The Mystery of the Missing Doormat: Don’t Underestimate the Dispiriting Effect of Petty Bureaucracy

Louis de Schryver, Summer Flowers

‘I came out of my flat the other day, Jim, and somebody had pinched the doormat off my front step. What a cheek!’

I’d just bought my morning coffee from Doriano and was chatting to Carly the Florist who has a stall nearby. She revealed the crime with a look of disappointment and dismay.

‘And then I thought: I know who did this. And so I popped upstairs to the next level of the flats.’

Carly took on the aspect of an expert detective. Her bright eyes became focused and intense.

‘But she didn’t have my doormat either. And you know what, when I looked down the corridor, none of the flats had doormats.’ 

‘That’s a proper mystery, Carly. So what did you do?’

‘Well, I thought about it for a little while and then I phoned the Council…. You wouldn’t believe it, Jim... It was them that took all the doormats.’

‘But, Carly, why would Islington Council remove everyone’s doormats?’

‘Heath and safety... I was livid!’

I never did get to the bottom of what precisely lay behind the Council’s curious decision. Were they worried about fire risk or trip hazards? Were they trying to facilitate cleaning?

In any case I was struck by how organisations often underestimate the dispiriting effect that petty bureaucracy can have on people’s lives.

This goes for the world of work too.

Many a time in various leadership roles I was visited by a disgruntled employee who took particular exception to the new policy on timesheets or expenses; to the change in the breakfast offering at the coffee bar; to the gaudy redesign of the office bathrooms.

One chap resigned because we’d moved his desk and he was no longer sitting next to his mate.

‘Bureaucracy is a giant mechanism operated by pygmies.’
Honore de Balzac

It’s easy to dismiss these concerns as trivial and insignificant. But small changes can make big differences to people’s outlooks. We often reason with our emotions. And behind a minor, frustrating event we perceive a bigger, more sinister plot or strategic shift.

That timesheet policy may imply oppressive corporate control. That reduction in the breakfast menu may indicate a broader financial malaise. The bathroom makeover may suggest a loss of creative identity.   

'Bureaucracies are designed to perform public business. But as soon as a bureaucracy is established, it develops an autonomous spiritual life and comes to regard the public as its enemy.’
Brooks Atkinson

When you sit in management meetings and sign off on policies, you shouldn’t just apply rational, top-down logic. It’s always essential to retain a human perspective. How will this be construed on the shop floor? What could this imply about your overall strategy? How will people feel about it?

'There is something about a bureaucrat that does not like a poem.’
Gore Vidal

I must confess that the person most upset with the bathroom renovation was me. Overnight the fixtures and fittings became all neon and slick - like something from a Thames Valley gastropub. It prompted me to worry a good deal about the company’s cultural and aesthetic direction.

Time for a festive break.
Have a restful Christmas. 
My next post will be on Thursday 4 January 2024.
See you on the other side, I hope.

'The snow's coming down,
I'm watching it fall.
Lots of people around,
Baby, please come home.
The church bells in town,
All ringing in song,
Full of happy sounds.
Baby, please come home.

If there was a way,
I'd hold back this tear.
But it's Christmas day.
Please, please,
Please, please,
Baby, please come home.’

Darlene Love, 'Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)’ (E Greenwich / J Barry / P Spector) 

No. 449

‘I Walked Across the Freeway to the Ramada Inn’: The Trials and Triumphs of Tina Turner

Tina Turner performing on 'The Ed Sullivan Show' in 1970 CBS PHOTO ARCHIVE/GETTY IMAGES

'Physical strength in a woman - that’s what I am.’
Tina Turner

The death at the age of 83 of the legendary singer Tina Turner earlier this year prompted me to look back on her life and work. And so I watched ‘Tina’ the documentary (2021, directed by Daniel Lindsay and TJ Martin) and ‘Tina’ the musical (2018, directed by Phylidda Lloyd, at the Aldwych Theatre, London). Both were compelling commemorations of her luminous talent and indomitable spirit.

'My legacy is that I stayed on course… from the beginning to the end, because I believed in something inside of me.’

Turner shakes and shimmies, struts and stomps. She twists, jives and kicks her long legs to one side. She clenches her fists and claps her hands; implores us, pleads with us. She is both spiritual and sensual; tenacious and triumphant. Resplendent in red split skirts and sparkling silver mini-dresses; rejoicing in denim jumpsuits and leather leotards; glorying in knee-high boots, big belts and big hair - with a beaming smile and a full-throated roar, she celebrates what it is to be alive.

'I’m self-made. I always wanted to make myself a better person, because I was not educated. But that was my dream—to have class.’

