Winter Solstice (by
Wendy Andrew)
Feel Me now as Mother of Air
Mine are the limitless skies and
endless stars.
I am bird woman.
I lift your imagination and carry it
on soft,
feathered currents to otherworlds.
I am bone woman.
I am the stillness between
death and rebirth.
I am the stillness between
breathing out and breathing in.
Rest in that pause.
Feel My presence
I am peace.
A unique theatre performance explores what touch means in an age of lockdown
From an end to handshakes between acquaintances, to dates meeting via
Zoom, to grandparents unable to hold their grandchildren, COVID-19 transformed
how we touch. In response to this dramatic shift in human experience, in June
2021, the London-based theatre company Dante or Die created Skin
Hunger – an interactive work intended to explore touch and its vital
role in our lives. Staged at a chapel in the West End in London, the show
featured three actors sharing stories with touch at their centre. With the
performers surrounded by cascading walls of touch-safe plastic, each of these
encounters invited moments of touch between actor and audience. Skin
Hunger is documented in this short film from the UK filmmaker Pinny
Grylls, which features three audience members – a dementia care worker, a
professor of neuroscience specialising in touch, and a former prisoner –
attending the show. As they move from piece to piece, each brings their own
unique perspective on touch to the performance.
You can watch a full archive recording
of the live production of Skin Hunger here.
An audio-described version of this film is available on YouTube.
Film by Dante or
Die
Created by: Daphna Attias, Terry O’Donovan
Director: Pinny Grylls
Producer: Sophie Ignatieff
Co-producer: Anna Snowball
11 November 2021
A
unique theatre performance explores what touch means in an age of lockdown |
Aeon Videos
Fear is the cheapest room in the house
I would like to see you living
In better conditions,
for your mother and my mother
Were friends.
I know the Innkeeper
In this part of the universe.
Get some rest tonight,
Come to my verse tomorrow.
We’ll go speak to the Friend
together.
I should not make any promises
right now,
But I know if you
Pray
Somewhere in this world-
Something good will happen. God wants to see
More love and playfulness in your
eyes
For that is your greatest witness
to Him.
Your soul and my soul
Once sat together in the
Beloved’s womb
Playing footsie.
Your heart and my heart
are very, very old
Friends.
I am not a mechanism, an
assembly of various sections.
And it is not because the mechanism is working
wrongly, that I am ill.
I am ill because of wounds to the soul, to the
deep emotional self
and the wounds to the soul take a long, long time,
only time can help
and patience, and a certain difficult repentance
long, difficult repentance, realization of life’s
mistake, and the freeing oneself
from the endless repetition of the mistake
which mankind at large has chosen to sanctify.
It may be that when we no longer know what to do
we have come
to our real work,
and that
when we no longer know which way to go
we have come to our real journey.
The mind
that is not baffled is not employed.
The impeded
stream is the one that sings.
Copyright ©1983 by Wendell Berry, from Standing by Words.
The passage of time is often difficult to visualise, its effects so gradual they can be hard to perceive. We age but we don’t even notice it: in one photo, a child; in the next, an adult. In Danielle, the filmmaker Anthony Cerniello achieves a remarkable visual expression of ageing, animating still photos of various members of one family to depict a girl’s passage from childhood to old age.
Director: Anthony Cerniello
To no one’s surprise, and almost as little excitement, Marvel Studios is
extruding new content. The Mr Whippy of cinematic fantasy disgorges Eternals in
early November, and yet more Spider-Man in early December.
Meanwhile, column inches continue to be generated by whether or not the next 007 should be a woman, and Superman is now bisexual. Just as reliable as the output of
these franchises is the grumbling about our apparent inability to come up with fresh new stories.
The usual explanation given for the domination of franchises over new
material is that media industries like a known quantity. But what if the real
problem lies deeper? What if, in truth, we’re no longer able to
come up with new stories because we’ve turned storytelling itself into a branch
of influencer culture?
This was the unsettling implication of last week’s water-cooler debate: “Kidneygate”. A long New York Times essay told the strange story of Dawn Dorland and Sonya Larson, two aspiring writers now embroiled in a bitter dispute.
Dorland donated a kidney to a stranger, then created a Facebook group to
talk about her “journey”, and shared it with her writing group. Larson, a
member of the same writing group, then wrote a short story depicting an
egotistical and implicitly borderline racist woman donating a kidney. When
Dorland learned this, she began an increasingly monomaniacal campaign of
lawfare against Larson.
Like the dress that was either black and blue or white and
gold, the story prompted a
lot of debate. When does taking material from the world around you stop
being legitimate and become invasive? Do we “own” our own stories? Or as
the NYT put it: “Who is the Bad Art Friend?”
