Quiet please! We're moving.

Quiet please! But I find this sign too loud!

Waiting books

Vertiginous reading

Imparting knowledge

Low profile

Background reading

These photos were taken at the University of Bielefeld Library in Germany. We moved to Bielefeld, a small town in the North of Germany, over four years ago because my partner got a job at the university. Academic contracts tend to be limited so a great deal of flexibility is called on the family. Having moved once from Berlin to Bielefeld, now that my partner's contract is up we are facing the challenge of relocation again.

In academia, you are expected to move around at the drop of a hat, indeed it is a requirement of a good CV in today's academic market. This is not something that goes together with having a stable family life. As a trailing spouse of an academic you may have to make sacrifices in your career, or build your career around a highly mobile lifestyle. For children, it means sacrificing long term friendships, and a familiarity brought about by putting down roots . Sometimes families in these situation face very hard decisions. Should the family be temporarily separated, while the academic partner takes up 1 year contracts abroad which have no guarantee of extension? Or should the family move and ride the course of uncertainty together. There is no way of knowing quite when a permanent contract or a professorship will finally arrive. Should the child's environmental/cultural stability take precedence over daily contact with the academic parent?

"Pendeln" in Germany is not uncommon, and describes the act travelling  back and forth from your family home to your place of work, usually over long distances. I know of an academic family in Germany where one partner is an professor and works during the week in Berlin and the other partner, also a professor, is based in Munich with the children. This involves "Pendeln" every weekend, a journey of around 6 hours each way by train. As Germany is a more federal country than the UK, i.e. centres of industries, media, banks are more evenly distributed amongst its cities, it means that people here are more used to the idea of "Pendeln". In Frankfurt, for example, there is the banking industry, in Hamburg the media industry. Everyone wants to live in Berlin, but there are not so many jobs available there. I know of many other examples of people living this lifestyle of "Pendeln".

Of course these are personal decisions and also depend on the individual child. Financially though, these short term contracts, like the one we have just been offered, are not automatically offered relocation support from the universities. These, rather, are awarded to Professorial or longer term posts, which doesn't mean that there isn't a spouse and children to consider and all the costs involved as in any other major move.

At the moment, I am negotiating this situation our family is facing step by step. We still haven't reached a decision. I found a moment of peace in the university library, despite the very loud "Quiet Please" sign. There are 2.2 million books in this library but I am afraid none of them can help with the decisions academic families like us are facing at the moment.

I am indebted to The Trailing Spouses Art group that Piia Rossi founded here in Bielefeld a few years ago. These meetings continue to inspire me in dealing with the ongoing challenges of being a trailing spouse in questions such as identity, language and career,  but in a supportive and creative environment.

Here you can see on youtube a Pechakucha presentation of the Trailing Spouses Art group by Piia and myself in English and German.

Hotel Spaß*

When you feel the fast moving tempo of today’s world is leaving you behind there is nothing like overhearing a conversation of under 14 year olds to make you realise that, yes, the world has left you behind and you will never catch up:

 “..and each day lasts 3 seconds”

“but you can change the time to how you like”

“I put an arcade and a gym in at the same time once, and they all went to the gym. They didn’t go and visit half -half. They’re crazy.”

“Yeah, they stay in the laundry room for two years sometimes. Mad.”

“And when they go into the computer room they just bang their hands up and down, bang bang on the keyboards.”

“But it’s crazy, you open something up, say an arcade, and they all go in.”

“Are they complaining now, this minute?”

“No, they’re happy now”

“But then they say, “I want a gym, I want a gym, I want a gym! You go and build a gym and they don’t even use it!”

“Yeah, they are really stupid like that.”

“How long does two years last?”

“About 10 minutes.”

“Look at that maid. We fired her and she keeps on cleaning up. Thank you very much for doing that. Look at her - she’s still cleaning.”

“But, you know, when you open something up, they all just go straight in, it is crazy the way they do that.”

 “And have you seen the disco? In the disco they stick their hands up in the air like this.”

