. Both will be pieces of art. The master may have created Art, but that is in the creation act, not somehow embedded on the piece itself. Without context, we cannot spot Art.

An artist, for me, strives for Art rather than art. And Art requires to give the recipients of the artwork some new experience, something they have never felt that way before. Or rather, attempt to, as the experience will be as varied as there are individuals. A succesful artist influences many, a poor artist influences nobody.

And then there is the conflict with real life. First of all, it is hard to make a living when every new work is a risky approach into the new. As well, a particular piece of Art only influences a concrete number of spectators, so it could be repeated to reach new ones. As well, a piece that worked once, is more likely to work again. In this natural way, the artist becomes an artisan, making copies of his work, if only to be able to afford a new piece of Art.

I do not feel there is any negative aspect to artisan. The artisan just does something as well as he can, but something that she already knows how to make. In a way, there is little risk and just plenty of work.

It is natural that most artists support themselves as artisans, and most artisans try at times some Art, something new and experimental, whether it is to try to carve a dog in a stick, or a chorus girl volunteering for a solo song. Just because Art is bound to fail often, so there is a need for a safety net.

However, in recent times, and tied in my opinion with the apparition of branding, artists are working to become a brand themselves. A brand is based on the idea that a name has value by itself in the perception of a customer, whether because it offers a proved result, a minimum quality or just familiarity. That is also what a brand-artist offers. It is not by chance that this phenomenon started when contemporary pieces of art began to be valued over the cost of time and materials.

However, when you become a brand you have to play by different rules than Art. Familiarity means that most or all the work has to be recognizable. Also, the artist cannot devaluate the brand, so extreme behaviour (although some extremes strengthen the brand) and experimental art are to be avoided. In most cases the brand devours the artist, so that all freedom is lost. In exchange, the former artist, as any brand, can price items way beyond any objective value.

Some artists manage to become a brand and still produce Art, but that is the exception rather than the rule. Most become just figureheads of an artisanship consortium, churning out new brand products.

A very sharp observer indicated that our society may be in a crisis because we harvest our bohemias too soon, before they can grow. I also feel we harvest our individual artists also too soon. Earlier, a famous and consolidated artist was also one who was willing to experiment, to run risks. Because only one with a safe income and position could try something new, and because it was expected from her to provide Art, not a commodity. That also hampered development, of course, but made sure that Art was evolving in quantum steps.

Now artists are offered success more in terms of novelty and the ability to be branded than the actual effect of that Art on the people. They are harvested young to be sold prepackaged.

So I do not worry about those established artists that only repeat themselves, as that has happened all the time. I worry about young artists, propelled forward into success and branding, that never know again what freedom is. They are frozen before they can really grow into shape, held together by money and marketing.

Some may say that is the way to make Art reach more people. For me it just means that there is much more bad Art than good Art, and as I do not feel there is an intrinsic value to Art, only there is value in its effect, all Art experiences become devaluated, harder to fill its aim, as it is competing with all the branded commodified Art and all the bad Art trying to be branded.

And I hate wasting my time in that way, not to mention my money. So I tend to go with honest artisans now, as they are easier to pick.  ¶ 6:35 PM 0 comments

  Sultan of Swing

A few days ago we went with a few friends to see Mark Knopfler live. Quite a flashback trip.

He has had always a good welcome in Zaragoza, where he held the last concert of Dire Straits (in 1992!), and he visited in his first solo tour in 1996. Indeed, I suspect most of the people (as we did too) had been to the two previous concerts here. A good business night for babysitters, as the mean age was probably close to 40.

The concert was just as expected. Almost no recent songs, and classics chorused by the public. One difference was that this time there was more people sitting than standing, and even he sat down for a while as well for a couple acoustic pieces.

It may not be new, it may not be art any longer (but I feel I will rant about art and artisanship soon), but it was a nice spectacle, and it was an easy way to feel young and in love again.

There is some kind of override control in crowds, that just switches off most of the criticism function, many reasoning areas, and you just join with the flow and let things happen. When you just have to join in the Oe, oe, oe, oe! chants, just because you know he will pick it up with his guitar and return it back to us, as we did (and he did) thirteen years ago. This time the band was forewarned, so they joined the brief spontaneous (could I say that, when all involved knew that it would happen?) improvisation?

There were more differences. Mobile phone screens replaced the lighters for Brothers in Arms. The beer sold was only non-alcoholic. It started on time. All signs that time has passed, even if we did not want to feel it.

And this time we did not protest and whistle when he started Going Home. We already knew the way, and that was the waking point, the departure.

On the way back, with Alchemy loud on the car stereo, what else but Sultans of Swing, part of the magic remained. The following morning it was over, but the memories remain.  ¶ 4:48 PM 0 comments

  The insidious blue pill

I suppose it is impossible to have had a net-presence for a while without receiving tons of viagra spam. So, when I got a recipe for them, as part of our sexual therapy, I was both curious and a little worried. Curious about how would that feel, and worried both about the secondary effects and what that may mean on our sex life if part of the solution was in a pill.

