When I saw this beautiful logo for the London 2012 Olympics made by Frulwinn Collick I had one more reason to cry over the rivers of spilt milk around these games. The logo in use, as it stands, conveys no joy, no unity, no movement (citius, altius, fortius as of 1924), no recognisable image of London—not even as seen by the eyes of its millions of residents, nevermind the world population. The logo in use could've shown, among others, just how strong the UK is at "creative industries" (apparently its intended leading spear, should one remove financial services). Perhaps the official logo has, in fact, succeeded too well in reflecting how London, and the country at large feel: broken, fragmented, moving at once in all directions—thus none, lacking ambition, searching for an identity.
By contrast, Fru's logo is something that made me smile instantly, that anyone anywhere could read in a blink, memorise, recognise and identify with. It would also stand the test of time, and convey London in its informal, playful nature of nowadays, while simultaneously nodding towards its history. I love its joy, simplicity and power so much that I'll print it on a white t-shirt and wear it religiously during the Olympics. I know it'll catch the eye of many, make them happy on the spot, and be an awesome conversation starter as amazing athletes from hundreds of nations save the day and help us forget how the organisers broke some part or other again*. Why not print your own t-shirt with @fru's logo?
* OK, they'll probably get the fireworks & lighting the flame right
Without doubt, it is spring on our terrace in the heart of London. And while I know that a city like this can easily get 3-5 degrees warmer than its surroundings, note I'm not announcing spring just as the first flower buds were spotted, but when everything is in bloom. This is one of two daffodils that hurried to open this morning, as the sun shone bright and the temperature steadily rose to the 15 degrees I experienced just before noon.
Swinging the terrace door open and being able to leave it as such was, of course, an added benefit, and for the whole five minutes I basked in the sun between moving work from home to the office, I snapped away happily at all the splendour. The crocuses, in particular, as they are nearly gone, and quite hidden under the rosemary that finally manned up last year, once I gave it a new pot in 2010 and kept it away from the cleaner than nearly watered it to death in 2009.
I expect that as it grows and bushes up, the woody branches at the bottom will lose their foliage, and my crocuses will shine in the sun in all their purple glory as of next year. And speaking of sun, I loved catching an early glimpse of this gazania, as it has so much more colour than the blanched flowers of summer. It didn't die over the winter, which is why there's such an early bloom, both facts recommending it as a year-round flowering plant in London.
The hyacinths, however, only coming round once a year, are quite happily hidden away from the sun among some greenery. That makes it a tad hard to spot them before they're fully open, but then again, I'd rather they last longer. Even if it means I have to bend a little for a photo and a sniff. This is not the only hyacinth (two more are go), and not the first either—as the snow flattened the gazania pile, the hyacinth behind it had quite a bit of sun quite quickly, and recently passed away.
Our silver wattle, meanwhile, or mimosa for others (acacia dealbata, to be clear) is approaching its climax. The flowers are already too high for me to smell without a ladder, but guess what I'll be doing this weekend? Oh, yeah! We bought this tree in the late winter of 2010, in a deplorable state. It has grown incredibly fast, the bush creature it is, and I feel incredibly successful to have it bloom already, and proudly receive compliments from the neighbours who're used to seeing it in the South of France.
There's a lot more going on in the garden, and I'll be trying harder to report on it. Last year I photographed every bit of interestingness dutifully, but failed to tell the stories timely. There was a lot of actual gardening involved, for at least a full day every weekend, and I hope that it all pays off in the years to come, when hopefully it's a lot more about maintenance and sitting back to enjoy the lush green paradise that is manmade miracle in the city centre.
Nothing prepares you fully for running your own show. Not even having run a radio or TV show. The areas where you could make a difference are infinite, but your resources aren't. Not if you need to be sharp, focused, hard-working, fun, motivating and inspiring, and thinking on your feet non-stop, day and night, whether it's about not buying the same cake each time there's a meeting or writing and submitting six proposals in the space of a few hours. It is paramount, then, to look well after yourself, and quickly assess just how much sleep deprivation is scalable and for how long, and which comforts you cannot do without. Coffee first thing in the morning comes to mind.
We could get it at the office, or on the way to a meeting, but by that point you must be bullet fast already, and coffee takes some thirty minutes to kick in. So coffee, often before you can walk or string sentences together, is a rather clever idea. If it also happens to come in an equally sturdy and elegant mug of the mellow spectrum, the better. And if you can have at least a couple of sips while still in bed, or sitting on your favourite armchair, that, my friend, is pure bliss. You wake up to a world of peace, and beauty, and for a few precious minutes you can atune yourself to the universe at a pleasant pace and focus on the flowers rather than your pressing business.