Turner’s success was hard won. She had to prevail over poverty, racism, sexism and ageism. Above all she had to overcome a wretched, abusive relationship. She teaches us a good deal about survival and strength of character.

‘My ex-husband was a physically violent man. I went through basic torture… I was living a life of death. I didn’t exist. But I survived it. And when I walked out, I walked and I didn’t look back.’

Anna Mae Bullock was born in 1939 into a sharecropping family in rural Tennessee. As a child she started singing in the choir at her local Baptist church. She discovered she had a remarkable voice.

‘When you’re in the South there’s nothing happening except the church, the piano, the preacher.’

When she was 11 Anna Mae’s mother left without warning for St. Louis in order to escape her violent husband. Two years later he moved to Detroit with another woman. Anna Mae, feeling unloved and isolated, was cared for by her strict grandmother.

‘I didn’t think that I would actually achieve [success as a performer] because first I wasn’t pretty, and I didn’t have the clothes, and I didn’t have the means.’

Tina Turner. Michael Ochs Archives

At 16 Anna Mae rejoined her mother in St. Louis, where in 1956 she met Ike Turner, a talented musician whose 1951 recording ‘Rocket 88’ is considered by many to have been the first rock’n’roll song. That track was carelessly credited to Jackie Brenston and his Delta Cats, and so began Ike’s lifelong sense of injustice.

'Oh, there's something on my mind.
Won't somebody please, please tell me what's wrong?
You're just a fool, you know you're in love.
You've got to face it to live in this world.
You take the good along with the bad.
Sometimes you're happy, and sometimes you're sad.
You know you love him, you can't understand.
Why he treats you like he do, when he's such a good man.’

'A Fool in Love’ (I Turner)

During the intermission in one of Ike’s concerts, Anna Mae grabbed the microphone and sang. He immediately recognised her talent and enlisted her to his band.

‘I was playing these two roles… Rings all over my fingers and bareback shoes with seams in my stockings. And then on Monday morning I was headed for school.’

Anna Mae had undoubted star quality, and Ike subsequently recast his outfit as the Ike and Tina Turner Revue – without consulting her. Perhaps this was the first indication that he had a sinister, controlling side. But she was young, in awe and in love. She accepted the name change and they got married.

‘I promised him that I wouldn’t leave him. In those days a promise was a promise.’

Before too long Tina realised she was in a toxic relationship. Ike was unfaithful, controlling, violent and abusive. He was also addicted and paranoid, and he gave her no financial independence.

And yet she couldn’t bring herself to leave him.

‘I felt obligated to stay there and I was afraid. And I stayed. This was just how it was. I felt very loyal to Ike and I didn’t want to hurt him. And sometimes after he beat me up, I ended up feeling sorry for him.’

Through the early 1960s Ike and Tina Turner had a string of R&B hits and toured extensively. Featuring Tina’s mesmerising singing, a tight band and the well-drilled, high-tempo dancing of backing vocalists the Ikettes, they presented an electrifying stage act.

In 1965 the band caught the eye of renowned music producer Phil Spector. Sidelining Ike from the recording sessions, he recorded Tina performing ‘River Deep – Mountain High’, a stunning expression of his ‘Wall of Sound’ technique.

‘That was a freedom that I didn’t have. Like a bird that gets out of a cage. I was excited about singing a different type of song. I was excited about getting out of the studio on my own. It was a freedom to do something different.’

The single was a smash overseas, but failed to make an impression on the US pop charts. The quest for mainstream success continued.

‘When I was a little girl, I had a rag doll.
It was the only doll that I've ever owned.
Now I love you just the way I loved that rag doll,
But only now my love has grown.
And it gets stronger in every way.
And it gets deeper, let me say
Then it gets higher, day by day.
And do I love you, my oh my.
River deep, mountain high.
If I ever lost you would I cry.
Oh, how I love you baby.'

'River Deep, Mountain High’ (E Greenwich / J Barry / P Spector)

Tina Turner perform at the Soul Bowl concert at Tulane Stadium in 1970.
PHOTO BY MICHAEL P. SMITH/PROVIDED BY HISTORIC NEW ORLEANS COLLECTION

At long last, in the early 1970s, after relentless touring and countless TV appearances, Ike and Tina Turner achieved crossover pop hits in the US - with 'Proud Mary'  and 'Nutbush City Limits'. But Tina was increasingly unhappy.

‘I was insanely afraid of that man.’

When she wasn’t performing she found herself confined to the family home in LA where she was raising four children. Ike became more controlling, bad tempered and violent. On one occasion Tina took a whole bottle of sleeping pills in an attempt to end it all.

