Comments Off on “Babe, we have to hang out!”: Sedating loneliness with an Instagram comment
When I reflect on the dizzying fact that it’s been two years since graduating high school, off the back of a bizarre late adolescent experience, floating in 5km bubbles of government-permitted social engagement and filtering my life through a cycle of apps to make my tortured seventeen-year-old existence look like a dream, I have to wonder: how well do I know the people I graduated with? Are we friends? Would I call them my friend, but would they then smile awkwardly at the proposition?
Does an Instagram comment make someone my friend?
The results are in: we’re the loneliest age group in Australia. According to the Melbourne Institute’s Household, Income and Labour Dynamics in Australia (HILDA) Report, 24.8% of Australians aged 15–24 ‘often feel very lonely’. This statistic rose steadily in the twenty years between 2001 and 2021 from 18.5% (some of the lowest rates of loneliness of any age group) to almost 25% (the very highest rates among all age groups).
A spike in strong responses in 2020 shows us that the pandemic was not guiltless in this rise, and rightly so. We’re now left with a generation of 15 to 24-year-olds who spent their most formative years reliant on digitised relationships to maintain a sense of connection. As much as it sounds like a jab delivered down the nose of a disgruntled grandparent at family Christmas, it’s our reality.
It’s easy to turn to the most apparent cause of this resounding sentiment of loneliness to explain the phenomenon. Many teenagers, particularly in metropolitan Melbourne and Sydney, spent days on end seeing only the faces of their family and neighbours, hearing their friends’ voices only through FaceTime or grainy, mid-Among Us game Discord conversations (the darkest of dark times). Physical isolation is obviously conducive to immense loneliness, only worsened by the fatigue inherent to the need to make a consistent effort to connect when natural, passive connection is taken away. Already, today’s Australian twenty-something-year-olds have developed a perception of their own connectedness and loneliness — that they are perpetually connected, and immune to isolation — completely distinct from that of our predecessors.
But there’s an underappreciated phenomenon that permeates our social lives, and one which throws our certainty in our connectedness to others into limbo: the ‘D tier’ friendship, the serial commenter yet frequent brush-paster in the street, the capitalised text conversationalist yet quietly awkward in-person small-talker. The digitisation of our relationships has created a new force of loneliness: a false sense of closeness with those whose lives we observe online.
Our reliance on social media is both beautiful and disastrous. I cherish that a confessional second-account story post allows me access to the most complex inner thoughts of someone I talked to in one food tech practical in Year 9 and never spoke to again. I cherish that they likely have the most elementary knowledge of not only my life but, quite frankly, who on Earth I am at all. I cherish that I have never once had to wonder what almost every person I shared my high school graduation with is up to these days, because their beautifully curated spring photo dumps have comprehensively informed me of their new smoking habit, their well-highlighted hair, their somehow-prevailing friendship with the girl they claimed to despise at 13, and their proudly boasted techno expertise. I know what they’re doing. They know what I’m doing. We know each other, quite surely.
But upon recent trips home and circumstantial run-ins with high school semi-friends, I’ve become less sure. I haven’t spoken to them for two whole years, and upon bumping into them, have had very little beyond pleasantries to discuss. I’m not even sure what degree they do, or whether they study at all. I walk away with the humbling realisation that they might just be more than their highlights, hair-related or otherwise, and we might, in fact, no longer be friends. And for a moment, I feel lonely: how many of the people I remember as friends are actually strangers, whose Instagram stories just flash over my screen?
It is this illusion of closeness we gain from our almost-parasocial ties to old acquaintances that makes pangs of loneliness sting all the harsher. We have collectively constructed a culture where our connections are governed by brief online interactions — over-enthusiastic comments left on an artfully angled selfie in a Macbook photobooth tab, floating red hearts deposited into the like bank of a carousel post of cocktails — and for as long as they continue, how could we ever be lonely? When hundreds of people watch your life unfold, how could you possibly claim to be alone? But when these grounding interactions with the people I so confidently and dismissively label friends strike fear into my heart that perhaps having an active audience doesn’t make one connected, I unbalance, and fall unceremoniously off my (Instagrammable) high horse into a state of miserable, albeit dramatised, solitude.
There are then two ways for a young person with social media presence to be lonely. Conventional loneliness will never disappear; humans are fated to feel isolated, misunderstood, or alone, despite being surrounded by people, at some point or another. The difference for our generation, however, is that we have unfettered access to a fast-release sedative to this type of isolation, which we can tap into at leisure: online validation!
Feeling miserable at the state of your friendships or popularity? Post about it! Scroll your tagged posts! Check that you do indeed consistently get more birthday messages on your Facebook timeline each year, even though that’s the most archaic and meaningless possible way to be wished happy birthday!
The comedown from the high of this digital reassurance, however, is where this secondary loneliness lies. By plugging into easy-access ‘connection’, exempting ourselves from the reflection and humility that comes with a bit of good old-fashioned loneliness, we stand to suffer much more from the wearing-off of what has become our favourite drug. In those moments when we realise that knowing what someone is doing does not give us insight into who they are, we learn that the isolation cure we’ve created not only fails but creates a new problem: the illusion that our connections are sounder than they are, and therefore that they don’t require maintenance. By letting friendships lie in empty promises of drinks in TikTok comments, we risk losing sight of the need to make good on intentions to make them worthwhile. We are lonelier for our blindness to the falsehood of Instagram friendship, and we’ll only continue to become more so in growing up, and apart, and realising that the immediate proximity and ease of connection that high school gifted us cannot be replaced by perfunctory online interactions.
Loneliness and social media go hand in hand to make the inherent uncertainty of being in your early twenties all the more complicated, obscuring reality with illusions of prevailing friendships from our early teens and ever-close friend groups with everything in common. When ruined, these illusions leave us vulnerable to a deeper sense of aloneness — one which can be rectified not through yet another online broadcast, but only through making good on all those hang-out-next-time-you’re-in-town messages.
As much as my grandparents like to tell me that we’ve lost touch with real human connection, we haven’t. We’ve made unfathomably good use of an unimaginable tool of connection, and even if we may lose sight of the forest for the trees of this connection by prioritising conceptual connection over reality, we can be empowered by social media to create and maintain friendships in real, tangible ways.
Text your high school friends and tell them you’d like to hang out. Comment on your distant mutual friends’ thirst trap that you’d like to hang out. Reply to your ex-best-friend’s story while drunk, tell them you miss them, and you’d like to hang out. And then hang out. The internet is always a lonely place, but the real world certainly isn’t.
