Finally I’ve got around to banging out the details of the competition. Sorry about the delay! You can see the fruit of my labour across the top of every page though! Please let me know if it doesn’t work, and if so, which browser you’re using. If you’re reading this in Google Reader or something, do me a favour and click through to my blog — it’s quite pretty, really!

Anyway, the competition — to start with, here’s the prize:

I, Sebastian, will ingeniously craft some kind of avatar (or logo), for your use online. The interpretation of your name and/or blog used to create said avatar (or logo) is left to my sole discretion. In all honesty, it might be completely awful but there’s an outside chance that it might be really awesome**.

This competition is open to anyone but I am the only person that will be choosing the winner. Upon choosing the winner, I will do my best to dig around your blog/online presence and create a photo (or some kind of digital amalgam) that I think embodies the soul and spirit of you.

The prize will be awarded to you in the form of a high-quality image that you can use freely, as long as the attribution to me is preserved. Always wanted a funky new header image for your blog? Or a BODACIOUS avatar to use on forums or when commenting on other blogs?! This is your chance! Perhaps your only chance! (Unless it goes really well, then I might do it again)

So what’s the competition? How do I win?

(You can tell I haven’t really thought this through…)

You must, in 100 words or less, tell me what you feel most passionately about.

It can be something you love, or perhaps something you hate, fear or abhor. You can leave it in a comment, or you can send it privately.

I’m not really going to penalise you if you use more than 100 words (but I do love being arbitrary; it’ll force you to use long words like a German!), but try to be short and punchy — everyone likes short and punchy. The contest will end when I feel like it; probably in a week or two, depending on how many entrants there are. You have plenty of time to choose those 100 perfect words that best describe your most passionate feeling!

Good luck to all that enter! And good luck to me…

** There’s a real chance that I’m going to totally fail, but I will try my very best to make something you’d be happy to use publically.

In an attempt to spice things up a little, I’m going to be podcasting a few blog entries — they’ll simply be an unabridged reading of the entry, possibly with a variety of retarded localised accents to make things interesting. I have no idea if it’ll work well or at all but I may as well give it a try — perhaps continue surfing the web while I read to you in the background? Forgive the vanity to your right… but I have to get my kicks somehow.

I can’t do a very good Italian accent, so don’t laugh! Fast forward to 3:40 if you want to just hear the ‘exciting’ bit with the shitty Italian accent, and a hint of Dan Brown-esque American storytelling…

Photographers have it easy compared to our painter comrades. We both deal in luminance and colour, tone, texture and saturation, but at the end of the day painters start with a blank canvas and nothing but the camera of their mind’s eye. Some painters will probably tell you that it makes their life easier, being able to create anything their imagination conjures up. Surely though, controlling the minuscule movements of mixing pigment and the brush itself is infinitely more difficult than raising the shutter on a camera. Then there are those that claim photography is harder — you can only work with what you’ve been given. There is some leeway of course: trickery of the eye and your ability to move props and pose models, but at the end of the day, that’s all you have: you can’t magic a dragon out of thin air.

Photography is all about working with what you’ve got. There is a small amount of knowledge that you need to know before you can operate a camera but we’re talking 3 or 4 simple equations — and the ability to push down a button. Point, and shoot. You can affect how much light enters the camera and that’s it. It’s because of this simplicity and the switch-over to digital cameras that we’re now swamped with thousands of photographers; you, your mother and her mother can be a photographer. It’s no surprise then that selling photos has also become a lot harder: there are more photos in circulation and thus it’s harder to be seen. You can still get lucky, but more than likely your only chance to make money today is as a stock or paparazzi photographer. Like almost every art form it’s one big labour of love: you pray that one day you’ll become the next Monet or Ansel Adams but chances are you won’t.  There are so few rich artists, it’s depressing.Whether it’s due to a lack of talent or saturation of the market I don’t know. What I do know is the one thought that courses through the mind of every person that’s made art their life-long dream: will I only be famous after I die?

To separate themselves from the pack, to stand out, artists try to be different. ‘Yet another photo of some daffodils’ isn’t quite as appealing as ‘Exploding daffodils in the bedroom of the woman that broke my heart’. Almost every photographer you’ve heard of or seen today will have been unique — that’s what it takes to not sink into the mire of boring, formulaic photographers, your voice forever unheard, your view of the world unseen.

