Inspired by the discovery of a book titled "Le grand art de la petite conversation" (English edition: "The Fine Art of Small Talk") at a FNAC store in Paris last week, I thought that it would be neat to address the topic of small talk. The book was written by Debra Fine, a communication expert, and I am still reading it.
In order for the loner in me to have the social skills necessary for a fulfilling life, it would make sense that I strove to get better in small talk. Fittingly, I devoted an entire operation to the subject.
Operation Small Talk would resemble what follows Operation Bonjour when it comes to having an interaction with a stranger. Whereas the latter requires merely saying "Bonjour" to an unfamiliar person who just happens to be at the right place and the right time, the former is all about having a light conversation that starts off with something other than "Bonjour". In essence, Operation Small Talk gets directly to the heart of the matter, bypassing the rule of beginning with a standard greeting.
The operation consists of creating 10 small talk moments in the course of a week. For someone who was naturally sociable, which currently does not apply to me, this would be a trivial task that could even be completed in one day. What constitutes a small talk moment is a verbal exchange that I initiate with a stranger and that does not begin by "Bonjour", "Excusez-moi" or something similar. People at work in places like shops and restaurants do not count as strangers, since they are generally expected to cater to people. As far the exchange itself, I started off simple ‒ saying something to the unfamiliar person and hearing him respond once. If he does not respond, then there is no small talk moment. In general, I do not retry with some other sentence; instead, I accept the rejection and move on. Once I complete the operation 10 times over 10 separate weeks (meaning 100 small talk moments), I take things to the next level ‒ for example, saying something to the person and hearing them respond on two separate occasions. After that, I keep setting up more difficult levels to reach, until each exchange ends up being a substantial conversation. At that point, one could claim to be naturally sociable and the operation would be no longer necessary.
Any moment of small talk created in the hopes of connecting with someone does not require deep topics of conversation. In addition, there is more than the weather. There are your surroundings, which are usually rich with all sorts of information, be it people, animals, objects, behaviors, events, etc.. There is also your mind, which is busy processing this information in multiple ways, which in turn produces even more information. Imagine that this new information that you just produced was shared instantaneously with someone within your physical reach. That would potentially be a small talk moment.
In order to increase my chances of creating these moments, I do my best to remain aware when I am surrounded by people. Even though I like exploring the contents of my mind, I figure that sharing with someone a thought that I just had would also allow me to discover things. It could be some practical information that I was not expecting to receive on a subject that I was familiar with or an opinion on a topic that I knew little about. In addition, the discovery could lie somewhere beyond the person's actual reply. I could find out that the person actually had a friendly demeanor whereas I had initially assumed otherwise or I could recognize that despite our obvious differences, we were both essentially seeking similar things.
As if Debra Fine's book does not say enough about the value of it, I would argue that small talk helps people (including the person initiates it) to open up and thereby encourages trust. Interestingly enough, it seems that if we had more trust in ourselves and in others, we would be able to open up even more. I may be a loner, but I want to be open too.
I conclude with two examples of small talk moments that come to mind and that both happened recently.
One evening two weeks ago, in an Eric Kayser bakery that I go to several times a week, I picked up on an unusual yet rather pleasant smell. Yet all I was surrounded by was bread and pastries. In all truth, there was also a variety of bottled drinks and boxes of prepared dishes in self-service, but the smell could not come from there. Noticing that there was a lady ahead of me in line, I said, '"Ca sent le poisson ici !" ("Why it smells like fish in here!") She turned around, looking amused, and said, "Effectivement, je sens le poisson aussi !" ("Indeed, I smell fish too !"). I was relieved.
At lunchtime last Wednesday, I was in the cafeteria of my work building. I took a break from approaching the pretty girls around by joining the queue for the grilled dish of the day. Along the queue was a dessert stand, from which I picked up one of the ready-made fruit salad bowls. The guy behind me also picked up a bowl, but I noticed that his was about only 60% full. Hello! Small talk moment! So I intervened by saying to him, "Il y a encore de bols qui sont plus remplis de salade" ("There are still bowls that have more salad"), indicating with a hand gesture the difference between the contents of his bowl and those of the others on the stand. Once he understood, he replaced his bowl almost instantly. "Merci !" ("Thanks!"), he said, before making a comment that I did not hear clearly on the benefits of eating fruits.
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Friday, September 5, 2014
why i love paris (6)
On Thursday, May 29, 2014, just four days after the drawing session in the 14th arrondissement of Paris, I joined the Paris Sketchers crew at the Institut du Monde Arabe (Arab World Institute), an organization that is dedicated to presenting the cultures of the Arab world among other things and whose building is located by the Seine in the 5th arrondissement. It was Jeudi de l'Ascension (Feast of the Ascension), a public holiday, and I was thrilled about the idea of spending the afternoon in good company in a place that I had always been curious about but that I had never visited.
For this special event, I owe a lot to Marina, who organized the outing. She wrote a brief and enticing presentation about everything that the Institute had to offer an urban sketcher, noting in particular the "Il était une fois l'Orient Express" exhibition that was ongoing. I got excited upon reading this, even though what fascinated me the most was the panoramic view of Paris from the rooftop of the building. A view that was accessible for free.
I arrived at the Institute around 2pm, by way of Vélib. A locomotive was on display close to the building, welcoming visitors and passers-by. Nearby on the parvis was a line of train cars, a queue along it, and a longer one in front of a ticket counter that was decorated as if it belonged in a train station. The Orient Express. The celebrated train service that connected several cities in Europe to others in the Middle East as early as 1883. This was definitely a special event.
I found a few familiar sketchers outside, including Marina, and went to say hello. Most of them, including Tula and Jean-Marc, were already at work. Feeling the urge to join them, I began to figure out what I should sketch. Marina had mentioned the view of the Notre-Dame cathedral from the rooftop of the building, but I was still undecided. It was sort of a dilemma: would I remain outside to contemplate the locomotive, the train cars, and/or the building that had intrigued me for years, or would I go inside this same building to see what was interesting from the rooftop?
I decided on the latter. And five minutes later, I was on the rooftop, having taken the elevator nine floors up. Admiring the view where I could, as tourists were all over the place, I eventually laid my eyes on Notre-Dame, in the west. In its direction, I spotted a corner that was somewhat isolated and from where I could get the closest and clearest view of Notre-Dame. I went towards it, certain that it would become my drawing location.
I set up my equipment and started sketching what I saw. Within the two hours that it took me to finish, Marina stopped by and did some sketches of her own in watercolor. I had only met her once before, on a previous outing, but being up there with her gave me the opportunity to know her better. She eventually left to go sketch elsewhere, but not before we confirmed the meeting time at the cafe across from the building.
I was feeling a high after having taken on Notre-Dame from such a viewpoint and was largely satisfied with the result, especially since it was the first great Parisian monument that I had ever drawn. Having time to kill before reuniting the group, I decided to enjoy more of the setting by doing two quick 30-minute pen sketches of the cathedral and its surroundings.
Once the sketches were completed, I said goodbye to the rooftop and took the elevator downstairs. I was going to show up late at the café.
***
On the evening of Thursday, August 28, 2014, I returned to the Institut du Monde Arabe without the sketchers. This time, I did not go to the rooftop. I was not even interested in entering the building, which was already closed. Quite simply, I showed up for the attraction of the moment, which I had chosen not to sketch the last time around: the Orient Express.
Why return three months later? Because the exhibition was ending on August 31st. And I wanted to mark the moment in a sketch, or several. Better late than never.
I came back two days later, on Saturday, August 30, 2014, for a more serious drawing. I wanted everything in the composition: the locomotive, the train cars, the building. I was able to pull it off, even though it took me five hours over two days. Two days, because I came back the following day, the last day of the exhibition, to put the finishing touches.
Thanks to Marina, who had given me a free ticket, I was able to visit the train cars open to the public on the second day. The following are some souvenirs from my tour.
I had a few amusing moments with security officials working at the exit of the train car tour. They had seen me sketching earlier from their post and had come over from time to time to take a look at my work. As I came out with everyone else in my tour group, one of them volunteered to take pictures of me inside the train cars with my camera. So I went with him and had my pictures taken without anyone else in sight. Precious. Later on, another security guard called out to me while I was sketching to offer some encouraging words: "You have a talent, you should exploit it ... you have get yourself known ..." Flattered and embarrassed, I replied "OK, but later", to which he said "Time is running out ..." And as I was leaving for good, he added "Do not forget." "What?", I asked. "What I told you earlier."
The icing on the cake was the moment on Pont de Sully when I crossed paths with Jack Lang, the president of Institut du Monde Arabe and a former Minister of Culture, as I walked towards Place de la Bastille to catch the metro.
For this special event, I owe a lot to Marina, who organized the outing. She wrote a brief and enticing presentation about everything that the Institute had to offer an urban sketcher, noting in particular the "Il était une fois l'Orient Express" exhibition that was ongoing. I got excited upon reading this, even though what fascinated me the most was the panoramic view of Paris from the rooftop of the building. A view that was accessible for free.