Comments Off on What arts degrees are really costing us
Upon making the ever-predictable switch from the flashy PPE degree to the humble Bachelor of Arts at the end of my first semester of university, the typical reaction — after a cursory glance at my outfit, followed by a quip that I ‘look more like an Arts student anyway’ — was that of good-natured derision: ‘studying unemployment, then?’. After all, as one jokes, I may as well have taken several tens of thousands of dollars and tossed them in the creek. The disdain towards arts degrees as endeavours of childish passion or directionless experimentation is one which I have internalised since learning of their existence and the attitudes they elicit, and one which has been perpetuated for generations. The idea that the BA is professionally futile sits smugly in the minds of Australians, young and old, not budging for any desperate attempts by arts students (myself included, of course) made to polish its colloquial reputation. They’re unemployable, plain and simple!
Adding fuel to the fire for the status of arts degrees is the ever-looming rise in their prices, a lingering hangover from the Coalition government’s 2021 implementation of the ‘Job Ready Graduates’ (JRG) scheme, which increased student contribution to humanities degrees by 113 percent. 2024 is the first year that the average arts degree costs a student over $50,000. The scheme has been subject to heavy criticism by Australian universities but nevertheless forced the tightening of their budgetary belts to respond to the withdrawal of government funding to the humanities. Close to home, several Bachelor programs such as Development Studies and Middle East and Asian Studies have been struck off the ANU’s degree offerings in light of the changes.
The JRG scheme has, however, proven a failure, with the subsidisation of ‘in-demand’ non-humanities degrees making negligible changes to interest in the arts. The Labor government is soon set to reflect in new policy a need to reconstruct the scheme and its fee arrangements ‘before it causes long-term and entrenched damage to Australian higher education’, according to education minister Jason Clare.
However, the impacts have already been felt. Pre-existing notions of arts degrees as futile, unemployable ventures have snowballed, with their emergent association with financial irresponsibility and privileged pretension. All this against the backdrop of the cost-of-living crisis and persistent HECS-HELP indexation has led to the warped image of the BA as being accessible exclusively to those cushioned by wealth and guarantees of stability.
This image is not innocuous, and threatens not only a new arts student’s fragile ego but the essence of the study of humanities itself. Studies of politics, literature, history, anthropology, development and sociology rely inherently on diversity of perspective and challenge the structures that govern human interaction to foster the critical thinking skills required to maintain it. For as long as arts degrees are believed, understandably, to be lying behind significant social and financial barriers, the arts degree will fall victim to the fatal flaw of any area of study: homogeneity.
ANU’s status as the university with the lowest proportion of low-income students in the country makes this all the more apparent. The mere fact that the typical ice-breaker question in the first tutorial of Introduction to Philosophy was which inordinately expensive residential hall each of us resided at was evidence enough that diversity of background and perspective is, for the most part, not the forte of the arts cohort. The reality remains that for many prospective students from low socio-economic backgrounds, these expensive courses are cast as a rich kids’ playground, where ideas from well-funded high school philosophy classes are recycled and jargon is revered. Admittedly, epiphenomenal consciousness can have even the most avid wordsmith’s eyes rolling. Still, it is the critical thinking skills that humanities courses seek to attune that are the victims of the stereotype of pretentiousness that surrounds them.
The development of literacy, critical analysis and communication skills — emboldening the idea that more than one solution to a problem exists and that subjectivity holds value — are the arts degree’s overt strengths and those its defenders eagerly spout. However, as far as their usefulness is concerned, for every prospective student who refrains from pursuing tertiary education by virtue of its financial impossibility, the quality of these skills diminishes.
Suppose there are not wide ranges of perspectives and criticism in the classrooms of these courses. In that case, they will never truly serve to develop the ‘adaptability and ability to help shape change’ proclaimed by our university as the degree’s purpose. What’s more, at a time when artificial intelligence has thrown the replicability status of human critical thinking and retrospection into question, to hike the prices of the courses designed to foster them such that they are confined to the realm of academic indulgence, rather than the accessible mainstream, is irresponsible. It only acts to give arts degrees unique futility.
In a time where HECS no longer universally cushions young people’s tertiary education decisions and university education maintains its culture of exclusivity, a costly course thought to be undertaken by those with the assurance of employability and financial stability is ‘useless’ insofar as it remains restricted and stained by elitism. Change to the JRG scheme is imperative; job readiness is never achieved through punishing students’ pursuit of passion, but by opening opportunities to bring invaluable diversity of attitude and perspective to the classrooms, training the future (very employable, thank you very much) professionals of Australia.
Comments Off on ANU Arts Revue: Sending Brian Back to Kansas
Arts Revue opens with a joke. Not a skit, a single joke. The keyboard player gets up, walks to centre stage, and announces that he’s going to tell a joke that’s ‘okay to say’, because he heard it on the radio.
“How does a pornstar get paid?
Income.”
(Get it, because it sounds like in-cum?)
It wasn’t a bad joke – it was fine, it got a laugh – but we were left confused. Who was this guy, who didn’t appear in a single skit after his one joke? Why was this the opener? Were they stalling while they sorted out technical issues? Did he just really want to be a part of it, while also playing his keyboard?
Arts Revue left all of these questions unanswered, but it gave us a great show to make up for it. The just-fine pornstar joke is thankfully followed by an excellent ‘Life is a Highway’ parody, ‘Life is a Parkes Way’, full of jokes about the perils of driving in Canberra. This was the first of many solid parodies. A special shoutout to ‘Love is an Open Door/There’s Vomit on the Floor’, an ode to a scenario many a Senior Resident has faced on a Thursday night, and a long but funny and oddly heartwarming skit where the Phantom of the Opera joins the Backstreet Boys. Though these were all good, the highlight had to be the number about society keeping Miss Piggy and Kermit apart. The costuming – a frog suit, a dress and a cheap wig – was exactly what you’d expect, and Georgia Mcculloch’s performance as Kermit was especially moving. From Kermit to Brian Schmidt’s American accent to the practised cadence of a newsreader, Mcculloch’s unique talent for impressions – ie. ‘doing funny voices’ – meant she never once broke character.
If a powerful, poignant anthem about the enduring power of frog-pig sex doesn’t sound like your kind of thing, then Arts Revue provided plenty of ANU-related comedy for the average revue enjoyer. A breakup between ANU and Schmidt, where his Nobel Prize is the other woman, captured the heartbreak of Schmidt’s departure. Even the Devil himself, accompanied by a grovelling minion he had an insane amount of sexual tension with, visited to announce his plans for a new and improved ANU. These ranged from not-that-bad-maybe-an-improvement-actually (sinking Wamburun into the depths of Hell) to downright evil (quadruple-factor authentication for every sign-on).