‘Maybe I was brainwashed. I was afraid of him and I cared what happened to him and I knew that if I left there was no one to sing. So I was caught up in guilt and fear.’

Finally, introduced to Buddhism, she developed the mental strength to make a break.

‘Buddhism was a way out and it changed your attitude towards the situation that you’re in... So I started seeing my life. I started seeing that I had to make a change.’

Tina’s relationship with Ike had endured for 16 years. But in 1976, after the couple had a violent argument on their way to their hotel in Dallas, she fled with only 36 cents and a Mobil gas card in her pocket.

‘I walked across the freeway to the Ramada Inn. I was very proud. I mean I felt like…I felt strong.’

Tina’s short walk across that busy, dangerous freeway late at night represented a massive act of fortitude and defiance. She filed for divorce the same month and it was finalized in 1978. She was left with no money, no house, no car and no claim on royalties. She just wanted to be free. All she demanded was that she retain the Tina Turner name.

‘Actually there is something that he has that I want… That is when I realised that I could use Tina to become a business.’

Hard times followed. Tina was burdened with the bills for cancelled shows and found herself performing in Vegas and at sales conventions; in hotel ballrooms and on any TV show that would have her.

‘I was becoming stagnant. I knew that there was something else. And I realised I wasn’t going anywhere. I’d be in Las Vegas all my life.’

Tina’s luck changed in 1979 when she met Roger Davies, manager of Olivia Newton-John. He saw that, behind what had become a disco and nostalgia act, there was still a phenomenal talent. She pitched her vision for a new chapter in her career.

‘I had a dream. My dream is to be the first Black rock’n’roll singer to pack places like the Stones.’

Reasoning that the US’s schism between R’n’B and rock radio stations presented too great a barrier to realising Tina’s ambition, Davies took her to the UK. There, in two weeks, she recorded a collection of pop and rock songs with four different production teams, including Martyn Ware of Heaven 17 and Rupert Hine. Tina was at first reluctant to take on one proposed track that had previously been recorded by Bucks Fizz. Finally she relented and ‘What's Love Got to Do with It’ became the album’s standout single.

The resultant ‘Private Dancer’ album, released in 1984, was a runaway success.  Certified five times platinum in the United States, it sold 10 million copies worldwide, and the following year Tina won three Grammys.

‘I didn’t consider it a comeback album. Tina had never arrived. It was Tina’s debut for the first time. That was my first album.’

'You must understand, though the touch of your hand makes my pulse react,
That it's only the thrill of boy meeting girl, opposites attract.
It's physical.
Only logical.
You must try to ignore that it means more than that.
What's love got to do, got to do with it?
What's love, but a second-hand emotion?
What's love got to do, got to do with it?
Who needs a heart when a heart can be broken?

'What's Love Got to Do with It’ (T Britten / G Lyle)

Tina continued recording, touring and scoring hits for her adoring fan-base. In 1988 she performed in front of 180,000 in Rio de Janeiro, setting a record for the largest paying concert attendance for a solo artist. She had achieved her dream of becoming the Queen of Rock’n’Roll.

‘I will receive it when I’ve earned it.’

In the years after her divorce from Ike, Tina was constantly asked about the split. In a 1981 interview with People Magazine she reluctantly revealed the facts of the domestic abuse in order to put the whole story behind her. But the questions kept coming.

When in 1993 a movie of her life story, ‘What’s Love Got to Do With It’ (starring Angela Bassett), was released, Tina couldn’t watch it. At the Venice Film Festival she explained:

‘I’m not so thrilled about thinking about the past and how I lived my life…The story was actually written so that I would no longer have to discuss the issue. I don’t love that it’s always talked about. You see, I made a point of just putting the news out to stop the thing, so that I could go on with my life. And this constant reminder is not so good and I’m not so happy about it. So, do I want to sit with a screen and watch all the violence and brutality? No… That’s why I haven’t seen it.’

By shining a light on her experience of domestic abuse, Tina helped a vast number of women all over the world. And she illustrated the complex emotions playing out in victims and survivors. In time Tina was happily remarried and found peace.

‘At a certain stage forgiveness takes over. Forgiveness means not to hold on. You let it go.’

As Tina’s mother, with whom she had a difficult relationship, observed, she was fundamentally a courageous, independent spirit.

‘Some people [are] afraid to climb a ladder unless someone’s holding it. But she’s not. Once she’s made that first step on that ladder, she’s climbing… up, up, up.’

