Work has been keeping me busy and tired, of late. Hence the lack of blog entries over the last month. Last week was particularly stressful. In the middle of it all I reached the limit of what I could assimilate, accommodate, accept - whatever it was, my mental in-tray was full to overflowing. What seemed to be getting me down was frustration and anger at situations I couldn't improve and ideas or projects I couldn't progress. On two evenings I left work feeling a incendury like fury that i dont ever remember experiencing with my work before. If my aspirations are blocked I slip, all to easily, into the unloving arms of despondency. This week, though busy, has been a bit steadier in pace, without the erratic and unexpected intensities which characterised its predecessor. I think I have passed some sort of watershed with regards to my new post. At first I was just learning the ropes, then I was finding out how to manage the team without anyone more experienced to help. Now its becoming clearer what direction I want to take the team in, and what I need to do first to get it moving forward in a positive direction. None of this is going to happen overnight.
Though its over three months since my car accident, I still find my neck and shoulders stiffening up in cold dank weather, much more frequently than in previous winters. Some of it has been exacerbated by further falls and collisions affecting my shoulders and neck, and bad posture when I'm at a computer at work or at home, because the screens were too low. I've now corrected the latter in both situations and things are gradually improving,with a little help from my acupuncturist with his 'rice spoon' massage.
What with recent weekend visits to the aged P's and a general pre- Christmas flurry of expenditure and weary passivity, not much writing is getting done. The new piece I'm working on 'Firewood & Ash' is proving slow in development, so, with what limited time I have available, progress has been snail like. Generally I'm pleased with what's coming out, it is perhaps a more intricate piece of writing than 'Binding one's Self without a rope' with a less obvious line of development. As ever it is pushing my understanding of Dogen to it's limits. I'm also doing study with Paco on the whole Genjo Koan, from which this extract on 'Firewood and Ash' comes. This has become equally stretching, but also satisfying. This week we took the unusual step of going to a local café ( CB2) and doing study upstairs, whilst we supped drinks at a table. I was unsure how this would go; I anticipated that it would be too public a place, our conversations would either be too prominent or be drowned in a surfeit of piped music and other peoples chit- chat. It turned out to be neither of those things. We had a very penetrating discussion exploring the intricate and paradox filled relationship between delusion and realisation, which I couldn't possibly summarise.
I met up with my good friend Jayarava. I mentioned my predicament, and in the next sentence I'm talking how in moments when my faith seems to desert me, reading Dogen effortlessly reconnects me. He suggested I might think about composing some sort of Dogen sahdana practice ( a visualisation practice ). Now this didn't appeal at all, but I immediately thought 'I'd like to compose a Dogen Puja though', and that did it. In the evenings this week I've been trawling through the four volumes of Dogen's – Shobogenzo for usable material. I haven't been sleeping too well, so on two occasions I got up and wrote. So, by Friday morning I'd finished the first draft of a Shobogenzo Puja. It was actually quite easy to adapt most of the sections I chose. Abandoning preciousness or being overly reverent, I've lifted a few of my favorite bits, adapting, editing and adding to the material, ruthlessly where necessary, so it will suit a more devotional context. What I do with it now I don't know, give it a dry run at home I suppose, or try it out on a Sangha night at the Buddhist Centre, near Dogen's Birthday or Deathday, perhaps.
Lacking a good nights sleep, with one person on holiday, and another ill for part of the week, there were times this week when I felt mentally and literally overstretched by my work. This has been going on for three weeks, and I've had no time to progress any planning or managerial projects. A difficult interaction with one of my team triggered a strongly pissed off state of mind to emerge, that I experienced in a physical whole body way. Extreme tension, and a grumpy unreasonable mental landscape manifested. Both body and mind were in a belligerent and petulant sulk. Life and people just were not how I wanted them at all. David was away - alas poor me. It has felt like I wasn't managing myself or the team as effectively as I'd like to. Unrealistic expectations – what I, or what I think others think I should be doing - played anxiously across my mind. I know this managing lark is going to take me some time to master, and master it I will. At the moment the job, and I, feel like a bit of an uncomfortable mismatch. I am trusting that this will pass.