But perhaps the question should be: would you trade a kidney for a shot
at immortality? For while on the face of it Kidneygate seems to be two women
arguing about art, in truth it’s about the only form of immortality on offer
since the internet killed literature: clout.
Once upon a time, the way to get famous as a writer was to publish a
book. But the internet inverted that. The print publishing industry today is
both bigger than ever and more beleaguered than ever by competition from other
media, not to mention the ocean of free digital content. The result is
diminishing returns: more than 188,000 books are published every year in the UK alone,
but only 5% of authors sell enough to earn more than £30,000 a year.
Against that backdrop, not unreasonably, publishers are more likely to
be interested in people with the sort of profile that will help market their
work. There are countless talented writers out there; the decisive factor in
who gets the book deal is often being an existing player in public
conversation. In other words, the swiftest route to becoming a famous author
today is already being famous for something else.
That means aspiring writers need that indispensable resource for an
attention economy: “clout”, which translates roughly as “the number of eyeballs
you can persuade to notice you online”. And chasing clout is indisputably a
skill, albeit not a literary one.
Building up clout can be done several ways, but perhaps the two most
common are emotional exhibitionism and identity-politics controversy. Expert
wielders of clout attract fans and haters in equal measure, set people arguing
among themselves and then leverage the resulting public profile for real-world
power or earnings.
One such expert clout-engineer is Nikocado
Avocado, real name Nick Perry, a YouTube celebrity famous for his “extreme
eating” or “muckbang” videos. Nikocado Avocado’s content is voyeuristic in the
extreme. Categories on his channel include “Fights”, “Emotional” and “Upset
Feelings” among others. More importantly, he has 2.6 million subscribers — a
store of clout that translates into serious earnings. In 2019, his net worth
was estimated at $3m.
It’s almost impossible to go too far with this kind of content. The only
unforgivable crime, as far as consumers are concerned, is being caught faking
the emotion. “Mommy vlogger” Jordan Cheyenne was recently pilloried after she accidentally uploaded an unedited
video of herself and her child, in which she could be heard encouraging her
child to act like he was crying. She has since deleted her channel.
In the more traditional cultural spheres of academia, politics and
literature, competition for eyeballs drives clout-chasing identity politics
controversies. These can be guaranteed to spice up any otherwise dull policy
debate with angry culture war clicks, while handily boosting the profile of the
would-be activist. Perhaps the consummate operator in this mode is the US
Representative Alexandra Ocasio-Cortez, who attained
meme status recently by appearing at the $30,000-a-ticket US Met Gala in a
white dress with “TAX THE RICH” scrawled across the back, then blamed the criticism she received on racism and
sexism.
In every case, though, the core feature of clout-chasing is that it
centres not on what you say, but on others’ perception of who (or
what) you are. And here we see the heart of Kidneygate: a dispute
over who gets to use the organ-donation story as a means of cultivating their
public self.
If Nikocado Avocado figuratively spills his guts for those who follow
his channel, Kidneygate saw someone spill them literally — and then post about
it on social media. Dorland created a Facebook group to collect the applause
she expected to receive. She walked in a local parade as ambassador for organ
donation. She even created a hashtag: #domoreforeachother.
Larson, in contrast, wanted to use the kidney-donation story alongside
her own Asian-American ethnic identity to boost her profile with a short story
about “white saviour” politics. That is, she wanted to apply the clout-rich
filter of American racial politics to this highly emotive content, in order to
increase her own standing in the world of fiction-writing. And it should have
worked: before Dorland’s legal action scuppered the offer, Larson’s work had
been selected for “One City One Story”, a Boston literary award that would have
seen her short story distributed free all over the city.
I’m just about old enough to remember the Before Times prior to mass
social media. Back then, we still clung to the idea that writing was about
immortality — an idea captured by Shakespeare: “So long as men can breathe
and eyes can see/So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.”
Now, though, writing a book is just part of the “media mix”.
Where fame used to be a means of getting your message out, now messages are a
means of getting your fame out. In September, CBS launched The Activist, a show that turns political
activism into reality TV — and where successful activism is measured “via
online engagement, social metrics, and hosts’ input”. Never mind making a
tangible real-world impact: like successful writing, successful activism is
measured in clout.
And once you’ve attained enough of it, you can pivot effortlessly from
reality TV to book-writing, perfume launches, politics or whatever. The only
condition is that, like Harry and Meghan, you continue to feed gobbets of
personal tragedy, emotional intensity, marginalised identity or some other kind
of emotive content to the clout machine.