“……………… and they keep on doing it for years and years, right?”

“But there is only one in there right now”

“Yeah but he’s been there for ages-“

“I’ve built 49 floors now.”

“Expand, expand, click on expand!”

 “Damn,  I just built a floor over a lift, room, room, room.”

“Knock it down then”

“ I can’t because that will cost even more money”

“ But you know what. You open something up and they all just go straight in. It’s really crazy they all just go straight in.”

“You’ve said that four times now”

*Spaß, pronounced "shpahss" means “fun” in German and Hotel Spaß is an online game that you can play on Spielaffe.de.**  The English original is called Theme Hotel. It is a “construction and management simulation game in which your goal is to build a five-star hotel”, which is just about the very definition of ‘fun’ isn’t it? Don’t tell me you didn’t know about that game already?! What planet are you living on anyway?

**Spielaffe translates rather inelegantly as “game-ape”, and is a German platform for free computer games “for all the family***”, with plenty of ads of course.

***Warning: Don’t try playing this game on your computer at home in front of your kids. It will only end in humiliation and shame as you fail to get even one of the five stars in the game. My advice, leave it to the kids but enjoy the game's Muzak.**** 

**** The term Muzak is so like 1934! Now its called Mood Music. You didn’t know that? Really. Where have you been for the last 4 years? In Bielefeld, a smallish and often overlooked***** town in northern Germany? Oh no, sorry that’s me.

 *****I think the makers of this game may have made a few oversights. Why not up the “fun” stakes by introducing a few eccentric millionaires into the mix. In this case your guest wouldn’t just be griping about not having a gym. He might be more concerned that his peas be arranged in a certain order. Or perhaps the ghost of a recently deceased guest of the Ritz that threatens to scare your guests away? Or a few room-wrecking rock stars hurling furniture out of the window? And last, but not least, what about a mass walkout by staff because of the frequent on the spot sackings?

Why not today?

For my birthday a friend of mine gave me a notebook of fill in to do lists, with quirky phrases like

 “Today, after coffee, I will do ___________________&_________________________  

Mhmhmhmhmhm, much better.” 

You just have to fill in the gaps. I am not a natural list writer so I find these prompts useful.  My problem with list making is that it takes me so long to write one I find myself running out of time before I even start.  Or, the list goes astray.  It is rare that my to do list gets to done. 

So imagine how I felt when I turned the page on my notebook of lists and saw this beauty:

“I’ve always wanted to ______________________________________________Why not today?”

The page was decorated with blue clouds on a white page. What in my wildest dreams could I do?  This had to be something I’ve always wanted to do and not just something I'd had an idea of doing today when I woke up this morning or last week as a passing fancy.

 No, it should be something that I have been putting off every single day of my life! 

Then I realised what that something was. That something I’ve always wanted to do.  It was to do nothing.  Zilch. Nada.  No obligations, no chores, no work. So I wrote, “have a do nothing day” dutifully in the designated gap in my new notebook.

But like most of my lists, what is written down usually remains in its own little list fantasy-land.  

I had been up since 6.30 in the morning. Dropped off my kids at the kindergarten and school, taught for an hour at the university, and I realised that, unfortunately I had already done quite a lot and it was only eleven o’clock.  Undaunted and very excited at the prospect of doing nothing I went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea and some toast. While the kettle boiled I pictured myself lounging about in bed and reading, already weighing up whether reading Religion for Atheists by Alain de Botton would be too much like hard work to qualify.

By the time the kettle boiled, I remembered I had to email someone about some freelance work. Oh, and the other list I had written earlier in the day came back to me where I’d promised myself I would do some writing for the blog. And then there were the chores, which would just build up, wouldn’t they if I left them another day?