I arrived at the Institute around 2pm, by way of Vélib. A locomotive was on display close to the building, welcoming visitors and passers-by. Nearby on the parvis was a line of train cars, a queue along it, and a longer one in front of a ticket counter that was decorated as if it belonged in a train station. The Orient Express. The celebrated train service that connected several cities in Europe to others in the Middle East as early as 1883. This was definitely a special event.
I found a few familiar sketchers outside, including Marina, and went to say hello. Most of them, including Tula and Jean-Marc, were already at work. Feeling the urge to join them, I began to figure out what I should sketch. Marina had mentioned the view of the Notre-Dame cathedral from the rooftop of the building, but I was still undecided. It was sort of a dilemma: would I remain outside to contemplate the locomotive, the train cars, and/or the building that had intrigued me for years, or would I go inside this same building to see what was interesting from the rooftop?
I decided on the latter. And five minutes later, I was on the rooftop, having taken the elevator nine floors up. Admiring the view where I could, as tourists were all over the place, I eventually laid my eyes on Notre-Dame, in the west. In its direction, I spotted a corner that was somewhat isolated and from where I could get the closest and clearest view of Notre-Dame. I went towards it, certain that it would become my drawing location.
I set up my equipment and started sketching what I saw. Within the two hours that it took me to finish, Marina stopped by and did some sketches of her own in watercolor. I had only met her once before, on a previous outing, but being up there with her gave me the opportunity to know her better. She eventually left to go sketch elsewhere, but not before we confirmed the meeting time at the cafe across from the building.
I was feeling a high after having taken on Notre-Dame from such a viewpoint and was largely satisfied with the result, especially since it was the first great Parisian monument that I had ever drawn. Having time to kill before reuniting the group, I decided to enjoy more of the setting by doing two quick 30-minute pen sketches of the cathedral and its surroundings.
Once the sketches were completed, I said goodbye to the rooftop and took the elevator downstairs. I was going to show up late at the café.
***
On the evening of Thursday, August 28, 2014, I returned to the Institut du Monde Arabe without the sketchers. This time, I did not go to the rooftop. I was not even interested in entering the building, which was already closed. Quite simply, I showed up for the attraction of the moment, which I had chosen not to sketch the last time around: the Orient Express.
Why return three months later? Because the exhibition was ending on August 31st. And I wanted to mark the moment in a sketch, or several. Better late than never.
I came back two days later, on Saturday, August 30, 2014, for a more serious drawing. I wanted everything in the composition: the locomotive, the train cars, the building. I was able to pull it off, even though it took me five hours over two days. Two days, because I came back the following day, the last day of the exhibition, to put the finishing touches.
Thanks to Marina, who had given me a free ticket, I was able to visit the train cars open to the public on the second day. The following are some souvenirs from my tour.
I had a few amusing moments with security officials working at the exit of the train car tour. They had seen me sketching earlier from their post and had come over from time to time to take a look at my work. As I came out with everyone else in my tour group, one of them volunteered to take pictures of me inside the train cars with my camera. So I went with him and had my pictures taken without anyone else in sight. Precious. Later on, another security guard called out to me while I was sketching to offer some encouraging words: "You have a talent, you should exploit it ... you have get yourself known ..." Flattered and embarrassed, I replied "OK, but later", to which he said "Time is running out ..." And as I was leaving for good, he added "Do not forget." "What?", I asked. "What I told you earlier."
The icing on the cake was the moment on Pont de Sully when I crossed paths with Jack Lang, the president of Institut du Monde Arabe and a former Minister of Culture, as I walked towards Place de la Bastille to catch the metro.
Saturday, August 23, 2014
operation rescue
If there was an operation that I was struggling with greatly, it would have to be Bar Games.
I mentioned Bar Games previously in an article but I have not really presented it. Well, let me take the opportunity to give you an introduction.
Just like Operation 50 First States, Bar Games has me going through the arrondissements of Paris from the 1st to the 20th. But unlike 50 First States, which takes place on the street, Bar Games takes place ‒ as you guessed it ‒ in a bar. Or in just about any nightlife venue with a counter and patrons who can have drinks there. The general idea is to create unusual (if not fun) situations with people in a bar, and to up the ante on my antics each time I move up an arrondissement. From the 1st to the 7th, which is the last completed arrondissement at the time of writing, I have done things like saying simply "Hi!" to random people, inviting them to a toast with "Cheers!", and asking them "So are you guys left-siders?". Oh yes, the interactions happen in English. And what results is sometimes surprising, usually in a good way.
An arrondissement is completed once I have carried out the operation in the above manner in five different bars within that arrondissement.
My struggles with the operation have been recent. It was not about completing the operation, but simply about launching it in a given bar. These difficulties started in the 7th. Perhaps it was due to the small number of eligible bars in an arrondissement filled with embassies, government buildings and posh residences. Or perhaps it was the result of a lack of resolve on my part. Whatever the reasons may be, I had a hard time. What should not have taken more than two months (to get through five bars) took six. So when I finally completed the arrondissement, I felt more relieved than joyful.
As bad as it was in the 7th, things were even worse in the 8th. I could not get past the first bar! As I had a rule of starting an arrondissement by going to the bars that I had visited before, I had to first make it past the bar of the Ladurée site on the Champs-Elysées, which I had been to on two occasions in the past with friends. Actually, it was the only bar that I remembered in the 8th, so I really had to get through it in order to move on. But I couldn't. I stopped by on at least five different nights and everytime except once, I could not muster the courage to leave my seat to approach the other few patrons around. The one time that I did manage to do that, the response from the people at the first table was "Well, I am happy that you are a left-sider. I am here with my friends and we are just trying to enjoy our evening together." Yet given the body language and the voice tone of the girl who delivered those words, what she seemed to be really communicating was "You could not bother us any more than you are bothering us now." I was crushed, and without a bounce-back strategy prepared, I abandoned the idea of going to the other tables and returned to my seat, believing that I had done something wrong and feeling more ashamed than discouraged. I quietly finished my drink, paid the bill, and exited the bar. In short, a failed operation (again).
Sure, all this was my own interpretation of the events. It was like as if I was looking for real proof from the patrons or the staff of the bar that I was doing something wrong by running the operation there. Why? Well, the bar looked posh, compared to any of the ones I had been to in the seven past arrondissements. And posh places tend to elicit a certain kind of behavior from the people who spend time in them. Say the kind where people stay at their table and where there is no mingling with people at other tables. Of course, there is no rule stating that this is the behavior to adopt in such establishments. But most people behave like this, in places beyond posh bars for that matter, so this is considered normal or at least socially acceptable behavior. While being guilty of acting in a very similar fashion in bars, I thought that it was a crippling habit, since the operation that I wanted to carry out clearly required something different. As a result, each time that I went out, I experienced a conflict between my fear (of what people would think) and my desire (to do something unusual), and ended up giving into the former.
After the stress of too many failures, I decided to get out of this conflict by taking a step back. A step back, almost literally, since I was envisioning a return to the bars of the 7th, the previous arrondissement. Clearly, I was not ready to take on the challenge of those in the 8th, so why not go build confidence doing something less difficult, something which I had done before anyway, and after that retake the step forward? The idea sounded too good.
Too bad that it did not work out too well when I tried it out. When I went out to the 7th, I found out that the first bar was no longer there. Or perhaps it was being renovated. In any case, I saw no one and no entrance. I had put all my eggs into one basket ... er, I mean bar, and I had to accept trying out the other bars if I wanted to take my idea seriously. The warrior in me decided to continue. But without a total resolve after the bad news of the first bar. Ultimately, upon catching sight of the crowd in the second bar from outside, I lost all focus, gave up on the operation, and started figuring out my way home.
Strike two.
I was fed up. Though still the warrior, I came up with an even bolder idea than the previous one. Going back to the Ladurée bar in a do-or-die situation and burying the operation for good if I did not complete it there. In essence, it was like a win-or-go-home event, as some American sport commentators would say. It seemed like the necessary thing to do, and it was dirt simple. Do I care enough about my beloved operation to keep it alive, or am I satisfied with imagining solutions (to my problems) that I will never implement? That was the question. And hesitating to respond was giving me too much stress. I deemed a resolution necessary, so that I could move on. It's not like I absolutely needed to do Operation Bar Games. After all, I could suffer.
But since I did not want to suffer, I decided to carry out my new idea the day after my return to the 7th bombed. Besides, I needed to achieve my quota of operations completed during the week, and time was of the essence.
D-Day. I was pumped about the task that I was going to accomplish and naturally a little anxious as well. The do-or-die aspect was extremely motivating. I was just going to enter the bar and do what I set out to do: approach the patrons, regardless of whether they were young or not, with a family or not. I would leave them alone only if their reactions showed that they were not open to my visit. And if the members of the staff were displeased with it, then they should better let me know.
I arrived around 9:10pm. I spotted a group of four young people seated at a table beside the entrance, and a young couple and a baby in stroller on the right side of the U-shaped counter. I passed the couple on my way to my usual spot. I was a little sweaty and decided to chill for a moment, in spite of these opportunities ready to seize. "I'll use the time to prepare myself mentally for the task", I told myself, while hoping at the same time that this decision was not the sign of a loss of focus, however small.