It’s all about chasing the perfect photo. Like storm-chasers, train-spotters or groupies chasing the perfect tornado, rare train or celebrity photographers must try so, so hard to get the perfect photo.  Place yourself one centimeter to the left and you might ruin the entire photo. You might have to wait for a cloud to cover the sun to get the perfect light conditions, or even wait for the sun to be in the perfect position before you take the photo. A landscape could be completely average and nondescript at midday, but the most beautiful sight you’ve ever seen at 5pm as the sun begins to set.

Photographing people is another beast entirely: the merest flick at the corner of a girl’s lips might make or break a photo. A glint of sun refracting off her eye could change the meaning and the impact. Is she breathing in or out; are her muscles tensed or relaxed? Even the greatest photographers of all time might take thousands of photos of the same  setup — as the years go by, the ratio of good-to-bad photos will improve but you’re still searching for perfection, and sometimes that’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.

Fortunately I’m a landscape photographer. I’m quite good at portrait work, I just don’t have the experience — and being a good photographer takes a lot of experience. Landscapes don’t go anywhere: the sun continues to rise, the clouds roll on by — you can keep practicing and practicing, with landscapes. With people… it’s a little trickier. One day I’ll put in the hours and chain down one of my photogenic female friends, get the lights out and go to town! One day.

So there I was in Venice, up a clock tower. It was 3pm and sunny, not a cloud in the sky. Being the geek that I am, I phoned my dad and asked him what time the sun would set — 6pm, 3 hours away. Fine, I can wait 3 hours. I’ve got a book and a bottle of water. There are all sorts of pretty tourist girls swanning around that I can chat to, and take photos of (with their own cameras, of course!) Two hours pass, it starts to get dark, my pulse quickens. I dart around the tower, surveying how different Venice looks in the fading light, looking for the perfect angle for the perfect photo.

‘The tower will be closing in 10 minutes, please take the elevator back down.’

Shit. I smile and nod at the Italian, my mind quickly working through the available solutions: I wasn’t about to head back down the tower after waiting for two hours! It wasn’t a big tower, and there weren’t any obvious dark corners. I looked up and wondered if I could wedge myself inside the bell itself. Maybe in films… but not here in real life. I was out of time and only one option remained: climb out one of the windows and cling to the wall. They do it in films… they inch themselves along a thin ledge…

The Italian usher was slowly walking around the tower, shooing people into the elevator. I only had 30 seconds to decide — wuss out and waste two hours of my life, or… chase the photo. I jumped onto the windowsill and looked down — Shit — I turned around and inched backwards until my toes were on the ledge — Crap — I reach to the left and grab the edge of the next portal — Phew — I’m safe for now, but the pounding of my heart against the ancient brick wall would suggest I’m still in in a wee spot of bother. Finally, the sound of the descending elevator! I slide myself along the ledge, my feet now splayed like a ballet dancer’s and pull myself back inside.

There I am, all alone and king of the hill! I camped out for another hour, constantly assessing the landscape, sizing up the prey, waiting to strike. An hour later, I struck gold — a full moon! A total fluke, but completely deserved. I pulled out the camera, struck a pose not unlike a war-time sniper and… wait! A big ship too! Click. Bang!

That’s how I chased my perfect photo of Venice. It’s not a stereotypical view of Venice but I challenge you to find another like it.

It was getting cold and I had no food; I was out of water and thirsty. I packed up quickly and pushed the call button on the elevator. Nothing. I pushed it again. Still nothing. I looked out through a window and grinned in the darkness, wondering if it was possible.

To be continued…

Walking through the cobbled, dark, dilapidated streets of Florence — literally ‘the flourishing’ — it’s hard to believe that it was once the capital of the Renaissance, an artistic movement whose graceful wings would harbour the finest contemporary artists, the fluttering of which is still felt today. Undeniably beautiful, in its own rustic way, Firenze today is one of the most attractive and charming cities in the world but… what would it have looked like 500 years ago at the peak of its opulence, at the zenith of the Medici family’s power? What would it have looked like before ‘faithful reconstructions’ and centuries of war-torn damage?

It’s a feeling that haunts me whenever I explore ancient sites and cities, a nagging itch that I just can’t shake: how did it look in its hey-day, before tourism and smogged industry? I’ll never know — we’ll never know. In Ephesus, Turkey, that realisation was hammered home: I could be walking around the greatest and most beautiful city that has ever graced this world, but it would forever just be an image in my mind and nothing more. I can run my hands over fallen columns, their reliefs painstakingly chipped and carved to a level of manual craftsmanship that we’ll never see again, imagining what Ephesus might’ve looked like, felt like, but it won’t bring the city back to life. There its remains will lie, feeding imaginations of adventurous tourists until the end of time.