There was a study published by the University of East Anglia this week, which to judge from the media's reporting of it, would indicate we all swear like troopers at work, and that this is more than OK. It's a harmless way to let of steam, reduce stress, and reinforce team bonding in the workplace, it would seem. So, abandon all restraint right away, begin unzipping those fucks and cunts from bondage, let rip a guilt free rude riposte, liberate your coarse, expletive laden banter from its mental restraints immediately, it's entirely healthy badinage – its now been academically endorsed.
However, as a manager, I'm not allowed to swear, because for a manager to swear is tantamount to bullying in the workplace. For me, this instantly consigned this report to the bin of irrelevance. Who paying for this tosh to be researched and written? This sociological studying of the relative use of expletives in the workplace, gets academic funding from someone, I want their names and salary details. Which isn't to say I approve of swearing in the workplace, or that I use it as a means of exerting managerial control. It's never crossed my mind to do so – until now that is! All that stuff about power relations and position, changing the nature of our interactions, may or may not be true, but for me, by focusing on quite a minor point, it misses some thing more fundamental – what effect does the widespread cultural use of swearing have on society? Does it, for instance, make an important contribution to improving the quality of our communication? Does it cultivate an environment of tolerance and understanding, where we all live in a satisfied and contented harmony? The language of intolerance is sworn across peoples hearts and minds, and foams from their mouths.
Swearing seems more socially acceptable in the 'noughties'. You only have to randomly turn on your TV, at any time of day, to hear how common place swearing has become. It's not a particular attribute of swearing that it reinforces group cohesion, any shared language and culturally accepted forms of expression does that.
Apart from creating a group identity, what other effects does swearing have, not all of them are beneficial or desirable, surely? Is swearing best used in rare moments of extreme exasperation, or as a regular form of linguistic punctuation? How beneficial to society can swearing be? If someone in my team started swearing at anyone I'd need to put a stop to it immediately, not encourage it. Swearing is easily turned into a form of verbal bullying, it does this regardless of ones position in an office hierarchy. It impedes good team building, and cultivates a coarse, combative tone to interactions. Treating people civilly and with a respect for human dignity at work is vital – swear words do not do either of those things . Swearing is an inherently aggressive form of language, it uses degraded language to degrade our relationships with others.
I come from a working class/ chapel going family, where swearing was considered an extremely poor form of communication. As a teenager, when I first heard my Mother let out a swear word, I erupted into a hysterical, uncontrollable bought of laughter, it was that unusual. Swearing, used frequently, loses all its cutting emotive power. Like anything used regularly to shock or amuse, the more the joke is pulled the less funny or pointed it gets, thus the impact of expletives becomes blunted. Swearing these days has become tiresome and dull.
From the point of view of five Buddhist precepts regarding speech, swearing breaks most of them; they're not truthful, swear words exaggerate and are malign in intent; they're just not kind; they're harsh in tone and in no way an elegant or gracious use of language; they're a useless form of speech because, even if it gets some emotion off your chest, it's not in any way helped to resolve a situation of conflict, it might even have made it worse; they're just crude name calling; which brings us to the last precept against slanderous speech, whose opposite quality is speech that is likely to cultivate harmony.
Now this report might appear to imply swearing creates social bonding. There is a whole other discussion to be had about what that cohesive effect, if that was what it was, arose out of, was it out of a sense of harmony between everyone, or from a ganging together out of a shared sense of beleaguered adversity? The essential question is this - when we swear, are we at war or at peace with ourselves, or with others?
It's really a kitchen sink drama - a thoughtful young man, marries, a simple uncomplicated northern lass, a loving woman who makes few demands on him. He finds himself living with a pregnant, slightly gauche wife, in a dreary half decorated terraced house. This is the late seventies in the north west of England. The post-punk band he'd recently joined, rapidly becomes a hotly sought after property. Whilst on tour he's interviewed by an intelligent, attractive Belgian woman, whom he starts a long-term secret affair with. Loving both woman, from two entirely different contexts, and not being able to resolve it by giving up either woman, tears him apart. Added onto this, is his sudden and severe epileptic fits, and the increasing demands of fame - the draining adulation of his fans. This strongly shaken emotional cocktail eventually leading to his unexpected suicide.
