Last week, in Christchurch, the front page of The Press informed us that the city is to have an 'iconic' gateway. The writers did have the decency to place the word iconic in quotation marks. Although this is a hint that they knew something or the other was not quite right about the word, it was not enough.
Icons used to be paintings of Christ or other holy figures, usually on wood and usually pretty old. In recent years, icons have assumed other meanings, for example, being in abundance on the screen in front of me as I write this. They have also come to refer to persons or things that stand as a representative symbol of something. And they are now all over the place. On most days we come across reports of icons in the newspapers, from the tv news reporters, and even from those who are interviewed. In short, the word, like many others, is losing its meaning. As soon as an All-Black stands out for something other than a drunken misdemeanor, he assumes iconic status. Perhaps all of the old tall poppies of the 20th century have become icons in the 21st.
Anyway, assuming that the proposed bridge over Memorial Avenue is not to be constructed of wood with a painting of Christ on its side, then it is presumably to be seen as a potential symbol of post-earthquake Christchurch. An overpass. In what way might this be seen as symbolic? All that springs to mind is that Christchurch might be a good place to overpass, next time flying straight onto Queenstown. Surely not. Then it might be seen merely as a bridge. Perhaps to higher things.
In the body of The Press article, the phrase "iconic gateway" was quoted, presumably from an original report. Then the question becomes, how can a gateway be an icon for a city? In fact, as one drives from the airport along Memorial Avenue one will presumably be aware of an overbridge rather than a gateway. However creative the design, it is hard to imagine instant iconic status. In fact, can anything have instant iconic status? Isn't this something that has to be earned by lengthy association?
On the following day, an image of the proposed icon was shown in The Press, although it was not possible for the reporter to say whether or not it would be exactly as portrayed. It looked fine and might well add something to the approach to Christchurch from the airport - although Christchurch being Christchurch, many people will find it objectionable whatever it looks like. But instant icon it cannot be. Whether or not in the fulness of time it comes to be iconic is a question for public reaction. At least it is not the equivalent of a huge L&P bottle.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Friday, November 18, 2011
Bugger - ah, that's better
A recent article in the scientific/academic literature reports that swearing definitely offers relief from pain. When we swear so our pain tolerance increases. This report is not yet another example of the laborious discovery of the obvious. Although we might have suspected that an instantly bellowed oath somehow lessens the pain of the hammer blow on the thumb, we did not know for sure that this might be a real effect, that is an effect that might have some physical basis rather than merely reflecting a cherished belief. The authors suggest that it works by producing an emotional response. I should think that there might be several emotional responses involved at many points, from the hammer blow onwards.
There is more and it is less comforting. They also report that those who engage in a great deal of daily swearing, not merely in reaction to the stubbed toe, cracked shin or crushed thumb, become somewhat immune to the increased pain relief from the instant expletive. In other words, overuse of swearing lessens its effectiveness. This again, might come as no surprise to those who make observations of daily life. The once a year, rather politely enunciated 'fuck' from an otherwise closely defended coffee morning wife from the affluent suburbs has far greater effect than the word's admittedly creative use many times in any single sentence in other quarters. But the effect is to lower the pain tolerance, so it is better not to overdo it.
By the way, in the summary of their article the authors mention swearing, of course, but in brackets they put 'cursing'. Is this because they believe the reader might not know what swearing is? Or might there be some subtle academic distinction here? The concise Oxford does not distinguish between the two words to any great extent, so this might be the shape of things to come in academic papers. Every time a word (particularly an everyday word) is used, then its synonyms will appear in brackets (parentheses), just in case the other handful of academics who read it somehow miss the point.
The point of all this however is that we now have an excuse, well actually rather more than an excuse - perhaps, to put it academically, a rationale - to let rip when the hammer slips or the little toe catches on the chair leg or we attempt to walk through the closed ranch slider yet again. We are simply lessening the pain, which surely no-one would begrudge.
There are implications though, possibly indicating further research. There is more than one sort of pain. There is all manner of social and emotional pain when people make adverse remarks or criticise us or suggest that we are to be blamed for something that was nothing to do with us. Might this type of pain also be relieved by a sudden 'bugger that!', or even by a string of neatly created curses? This could change the tenor of meetings across many walks of life. It is surely worth a try, but don't forget not to over do it. It will lose all effectiveness if you do it every time the chairperson speaks - and so might you.
http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/22078790
There is more and it is less comforting. They also report that those who engage in a great deal of daily swearing, not merely in reaction to the stubbed toe, cracked shin or crushed thumb, become somewhat immune to the increased pain relief from the instant expletive. In other words, overuse of swearing lessens its effectiveness. This again, might come as no surprise to those who make observations of daily life. The once a year, rather politely enunciated 'fuck' from an otherwise closely defended coffee morning wife from the affluent suburbs has far greater effect than the word's admittedly creative use many times in any single sentence in other quarters. But the effect is to lower the pain tolerance, so it is better not to overdo it.
