Don't think I need to say much about this except I marvel at the human spirit in times of crisis...
The following is a statement released by the Hockley family, through Connecticut State Police. Dylan Hockley was among the first graders killed Friday at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown:
We want to give sincere thanks and appreciation to the emergency services and first responders who helped everyone on Friday, December 14. It was an impossible day for us, but even in our grief we cann...
ot comprehend what other people may have experienced.
The support of our beautiful community and from family, friends and people around the world has been overwhelming and we are humbled. We feel the love and comfort that people are sending and this gives our family strength. We thank everyone for their support, which we will continue to need as we begin this long journey of healing.
Our thoughts and prayers are with the other families who have also been affected by this tragedy. We are forever bound together and hope we can support and find solace with each other.Sandy Hook and Newtown have warmly welcomed us since we moved here two years ago from England. We specifically chose Sandy Hook for the community and the elementary school. We do not and shall never regret this choice. Our boys have flourished here and our family’s happiness has been limitless.
We cannot speak highly enough of Dawn Hochsprung and Mary Sherlach, exceptional women who knew both our children and who specifically helped us navigate Dylan’s special education needs. Dylan’s teacher, Vicki Soto, was warm and funny and Dylan loved her dearly. We take great comfort in knowing that Dylan was not alone when he died, but was wrapped in the arms of his amazing aide, Anne Marie Murphy. Dylan loved Mrs. Murphy so much and pointed at her picture on our refrigerator every day. Though our hearts break for Dylan, they are also filled with love for these and the other beautiful women who all selflessly died trying to save our children.
Everyone who met Dylan fell in love with him. His beaming smile would light up any room and his laugh was the sweetest music. He loved to cuddle, play tag every morning at the bus stop with our neighbors, bounce on the trampoline, play computer games, watch movies, the color purple, seeing the moon and eating his favorite foods, especially chocolate. He was learning to read and was so proud when he read us a new book every day. He adored his big brother Jake, his best friend and role model.
There are no words that can express our feeling of loss. We will always be a family of four, as though Dylan is no longer physically with us, he is forever in our hearts and minds. We love you Mister D, our special gorgeous angel.
Tuesday 18 December 2012
Monday 10 December 2012
Best Friends---A boy and his dog enjoying a few moments...
This adorable video by Julian Burrett has gone viral this Sunday after being featured on Arbroath and TastefullyO.
While going a nature hike with his buddy Watson the dog, Arthur the toddler noticed a tempting puddle in the dirt path.
So he did what any toddler would do. He very carefully and
delicately put down Watson’s leash, gave him a look in the eye as if to
say, “I’ll just be one moment, stay right here,” and proceeded to run back and forth through the puddle a few times, all while Watson very patiently stood by waiting.
After a few good runs, Arthur had his fill, so he picked up Watson’s leash, and they continued on exploring the wonders of Nature.
This. Is. Happiness.
While going a nature hike with his buddy Watson the dog, Arthur the toddler noticed a tempting puddle in the dirt path.
So he did what any toddler would do. He very carefully and
delicately put down Watson’s leash, gave him a look in the eye as if to
say, “I’ll just be one moment, stay right here,” and proceeded to run back and forth through the puddle a few times, all while Watson very patiently stood by waiting.
After a few good runs, Arthur had his fill, so he picked up Watson’s leash, and they continued on exploring the wonders of Nature.
This. Is. Happiness.
Tuesday 4 December 2012
Sunday 25 November 2012
Glendalough National Park meets Temple Bar (and Jeanette!)
Welcome to the outskirts of Dublin! Once Again, we hired a cab for the
day, heading first to Glendalough National Park. We had read that the
scenery was worth the drive and we had already been into the city on
our previous visit so once again, we braved the elements on our own,
bucking the ship trend, creating our own experience. This time our
driver was Phillip and right away we noticed he was more "cabbie" than
tour guide. We were a bit disappointed in this as Harry had been so
warm/friendly the previous day, only too happy to educate us on the
area. Phillip was nice but he felt as if we had to pry information out
of him. He did mention that he loved taking tourists to Glendalough
becuae it "gets me out of the city." There was a toll as we left the
city in search of the mountains...
Leaving the city...
Climbing higher and higher on a pretty interesting/narrow road...
Hitting the park...great place for a walk with stunning views unfortunately, we took a wrong turn and ended up on a trail that wasn't accessible so we had to backtrack and start again which meant we couldn't make it as far as we would have wanted to. It also started to pour rain (first time that happened to us on the trip) We did end up eavesdropping on a tour guide's lecture about the park and learned that during wartime, the citizens buried their possessions in bogs to preserve them, and it was belived that many items were still buried there...
The Settlement
Yes, the skies opened up on us in a big way....
Would Ireland be complete without a close up of Cindy's little lamb/sheep?? I think not...
On the way back down to the city we hit PowersCourt Estate...
http://www.powerscourt.ie/powerscourthou
Here's the link to explain the history of the place (castles, castles and more castles) and they are most noted for their beautiful gardens. However, it was getting late and poor Jeanette was waiting for us by the Molly Malone Statue in the Temple Bar (an artsy shopping area of Dublin) so we hit the road.
We had Jeanette's cell phone number with us but of course, it wasn't going through (I later found out Mom copied the number out of my forwarded email wrong) so we were just praying that she was waiting for us...
At the statue, our driver jumped out ahead of us and said to a girl on the sidewalk "Are you Jeanette???" (In according to Jeanette, a booming/deep voice that scared her a little)
We found her! And instead of the suggested hotel, hit a really cool bar for some lunch and a good blather....All three of us hit it off right away (with Mom and Jeanette bonding over some bottles of really nice wine and salty clam chowder) and me picking at some fries (I was so not hungry as I had been stressed out about missing each other the whole night before) Anyway, had a great time at an awesome bar..Wish we'd had more time together as it's a really neat area full of interesting shops/eatery's. As I said, my poor wicklow lamb was on the menu <cry> thank goodness no one ordered it!
My hair is soaked because it started to pour as we jumped out of a cab.
..
Mike O'Toole's
The park was beautiful but I'm so glad that we got to take time out and meet Jeanette. It's pretty amazing to realize that though they may be across the world, thanks to the internet (and a great tv show) I get to call so many of you my friends. Yes, it's a small world after all.
