Thou shalt be attractive

Michael Leunig wrote these 4 words 7 years ago, and they resonate even more today. Becoming bound up by ideal modes of being. Agitating over status, appearance, performance. Hiding beneath narcissistic farces, so shiny and impenetrable, idiosyncratic realities are smothered, vulnerabilities denied…

A friend told me recently that she liked vulnerable people.

My immediate response was to wonder at the kind of creeps I keep company with, but I’m coming to appreciate her more and more. When a colleague admitted that interviewing people terrified him I immediately sympathised ‘Me too!’  When a friend told me she was homesick a sleuce of, until then, unarticulated feelings opened up to meet hers and our sharing deepened the experience, our friendship. I secretly admired their courage, their self assuredness in their imperfections. Being vulnerable gives you the chance to connect with people. Being attractive invites adulation and isolation. Vulnerability is something I inadvertantly seek in others, but am rarely willing to reveal. I want to be admirable and relatable. Have and eat my cake.

Leunig’s essay on pressure to be attractive expresses this in his peculiarly beautiful way. It’s so perfectly imperfect I’ve posted it word for word.

Aquascutum 2009

Aquascutum 2009

Cringing with shame, the homely run the gauntlet of our streets.

Huge banners of the dictator line the freeway where I dodge hurtling trucks, frantically searching for the lane that leads to the road that leads to the peace and safety of home. These same photographic images I have also seen in the streets of the city from which I am in weary flight – images of power looming over the streets and byways to remind all citizens of the great dictator’s supremacy and fierce determination.

The images are huge, and to carry them, steel structures have been built along all the busy human passageways of the city so that the hearts and minds of citizens must run the gauntlet of the dictator’s taunting and insincere gaze.

The dictator has youthful skin and often wears no trousers – or else has them slightly undone to reveal a very fine and enigmatic pair of underpants. And how lurid the swelling of the tyrant’s lips; how compelling the soft bulging of the dictator’s warm and sumptuous breasts.

The limbs are long, smooth and airy, the smile is loaded and the eyes wide with promise, while the buttocks, lightly bound in scraps of rich lace or dark silk are presented like some dazzling and exotic wisdom to the passer-by whose sullen buttocks cringe in the darkness in shame and pale despair.

There is no escaping the image of the great tyrant – and no refuge from the dictator’s dire commandment: Thou shalt be attractive.

By this, the dictator means attractive in any of its many forms: charming, strong, good-looking, successful, groovy, brilliant, amusing or rich – so long as one is also feeling not quite attractive enough and not really quite good enough.

The citizens tremble at the thought of failure and rejection. It keeps them busy and subdued like slaves. How they run for the tyrant, how harshly they judge themselves and each other; how picky and bitchy and hypercritical they are as they fret about status, appearance, performance and 10,000 other little compliances.

It is difficult to imagine any time in history when so many people claiming to be so free have lived in so much fear of being unattractive.

See the young girl in her room; she is looking at herself in the mirror; she is alarmed because she thinks her bottom is too big. She will have to go without food and fret and make it smaller. See the man.

His hair is going grey; he must soak it in chemical pigment or be cast into the abyss. And the worried woman. Her face is sagging and creasing; she must have it injected with lies and smooth deceptions to make her feel good about herself. Somehow love’s promise seems to have failed her.

The French have a phrase for such human tragedy: “mal baiser”, meaning to kiss badly, or more poetically, “to be badly loved”. I think perhaps that modern humanity is badly loved.

Ah, that old subject that brings us into ridicule. To be loved surely means to be known and emotionally held and to be taken seriously for who we really are. To love means to clearly see and to know, to be attentive and open to; to engage with the truth of, to bear and take to heart. Not just another person but all creation as we find it.

But we would need to know and reveal who we are before love could exist, otherwise there is no organic ground for real engagement. Yet such a precondition for love, such revelation and intimacy, would create a vulnerability that many would find unbearable. Fear of intimacy being more powerful, it would seem, than fear of terrorism.

“The more I reveal myself the less you will love me” is the prevailing maxim.

So we must not only maintain the false self as a natural defence, but we are now given the opportunity to develop it as an asset.