By the way, in the summary of their article the authors mention swearing, of course, but in brackets they put 'cursing'. Is this because they believe the reader might not know what swearing is? Or might there be some subtle academic distinction here? The concise Oxford does not distinguish between the two words to any great extent, so this might be the shape of things to come in academic papers. Every time a word (particularly an everyday word) is used, then its synonyms will appear in brackets (parentheses), just in case the other handful of academics who read it somehow miss the point.
The point of all this however is that we now have an excuse, well actually rather more than an excuse - perhaps, to put it academically, a rationale - to let rip when the hammer slips or the little toe catches on the chair leg or we attempt to walk through the closed ranch slider yet again. We are simply lessening the pain, which surely no-one would begrudge.
There are implications though, possibly indicating further research. There is more than one sort of pain. There is all manner of social and emotional pain when people make adverse remarks or criticise us or suggest that we are to be blamed for something that was nothing to do with us. Might this type of pain also be relieved by a sudden 'bugger that!', or even by a string of neatly created curses? This could change the tenor of meetings across many walks of life. It is surely worth a try, but don't forget not to over do it. It will lose all effectiveness if you do it every time the chairperson speaks - and so might you.
http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/22078790
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Presence
Idris Elba has presence. It's hard to define, but one knows it when one sees it and one sees it in him. He is a superb actor. Just compare his performance in The Wire and in Luther. In The Wire, he is the brains behind a Baltimore criminal gang. He doesn't say much but he gives off a smiling menace that fills the screen. He is the thinking person's American gangster through and through. Even his walk seems to be exactly what one imagines it should be. And there is a moment in an early episode when he is clearly entering a liaison with the wife of a jailed gang member. All we see is his hand slowly undoing a zip. That's it, nothing else, but it is very sexy. That is presence.
Then, in Luther, which is Neil Cross writing at the top of his game, Elba is a London police detective. Again, he doesn't say much but his miniscule facial expressions say it all. And he walks with the shoulders first, rolling style of a London bloke. Again, he fills the screen with his presence. It is not because he is a super-hero. Clearly, he is an anti-hero in The Wire and in Luther, he might be simultaneously sharp-witted and intuitive, but he also has difficulty with relationships, particularly with women, and he often finds himself in lonely places, troubled by what to do next. Throughout all though, his presence is magnetic, drawing one into the small screen.
There are others with presence who appear on the big or the small screen. It is not a quality that gradually emerges but one that is apparent almost immediately. It is hard to pin down what it is about the person that make it so obvious. It could be size. One might think that being very large would create presence. It certainly helps if the person is filling more than the average amount of space. But size is hard to judge, particularly on the small screen and certainly not every basket-baller that one sees interviewed has presence - in fact quite a few have whatever is its opposite. And then there are actors like Al Pacino. He has instant presence in spite of taking up very little space. He can do it with his voice, but he also has it just by being on screen.
Idris Elba is big, of course, but this is not it. It is something to do with stillness. At times, he might walk fast or even run, but mostly he is quite still, seemingly slow to react and sometimes apparently not reacting at all. This is Clint Eastwood in the spaghetti westerns. The most one saw was the rolling of an unlit cigar in the lips. It meant many things, depending on the circumstances, but it usually involved mayhem for someone else. Idris Elba has no cigar. The sheer immobility of his face results in either a few words that penetrate whatever is going on or in some rapid physical action.
In the right person then, whether on screen or not, this stillness generates presence and the writers of The Wire and Luther are astute enough to have seen it in Idris Elba and he is astute enough to project it. If you haven't yet seen any of either series, I envy you the experience to come.
Then, in Luther, which is Neil Cross writing at the top of his game, Elba is a London police detective. Again, he doesn't say much but his miniscule facial expressions say it all. And he walks with the shoulders first, rolling style of a London bloke. Again, he fills the screen with his presence. It is not because he is a super-hero. Clearly, he is an anti-hero in The Wire and in Luther, he might be simultaneously sharp-witted and intuitive, but he also has difficulty with relationships, particularly with women, and he often finds himself in lonely places, troubled by what to do next. Throughout all though, his presence is magnetic, drawing one into the small screen.
There are others with presence who appear on the big or the small screen. It is not a quality that gradually emerges but one that is apparent almost immediately. It is hard to pin down what it is about the person that make it so obvious. It could be size. One might think that being very large would create presence. It certainly helps if the person is filling more than the average amount of space. But size is hard to judge, particularly on the small screen and certainly not every basket-baller that one sees interviewed has presence - in fact quite a few have whatever is its opposite. And then there are actors like Al Pacino. He has instant presence in spite of taking up very little space. He can do it with his voice, but he also has it just by being on screen.
Idris Elba is big, of course, but this is not it. It is something to do with stillness. At times, he might walk fast or even run, but mostly he is quite still, seemingly slow to react and sometimes apparently not reacting at all. This is Clint Eastwood in the spaghetti westerns. The most one saw was the rolling of an unlit cigar in the lips. It meant many things, depending on the circumstances, but it usually involved mayhem for someone else. Idris Elba has no cigar. The sheer immobility of his face results in either a few words that penetrate whatever is going on or in some rapid physical action.