Were this not the true and tragic story of Ian Curtis, the former lead singer of Joy Division,one would,perhaps, not have given this tale much attention. The whiff of Rock 'n' Roll tragedy does, however, still sell his music, and now this movie, comes trailing a superlative soundtrack in its wake. People are still drawn to him because they want to understand his, and through him their own, nihilistic urges for oblivion. He topped himself, we did not, now why was that? Curtis, as portrayed here, comes across as dangerously immature and lacking in self-awareness, so self-controlled and divorced from the consequences of acting solely in response to his feelings. The intensity of his vision appearing to arise from too tight a self-containment of them. Feeling and passion burst forth in his lyrics and his singing. His fans got off on his darkly toned catharsis, pushing him, all the time, to show and give them more. His life demonstrates what Oprah Winfrey said about fame to be tragically true - “ If you come to fame not understanding who you are, it will define who you are”
The central performances from Sam Riley and Samantha Morton, though good and coherent, somehow fail to lift the energy level above 'steady as you go'. As a consequence it feels flat and emotionally uneventful – and this is a film about what leads up to a suicide, remember! The story lines development, is stretched out in terms of time, way beyond what the script can sustain. Long lingering shots of Riley nervously smoking a cigarette, slows the pace and focuses our attention, without providing any increase in a sense of feeling for his predicament. One gazes on dispassionately as he takes the rope that he'll hang himself by - off screen. At this point it becomes blatantly obvious how you've been held in neutral emotionally for most of the film. You don't care for him, at this most pivotal of moments. It's as though his nihilism was shot from the perspective of a rear view mirror, constantly moving away from, instead of towards, its subject matter.
Anton Corbjin, presents his first film as a cool, stylishly shot, black and white homage to the obsession of his earlier adult career. He gives it great observation, attention and period detail, the precise framing of each scene is sharp edged and immaculately composed. On a cinematic level it is an impressive debut. His eye is still that of a music photographer, his feeling for narrative flow is likewise too static, posed and drained of movement and colour. Intentionally or not, this film seems to be strangely alienated from any basic humane resonance. It demonstrates the facts, the events, the factors at play, all very well, but the confusion and turmoil of feelings going on behind them, stay as only muted murmurings. Curtis may indeed have been a repressed, emotionally blocked young man, but that translates on the screen, as him being a blank and empty vessel. After what felt much longer than its 122 minute running time, the reasoning of Curtis's internal world remained a closed, baffling mystery. This might well add to his enigmatic, if not mythic, cult status, but this detracted seriously from the films vitality and direction. Ian Curtis was an ordinary human being, containing dilemmas and choices we all could encounter. It doesn't help to paint him into a corner as a studied icon of morbidity or world weariness. His tragedy was that he lost his rational foothold, lost control, and the only way he felt he could take back the initiative in his life, was via self-destruction. There was a great film to be made here, buried beneath its style and poise, it somehow got alienated and lost too.
Oh, by the way, any crematorium that allowed bilious black smoke to be emitted from its chimney, as is shown at the end of the movie as the song 'Atmosphere' plays, would be either closed down, subjected to huge financial penalties, or prosecuted.
Prompted by the release of the film 'Control', I've bought three Joy Division Cd's recently - Unknown Pleasures , Closer,and a singles compilation, none of which I bought at the time. Sometimes particular musical sounds are very much of their late seventies/early eighties period, such as the drum sound on 'She's Lost Control', though generally they stand up extremely well twenty eight years later. Martin Hannett's unfussy and crisp production style, wisely takes the edge off the mordant and self-preoccupied vocal style of Ian Curtis, stopping it from becoming unbearably confessional, or, knowing what was to follow, portentous. Joy Division didn't last long enough to smooth down all their rough edges and become a stadium band like U2. Longer term this may serve them well, a permanent place of praise in the Rock'n' Roll pantheon is thus assured. Untainted by any sense of betrayal at having sold out, or declining musical potency, or becoming a parody of themselves, they've also been posthumously bequeathed the mirror of tragedy, through which to perceive their entire output.