Leaving the city...
Climbing higher and higher on a pretty interesting/narrow road...
Hitting the park...great place for a walk with stunning views unfortunately, we took a wrong turn and ended up on a trail that wasn't accessible so we had to backtrack and start again which meant we couldn't make it as far as we would have wanted to. It also started to pour rain (first time that happened to us on the trip) We did end up eavesdropping on a tour guide's lecture about the park and learned that during wartime, the citizens buried their possessions in bogs to preserve them, and it was belived that many items were still buried there...
The Settlement
Yes, the skies opened up on us in a big way....
Would Ireland be complete without a close up of Cindy's little lamb/sheep?? I think not...
On the way back down to the city we hit PowersCourt Estate...
http://www.powerscourt.ie/powerscourthou
Here's the link to explain the history of the place (castles, castles and more castles) and they are most noted for their beautiful gardens. However, it was getting late and poor Jeanette was waiting for us by the Molly Malone Statue in the Temple Bar (an artsy shopping area of Dublin) so we hit the road.
We had Jeanette's cell phone number with us but of course, it wasn't going through (I later found out Mom copied the number out of my forwarded email wrong) so we were just praying that she was waiting for us...
At the statue, our driver jumped out ahead of us and said to a girl on the sidewalk "Are you Jeanette???" (In according to Jeanette, a booming/deep voice that scared her a little)
We found her! And instead of the suggested hotel, hit a really cool bar for some lunch and a good blather....All three of us hit it off right away (with Mom and Jeanette bonding over some bottles of really nice wine and salty clam chowder) and me picking at some fries (I was so not hungry as I had been stressed out about missing each other the whole night before) Anyway, had a great time at an awesome bar..Wish we'd had more time together as it's a really neat area full of interesting shops/eatery's. As I said, my poor wicklow lamb was on the menu <cry> thank goodness no one ordered it!
My hair is soaked because it started to pour as we jumped out of a cab.
..
Mike O'Toole's
The park was beautiful but I'm so glad that we got to take time out and meet Jeanette. It's pretty amazing to realize that though they may be across the world, thanks to the internet (and a great tv show) I get to call so many of you my friends. Yes, it's a small world after all.
Saturday 24 November 2012
Another Good Lesson...
When an old man died in the geriatric ward of a nursing home in an
Australian country town, it was believed that he had nothing left of
any value.
Later, when ...the nurses were going through his meager possessions, they found this poem. Its quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every nurse in the hospital.
One nurse took her copy to Melbourne. The old man's sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas editions of magazines around the country and appearing in mags for Mental Health. A slide presentation has also been made based on his simple, but eloquent, poem.
And this old man, with nothing left to give to the world, is now the author of this ‘anonymous’ poem winging across the Internet.
Cranky Old Man
What do you see nurses?… … What do you see?
What are you thinking… … when you’re looking at me?
A cranky old man… … not very wise,
Uncertain of habit… … with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles his food… … and makes no reply.
When you say in a loud voice… … ‘I do wish you’d try!’
Who seems not to notice… … the things that you do.
And forever is losing… … A sock or shoe?
Who, resisting or not… … lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding… … The long day to fill?
Is that what you’re thinking?… … Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse… … you’re not looking at me.
I’ll tell you who I am … … As I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding… … as I eat at your will.
I’m a small child of Ten… … with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters… … who love one another
A young boy of Sixteen… … with wings on his feet
Dreaming that soon now… … a lover he’ll meet.
A groom soon at Twenty… … my heart gives a leap.
Remembering, the vows… … that I promised to keep.
At Twenty-Five, now… … I have young of my own.
Who need me to guide… … And a secure happy home.
A man of Thirty… … My young now grown fast,
Bound to each other… … With ties that should last.
At Forty, my young sons… … have grown and are gone,
But my woman is beside me… … to see I don’t mourn.
At Fifty, once more… … Babies play ‘round my knee,
Again, we know children … … My loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me… … My wife is now dead.
I look at the future… … I shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing… … young of their own.
And I think of the years… … And the love that I’ve known.
I’m now an old man… … and nature is cruel.
It’s jest to make old age… … look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles… … grace and vigor, depart.
There is now a stone… … where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass… … A young man still dwells,
And now and again… … my battered heart swells
I remember the joys… … I remember the pain.
And I’m loving and living… … life over again.
I think of the years, all too few… … gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact… … that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people… … open and see.
Not a cranky old man… …
Look closer… see … … . . ME!!
Later, when ...the nurses were going through his meager possessions, they found this poem. Its quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every nurse in the hospital.
One nurse took her copy to Melbourne. The old man's sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas editions of magazines around the country and appearing in mags for Mental Health. A slide presentation has also been made based on his simple, but eloquent, poem.
And this old man, with nothing left to give to the world, is now the author of this ‘anonymous’ poem winging across the Internet.
Cranky Old Man
What do you see nurses?… … What do you see?
What are you thinking… … when you’re looking at me?
A cranky old man… … not very wise,
Uncertain of habit… … with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles his food… … and makes no reply.
When you say in a loud voice… … ‘I do wish you’d try!’
Who seems not to notice… … the things that you do.
And forever is losing… … A sock or shoe?
Who, resisting or not… … lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding… … The long day to fill?
Is that what you’re thinking?… … Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse… … you’re not looking at me.
I’ll tell you who I am … … As I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding… … as I eat at your will.
I’m a small child of Ten… … with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters… … who love one another
A young boy of Sixteen… … with wings on his feet
Dreaming that soon now… … a lover he’ll meet.
A groom soon at Twenty… … my heart gives a leap.
Remembering, the vows… … that I promised to keep.
At Twenty-Five, now… … I have young of my own.
Who need me to guide… … And a secure happy home.
A man of Thirty… … My young now grown fast,
Bound to each other… … With ties that should last.
At Forty, my young sons… … have grown and are gone,
But my woman is beside me… … to see I don’t mourn.
At Fifty, once more… … Babies play ‘round my knee,
Again, we know children … … My loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me… … My wife is now dead.