Do this, and the whole media mix is yours. It’s not just the raft of
celebrities flocking to write children’s books. The 22-year-old
poet Amanda Gorman made history earlier this year as Biden’s inauguration poet,
as much for her look and ethnicity as her aggressively bland poetry. Shortly
after the inauguration, she signed a modelling contract.
And this pipeline works just as well in reverse. Transgender model
Munroe Bergdorf has a threadbare literary track record, having attained clout
mostly for being photographed wearing clothes, or for public rows with corporations and gender-critical feminists over identity politics. And
yet Bergdorf received a six-figure advance from Bloomsbury for the “memoir and
manifesto” Transitional.
The true message of Kidneygate, then, is not about art but what art now
serves. It signals that if we allow it, the world of letters will irrecoverably
join cinema, music, politics and activism as mulch for an online economy of
attention.
And the Faustian nature of the bargain is increasingly clear. A culture
powered solely by the hunger for intensity will devour any form of culture that
isn’t already literal pornography. For in a raw economy of attention, the
aesthetic or moral value of your work is irrelevant: what matters is emotional
intensity and the power to generate discussion. Whether it’s politics, art,
literature, music or simply people’s personal lives, the clout economy will
transmute it, by a kind of reverse alchemy, into pornography of the self.
Before pivoting to YouTube emotional exhibitionism. Nikocado
Avocado dreamed
of being a concert violinist. Before pivoting to organ donation for clicks,
Dawn Dorland dreamed of being a celebrated author. But there’s little clout to
be gained through working hard at creating beauty for a common cultural domain.
No wonder one in five British children want to be social media
influencers when they grow up. And when everyone’s so busy crafting their
online selves, no wonder there’s no creative energy left to dream new shared
stories, leaving us nothing but zombie franchises crudely gingered-up by the
culture wars.
Will we rediscover an ability to resist donating everything — even our
organs — to the clout machine? I hope so. If we don’t soon regain a measure of
digital self-restraint, the endpoint of every aspiration will be emotional
porn. Or perhaps we could call it Kidneygate culture: a never-ending livestream
of lost and miserable souls self-defining, fighting, crying, binge-eating or
quite literally eviscerating themselves, all for our voyeuristic pleasure.
Would
you sell a kidney to be famous? - UnHerd
The world became modern when people who met for the
first time shifted from asking each other (as they had always done) where
they came from — to asking each other what they did.
To try to position someone by their area of origin
is to assume that personal identity is formed primarily by membership of a
geographical community; we are where we are from.
We’re the person from the town by the lake; we’re from the village between the
forest and the estuary. But to want to know our job is to imagine that it’s
through our choice of occupation, through our distinctive way of earning money,
that we become most fully ourselves; we are what we do.
The difference may seem minor, but it
has significant implications for the way we stand to be judged and therefore
how pained the question may make us feel. We tend not to be responsible for
where we are from. The universe landed us there and we probably stayed.
Furthermore, entire communities are seldom viewed as either wholly good or bad;
it’s assumed they will contain all sorts of people, about whom blanket
judgements would be hard to make. One is unlikely to be condemned simply on the
basis of the region or city one hails from.
But we have generally had far more to
do with the occupation we are engaged in. We’ll have studied a certain way,
gained particular qualifications, and made specific choices in order to end up,
perhaps, a dentist or a cleaner, a film producer or a hospital porter. And to
such choices, targeted praise or blame can be attached.
It turns out that in being asked what
we do, we are not really being asked what we do but what we are worth — and,
more precisely, whether or not we are worth knowing. In modernity, there are
right and wrong answers; the wrong ones swiftly strip us of the ingredient we
crave as much as heat, food or rest: respect. We long to be treated with
dignity and kindness, for our existence to matter to others and for our
particularity to be noticed and honoured. We may do almost as much damage to a
person by ignoring them as by punching them.
Respect will not be available to those
who cannot give a sufficiently elevated answer to the question of what they do.
The modern world is snobbish. The term is still associated with a quaint
aristocratic value system that emphasises bloodlines and castles. But stripped
to its essence, snobbery merely indicates any way of judging another human
whereby one takes a relatively small section of their identity and uses it to
come to a total and fixed judgement on their entire worth. For the music snob,
we are what we listen to; for the clothes snob, we are our trousers. And
according to the job snobbery at large in the modern world, we are what is on
our business card.
The opposite of a snob might be a
parent or lover; someone who cares about who one is, not what one does. But for
the majority, our existence is weighed up according to far narrower criteria.
We exist in so far as we have performed adequately in the marketplace. Our
longing for respect is only satisfied through the right sort of rank. It is
easy to accuse modern humans of being materialistic. This seems wrong. We may
be interested in possessions and salaries, but we are not on that basis
‘materialistic’. We are simply living in a world where the possession of
certain material goods has become the only conduit to the emotional rewards
that we crave deep down. It isn’t the objects and titles we are after; it is,
more poignantly, the feeling of being ‘seen’ and liked that is only available
to us via material means.