Curtis's suicide, like Cobaine's in the next decade, sad though it was, has been romanticised to hell and back again. The fact that Joy Divisions music, such as on 'I remember nothing' can be intense and brooding feeds into this mythologising, but this neglects to notice their growing pop sensibility, as on 'Isolation', 'Love will tear us apart' and 'Atmosphere'. Their youthful darkness might have passed, in the same way that Nick Cave's grisly vision became more optimistic as he reached middle age. We also forget the zeitgeist of the time. It was grim up north in the aftermath of a severe late seventies recession, and another one was yet to come. The tone Joy Division set, was as much a reflection of their post- industrial homelands degeneration, as it was a working out lyrically of a personal tragedy. Corbyn's black and white photos of them at that time, and now his film, helped to develop, if not create, both views. The desolate, abandoned bleakness of urban England, drained of all life affirmation and colour, was an equally sentimentalised frame for their musical output.
Factory records were frequently accused of being style merchants lacking substance. Fortunately some of the bands Tony Wilson adopted were major musical talents, Joy Division were the first, and arguably the best of the lot. Stylistically, they have frequently been plundered and plagiarised by lesser musical talents. Most lack their sensitivity, or ability to keep their seriousness from descending into ludicrous self-indulgence, or the sort of mannered melancholy that was entirely boneless posturing. Joy Division were the heirs of northern stoicism, emboldened by a dark and dour energy, that was also strangely affirming, as we hear them making the best they can of a bad job. Spawned from Joy Division's demise, New Order were to develop this further in the altogether brighter landscape of the late eighties, though of lesser significance and influence musically.
My first week managing the Customer Services Team, without the former manager there to advise or train me, has gone OK, despite my prophetic anxiety about calamity descending upon me. To be honest, the day to day work of the Team is not rocket science, once you have become familiar with the XAL system, it really comes down to communication skills. There are, of course, unexpected or unfamiliar disasters happening all the time, but mostly these turn out to be opportunities to expand areas of competence. Most of the other difficulties appear to be essentially organisational, usually ineffective or poorly maintained working practices in other departments of the business. When these fall over its Customer Services who have to pick up the pieces with the disappointed or angry customer. Finding ways to appease, placate and compensate is our core task. Try as we might to encourage things to improve,much of it is outside our sphere to influence. It inevitable comes down to human failings or error, for which there is no accounting – which in management speak becomes inadequate supervision or training, manpower shortage or systemic incompetence.
The consistency of my lifestyle and practice has been a bit ragged over the last month. This is entirely down to the amount of change and learning of new things that have been going on in my life at the moment. Now things are stabilising work wise, this is beginning to change, as I restore activities that help my lifestyle be both sustainable and enjoyable. I've already started going swimming once a week, something that stopped altogether when I worked at the Crematorium. David and I are going to buy bicycles this weekend which will increase our mobility immensely.
I've been writing a piece called 'Binding one's Self without a rope' for some time. I left it alone for a few months, but returned to it the other weekend to do a bit of housekeeping, only I couldn't get into the file. Once David returned from solitary retreat he rescued it from oblivion for me. When I looked at, it seemed to have reverted to an entirely earlier version and jumbled up the sequence, whilst other sections were missing all together. So, rather irritatedly, I've spent a good part of Sunday and three evenings this week restoring it, using a hard copy I had as reference and an e.mail attachment version for the missing bits. Without the latter I wouldn't be writing this blog entry this morning. I'm hoping to publish it soon as an article in Shabda, which is the Western Buddhist Orders monthly publication for reporting in, forum for debate and information etc. The start of the week, my own personal time was largely dominated by this task, not a thing I'd chose to do with my evenings off, but had to be done none the less. So, this weekend I'd like to focus on doing more nourishing creative things, and spending time with the people I love.