Back in Florence, at least there haven’t been any earthquakes (the most common cause of destruction in ancient Turkey was earthquakes, and the small fact of building accidentally on marsh land). Much of what you see today, picking your way over the ankle-turning cobbles of doom is authentic, aged, well-preserved. But it’s not really the buildings I’m here to see, it’s what’s inside: the finest collections of Gottis and Donatellos in the world, housed under wonders such as Brunelleschi’s dome, the Duomo, a construction of 4 million bricks that is still the largest masonry dome in the world.

But who am I kidding? The Raphaels are beautiful and the Da Vincis spectacular but the Michelangelos…

Passing through security, I turn to my right. There he stands, in plainly flaunted view, at the end of a long, vaulted avenue. Lined with other priceless sculptures that receive scarcely more than a fleeting glance, the avenue serves just one purpose: to heighten and hone my senses, to zoom in on what I’ve come to see: David. Lit perfectly and elevated, his head and gaze are level and contemplative. I wonder if there isn’t some small measure of irony in the monstrous size of Michelangelo’s finest masterpiece. Surely he anticipated, as he chipped away at a eighteen-foot block of flawless marble that his creation would be imposing. Maybe he was allured by the nickname the local authorities had given the raw block of marble: The Giant; perhaps Michelangelo felt that he was simply carving out the rock’s destiny. But who cares: David is huge. David dwarfs you and absorbs the entire room, sucking in your attention like a miniature black hole. Dare to meet his gaze and he defies you, just as he defies the world with the wordless challenge issued by his engraved face and form.

Aged just 26, Michelangelo would spend two years chipping away at a brave new portrayal of the Biblical figure King David. Most artists had presented David after his battle with Goliath, victorious; Michelangelo created a more ambiguous work, a piece so rich in detail that there are many possible interpretations: does that look of contemplation come from his decision to fight the giant, or is he looking up serenely having just vanquished his foe?

Only one person knows for sure and I hope he took the secret to his grave — where would the fun be if there was only one possible reading? The creation of art is only part of the process; admiration and interpretation are both required to make it complete, to make the work whole. The purpose of art, after all, is to create an effect.

Walking through the streets and museums of Florence, as tired and ancient that they may be, the art still roused within me vibrant and vicious images of life during the Rennaiscence. 600 years have passed and yet the art still stirs visitors such as me to stop and think and admire these great masterpieces. I wonder if any of our contemporary creations will be still be considered art six centuries from now.

I was sitting in front of the TV — not something I do often, I assure you — and for some reason or another my mind wandered towards Germany. I think it was a war film. Anyway, I had a little ponder, a little brainstorm, and I came to the conclusion that I actually know very little about Germany. I also assumed that other people might not know much about pre-War Germany too! Perhaps people study the history of Germany in more detail in other countries, but I can’t imagine it being an important topic outside of Deutchland itself.

There are experts out there, but this entry is not for you — this is just a short piece on the formation of Germany itself: the 2500 years that occurred before the World Wars — believe it or not, a lot has happened there! Our contemporary culture, both European and worldwide, has thick roots that stem from Germany. This little story will wend its way from the Nordic tribal settlers to the early dominance of the Franks; from the long-winded Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation to the downfall of the German Empire at the end of the first World War.

Germany’s recorded history begins in 56BC, though for 500 years tribes had been moving down from northern Scandinavia through to Denmark and then Germany. Famously, Caesar (who was first to record the name Germania) built a wooden bridge that spanned the Rhine in just ten days, but then retreated once he heard that the Seubi (Suevi) tribe had amassed a force to repel him, should he attack. The name ‘Seubi’, incidentally, has its roots in the prefix ‘Swe-’ which literally means ‘one’s own’ — the same prefix that gave Sweden its name. The tribe that repelled Caesar was almost certainly from Sweden originally! I’m sure it’s quite common knowledge, but all Prussian and Russian kings — Kaisers and Czars — derive their title directly from Julius Caesar himself.

It’s worth noting that the Seubians were converted from their pagan rituals to Arianism in the 400s — a ‘heretical’ (after the First Council of Nicaea) sect of Christianity that believed Jesus was extraordinary, but not as powerful as God himself. I mention this only because of the later use of the term ‘Aryan’ by the Nazis to represent the one, true, destined-for-leadership master race is completely unrelated — but it’s an interesting coincidence!