And as you take the mug to a more functional corner, it helps if the eye can travel smoothly from one area of beauty to another, from one pouch of peace to the next, as the hands slowly pull wardrobe doors and drawers, and feel for the textures that suit the weather, the day. The light will always tell you, with the curtains partly gathered, even before your mobile gets all impatient and important, what the day is like. Sunny and crisp, or rainy and balmy, windy and fiery, or grey and quiet. If you just jump out of bed ignoring this fleeting but ever so gratifying while of peace and hush, you know you'll miss all the energy kicks, and all the reassuring cues.
I think we reached a point of balance. It means we're ready for another leap.
Our Bloomsbury office is within walking distance of several Fashion Week venues, so it's gotten to the point where I needn't know the scheduled days anymore. There will be glimpses of the proceedings even in the shortest walks around the neighbourhood. All of a sudden, bright spots of orange will spark through the loose-fit grey shades of the London river of labour. Impractical footwear underneath grimacing ladies. The coveted yellow and black combo of the (current) season. Professional hairdos. Brave stockings. Wacky tailored suits. Men and ladies alike carrying all their possessions in their hands (a rather hilarious trend of the last year). Posh foreign accents. Discussions about how London changed in the last year. Fancy manbags every step. Brand new lady bags that look like vintage lady bags. Branded bottles and vitamin waters. And somewhere in my endless photo collection, much better examples than today's, including the woman who stopped outside a cafe to jump into flats from her impossible heels, which then she proceeded to squeeze into the smallest, slimmest clutch. I'm loving it!
Received an email as a forward this morning. Either a mistake, or I'm being really thick. But either way, appreciative of other people's interesting missives. Very old school, too.
Esteemed Mrs. Professor,
in Cluj, Primo Levi is not listed among authors to be studied.
I hope you are well.
I'm wishing you (and myself) to escape this winter sooner!
With love,
M
I walked out to a meeting today with my hands in my pockets. Not because I'm carefree, but because for the first time in years it wasn't about a presentation, a demo, or even a single screen. Though it was a business chat. In such rare moments, one must make sure their pockets are not empty. And past the cardboard cards and the plastic cards and the phone and the other essentials (cigarettes, ok), there must be a camera. For omens might present themselves.
Art installation? Secret language? The Universe saying I love you? Whichever the case, it didn't stop there. The pigeons, for lack of doves in the city, had gathered in an urgent council. Neatly aligned, some watched my steps and others watched to the four winds without as much as a feather moving. Every such wondrously odd occurrence pointed to the momentous something or other, and I couldn't think for a bit that it had anything to do with the actual meeting.
And then, something that never happens: a perfect macaroon, waiting at the office, just for me. The Cordon Bleu Cafe had finally opened round the corner, and Chris braved the poor service to bring me a token of esteem. Since he was already at home, I asked him to make us a nice mug of Lapsang, grabbed the macaroon and took my toys home. The signs were becoming to make sense, though I still had a mind full of spreadsheets.
And when I finally got to the tea and the perfect pastry, it was time to tell the story, too. And that's really what the Universe had been going on about, the whole evening. Mirona + Chris = Love, and it's time you hear about it, cheer and make merry. We confirmed it on New Year's Eve, under the biggest half moon that ever shined over Antigua, not too early for fizz to replace our bottle of white wine (donated to the staff) and not too long before the fireworks.
It's true, indeed. As we whiled the hours before midnight talking about the good things that had happened in 2011, and I made some terrible joke about diamonds (as you do) or lack of them thereof, Chris casually reached for his pocket and I laughed the gesture away, thinking my Christmas gift may well be a bit late and in the form of rock earrings. But he got all serious and pointed out that there might just be another good thing to tick against the closing year.
And there it was, all 65 years old of it, and as rocky as it gets. The ring. The ring of the grandmother that called hotels hot hells, was thanking people for their hostility at the end of a visit, and magically received branches of mimosa in fragrant bloom every Christmas, as her husband marked the anniversary of their own engagement in the aftermath of World War II. The grandmother with whom everyone thinks I would've gotten along well. HER ring.
Perfectly fitting MY finger. And sleeping with me ever since, though it seems the biggest threat to diamonds are... bed sheets. To be fair, wanting to do things properly and in our own time (parents, siblings, Facebook), I've been sporting along the above decoy ring that my mother happened to pass down to me last October. If you spotted the REAL ring these months (I've played with them a lot, as the peasant finger itches under the collected suns), thanks for not asking.