Not all of the skits were this good. A few were just drawn-out puns. A woman goes to the doctor about a lump on her arm; it’s Taylor Cyst, a cyst that plays Taylor Swift songs. Bird watchers make jokes about seeing nice pairs of tits. The latter does get points for walking right up to my co-writer and implying they had thrush, though. Excellent audience participation, almost as good as the bit where they turned off all the lights and ran a guided meditation, lulling us all into a false sense of security so that they could steal our belongings. Thankfully everything was returned after the show – no need to press charges.
Charlie Joyce Thompson deserves a special mention for bringing an extra laugh to every skit he starred in. His delivery, accents, acting and improv were fantastic and he had us keeling over, whether he was playing Miss Piggy or a South African High Court judge.
We saw Arts Revue on the opening night, so we were ready to forgive any tech issues. Which is good, because there were a fair few of them: lights going up randomly during scenes that were supposed to be dark (at least we think so), Taylor Swift playing during the devil’s speech and the wrong Powerpoint playing during a student presentation skit – somehow, this last one was still kind of funny.
Nonetheless, Arts Revue proved a funny, well-coordinated, well-acted performance. Its strengths were its actors and its parodies and musical numbers, each one somehow better than the last. It ended with a bang: a parody of ‘I’m Just Ken’ to the tune of “I’m Just Brian” and mashed up with even more Backstreet Boys. A fantastic way to the end night, and a charming and funny end to the revue season.
Comments Off on Interview with ANU alum, director and producer of The Giants, Rachael Antony
Few figures have had as powerful an impact on the course of Australian history as Bob Brown.
Currently showing in cinemas, The Giants is a feature length biopic directed and produced by ANU alumn Rachael Antony, exploring the life and accomplishments of Bob Brown alongside a stunning portrayal of the history of the Tasmanian forest and landscape. The documentary reveals his journey from doctor in Tasmania, to eventual leader of the first Greens party, and hero of the Australian environmentalism movement.
The Giants skilfully traces the achievements of Bob Brown as champion and protector of the Tasmanian forest and Franklin River, beautifully interwoven with the lifecycle and stories of the forest itself. While much of Bob’s life has been subject of public interest and knowledge, The Giants takes viewers behind the curtain. The film explores Bob’s private world and the important figures who have continually supported him behind the scenes. Showing the parallel life stories of Bob and the forest he treasured, side by side, The Giants invites viewers to come to know the trees as Bob did; wise custodians of the land and complex beings with their own history to tell.
Seeking to both entertain and educate, The Giants explores the horrors of clear felling and logging that plague the Tasmanian forest. While tracing the journey of Brown’s courageous fight to save both the trees and the Franklin River, viewers are reminded of the willing ignorance of political figures against whom Bob fought, showing (as if Australians needed further reminding) the sheer greed and recklessness of private interest and political parties’ historic, blatant disregard for Australia’s natural treasures. This destruction continues to this day. I suggest readers check out the Bob Brown Foundation Instagram to follow the journey of Lenny who is currently attached in protest to a cable logger, protecting the forest around her from logging, which is a critical habitat for Swift parrots.
Breathtaking drone shots, archival footage, and intriguing animations work together to create a stunning cinemascape for viewers, bringing the trees to life and immersing viewers in the world that Bob fought so hard to protect. For aspiring activists, those interested in the origins of Australian politics, or any lover of the natural world, The Giants is a worthwhile watch.
I sat down with Rachel to chat about making The Giants, the inspiration behind the film, and why more people should put Tasmania on their travel lists.
To start off with, I’d love to know a little bit about you and your background, and how you came to be directing and producing this documentary?
Long story short, I studied in Canberra. I studied anthropology and politics. And even though I didn’t work in either of those fields, I found that they were really quite helpful because I think both anthropology and politics ask you to question your assumptions and to ask questions of the status quo, and that’s really the starting point of any storytelling, I think. Later I studied journalism at RMIT. So I started out as a writer, and then I guess as time has evolved, and video has evolved, I’ve branched into different mediums and worked in TV and online video.
Originally the idea was to get people off screens and get them engaged into events, but based around the screens, I guess. So one of the things that came out of that was we wanted to do this big event for the anniversary of Cathy Freeman’s win at the Sydney Olympics in 2000. So we want to do that in 2020, and then what happened was everybody loved this idea, but we couldn’t get any money. Then we ended up getting some funding from ABC to make a documentary and that was the best possible thing that could have happened because September 2020, everybody was locked down, stuck at home watching television. Yeah. So that’s how that came about.
So then once we finished Freeman, I guess we were thinking about telling stories about people whose stories are bigger than themselves. Because I think, while people can be fascinating individually, the stories that they tell in terms of the way that their life is, and the messages, the bigger that is, the more compelling it is.
We were thinking about other people who we felt were really interesting and to be honest, really only one name came up and that was Bob Brown.
I think one thing that we were quite concerned about was the messages we’re getting about climate change. We have a kid ourselves, so we have this very tangible link to the next generation. Which is not to say that we wouldn’t have cared otherwise, because we did. Then of course, with the bushfires, what we saw was a massive amount of our native forests destroyed. And then soon after that, you know, while native animals were being pushed to the brink of extinction, we saw state logging operations coming in and conduct salvage logging, so removing old dead trees from the forest that – if they had just been left – would have served as habitat because various species of birds or possums can live in dead trees, and it gets them off the ground away from predators.
At this point, we just felt this was taking things too far, humans will never have enough. We’ll never say ‘no, we’re done now’. It’s always about more, things are really out of balance. We thought ‘this is crazy’, and around the same time we have been getting really inspired by some of the reading we had been doing. So we’ve been reading the Hidden Life of Trees by Peter Wohlleben, Finding the Mother Tree by Suzanne Simard, and they’re making us start thinking differently about forests and trees and also realising how crucial they were.
We made this film pretty quickly, so it’s hard to remember exactly how it all came together. But what we came up with was telling the story of Bob Brown, intertwined with the life of trees. The reason we did that is because we felt that by embedding the forest into the film from the outset, it sort of explained Bob’s worldview and why he’s worked so hard to save these forests and why we should all care about this as well. We also wanted to show the majesty and beauty of these places. Keeping in mind that, you know, Australia is one of the few places left on earth that does have primary forest. In Europe, they basically have no primary forest. So this is a very long story, but um, an answer to your question ‘how did it end up producing directing?’ well, a whole lot of life events.
One of my favourite parts of the film was the way it wove together Bob’s personal life with the hidden story of the trees and embedded his story within the story of the forest. I got the impression of so much richness and depth to Bob’s life. How did you decide which aspects of Bob’s personal life you were going to kind of focus on?