The fall of the Western Roman Empire allowed the expansion of the Frankish Empire to begin. Originally a West Germanic confederation of tribes, the Franks would go on to form an empire that would span France, Germany, Northern Italy and make dependent states of the modern-day Eastern Bloc. With the baptism of some Frankish nobles, and later on the work of missionaries from England, Scotland and Ireland, Germany dropped its old Arianist ways and became fully Roman Catholic by the 800s. The aid of the British Catholic missionaries would turn out to be, 1200 years later, beautifully ironic.

Another thing that people forget is that English — both the language and the name — originates from the Western Germanic people of Angeln, or its modern name of ‘Anglia’. Regions of this name still exist in England and Germany! As an aside, while the Angles were settling in what would become England, Britons were settling in Brittany (France) — and while I’m at it (blame the nationalist streak in me), the Normans that invaded England weren’t French — they were descendents of the Vikings that had occupied what would eventually become France! Anyway, back to Germany…

By the 9th and 10th century the Frankish Empire had been divided and weakened enough for the emergence of the Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation. Despite its awesome name, it did not actually include Rome for most of its rule — the name derived from each new emperor having to be crowned by the Pope. Not a lot happened until the 15th century when the Renaissance finally blew away the cobwebs of the Middle Ages, leaving Germany with the beginnings of a powerful and industrious empire. The 1400s brought us Johannes Gutenberg, the inventor of the mechanical printing press, and Albrecht Dürer who is widely considered the finest Northern European artist of all time.

The 17th and 18th centuries would finally see the efforts of the Renaissance period come to full fruition: The philosophers Leibniz and Kant; the musicians Bach and Mozart. Genius polymath and the author of Faust, Goethe, would be be the first writer to emerge from the growing, Bohemian strength of the Germany. The turn of the 19th century would see their intellectual powerhouse continue to grow with the birth of philosophers Marx and Nietzsche, the eminence of the piano virtuoso Ludwig van Beethoven, and the composer that would craft musical masterpieces destined to be played at max volume while conquering Europe, or in fact anyone that stands in your way: Wagner. Two of the most important and influential scientists of all time, Planck and Einstein, were also born in Germany during the 19th century.

Throughout the 1600s the Duchy of Prussia had continued its spread across what is now the top of Poland. When the Holy Roman Empire finally fell after the Napoleonic Wars in 1806, Prussia would continue to gain land across the north of Germany. In 1871, with the help of decisive victories on the Franco and Austro-Hungarian fronts, the German Empire was formed by the president of Prussia, Otto von Bismarck with William (Wilhelm) the First installed as emperor. This is the same Empire that would be the unwitting instigator of first World War. Bismarck himself kept the role of Chancellor, the one-man-cabinet, a position whose power would later be confirmed as autocratic by Adolf Hitler.

The next 50 years would see a huge surge in industrial strength and population — from 40 to 70 million, with over half of those living in cities. Germany became the world’s first social welfare state with sickness and maternity leave, and it had a free press! But such privileges and liberties were not easily come by — Germans worked hard; a work ethic that still exists today.

Back in 1800, Napoleon had been crushed by a mix of Prussian (German) and English forces at Waterloo, but how quickly allegiances are forgotten! Only 80 years later, Emperor Wilhelm formed the Triple Alliance with Italy and Austria-Hungary, its purpose to defend itself from potential attacks by Russia, France and Britain — the three countries that then formed a similar, counter-allegiance: the Triple Entente (’Triple Agreement’). It would be Germany’s allegiance to the Austro-Hungarian Empire — and the British Empire’s anger at Germany’s growing navy — that would spur the Triple Entente into joining a war: World War I.

Though it falls outside the scope of this entry, and just because I love bringing religion into these things, I’ll share an ironic little coincidence. When Hitler was made Chancellor he had to pass the Enabling Act of 1933 to actually become the Führer; to effectively demolish the democratic powers of the Reichstag for four years while he ‘tidied things up’ (this sounds a lot like Caesar demanding to be made Dictator back in Rome…) Despite the instigation of concentration camps in the hope of terrorising the populace into voting for Hitler’s party — the National Socialist German Workers’ Party, or more commonly ‘Nazis’ — they could only muster 44% of the 66% majority required to pass the Enabling Act. Desperately, he turned to the Catholic Central Party for their votes. They demanded continued liberty for the Church and their involvement in education, which he obviously granted — not that it mattered, after the Act had been passed. The kicker: who brought Catholicism to Germany? Missionaries from Britain!