The company executive learning the hand gestures and the shit-eating smile, the writer collecting the language of cool, the singer correcting the human voice on a computer, the anxious young man adopting by osmosis those winning looks, winning words and winning moves – all compulsively smoothing out peculiar wrinkles or divesting the personality of unique and embarrassing characteristics in the name of aspirational self-improvement. Learning how to make it look like the real thing – anything to stave off the thought of abandonment and oblivion in an unforgiving world.

It gets particularly bad when artists, the traditional keepers of authenticity, begin to paint pictures that look so much like art, for as Lao Tzu said so wisely a long time ago, “true art does not look like art”. We might also extend this to say that true love does not look like love.

The “phoniness” that Holden Caulfield observed so constantly in Catcher in the Rye is learned very young; it’s a compulsory subject at the dinner table in many childhoods. The acquisition of charm becomes second nature because things go better for some children when they are pleasing and not too real, or idiosyncratic.

Institutional education reinforces the message and continues the process of supplying humans with two faces in the cause of worldly advantage, and turns out grinning depressives by the truckload. In school we may learn the line “unto thine own self be true”, but we also learn about the disaster we invite when this advice from Shakespeare is put it into practice.

So off into society we go to win such favour and fortune as suits our fantasy and to perfect the everyday and sensible duplicity that has been set in motion until eventually we may even become powerful, stylish, clever and charismatic according to the currency of the day – and who knows, we may end up with a chat show on television or in politics with a high-voltage electrode taped to our genitals.

And all the while, the redeeming possibility of intimacy with the world and a true loving of life is diminished – a loss that gradually makes us ill and sends us into the emotional exile called madness. The alienation we feared too much is the very alienation we end up making for ourselves and making for our society. Which leads us to the civil world, to democracy and to politicians.

How impossible the lives of those who present themselves for election and the scrutiny and judgement of a badly loved electorate where many duplicitous citizens have forgotten what human authenticity looks like and where honesty is at once admired but also detested as an offensiveness liability. Who could survive this life of fierce and malicious appraisal?

Maybe a sleazebag, a crook, a lunatic, a martyr, a saint. In a small way we are all electioneering politicians in search of some little power.

Painful to watch and painful to be – a seeker after approval: upstanding yet crawling, smiling yet deeply hurt, eating and breathing and exhaling conflict, composed while decomposing. And above all, needing always to be somehow attractive.

Little wonder that many politicians go barking mad inside and end up doing weird things in brothels and boardrooms; little wonder they finish up hating those whom they serve, crawl to and run for, no surprise that their anger becomes so monstrous that by proxy they become violent and unleash sadistic wars with righteous conviction in the unconscious belief that they have earned it.

But it’s OK. Such speculation about humanity must be worthless and untrue because it is essentially unattractive. The great dictator may rule the lives of modern humanity with extreme cruelty and ruthlessness but hope and security are provided in return: the security in believing that the shit will never hit the fan and the glorious hope that the pigeons will never come home to roost.

 

Michael Leunig
The Age, August 24, 2007

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Slaves to devices

We are as close to telepathy as we’ve ever come. Thanks to mass communication we can call, message, chat, flick, swipe, poke, follow, talk to any number of people. We can let others know what we are thinking. And find out what other people are thinking. Right now. On the train, at work, in the kitchen, the moments before I fall asleep.

Banksy, Mobile Lovers, 2014

Banksy, Mobile Lovers, 2014

Interactions with friends are nearly always augmented with devices: book a table, google this, find that boutique, ask twitter’s opinion, take a photo. We keep our phones close-to-hand. It’s not uncommon for five of us to be sitting together, all checking our devices together. All sucked away into our online realities.

The on-line reality where everything is blithe and pithy and over-sharing is rife.

Well, superficial over-sharing at any rate. I’m never revealing my unmediated self. I follow the precedents of celebrity over-sharing lead by the Kardashians and Kutchers who’s personal struggles are perfectly performed. Tilted to gain sympathy, spruik a viewpoint, increase their cultural capital. I follow suit. We all do in some way, use our devices to show how perfect we are.