Not only does the modern world want to
know what we do, it also has some punitive explanations of why we may not have
done very well. It promotes the idea of ‘meritocracy’ — a system that should
allow each person to rise through classes in order to take up the place they
deserve. No longer should tradition or family background limit what one can
achieve. But the idea of meritocracy carries with it a nasty sting: if we truly
believe in a world in which those who deserve to get to the top do get to the
top, by implication, we must also believe in a world in which those who get to
the bottom deserve to be at the bottom. In other words, a world that takes
itself to be meritocratic will suppose that failure and success in the
professional game are not mere accidents, but indications of genuine value.
It has not always felt quite so
definitive. Pre-modern societies believed in the intervention of divine forces
in human affairs. A successful Roman trader or soldier would have thanked
Mercury or Mars for their good fortune. They knew themselves to be only ever
partially responsible for what happened to them, for good or ill, and would
remember as much when evaluating others. The poor weren’t necessarily indigent
or sinful; the gods might never have looked favourably on them. But we have
done away with the idea of divine intervention — or of its less directly
superstitious cousin, luck. We don’t accept that someone might fail for reasons
of mere bad luck. We have little patience for nuanced stories or attenuating
facts; narratives that could set the bare bones of a biography in a richer
context, that could explain that though someone ended up in a lowly place, they
had to deal with an illness, an ailing relative, a stock market crash or a
difficult childhood. Winners make their own luck; losers make their own defeat.
No wonder that the consequences of
underachievement feel especially punishing. There are fewer explanations and
fewer ways of tolerating oneself. A society that assumes that what happens to
an individual is the responsibility of the individual is a society that doesn’t
want to hear any excuses that would less closely identify a person with
elements of their CV. It is a society that may leave some of the losers feeling
that they have no right to exist. Suicide rates rise.
In the past, in the era of group
identity, we might value ourselves in part for things that we had not done
ourselves. We might feel proud that we came from a society that had built a
particularly fine cathedral or temple. Our sense of self could be bolstered by
belonging to a city or nation that placed great store on athletic prowess or
literary talent. Modernity has weakened our ability to lean on such supports.
It has tied us punitively closely to what we have personally done — or not
done.
At the same time, the opportunities for
individual achievement have never been greater. Apparently, we are able to do
anything. We might amass a fortune, rise to the top of politics, write a hit
song. There should be no limits on ambition. Therefore, any failure feels even
more of a damning verdict on who we are. It’s one thing to have failed in an
era when failure seemed like the norm, quite another to have failed when
success has been made to feel like an ongoing and universal possibility.
Even as it raised living standards
across the board, the modern world has made the psychological consequences of
failure harder to bear. It has eroded our sense that our identity could rest on
broader criteria than our professional performance. It has also made it
imperative for psychological survival that we try to find a way of escaping the
claustrophobia of individualism, that we recall that workplace success and
failure are always relative markers, not conclusive judgements, that in
reality, no one is ever either a loser or a winner, that we are all bewildering
mixtures of the beautiful and the ugly, the impressive and the mediocre, the
idiotic and the sharp.
Going forward, in a calculated fight
against the spirit of the age, we might do well to ask all new acquaintances
not what they do but what they have been thinking or daydreaming about
recently.
The
Problem with Individualism -The School of Life Articles | Formerly The Book of
Life
Another day of
trolls on social media. Another day of vulgarity and partisanship in the media.
Another day of needlessly rude emails and people shouting conspiracy theories
instead of caring about each other. Another day with your neighbor who doesn't
follow the rules. Another day of people speeding on streets where kids play.
It's enough to
make anyone despair, what's wrong with everyone? Is everything going to
pieces? Like the rest of us, you're probably looking for something to be hopeful
about, something to inspire you. And it'd be wonderful if there was something
major to point to, but there isn't.
No, if you want
to see good today, there is only one option—do good yourself. As Marcus Aurelius writes, good news is something you
make. You make it with good character, good intentions, and good actions, he
says. You can't wait around for that to happen. In fact, he said, it doesn't
matter if you hold your breath until you're blue in the face, people are going
to stay selfish, stay mean, stay stupid.
All you can do
is refuse to be implicated in that ugliness. All you can do is be the bright
spot you'd like to see in the light. So will you? Can you? Please. Because we
really, really need it.
Imagine
you were lodging in someone else’s house. You would not walk in and start
vocally criticising their interior decoration. Nice furnishings, mate,
but you should repaint those walls and throw out this old furniture. If
you were asked your opinion, you might suggest a few improvements, but
otherwise you might seem just a little obnoxious. And that’s why, even
though I live in Poland, I tend to avoid writing about Polish politics.