All in all, I could see that doing nothing was going to be hard work, and demand a great deal of discipline. It would involve introducing a new habit of doing a little bit of nothing everyday. Perhaps I could start off with two minutes every day for a month and then increase it slightly from there, depending on signs of fatigue and burn out. I could keep a log to chart the complete and utter lack of progress in my life or find a “do nowt” buddy on Facebook just to help me fall back irrevocably on my life goals.  I could use visualisation techniques where I could “see” myself being totally unproductive. At the very least I should let friends and family know of my intentions to do sweet F.A. so that they could help me through the bad times when I find myself in desperation reaching for the hoover, give me a shoulder to cry on when I have the urge to finish “just that one little task” or just be there when I need someone to do nothing with me, too.

Now you may have an inkling of why my lists never get done. 

Defeated by the realisation of the sheer effort it would take to do nothing I have had to designate yet another list to the back burner.

I now cannot use my cooker at all as the number of lists balanced upon its back burner constitute a fire hazard.

Which just proves that lists are dangerous and should be avoided at all costs, unless it is a shopping list, which can be quite useful.

The Arachno Files

On Plastic Spiders: An illuminating discourse on the anatomy, feeding and behavioural habits of spiders in three parts by Henry (3) and Catherine (43)-

H: Has he got fingers?

C: No, he’s got legs, eight legs. See? One, two, three, four, five six, seven, eight…….

H: Are those his eyes?

C: Yes, er…., let me see. I think so…those pointy stalk things could be his eyes, I think..

H: The spider says,  “Goodbye!”

C: Goodbye, spider!

H: Don’t say goodbye!

C: What shall I say then?

H: Say nothing.

H: I cuddle the spider.

C: That’s nice. You cuddle the spider

H: Does the spider walk?

C: I think a spider crawls more than walks

H: The spider jumps!

C: Yes, the spider jumps, but he crawls, mostly

H: He’s stuck on the hair

C: I don’t want it in my hair!!

H: The spider flies!

C: Henry. Do you know what he eats?

H: Grapes!

C: The spider eats grapes, does he?

H: He eats me up. He eats you up.

C: Oh, he eats us up, does he?

H: He eats the eyes. He eats you the hair and the nose and the mouth.

C: Henry. Did you know that spiders eat flies? They work very hard and spin a web. They are very clever, spiders. Then they catch the flies in the web and eat the flies.

H: Hello!  He flies. 

(throws spider)

A Leap of Faith

Last Friday my faith in atheism was renewed by a hilarious Eddie Izzard at the Admiral Palast in Berlin. By the end of the evening, God was a scuba diving, spliff smoking being, with a high pitched voice, speaking a foreign language, and moving, as always, in such mysterious ways, that he was never bloody there when we needed Him.

But there was a serious message behind it.  Eddie Izzard doesn't place faith in a higher beings to solve problems on Earth but has faith, apparently, in politics, even in the Labour party, which I find equally hard to believe in. Apparently in 1998, he was one of the biggest private financial donors to the Labour party. His plan is to run for Mayor of London by 2020, and I just hope he can convince the likes of me to have faith in politics again. If there is anyone who can do that, then he can.

As a sixteen year old teenager I was political. At sixth form I was studying Government and Politics A level. Our school had combined with a boys grammar, and our class reflected the politics of the time - i.e. a difference between the parties in dress and outlook. I was in the group of lefties, scruffy, doc martins and torn jeans, and the grammar school boys were Conservative and wore ties and shirts and, yes, wore smug expressions. We learnt about why Labour had lost the previous election in 1983; about Michael Foot and his "soapbox" campaign for the 1983 general election. Badly dressed and unable or unwilling to harness television or other media, Foot was blamed for the landslide defeat by the Conservatives. He was no match for the election campaign masterminded for the Conservative government by PR firm Saatchi and Saatchi.

When our teacher (purely non-partisan of course) asked us to help get the voters out for the Labour Party for the election in 1986, I willingly agreed. My spotty teenage face was practically glowing with idealism as I went door to door waking up old biddies to get them out to vote. It was the first time I could vote and couldn't comprehend anyone not exercising this right.