'Into Great Silence' is a rare cinematic experience, a film without a narrator, no one to explain or mythologise or create an unfolding mystery. There is no real story to relate here, it's without dramatic changes of pace or manipulative music to heighten the atmosphere. This film is as silent as a documentary can be, without turning the sound off. Very simply and unhurriedly, like its subject matter, it presents its findings. Philip Groning had to be patient to make this movie, it was nineteen years between his initial request and the film of monastery life being made. One is left wondering how this experience was for the monks, their every action being captured as they went about their usually solitary round of religious observances. How is it for anyone to have their private observances observed for public consumption? Groning scrupulously avoids any sense of you being voyeurs creeping in to watch forbidden things. He has an unobtrusive and patient eye, which paradoxically brings a fascinating richness and a quiet quality to his observing.
The day to day actions of thirty of so monks in the Grande Chartreuse, the head quarters of the Carthusian Order, are charted in minute detail, and you find yourself gradually adjusting your step to be in pace with its meditative rhythm. The lives these monks lead is stark, simple, and stripped bare of affectation. This is not a documentary indulging in the exotic otherness of monastic life. It's not a life without any sense of aesthetics, there is a rough hewn beauty to this rustic simplicity. I can feel it's attraction and get a sense for the spiritual values that are being made tangible, to a generally indifferent world. Though, in all of us there's a still small segment in our psyches that yearns for this ideal – to get away from a life ruled by the rampant desire for sensory distraction.
To our deeply social, sexual and individualistic society, spending time on ones own could be viewed with anxiety, if not derision. Yet, these monks have chosen to devote themselves to this life, mostly to spend their time alone in their individual cells, grouped as they are around a large communal cloister. The individual and the communal are given separated contexts within the monastery enviroment. At points during the day a monk pushing a cart bearing metal containers brings food to the cloister cells, stops by each, unlocks a small door hatch, opens it and places round food tins within it, then moves onto the next. Then there are the daily communal rituals, some called to by bell in the middle of the night. Once a week they're allowed to walk outside the monastery grounds, where they can interact and talk. On one such day some of the monks walked up into the snow covered mountains in twos, having great fun on the slopes on their makeshift skis. It left an impression that their lives, though serious in religious intent, were not entirely bereft of a sense
of fun or playfulness. Perhaps the founding fathers were wise, and knew a life of such austere practice cannot be left without an emotional safety valve, opened to relieve the pressure at regular intervals. Most of their days they pray, they study, they work, they perform rituals without egotistically imposing their personality upon their devotions. No one appeared be self consciously playing up to the camera, which may be a virtue of good editing, as much as an expression of spiritual maturity.
Throughout the film there were shots of individual monks staring straight to camera for half a minute. Passive, characterful faces, full of expression, looked out at you. These seemed untroubled, but deeply human beings, self acknowledging, though interested, if not intrigued by why you the viewer were interested, if not intrigued with them. For over two hours and forty minutes I sat engrossed, a grin of sheer delight, if not envy, often appearing blissfully across my face
I'm now well into my second week working at Windhorse. The building itself is of course very familiar, I recognise its quiet relaxed atmosphere, it feels a steadier place to work and be in. The work is mostly new and still seems a huge overwhelming challenge. I'm pretty good at dealing with people and I know what needs doing to meet customers requests. However, my understanding of the XAL system,which would enable me to provide the solutions, still has major gaps in my understanding of it.
Considering I wasn't brought up using computers with my mother's milk, and have slowly learnt how to use one in the ten years since I was forty, I think I do pretty well. David's job is maintaining the computer network in relation to our Evolution shops, so he is obviously quite a whizz with these things. At home I sometimes ask him how to do a simple task, which he does with such speed I can't follow how he's done what he's done, so there's not a cat in hell's chance I'll remember it for next time. I do, in my own way, get there eventually, and do develop quite consistent practices and methods when working with computers. Computers don't strike me as particularly logical, more methodological, if you know the method it seems logical, if you don't know the method, logic wont get you anywhere.