I look at the future… … I shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing… … young of their own.
And I think of the years… … And the love that I’ve known.
I’m now an old man… … and nature is cruel.
It’s jest to make old age… … look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles… … grace and vigor, depart.
There is now a stone… … where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass… … A young man still dwells,
And now and again… … my battered heart swells
I remember the joys… … I remember the pain.
And I’m loving and living… … life over again.
I think of the years, all too few… … gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact… … that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people… … open and see.
Not a cranky old man… …
Look closer… see … … . . ME!!
Wednesday 14 November 2012
A Wake Up Call
I read this and knew I had to post it. For 40 yrs I've had a father who
has done this very thing...Always chasing the dream that doesn't exist.
It's sad when you think about it. Moments you can never get back,
memories never made, you don't get a re-do. Wish I could post a link to
his blog, but it's been taken down. THIS is his legacy, at least he got
it right in the end, but at a very high cost.
It won't let me copy the article but it's worth a read
http://www.businessinsider.com/its-not-w
http://www.businessinsider.com/linds-red
I found his whole essay.and it let me copy!.
Link to his blog is now working --I'm posting a link to the entry he suggests starting with
http://www.lindsredding.com/2011/08/10/hello-world/
Many years ago, when I first started to work in the advertising
industry, we used to have this thing called The Overnight Test. It
worked like this: My creative partner Laurence and I would spend the
day covering A2 sheets torn from layout pads with ideas for whatever
project we were currently engaged upon – an ad for a new gas oven,
tennis racket or whatever. Scribbled headlines. Bad puns. Stick-men
drawings crudely rendered in fat black Magic Marker. It was a kind of
brain dump I suppose. Everything that tumbled out of our heads and
mouths was committed to paper. Anything completely ridiculous,
irrelevant or otherwise unworkable was filtered out as we worked, and
by beer ‘o’ clock there would be an impressive avalanche of screwed-up
paper filling the corner of the room where our comically undersized
waste-bin resided.
On a productive day, aside from the mountain of dead trees (recycling hadn’t been invented in 1982), stacked polystyrene coffee cups and an overflowing ash-tray, there would also be a satisfying thick sheaf of “concepts.” Some almost fully formed and self-contained ideas. Others misshapen and graceless fragments, but harbouring perhaps the glimmer of a smile or a grain of human truth which had won it’s temporary reprieve from the reject pile. Before trotting off to Clarks Bar to blow the froth of a pint of Eighty-Bob, our last task was to pin everything up on the walls of our office.
Hangovers not withstanding, the next morning at the crack of ten ‘o’ clock we’d reconvene in our work-room and sit quietly surveying the fruits of our labour. Usually about a third of the ‘ideas’ came down straight away, before anyone else wandered past. It’s remarkable how something that seems either arse-breakingly funny, or cosmically profound in the white heat of it’s inception, can mean absolutely nothing in the cold light of morning. By mid-morning coffee, the creative department was coming back to life, and we participated in the daily ritual of wandering around the airy Georgian splendour of our Edinburgh offices and critiquing each teams crumpled creations. It wasn’t brutal or destructive. Creative people are on the whole fragile beings, and letting each other down gently and quietly was the unwritten rule. Sometimes just a blank look or a scratched head was enough to see a candidate quietly pulled down and consigned to the bin. Something considered particularly “strong,” witty or clever would elicit cries of “Hey, come and see what the boys have come up with!” Our compadres would pile into our cramped room to offer praise or constructive criticism. That was always a good feeling.
This human powered bullshit filter was a handy and powerful tool. Inexpensive, and practically foolproof. Not much slipped through the net. I’m quite sure architects, musicians, mathematicians and cake decorators all have an equivalent time-honed protocol.
But here’s the thing.
The Overnight Test only works if you can afford to wait overnight. To sleep on it. Time moved on, and during the nineties technology overran, and transformed the creative industry like it did most others. Exciting new tools. Endless new possibilities. Pressing new deadlines. With the new digital tools at our disposal we could romp over the creative landscape at full tilt. Have an idea, execute it and deliver it in a matter of a few short hours. Or at least a long night. At first it was a great luxury. We could cover so much more ground. Explore all the angles. And having exhausted all the available possibilities, craft a solution we could have complete faith in.
Or as the bean counters upstairs quickly realized, we could just do three times as many jobs in the same amount of time, and make them three times as much money. For the same reason that Jumbo Jets don’t have the grand pianos and palm-court cocktail bars we were originally promised in the brochures, the accountants naturally won the day.
Pretty soon, The Overnight Test became the Over Lunch Test. Then before we knew it, we were eating Pot-Noodles at our desks, and taking it in turns to go home and see our kids before they went to bed. As fast as we could pin an idea on the wall, some red-faced account manager in a bad suit would run away with it. Where we used to rely on taking a break and “stretching the eyes’ to allow us to see the wood from the trees (too many idioms and similes? Probably.) We now fell back on experience and gut-feel. It worked most of the time, but nobody is infallible. Some howlers and growlers definitely made it through, and generally standards plummeted.
The other consequence, with the benefit of hindsight, is that we became more conservative. Less likely to take creative risks and rely on the tried and trusted. The familiar is always going to research better than the truly novel. An research was the new god. The trick to being truly creative, I’ve always maintained, is to be completely unselfconscious. To resist the urge to self-censor. To not-give-a-shit what anybody thinks. That’s why children are so good at it. And why people with Volkswagens, and mortgages, Personal Equity Plans and matching Lois Vutton luggage are not.
It takes a certain amount of courage, thinking out loud. And is best done in a safe and nurturing environment. Creative Departments and design studios used to be such places, where you could say and do just about anything creatively speaking, without fear of ridicule or judgement. It has to be this way, or you will just close up like a clamshell. It’s like trying to have sex, with your mum listening outside the bedroom door. Can’t be done. Then some bright spark had the idea of setting everyone up in competition. It became a contest. A race. Winner gets to keep his job.
Now of course we are all suffering from the same affliction. Our technology whizzes along at the velocity of a speeding electron, and our poor overtaxed neurons struggle to keep up. Everything has become a split-second decision. Find something you like. Share it. Have a half-baked thought. Tweet it. Don’t wait. Don’t hesitate. Seize the moment. Keep up. There will be plenty of time to repent later. Oh, and just to cover your ass, don’t forget to stick a smiley on the end just in case you’ve overstepped the mark.