At the heart of Tina’s extraordinary triumphant story was huge personal resilience. We should all aspire to her strength of character.

'I didn’t have anybody really, no foundation in life, so I had to make my own way. Always, from the start. I had to go out in the world and become strong, to discover my mission in life.'

'Left a good job down in the city,
Working for the man every night and day.
And I never lost one minute of sleeping,
I was worrying about the way that things might've been.
Big wheel keep on turning,
Proud Mary keep on burning,
And we're rolling, rolling,
Rolling on the river.’

‘Proud Mary’ (J Fogerty)

No. 448

Sarah Lucas: ‘Everything Is Language’

Sarah Lucas. From left: Sugar, 2020; Bunny, 1997; and Cool Chick Baby, 2020

I recently visited a retrospective of the work of artist Sarah Lucas. (‘Happy Gas’ is at Tate Britain, London until 14 January.)

'My maxim would be: Do what you like… It’s not always easy to know what that is though.'

Lucas emerged as one of the key players in the Young British Art scene of the 1990s. This movement had a lot in common with advertising – the good and the bad. It was bold, immediate, funny and accessible. But it could also be vulgar, simplistic and shallow.

Lucas’ current show provides an opportunity to step back and take a broader look at her work over the Britart period and the decades that followed.

'I don’t tend to preach in my work. It’s more about having a look around at what’s going on…Very surprising when you open your eyes.’

She has spent her career considering consistent themes: sex, swearing and smoking; food and toilets; the expressiveness of ordinary things.

Sarah Lucas: Self Portrait With Fried Eggs, 1996

In the exhibition there are blown up photos of crude tabloid stories; of Lucas eating a banana and holding a huge salmon. There are naked body-casts and erect penises; a masturbating mechanism and a pair of chicken knickers. There’s also a big concrete sandwich. And each piece is given a wry, playful title.

Lucas clearly has had a fascination with smoking and mortality. A crash helmet made of fags sits on a charred armchair. Cigarettes poke out of navels and backsides. They decorate a burnt-out car, broken in two.

‘When I first started using cigarettes in art, it was because I was wondering why people are self-destructive. But it’s often destructive things that make us feel most alive.’

© Sarah Lucas, Courtesy Sadie Coles HQ, London. Photo: © Nick Turpin

Over the years Lucas has returned again and again to her chair sculptures - which she calls her ‘Bunnies.’ Stuffing tights with shredded newspaper, kapok, cotton or wool, she created faceless female figures with writhing limbs; with multiple, saggy and lightbulb breasts. She gave them daft names - like Fat Doris, Honey Pie and Zen Bomb - and arranged them in platform shoes and kinky boots, perching on armchairs, side chairs and office chairs. They are insolent, saucy, suggestive. And seen together, they have their own distinct characters.

‘The purpose of chairs (in the world) is to accommodate the human body sitting. They can be turned to other purposes. Generally as a support for an action or object. Changing light bulbs. Propping open a door. Posing. Sex.’

Lucas encourages us to interrogate objects for their meaning. Things derive associations and resonances from their various functionalities; from their use and abuse; from their physical similarities to other forms; from their constituent materials, their ownership, history and location. Everything means something.

‘Everything is language, including objects. There’s an infinity of ‘stuff.’ How to invest any of it with meaning?’

Sarah Lucas: Is Suicide Genetic?
helmet, cigarettes, burnt-chair, cigarette packets. 1996

Of course, Lucas is coarse. You need a robust constitution to navigate her work. Nonetheless I left the exhibition reflecting on the artist’s big themes.

For all our complexity and sophistication, we are united in our basic instincts: our carnal drives and emotional impulses. These appetites can be disturbing and contradictory, uplifting and amusing; and they can often surprise.

‘It’s a paradox that happiness reminds us of sadness, and that a sad story can be uplifting, or that something magical can come about through something mundane. I suppose that, when I’m making things, I’m looking for some kind of transcendence from everyday stuff into something surprising.’

'I'd work very hard, but I'm lazy.
I can't take the pressure and it's starting to show.
In my heart you know that it pains me,
A life of leisure is no life you know.
Waking up and getting up has never been easy,
Oh, I think you should know.
Waking up and getting up has never been easy,
Oh, I think you should know.
Oh, I think you should go.
Make a cup of tea, and put a record on.’

Elastica, ‘Waking Up’ (B Duffy / D Greenfield / H Cornwell / J J Burnel / J Frischmann)

No. 447

The Empathetic Leader: Helping People Make Better Decisions

Joan of Arc (1879) by Jules Bastien-Lepage. Oil on canvas. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, U.S.