I ordered my usual glass of cranberry juice. Actually, I did not have to ask for it. The server at the bar knew that it was what I had always got during my previous visits and suggested it. She gave it to me with a strawberry hanging on the rim of the glass, which was a new touch. I sipped away while reading the book "Dieu voyage toujours incognito" by Laurent Gounelle (English edition: "The Man Who Risked It All") that I had brought out from my shoulder bag. All the while, I kept my mind regularly on the clock, knowing that the real reason I was there was not to read a book, as exciting as it was.
I decided to jump into action at 9:30. I was just going to do it, that is, get up off my seat and start approaching the group of four, whether it was considered wrong or not, whether I was still sweating from anxiety or not. Beforehand, two Asian girls had arrived and had taken seats at the left side of the bar counter. It was certainly good news, since I needed people to be able to get the job done. But they had ordered to eat, so I was not going to bother them for a toast, at least for the moment. "Shit, I'm playing it safe again", I told myself, critically.
So 9:30 arrived, my nerves were tingling madly, and in almost robotic motion, I got down from my seat, took my glass in hand, and started walking towards the group of four by the entrance. And when I could, I was thinking, "I hope that they [the male and female servers] won't think this is weird and won't end up kicking me out." Clearly, I had some issues with taking the risk of making mistakes ... mistakes in public.
Eventually, I reached my destination and delivered the magic words, accompanied by the appropriate gestures. "Hi!" "Cheers!" "Are you guys left-siders?" The two guys in the group seemed cautious and kept mum, whereas the two girls with them were quite responsive. One of them was especially cheerful, which put me quickly at ease. In fact, she did not only reply my question by telling me that she was right-handed (or left-handed, I forget which), she also started a new conversation by asking me what I thought about French President François Hollande. That was a first. Moments later, I said goodbye to them and left to head back to my seat, elated about having broken the ice. Then I just had to do that four more times.
For some reason or the other, I was not sure whether to approach the young couple next. I passed them again without talking to them. Well, you snooze, you lose: minutes later, they packed up and left the bar.
While a part of me lamented the loss, another part eagerly awaited an opportunity for Approach #2.
Shortly afterwards, a French family of four walk into the bar and take seats at the left side of the counter, beside the Asian girls and directly across from me. There was the man, his wife, and their two adolescent children, a boy and girl. Hmmn, going over to a French family to ask them if they were left-siders. How unusual. As a result, I was hesitant. Besides, they too were going to eat, like their Asian neighbors. I decided to return to my book, keeping an eye on them to find out if they had finished eating and if all that they had left were drinks. And then, a middle-aged French couple arrived and took seats on my side of the counter, three or four seats away from me, where the previous couple and baby had been earlier. This was wonderful. "I will not falter, like I did with my previous neighbors", I said, trying to convince myself.
I decided to make my next move around 10:10. I had guessed that the Asian girls would have finished eating by then. I was still hesitant about the French family beside them. The French couple beside me were likely targets as they were having drinks. Soon enough, the clock struck 10:10. I got up and started walking towards the other side of the counter, passing by the couple. I did not stop until I was behind the girls, drawing their attention. I delivered my lines and raised my glass, but their comprehension of my words and gestures did not seem to inspire them to do more than say "Hi" in return and smile when I said "Cheers!" Without great surprise, they did not give the impression of having understood my English when I asked if they were left-siders. So I left, but not without smiling back. Two down, three to go. I was feeling high and brave enough to go over to the French family just nearby before I noticed that they were talking with the server at the bar. It felt uncomfortable waiting behind the two Asian girls for their conversation to end. My feelings of euphoria had quickly disappeared. So I turned around and walked towards my seat, stopping before the French couple. My interaction with them was pretty quick; they used the "I-don't-speak-English" card, at the same not appearing offended about my visit. But I was not disappointed at all. On the contrary: I just scored another approach, with two more to go. And I was thinking to myself, "I can do this! I can really do this!"
Back at my seat, the family of four had ordered dessert. I decided to wait before heading over and picked up my book again while I continued sipping the cranberry juice out of my glass. Once they had finished dessert (and could certainly order nothing more), I wanted to make my move. Except that I was now out of juice! So I gave in to the idea of ordering another glass. But that it was not the female server who was around, but the male server, who handed me my drink without a strawberry. Great. Despite the disappointment, I did not waste time in redirecting my attention to the family. The father was about to ask for the bill. "No! Wait!", I shouted, without a voice. It was then or never if I was going to make my move. Well, I did not budge, believing that it was no longer any use to go over there, even if their drinks were still on the table. So I just watched them leave as I began to regret the several opportunities lost to approach them. I mean, it was not like I absolutely wanted to have a conversation with them. I just wanted to ask them my questions. Why would I not allow myself to do what I want?
I carried on this session of self-criticism for a long while, especially since no new patrons were coming in. The place looked dead. In truth, with the exception of Valentine's Day, the bar was usually devoid of people on each night that I had come. Sure, it was relegated to the back of the building, beyond the restaurant which was facing the Champs-Elysees, and behind the shop near at the entrance that was very popular with tourists. Some curious people slipped into the bar, but only to look around, take pictures, and then leave. And in my mind I was telling them, "No, stay! Have a drink! Wait a while!"
I kept dwelling on those missed opportunities. If only I had done this, if only I had done that, this operation would have been done, and I would have been a happy man. I am almost there, just two more approaches. This operation cannot die. What will I do? I mean, I'm still in the fight. I don't want to give up, but nobody's coming in anymore. Time's running out. I think they are going to close the bar soon. Oh no! Now I feel really bad after all that hesitation towards earlier opportunities.
After thirty minutes of suffering during which I tried to avoid the pain by concentrating on my book, a group of four entered the bar and took seats by the entrance. "Yes!", I said to myself, joyful. They looked like a family ‒ a man, a woman and two teenage girls ‒ and they seemed American. They placed their order, which included drinks and desserts. I decided to wait a while before moving in. During this time, I saw a young couple enter the room, and it looked like they were going to stay. "Yes! This is it. You got this", I told myself. They settled into seats at the counter, with their backs to the entrance and within close proximity of the American family. Soon enough, they were standing, taking pictures of the place. Tourists!
At 11:10, I felt that it was time to end this drama once and for all. So, without as much resistance as before, I got up and went towards the table where the American family was seated. The man had just gone out of the bar, which left me alone with the woman and the two girls. I arrived and delivered my opening, which had a rather lukewarm reception. The girls looked hardly interested, and did not engage much in the conversation. I was practically speaking with the lady, who was more welcoming, though not that much. "Well, it was nice meeting you," she said, smiling. I wished them a good stay in Paris and wasted little time in heading over to the young couple a few steps away.
It was the fifth and hence the last visit of the operation, and probably be the longest and the most comfortable. The best for last, perhaps. Anyway, I met Zach and Katrina ‒ we even had proper introductions ‒, who said that they were from the left coast (to mean the west coast) of the United States. Los Angeles to be more precise. Zach told me that they were in Europe for two weeks, spending the first in Paris and then the second in Brussels with a quick trip to Bruges. Having visited Bruges on two occasions, I suggested places to visit, notably the Chocolate Museum and Fry Museum. They were both curious about what left-siders were and I explained the concept to them. I doubt that I succeeded in retaining their interest. Note to self: I need to improve my communication skills on a subject this important.
Five minutes later, I was back at my seat, overjoyed. I could not believe that I had actually completed the operation. After all those attempts made and all those glasses of cranberry juice drank. I was free to move on. I was in a great mood. I was even in a greater mood given that I had came close to not finishing, as the server informed a group of three men upon their arrival that the bar was already closed. Imagine. If I had not taken the chances that I did take, I would probably not have been able to complete the operation and it would have died.
But no, it gets to stay alive.
My satisfaction reached a high. I began to open up more to the two servers. I learned from the girl that the bar would close for the summer in about two weeks ‒ what luck that I came that night ‒ and that she was going afterwards on vacation to Greece for two weeks. Later on, when she was absent and the guy was around, I asked him what his vacation plans were. Los Angeles. "Really?", I asked. "That customer at the end of the counter is from Los Angeles, you have got to talk to him", I added, pointing to the spot where Zach was. "Oh, I was there last year, so I know my way around," he replied. He said he really liked the city.
At 11:30, almost two and a half hours after my arrival in the bar, I took off, having settled my two drinks. There was still some cranberry juice in the last glass. I could not take it anymore, my mouth was not having it. As I approached the exit, I passed by the family of four and said goodbye again to Zach and Katrina. A minute later, I had poured myself out onto the Champs-Elysées. The avenue was lit up and buzzing as usual. I joined the crowd of passers-by, my spirits high and my conscience calm, as I enjoyed knowing that Operation Bar Games got to live again.
I mentioned Bar Games previously in an article but I have not really presented it. Well, let me take the opportunity to give you an introduction.
Just like Operation 50 First States, Bar Games has me going through the arrondissements of Paris from the 1st to the 20th. But unlike 50 First States, which takes place on the street, Bar Games takes place ‒ as you guessed it ‒ in a bar. Or in just about any nightlife venue with a counter and patrons who can have drinks there. The general idea is to create unusual (if not fun) situations with people in a bar, and to up the ante on my antics each time I move up an arrondissement. From the 1st to the 7th, which is the last completed arrondissement at the time of writing, I have done things like saying simply "Hi!" to random people, inviting them to a toast with "Cheers!", and asking them "So are you guys left-siders?". Oh yes, the interactions happen in English. And what results is sometimes surprising, usually in a good way.
