Beggaring Belief

Prominent US economist, Robert Reich, is the star of a new film - Inequality for All - which promotes his long-held and convincingly argued view that capitalism and, ultimately, democracy are doomed unless they undergo fundamental change. He quotes many statistics, among them this one: 50% of the wealth of the U.S. is now owned by just 400 individuals. He seeks to demonstrate how this grotesquely unequal wealth distribution has, among other things, wiped out a key engine of economic growth - the purchasing power of the middle classes. Furthermore, the situation he describes is a repeat of that which pertained in 1928, just prior to the great depression of the 1930’s, so there are no prizes for guessing what is about to happen. And there is no reason to be smug, for the U.K. is following the same pattern.

But surely we have all learned to be sceptical of statistics? Successful academics, politicians and shareholders have always been able to interpret them favourably in support of their cases and, back in 2008, the credit-rating agencies famously manipulated them to reassure markets that the banks were in good shape.  A sensible precaution against such misinterpretation is to test all statistics against common-sense in the form of everyday observations and anecdotes. For example, a nifty indicator of the level of economic activity in a given period is the corresponding number of white vans sold. We may not have direct access to actual sales figures but it is plain to see the vans on our roads.  Back in the heady days of easy credit and (unsustainable) growth it seemed that every other vehicle was a white van, speeding aggressively towards the next opportunity, its occupants wild-eyed with urgency and the prospect of well-paid work. Nowadays the iconic Ford Transit plant near Southampton is closed down and vans are becoming fewer, dirtier, more bashed-up and recycled; their occupants hollow-eyed, listless and disillusioned.

There is talk of realigning the wealth imbalance: even within that bastion of capitalism, the English Football Premier League, a mutual agreement to limit the amount of money allocated to players is imminent. But this could be a hollow gesture if, as one pundit believes, the star players will continue to receive high fees while savings will be made by cutting the pay of their less talented team-mates. Meanwhile city traders and bankers insist that they must have bonuses because high wages alone are not sufficient to get them out of bed. And so the system which brought economic calamity remains fundamentally in place.

Walking around the city - past boarded-up shops, cut-price drinking joints, pawn-brokers, neglected civic buildings and facilities - I have noticed how easy it is to become lulled incrementally into acceptance of the aggregating symptoms of economic malaise. I have also noticed an increase in the number of beggars on the streets. Over the years I have become inured to their pleas for money because frequent rumours of fraudulent or professional beggars have made me sceptical of their destitution and wary of being tricked into charitable acts. But something happened this week which made me stop and think again about beggars.

There are different types: aggressive, passive, rude, polite, drunk, sober, dishevelled, tidy, male, female, with dog, without dog, physically able and physically disabled. Many of them ply the same streets as the buskers, mime-artists and performers - to whom I might donate (depending on merit). But I came across a beggar sitting on the pavement, his back against a wall, his head held down and a sign in his hand informing everyone that he was hungry. His sober clothing, respectable middle-aged appearance and abject look of misery implied that he was recently impoverished. Something made me put my hand in my pocket and drop coins into his hat. Was I persuaded by the statistic that most middle-class households are only three pay-cheques away from destitution? Or had I, perhaps, just witnessed a new and powerful phenomenon: begging as street-performance?

Five-Star Review

Last week I discovered that some artists make all their work by cutting paper with scalpels and that this, unknown to me, has been going on for thousands of years. Well, you can't know everything but perhaps I have become too focussed on mainstream forms of culture - those which have a more popular appeal, or are more titillating, or have access to top PR, or a combination of all three. I became aware immediately, for example, that Quentin Tarantino had released a new film and that my favoured reviewers had awarded it - after the fashion of the hotel-rating system - four stars.

Paper-cut art has a lower profile than blockbuster movies but a Chinese acquaintance recently presented me with a lavishly produced book of bird illustrations made from finely cut-out coloured papers - a traditional Chinese technique - just at a time when there was an exhibition showing locally which featured the work of half a dozen artists who use paper-cutting techniques to create their pieces. While the Chinese book, on its own, was interesting, my appreciation of it was limited to admiration for the skill and patience that must have gone into its production. But the coincidence of the exhibition inspired me to give the subject more consideration and curiosity obliged me to investigate lest the profundities of paper-cutting should pass me by: after all, "you don't know what you don't know".

Assuming she might be interested I persuaded my Chinese acquaintance to come with me to the exhibition. She straight away scanned the gallery for anything resembling the traditional Chinese form before telling me that she didn't understand the purpose of abstract art. This was not a good start and I was afraid I might have insulted her by implying that the revered traditions of Chinese paper-cut art could in any way be compared with the upstart, frivolous hackings of western imitators. But she showed polite interest and took some photos of one or two of the large-scale works while I attempted to explain the play on words implicit in the show's title, The First Cut, in so far as it relates to a popular song from the 1960s. It was a bad idea. I suggested we might go for coffee. After we parted, I went to see the Tarantino film.