This second week has, so far, felt a little less like my brain was a supersaturated sponge that could take no more water,thank you. Last week I had so much input and barely enough time to absorb or practice what I've been shown, before I was doing it live with a customer. I have, after all, just arrived in the team at probable their busiest time after the major gift trade show of the year. Training me up is the last thing they need really. When I worked in another admin team at Windhorse I learnt on another version of XAL and a whole different set of procedures, only some of which appear to cross over. My memory, of something I did on a daily basis two years ago, frequently deserts me. Though I can now sort of bluff my way through a day, I'm aware I could very easily stumble into a huge hole in my knowledge or comprehension, right in the middle of dealing with a customer. The full breadth of tasks that we do has understandable yet to settle into any recognisable form, pattern or scheme of comprehension.
My current mental state is a recognisable anxious one, I'm mentally uneasy on occasions simply because I'm not feeling fully in control of my work. I find myself being mentally clumsy, making simple mistakes, suddenly I forget what comes next and have to ask for help, or have something explained yet again. In my experience repetition of a task is the best way for me to establish understanding. Explanations or taking notes are good for reference, but they're no substitute for the doing. I have dearly wished in the past that I could grasp processes quicker, but actually that isn't how I learn, it is more a gradual and, lets face it, slow application of effort. I feel more confident in my approach these days and don't give myself a hard time. This doesn't mean my self esteem sits easily with the learning of new things, its still impatient not to feel like a stumbling novice and be the competent all knowing one, once again.
After his return to Germany earlier this year, it was so good to meet my friend Eugen again. Being greeted by his beaming presence in the airport lobby was a lovely welcome. I've missed the delight of his company, for both the fun and the depth that our conversations will often go to. Eugen lives in Kreutzberg, an area of Berlin with quite a track record as a place of shelter for political radicals,social outcasts and immigrants. It has a cosmopolitan and bohemian air,with a vast range of ethnic cafés, restaurants and shops that straddle the globe in the cultures they encompass. Quite a lot them are established in cellars, from second hand clothes stores through to art galleries. Eugen's flat is in this area, and I can see why he's fond of it. Apart from being a cheap area to live, it does have a warm approachable atmosphere to it. It was a popular place for squats in the sixties and seventies. Now Turkish immigrants are making their home here and contributing to an already rich mix of culinary styles available.
My first impression of Berlin was of the width of the streets, broad with two or three lanes going either way, trees lining both the right, left and middle. Large curved lamposts lean out over the road like tall distinguished gentlemen, they seem to say ' Here Sir, let me provide you with more light.' The urban environment of Berlin seems less pressured, openminded, civilised and respectful. The pavements are wide too, in most cases they include a separate path for bicycles. You can cycle everywhere with great ease and safety, the network of cycle paths is extensive. I hadn't cycled for a few years, so a sore bum and tired throbbing thighs were an inevitable outcome of my first full day of touring central Berlin. Over the four days we often found ourselves cycling alongside the former position of the Berlin Wall. Dividing up a city in this way seems ludicrous these days, but then in the Post War years, a strange paranoia did hang over Europe.
Berlin is full of building sites, as an astounding range of modern buildings still spring up to fill the gaps a war and a wall have left. The new Reichstag and Presidential buildings are splendid examples of modernism, the use of surrounding space, the playfulness with form and perspective, all make these buildings outstanding. I've reluctantly concluded that only continental Europeans seem to know how to pull off this style. Even though they often use English architects, one cannot forget they have a substantial architectural and design inheritance as the birthplace of German Gothic and the Bauhaus.
Should we attempt anything so bold and large scale in England,we invariable do it half heartedly, under fund it, and generally handle it in mean spirited, cack handed manner. According to Peter Ackroyd in his book on the English imagination, we have a cultural bias against big visions ( architectural or otherwise ), to me its both a character distinction and a limitation to our imagination. For me, there was a great sense of uplift and inspiration, of some faith being restored, to see architectural vision carried out with such bravura and care. I love Berlin for that if nothing else.