Of
course, the first instinct of a writer is to stick your nose into other
people’s business. There is no point in bemoaning this, but it can have
unpleasant manifestations, in the way they criticise, judge and misrepresent
those around them. The same thing applies, to a certain extent, when people
write about countries other than their own.
When I
first arrived here, I tried to focus on foreign reporting, by challenging
hysterical Western perspectives of Poland. The Government and, sometimes,
the people here are often portrayed as being backwards and xenophobic — and I
objected to such characterisations. To the extent that Poles are more
right-wing than Western Europeans, moreover, I argued, they have the right to
be. A lot of American and British commentary appeared to embody what the
social scientist Richard Hanania calls “woke
imperialism” — the aggressive promotion of progressive pet causes in countries
where there is little appetite for them.
I take
none of my criticisms back. But on the flip side, it would be unfair of me to
obscure the existence of Polish progressives, who have more right to make
prescriptive judgements about their homeland than I, an immigrant, do. On the
fringes of Right-wing Western opinion there is a caricature of Poland as an
ever-strengthening, “BASED”, traditionalist Catholic idyll — leading one
conservative commentator from the USA to claim that “the mood [in Warsaw] is
unmistakably buoyant”, as if Polish public opinion is not as divided as anywhere
else — and I have no wish to feed such clichés. To be a valuable observer you
must tell the whole truth and not just part of it.
You must
also bear in mind our view of foreign lands tends to be a matter of ideological
projection. Nations which appear to represent our beliefs are happy, thriving
sunlit uplands, where the rain never falls. They are often presented in
striking contrast to one’s own bleak, grimy, cloud-ridden
homeland. Communists romanticising far-flung revolutions are an obvious
example: Malcolm Caldwell, a British academic who idealised Pol Pot’s Cambodian
regime, was invited to Phnom Penh and then murdered by the Khmer Rouge.
Perhaps, in their paranoid bloodlust, they mistook him for an enemy.
But there
are less blatantly irrational examples. Consider how British advocates of remaining
in the European Union portrayed continental Europe as a saner, smarter, more
compassionate place — less because they were interested in life there, and more
to make a comment on Britain. John Kampfner’s Why the Germans Do It
Better, which bore the insufferable subtitle Notes From a Grown-Up
Country, was essentially a book-length stick to beat Brexiteers with.
Kampfner contrasted Britons’ “monolingual mediocrity” with Germans, who are
“taught two languages at school”. A moment’s thought should have made it
obvious that British people are likelier to be monolingual than Germans not
because they are less curious and cosmopolitan but because English happens to
be the lingua franca in modern Europe.
A more
comic case is provided by a man who call himself RS
Archer on Twitter. Archer, who is nearing 100,000 followers,
claims to be the author of the “David Saunders” book series (which does not exist).
He has constructed a fantasy life as an English expat in France, satisfying
Remainer prejudices with his tales of civilised bourgeois domesticity in
the Dordogne — all wine, snails and jolly local mayors, and the stupid, backwards Brexiteer tourists who
bother him. Perhaps “Archer” does live in France (and he certainly
has the right to anonymity) but he is not interested in France as it is but
as Remainers imagine it — as, in other words, the antithesis of England. They
want to sink into a warm bath of oikophobia with a cool glass of “1983 Case Basse di Gianfranco Soldera
Brunello di Montalcino Riserva”.
When a
country defies our ideological preferences, of course, we cannot hear enough
about what a cruel and benighted place it is. A telling example of the sort of
credulity this encourages emerged during the Trump years. In perhaps the most
outrageous case, an award-winning reporter for Der Spiegel, Claas
Relotius, was found to have “falsified his articles on a grand scale”. Relotius’s
pieces, many of which explored life in Trump’s America, contained such comically obvious fabrications as
a town in Minnesota having a “Mexicans Keep Out” sign on display. You would
think Relotius could never get away with printing such unbelievable stories,
but he did, for years, because he told his audience what they wanted to read.
And when
a reporter for the Right-leaning Wall Street Journal went
looking for horror stories in Sadiq Khan’s London, meanwhile, he
amusingly mistook an “alcohol
restricted zone” sign in Whitechapel as evidence of Islamic rule in the British
capital. Unlike in the case of Claas Relotius, this appears to have been an
innocent mistake, but it illustrates the dangers of projecting your
expectations onto a place.