So. To recap, The Overnight Test is a good thing. And sadly missed. A weekend is even better, and as they fell by the wayside, they were missed too. “If you don’t come in on Saturday, don’t bother turning up on Sunday!” as the old advertising joke goes.
A week would be nice. A month would be an unreasonable luxury. I’ve now ‘enjoyed’ the better part of six months of enforced detachment from my old reality. When your used to turning on a sixpence, shooting from the hip, dancing on a pin-head (too many again?), the view back down from six months is quite giddying. And sobering.
My old life looks, and feels, very different from the outside.
And here’s the thing.
It turns out I didn’t actually like my old life nearly as much as I thought I did. I know this now because I occasionally catch up with my old colleagues and work-mates. They fall over each other to enthusiastically show me the latest project they’re working on. Ask my opinion. Proudly show off their technical prowess (which is not inconsiderable.) I find myself glazing over but politely listen as they brag about who’s had the least sleep and the most takaway food. “I haven’t seen my wife since January, I can’t feel my legs any more and I think I have scurvy but another three weeks and we’ll be done. It’s got to be done by then The client’s going on holiday. What do I think?”
What do I think?
I think you’re all fucking mad. Deranged. So disengaged from reality it’s not even funny. It’s a fucking TV commercial. Nobody give a shit.
This has come as quite a shock I can tell you. I think, I’ve come to the conclusion that the whole thing was a bit of a con. A scam. An elaborate hoax.
The scam works like this:
1. The creative industry operates largely by holding ‘creative’ people ransom to their own self-image, precarious sense of self-worth, and fragile – if occasionally out of control ego. We tend to set ourselves impossibly high standards, and are invariably our own toughest critics. Satisfying our own lofty demands is usually a lot harder than appeasing any client, who in my experience tend to have disappointingly low expectations. Most artists and designers I know would rather work all night than turn in a sub-standard job. It is a universal truth that all artists think they a frauds and charlatans, and live in constant fear of being exposed. We believe by working harder than anyone else we can evaded detection. The bean-counters rumbled this centuries ago and have been profitably exploiting this weakness ever since. You don’t have to drive creative folk like most workers. They drive themselves. Just wind ‘em up and let ‘em go.
2. Truly creative people tend not to be motivated by money. That’s why so few of us have any. The riches we crave are acknowledgment and appreciation of the ideas that we have and the things that we make. A simple but sincere “That’s quite good.” from someone who’s opinion we respect (usually a fellow artisan) is worth infinitely more than any pay-rise or bonus. Again, our industry masters cleverly exploit this insecurity and vanity by offering glamorous but worthless trinkets and elaborately staged award schemes to keep the artists focused and motivated. Like so many demented magpies we flock around the shiny things and would peck each others eyes out to have more than anyone else. Handing out the odd gold statuette is a whole lot cheaper than dishing out stock certificates or board seats.
3. The compulsion to create is unstoppable. It’s a need that has to be filled. I’ve barely ‘worked’ in any meaningful way for half a year, but every day I find myself driven to ‘make’ something. Take photographs. Draw. Write. Make bad music. It’s just an itch than needs to be scratched. Apart from the occasional severed ear or descent into fecal-eating dementia the creative impulse is mostly little more than a quaint eccentricity. But introduce this mostly benign neurosis into a commercial context.. well that way, my friends lies misery and madness.
This hybridisation of the arts and business is nothing new of course – it’s been going on for centuries – but they have always been uncomfortable bed-fellows. But even artists have to eat, and the fuel of commerce and industry is innovation and novelty. Hey! Let’s trade. “Will work for food!” as the street-beggars sign says.
This Faustian pact has been the undoing of many great artists, many more journeymen and more than a few of my good friends. Add to this volatile mixture the powerful accelerant of emerging digital technology and all hell breaks loose. What I have witnessed happening in the last twenty years is the aesthetic equivalent of the Industrial Revolution in the 19th century. The wholesale industrialization and mechanistation of the creative process. Our ad agencies, design groups, film and music studios have gone from being cottage industries and guilds of craftsmen and women, essentially unchanged from the middle-ages, to dark sattanic mills of mass production. Ideas themselves have become just another disposable commodity to be supplied to order by the lowest bidder. As soon as they figure out a way of outsourcing thinking to China they won’t think twice. Believe me.
So where does that leave the artists and artisans? Well, up a watercolour of shit creek without a painbrush. That one thing that we prize and value above all else – the idea - turns out to be just another plastic gizmo or widget to be touted and traded. And to add insult to injury we now have to create them not in our own tine, but according to the quota and the production schedule. “We need six concepts to show the client first thing in the morning, he’s going on holiday. Don’t waste too much time on them though, it’s only meeting-fodder. He’s only paying for one so they don’t all have to be good, just knock something up. You know the drill. Oh, and one more thing. His favourite color is green. Rightho! See you in the morning then… I’m off to the Groucho Club.”
Have you ever tried to have an idea. Any idea at all, with a gun to your head? This is the daily reality for the creative drone. And when he’s done, sometime in the wee small hours, he then has to face his two harshest critics. Himself, and everyone else. “Ah. Sorry. Client couldn’t make the meeting. I faxed your layouts to him at his squash club. He quite liked the green one. Apart from the typeface, the words, the picture and the idea. Oh, and could the logo be bigger? Hope it wasn’t a late night. Thank god for computers eh? Rightho! I’m off to lunch.”
Alright, it’s not bomb disposal. But in it’s own way it’s dangerous and demanding work. And as I’ve said, the rewards tend to be vanishingly small. Plastic gold statuette anyone? I’ve seen quite a few creative drones fall by the wayside over the years. Booze mostly. Drugs occasionally. Anxiety. Stress. Broken marriages. Lots of those. Even a couple of suicides. But mostly just people temperamentally and emotionally ill-equipped for such a hostile and toxic environment. Curiously, there never seems to be any shortage of eager young worker drones queuing up to try their luck, although I detect that even their bright-eyed enthusiasm is staring to wane. Advertising was the sexy place to be in the eighties. The zeitgeist has move on. And so have most of the bright-young-things.