And there you have it, the exciting history of Germany in 1200 words. If you made it this far — hooray! I hope it wasn’t too boring; I hope you learnt as much as I did. Now I actually have to visit Germany…

After yesterday’s deep-and-meaningful entry I feel it my duty, as your charismatic host, to break the pensive and thoughtful atmosphere. That’s another thing you might’ve noticed: I like to mix things up; I love keeping people on their toes. I revel in blowing the dust off and sparking far-flung reaches of your brain into frantic activity. It’s also about my own personal enjoyment though: variety is the spice of life, right?

And you have to admit, you have no idea what I might do next.

Without further ado, the results of a photo session from a sunny Spring (Summer?!) afternoon!

A pretty good start. Especially the slightly-quirked eyebrow and pursed lips.

I should explain the next strip of photos: I have a friend called Abi and she recently initiated me into the Way Of The X. Where you make an… X… with your fists/hands. It’s cooler than it sounds. Really, try it. Anyway, this is seven quick photos taken in succession, of me doing THE X. If you don’t get it, that’s fine — just marvel at the facial expressions.

That’s a little weird, I admit…

The thing is, I’d be lying if I said if that was my first attempt at capturing THE X. In fact, it took me about half an hour to ‘nail it’. That means there’s a lot of out-takes. Like… 200 of them. Here’s a small sample, just to prove that I am capable of some truly awesome facial expressions (and you ain’t seen nothing yet!)

Julia Roberts has got nothing on my mouth.

Constipation.

Channel the rage, Sebastian. CHANNEL IT.

… Um… some kind of… Jewish Shylock? Or… something? I don’t know.

A rare example of me actually smiling! Well, about to smile. I cracked up at my father, who insisted on crashing my little photo session…

That’s it for now. The next time you see my expressive face, I should be in a doctor’s jacket for Ask Me Anything on Friday — and if you have anything on your mind this week, ask me!

It’s been a while since I last wrote about music. Listening to music, like the appreciation of all art forms, is a very personal and subjective thing. You might like rock and I might like soul, but as long as we both get what we’re looking for, who cares? Well, I care! I listen to contemporary pop and sigh. It saddens me to think that, for some people, this is as good as it gets.

If we’re not careful the King of Pop will be nothing more than an honourific title thrown around by future generations in the playground: ‘Dad says the King of Pop died recently.’ ‘Yeah, sucks. Did you hear the latest Britney Spears song? It rocks!’ Unless someone — you or I — steps in and reminds children of what real music once sounded like and where their music originally came from, we can forget all hope of there ever being another King of Pop, Soul or Rock ‘n’ Roll.

* * *

The King of Pop, Michael Jackson. Not the Baron or Prince or Godfather — the King; the top dog upon which all comparisons are made and will be for years to come. I’m not going to talk about the last 20 years of his life but instead I will focus on the first 30, the three decades that revitalised a flagging music industry. In those thirty years, Michael Jackson became the greatest and most influential musician of our time. To those amongst us that appreciate music and its power; to those of us that are prone to bouts of aural sex: we have a lot to be grateful for! I just hope I can do Michael justice and nail the most important aspects of his influential and protean career.

While certainly successful, the first ten years of his life as the lead singer of The Jackson 5 were hardly monumental. The Jackson family were recognised as a musically-gifted family and Michael was nothing more than a charismatic and spectacular performer. But he could only grow so much, restricted by Motown’s draconian production rules and an oppressive father. The Jacksons were destined, unless something changed, to be a flash in the pan — certainly one of Motown’s biggest success stories (four successive number ones is nothing to be ashamed of!), but minuscule compared to what the Jackson family in general and Michael in particular were capable of. Perhaps the most important role of the Jacksons would be to become the first black teen idols. Breaking down barriers would be a recurring aspect of Michael Jackson’s life at the forefront of the music industry.