Accuracy
may be a difficult standard to reach, given the incentives against it, but it
is also a basic one. A more difficult problem is whether it’s justifiable to
make value judgements about nations that are not your own. Almost no one is a
pure cultural relativist; can anyone, for example, observe Kim Jong-un’s North
Korea with ice-cold detachment? But a newcomer to a country should not dictate
how it should be run, as if there is a single means of ordering societies and
their enlightened perspective transcends that of their hosts.
Consider
the beleaguered Americans. They have had to watch the English Piers
Morgan tell them to give up their guns, the English Milo
Yiannopoulos tell them who to have as president and the
English Prince Harry lecturing
them on the First Amendment. (The poor souls even have to deal with James Corden obstructing
traffic.) It seems like you can’t turn on the TV in the US without hearing an
English voice telling you what to do and what to think, which must be grating
if you have no platform from which to project your American opinions about your
own country.
An
outsider’s perspective can be valuable, inasmuch as if offers a sideways look
at familiar problems. And of course, observers can become participants, visitors
settlers. It would be wrong to think that a migrant cannot — like a native
— love and criticise a country simultaneously. Peter Robb’s Midnight in
Sicily, for example, combines social criticism with a deep affection for
the people and culture of the mafia-assailed island, to beautiful effect.
As for
me, I hope to write more about Poland, but as someone who is learning rather
than lecturing. To do otherwise would be to do a miserable disservice to the
many varied people who have helped me feel at home.
Humility
is key — a humility which never places judgement before knowledge, nor assumes
that one’s preferences must take precedence merely by the fact of being one’s
own. That does not mean saying what you do not believe — an act which would be
worse than saying nothing at all — but being careful with when, how and how
much to say it.
Navigating a
pub, Shaun’s anxieties are (quite literally) plastered on his face
You who I don’t know I
don’t know how to talk to you
—What is it like for you there?
– from ‘Sanctuary’ by Jean
Valentine, in Door in the Mountain: New and Collected Poems, 1965-2003 (2004)
The opening lines of Valentine’s poem capture the disquiet
terrain of the world as seen from the inside out, through the lens of an
anxious psyche. Likewise, in Facing It, a young man of perhaps college age
named Shaun grapples with the feeling of being trapped in the cage of his own
mind, helpless to escape it. The viewer is given access to Shaun’s eyes and
ears. His sensory perspective is dreamlike: imaginative, yet brushing up
against a recognisable reality. But, as you might expect, it’s not a pleasant
dream – his world is populated by characters with strange clay faces that sit
atop human bodies, and their muffled voices echo incomprehensibly. As if
submerged underwater, Shaun is out of his depth.
Following the trajectory of Shaun’s thoughts, the film
floats back in time between the past and the present – the two indelibly
interconnected. In the present, Shaun’s face is a vision of blue melancholy,
melting and dripping as he makes panicked attempts to converse at a pub. We see
these emotions at play, personified in the form of limbs that appear out of
nowhere, stifling his efforts to socialise. Hands push and pull at his face,
pluck out his eyes and cover his mouth mid-conversation; a foot kicks a glass
out of his hand. Flashbacks reveal the ways in which he has become the
embodiment of his past relationships; in particular, the troubled one with his
parents.
To make Shaun’s raw emotions vivid and visceral, the UK
filmmaker Sam Gainsborough deploys a mixed-media technique. Combining
claymation, pixelation and live-action – a laborious and artful process –
Gainsborough blends analogue and digital media. Through handmade indentations
and growths on the clay faces, he inverts Shaun’s inner stress response,
rendering it ever-present and tactile. And by integrating live-action human
bodies and settings, he grounds Shaun’s experience in intertwined physical and
emotional spaces, building an uneasy mood some viewers might find all too
relatable.
By providing a window into Shaun’s internal world,
Gainsborough highlights how our emotions and experiences are more complicated
than even we can see, and tethered to our past, present and imagined future.
The film reminds us that we can’t decode internal states by watching outward
behaviours, since our exteriors are only the tip of a vast iceberg. As the
speaker in Valentine’s poem ponders, even if we ‘imagine other solitudes’ and
‘listen for what it is like there’, it’s impossible to know what it is to be
anyone else but us – even if, as Facing It seems to argue, it’s still worth
trying.
Written by Olivia Hains
Several decades ago, two psychologists stumbled upon a phenomenon that revolutionised their
field and changed the way we think about adversity. They called it
‘learned helplessness’ – when faced with a difficult situation that feels
uncontrollable, people tend to act helpless and depressed.
In the wake of a pandemic that has
upended life for millions, this idea feels more relevant than ever. But just as
the concept of learned helplessness helps to explain many of the emotions we’ve
been going through, it has also inspired work that offers positive insights
into how people can remain resilient, even in the face of uncontrollable
adversities. The key is having hope.