In the right person then, whether on screen or not, this stillness generates presence and the writers of The Wire and Luther are astute enough to have seen it in Idris Elba and he is astute enough to project it. If you haven't yet seen any of either series, I envy you the experience to come.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Today
Shop assistants have started putting 'today' on the end of their questions. Would you like chocolate or cinnamon on your cappuchino today? Would you like sugar today? Would you like to pay by eftpos or credit today? Would you like me to put it in a bag today? Would you like anything else today? Is there anything else I can help you with today?
What does this mean, today, or, in fact, any other day? Does it imply that one is thought to live a life of complete inconsistency, one day bearing very little relation to another with respect to one's wants, desires or even behaviours? Have they been taught to give the impression that every customer is a free agent, entirely unconstrained by the exigencies of life from one day to the next? Or is it intended to imply that somehow they know that this is a special day for us? If so, this is something that might begin to lose its effect if one hears it every day.
More importantly, how is that that it suddenly seems to have begun in all shops and cafes, not just in New Zealand, but also in Australia? Is this perhaps the latest example of an a-causal connecting principle, Sheldrake's morphic resonance at work in the everyday world? I suspect though that Sheldrake was thinking of something a bit more profound and far-reaching than the 'today' effect.
Or perhaps there is some ubiquitous training manual, that is updated to all establishments. If so, who makes the decisions and writes it? Or perhaps the shop assistants pick up the new ideas from other shops when they themselves are customers. If so, where did it begin? Who is ultimately responsible for this new awkwardness that has made its way into our daily lives? It is yet another thing to deal with, to make a decision about, to work out a clever response that will fall on ears that do not want to hear it.
Anyway, I suspect that we are stuck with it for a while, much as we have been stuck with "Have you had a busy day?" This is a question to which it is almost impossible to reply satisfactorily. "Yes" seems a bit peremptory and "No" seems to imply a less than adequate life. And to offer more than a simple affirmative or negative somehow takes the whole matter too far, something shown readily by the puzzled look from she who is by then proffering the bill. Clearly, the checkout people couldn't care less about the progress of one's day. Fair enough, although one does have some sympathy for the progress of theirs. What must seven or eight hours sitting there and making much the same enquiries of everyone be like? But, why then do they continue to ask these questions?
But at least we have not yet had to face a question that's not a question at the end of nearly every utterance, as with the British "...in it?" Perhaps it is a little like the New Zealand rising inflection that turns everything into a tentative, I'm-not-sure-if-I-should-be-saying-this-at-all sort of statement. The impossibility of resolution leaves one feeling slightly tense, the entire conversation lacking a firm end. On reflection though, the British "...in it?" is more of a challenge, it carries an aggressive you're-not-going-to-argue-with-this flavour to it. Might this be a final hangover of the difference between the colonizer and the colonized?
It's a wonder that we manage to get through day to day interactions at all. Of course, on some days we don't.
What does this mean, today, or, in fact, any other day? Does it imply that one is thought to live a life of complete inconsistency, one day bearing very little relation to another with respect to one's wants, desires or even behaviours? Have they been taught to give the impression that every customer is a free agent, entirely unconstrained by the exigencies of life from one day to the next? Or is it intended to imply that somehow they know that this is a special day for us? If so, this is something that might begin to lose its effect if one hears it every day.
More importantly, how is that that it suddenly seems to have begun in all shops and cafes, not just in New Zealand, but also in Australia? Is this perhaps the latest example of an a-causal connecting principle, Sheldrake's morphic resonance at work in the everyday world? I suspect though that Sheldrake was thinking of something a bit more profound and far-reaching than the 'today' effect.
Or perhaps there is some ubiquitous training manual, that is updated to all establishments. If so, who makes the decisions and writes it? Or perhaps the shop assistants pick up the new ideas from other shops when they themselves are customers. If so, where did it begin? Who is ultimately responsible for this new awkwardness that has made its way into our daily lives? It is yet another thing to deal with, to make a decision about, to work out a clever response that will fall on ears that do not want to hear it.
Anyway, I suspect that we are stuck with it for a while, much as we have been stuck with "Have you had a busy day?" This is a question to which it is almost impossible to reply satisfactorily. "Yes" seems a bit peremptory and "No" seems to imply a less than adequate life. And to offer more than a simple affirmative or negative somehow takes the whole matter too far, something shown readily by the puzzled look from she who is by then proffering the bill. Clearly, the checkout people couldn't care less about the progress of one's day. Fair enough, although one does have some sympathy for the progress of theirs. What must seven or eight hours sitting there and making much the same enquiries of everyone be like? But, why then do they continue to ask these questions?
But at least we have not yet had to face a question that's not a question at the end of nearly every utterance, as with the British "...in it?" Perhaps it is a little like the New Zealand rising inflection that turns everything into a tentative, I'm-not-sure-if-I-should-be-saying-this-at-all sort of statement. The impossibility of resolution leaves one feeling slightly tense, the entire conversation lacking a firm end. On reflection though, the British "...in it?" is more of a challenge, it carries an aggressive you're-not-going-to-argue-with-this flavour to it. Might this be a final hangover of the difference between the colonizer and the colonized?
It's a wonder that we manage to get through day to day interactions at all. Of course, on some days we don't.
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