So how did I survive for thirty years? Well it was a close shave. Very close. And while on the inside I am indeed a ‘delicate flower’ as some Creative Director once wryly observed, I have enjoyed until recently, the outward physical constitution and rude heath of an ox. I mostly hid my insecurity and fear from everyone but those closest to me, and ran fast enough that I would never be found out. The other thing I did, I now discover, was to convince myself that there was nothing else, absolutely nothing, I would rather be doing. That I had found my true calling in life, and that I was unbelievably lucky to be getting paid – most of the time – for something that I was passionate about, and would probably be doing in some form or other anyway.
It turns out that my training and experience had equipped me perfectly for this epic act of self-deceit. This was my gig. My schtick. Constructing a compelling and convincing argument to buy, from the thinnest of evidence was what we did. “Don’t sell the sausage. Sell the sizzle” as we were taught at ad school.
Countless late nights and weekends, holidays, birthdays, school recitals and anniversary dinners were willingly sacrificed at the altar of some intangible but infinitely worthy higher cause. It would all be worth it in the long run…
This was the con. Convincing myself that there was nowhere I’d rather be was just a coping mechanism. I can see that now. It was’nt really important. Or of any consequence at all really. How could it be. We were just shifting product. Our product, and the clients. Just meeting the quota. Feeding the beast as I called it on my more cynical days.
So was it worth it?
Well of course not. It turns out it was just advertising. There was no higher calling. No ultimate prize. Just a lot of faded, yellowing newsprint, and old video cassettes in an obsolete format I can’t even play any more even if I was interested. Oh yes, and a lot of framed certificates and little gold statuettes. A shit-load of empty Prozac boxes, wine bottles, a lot of grey hair and a tumor of indeterminate dimensions.
It sounds like I’m feeling sorry for myself again. I’m not. It was fun for quite a lot of the time. I was pretty good at it. I met a lot of funny, talented and clever people, got to become an overnight expert in everything from shower-heads to sheep-dip, got to scratch my creative itch on a daily basis, and earned enough money to raise the family which I love, and even see them occasionally.
But what I didn’t do, with the benefit of perspective, is anything of any lasting importance. At least creatively speaking. Economically I probably helped shift some merchandise. Enhanced a few companies bottom lines. Helped make one or two wealthy men a bit wealthier than they already were.
As a life, it all seemed like such a good idea at the time.
But I’m not really sure it passes The Overnight Test.
Pity.
Oh. And if your reading this while sitting in some darkened studio or edit suite agonizing over whether housewife A should pick up the soap powder with her left hand or her right, do yourself a favour. Power down. Lock up and go home and kiss your wife and kids.
--------------------
British born, Linds graduated with a degree in Graphic Design, and launched straight into a career in advertising having been told by a fellow student it was a guaranteed way of getting fabulously wealthy very young. Twenty five years later, he hunted down the person responsible and killed him with a baseball bat and buried the body in the woods.
Linds worked as an Art Director for several agencies in London and Edinburgh, before emigrating to New Zealand with his family in the mid nineties. He worked for most of NZ's top creative agencies, Saatchi, DDB, Colenso and The Campaign Palace before leaving agency life at the millennium to pursue his interests in Motion Graphics and animation. For the past ten years, Linds has run a successful animation studio designing and producing TVC's for tne New Zealand advertising industry.
In late 2011, at 51 Linds was diagnosed with inoperable Eosophigal Cancer. He has since given up work and spends his time at home on Waiheke Island in Auckland's Hauraki Gulf walking, writing, drawing and making music. He blogs on the tricky business of living and dying at www.lindsredding.com
It won't let me copy the article but it's worth a read
http://www.businessinsider.com/its-not-w
http://www.businessinsider.com/linds-red
I found his whole essay.and it let me copy!.
Link to his blog is now working --I'm posting a link to the entry he suggests starting with
http://www.lindsredding.com/2011/08/10/hello-world/
A Short Lesson in Perspective
On a productive day, aside from the mountain of dead trees (recycling hadn’t been invented in 1982), stacked polystyrene coffee cups and an overflowing ash-tray, there would also be a satisfying thick sheaf of “concepts.” Some almost fully formed and self-contained ideas. Others misshapen and graceless fragments, but harbouring perhaps the glimmer of a smile or a grain of human truth which had won it’s temporary reprieve from the reject pile. Before trotting off to Clarks Bar to blow the froth of a pint of Eighty-Bob, our last task was to pin everything up on the walls of our office.
Hangovers not withstanding, the next morning at the crack of ten ‘o’ clock we’d reconvene in our work-room and sit quietly surveying the fruits of our labour. Usually about a third of the ‘ideas’ came down straight away, before anyone else wandered past. It’s remarkable how something that seems either arse-breakingly funny, or cosmically profound in the white heat of it’s inception, can mean absolutely nothing in the cold light of morning. By mid-morning coffee, the creative department was coming back to life, and we participated in the daily ritual of wandering around the airy Georgian splendour of our Edinburgh offices and critiquing each teams crumpled creations. It wasn’t brutal or destructive. Creative people are on the whole fragile beings, and letting each other down gently and quietly was the unwritten rule. Sometimes just a blank look or a scratched head was enough to see a candidate quietly pulled down and consigned to the bin. Something considered particularly “strong,” witty or clever would elicit cries of “Hey, come and see what the boys have come up with!” Our compadres would pile into our cramped room to offer praise or constructive criticism. That was always a good feeling.
This human powered bullshit filter was a handy and powerful tool. Inexpensive, and practically foolproof. Not much slipped through the net. I’m quite sure architects, musicians, mathematicians and cake decorators all have an equivalent time-honed protocol.
But here’s the thing.
The Overnight Test only works if you can afford to wait overnight. To sleep on it. Time moved on, and during the nineties technology overran, and transformed the creative industry like it did most others. Exciting new tools. Endless new possibilities. Pressing new deadlines. With the new digital tools at our disposal we could romp over the creative landscape at full tilt. Have an idea, execute it and deliver it in a matter of a few short hours. Or at least a long night. At first it was a great luxury. We could cover so much more ground. Explore all the angles. And having exhausted all the available possibilities, craft a solution we could have complete faith in.