Martin Seligman and Steven
Maier discovered learned helplessness in the 1960s, as graduate
students at the University of Pennsylvania, under the supervision of the
experimental psychologist Richard Solomon. Solomon was studying how dogs
learned and responded to fear. His team restrained each dog in a cage with two
compartments, and gave it multiple mild but unpleasant electric shocks, each
time paired with an audible tone. Later, the dogs were untied and the tone was
played – having learned to associate the sound with pain, Solomon predicted the
dogs would jump across to the safe compartment to avoid the pain. But when the
dogs heard the noise, they remained passive, and did not do anything to try to
escape the pain.
As a test of Pavlovian-style
learning, the experiment was judged a failure. But Seligman and Maier reached a
different conclusion: the dogs’ passivity was the crucial finding. During the
earlier part of the experiment, when they had been bound and exposed to a
shock, the dogs whimpered, barked and tried to get away, but it was all in vain
because of the restraints. So, Seligman and Maier believed, the dogs learned
that, when they tried to escape a shock, it did not work. As a result, they
acted helpless the next time they encountered a similar situation, even though
the circumstances had changed and they could jump free if they wanted.
Seligman and Maier tested out their
theory. They arranged three groups of dogs for the initial learning phase: some
were restrained as before while they endured the initial round of shocks paired
with tones, but another group could press a lever to escape to the safe
compartment, and a third group received no shocks at all. Next, all the dogs
were free to move, and the tones were played again. The dogs who had control in
the earlier part of the experiment immediately escaped from the shocks by
jumping across the barrier to the safe side of their cage. The dogs in the
control condition also learned to escape the shocks. But as for the dogs who
had earlier been restrained and made to feel helpless, they did not try to escape.
Seligman and Maier’s seminal findings about
learned helplessness were published in the Journal of Experimental
Psychology in 1967.
Over the next decade, Seligman and
his colleagues replicated the learned helplessness findings first in rodents
and, later, in human beings. Moreover, when it came to provoking feelings of
helplessness in human volunteers, Seligman noticed something important – after
exposing people to non-controllable events, such as unpleasant loud noises or
impossible anagrams, they would often begin to exhibit some of the classic symptoms of depression, such
as feelings of worthlessness, sadness, loss of interest, poor concentration and
fatigue. Ultimately, he concluded that
learned helplessness is a subtype of depression.
But there was a crucial caveat –
whenever the researchers ran these studies, there was always a proportion of
the subjects who were exposed to uncontrollable, aversive events, but did not give
up trying to exert control. Even though they learned that nothing they did
mattered to stopping an aversive event, they kept trying to make their
situation better. Also, some of the subjects who did give up, becoming helpless
for a time, bounced back immediately and began to act with agency in later
parts of the experiments. The question was – why? Why did uncontrollable
adversities render some people helpless while others remained resilient?
Two researchers became increasingly
preoccupied with that question – one was Seligman’s graduate student Lyn
Abramson, the other was the Oxford psychiatrist John Teasdale. Teasdale and
Abramson pointed out that being made to feel helpless is not enough to produce
depression. What also matters is how people make sense of their helplessness –
the attributions they make. Do they blame themselves or do
they blame the experimenter? Do they generalise their helplessness to life in
general, or just to the specific situation in the lab? How people interpreted
the experience – the story they weaved – was the critical missing ingredient of
the theory.
Seligman teamed up with Abramson and
Teasdale and together they found there
are three ways people can interpret what happens to them: they can form
attributions that are either permanent (eg, I will always be helpless
and nothing I do will ever matter) vs temporary (eg, I was helpless
in that specific circumstance, but what I do at other times still matters);
specific (eg, related only to anagrams) vs universal (eg, all problems); and
internal (eg, it’s my fault) vs external (eg, it’s the
fault of the world or someone else).
As Seligman would later put it,
different people have different ‘explanatory styles’. Some people have a
‘pessimistic explanatory style’, and make negative attributions about aversive
events (ie, internal, universal, permanent), and they are more vulnerable to
depression. Other people have ‘optimistic explanatory styles’ – when bad things
happen, they don’t blame themselves but the world, and they see the adversity
as temporary, local and specific. Their story about the world and their place
in it is much more hopeful, and they are more resilient.
In later work, Abramson and her
colleagues reformulated the learned helplessness theory of
depression as the ‘hopelessness theory of depression’. Hopelessness depression
emerges when people experience a negative life event, such as losing a job, and
draw pessimistic conclusions about the causes and consequences of the event,
and what the event says about who they are as a person. They might believe they
are helpless to change their circumstances and will never find employment, for instance,
and that they’re worthless as a result – thoughts that depress and demoralise
them.