I've seen a couple of other films since then (winter being a good time for retreating indoors for an hour or two of fantasy) and have taken to star-rating them, as the critics do, only to find that it's not as simple as it may appear. Whereas, in the case of hotels, ratings may be fixed by assessing measurable factors such as location, cleanliness, efficiency of service and quality of fit-out, with movies everything is more subjective. Expressing an opinion on the calibre of cinematography, direction, script or acting represents the opening of debate rather than the fixing of status. One critic's "beautifully shot" might be another's "poorly lit", for example, and my personal assessment of Marvel Heroes Assemble, awarding it an impressive four stars, does not mean that I (or anyone else) should eagerly anticipate its sequel.

And so, having realised that the star-rating system is inadequate to the purpose, I have rejected as glib my initial urge to apply it to either The First Cut or the book. Let's just say the exhibition revealed some astonishing skills and presented some interesting artistic ideas while highlighting a few differences of perception as to the nature of art. As far as the book is concerned, it wouldn't feel right to put it on Ebay too soon, so it will probably gather dust on a shelf for a while.

Reasons Not To Be Cheerful

We may all excuse ourselves for being miserable in January because Monday the 21st. is reckoned to be the saddest day of the year. I'm unsure about the criteria of measurement but perhaps they include some of this past week's hardships such as the obligations to get back to work, pay the latest round of inflated utility bills and maintain our new year's resolutions. Assuming, however, that the summation is an average there will be some people who are feeling unseasonably cheerful right now. To them I say don't be smug, the bulk of the year hasn't happened yet so there is plenty of scope for misery to befall you.

Coinciding with Miserable Monday this year was a downfall of snow which disrupted the routines of millions, caused the cancellation of meetings, the extension of journey times and the thwarting of many a good intention. But for some of us snowfall may be a positive experience. People in the news media, for example, thrive on the opportunity to show footage of the white stuff and tell stories of disruption, incompetence and disaster; weather forecasters relish the chance to adorn mundane meteorological maps with amber and red warning triangles; dads get to rummage through the garage for the sledges they stowed away last spring and school-teachers plan their extra holidays the evening before predicted snowfall. I'm not so sure kids like school closures though: I remember the walk to school through snow as an adventure in winter wonderland - crunching through the drifts, snapping off icicles to suck and testing the frozen surface of every puddle and, during breaks in lessons, competitions in sliding and snowman-building and mass snowball fights: so much more fun than staying at home.

The snow may have added to your seasonal gloom or distracted you from it but, to my mind, the major misery-inducing factor was the tax payment due by the end of the month. I acquiesce with the general principle that taxation is a fair way to fund the infrastructure needed by society but a recurring question presents itself as I am about to press the 'transfer' key. What will the government do with our money? Will it invest in education to produce long-term benefit for the whole of society or fritter it away on politically motivated projects that mostly reward vested interests?

 In theory we control this via the ballot box but the reality is not straightforward, as is illustrated by our government's response to recent violent developments in the North African Maghreb. I note that we taxpayers are being primed for a protracted extension of the "war on terror" in yet another hot and dusty region and I am concerned at the glib employment of sound-bites to sustain the argument. To call someone a terrorist implies that their motivation is to terrorise others, which is to distort by simplification the complex circumstances which lead to violent conflict. Many who had been called terrorists by colonial powers were, from their point of view, freedom fighters using whatever means they could to win their cause and who, having eventually won the battle, emerged as political leaders of independent states.

In the Maghreb there are many stories: a long history of nomadic tribes being dispossessed by imposed political boundaries; tribal rivalries; the recent collapse of dictatorships and the ensuing power vacuum into which are drawn criminals, racists, and religious zealots, as well as political factions. The one constant in the storyline is the fact that it is a fight for control over the region's resources and the involvement of the Western powers, however described, is part of that story.

Perhaps if I paid my tax in little instalments I might be lulled into not thinking too much about how it is invested: as it is I am convinced that killing 'terrorists' will not be as profitable in the long term as ensuring that schools remain open when snow is on the ground.

Mazeltov

If a culturally inclusive society is what we should be working towards, then a small step was taken this week when friends invited me to their son’s Bar Mitzvah. I was both pleased and encouraged by the invitation: pleased to be included in their family celebration and encouraged at the prospect of progress towards cross-cultural understanding - our best hope of resolving persistent social conflicts. Plus, I was intrigued to compare their religious ceremonial with that of my own, Catholic upbringing.

 

In the event I noted some similarities: the use of an ancient foreign language, reference to revered texts from antiquity, glistening paraphernalia stashed behind velvet curtains and, of course, an unquestioned belief that God is looking on. The differences I observed (leaving aside any theological issues) were cultural rather than symbolic: the ceremony had an informal, friendly aura and seemed relatively unstructured. Being used to solemn, joyless Catholic services with their emphasis on obedience to the hierarchical structure, I was anticipating that someone would step forward and take charge of the proceedings. But it didn’t happen and I was won over in the end by the relaxed acceptance of individual expression that prevailed throughout.