In my 20s, I went on marches, went to Red Wedge gigs, joined some animal protection groups. I wanted change. I had lived under the Conservatives from the age of 9 and a Labour victory seemed like a faraway dream.

In 1997 I was living in London, had finished college and was looking for a job. Some friends of mine were working for the Labour Party Headquarters telephone canvassing votes. It was a huge operation. Our job was to target marginal seats by phoning up thousands of constituents in order to persuade them to vote tactically, i.e.  Liberal voters were asked to vote Labour in order to win against a strong Conservative candidate. Some people didn't budge, some people didn't even vote, which I could not believe but I persuaded a fair few to change their votes to Labour.

The build up to the election was incredible. Although my clothes were still rather shabby, the Labour party ranks were wearing smart suits and ties. Our office was even graced by the spin master himself, Peter Mandelson. Even I could see that the days of Michael Foot's shabby duffle coat had long gone. United, optimistic and, above all, photogenic, here was New Labour.

New Labour lost no time in tapping into the cool Britannia music scene. Despite choosing a pretty duff record, "Things can only get better" by D'ream, their election success was assured.
Even us minions were allowed to attend the election party at the Royal Festival Hall. We cheered and jeered as Tory after Tory lost their seats, like Michael Portillo and Malcolm Rifkind. I remember Jon Snow remarking how many young people had been at the celebration. This didn't however reflect the young outlook of a young Prime Minister of only 43 years. It was in fact the droves of youngsters like me who had been drafted in to phone up half the population of Great Britain in the run up to the election.  Our campaign had been an invisible one behind closed doors. We were not preaching values from the soapbox, but sitting in tiny little cubicles in London phoning far flung places in the UK we had never even heard of and trying to tip the figures.

The party didn't last long. Although the New Labour party seemed cool at the time, harnessing Britpop to polish off their image, the shine soon faded as the reality set in. They didn't look that different from Tories now, and they wouldn't act that differently either.

In my 30s I had now moved to Berlin in Germany.  The 2001 election came along and I tried to vote.  I thought I would wait to register my vote until Tony Blair called the general election. This turned out to be a mistake that would disenfranchise me the first time. Because Blair had called it so close to the election date I was told that I wouldn't have time to register and therefore was now unable to vote.

My next political act was in 2003 just before Tony Blair took the decision to support America in the invasion of Iraq. I posted a letter addressed "to the right Dishonerable Tony Blair" telling him that I would never vote for the Labour party again if he invaded Iraq without a UN mandate. History tells us he ignored my heady threat.

By the time the next election came around I made sure to register early. But by this time my attitude to voting was not so steadfast. I now had more sympathy with the people I had canvassed  in 1997 who didn't vote at all saying that the politicians were all the same. I wasn't sure any more who I should vote for. I thought of all the people who I have asked to change their vote tactically, and now wished they had stuck to their guns. But at the same time, I knew the Tories were not any alternative. Perhaps I could vote Green, or Monster Raving (RIP).

Anyway, I needn't have worried. I cannot vote in the UK anymore. As it had been 15 years since I  was registered to vote as a resident of the UK, I was no longer allowed to vote. The strange thing is that I am also not allowed to vote in a general election in Germany, where I now live, either.

So I am now disenfranchised from any electoral system.

When you think of disenfranchised peoples, you don't really think about persons who live in the European Union, but there we are. I find this strange as I know that my Spanish friends can vote in Spain although they don't live there. I wonder if the UK is the only country to have this rule?

So, if Eddie Izzard goes into politics, as a self professed British European I hope that he can help the cases of people like me who cannot vote at all. And, yes, I have learned another European language but do not necessarily want to change my nationality to German in order to vote. And if Eddie Izzard runs for London Mayor in 2020? Well, that sounds like a good reason to repatriate and get back my vote.

We Stand on the Side of the Freaks

The Notwist ca. Sept 2001

I once took my photo portfolio to the Face Magazine in London.  It was taken away, inspected and returned. Then shortly afterwards 9/11 happened.