Stifled by Motown, The Jacksons jumped ship to CBS in 1975, a move that would finally grant the band the creative freedom it required. The Jacksons produced lots of albums in the following decade, but none of them approaching the success of their early Motown hits. But for Michael, it would be a different story indeed: in 1978 he met Quincy Jones on the set of The Wiz — “I hated doing The Wiz… I did not want to do it,” Quincy said later — they didn’t know it then but Quincy’s involvement with the film would soon change musical history and forge the greatest, most influential and successful collaboration in music history. Quincy Jones is a musician and conductor whose career and incredible influence spans five decades. With 27 Grammys and countless other awards, Quincy, like the Jacksons, broke down barriers that would allow future African-Americans to succeed in the culturally-biased media industry. The scope of Quincy Jones’ work is so varied and vast that it’s hard to comprehend: we’re talking about a legend that played alongisde Miles Davis during the creation of modern jazz and bebop, but then later produced the largest-selling album of all time (Thriller). He’s worked with Sinatra, Spielberg and even Bill Cosby. However, after Bad, his production and arrangement days were over — perhaps, after five decades of musicianship, the impresario had finally set down on paper the notes and themes that had run through his head for fifty years. Perhaps it was time to make way for future generations?

But I digress: it was on the set of The Wiz that this partnership of mentor and young prodigy begun. Off The Wall was born from the marriage of orchestral jazz, soul and 70s disco. Off The Wall fused sounds and melodies and dazzlingly energetic themes that had been building up for decades but never fully exemplified until this album was mastered and distributed. It’s worth noting, though their influences were not particularly significant, that both Stevie Wonder and Paul McCartney wrote tracks for Off The Wall — perhaps this shows just how much confidence these musical geniuses had in Michael?

If Quincy and Jackson’s first collaboration hadn’t quite cemented things — Off The Wall only sold 20 million copies! — their next album would prove beyond doubt that they’d hit the spot. Thriller would be the first and only album to become something more than just a finely-crafted collection of songs. The astronomical number of sales — 109 million — would thrust Thriller into the category of ‘household staple’ rather than ‘commodity’ — families would go to the supermarket to buy bread, milk and a copy of Thriller. To this day, Thriller has more than doubled the next-largest album (45 million — Dark Side of the Moon) and its universally popular appeal will no doubt continue its reign of supremacy.

The bone of contention that one usually comes across when examining Jackson’s career is thus: how much of the success was actually due to him? Did Michael’s career begin as a vehicle for Motown’s music machine and end as nothing more than the pop industry’s poster child? Is it important? If we can learn one thing from history it’s one thing: for better or worse, the outcome is what counts, not the minutia, not those that fall by the wayside. If you discount his later work and simply focus on his early-adult albums — Off The Wall, Thriller, Bad and Dangerous – you have a body of work that was not only phenomenally successful but also more influential than the creations of any other artist in the last 40 years. It’s because of Jackson that we have hip-hop and rap music. Jackson revitalised a pop industry that was suffocating under the burgeoning force of uncreative, uninspired electronica. The phenomenon of Michael Jackson caused a rebirth of popular music that inspired and influenced almost every modern R&B, funk and pop musician.

I haven’t even begun to touch on the immortal influence that Michael Jackson had on both the youth and adults of the world with his music videos and live performances. Jackson created the music video that we know today; he single-handedly launched MTV to stardom with Thriller. Jackson, through sheer artistic brilliance, destroyed the last vestiges of African-American inequality in the media. Michael Jackson’s choreographic style — oh, that white trilby, those hip-thrusts and those gloves — had an effect more profound than anything since Fosse’s jazz or Jerome Robbins’ West Side Story.

I hope that the world, the media-consuming public, can in the next few years put aside any moral objections they have to the man himself and simply focus on what he created. It is irrelevant to wonder whether he is solely to thank for his wondrous advances in music or if he was merely the focus of myriad prodigious input from Quincy Jones. The matter of the fact is thus: Michael Jackson pioneered and sat atop the pinnacle of a musical, a rich cadence that had been bubbling and building up for decades. It finally exploded with Michael Jackson’s solo albums and the world is a richer place for it. From Miles Davis to Stevie Wonder and the entire R&B, jazz and soul libraries that flutter and reside in between, Michael Jackson created, embraced and become the very embodiment of modern pop music.

* * *

The two best albums you could buy a child or musical neophyte are Davis’ Kind Of Blue and Jackson’s Off The Wall. There is no better way to be quickly brought up to speed on the roots and direction of modern music. And if you haven’t heard either of them, you are doing yourself and rest of the world an injustice!

RIP, Michael Jackson. Surely one of your sons must be reaching the age where he might show an interest in singing or dancing…

Would you rather be an artist or engineer?