Or as the bean counters upstairs quickly realized, we could just do three times as many jobs in the same amount of time, and make them three times as much money. For the same reason that Jumbo Jets don’t have the grand pianos and palm-court cocktail bars we were originally promised in the brochures, the accountants naturally won the day.
Pretty soon, The Overnight Test became the Over Lunch Test. Then before we knew it, we were eating Pot-Noodles at our desks, and taking it in turns to go home and see our kids before they went to bed. As fast as we could pin an idea on the wall, some red-faced account manager in a bad suit would run away with it. Where we used to rely on taking a break and “stretching the eyes’ to allow us to see the wood from the trees (too many idioms and similes? Probably.) We now fell back on experience and gut-feel. It worked most of the time, but nobody is infallible. Some howlers and growlers definitely made it through, and generally standards plummeted.
The other consequence, with the benefit of hindsight, is that we became more conservative. Less likely to take creative risks and rely on the tried and trusted. The familiar is always going to research better than the truly novel. An research was the new god. The trick to being truly creative, I’ve always maintained, is to be completely unselfconscious. To resist the urge to self-censor. To not-give-a-shit what anybody thinks. That’s why children are so good at it. And why people with Volkswagens, and mortgages, Personal Equity Plans and matching Lois Vutton luggage are not.
It takes a certain amount of courage, thinking out loud. And is best done in a safe and nurturing environment. Creative Departments and design studios used to be such places, where you could say and do just about anything creatively speaking, without fear of ridicule or judgement. It has to be this way, or you will just close up like a clamshell. It’s like trying to have sex, with your mum listening outside the bedroom door. Can’t be done. Then some bright spark had the idea of setting everyone up in competition. It became a contest. A race. Winner gets to keep his job.
Now of course we are all suffering from the same affliction. Our technology whizzes along at the velocity of a speeding electron, and our poor overtaxed neurons struggle to keep up. Everything has become a split-second decision. Find something you like. Share it. Have a half-baked thought. Tweet it. Don’t wait. Don’t hesitate. Seize the moment. Keep up. There will be plenty of time to repent later. Oh, and just to cover your ass, don’t forget to stick a smiley on the end just in case you’ve overstepped the mark.
So. To recap, The Overnight Test is a good thing. And sadly missed. A weekend is even better, and as they fell by the wayside, they were missed too. “If you don’t come in on Saturday, don’t bother turning up on Sunday!” as the old advertising joke goes.
A week would be nice. A month would be an unreasonable luxury. I’ve now ‘enjoyed’ the better part of six months of enforced detachment from my old reality. When your used to turning on a sixpence, shooting from the hip, dancing on a pin-head (too many again?), the view back down from six months is quite giddying. And sobering.
My old life looks, and feels, very different from the outside.
And here’s the thing.
It turns out I didn’t actually like my old life nearly as much as I thought I did. I know this now because I occasionally catch up with my old colleagues and work-mates. They fall over each other to enthusiastically show me the latest project they’re working on. Ask my opinion. Proudly show off their technical prowess (which is not inconsiderable.) I find myself glazing over but politely listen as they brag about who’s had the least sleep and the most takaway food. “I haven’t seen my wife since January, I can’t feel my legs any more and I think I have scurvy but another three weeks and we’ll be done. It’s got to be done by then The client’s going on holiday. What do I think?”
What do I think?
I think you’re all fucking mad. Deranged. So disengaged from reality it’s not even funny. It’s a fucking TV commercial. Nobody give a shit.
This has come as quite a shock I can tell you. I think, I’ve come to the conclusion that the whole thing was a bit of a con. A scam. An elaborate hoax.
The scam works like this:
1. The creative industry operates largely by holding ‘creative’ people ransom to their own self-image, precarious sense of self-worth, and fragile – if occasionally out of control ego. We tend to set ourselves impossibly high standards, and are invariably our own toughest critics. Satisfying our own lofty demands is usually a lot harder than appeasing any client, who in my experience tend to have disappointingly low expectations. Most artists and designers I know would rather work all night than turn in a sub-standard job. It is a universal truth that all artists think they a frauds and charlatans, and live in constant fear of being exposed. We believe by working harder than anyone else we can evaded detection. The bean-counters rumbled this centuries ago and have been profitably exploiting this weakness ever since. You don’t have to drive creative folk like most workers. They drive themselves. Just wind ‘em up and let ‘em go.
2. Truly creative people tend not to be motivated by money. That’s why so few of us have any. The riches we crave are acknowledgment and appreciation of the ideas that we have and the things that we make. A simple but sincere “That’s quite good.” from someone who’s opinion we respect (usually a fellow artisan) is worth infinitely more than any pay-rise or bonus. Again, our industry masters cleverly exploit this insecurity and vanity by offering glamorous but worthless trinkets and elaborately staged award schemes to keep the artists focused and motivated. Like so many demented magpies we flock around the shiny things and would peck each others eyes out to have more than anyone else. Handing out the odd gold statuette is a whole lot cheaper than dishing out stock certificates or board seats.
3. The compulsion to create is unstoppable. It’s a need that has to be filled. I’ve barely ‘worked’ in any meaningful way for half a year, but every day I find myself driven to ‘make’ something. Take photographs. Draw. Write. Make bad music. It’s just an itch than needs to be scratched. Apart from the occasional severed ear or descent into fecal-eating dementia the creative impulse is mostly little more than a quaint eccentricity. But introduce this mostly benign neurosis into a commercial context.. well that way, my friends lies misery and madness.
This hybridisation of the arts and business is nothing new of course – it’s been going on for centuries – but they have always been uncomfortable bed-fellows. But even artists have to eat, and the fuel of commerce and industry is innovation and novelty. Hey! Let’s trade. “Will work for food!” as the street-beggars sign says.