The Holocaust Memorial to the murdered Jews of Europe is an astonishingly bold public statement of remorse, constructed right in the heart of Berlin's prime real estate. As a gay man I need to carp about the exclusion of other groups murdered by the Nazi from this memorial, but that does not detract from its evident emotional power. Walking through it was a major highlight of my all too brief visit to Berlin.
I have yet to encounter a European airport that remotely resembles an English one. Stansted Airport has a beautifully designed shell, to walk into it should be like entering a large open and airy tent, a cool, spacious place you're instantly at ease with and can find your way around. Instead you arrive into a visually confusing entrance, so much demands your attention as you're barraged by information and a layout that isn't instantly comprehensible. After check in you quickly find yourself ushered into a cramped bazaar, under retail duress in very tawdry looking circumstances. What is worse is that you have to take half your clothes off in public, be x-rayed, your shoes scanned and the privacy of your luggage invaded, before you even get to it. It wasn't worth the wait.
Having said goodbye to my luggage for an hour or two, I waited for my plane to be ready to board, it was already gone 5 am and the retail malls were just stirring into life. In English airports shops are crammed into the smallest of spaces, to maximise rental income, which creates a pokey and oppressive sense of space. The piped music and flashy shop fittings remind one of a tart, all lip gloss and heavily applied eye shadow, trying hard to be alluring but ending up being vulgar and repulsive.
Once the flight gate was open I was off, I couldn't wait to get out of that trashy corral. Just a quick dash to the loos and then on to my departure lounge. An atmosphere surrounds the layout of Stansted, it feels like an environmental experiment which, being only temporary, will soon be replaced by a permanent version that will make more sense. This feeling extends to the toilets and the departure lounges. Whilst I sat looking bleary eyed around at my fellow early risers, it dawned on me why this was - both spaces are constructed from exactly the same materials. My departure lounge looked for all the world as if it were formed from recycled portaloo cabins. One could readily expect signs apologising, not for the inconvenience, but for looking like one.
Some interior design decisions confound logic and experience; knowing the volume of travellers passing through a busy airport like Stansted, what self respecting designer thinks its a good place to lay down carpet. Carpets that are stained from all manner of liquid spillages ( speakable and unspeakable ) ,have ground into them dust, fag ash and random spits of gum, the pile crushed then formed into wrinkles and rucks from the ceaseless barrage of luggage trolleys dragged across them. Carpet doesn't make an airport any quieter or a cosier place to be, it just transforms it into a grim, grubby, and gross place to be. Rip all the carpets up at once and lay some shiny linoleum - please!
If you descend from Arrivals/Departures the aesthetics take a turn for the worse. You enter a concrete bunker, where service ducts and pipes move in parallel with passengers trying to find their bus or train platform. It leaves an impression that money ran out and this perfunctory basement was all they could afford. All pretence at creating a comfortable, pleasantly human environment vanishes and you are left in a place where alienation is your only option. Some spaces seem designed for criminal activity, in this case for muggings and a good kicking in the underpass.
Arrivals at Berlin's Schonefeld Airport was a noticeable calmer and more relaxed space. It's not really an international airport, so it hasn't to deal with anything like the same amount of passengers passing through its gates. It is, however, clean, well maintained and uncluttered by the confusing plethora of signs and advertising that frequently blights and bares down on you in English airports. German signs appear to be fewer in number, only telling you essential information, often in easily understood symbolic form. The designers have taken simple and bold decisions, like making advertising spaces go from floor to ceiling across whole walls, and integral to the aesthetic effect of a space. The shopping area is contained to one broad unfussy corridor, the shops consisting of two duty free, a bakers/cafe and a burger king. The appearance is of a spacious, clean and visually pleasant place to be, and what's more, there wasn't a strip of carpet in sight, anywhere! When I see this level of care and attention I despair of being English, we are so often revealed to be clumsy amateurs when it comes to designing effective, efficient and human spaces, it is shameful.