So we decided we would tell the story of Bob, intertwine it with a life of trees, everybody said that was a good idea. Nobody said ‘you’re crazy, how are you going to put Bob’s life into 45 minutes and the trees into 45 minutes?’ And so the answer to that is, we didn’t.
The film was at an hour and fifty three minutes, we could not get it any shorter. Our first cut was three hours, and we hadn’t even finished making the film. So to answer that, we really had to be quite brutal. I guess, because we had intertwined the life of trees, we had meeting points for both. So that gave us a trajectory, from you know, seedling, childhood, to sapling, maturity, and grandfather elder, if you like.
So we knew where we were going, then we needed to figure out which things to put in, which not. In the end, we had to get rid of a lot of stuff that’s actually pretty fascinating. Bob tried to pass gun control in Tasmania, years before Port Arthur happened and both Liberal and Labour parties shot it down, figuratively speaking. We didn’t put in the fact that he and another bunch of environmentalists were sued for $20 million by the Gunns wood chipping company in Tasmania.
We didn’t put in the fact that Bob once took out a mortgage to pay the ransom of an Australian pirate who had been kidnapped in Somalia.
So I know this is so much more, so what we had to do is this broad brushstroke story that connected as much as possible with those key convictions. He talks about optimism, he talks about defiance and he talks about compassion. So we found those stories, the ones that told those stories most strongly, or pointed into the direction of the forest, are the ones that we went to. So it was really quite a heartbreaking process. Also, obviously Paul [Bob’s partner] is a central character, but I’m sure if you’ve seen the films, you know that at every step there’s this amazing woman, right in there, doing exactly the same thing, he doesn’t do it alone. Each one of those women has a whole backstory. Basically we could have made a mini series, but we didn’t, we’ve made a film. So yeah, so the answer is, we just took the bits that told the story the best, and then we had to kill our darlings, so to speak.
Obviously we were always going to talk about his relationship with Paul, and then that became a slightly bigger part of the story, because while we always wanted to present that essentially as a love story, obviously it was complicated by the legal and social context of the time, so we needed to provide some background to that. So we have Paul, who was involved in gay law reform in Tasmania, tell that story about the movement that was headed up by people like Rodney Croome. So that did become a little bit bigger, but I think it also became stronger because of it.
When you were envisioning the documentary, how were you hoping people would feel walking away from it? Was there something in particular that you wanted people to feel or be influenced towards?
We felt Bob was an interesting character because he’s a baby boomer, but his interest in his message is so contemporary. We felt that a lot of the dialogue around climate change has pitted one generation against the other: the generation that’s old and has benefited from everything and stuffed it up for the younger generation. And a lot of that is true, but not entirely true. We felt that the best way to tackle these issues was in a cross generational way, whether it’s on action or voting, or whatever it is. We thought that Bob, because he’s an older person, but he speaks to younger audiences, we felt that he was potentially a unifying person in some ways. What we wanted people to feel was wonder and marvel for our forest and our natural heritage, which is so extraordinary. Most Australians know about the Redwoods, but I don’t think many people know about the Eucalyptus regnans. People would be horrified if they thought ‘oh, you would just pulp the redwoods for toilet paper’, but that’s apparently okay in Australia!
But it’s not, because 70% to 80% of people want native logging stopped, they just don’t understand what it really entails. People think it’s been used to make fine furniture, but it’s not, only 2% is used for long term wood products, 60% of it is left on the forest floors, and it’s set on fire. It transforms from a carbon storage facility of a forest to carbon emissions. It’s just insanity.
So we want people to feel a wonderment about the forest, but we also wanted them to feel hopeful and galvanised, if that’s possible. We didn’t want to make a depressing documentary. We can’t watch depressing documentaries and definitely can’t spend two and a half years making one. So while some of the subject material was challenging, I think overall it’s a hopeful film, and I think overall, Bob is a hopeful person and you do need hope right now.
We just need to stay focused on the idea that if we are hopeful and if we act, then change will come. And as Bob says, it was a long campaign to save the Franklin, eighteen months before it was saved, it looked like it was doomed. So eighteen months isn’t a long time, it’s not even two years. So what we think is, let’s talk about native forest logging now and let’s finish it now. Because if we’ve got money for submarines and football stadiums and tax cuts for very rich people, then we have money to stop this industry that’s costing us money and to make meaningful action on climate change.
There’s some absolutely stunning shots of the Tasmanian landscape throughout the film. How did you balance trying to get those shots with trying not to disturb or harm the ecosystems and wildlife where you were filming?
We worked with a team called The Tree Projects in Tasmania. They’re professional tree climbers, and they helped to rig cameras high up into the canopy. So the opening shot that you see is not a drone camera. We showed the forest in a number of ways. One was using cameras, one was using drones, and one was 3D scanning of the forest working with an organisation called TerraLuma, at University of Tasmania. Then sending the data to Alex Le Guillou who’s a French animator, and he turned it into point cloud animation. The animation you see in the film is actually an actual tree. So what we did was actually cast three trees like you would do three characters. Eucalyptus regnans, which are amongst the tallest plants from the world; Huon pines, one of the oldest lived and myrtle beech in the Tarkine, which is one the most diversity rich trees. One of the people we spoke to described it as a ‘great barrier reef of trees’ because it’s covered in lichen and algae and stuff. Very interesting trees. So in answer to your question, for instance that tree in the Tarkine, it’s just inside an area near a clear fell. So basically, the Bob Brown foundation stopped them logging it, otherwise it wouldn’t have been there. They’re really taking direct action, using whatever means they have to protect the Tarkine and to protect native forest in Tasmania, as are, you know, groups across Australia. And it’s really thanks to their direct action that we could film that tree, because literally, it’s next in line.
Speaking about some of the other groups that are operating in Australia, while you were making this documentary, I think it was at the same time that Blockade Australia was taking action that was very reminiscent of Bob’s methods, these really direct, not aggressive, but impactful stages of a protest. How do you kind of feel about that? Did it give you any similar hope, reflecting on those young people doing such similar work to what Bob did during his life?
I didn’t think specifically about Blockade Australia, but, obviously, we’re all very well aware of the school strikes and all those other environmental grassroots movements, and also youth movements. At the time, I remember just before COVID-19, when there were these massive street protests, and there was debate over whether kids should be on the street or not, and my personal feeling was always to say “when there’s kids on the street, it’s a symptom that adults haven’t stepped up and done their job, so this is the only means left to them.” They can’t vote, they don’t have other means of power. So for me, it was really a symptom of adult failure. I guess we wanted to contribute to that.
I think that when you think about climate environmentalism, it’s very easy to feel overwhelmed. But ultimately, everybody can do something.