This Faustian pact has been the undoing of many great artists, many more journeymen and more than a few of my good friends. Add to this volatile mixture the powerful accelerant of emerging digital technology and all hell breaks loose. What I have witnessed happening in the last twenty years is the aesthetic equivalent of the Industrial Revolution in the 19th century. The wholesale industrialization and mechanistation of the creative process. Our ad agencies, design groups, film and music studios have gone from being cottage industries and guilds of craftsmen and women, essentially unchanged from the middle-ages, to dark sattanic mills of mass production. Ideas themselves have become just another disposable commodity to be supplied to order by the lowest bidder. As soon as they figure out a way of outsourcing thinking to China they won’t think twice. Believe me.
So where does that leave the artists and artisans? Well, up a watercolour of shit creek without a painbrush. That one thing that we prize and value above all else – the idea - turns out to be just another plastic gizmo or widget to be touted and traded. And to add insult to injury we now have to create them not in our own tine, but according to the quota and the production schedule. “We need six concepts to show the client first thing in the morning, he’s going on holiday. Don’t waste too much time on them though, it’s only meeting-fodder. He’s only paying for one so they don’t all have to be good, just knock something up. You know the drill. Oh, and one more thing. His favourite color is green. Rightho! See you in the morning then… I’m off to the Groucho Club.”
Have you ever tried to have an idea. Any idea at all, with a gun to your head? This is the daily reality for the creative drone. And when he’s done, sometime in the wee small hours, he then has to face his two harshest critics. Himself, and everyone else. “Ah. Sorry. Client couldn’t make the meeting. I faxed your layouts to him at his squash club. He quite liked the green one. Apart from the typeface, the words, the picture and the idea. Oh, and could the logo be bigger? Hope it wasn’t a late night. Thank god for computers eh? Rightho! I’m off to lunch.”
Alright, it’s not bomb disposal. But in it’s own way it’s dangerous and demanding work. And as I’ve said, the rewards tend to be vanishingly small. Plastic gold statuette anyone? I’ve seen quite a few creative drones fall by the wayside over the years. Booze mostly. Drugs occasionally. Anxiety. Stress. Broken marriages. Lots of those. Even a couple of suicides. But mostly just people temperamentally and emotionally ill-equipped for such a hostile and toxic environment. Curiously, there never seems to be any shortage of eager young worker drones queuing up to try their luck, although I detect that even their bright-eyed enthusiasm is staring to wane. Advertising was the sexy place to be in the eighties. The zeitgeist has move on. And so have most of the bright-young-things.
So how did I survive for thirty years? Well it was a close shave. Very close. And while on the inside I am indeed a ‘delicate flower’ as some Creative Director once wryly observed, I have enjoyed until recently, the outward physical constitution and rude heath of an ox. I mostly hid my insecurity and fear from everyone but those closest to me, and ran fast enough that I would never be found out. The other thing I did, I now discover, was to convince myself that there was nothing else, absolutely nothing, I would rather be doing. That I had found my true calling in life, and that I was unbelievably lucky to be getting paid – most of the time – for something that I was passionate about, and would probably be doing in some form or other anyway.
It turns out that my training and experience had equipped me perfectly for this epic act of self-deceit. This was my gig. My schtick. Constructing a compelling and convincing argument to buy, from the thinnest of evidence was what we did. “Don’t sell the sausage. Sell the sizzle” as we were taught at ad school.
Countless late nights and weekends, holidays, birthdays, school recitals and anniversary dinners were willingly sacrificed at the altar of some intangible but infinitely worthy higher cause. It would all be worth it in the long run…
This was the con. Convincing myself that there was nowhere I’d rather be was just a coping mechanism. I can see that now. It was’nt really important. Or of any consequence at all really. How could it be. We were just shifting product. Our product, and the clients. Just meeting the quota. Feeding the beast as I called it on my more cynical days.
So was it worth it?
Well of course not. It turns out it was just advertising. There was no higher calling. No ultimate prize. Just a lot of faded, yellowing newsprint, and old video cassettes in an obsolete format I can’t even play any more even if I was interested. Oh yes, and a lot of framed certificates and little gold statuettes. A shit-load of empty Prozac boxes, wine bottles, a lot of grey hair and a tumor of indeterminate dimensions.
It sounds like I’m feeling sorry for myself again. I’m not. It was fun for quite a lot of the time. I was pretty good at it. I met a lot of funny, talented and clever people, got to become an overnight expert in everything from shower-heads to sheep-dip, got to scratch my creative itch on a daily basis, and earned enough money to raise the family which I love, and even see them occasionally.
But what I didn’t do, with the benefit of perspective, is anything of any lasting importance. At least creatively speaking. Economically I probably helped shift some merchandise. Enhanced a few companies bottom lines. Helped make one or two wealthy men a bit wealthier than they already were.
As a life, it all seemed like such a good idea at the time.
But I’m not really sure it passes The Overnight Test.
Pity.
Oh. And if your reading this while sitting in some darkened studio or edit suite agonizing over whether housewife A should pick up the soap powder with her left hand or her right, do yourself a favour. Power down. Lock up and go home and kiss your wife and kids.
--------------------
British born, Linds graduated with a degree in Graphic Design, and launched straight into a career in advertising having been told by a fellow student it was a guaranteed way of getting fabulously wealthy very young. Twenty five years later, he hunted down the person responsible and killed him with a baseball bat and buried the body in the woods.
Linds worked as an Art Director for several agencies in London and Edinburgh, before emigrating to New Zealand with his family in the mid nineties. He worked for most of NZ's top creative agencies, Saatchi, DDB, Colenso and The Campaign Palace before leaving agency life at the millennium to pursue his interests in Motion Graphics and animation. For the past ten years, Linds has run a successful animation studio designing and producing TVC's for tne New Zealand advertising industry.
In late 2011, at 51 Linds was diagnosed with inoperable Eosophigal Cancer. He has since given up work and spends his time at home on Waiheke Island in Auckland's Hauraki Gulf walking, writing, drawing and making music. He blogs on the tricky business of living and dying at www.lindsredding.com
Monday 12 November 2012
In Rememberance...
One of my all-time favourite poems. Hauntingly sad, yet so beautiful.
As the aging vets dwindle in numbers, it seems more important with each
passing year to remember them, to mark their sacrifice, to let them
know that it matters.