This is a question I often ask myself on trains and planes or as I lay in the still solitude of my bed. Do I want to create art so beautiful, so inspirational that people actually enjoy life a little bit more? Do I want to develop infrastructure and technology that provides clean drinking water for the billions without?

In this crafted and cultured world, this world without boundaries that we have persisted in creating and destroying over ten long, illustrious millennia, which is more important: art or engineering?

Which was more instrumental: myth and wisdom — or creating fire?

The Bible — or the Roman Empire?

Michaelangelo’s David – or Kodak’s film camera?

Band Aid’s Feed The World — or a network of satellites that enable global communication?

Lennon’s Imagine – or Apple’s iTunes?

Art or engineering?

Do I want to be the person that enables and improves the lives of millions through advancing technology? Should I be the one that converts magic, wished-for technologies into the accessibly mundane?

Or should I be the culmination, the end point, the person that uses contemporary technologies to create art? Art that resonates within and amplifies emotions; art that triggers further explosions of creativity until we have a more beautiful world.

I keep trying to be both an artist and an engineer but I fear that it’s time to choose just one.

Michelangelo or Edison.

Einstein or Plato.

I’ve never written poetry before. I just thought I ought to try. The photo underneath is unrelated, but I took it last night and thought it was pretty!

–

Evoke love and conjure desire, elicit tears and laughter inspire, craft dreams and banish doubt.
It is from within the desolate plains of mundane that the artist’s seed and culture sprout.

Bunsen and bellows both brazen and bold,
Latent and chemical and forms untold,
Exploited, excited,
Molded, contorted,
Bent to this engineer’s will.

Were it not for the artist,
Plain it would remain.
Were it not for the engineer,
What would we have,
Coal, ocher, fire, spear?

Forged through time, forever entwined,
Twins in kind, differing only in method,
Same in soul, a parity in purpose,
Art and engineering.

–

There’s a nasty problem that afflicts most artists. Some would say it isn’t a problem, some would say it’s merely ‘perfectionism’ or something, but the fact remains: artists tend to be very critical of their own work. I don’t necessarily mean that they HATE everything they produce, though some surely do. I mean that the artist judges his work very heavy-handedly. A painter might hate a portrait simply because they got an ear slightly wrong. A photographer might hate a landscape for being just slightly skewed. A singer might think their performance was awful because they hit one wrong note.

But in all actuality, to the audience — those that look at the paintings or photos, those that listen to the singer — it’s still a beautiful piece of art.

What I’m trying to say is that for every single photo you see of mine on this blog or on Flickr, there are probably 10 others that are great, but not good enough in my opinion. But the sad thing is, history has shown that more often than not, it’s those hated paintings, those paintings that ‘aren’t quite good enough’, that become famous.

Because the artist’s viewpoint is heavily biased. It’s like… you can’t see the forest for the trees. You’re so immersed in your own art that you never really get to stand back and appreciate it. You get to enjoy my art more than I do. How lame is that?!

Anyway…

So, because these photos are probably good, even though I don’t think they’re PERFECT, I thought I would share them with you. Scroll through them, there should be something for everyone! The ‘Sebby Landscapes’ are towards the end, if you don’t like PEOPLE photos.

(Click for a slightly larger version of the blonde guitarist — she’s blonde, can’t you tell?!)

(You probably recognise this kid from the ‘peace’ photo I took of him. A whole lot cuter in this one, eh?)

(Painting with light and smoke! Just an experiment… turned out better than I thought it would be!)

(Aw! There’s a better portrait of her, but it’s not public… so this one will have to do.)

(From one of our ‘invigorating’ walks in the Faroes. From the same ’session’ as my ‘meet my Faroese hosts‘ post.)

And FINALLY, an over-exposed-but-deliciously-blue-and-cerulean-and-cyan landscape from the east coast of the Faroes. You’ll recognise this landscape from this Faroes post.

I’m going to attempt to tackle the tricky and turbulent subject of racism. I’m not going to cover its entire history. I’m not going to pretend that I’m entirely objective — no one is — though I will try my best to be as neutral as possible. If I say something upsetting, apologies; this a sensitive topic, one that most people tend to stay well away from.

As always, we’ll start at the beginning. Not many people know where racism actually begun. The slave trade? No. Eugenics and ultimately the Holocaust? No. Religion? Getting warmer, but still not quite.