When I interviewed Christine Milne, she said something very interesting, which was that environmental movements need everyone, they need people to protest, sometimes they need people to get arrested, but they also need graphic designers or web people. Ultimately, the world just needs people who can just have an environmental frame of mind.
Maybe you can’t protest, but maybe if you’re in health or education or departments, you often have within yourself the power to ask questions to make changes, and these can add up to quite a lot. I think when you look at Bob Brown and all he’s achieved in his life, him being one person alone, but making that decision is just really the fundamental start.
Something I really loved about the film was how it wove archival footage of the protests on the Franklin together with recent footage of Bob Brown. What was the process like of finding that footage?
It was really massive because Bob Brown has basically put on fifty years of activism, so he’s been in the public eye for that time. So, we had an extraordinary amount of material to work with, but that was also the problem as well, because there was so much to work through so we did a number of things. We got a lot of news, archived from the ABC, and probably most of what you see of the Franklin is that, but the more recent Franklin footage was sourced from other places.
One of the reasons why we showed modern footage of the Franklin is that the older footage, I think, fails to capture the beauty because it feels a bit faded and it doesn’t quite have the aesthetic quality of contemporary footage. So we wanted to really show, ‘actually this is how it looks and it is really spectacular’. Also access from the National Library of Australia, they have Bob Brown’s personal archive there, which is again, massive amounts of boxes, and we were able to go through that to get childhood photos and reports, and letters and get up the idea of who was crucially important in his personal life, and then there are a number of documentaries as well that we could source material from. So, let us say that we have an archive producer who basically has this spreadsheet from hell, so it’s a huge job.
When you were going through the process of filming, you said it was over two and a half years. Was there a particular memorable or special moment either with Bob Brown or maybe just with the trees, that stands out to you from your time making the film?
Well, so when I say two and a half years, that’s not filming, that’s doing everything so you know, producing, scripting, and post production everything. We did the shoot in Liffey, at Bob’s farmhouse and it was really, I guess, interesting, because he had talked about this house as like this companion and this friend. So it was interesting to go there and see how it was, and suddenly just to be struck by the warmth of that environment and how beautiful it is. Because you’ve got the farmhouse, you’ve got the mountains, you’ve got the river and all the elements are in place, and I feel like there’s something in that landscape that really balances Bob’s idea, which is like you’ve got this little human space, which is the hut, but there’s space for nature all around it. And that for me sort of encompasses the way he looks at the world. We should take up a little bit of space but let everything else flourish.
What’s interesting is the Tarkine where we filmed, it’s really 30km away from Cradle Mountain National Park, which is one of the biggest tourism draw cards in Tasmania. So you could literally go there and just drive along [to the Tarkine], and that would be like the perfect tourism adventure, but it’s just being logged and Tanya Plibersek is yet to rule on whether that forest will become a toxic waste dump for a Chinese mining company. So really, the more people who go to the Tarkine and talk about it, the better, because this is an absolutely astonishing rainforest and the Bob Brown Foundation has this encampment out there sometimes and you can go and meet people and find out about the place.
When you stand in that forest, it’s weird, it’s like you’re not standing on ground. You’re standing on this sort of spongy surface. It’s like millions of years of organic matter beneath your feet and it’s so quiet, it’s just really unworldly. So I really encourage people to go there, as Bob says, the Tarkine is a very arresting place.
THE GIANTS is now screening at Palace Electric Canberra, find all screenings: https://www.thegiantsfilm.com
There will be a National Day of Action for Native Forests – including Canberra on August 19. Details here: https://defendthegiants.org/events/
Few figures have had as powerful an impact on the course of Australian history as Bob Brown.
It’s a bright day, warm and lazy. The kind where you might describe a nectar-gorged bee zig-zagging towards the hive in the park, though there aren’t many this year. Grandmother always kept a beautiful garden, and it’s taking full advantage of the sun this year. Brilliant colours line the flower beds. Lavender, rose, orchid, chrysanthemum, daffodil, and more sprout and bloom.
Boy walks along the path up to the house. It’s distinctive, awash with colour in an insipid street, in a neighbourhood full of yuppies and middle-aged couples one bad day away from a mid-life crisis, the threads of their lives unravelling before them. The path up to Grandmother’s house is red brick and curls up the lawn to the porch. The door is black and an old brass knocker in the shape of a fish is set into it. The curtains are open, in the room to the left of the door. Boy knocks on the door, and presently a pottering along the hallway on the other side is audible.
“Who is it?”
“It’s ______!”
“Oh! Your mother said you were coming!”
The door swings open, and Grandmother wears a light shirt and some simple trousers, looking as if ready to go to the garden.
“Come in, come in! I’ll put some tea on!” Grandmother’s voice is already trailing away as Boy enters the house and moves to the lounge room, sitting on a floral-patterned chair, with a small cushion.
“It’s so good to see you again! It’s been such a while! Most of the time it’s just me running myself around here.” Grandmother places down a small china tea set, and a plate with biscuits.
“Yeah … Sorry I haven’t come out to see you more often. Did Mother tell you why I came to see you?”
“When ______ called me? She said something about some sort of school project.” Clearly in Grandmother’s eyes could be seen the glint of curiosity.
“Well, we have to interview our grandparents about something. Kinda like chronicling the past, or what life used to be.” Boy paused. “And I think it would be good to do it now, before …” trailing off. Grandmother makes no indication of having heard this comment.
“Well then. Did you have any questions in mind? Or were you just planning to ask this on the fly?” Grandmother chuckled. “I’ve got a lot I can tell you.”
“Pick a favourite for me. An all-timer.” Boy set down a small tape recorder.
It was the middle of winter, before ______ met me, before I moved here. In that time, if you were lucky, it would snow, but more often we got these bitingly cold winds, sleet and hail and rain. You’d slide across the road in the car and fall flat on your a-, A pause. -butt, walking back from the shops. I remember one time I’d been sent by my own mother to get lard and soap, and I came home soaking wet after tripping and falling straight into a puddle on the way back. Anyway, that’s how it was then – I could give you a million more examples.
On one of these days, some friends of mine from back then, friends from high school, though of course then it was the done thing to leave high school early, so we couldn’t have been older than ______ is now. They’d wanted to see something new at the pictures … I can’t for the life of me remember what exactly it was called now, something scary, though. So, we’d gone in, me and a few girlfriends and maybe a boy or two … my memory is lacking there. A laugh. Anyway, the movie, it started off in this old house, derelict, you get the picture. These teenagers had broken in there, heard it was the local haunt of a ghost, and at first they hadn’t heard anything. There were a few fake scares – like the teens scaring each other or playing around with something in the séance. But, later on, things started to happen that they couldn’t shrug off anymore – it started with things seeming to move, or scraping noises from below … Hm? Oh, don’t worry, I’m going somewhere. I’m just trying to set a- a mood. Another laugh.