The first blow, of course, is the price. It is no surprise there is a black market on those things. Fortunately this was just a test, as 10 € the pill makes sex an expensive pleasure.

I have no heart troubles, perfect electrocardiograms, a straight in the middle blood pressure and no other organ trouble. Even then, our therapist asked for my last series of checks, just to make sure, which did no good for my peace of mind thinking on any possible consequences.

As a good compulsory reader (and as someone who usually keeps well away from pharmaceutical products) I read the informational prospect, that made me even more apprehensive. So much that I skipped the usual folowing step, googling the secondary effects.

In use it works a bit like a cruise missile. Once you are committed (taken the pill), you just have to make use of it. The waste and the risk for health just leave no alternative.

That commitment is good, as I do find relaxing the disappeareance of choices. It may be stressing, it may be something not willed for, but once there is no choice, I just relax and get down to it. Which fortunately is the right approach for the problem at hand.

I will not enter into details, but the idea was to keep an erection under conditions that I find unarousing. And it really worked. For close to fifteen minutes I had a hard-on that was totally unconcerned with what I was thinking, wondering and feeling. And, as promised, the refractory period afterwards was quite shortened.

However that was also what I found the most disturbing of all. With some primary excitation, to get it going, instead of a part of me terribly sensitive to concentration, mood and environment I had a unwavering (but not insensible) tool, to be used as wished. Which I suppose is one of the advantages for its users, but for me, with a custom of tenderness, shared work, interactive excitation, it felt alien.

I could not avoid thinking that it could be used to be able to perform sexual crimes in cold blood, the kind where any sane person would be totally unexcited. And it helps to lose the personalization in sex. The partner becomes less personal, as almost anyone serves for the sex to work. And for the partner, you just become a full body dildo, that will work as advertised no matter how little (or how much) attention is given.

Which means that in a way I am glad the package is only of four pills, or I would be tempted to experiment with them, and probably turn this healthy dislike in an unhealthy fascination.  ¶ 5:32 PM 0 comments

  Trader princes

I have just spent a couple of days in Hamburg, as the guest of what I feel is the modern day equivalent of a trader prince.

They work in chemicals, and the company was founded in 1894. My host is the fourth generation. Already when they started, with money from "Afrika" shipping, the old slavers converted to cocoa and wood carriers, the company was trying to break up with the past and deal only with modern items, technology, and as was so German at the start of the century, Chemistry.

The headquarters is still an old mansion facing the Binnenalster, the small lake in the middle of the city. The warehouses and the different pick and mix plants are kilometers away, rebuilt after the war.

And yet, they have a business attitude that in a way looks like atonement, or maybe just applied Ethics. No quick benefit here. No temporal workers. Even though lots of material is imported from Asia, the plants are joint ventures, risk capital intended to pay for themselves in three years, as they are no fools and know that in five, the "partners" may be selling the same, cheaper. Then, just buy from them and keep the link going, the industry open.

Customers are another problem. Offer quality and service, and do what can be done with price. It is always a run to provide what nobody else does. But the advantage in dealing with small and medium size companies is that feelings count, and a good conscience can be paid with a very small effort, and generally a smoother service through the years.

I have seen the spell in action. Providers cutting slightly their own prices, to keep the relationship going. Customers accepting a higher price (with a 0.5% effect on their own price) just for the visits, the technical calls and the peace of knowing who is on the other side of the phone.

Personal touch is back being more valued than the quick benefit and the impersonal orders.

Of course, these are the survivors, those with high quality products or lean production structures. But they still know that service has a cost, and they are willing to pay for it. Even if that payment goes to pay for a great fish dinner at the Insel. Next time they will be the ones dining.

Right now I feel I could not work for a publicly traded company, with quarterly result reports. Maybe it is the wine, maybe it is just reading No Logo, and maybe it is the charm of the trader aristocrats and their conception of trade as a pleasurable activity. But I know what I like.  ¶ 4:11 PM 0 comments

  Computer Timeout

Yes, I have decided to reduce the computer use in my leisure time, mainly because it is hopeless to do so at work. In a way, I am breaking it to post this, but this morning I have decided to break a few rules. Or just to get a fix. Not actually computer use, but internet and its related applications (Messenger...). So far I will keep Skype as that is just like a cheap telephone, but I may curtail that if I start to browse while talking.

So most computer interactions will take at work, where it's own dynamic and limits make sure they will not get out of control (in terms of energy and time devoted).

And why?

In a way, it is like introducing some spice again, to get some discrimination back into the mix. To distance myself to get a better view of what I need, what I like and what I want.

For a time I thought this place was going, but it will keep some longer. But other interests and habits are falling down the window. And I hope that means I will have more time for what really matters.

The fact that my wife is using a lot (Photoshop course) the only internet connected computer in the house is a coincidence. Happy chance, or we would be arguing much more.  ¶ 9:37 AM 0 comments