An arrondissement is completed once I have carried out the operation in the above manner in five different bars within that arrondissement.
My struggles with the operation have been recent. It was not about completing the operation, but simply about launching it in a given bar. These difficulties started in the 7th. Perhaps it was due to the small number of eligible bars in an arrondissement filled with embassies, government buildings and posh residences. Or perhaps it was the result of a lack of resolve on my part. Whatever the reasons may be, I had a hard time. What should not have taken more than two months (to get through five bars) took six. So when I finally completed the arrondissement, I felt more relieved than joyful.
 |
| Ladurée Champs-Elysées |
As bad as it was in the 7th, things were even worse in the 8th. I could not get past the first bar! As I had a rule of starting an arrondissement by going to the bars that I had visited before, I had to first make it past the bar of the Ladurée site on the Champs-Elysées, which I had been to on two occasions in the past with friends. Actually, it was the only bar that I remembered in the 8th, so I really had to get through it in order to move on. But I couldn't. I stopped by on at least five different nights and everytime except once, I could not muster the courage to leave my seat to approach the other few patrons around. The one time that I did manage to do that, the response from the people at the first table was "Well, I am happy that you are a left-sider. I am here with my friends and we are just trying to enjoy our evening together." Yet given the body language and the voice tone of the girl who delivered those words, what she seemed to be really communicating was "You could not bother us any more than you are bothering us now." I was crushed, and without a bounce-back strategy prepared, I abandoned the idea of going to the other tables and returned to my seat, believing that I had done something wrong and feeling more ashamed than discouraged. I quietly finished my drink, paid the bill, and exited the bar. In short, a failed operation (again).
Sure, all this was my own interpretation of the events. It was like as if I was looking for real proof from the patrons or the staff of the bar that I was doing something wrong by running the operation there. Why? Well, the bar looked posh, compared to any of the ones I had been to in the seven past arrondissements. And posh places tend to elicit a certain kind of behavior from the people who spend time in them. Say the kind where people stay at their table and where there is no mingling with people at other tables. Of course, there is no rule stating that this is the behavior to adopt in such establishments. But most people behave like this, in places beyond posh bars for that matter, so this is considered normal or at least socially acceptable behavior. While being guilty of acting in a very similar fashion in bars, I thought that it was a crippling habit, since the operation that I wanted to carry out clearly required something different. As a result, each time that I went out, I experienced a conflict between my fear (of what people would think) and my desire (to do something unusual), and ended up giving into the former.
After the stress of too many failures, I decided to get out of this conflict by taking a step back. A step back, almost literally, since I was envisioning a return to the bars of the 7th, the previous arrondissement. Clearly, I was not ready to take on the challenge of those in the 8th, so why not go build confidence doing something less difficult, something which I had done before anyway, and after that retake the step forward? The idea sounded too good.
Too bad that it did not work out too well when I tried it out. When I went out to the 7th, I found out that the first bar was no longer there. Or perhaps it was being renovated. In any case, I saw no one and no entrance. I had put all my eggs into one basket ... er, I mean bar, and I had to accept trying out the other bars if I wanted to take my idea seriously. The warrior in me decided to continue. But without a total resolve after the bad news of the first bar. Ultimately, upon catching sight of the crowd in the second bar from outside, I lost all focus, gave up on the operation, and started figuring out my way home.
Strike two.
I was fed up. Though still the warrior, I came up with an even bolder idea than the previous one. Going back to the Ladurée bar in a do-or-die situation and burying the operation for good if I did not complete it there. In essence, it was like a win-or-go-home event, as some American sport commentators would say. It seemed like the necessary thing to do, and it was dirt simple. Do I care enough about my beloved operation to keep it alive, or am I satisfied with imagining solutions (to my problems) that I will never implement? That was the question. And hesitating to respond was giving me too much stress. I deemed a resolution necessary, so that I could move on. It's not like I absolutely needed to do Operation Bar Games. After all, I could suffer.
But since I did not want to suffer, I decided to carry out my new idea the day after my return to the 7th bombed. Besides, I needed to achieve my quota of operations completed during the week, and time was of the essence.
D-Day. I was pumped about the task that I was going to accomplish and naturally a little anxious as well. The do-or-die aspect was extremely motivating. I was just going to enter the bar and do what I set out to do: approach the patrons, regardless of whether they were young or not, with a family or not. I would leave them alone only if their reactions showed that they were not open to my visit. And if the members of the staff were displeased with it, then they should better let me know.
I arrived around 9:10pm. I spotted a group of four young people seated at a table beside the entrance, and a young couple and a baby in stroller on the right side of the U-shaped counter. I passed the couple on my way to my usual spot. I was a little sweaty and decided to chill for a moment, in spite of these opportunities ready to seize. "I'll use the time to prepare myself mentally for the task", I told myself, while hoping at the same time that this decision was not the sign of a loss of focus, however small.
I ordered my usual glass of cranberry juice. Actually, I did not have to ask for it. The server at the bar knew that it was what I had always got during my previous visits and suggested it. She gave it to me with a strawberry hanging on the rim of the glass, which was a new touch. I sipped away while reading the book "Dieu voyage toujours incognito" by Laurent Gounelle (English edition: "The Man Who Risked It All") that I had brought out from my shoulder bag. All the while, I kept my mind regularly on the clock, knowing that the real reason I was there was not to read a book, as exciting as it was.
I decided to jump into action at 9:30. I was just going to do it, that is, get up off my seat and start approaching the group of four, whether it was considered wrong or not, whether I was still sweating from anxiety or not. Beforehand, two Asian girls had arrived and had taken seats at the left side of the bar counter. It was certainly good news, since I needed people to be able to get the job done. But they had ordered to eat, so I was not going to bother them for a toast, at least for the moment. "Shit, I'm playing it safe again", I told myself, critically.
So 9:30 arrived, my nerves were tingling madly, and in almost robotic motion, I got down from my seat, took my glass in hand, and started walking towards the group of four by the entrance. And when I could, I was thinking, "I hope that they [the male and female servers] won't think this is weird and won't end up kicking me out." Clearly, I had some issues with taking the risk of making mistakes ... mistakes in public.
Eventually, I reached my destination and delivered the magic words, accompanied by the appropriate gestures. "Hi!" "Cheers!" "Are you guys left-siders?" The two guys in the group seemed cautious and kept mum, whereas the two girls with them were quite responsive. One of them was especially cheerful, which put me quickly at ease. In fact, she did not only reply my question by telling me that she was right-handed (or left-handed, I forget which), she also started a new conversation by asking me what I thought about French President François Hollande. That was a first. Moments later, I said goodbye to them and left to head back to my seat, elated about having broken the ice. Then I just had to do that four more times.
For some reason or the other, I was not sure whether to approach the young couple next. I passed them again without talking to them. Well, you snooze, you lose: minutes later, they packed up and left the bar.
While a part of me lamented the loss, another part eagerly awaited an opportunity for Approach #2.
Shortly afterwards, a French family of four walk into the bar and take seats at the left side of the counter, beside the Asian girls and directly across from me. There was the man, his wife, and their two adolescent children, a boy and girl. Hmmn, going over to a French family to ask them if they were left-siders. How unusual. As a result, I was hesitant. Besides, they too were going to eat, like their Asian neighbors. I decided to return to my book, keeping an eye on them to find out if they had finished eating and if all that they had left were drinks. And then, a middle-aged French couple arrived and took seats on my side of the counter, three or four seats away from me, where the previous couple and baby had been earlier. This was wonderful. "I will not falter, like I did with my previous neighbors", I said, trying to convince myself.
I decided to make my next move around 10:10. I had guessed that the Asian girls would have finished eating by then. I was still hesitant about the French family beside them. The French couple beside me were likely targets as they were having drinks. Soon enough, the clock struck 10:10. I got up and started walking towards the other side of the counter, passing by the couple. I did not stop until I was behind the girls, drawing their attention. I delivered my lines and raised my glass, but their comprehension of my words and gestures did not seem to inspire them to do more than say "Hi" in return and smile when I said "Cheers!" Without great surprise, they did not give the impression of having understood my English when I asked if they were left-siders. So I left, but not without smiling back. Two down, three to go. I was feeling high and brave enough to go over to the French family just nearby before I noticed that they were talking with the server at the bar. It felt uncomfortable waiting behind the two Asian girls for their conversation to end. My feelings of euphoria had quickly disappeared. So I turned around and walked towards my seat, stopping before the French couple. My interaction with them was pretty quick; they used the "I-don't-speak-English" card, at the same not appearing offended about my visit. But I was not disappointed at all. On the contrary: I just scored another approach, with two more to go. And I was thinking to myself, "I can do this! I can really do this!"