Oh, you are asking now? We are engaged. To be married? You'd think so. But when? Do not save any date. This is one long engagement. There is more pressing business in our lives. And if there'll ever be a wedding, close family and friends do know just how much Chris and I disagree on the ideal proceedings, how eccentric we individually are and just how out of line that gets when you put us together. Plus it is very tempting to just elope and burn through all that cash.
So don't wait much to cheer and make merry. Here and now, it is as good as it gets :)
When Chris finds a way to bring independently produced chocolates wrapped in furry red paper with the morning coffee, I know the day will be a good one no matter what. And when it happens on February 14th, and even before breakfast I have a delicate lavender truffle, it becomes very apparent that all's well with the world.
And that I should absolutely have a go at wearing the red patent shoes. I came to London in a similar pair, and broke them to shreds on these unforgiving streets. My sister got me a new pair a couple of years ago, but they soon endangered my darling feet, and until now red hot and patent has been elusive, when I need it to be a mainstay.
Then get the party going. Who thought the Christmas tree would come handy in February?
Or that our smallest holly would hold on to its one and only red berry?
The rest of the day has been all milk and honey. Plus flowers :) How else, with such a start, and such an end? We might even watch a movie. Take that for going gaga on a working day!
After all that excitement, my recall audition was scheduled for December 2nd 2011, which came and passed in a flurry of events. As before, I gave it my best. My overworked, sleep deprived, not-so-fit best, and then some—will and ambition go a long way. I learned I was there for performing, rather than, say, dancing. I spotted quite a few more men than in my first audition, some of which could have been described as athletic. I enjoyed the warm-up routine, and the games we played after, all of which are worthy of a pub chat if you'd like to hear more some day. I stumbled again and again through a first proper routine, but persevered (though the imaginary shovel that turned into an axe failed to make sense and I failed to ignore the need for sense). I did well through my second routine, and loved it, too—especially when they put the music on finally, and two hundred of us came together naturally, moving as one, row after row, in front of Danny Boyle even. We did stuff similar to what the video below showcases. Only we did it better :)
There's a very high chance I wasn't good enough, in the end. But to hear endless calls, in media, and in my own inbox, for men men men, did nothing to improve my hopes while waiting. They had finally figured out they needed men, for whatever reason, and were going for it big time. I probably didn't even shine among women, not to mention men. So no big surprise when a few weeks into 2012 the answer finally came through, and did not contain an offer. As expected, it contained the option to remain a reserve performer. More than expected, it contained a form to volunteer for other roles, as well, with clear availability windows one can opt for, role descriptions, and the need to attach a cover letter. Bring it on, I said to myself, and nicely had the documents on their way hours before the deadline, although on a late Friday evening I'm not generally in a good place for pouring my brain and my heart out. See above re. will, etc.
And if you're checking out the form above, you might quickly understand how one gets excited. While I've no skills to be a seamstress or build props, even less to operate follow spotlights and fix the ground team's walkie-talkies, surely I can cover team welcomes and victory ceremonies! Even when unclear about what the filling in instructions were for that part of the form, even after giving up any hope for Presenter and Athlete Escorts on account of I'm clearly too old (These are female roles and in line with our promise of a youth driven games need to reflect this, they will be in front of the watching world.) and Medal and Flower Bearers on account of I'm not a man, again (These are male roles for the first time in Olympic Games history) it still seemed like positive discrimination could not chip my hopes entirely, not with my experience, nicely summed up in the cover letter. I ticked all the needed boxes, filled in others, prioritised, and clarified my availability—the Olympics could have any evening of the week as of April. You wouldn't normally call me an optimist, would you? Then I'd better stop thinking like one, as the reply urged me to:
Unfortunately, Victory Ceremonies has placed everyone that they need. Are there any other roles that interest you? You're a great candidate.
Ah, the great candidate blah! Surely I've already expressed my availability, interests and skills to a high standard and in more detail than requested. But there's a chance they mean well, and regardless, I should carry on the conversation:
The news makes me quite sad, considering the content of the form suggested otherwise. [...] My strengths lie in leading, live show production (radio/ TV), and image/ comms, so if there are roles in that area that did not appear in the form but follow a similar schedule, I'd love to hear about them.
And I certainly did! This is what's available to an overqualified overachiever:
Your details have been passed to me as someone who may want to help the Casting Department over our next set of auditions. We are looking for friendly helpers, who will be able to assist with a variety of tasks – welcoming our auditionees, giving them wristbands, checking their ID and taking some basic information from them etc. And guiding them through the audition process.