A week later I got a call in Berlin, where I was living at the time. They wanted me to photograph the German band, “The Notwist”. No one from London, it seemed was willing to fly to Munich now.

“After all, it is just around the corner from you”, I was told. 

Now from Berlin to Munich is a six-hour journey by train, and all second-class tickets had sold out.

So, throwing caution and terrorism to the wind, I decided to fly there.

The location chosen by the band or the Face, I don’t really know, was the Olympic stadium, built for the 1972 Munich Olympics by Günther Behnisch and Frei Otto. This suited me fine, as one of my themes in my photography was sports grounds.

The appointment was for 6pm, on a cold wintery overcast evening approaching dusk. I had roped in a friend of mine, who happened to be in Munich visiting his brother,  as "assistant" or rather moral support. The band remained gracious throughout, despite the fact that my assistant" was on crutches, having broken his ankle the week before and I had no lighting equipment, no array of cameras, just an analogue 35 millimetre camera, a very fast film and a nervous expression.

I took a few pictures of the band in front of the turn styles of the stadium and then inside the club, which the band frequented. Afterwards, we were taken out for a pizza and a drink at a club, as one does with a Face Magazine photographer. If ever I felt like a fake it was now.

The band politely spoke English to me, gave me a copy of their latest CD, Neon Golden, and were thoroughly pleasant. No trace of overbearing ego. Described by the Face interview as "blissful pop experimentalists", they come from a small village outside Munich, and according to the interview "We only started because there was nothing to do". 

So when I asked band member Michael Acher, if he did any other music in his spare time, or something along those lines, for want of something to say, there was just perhaps a trace of bemusement when he mentioned something about jamming in a jazz band.  Only after the fact did it occur to me that he had most likely been pulling my leg.

Later in the bar, my friend, who was himself a musician, was asking a band member questions, probably Michael Acher again, with an intensity that had me worried. Was he coming across as too much of a fan? I was also worried that I was getting on their nerves with my inane questions and my obvious lack of knowledge about the band. What if they knew that I was only here because The Face could get no other photographer on a plane?

My paranoia had reached its height for the evening. I was quite happy to be honest when it was over and I could just hang out with my friend at his brother's place, where he kindly put me up for the night I stayed in Munich for the shoot.

On the shuttle bus back to Berlin from the airport the commissioning editor was already on the mobile, making sure I had got the goods. So this is how it feels, I thought, to be a real photographer. 

I submitted my photos. One picture was really grainy as I had shot it at 1600 and I wasn’t so happy about that. The other one was criticised by the editor because I had allowed the printer to accentuate the colour too much.

I have still got the tear sheet still from the published piece. The banner of the piece is rather appropriate, I feel. The Notwist were quoted as saying, “We stand on the side of the freaks.” 

I felt thankful for that statement, even if, I hope, it wasn't directed at me. It is one that I keep close at all times.

So, where are we now, twelve years on after the shoot?

Though the Face folded in 2004, The Notwist are still going strong.  Judging by their tantalising website they are still in existence either here on Earth - perhaps still near Munich, or on the edge of the universe where they appear to be regularly proofing their music on the principles of infinity and claustrophobia . Their website navigates you, whilst allowing you to play Dadaist games with mouseclicks which gives you the illusion of being in control.  An architect has laid down his plans, but the website keeps you at the edges, where the printing proof marks of the colour spectrum are the key. It is minimal, intuitive and warmly expressive, true to the music they make.

As for me, I am still taking pictures of sportsgrounds.

And my friend?  We still get to hang out on Skype, where we also write songs together, but sadly get to meet less often in person. I hope that changes soon. I am eternally grateful he offered to be my crutch, when he was hobbling around on crutches himself.

perhaps a tad on the red side.

Carried away by canopies.

More canopies? You gotta be kidding.

Aren't you supposed to see the face of the band member?

Follow the Crowd

In many respects, life comes down to just one question: Do we follow the crowd or not? In the above case, when I ran out of film, I didn't.