Anyway, this wasn’t a big budget movie, so it looked corny sometimes. It was still creepy, definitely, but it- it was pretty funny in some parts, to be honest. At this point, too, we’d still not seen … whatever it was, that was terrorising these kids. It was just noises and shadows and flashes. So, about halfway through, we were following one of the kids, they’d been separated from the group, and the house seemed to twist and turn and morph around them while they tried to navigate …
And then sitting in the cinema, we just heard this … low, rolling boooooooom. It’s so hard to describe the sound. It went through your body and out the other side and kept going. The building shook where it stood. At this point … we’d all forgotten about the movie in an instant. The theatre was … was nearly full, and there was a mad dash to get out the door, get outside, see what happened.
And outside, there was a billowing pillar of smoke rising into the sky, and a lurid orange and red glow, mixing with the sunset sky. Grey smoke was twisting up and mixing with the white clouds. You could start to hear sirens now, and some of my friends had already hopped in their car, to get a better look and …
I had stood outside the cinema, fixated on the smoke and fire, and some of my friends had also stayed … And then after a while, I don’t know how long we heard – didn’t see –
Grandmother stopped here.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes … yes, but, I think I will have to finish this one another time.”
The tape recorder clicks off.
Originally published in Woroni Vol. 72 Issue 2 ‘To Be Confirmed’
Think your name would look good in print? Woroni is always open for submissions. Email write@woroni.com.au with a pitch or draft. You can find more info on submitting here.
Perhaps my ambivalence is a defence mechanism. If I am not certain of anything that I do or say, then I do not have to take responsibility for anything. I wish.
Oscar Wilde, in one of my favourite books, wrote, “to define is to limit.” This line was said by Lord Henry Wotton in The Picture of Dorian Gray, whom I would not recommend viewing as any sort of role model. Dorian Gray does and it corrupts him. Unfortunately, I too seem to carry this philosophy to a fault.
I like to keep my options open. Instead of committing myself to one thing, I allow room for variation and unforeseeable changes or for another opportunity that I had predicted, and may have wanted to keep as a plan B.
My ambiguity certainly has its drawbacks. Indeed, it has gotten me into a number of very uncomfortable predicaments. By not definitely saying “no,” I am not saying “yes” – but people have either misunderstood, or taken advantage of this propensity for ambiguity.
Without trying to, my fluctuating decisions frustrated family and friends. It’s difficult to make plans by replying with “maybe,” instead of “yes,” or “I’ll try to get there in the evening,” instead of “I’ll be there at 6.”
Although I try to be punctual to appointments that I commit myself to, it is difficult for me to first commit myself to said appointments. On more than one occasion, I have shown up late to an event, not out of choice or fashion. Rather, until the very last minute before I had to leave, I was still flip-flopping over whether or not I should attend at all.
This uncertainty does not bring me pleasure. Quite the opposite. Never being able to make a decision for fear of making the wrong decision, in fact, can heighten my anxieties about almost anything. Going outside or meeting new people or eating a certain food or submitting an assignment or something else entirely. These worries make me more uncertain, which makes me worry even more. It’s a positive feedback loop, which is not as nice as it sounds.
I usually do not even realise that I am being indeterminate until someone points it to me or parodies my way of speaking. Once, I was making plans with a friend, deciding where to go and what to do. I cannot remember at all what I had said, but his response has reverberated around in my head ever since; “Oh my god, so vague.” He did not mean to be mean, at least that was not the impression I got. He was merely voicing his reasonable frustration about me not being able to stick to any sort of decision.
I do want to improve, though. If I don’t make my own decisions, I fear that I will end up merely drifting along, with no clear purpose or reason. Or worse, someone else may try to make these decisions for me. While that would take away a degree of the responsibility that I so fervently try to avoid, I do want to live my own life.
This year, I will try to be more certain. No, I will be more certain. Maybe.
Originally published in Woroni Vol. 72 Issue 2 ‘To Be Confirmed’
Think your name would look good in print? Woroni is always open for submissions. Email write@woroni.com.au with a pitch or draft. You can find more info on submitting here.
Comments Off on Jean-Michel Basquiat: Darling of Corporate America
You either die a tortured artist or live long enough to see your work printed on sneakers and phone cases. Unless you are Jean-Michel Basquiat, in which case you’ll do both.
More than thirty years after his premature death at the age of 27, the work of Basquiat remains highly visible in our society, particularly through consumable items. Should you wish to purchase an original Basquiat, you may find the $110.5 million price tag too steep. For a cheaper, more commercial equivalent you could turn instead to Casetify, Uniqlo, Urban Outfitters, Converse, Dr Martens, Supreme, Coach, or Yves Saint Laurent amongst others. All of these corporations have in recent times collaborated with the Basquiat estate on merchandise. It is invariably claimed such products demonstrate shared values between the late artist and their own brands.
The connections made between brands and Basquiat are tenuous and highly debatable. The narratives spun by marketing executives attempting to justify the appropriation of a highly critical body of work for a tote bag will always be ones which leave a sour taste in the mouth.
Tiffany & Co.’s most recent ad campaign, ABOUT LOVE, starring Beyoncé and Jay-Z and featuring Basquiat’s Equals Pi is one such egregious misappropriation of his work.
Equals Pi has been owned by private collectors since it was first displayed in 1982. Since then, it has been visible to the public only through magazine covers, where it was used as a prop for the cultural clout of its owners. Tiffany & Co. acquired the piece in August 2021 and then themselves placed it nonchalantly in the background of their ad behind Beyoncé for eight seconds total. Again, using the work as a piece of mise en scene, a mere prop for cultural clout.
The most outrageous element of Basquiat’s inclusion in this campaign occurred when the executives claimed the colouring of the painting was an intentional homage to Tiffany & Co. by Basquiat. His assistant Stephen Torton, who mixed the colours for Equals Pi, called this claim “absurd” and noted:
“They wouldn’t have let Jean-Michel into a Tiffany’s if he wanted to use the bathroom, or, if he went to buy an engagement ring and pulled a wad of cash out of his pocket. We couldn’t even get a cab.”
As Torton explained, corporations like Tiffany & Co. “speculate and monetize, commercialize and manipulate every manifestation of this rebellious genius … leave deciphering his message to those who know or leave it alone.” Reader, now I will make it so you are one who knows.
In 1978 Basquiat undertook his first organised venture as an artist. SAMO (short for Same Old Shit) was a graffiti moniker he adopted as a late teen with classmate Al Diaz. The duo had something to say and the walls and subway tunnels of Manhattan acted as a megaphone for their provocative and satirical messages. On the project, Diaz said: “[SAMO’s] art was meant in part to be satire on corporations.”