But what is happening beneath the perfect narcissistic farce? Instead of immersing in the myriad of human stories, experiences, collective wisdom, I click refresh. Ping, like Pavlov’s dog the red notification signal sets off chemicals in my system, I want more replies, likes, comments, shares. I loose hours, days, weeks maybe in frenzied clicking sprees, cramming my craving full of notification crack. A device zombie, numbed by cheap validations. The hypnotic screen pacifies my human curiosity, pre-scripting cheap interactions with the world. Even if I break the trance, I’m soon jittering to check again, just quickly. My attention span now comes in ten minute skims, insatiably seeking instant gratification.

I have thought quite seriously about committing Web 2.0 Suicide.

But one of the reasons I haven’t yet redressed my addiction are the very tangible benefits to come from these vast, if superficial, social networks. My device has made my life much more convenient. Richer. Connections have been rekindled, travel companions kept track of, housemates found, restaurants recommended, languages trained, forests navigated, public transport organised, ideas shared, events organised, people brought together in real life.

But at what point do our slaves enslave us? And is it a zero sum game? Is it possible to have both the modern conveniences of connecting at a surface level with many, but also the real satisfaction of connecting with another human being?

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All Finns are created equal

Greetings from Helsinki, land of The Moomintrolls, endless light and… hardcore egalitarianism. I’ve had the pleasure of talking to some lovely Finnish people these past few days, and they’ve all conveyed a jubilant sense of equality/incredulous claustrophobia of classed societies. Finns have long been world leaders in literacy,  happinessgender and wealth distribution (below). I’ve been wondering what makes the Finns so advanced?

Gini Coefficient World CIA Report 2009

Gini Coefficient World CIA Report 2009  
A map of income inequality. Australia is only slightly behind Sweden, for the time being, but seeing as the Abbott government is basing our social policy on the US of A, I guess we’ll be sliding down towards purple before long.

A sociological perspective would argue that there is an existing cultural convention of equality which materialises in policy, media and industry through laws such as the sliding fine scale, through to high emphasis on public education. Conventions are hard to change and take concerted efforts from different social players. However one social policy intervention stands out as most likely to encourage further equality, the Kela Maternity Package.

This package dates back to the 1930s when the state ruled to give one to expectant mothers as a means of both combating infant mortality and boosting birth rates. Mothers must access health services during pregnancy in order to be eligible for the package, giving babies the healthiest start in life.

Finnish maternity package: a constant reminder of egalitarianism,http://www.kela.fi/web/en/maternitypackage.

Finnish maternity package: a constant reminder of egalitarianism.

The box is designed to support the first year of infant care, containing children’s clothes, nappies, gauze towels and other child-care products. The mattress is the same size as the box, which is often used as the infant’s first crib. The maternity package has been used for various social and environmental causes; ten years ago bottles and dummies were taken out to encourage breastfeeding, nappies have been reusable since 2000 and all garments are gender neutral. Finnish babies, from all walks of life, all spend their first year wearing the same clothes, playing with the same toys and sleeping in the same cardboard box.

Imagine knowing that you slept in the same cardboard box as your friends, bus driver and prime minister.

Finnish babies, preggiebaby.com

Finnish babies, equal from birth, preggiebaby.com

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Reykjavíking havok

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Big Data is watching

I’ve spent the last two days at a Socialising Big Data workshop at the futuristic IT University Copenhagen. Big Data is one of those trendy all encompassing buzz-words that   refers to the proliferation of data gathered everyday on all of us, from our food purchasing, health services access, sleep and exercise patterns to Grindr hookups. This information can be used for anything from predictive epidemic preparation (like google flue trends) to just-in-time manufacturing.

IT University of CopenhagenIT University of Copenhagen Campus

Every time you use Maps, Run Keeper, or Twitter, catch the bus, go to the doctor, use public rubbish bins, listen to music, read your email or use your credit card, your information is being saved and analysed. Facebook even has plans to listen to our conversations through our own phones’ microphone every time we use their App. There is some lip service paid to ethics and security, but with technological developments fast outstripping developments in law, on top of the recent revelations of the NSA and Yahoo breaches, no-one can ever know who has access to our ‘private’ information. The only way to avoid the hungry eyes of Big Brother would be not to partake in these modern conveniences. But even so your information can still turn up in the public domain.