Nevermind I'm available from 6pm any day, as of April. This magnificent role (with which I'm awfully familiar since I've auditioned twice now, and have received said help) needs filling in NOW, and I'm just the man (!) for it. The thrills, the opportunity! The bitter taste... as I had to decline. From the onset in 2010 or so, volunteering for the Olympics has introduced two aspects that are extremely British and extremely unhelpful: 1. the organisers know better where you fit (so you apply to be a Game Maker, not a particular type of Game Maker) and 2. everyone is welcome to volunteer. Both are supposed to be about inclusion, one team, finding everyone a place and avoiding potential grumbles—idealistic to the sky and beyond. And completely disconnected from the Olympic spirit. The Olympics are NOT for everyone. They're for the fittest and fastest, most hard working and most focused, most ambitious and most deserving, most accustomed to pain and to sacrifice.
The fact that my overall fitness and effort levels only got me as far as reserve performer (more of an honorary badge, I'm sure) is very in tune with the true Olympics. The fact that I'm skilled, experienced, willing to juggle the Olympics next to my business, enthusiastically so, and yet no one offers a role in which I can make a real difference is very in tune with the socialist Britain organising the Olympics. And from what I've learned on my own skin about socialism, my Olympic journey might have just stopped here and now.
Update, February 20th 2012: This evening I've been invited to interview (first come, first served) for a good number of the positions for which I DID NOT express an interest, in the following departments: Accreditation, Catering, Comms & Sound, Operations, Props & Staging, Transport, Volunteers. While some may sound good, the role descriptions I have, and can share, are terribly disappointing.
What are you doing Friday evening, asked the lady, with no visible change in facial expression. Would you like to go to a BAFTA event? Photographers, LIMELIGHT, all that. I think I have no plans, I answered tentatively. It's RED CARPET, you know, she added, looking me up and down a couple of times, pondering. Oh, everyone's got a little black dress (or two), I laughed it off, starting to doubt we were going to make friends. BLACK TIE, you know, she insisted. I know I was wearing a rather boring pair of jeans, a thin black jumper, and no foundation. I also know that below the cuff of the jeans there was a rather unusual pair of purple suede Ferragamo shoes, under the jumper one could've spotted a purple top in natural silk of a cleavage so plunged that a large brooch of amethist held in the gold wings of a butterfly barely kept it decent, and between that and my light makeup there was a gorgeous, long, asymmetrical necklace in pearls and vintage bezel Austrian crystal. Anyway, I'll catch up with you after lunch, I said, and faked picking up a call as she waxed lyrical to a witness about the most heart wrenching Romanian story of the last 20+ years, these poor children in orphanages that hardly see daylight once in three-four years and you wouldn't believe... I faded out. There is no BAFTA event this Friday. Thought as much.
One of the books I received for my birthday, Beach: A Book of Treasure [amazon.com, amazon.co.uk] by Josie Iselin drew my attention to using a scanner instead of a camera. And playing with the machine yesterday, I easily made an interesting enough clementine to get Chris involved. He then placed on the surface some random objects from around the office, and voila! I'm pretty excited with the results—what thinks you?
This is my first attempt to embed a Twitter conversation. Took some figuring out, and some persuading of the Twitter UI—it seems to me they didn't consider embedding a whole conversation just yet. Either way, curious whether it works for you and when/ where—e.g. will the JavaScript produce anything at all in a feed reader, or just revert to HTML? And, while at it, which name should your anything-but-humble author employ? In other words, yes, I'm quite alive. And the English are getting better and better at misspelling my name. How have you been?
@gorgeoux You should just change your name once a week for a year and see what feels best.
@gorgeoux Here to live out loud. World citizen, designer, player, critical thinker, photographer, writer. COO @metabroadcast NOW hiring superstars http://bit.ly/ddyvRu
One Life, Six Words, What's Yours? [amazon.co.uk] OR Not Quite What I Was Planning, Revised and Expanded Deluxe Edition: Six-Word Memoirs by Writers Famous and Obscure [amazon.com]
I'm COO and Acting Experience Designer with MetaBroadcast, a design and technology company revolutionising TV, radio & music from the heart of London. Atlas is our open source global audio & video index, and Voila, our toolbox for tracking shows you love today & discovering shows you'll love tomorrow. I share my interests, excitement, and findings on the company blog.
OR Not Quite What I Was Planning, Revised and Expanded Deluxe Edition: Six-Word Memoirs by Writers Famous and Obscure 
and 