“SAMO AS AN ALTERNATIVE TO MASS-PRODUCED INDIVIDUALITY”
“SAMO AS AN END TO MINDWASH RELIGION, NOWHERE POLITICS AND BOGUS PHILOSOPHY”
“SAMO FOR THE SO-CALLED AVANT GARDE”
Following a falling-out between Basquiat and Diaz, in 1980 Basquiat scrawled SAMO IS DEAD across the walls of SoHo. This signalled the death of the partnership and the birth of Basquiat’s solo career. Two years later, following bouts of homelessness, Basquiat would make his first acquaintance with the deep pockets of art dealers and buyers. His first solo art show was hosted by the Annina Nosei Gallery in 1982 and he made $200,000 in one night. His profile and praise in the art world multiplied from this point onwards, however, so too did his critics.
No level of success as an artist relieved him of the oppression he faced as a Black man living in America in the 1980s. Systems of inequality had long been his inspiration though, and racism and class inequality featured heavily in his work at all points of his career. Basquiat’s art celebrated Blackness and frequently depicted Black protagonists in a world saturated by white artists and their white subjects. The stories he told centred around the experience of Black people in America, exploring the legacies of the slave trade, Jim Crow laws and police brutality. I highly recommend inspection of pieces such as The Guilt of Gold Teeth, Irony of the Negro Policeman and Untitled (History of the Black People).
His novel subject matter led sceptical critics to claim that Basquiat’s success was due to virtue signalling by the art world. In a time-honoured racist tradition, Basquiat’s success was attributed to the kindness of white people, rather than his own talents. According to his critics, Basquiat was not brilliant but rather was fetishised by the liberal-minded elites of a world he had no business being a part of. He was not a great artist, nor a pioneer of neo-expressionism, but someone whose “contribution to art is so miniscule as to be practically nil,” says Hilton Kramer.
The allegation of virtue signalling and this dismissal of Basquiat’s merit represents an incomprehensive assessment of his personal history. Basquiat came from a middle-class family and received an extensive education in art and art history, both from his mother and from institutions for gifted children. He spent his childhood in galleries and museums and was keenly aware of the cultural moment that his work was situated in. He took every opportunity afforded to him by SAMO, and his work both as graffiti and on canvas offered sharp political commentaries.
He was defined simultaneously as too much of a ne’er-do-well outsider to contribute any meaningful culture to art institutions; and too much of an insider to middle-class privileges to offer any meaningful critique on inequality. His critics diminished the extent of white saturation in art and culture and decreed thus that Basquiat had no licence to be as critical as he was. Both of these characteristics represent a minimisation of the oppression faced by Black Americans in the 1980s. Their absence and exclusion from art institutions only furthered this erasure of the Black experience, a subject featured frequently in Basquiat paintings.
The fact that he walked in both worlds, simultaneously as an insider and an outsider to high art institutions, was consistently ignored. Basquiat’s lived experience as a subject of oppression and his knowledge of art and its history made him uniquely situated to pioneer neo-expressionism. He reinvigorated the art world. His pieces were highly referential to both high and low culture, ranging from ancient poets to cartoons, and were always deeply critical. The success of his work represented an important step forward for American society. He pushed the struggles of Black people and the working class in front of the eyes of American cultural elites
His audiences could no longer look away from his art or the stories that the canvases told.
And yet now it seems we can, and we do.
The Guilt of Gold Teeth is a painting which offers the exact critique you would expect from the title. In November 2021 it was sold to a private buyer for $40 million. Troublingly, none of the involved parties seem to appreciate the nauseating irony of such an arrangement. Like Equals Pi, The Guilt of Gold Teeth will sit in someone’s home or personal archive for many years to come. You and I will likely never see either of these paintings in person and their cultural impact, having been hidden away, will be blunted if not entirely nulled.
Lucky for us though, corporations have got us covered and there’s a good chance we could buy a t-shirt with Irony of the Negro Policemen printed on. Or we can check out that eight second feature in the Tiffany & Co. ad to see the deferential treatment of a great artist!
Perhaps the commercialisation of Basquiat is the most offensive because of how exclusive his work is in the modern day. The majority of it exists in private collections, where it is inaccessible to the eyes of the public. Only the incredibly wealthy owners of these paintings will get to appreciate their message through the visceral and unfiltered medium of human eyes. His critiques of inequality cannot inspire us from within the walls of white mansions. We have to settle instead for capitalist bastardisations.
How does hiding away his work allow us to learn from Basquiat’s genius? How can any piece of cheap merchandise or eight second feature ever honour such a brilliant man?
Basquiat grew up wandering the halls of museums and galleries and gazing upon works either made by white artists, or stolen from artists of colour in the violent processes of colonialism. During his lifetime, thanks to the proliferation of reductive narratives about his merit, he did not get to see his art hung up on such prestigious walls. We cannot learn from his work as he learned from the work of others when it is hoarded and hidden by private owners. The use of his work now as a non-contextualised prop or eye-catching print on merchandise, does not do justice to his radical creativity.
Originally published in Woroni Vol.72 Issue 1 ‘Evolution’
Hey PheeBee, at the start of this year, I resolved myself to being a more intersectional and outspoken individual who would educate herself more on the Black Lives Matter movement and the fight for reconciliation with Australian Indigenous communities. However, I am finding myself mentally exhausted by the effort that education and empathy takes. Do you have any tips on how to maintain a fighting spirit when you aren’t part of the marginalised community that the movement is about?
Dear Emotionally Exhausted,
I totally get it! My anxious overly empathetic savoir complex is really showing up right now.
Here’s how I spiral: SO MANY bad things are happening to people and it is SO unfair and I am just sitting here taking up space when people are dying and getting shot and the world is just on FIRE. And we are running out of water and I am running out of energy and now I have spun so much I need to unravel and there goes the whole day and I have done nothing but feel sorry for myself. What a waste!
I have been there. Many times.
The world really is a little bit on fire at the moment. It seems you have decided to become a firefighter. HOT DAMN. Firefighters are HOT, I can’t wait to see you in (or out) of that uniform. However, being a firefighter that actually puts out fires is a lot. There is smoke, and soot and it’s hard to breathe. It’s hard to see. It’s also completely overwhelming walking into burning buildings. It is also disheartening realizing that the structures we lived in couldn’t protect everyone, they weren’t fireproof. This fiery truth enlightens us and burns us little too.