 

There was, however, a lengthy prelude of worship and prayer during which I was faced with the dilemma of how to appear interested whilst not actually understanding anything (being an outsider is never a comfortable experience, no matter how welcoming the hosts). So, whilst cultivating what I hoped might be a suitably reverent facial expression and looking around for anything which could occupy my otherwise blank mind, I became obsessed with the prayer-shawls which the men of the congregation were wearing. They are of ancient design and not really fit for purpose since they slip from their shoulders every few seconds and have to be continually hoisted, flicked or flung back into place in a distracting bustle of activity. Before long I had drawn a mental blueprint of an improved version which incorporates some shape and structure to hold it in place. During the mingling at the end of the ceremony I had to restrain myself from enthusing about my new design for fear of alienating the traditionalists.

 

But, for the atheist observer amongst the Godly at worship, there is more to ponder than paraphernalia. When the two great social bindings, faith and culture, are so completely alloyed that one does not exist without the other, how does one group tolerate the other’s point of view? Bar Mitzvah for Jews, like Confirmation for Catholics, represents dedication to a religious format which dictates certain cultural mores. Isolating the two is problematic, as shown by the recent legal rulings concerning an individual’s right to put religious beliefs before public duties and the ensuing backlash against what has been called “aggressive secularism”. And the current argument about same-sex marriage that rumbles among the clergy of the Church of England, predicated as it is on a belief that marriages are sanctioned by God, will never be resolved until God’s will can be agreed upon.

 

I have been invited into churches, mosques and synagogues, appealed to by Jehovah’s Witnesses and preached at by proselytisers in the street. I would like to be optimistic about social integration but history demonstrates that it is usually a temporary accommodation which lasts only as long as suits whichever party holds sway: hence my concern that the door of the Schul was locked and attended by a security man.

 

Clever Clogs

Tradition dictates a set date for the taking-down of the Christmas decorations. Those of you who actually know it probably feel just a little bit smug when the time comes and the rest of us are caught napping. “Still got your tree up then? It’s bad luck, you know!” you say, with a shake of your head implying exasperation at having to deal with dim-wits. But we deserve your admiration, not your pity for, despite the annual recurrence of the event, we will never be able to remember the date and have therefore developed coping methods. My own relies more on instinct than calendars. I sense the point in time, when the ennui that descends after December 27^th has been banished by the last fling of New Year’s Eve, the reluctant drift back to work has begun and decorations no longer feel appropriate to the prevailing mood. But, just to be sure, I check that the inflatable Santa has been removed from the Town Hall square before I start.

Decorations are soon stripped and put away (once the date has been ascertained) but disposing of the cards is not so straightforward. They must first be sorted according to various criteria: those from people I meet frequently are binned after a final, respectful appraisal; those from people I would like to meet more frequently are put to one side as reminders to act; those from people I am content never to meet again are binned heartlessly and those from people whose identity is a mystery are allowed a final examination before I bin them as well. There is also a sub-group of cards which are too beautiful to throw away and these may be put aside to be enjoyed as works of art – and then turn up, months later, under an accumulated pile of assorted papers and stuff.

But it’s not all straightforward: some of the cards contain inserts such as news-letters or change-of-address notices (alas, no cheques), all of which must be dealt with. This year a note fell out of an otherwise unremarkable card from a first-time correspondent – someone whose identity was not easily recalled. But it was no ordinary note: it comprised a narrow strip of thick paper, unfolding to about 12 inches long, on which were printed two lines of bold, black type:

 “I wanted to let you know that in October 2011, after nearly forty years of marriage, Tom left me.

Inevitably it turned out that I had been replaced.”

These words were fraught with betrayal, heartbreak and consequent bitterness but, given that this was the first ever postal communication from a somewhat obscure family acquaintance whom I had met only once, my reaction to the news was more curious than empathetic. Why had she not sent this in December 2011? Was she perhaps expecting him to come back home for Christmas? Moreover, it did not fall easily into my system of disposal - in fact it remains on my desk defying all attempts at classification, challenging me to take some meaningful course of action. The best I can currently offer is a little advice based on Freud’s theory of repression: shove all your unwanted memories into the subconscious. Accumulated scientific data consistently adds authority to his idea and suggests that the ability to repress thoughts and to ‘move on’ is quite useful as a way to avoid depression.

Incidentally, the same research data support the theory that people with the ability to remember a lot of facts and figures (know-it-alls) are actually at a disadvantage when it comes to making clever decisions. It seems that their brains become so clogged with details that they are likely to miss the overall point of an argument or thesis. They just can’t see the wood for the (Christmas) trees.