Back at my seat, the family of four had ordered dessert. I decided to wait before heading over and picked up my book again while I continued sipping the cranberry juice out of my glass. Once they had finished dessert (and could certainly order nothing more), I wanted to make my move. Except that I was now out of juice! So I gave in to the idea of ordering another glass. But that it was not the female server who was around, but the male server, who handed me my drink without a strawberry. Great. Despite the disappointment, I did not waste time in redirecting my attention to the family. The father was about to ask for the bill. "No! Wait!", I shouted, without a voice. It was then or never if I was going to make my move. Well, I did not budge, believing that it was no longer any use to go over there, even if their drinks were still on the table. So I just watched them leave as I began to regret the several opportunities lost to approach them. I mean, it was not like I absolutely wanted to have a conversation with them. I just wanted to ask them my questions. Why would I not allow myself to do what I want?
I carried on this session of self-criticism for a long while, especially since no new patrons were coming in. The place looked dead. In truth, with the exception of Valentine's Day, the bar was usually devoid of people on each night that I had come. Sure, it was relegated to the back of the building, beyond the restaurant which was facing the Champs-Elysees, and behind the shop near at the entrance that was very popular with tourists. Some curious people slipped into the bar, but only to look around, take pictures, and then leave. And in my mind I was telling them, "No, stay! Have a drink! Wait a while!"
I kept dwelling on those missed opportunities. If only I had done this, if only I had done that, this operation would have been done, and I would have been a happy man. I am almost there, just two more approaches. This operation cannot die. What will I do? I mean, I'm still in the fight. I don't want to give up, but nobody's coming in anymore. Time's running out. I think they are going to close the bar soon. Oh no! Now I feel really bad after all that hesitation towards earlier opportunities.
After thirty minutes of suffering during which I tried to avoid the pain by concentrating on my book, a group of four entered the bar and took seats by the entrance. "Yes!", I said to myself, joyful. They looked like a family ‒ a man, a woman and two teenage girls ‒ and they seemed American. They placed their order, which included drinks and desserts. I decided to wait a while before moving in. During this time, I saw a young couple enter the room, and it looked like they were going to stay. "Yes! This is it. You got this", I told myself. They settled into seats at the counter, with their backs to the entrance and within close proximity of the American family. Soon enough, they were standing, taking pictures of the place. Tourists!
At 11:10, I felt that it was time to end this drama once and for all. So, without as much resistance as before, I got up and went towards the table where the American family was seated. The man had just gone out of the bar, which left me alone with the woman and the two girls. I arrived and delivered my opening, which had a rather lukewarm reception. The girls looked hardly interested, and did not engage much in the conversation. I was practically speaking with the lady, who was more welcoming, though not that much. "Well, it was nice meeting you," she said, smiling. I wished them a good stay in Paris and wasted little time in heading over to the young couple a few steps away.
It was the fifth and hence the last visit of the operation, and probably be the longest and the most comfortable. The best for last, perhaps. Anyway, I met Zach and Katrina ‒ we even had proper introductions ‒, who said that they were from the left coast (to mean the west coast) of the United States. Los Angeles to be more precise. Zach told me that they were in Europe for two weeks, spending the first in Paris and then the second in Brussels with a quick trip to Bruges. Having visited Bruges on two occasions, I suggested places to visit, notably the Chocolate Museum and Fry Museum. They were both curious about what left-siders were and I explained the concept to them. I doubt that I succeeded in retaining their interest. Note to self: I need to improve my communication skills on a subject this important.
Five minutes later, I was back at my seat, overjoyed. I could not believe that I had actually completed the operation. After all those attempts made and all those glasses of cranberry juice drank. I was free to move on. I was in a great mood. I was even in a greater mood given that I had came close to not finishing, as the server informed a group of three men upon their arrival that the bar was already closed. Imagine. If I had not taken the chances that I did take, I would probably not have been able to complete the operation and it would have died.
But no, it gets to stay alive.
My satisfaction reached a high. I began to open up more to the two servers. I learned from the girl that the bar would close for the summer in about two weeks ‒ what luck that I came that night ‒ and that she was going afterwards on vacation to Greece for two weeks. Later on, when she was absent and the guy was around, I asked him what his vacation plans were. Los Angeles. "Really?", I asked. "That customer at the end of the counter is from Los Angeles, you have got to talk to him", I added, pointing to the spot where Zach was. "Oh, I was there last year, so I know my way around," he replied. He said he really liked the city.
At 11:30, almost two and a half hours after my arrival in the bar, I took off, having settled my two drinks. There was still some cranberry juice in the last glass. I could not take it anymore, my mouth was not having it. As I approached the exit, I passed by the family of four and said goodbye again to Zach and Katrina. A minute later, I had poured myself out onto the Champs-Elysées. The avenue was lit up and buzzing as usual. I joined the crowd of passers-by, my spirits high and my conscience calm, as I enjoyed knowing that Operation Bar Games got to live again.
 |
| Maybe if the bar often looked like this, the operation would have been done with earlier? |
Sunday, August 17, 2014
a week in the life of misfit
It has been a great week.
Notably because I was accepting myself as a misfit. Really.
The previous week was disastrous, and when I went searching for reasons, I found out that I was not accepting the misfit in me. In other words, I was repressing the misfit instead of allowing it to reveal itself in my everyday experiences, especially the ones shared with other people, familiar or not.
So just before the week started, I decided to consciously hand over more control to the misfit. More precisely, it was about handing over more control of my operations to the misfit. If I found myself feeling any resistance to the tasks that I had to perform for an operation ‒ tasks that were born out of my own imagination ‒, I would simply tell myself, "But you are a misfit. What you have to do does not fit. It is not usual. That is the very definition of misfit. That is what a misfit does. To do otherwise would be to fit in. Besides, you know very well what happens when you do not accept the misfit." And then, with that clarity in the mind, the resistance would start to dissipate. The misfit would suddenly become more empowered and would end up completing the task. And all would be well. In fact, very well. With the resistance a thing of the past, all that was left to feel was joy. That is until the next operation came around.
Since there is usually a few ways to fit and numerous ways to not fit, I prefer being a misfit who can select carefully from the multitude of opportunities available. This involves leaving out ways of being a misfit that provide little value. For example, it "fits" to cross the road by walking forward when the pedestrian light is green, and sometimes even when it is red. On the other hand, it does not fit to cross by walking backward when the same light is red. But that is something a misfit could do. Now is there value in doing that? Perhaps yes, if it is linked to the risk of avoidable injury. But I doubt that most people find value in that. It seems to me that most people want to be alive or, better yet, comfortable. So I think that it is generally best that those of us who choose to not fit do something of value. And according to Simon Sinek, the standard of what constitutes doing something of value is our own.
Often, I try to add value as a misfit by demonstrating different ways in which we can connect with the people around us. So this past week, I set out to do just that.
Whereas the majority of people in the Paris metro do not (yet) greet a nearby stranger, I said "Bonjour!" to someone in the metro upon entering and "Bonne journée !" when either I or the person was getting off, regardless of what time of the day it was. I was not always successful, but there is always next week.
Whereas the majority of people where I work do not (yet) greet members of other teams sharing the open space with them, I went to go say hello to each person in the area in the late afternoon on Wednesday. On some occasions, the interaction went beyond the initial hello.
Whereas the majority of people go to the supermarket to buy groceries, I showed up at one of the largest ones in my neighborhood in the early afternoon on Saturday to ask the staff for permission to stand inside by the entrance, just to say "Bonjour !" to shoppers as they arrived. The cashier who I was speaking with was unsure about what decision to make, repeating that it was company policy that any activity involving solicitations take place outside the store. While we waited (unsuccessfully) for the manager to come deliver a more definite answer, I tried to reassure her that that it was just an idea that had popped into my head and that I was interested in exploring. She at least let out a smile when I told her that I tended to have ideas like that one.
These are all but a few examples of things that someone who sees himself as a misfit could do. And I believe that they provide value. To myself, and perhaps to some like-minded misfit out there.
In some way, being a misfit affords greater liberty than being someone who fits. Just because there are much more ways to not fit than to fit. It is like trying to fill a square hole when you have 100 pegs of distinct shapes. Only a square peg will fit perfectly into a square hole. The rest, including the rectangular peg, the triangular peg, and the round peg, will not fit. As people that are looking to not fit, we are free to choose among the 99 pegs. Now wouldn't it be great if we added value with the choice that we made?
Only when we paint the thing that doesn't fit bright red does it become a thing of beauty.
‒ Simon Sinek
Notably because I was accepting myself as a misfit. Really.
The previous week was disastrous, and when I went searching for reasons, I found out that I was not accepting the misfit in me. In other words, I was repressing the misfit instead of allowing it to reveal itself in my everyday experiences, especially the ones shared with other people, familiar or not.
So just before the week started, I decided to consciously hand over more control to the misfit. More precisely, it was about handing over more control of my operations to the misfit. If I found myself feeling any resistance to the tasks that I had to perform for an operation ‒ tasks that were born out of my own imagination ‒, I would simply tell myself, "But you are a misfit. What you have to do does not fit. It is not usual. That is the very definition of misfit. That is what a misfit does. To do otherwise would be to fit in. Besides, you know very well what happens when you do not accept the misfit." And then, with that clarity in the mind, the resistance would start to dissipate. The misfit would suddenly become more empowered and would end up completing the task. And all would be well. In fact, very well. With the resistance a thing of the past, all that was left to feel was joy. That is until the next operation came around.