Fire brings light, truth. This fire has illuminated a lot of things in the world. Truth can be hard to accept, especially if maybe we confirmed the strength of the burning breaking structure. Maybe we built some of it, believed in it too. Maybe sometimes we ticked yes on that housing scheme for our own convenience and ease – letting someone out to freeze. Now though, don’t look away. Let the proximity to the heat humble you, you don’t have it all figured out, you don’t have all the answers, or the whole truth and you don’t need to. We are not Prometheus, an overbearing god, here to “enlighten” or “civilise”.
Instead, look at the leftover ruins and listen. Let history whisper through the walls, they speak in many voices and languages, not heard before, familiar, so close, a mother tongue you once knew. The spoken for will whisper to you, they don’t have a home and when you have no lands, you live in your stories.
We think fire is new, but it’s ancient, we have learnt to tame it before. Truths have been ignited before. Hear them speak, and the fire will be tamed into a campfire, where they will tell you their stories. You’ll hear them whisper when you read their books. Read about how Malcolm X learnt to love his red Afro, how even after all the fame, he still saw himself as a street rat and those streets still loved him too. Listen to Maya Angelou “dance like I got diamonds at the meeting of my thighs”, even if “ You may write me down in history, with your bitter, twisted lies “ . Read how they took everything that life gave them and rebuilt beautiful powerful homes out of ashes.
Take in that warmth, that wisdom, as you sit together circled by this light glow, wood of broken homes as kindling. Knowing that time is cyclical, and this has happened before. We will continue what other people brought to us. Torchbearers carrying on the truth.
Being on fire, the act of suffering, also makes you who you are. Don’t take it from me, take it from the people who have been there. We have all felt what is to be like to be burnt. Stings are part of the gig as a firefighter, but the people with burnt homes and lost loved ones have to rebuild their entire lives. Listening to them will build your resilience. You are not a survivor. You are a service provider. You do your work and let it go. Leave the shame and guilt at the door. Shame and guilt will paralyse you, and people with PTSD need you to act.
I am still learning how to use my writhing fire hose, how to not create more chaos. I am still trying to not let my fear and guilt engulf me. And as you walk into these burning buildings, these broken systems, remember you have a mask, keep it on before you aid another with theirs.
I look to these powerful figures to guide me, warm me, and remind me and I am a side character carrying their story. We carry water, they call the shots. Hear the shots fired and see what those sparks ignite. Truth will always show itself; fire will always bring the heat, whether it’s warming or burning. Listen and it will warm you, it won’t be easy, but we won’t be alone.
Stay hot and close to the wise,
Pheebee
Think back to the last time someone asked your opinion on something. Did you tell them the truth? Or a half-truth? Maybe it was to protect their feelings, or perhaps it was self-preservation.
Truth is complicated. There’s a time and a place because ignorance can be bliss and the truth hurts, but it hurts more when things are kept from you… I’m sure there are many more applicable clichés, but really, I think that the key ingredient is trust. It’s probably morally right to be truthful all the time. But the truth has consequences, and knowing whether it’s better to get it all out there and the way to do it is a bit of minefield. When one of my friends offers up a brutally honest opinion or perspective with me, I usually find it refreshing because it grounds me and reminds me not to be so self-indulgent. I’m not saying it doesn’t sting a little, but I think the occasional ego check is valuable.
Trust is important. For a functional relationship with friends there should be a level of fundamental trust that you have each other’s best interests at heart. Actively thinking about this is often what separates the close friends and those ‘situational’ friends who fall out of your world when the context changes.The other thing total honesty says to me is that the person actually gives a damn, that they appreciate my perspective, or that they value me. They are in no way obliged to give advice or to spill the tea to me, but they trust me and they trust that I care about them enough to be receptive to them. So yes, you should tell your friend that they have something in their teeth, because it shows that you trust each other.
It was because of trust that I could say to my friend that their clothes looked like pyjamas. By being honest with them, not only were they made aware of their crime against fashion, but the friendship was strengthened by the knowledge that they could rely on me for frank and honest advice. When there is good rapport and trust in someone, there is a basic understanding that you support each other and say things from a place of love and respect.
Recently, I was interviewing people for roles at Woroni, and candidates would generally describe one of two different methods for giving criticism. The first involved a criticism sandwich – where the critique would be preceded and followed by positive comments, and they would have to prioritise particularly important feedback so as to maintain the happy ratio. The others would pick up every detail and put it all out there. All I will say is that I think that it shows in the output. How can you address the problems, the issues, the irritants if you don’t know what they are?
Why is it that people feed and eat the criticism sandwich? I propose that it has to do with the level of trust in each other, and the sandwich cart comes out when either of you are not confident that whatever you’re saying will go down well. The criticism sandwich sugar-coats the taste of the filler, which is the important stuff. It’s actually somewhat demeaning of the good things which are lumped together, which appear as though they are only being highlighted for the sake of offsetting the negatives. Nobody likes it when there’s a compliment followed by a ‘but’. It takes time and actual effort to get to the stage where you can serve a pointblank criticism without a second thought. But it’s worth it, because then you know that you’re in each other’s corner (and you spill all the tea then).
So next time you don’t feel like you’re getting the full opinion on your outfit from your ‘BFF’, follow it up! Don’t eat the criticism sandwich, drink to honesty and spill the tea.
Ben Lawrence discusses how brutal honesty strengthens and breaks friendships.
No warning, no preparation,
Our unlikely meeting began,
And the more I invested,
The more I appreciated you.
There was nothing to reveal,
As there was nothing to hide
From each other.
Grateful for your trust.
We shared a path and walked,
Strolled, sprinted, slipped
Side by side.
We once shared a path.
When was it that the first shoot
Sprouted in that little crevice between us?
How did it root itself in such a confined space?
We looked at it in awe and anticipation…
Your silence nurtured it.
I went with the flow.
Our pride allowed it to thrive
And …
I waited, and you probably did too.
The problems… I never addressed well
Grew with the eddying discomfort,
Grew with the flood of time and memories.
Impatience.
Frustration.
Rashness.
Until at last-
I was defiant against the current
And immersed in fighting it,
Forgot to look back.
You slowed down and didn’t call out.
And only when the blinkers finally wore down
In tatters on the ground,
Dancing to a gentle breeze
As if laughing at me, did I realise…
That I left your side long ago
And the company I had was a full hedge
Which split our path in two
And barricaded you from me,
and me from you.
I occasionally hear your voice and laughter
Muffled by the voices of your new companions…
And the hedge.
And a sad smile.
That smile exudes conflicted emotions.
Sad that I ultimately let you go,
But relieved for your ease and happiness.
You seem more confident now…
Perhaps we are walking the same path, or maybe it crosses beyond the hedge.
But it obscures and I can only see you clearly
In hazy memories.
And I wonder if we will ever be able to share the same path again…
I wonder if you know that I am listening on the other side.