When I moved to Sweden I was mildly disconcerted to find my personal details online. Yes I am 30, single, and live above a kebab shop. No rose tinted glasses on Google. Also that is my actual salary.

I could email The Authorities and ask them to take this information down, but for some reason I haven’t.

There is some part of me that believes in radical transparency. If government and financial institutions keep tabs on me, why not everyone else? In the words of American policy intellectual Samuel P. Huntington “Power remains strong when it remains in the dark; exposed to the sunlight it begins to evaporate.”(in Chomsky, 2014). If everyone knows everything then there are no secrets to hide. When there are no secrets, asymmetry of power can be balanced.

Salary negotiations are a great example of this, in Sweden the difference between men and women’s economic participation is 94% compared to the 60% world average (World Economic Forum, Global Gender Gap Report, 2013).

If everyone’s data is included in research, can this lead to more representative depictions of reality, and can avoid special interest groups perpetuating power inequalities? Or does big data lead to further exploitation of the powerless?

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Perfection is so…

… much a part of the globalising, accelerating, glossy-media-saturated world we live in. We are bombarded with images of impossibly flawless faces, bodies, homes, food…

Celebrity aside, my Facebook stream is incessantly flooded by perfectly smiling friends, going on perfectly exotic holidays, picking up keys for perfectly designed apartments, holding perfectly adorable babies and making perfectly crafted comments.

What does this perpetuation of perfection do?

It can be paralysing. Obsessing over details, one can indefinitely postpone possible failure by refining ideas in increasingly meaningless increments. It is better to never have failed, than to look like a try-hard. And with so much perfection shining at us from every possible crevice, it’s impossible not to feel comparatively try-hardish.

In an age where the Facebook profile has become a simulacrum of success, it’s hard to invest ones-self in anything that might not be perfectly successful. When confidence matters as much as competence, being uncommitted, uninvested, paralysed can be a self-perpetuating spiral.

But how can one be confident amongst the plethora of perfection? No-one will ever live up to their online profile, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling any less perfect back in the un-Adobé’d world. Perfect is a moving target: or as Anna Karenina put it “If you look for perfection, you’ll never be content.” Perhaps there is no such thing as perfect. It’s an ideal hanging just over the next horizon. 

And when one is constantly focussed on the horizons it’s easy to miss the little things happening here and now. Being able to hop, skip and jump, the sunburn on your lover’s neck, bicycles, unexpected tulips, doing handstands on the beach, eating an entire packet of timtams and feeling sick for hours. The imperfections in life are what makes it perfect.

According to Marilyn Monroe anyway, ‘Imperfection is beauty, madness is genius and it’s better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring.’ Perhaps ridiculously, mad imperfection is where useless inhibitions can be ditched and life can be lived at the horizons. Where we can take wholehearted satisfaction in the accomplishments of others. Because I would rather be brilliant than perfect.

Or from the lips of Queen B:

Perfection is so… from Tullia on Vimeo.

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Beyoncé dances nearly naked on beach

I’ve been wanting to post this since December. I can’t for the life of me figure out why. Most of me wants to dismiss it as the music industry sexualising yet another female artist. But it’s one of my top played songs. I’ve asked my friends and the first reaction is mostly ‘oh great, another nearly naked singer, what happened to feminism?’ Am I a misogynist pervert? Possibly, I have no idea why I find this video irresistible.

Is it because Beyoncé is a beautiful woman celebrating part of her life with her partner of more than ten years and father of her child? Is it that, nearly perfect body aside, her flaws are unedited? Is it because she seems to be having so much fun? Is it the way she makes you feel somehow included?

Usually when I see music videos it makes me feel like doing infinity sit-ups, wearing a paper bag over my head and never eating again. Watching this makes me want to go dancing on the beach.

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Bruno Latour’s new project to facilitate Grass-roots Universalism with the help of 5 handsome white men.