Since there is usually a few ways to fit and numerous ways to not fit, I prefer being a misfit who can select carefully from the multitude of opportunities available. This involves leaving out ways of being a misfit that provide little value. For example, it "fits" to cross the road by walking forward when the pedestrian light is green, and sometimes even when it is red. On the other hand, it does not fit to cross by walking backward when the same light is red. But that is something a misfit could do. Now is there value in doing that? Perhaps yes, if it is linked to the risk of avoidable injury. But I doubt that most people find value in that. It seems to me that most people want to be alive or, better yet, comfortable. So I think that it is generally best that those of us who choose to not fit do something of value. And according to Simon Sinek, the standard of what constitutes doing something of value is our own.
Often, I try to add value as a misfit by demonstrating different ways in which we can connect with the people around us. So this past week, I set out to do just that.
Whereas the majority of people in the Paris metro do not (yet) greet a nearby stranger, I said "Bonjour!" to someone in the metro upon entering and "Bonne journée !" when either I or the person was getting off, regardless of what time of the day it was. I was not always successful, but there is always next week.
Whereas the majority of people where I work do not (yet) greet members of other teams sharing the open space with them, I went to go say hello to each person in the area in the late afternoon on Wednesday. On some occasions, the interaction went beyond the initial hello.
Whereas the majority of people go to the supermarket to buy groceries, I showed up at one of the largest ones in my neighborhood in the early afternoon on Saturday to ask the staff for permission to stand inside by the entrance, just to say "Bonjour !" to shoppers as they arrived. The cashier who I was speaking with was unsure about what decision to make, repeating that it was company policy that any activity involving solicitations take place outside the store. While we waited (unsuccessfully) for the manager to come deliver a more definite answer, I tried to reassure her that that it was just an idea that had popped into my head and that I was interested in exploring. She at least let out a smile when I told her that I tended to have ideas like that one.
These are all but a few examples of things that someone who sees himself as a misfit could do. And I believe that they provide value. To myself, and perhaps to some like-minded misfit out there.
In some way, being a misfit affords greater liberty than being someone who fits. Just because there are much more ways to not fit than to fit. It is like trying to fill a square hole when you have 100 pegs of distinct shapes. Only a square peg will fit perfectly into a square hole. The rest, including the rectangular peg, the triangular peg, and the round peg, will not fit. As people that are looking to not fit, we are free to choose among the 99 pegs. Now wouldn't it be great if we added value with the choice that we made?
Only when we paint the thing that doesn't fit bright red does it become a thing of beauty.
‒ Simon Sinek
Sunday, August 10, 2014
creativity for dummies
This is just too good.
Creativity Something has published "The New Rules of a Creator's Life".
This follows the 2011/12 edition of their "Rules of a Creator's Life", which I had included in an article that you may have read.
Needless to say, all these "rules" speak directly to my soul. Even though I do not always succeed in applying them, I am glad that I know them. They just make sense to me.
So why bother anyway with creativity, or the power of creation? A simple reason is that it occupies the mind. Another simple reason that I find more important is that it can enrich lives, and not just that of the creator.
There are several popular beliefs regarding creativity. For example, some people think that something that is not original cannot be a sign of creativity. I beg to differ. One can argue that creativity and originality are related, but they mean two different things. Originality is concerned primarily with new things. Creativity, on the other hand, implies creating something, whether new or not. I could say "Hello!" 10 times each to 10 different strangers over the course of the day, and I would believe that I was creating something each time: an interaction that had not existed before.
Also, there is the misconception that creativity is mostly reserved for artists or people in art-related industries. I imagine that this idea is based on the assumption that art is about things like drawing, painting, sculpture, dancing, photography, etc., even though art is much broader that that (I should probably not even try to define what art is). Again, creativity implies creating something. It does not matter whether you are a painter, a factory worker, an engineer, a secretary or even an occasional daydreamer. As long as you are spending your time producing something that did not exist before, you are creating. At least that is what I think.
In a way, we are always creating. Our lives, for one thing.
While we are all generally capable of creating things, there are different levels of creativity. Some require little effort whereas others require much more. Also, some have an impact on an individual ‒ possibly the creator ‒ and others have an impact on society, as noted by the psychology professor Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi in his book "Creativity", where he distinguishes creativity with a c from creativity with a C. Whatever the case may be, if you are looking to bring about more creativity in your life, you can check out the rules above or simply read no more than the message below.
Creativity Something has published "The New Rules of a Creator's Life".
This follows the 2011/12 edition of their "Rules of a Creator's Life", which I had included in an article that you may have read.
Needless to say, all these "rules" speak directly to my soul. Even though I do not always succeed in applying them, I am glad that I know them. They just make sense to me.
So why bother anyway with creativity, or the power of creation? A simple reason is that it occupies the mind. Another simple reason that I find more important is that it can enrich lives, and not just that of the creator.
There are several popular beliefs regarding creativity. For example, some people think that something that is not original cannot be a sign of creativity. I beg to differ. One can argue that creativity and originality are related, but they mean two different things. Originality is concerned primarily with new things. Creativity, on the other hand, implies creating something, whether new or not. I could say "Hello!" 10 times each to 10 different strangers over the course of the day, and I would believe that I was creating something each time: an interaction that had not existed before.
Also, there is the misconception that creativity is mostly reserved for artists or people in art-related industries. I imagine that this idea is based on the assumption that art is about things like drawing, painting, sculpture, dancing, photography, etc., even though art is much broader that that (I should probably not even try to define what art is). Again, creativity implies creating something. It does not matter whether you are a painter, a factory worker, an engineer, a secretary or even an occasional daydreamer. As long as you are spending your time producing something that did not exist before, you are creating. At least that is what I think.
In a way, we are always creating. Our lives, for one thing.
While we are all generally capable of creating things, there are different levels of creativity. Some require little effort whereas others require much more. Also, some have an impact on an individual ‒ possibly the creator ‒ and others have an impact on society, as noted by the psychology professor Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi in his book "Creativity", where he distinguishes creativity with a c from creativity with a C. Whatever the case may be, if you are looking to bring about more creativity in your life, you can check out the rules above or simply read no more than the message below.
 |
| "Everything I needed to know about creativity I learned by making mistakes" |
Sunday, July 27, 2014
our deepest fear
One of my favorite passages of all time comes from "A Return to Love", a book by Marianne Williamson:
When reflecting on the passage, I like to equate the idea of letting my light shine with that of loving myself. And that said, the suggestion that my deepest fear is that of loving myself is one that disgusts me.
Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn't serve the world. There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we're liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.
When reflecting on the passage, I like to equate the idea of letting my light shine with that of loving myself. And that said, the suggestion that my deepest fear is that of loving myself is one that disgusts me.
Sunday, July 20, 2014
"french people are rude"
Or so it is said.
Of course, French people are not rude. But you would probably think that they were if you were expecting them to be polite.
So expect things other than politeness from the French and you'd see them differently. Better yet, expect greater.
In my own personal experience, French people have been many things. Passionate, hypocritical, curious, resentful, resourceful, and stressed are only but a few of the traits that I've witnessed so far. Nothing extraordinary, right? Naturally, I find some of these flavors more pleasing than the others. What's more, the presence of each of them varies from person to person and from time to time. And all this would be normal, given the complex beings we humans are.
Above all, I saw the French not as rude, but as discreet. Discreet in the sense that they tended to keep to themselves and to people that they already knew. This discretion is of a highly subjective nature. Arriving as a shy, English-speaking foreigner in the capital of a country with a strong cultural identity like France, I was assuming that I would be welcomed by the local community. But no. Nevertheless, I held on to my big dreams of making it as a Parisian, so I sought to practice savoir-vivre, improve my French, communicate only in French at soirées entre amis, increase my culture générale, appreciate wine, cheese, and other iconic French matters, and so on. All that so that I could fit in better. But no. It seemed to me that most of the French people that I had met had a stable company of friends and that they did not need to bother anyone else. Fortunately for me, I was able to find support in a couple of special people, friends and colleagues, some of whom were French or French-speaking but the most of whom were foreigners. Yet outside of this group and sometimes within it, the feeling of lacking strong ties to the larger social environment remained with me.
Today, after seven years in Paris, I still do not see the French as rude. My perception of them being discreet persists for the most part, but it bothers me less these days. Looking back, perhaps this sense of discretion was a result of the culture shock that I was experiencing while settling in France. But I now believe that it was mostly fed by my own past experiences. In other words, it was me who was discreet. It was me who had placed a barrier between himself and people. It was me who chose not to bother anyone. And it was me who saw a problem in all that. That is why I have chosen since to love Paris, to invest in Paris and to improve my social skills while I live in Paris.
That said, if I must be dead honest, I cannot be sure that I'll make lifelong friends in Paris, in spite of my efforts. Life is full of unexpected events and the people that I confide in could change their minds or their nature at any moment that seemed suitable to them. I am myself also capable of botching up a relationship with a close friend if, for example, I suddenly decide to go in one direction whereas he is going in another. Besides, since it takes two to tango as they say, I can only do so much. And so much I will do, because of the great value that true friendship offers. However, I accept the fact that there are some things that I cannot control.
What is more in my control, however, is being a better person. Better as in less discreet especially. And to do this, while I live in Paris, I will count on the help of the French people, be they rude, discreet, or whatever else is said of them.