In Flanders Fields
by John McCrae, May 1915
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Sunday 11 November 2012
Waterford--Far from the Crystal
So, when you hear the name Waterford Crystal
you know exactly what someone is talking about. It's hand-cut,
beautifully designed heavy crystal that can send collectors into a
frenzy. Here's the thing, neither Mom or I like it, so when we read
that this was pretty much the only tour the cruise was offering ( "Hey,
take a ride on one of our buses and pay big bucks for a bunch of
crystal that will sit around collecting dust.") We set about doing
some research on the area, and what we found was a glorious mountain
range that the cruiseline didn't even mention. We later understood why
as our guide's car chugged up the one lane road (I'm being generous
here) climbing the mountainside. I can honestly say, I have never seen
anything this beautiful. It was breathtaking. Those of you who are
suckers for the Sound of Music with Maria singing her heart out on the
hilltops will appreciate this view. We hired a car for the day
(ironically he was a former manager at the Waterford Crystal Company
who's workforce dropped from the thousands to a handful of skilled
workers carrying the reputation of a dying company on their backs.)
Here's what we saw instead
Welcome to the Wicklow Mountains
Sheep darting out in front of our car...I was yelling "It's okay, we won't hit you!" from the back seat. I commented that they seemed like happy, free-running sheep---"Not for long" our driver Harry let me know..."They're headed for the butcher before too long." <Gag>
Sure enough, when I met my friend Jeanette in a pub the next day, wicklow lamb was on the menu. I almost cried. The farmers graze the sheep on the land for free and each sheep is given a colour/number so the farmers can identify their own herd.
The road we navigated...
Wanna know what it's like to be on the edge of the world? Breathing clean air, soaking in the moment? Here's the link to a short video...
http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v624/C
As you heard, the rain held off while we were standing there, and yes, it is a popular picnic spot.
Driving down from the mountains, along the coast --hitting Ardmore Beach...Love the thatched roofs
It was a gorgeous day--time for a little play in the Atlantic...Harry pushed my wheelchair across the hard-packed sand with little effort and Mom and I splashed in the surf..Water was coooollllddd...but refreshing. Not tons of people as it was a weekday, but a beautiful spot to just take a breath and stretch our legs after several hrs of driving
A celebration we saw along they way to a second beach. This is what I miss everyday, the simple things, the pure joy these people get, not from material things, but from a view, a bagpiper, or a pretty front yard decked out for a party. I just don't see that here in the same simple way.
Taking the bull by the horns...This shot was taken from inside the car...close enough thanks, he was looking a little peeved. Harry told him we were friendly Canadians, but I don't think he cared.
This was no joke, a deep swimming cove for men only...
We ended our tour at Tramore beach..It was much more commercial with a "carnival" feel. You could tell it was a tourist trap...small rides, more people, more dirt..:-) Not really much to see after the beautiful day we'd had. We snapped a few pics, maybe I'll add them in later, but somehow, I want to keep this entry just like this...
We ended the day with a trip back to Harry's place as he said he had a gift for us that we "couldn't live without." It was a bootleg bottle of whisky...so strong it would knock me out for a week! We brought it back with us, and the running joke is that everytime we tell the story of him taking us back to his townhouse for whisky. (aka Poitin--the irish nickname for illegal whisky) we have to take a swig...
I stuck my finger in it and had a taste, ummm okay, strong stuff!
Thanks Harry for a memorable day on your mountain and exploring your coast. I'm glad that everyone we come across seems to appreciate exactly where they are, and the beauty that surrounds them. Let there be no doubt as to why this gem is nicknamed the Emerald Isle, and crystal has nothing to do with it.
http://www.cafebabel.co.uk/article/32915/p
Here's what we saw instead
Welcome to the Wicklow Mountains
Sheep darting out in front of our car...I was yelling "It's okay, we won't hit you!" from the back seat. I commented that they seemed like happy, free-running sheep---"Not for long" our driver Harry let me know..."They're headed for the butcher before too long." <Gag>
Sure enough, when I met my friend Jeanette in a pub the next day, wicklow lamb was on the menu. I almost cried. The farmers graze the sheep on the land for free and each sheep is given a colour/number so the farmers can identify their own herd.
The road we navigated...
Wanna know what it's like to be on the edge of the world? Breathing clean air, soaking in the moment? Here's the link to a short video...
http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v624/C
As you heard, the rain held off while we were standing there, and yes, it is a popular picnic spot.
Driving down from the mountains, along the coast --hitting Ardmore Beach...Love the thatched roofs
It was a gorgeous day--time for a little play in the Atlantic...Harry pushed my wheelchair across the hard-packed sand with little effort and Mom and I splashed in the surf..Water was coooollllddd...but refreshing. Not tons of people as it was a weekday, but a beautiful spot to just take a breath and stretch our legs after several hrs of driving
A celebration we saw along they way to a second beach. This is what I miss everyday, the simple things, the pure joy these people get, not from material things, but from a view, a bagpiper, or a pretty front yard decked out for a party. I just don't see that here in the same simple way.
Taking the bull by the horns...This shot was taken from inside the car...close enough thanks, he was looking a little peeved. Harry told him we were friendly Canadians, but I don't think he cared.
This was no joke, a deep swimming cove for men only...
We ended our tour at Tramore beach..It was much more commercial with a "carnival" feel. You could tell it was a tourist trap...small rides, more people, more dirt..:-) Not really much to see after the beautiful day we'd had. We snapped a few pics, maybe I'll add them in later, but somehow, I want to keep this entry just like this...
We ended the day with a trip back to Harry's place as he said he had a gift for us that we "couldn't live without." It was a bootleg bottle of whisky...so strong it would knock me out for a week! We brought it back with us, and the running joke is that everytime we tell the story of him taking us back to his townhouse for whisky. (aka Poitin--the irish nickname for illegal whisky) we have to take a swig...
I stuck my finger in it and had a taste, ummm okay, strong stuff!
Thanks Harry for a memorable day on your mountain and exploring your coast. I'm glad that everyone we come across seems to appreciate exactly where they are, and the beauty that surrounds them. Let there be no doubt as to why this gem is nicknamed the Emerald Isle, and crystal has nothing to do with it.
http://www.cafebabel.co.uk/article/32915/p
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