Bruno Latour courtesy of CBS

Latour courtesy of CBS

Yesterday Bruno Latour, fêted french sociologist, doyen of Actor Network Theory and charming man about Paris, presented his new research project, An Inquiry Into The Modes Of Existence (AIME), to a distinguished gathering of academics at Copenhagen Business School. The collaborative research project takes the form of an online resource with the explicit aim to ‘facilitate reflexivity’. The researchers are calling for everybody, all over the world, to take part in this inclusive research project and co-create new and relevant bottom-up sociological theory.

To raise globally applicable issues and contributions from, and for, humanity, Latour has especially assembled a team of handsome white french men (and one Italian). The eloquent clique collaborated on a web platform aimed to elicit participatory Grass-roots Universalism. Crowd-sourcing of key meta-truths relies on participation and disagreement explained one particularly tall, attractive AIME member, urging the audience to log-in and contest their initial, ‘provocative’ ideas.

During the presentation the well-educated, immaculately groomed and luminously white audience scribbled furious notes, paying special attention to the login and submission advice, and I can only imagine started drafting universal truth submissions in their beautiful designer notebooks.

When the Q+A session rolled around, rapt attendees taking up the contestation invitation interrogated Latour and his attractive AIME team on their views of ways this new paradigm may affect the construction, application and abstraction of knowledge in different ways of calling modernity into question, how we gather articulations behind these increasingly vacuous signifiers and the political frontiers they generate, and how these beautifully complex meanings of practicing may perhaps completely transform ideas of the way we engage with the performativity of institutional regimes.

We can only wait with baited breath to see how this devilishly handsome band of privileged men, and participants from distinguished universities all over developed cities in western Europe, create an accessible, inclusive and universal voice for the entirety and complexity of our world.

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Rushing: a waste of time?

Ice swimming

Ice swimming

One of my favourite parts of immersing in Swedish culture is the sauna. Sweating in hot cedar and then dipping in the cold North Sea with the old dames of malmö has become somewhat of a mid-week ritual. One I’m loath to miss. Wednesday afternoons have become a flurry of finishing writings, jotting to-do-lists for tomorrow, sending brisk replies to emails and duking out the back door. Once home it’s a scramble for towel, thongs, water, sweater, keys and a victorious sally out into the street. Volume on full I hightail past the station, through the park, along the beach and arrive puffed, pink and ready to relax. Only to find I have not bought my wallet.

This is not so uncommon, last week some of my colleagues were gently ribbing another who bolted a sandwhich in two minutes flat so they could make it to their massage. Skynder sig för att lugna sig.

Speeding through tasks to have time to relax, to become speedier at tasks. Productivity, efficiencies, streamlining, just-in-time, lean manufacturing. Or in Annie Lennox’s words:

For me that animation would look like: research a lot, teach a lot, learn Swedish, write lots of grants, publish, publish, publish or perish, become a post-doc, research more, teach more, get more grants, publish more, get tenure, become a professor, do professor stuff, reproduce the overworked academic caricature. This is actually kind of my plan at the moment (minus the last bit). It would be nice to be a young professor. But why do I think that?

Maybe because everyone I know thinks that being a professor would be kind of cool. The privilege of sharpening ones own intellect and increasing reflexivity in students and investigating a subject you care passionately about becomes overshadowed by the social construct. It’s easy to go with the majority.

But what if the majority is wrong? Academia is saturated with urban legends of burnout. But who actually cares if you are 35, 40 or 60 when you get tenured? Would I rather be a stressed out, grey-haired young professor, or an older one with more travels, dances, books and friends tucked into the folds of my life experiences? But as a student, sometimes I feel too immersed in the humdrum rush, too busy perpetuating my own ambitious demised to stop and reflect on whether the ends or means are more important.

I read a beautiful piece of writing last weekend by David Graeber making a convincing argument that being alive is the ends, and therefor taking joy in ones abilities is the means. Perhaps that is why it is resonantly beautiful to listen to some of the professors in my department presenting ideas, or watch Beyoncé videos. These people are really good at what they are doing.

For now doing things that I am good at is the best reason to be alive. When I enjoy what I do, when I slow down, when I focus on what is in-front of me, I feel more alive. I can see deeper currents and produce more resonant research. And am probably a lot less likely to forget my wallet.

Life is the moments in between’ – 242,000,000 google hits

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Christmas Turkey

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