We don't see things as they are. We see them as we are.
‒ Anaïs Nin
Of course, French people are not rude. But you would probably think that they were if you were expecting them to be polite.
So expect things other than politeness from the French and you'd see them differently. Better yet, expect greater.
In my own personal experience, French people have been many things. Passionate, hypocritical, curious, resentful, resourceful, and stressed are only but a few of the traits that I've witnessed so far. Nothing extraordinary, right? Naturally, I find some of these flavors more pleasing than the others. What's more, the presence of each of them varies from person to person and from time to time. And all this would be normal, given the complex beings we humans are.
Above all, I saw the French not as rude, but as discreet. Discreet in the sense that they tended to keep to themselves and to people that they already knew. This discretion is of a highly subjective nature. Arriving as a shy, English-speaking foreigner in the capital of a country with a strong cultural identity like France, I was assuming that I would be welcomed by the local community. But no. Nevertheless, I held on to my big dreams of making it as a Parisian, so I sought to practice savoir-vivre, improve my French, communicate only in French at soirées entre amis, increase my culture générale, appreciate wine, cheese, and other iconic French matters, and so on. All that so that I could fit in better. But no. It seemed to me that most of the French people that I had met had a stable company of friends and that they did not need to bother anyone else. Fortunately for me, I was able to find support in a couple of special people, friends and colleagues, some of whom were French or French-speaking but the most of whom were foreigners. Yet outside of this group and sometimes within it, the feeling of lacking strong ties to the larger social environment remained with me.
Today, after seven years in Paris, I still do not see the French as rude. My perception of them being discreet persists for the most part, but it bothers me less these days. Looking back, perhaps this sense of discretion was a result of the culture shock that I was experiencing while settling in France. But I now believe that it was mostly fed by my own past experiences. In other words, it was me who was discreet. It was me who had placed a barrier between himself and people. It was me who chose not to bother anyone. And it was me who saw a problem in all that. That is why I have chosen since to love Paris, to invest in Paris and to improve my social skills while I live in Paris.
That said, if I must be dead honest, I cannot be sure that I'll make lifelong friends in Paris, in spite of my efforts. Life is full of unexpected events and the people that I confide in could change their minds or their nature at any moment that seemed suitable to them. I am myself also capable of botching up a relationship with a close friend if, for example, I suddenly decide to go in one direction whereas he is going in another. Besides, since it takes two to tango as they say, I can only do so much. And so much I will do, because of the great value that true friendship offers. However, I accept the fact that there are some things that I cannot control.
What is more in my control, however, is being a better person. Better as in less discreet especially. And to do this, while I live in Paris, I will count on the help of the French people, be they rude, discreet, or whatever else is said of them.
We don't see things as they are. We see them as we are.
‒ Anaïs Nin
Sunday, July 6, 2014
why i love paris (5)
On Sunday, May 25, 2014, I joined other members of the Paris Sketchers crew in the 14th arrondissement of Paris to celebrate la Fête de la Nature (Nature Day). The outing was a convergence of three separate plans. First, there was Sigrid, an urban sketcher from Vancouver, who had informed us some months earlier about her visit to Paris in hopes to draw with us. Then, there was Charlotte, a local urban sketcher and president of "Le Lapin Ouvrier", an association that manages a shared garden in the 14th arrondissement, who had invited us to visit her garden during the fête and ultimately sketch there. Finally, there was Marion, another local urban sketcher, who had told us about a group of drawing enthusiasts visiting from Puerto Rico that were interested in sketching with others in Paris. In light of these different contexts, the Sunday was bound to be one that would be not only rich in sights, sketches, and sunshine, but also rich in shared experiences.
From a personal standpoint, on this particular day, I was looking to draw my a-- off. I had just returned from vacation overseas, and since I did not sketch a whole lot during the time away, I had fallen behind my weekly quota. So I had some catching up to do in order to restore the balance. Having taken account of the work already done, I figured that it would suffice to do 8 sketches with each requiring 30 minutes or less in the 3 or 4 hours before everyone got together for the usual drinks after drawing. As you can imagine, this plan would leave little time to reflect on finished drawings or to engage anyone in a conversation, which were two things that I usually did. Eight sketches in a few hours. A goal that I had never attempted before, not even at SketchCrawls, where sketchers gather in different parts of the world to spend a whole day on a particular site doing nothing but sketches.
In the end, I could managed only 7 sketches, which was 5 more than my previous high. Even though I succeeded in keeping my pen on the pages of my drawing book for (almost) three and a half hours, the time spent was marked by some pleasant distractions every now and then.
RECAP
After arriving at Place de la Garenne and saying quick hellos to Marion and Jean-Marc, both of whom were already at work, I went to unfold my stool in a corner of the square where I got warmed up by making the sketch below.
I found the view below of the Jardin de la ZAC Didot it interesting, so I started scribbling. At some point, I noticed a group of about 10 people pass from the garden to the square with Charlotte and then walk over to where Marion was sitting. They were the sketchers from Puerto Rico. Afterwards, they came with Charlotte to say hello to me. I stopped drawing for a chat with them, using the occasion to resurrect my Spanish with little success. Fortunately for me, the group organizer spoke French.
Sometime later, Sigrid arrived, by bicycle. I got to meet her and found greater ease speaking with her in English after we started off in French.
Things got interesting once I entered the garden. Unlike the quiet and empty square, the garden with rather lively, with kids playing all over the place and curious adults peeking here and there. I soon spotted Charlotte, who gave me the warmest and most animated welcome ever. She then explained to me how the shared garden concept worked and even offered me a very raw taste of a few herbs grown there, notably thyme and tarragon. After a while, when I was seriously itching to resume drawing, Charlotte found me a discreet spot under the shade in the middle of a enclosure that contained plants and a few trees. I could not have asked for a better location. From there, I found an interesting scene, except that Sigrid and Marion were in it, busy sketching away. Even though I preferred to avoid drawing people, I felt that I had no other choice but to include the two ladies in the picture.
I needed one more sketch in the garden before moving on and quickly settled on the one below. While I was drawing, Charlotte came to offer me some syrup made from quinces cultivated in the garden. How kind! At some point, Marion started announcing that we would be going shortly to Rue des Thermopyles, which was nearby. I had never been there, but I figured that it was a remarkable place. I kept that in mind and raced to wrap up my sketch.
I joined in the walk over to Rue des Thermopyles. Within a few minutes, we ended up on this mostly straight and narrow street that had a countryside vibe to it. But what I found most striking ‒ and I am sure others can say the same ‒ was the extensive plant decor on facades of the buildings bordering the street. There was even a thick bundle of leafy branches that traveled from one facade to the one across it, forming an arch of plants for people and cars to pass through. It was all a sight to behold. With great delight, I began to capture the view towards one end of the street, only to end up less than five minutes later with the view obstructed by a sketcher from Puerto Rico. I was not sure of what she was doing since her back was directly in front of me, but as she did not leave the spot, I figured that she was sketching. And she was. At that point, I felt that there was no other solution but to put her in the sketch. I even had to draw her over the initial line I had traced to mark the edge of the left sidewalk.
I sought another view nearby that had nothing to do with the perspective of a straight and narrow street. I found one simply by looking in the opposite direction. There, Luis Alfonso, who led the group of sketchers from Puerto Rico, Marie-Odile, a local sketcher, and a sketcher from Puerto Rico were sitting on the sidewalk, filling in their sketchbooks.
Shortly after I had begun yet another sketch on Rue des Thermopyles, Marion was leading the group to go have drinks in a neighborhood cafe, which generally signaled the end of sketching activity. I was determined to carry out my plan to finish, so when the group was getting ready to leave, I kept drawing, albeit more hastily. After 20 minutes in a newfound solitude, I was done. Sketch No. 8 was going to happen but on another day, since I was eager to reunite with the group. Besides, I was also spent and my drawing arm needed to rest for a long while. So I got up, folded my stool one last time, and set off in the direction of the garden that we had arrived from, very content with the efforts that I had produced, in the company of twenty other sketchers, some from Paris, others from farther away.
From a personal standpoint, on this particular day, I was looking to draw my a-- off. I had just returned from vacation overseas, and since I did not sketch a whole lot during the time away, I had fallen behind my weekly quota. So I had some catching up to do in order to restore the balance. Having taken account of the work already done, I figured that it would suffice to do 8 sketches with each requiring 30 minutes or less in the 3 or 4 hours before everyone got together for the usual drinks after drawing. As you can imagine, this plan would leave little time to reflect on finished drawings or to engage anyone in a conversation, which were two things that I usually did. Eight sketches in a few hours. A goal that I had never attempted before, not even at SketchCrawls, where sketchers gather in different parts of the world to spend a whole day on a particular site doing nothing but sketches.
In the end, I could managed only 7 sketches, which was 5 more than my previous high. Even though I succeeded in keeping my pen on the pages of my drawing book for (almost) three and a half hours, the time spent was marked by some pleasant distractions every now and then.
RECAP
After arriving at Place de la Garenne and saying quick hellos to Marion and Jean-Marc, both of whom were already at work, I went to unfold my stool in a corner of the square where I got warmed up by making the sketch below.