Racism begun way back in tribal times. Racism is effectively synonymous with tribalism, which is itself similar to the concept of nationalism. It’s all about selfishness.  Racism can take many forms: religious, cultural, skin-colour and are all equally ‘bad’ — but at one time, they weren’t. They were a matter of self-preservation. It’s you or them. Insular tribes and their inbreeding reaffirmed genetic and physical traits and thus ‘races’ were created — but even the term ‘race’ is, ironically, racist! Race is an American term coined hundreds of years ago to describe the difference between blacks and whites. It sadly gained credibility and traction, and was then exported around the world. It was borrowed from the French razza which means ‘lineage’.

Racism is all about lineage — all about blood, and the purity thereof. Racism is the act of erroneous differentiation of humans into different species. It’s about the justification of maliciousness and unfair, unfounded prejudice to those of different colour, culture, heritage or lineage.

We have the Cartesian-Newtonian worldview to thank for this little gem. For 500 years now we’ve been living in a world governed by the laws of physics. Action and reaction, cause and effect. Mechanics. Gravity. Cold, cool calculation of calculus. The control, utilisation and abuse of energy. The last five centuries have been all about physicality; it’s been all about what we can see and touch and push and stretch. Racism existed before of course, but it wasn’t the kind we see today — it was religious. For 1500 years racism was religious — though back then it wasn’t called racism of course. It would’ve been ‘persecution’ or ‘religious intolerance’.

Did you know that when Columbus first landed on what would become Mexico, the Portuguese and Spanish sailors did not hesitate to mate and marry the Indians, the native Americans? As long as they converted to Christianity via baptism, colour didn’t matter one iota. Only their religious beliefs mattered.

But that’s a topic unto itself and I’m not going to go into it here. The rise of contemporary racism is more interesting.

Let’s go back to skin colour. Other than the Holocaust, almost all modern examples of racism have stemmed from the concept of White supremacy and superiority. How on earth did those of white skin end up at the top of the food chain?

The Declaration of Independence, that’s how. But don’t stop reading yet, my dear American friends! You probably wouldn’t have drafted the Declaration if it wasn’t for the British.

The Declaration of Independence was the pinnacle of The Enlightenment. The single most important period for philosophical and scientific advancement ever also created racism. All it took one was one theory-treated-as-fact: Dr Charles White (what a name…) scientifically reasoned that Blacks were the stop-gap between monkeys and Whites. Voltaire and Kames — both bigwigs of the Enlightenment — proposed the idea of separate human species.  Hume and Kant, Jefferson and Washington — almost every big name of the 16th, 17th and 18th centuries were White supremacists.

Here were the most influential thinkers, scholars and scientists the world has ever seen. It was their thoughts, mental machinations and ideologies that formed the world we live in today. And they were racists. They thought of Blacks as not-quite-human.

And I dare say… it’s not a very big surprise that they arrived at such a conclusion.

The Enlightenment was about culture; a big damn celebration of art and science and thinking — in essence, it was a riotous exaltation of everything that makes us human and not monkeys.

And Blacks didn’t have that culture. American Indians didn’t have that culture. Or, rather, they didn’t have any that we could see. So we subjugated them. We made them our bitches. We justified our brutal abuse of fellow man by declaring them sub-human — after all, would a fellow white man allow himself to be forced into slavery? God no, his intelligence and tenacity would prevent it.

We’re talking about a group of intellectuals that ranted and raved about the benefits of liberty and equality; freedom from tyranny and the virtues of democracy and representative government. Later, they even drafted a declaration formed from the tenets and axioms of these great thinkers. They formed a new, mighty nation that, at its very core, ratified slavery.

As Thomas Jefferson scrawled out the fundament, lynch-pin and rock-solid bastion of the New World, as he illustrated his idyllic imaginings on the loose paper that would later become the Declaration of Independence… he was writing it for the whites. There was just no way their way of life could continue if non-whites were afforded the same rights and privileges as the whites. Think about it.

But it wasn’t really Jefferson’s fault. Science had told him that blacks were little more than apes devoid of culture and intellect. Or perhaps science merely suggested it and human nature enforced it. I suppose we’ll never know.

But how do we fix it?

Racism is a pathological contagion. It passes from parent to child. That can never be changed.

What we need is a new worldview. We need to shift our perspective through 90 degrees and move towards a new frontier. I hesitate to say that we need to ‘re-find our spirituality’, because there are issues associated with organised religion: intolerance, persecution, zealotry. Oour infatuation with the physical nature of the world needs to change. Never again must we single-out and tunnel-vision a sole strand of science.

What we need is another Enlightenment…