Over the years, research has
confirmed the connection between hopelessness and mental illness. Aaron Beck,
the founder of cognitive behavioural therapy, found that a sense of hopelessness is a key driver of
suicide. Conversely, having a sense of hope contributes to better overall
mental and physical health. For example, people high in hope are able to tolerate pain for
longer periods; they report higher levels of wellbeing after someone they love
dies; when confronted with a stressful situation, they are able to think more
creatively and flexibly about how to overcome it; and, as they move through a
difficult period of their life, they’re more likely to identify silver linings.
People high in hope also perform better academically, are less prone to
loneliness, and – above all – are less likely to succumb to helplessness and
despair when adversity strikes.
All of this points to a powerful
insight – that instilling or restoring a sense of hope in people might help
them build resilience and alleviate their emotional suffering. The next
question is how? How can people build a sense of hope, especially during hard
times?
The
work of Seligman and Abramson suggests that changing
the stories we tell ourselves about adversity can help instil hope. Rather than
blaming yourself for losing a job or feeling sluggish, you can blame the COVID-19 pandemic;
rather than focusing on the areas where life feels out of control, such as new
strains of the virus, and concluding that life is unpredictable and chaotic,
you can focus on those things that you can control, such as your routines,
habits and the way you treat other people. You can remind yourself that this
adversity, like all adversities, is temporary and will end at some point.
Another way to build hope requires
rethinking its ordinary meaning. You might consider hope a form of wishful
thinking, a positive and perhaps naive expectation that everything will turn
out OK in the end. But according to ‘hope theory’, developed by the late American psychologist Charles
Snyder, hope is not blind optimism. It’s about having goals for one’s future,
agency or ‘goal-directed energy’ (believing the goals are attainable) and specific
‘pathways’ or plans for how to reach those goals. In other words, hopeful
people are not like Pollyanna, rather they feel in control of their lives and
exhibit a sense of agency in their pursuits – the opposite of feeling helpless.
Drawing on Snyder’s work,
psychologists have developed interventions to instil hope. For example,
therapists who practise ‘hope therapy’ help their clients conceptualise clear
goals for their future, map out routes to pursue those goals, and reframe
obstacles as challenges to be overcome. Rather than focusing on the client’s
past failures, the therapist focuses on their successes, which can serve as
models for future goal pursuits. In one study testing an eight-session group-therapy hope
intervention, participants who were taught hope-building skills subsequently
reported a greater sense of meaning, agentic thinking and self-esteem, and
lower levels of anxiety and depression, as compared with a waitlist control
group. They also reported lower levels of anxiety and depression
post-treatment.
Even in the bleakest of times, hope –
of the kind articulated by Snyder – can make a positive difference. Consider
the work of the physician and ethicist Chris Feudtner at the Justin Michael
Ingerman Center for Palliative Care at the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia.
Working with parents whose children have life-threatening illnesses, Feudtner
has found that, while they all of course wish desperately that their children
could be cured, it is those parents high in hope who tend to adjust better to
the reality of the situation. In one of his studies, it was actually the more hopeful parents who were
more likely to decide to limit medical interventions as their child’s condition
worsened, suggesting that having hope allowed them
to relinquish a goal that was no longer attainable, and to adopt another
focused on alleviating suffering.
Moreover, Feudtner found that
a simple question could help kindle hope in parents. After presenting them with
the horrible news that their child’s condition was worsening, incurable or
terminal, he asked them: ‘Given what you are now up against, what are you
hoping for?’ Parents tended to respond unrealistically at first, such as
wishing for a miracle cure or to awaken from a bad dream. But then, when
Feudtner gently asked them ‘what else’ they might be hoping for, their
responses became more grounded and attainable. ‘The subsequent answers,’ he
writes in ‘The Breadth of Hopes’ (2009), ‘tend to be qualitatively different
from the initial hopes: they are more oriented to pain or suffering and the
hope of relief, to the longing for home and the hope of homecoming, or to
surviving not in a physical but in a spiritual sense and the hope of finding
meaning and connection.’ It’s a most powerful example of how identifying goals
that are attainable, and seeing pathways to them, can restore a healing sense
of control, in this case bringing a
measure of comfort to parents facing the most terrible adversity.
From
that initial research on helplessness in the 1960s have sprung decades of
findings with a more uplifting message. Circumstances, no matter how bad, do
not have to defeat us. You have the capacity to adopt more hopeful patterns of
thinking in the face of adversity, and to adjust and pursue your goals, even
amid hardship. If you can maintain hope in these ways, it will help you find
the courage, strength and resilience to ride out the inevitable storms that
life brings.
Hope is the antidote to helplessness. Here’s how to cultivate it | Psyche Ideas