I found the view below of the Jardin de la ZAC Didot it interesting, so I started scribbling. At some point, I noticed a group of about 10 people pass from the garden to the square with Charlotte and then walk over to where Marion was sitting. They were the sketchers from Puerto Rico. Afterwards, they came with Charlotte to say hello to me. I stopped drawing for a chat with them, using the occasion to resurrect my Spanish with little success. Fortunately for me, the group organizer spoke French.
Sometime later, Sigrid arrived, by bicycle. I got to meet her and found greater ease speaking with her in English after we started off in French.
Things got interesting once I entered the garden. Unlike the quiet and empty square, the garden with rather lively, with kids playing all over the place and curious adults peeking here and there. I soon spotted Charlotte, who gave me the warmest and most animated welcome ever. She then explained to me how the shared garden concept worked and even offered me a very raw taste of a few herbs grown there, notably thyme and tarragon. After a while, when I was seriously itching to resume drawing, Charlotte found me a discreet spot under the shade in the middle of a enclosure that contained plants and a few trees. I could not have asked for a better location. From there, I found an interesting scene, except that Sigrid and Marion were in it, busy sketching away. Even though I preferred to avoid drawing people, I felt that I had no other choice but to include the two ladies in the picture.
I needed one more sketch in the garden before moving on and quickly settled on the one below. While I was drawing, Charlotte came to offer me some syrup made from quinces cultivated in the garden. How kind! At some point, Marion started announcing that we would be going shortly to Rue des Thermopyles, which was nearby. I had never been there, but I figured that it was a remarkable place. I kept that in mind and raced to wrap up my sketch.
I joined in the walk over to Rue des Thermopyles. Within a few minutes, we ended up on this mostly straight and narrow street that had a countryside vibe to it. But what I found most striking ‒ and I am sure others can say the same ‒ was the extensive plant decor on facades of the buildings bordering the street. There was even a thick bundle of leafy branches that traveled from one facade to the one across it, forming an arch of plants for people and cars to pass through. It was all a sight to behold. With great delight, I began to capture the view towards one end of the street, only to end up less than five minutes later with the view obstructed by a sketcher from Puerto Rico. I was not sure of what she was doing since her back was directly in front of me, but as she did not leave the spot, I figured that she was sketching. And she was. At that point, I felt that there was no other solution but to put her in the sketch. I even had to draw her over the initial line I had traced to mark the edge of the left sidewalk.
I sought another view nearby that had nothing to do with the perspective of a straight and narrow street. I found one simply by looking in the opposite direction. There, Luis Alfonso, who led the group of sketchers from Puerto Rico, Marie-Odile, a local sketcher, and a sketcher from Puerto Rico were sitting on the sidewalk, filling in their sketchbooks.
Shortly after I had begun yet another sketch on Rue des Thermopyles, Marion was leading the group to go have drinks in a neighborhood cafe, which generally signaled the end of sketching activity. I was determined to carry out my plan to finish, so when the group was getting ready to leave, I kept drawing, albeit more hastily. After 20 minutes in a newfound solitude, I was done. Sketch No. 8 was going to happen but on another day, since I was eager to reunite with the group. Besides, I was also spent and my drawing arm needed to rest for a long while. So I got up, folded my stool one last time, and set off in the direction of the garden that we had arrived from, very content with the efforts that I had produced, in the company of twenty other sketchers, some from Paris, others from farther away.
Monday, June 9, 2014
s'aimer ou ne pas s'aimer
I was on my way to work one morning last week when I saw the magazine cover below on the wall of a kiosk.
It's the June 2014 issue of a magazine named "Philosophie" and the main title on the cover is "Faut-il s'aimer soi-même ?" Those words translate to "Does one have to love oneself ?" in English.
C'mon. Really?
Is there more than one logical answer to this question?
Well, for the purposes of philosophical debate, there are several answers. However, as far as the well-being of human beings is concerned, I see only one.
And, in my opinion, choosing to love yourself does not necessarily mean that the sole object of this love is yourself.
It's the June 2014 issue of a magazine named "Philosophie" and the main title on the cover is "Faut-il s'aimer soi-même ?" Those words translate to "Does one have to love oneself ?" in English.
C'mon. Really?
Is there more than one logical answer to this question?
Well, for the purposes of philosophical debate, there are several answers. However, as far as the well-being of human beings is concerned, I see only one.
And, in my opinion, choosing to love yourself does not necessarily mean that the sole object of this love is yourself.
Friday, June 6, 2014
survival of the misfit
This is survival of the fittest
This is do or die
This is the winner takes it all
So take it All, A-All, A-All, A-All
...
But I want you to doubt me, I don't want you to buh-lieve
Cause this is something that I must use to succeed
And if you don't like me then fuck you, self-esteem
Must be fuckin' shootin' through the roof cause trust me
My skin is too thick and bullet proof to touch me
I can see why the fuck I disgust you, I must be
Allergic to failure cause every time I come close to it I just sneeze
but I just go achoo then A-chieve!
‒ Eminem, "Survival"
This is the song that I am feeling right now. Right now meaning at the very moment that I am typing this.
As brilliant as the above video is, it's really all about the song.
It's so lyrical, so aggressive, so raw. So Eminem. And so like "'Till I Collapse", which happens to be one of my favorites.
And just like on that track, Eminem delivers a clear message on "Survival", and it is a similar one: when faced with adversity, you survive, or better yet thrive, by using the situation to surpass yourself. Although this interpretation may fall short compared to the value of this song, it must be nonetheless noted that adversity as it is referenced here is perceived as a necessity, or even as an opportunity.
And the truth is that many of us, if not all, encounter adversity from time to time. Job loss, breakups, financial issues, and health problems are some common ones. While I am not immune to these kinds of adversity, the one that I experience on a more durable basis results from the feeling that I do not fit well in society. The feeling of being a misfit, in short. Misfit by his point of view, misfit by his ideas, misfit by his interests. I accept that deep down within myself, this is what I truly yearned to be. Not necessarily a misfit per se, but someone different. Special. Yet the pressures of society have been such that I often settled for a life where I talked and I behaved in the same way as the majority of the people around me. Talk about conflict.
However, in spite of the external pressure and the internal conflict, the misfit in me refuses to rest. It was never completely silent in the tough times of the past, so I do not expect it to be so in the uncertain events of the future. Moreover, it has been by choosing to nourish this misfit that I have been able to give life to my operations. It has been by choosing to nourish this misfit that I have been able to experience inner peace and plenty of joy. It has been by choosing to nourish this misfit that I have survived well enough and long enough to write this.
So, in the words of Eminem, who also sees himself as a misfit, this is something that I must use to succeed. To surpass myself.
But this is not just survival of the fittest, as the chorus of "Survival" says.
This is also survival of the misfit.
I used to be the type of kid that, would always think the sky is fallin'
Now I think the fact that I'm differently wired's awesome
‒ Eminem, "Legacy"
This is do or die
This is the winner takes it all
So take it All, A-All, A-All, A-All
...
But I want you to doubt me, I don't want you to buh-lieve
Cause this is something that I must use to succeed
And if you don't like me then fuck you, self-esteem
Must be fuckin' shootin' through the roof cause trust me
My skin is too thick and bullet proof to touch me
I can see why the fuck I disgust you, I must be
Allergic to failure cause every time I come close to it I just sneeze
but I just go achoo then A-chieve!
‒ Eminem, "Survival"
This is the song that I am feeling right now. Right now meaning at the very moment that I am typing this.
As brilliant as the above video is, it's really all about the song.
It's so lyrical, so aggressive, so raw. So Eminem. And so like "'Till I Collapse", which happens to be one of my favorites.
And just like on that track, Eminem delivers a clear message on "Survival", and it is a similar one: when faced with adversity, you survive, or better yet thrive, by using the situation to surpass yourself. Although this interpretation may fall short compared to the value of this song, it must be nonetheless noted that adversity as it is referenced here is perceived as a necessity, or even as an opportunity.
And the truth is that many of us, if not all, encounter adversity from time to time. Job loss, breakups, financial issues, and health problems are some common ones. While I am not immune to these kinds of adversity, the one that I experience on a more durable basis results from the feeling that I do not fit well in society. The feeling of being a misfit, in short. Misfit by his point of view, misfit by his ideas, misfit by his interests. I accept that deep down within myself, this is what I truly yearned to be. Not necessarily a misfit per se, but someone different. Special. Yet the pressures of society have been such that I often settled for a life where I talked and I behaved in the same way as the majority of the people around me. Talk about conflict.
However, in spite of the external pressure and the internal conflict, the misfit in me refuses to rest. It was never completely silent in the tough times of the past, so I do not expect it to be so in the uncertain events of the future. Moreover, it has been by choosing to nourish this misfit that I have been able to give life to my operations. It has been by choosing to nourish this misfit that I have been able to experience inner peace and plenty of joy. It has been by choosing to nourish this misfit that I have survived well enough and long enough to write this.
So, in the words of Eminem, who also sees himself as a misfit, this is something that I must use to succeed. To surpass myself.
But this is not just survival of the fittest, as the chorus of "Survival" says.
This is also survival of the misfit.
I used to be the type of kid that, would always think the sky is fallin'
Now I think the fact that I'm differently wired's awesome
‒ Eminem, "Legacy"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)