'Before you are a leader, success is all about growing yourself. When you become a leader, success is all about growing others.’
Jack Welch

The hugely talented copywriter had been responsible for a succession of compelling commercials. He thoroughly deserved his promotion to Creative Director. And yet initially he struggled in the role.

Young teams marched into their creative reviews at the appointed times, eagerly anticipating the legend’s feedback. But he failed to see any merit in their efforts. He glanced through their first scripts, impatient and inattentive. And then cast the others to one side.

‘I’m not sure you’re approaching this brief in the right way at all. I think I know how to do it. Write this down…’

And then the Creative Director proceeded to dictate the outline of an idea.

The young creative teams shuffled out of the review despondent. They had been sentenced to draft their boss’s hastily conceived proposal. They probably didn’t much believe in it and they probably wouldn’t execute it very well. It’s always difficult raising other people’s babies.

'Management is about arranging and telling. Leadership is about nurturing and enhancing.’
Tom Peters

A little while ago I was chatting to a neighbour who had a high-flying job in financial services. She was charming, intelligent and had a rather gentle manner. I was interested in how she had succeeded in such a hard-nosed profession.

‘How would you describe your leadership style?’

‘Well, it’s simple really. I just try to help people make better decisions.’

This definition stuck with me.

In the creative industries we often promote our best practitioners into leadership roles. And yet leadership requires a completely new set of skills.

In my experience the first instinct of practitioners elevated to senior responsibility is to replicate their particular approach in others. They instruct, prescribe and dictate. They seek to solve it all themselves.

However, such a style is doomed to failure. These novice leaders are attempting to make their colleagues into counterfeits. Their directions are often too vague and impractical. Or too rigid and inflexible. And their teams are generally left confused and demotivated. They’ll never achieve anything at scale.

We may think of Empathetic Leaders simply as people who are interested in the wellbeing of their staff. But they should be more than this. Empathetic Leaders invest time in understanding their teams’ thoughts and ideas; explaining the challenges and choices these proposals will encounter; illuminating the path to success. Their focus is encouragement and enhancement. They help people make better decisions.

'Leadership is unlocking people's potential to become better.’
Bill Bradley

Thankfully, with time and experience, our Creative Director became a master of the art. He was smart enough to pick up the requisite skills himself. Back then we didn’t train Creative Directors. I hope you do now.

'Coming to you at night
I see my questions, I feel my doubts.
Wishing that maybe in a year or two
We could laugh and let it all out.
Now that you made yourself love me,
Do you think I can change it in a day?
How can I place you above me?
Am I lying to you when I say
That I believe in you?
I believe in you.’

Neil Young, ‘I Believe in You'

No. 446

Philip Guston’s Art of Anxiety: Not Inventing, But Revealing

Dawn (1970), Philip Guston, oil on canvas. Glenstone Museum, Maryland

‘Well, it could be all of us. We’re all hoods.’
Philip Guston

I recently visited a fine exhibition of the work of Philip Guston. (Tate Modern, London, until 25 February)

Guston was a fiercely political artist, raging at injustices he saw all around him. He articulated his anger and anxiety through narrative murals and allegorical paintings, through abstract works and depictions of dark cartoonish nightmares. He was a restless soul who believed the role of the artist was not to invent fictions, but to reveal truths. He pleads with us to care, and prompts us to reflect on the enemy within – within our society and within ourselves.

‘I feel that I have not invented so much as revealed in a coded way, something that already existed.’

He was born Phillip Goldstein in Montreal in 1913, the youngest of seven children. His Jewish parents had fled persecution in present-day Ukraine. In 1922 the family moved to Los Angeles, where, struggling to make ends meet, his father, a scrap collector, hanged himself in the shed - and 10 year old Phillip found the body. 

Philip Guston in New York, in 1952 Martha Holmes/The LIFE Images Collection, via Getty Images

As a child Goldstein was interested in cartoons and Renaissance art. At 14 he began painting, and enrolled in the Los Angeles Manual Arts High School where he met Jackson Pollock, who became a life-long friend.

‘I grew up politically in the thirties and I was actively involved in militant movements and so on, as a lot of artists were… I think there was a sense of being part of a change, or possible change.’

Goldstein became politically active as the United States saw the rise of racism and antisemitism; and the resurgence of the Ku Klux Klan. He joined a group of artists creating large-scale narrative murals supporting workers’ rights and resistance to fascism and oppression. 

'Frustration is one of the great things in art. Satisfaction is nothing.’

In 1935, at 22, Goldstein moved to New York where, concerned about the climate of antisemitism, he changed his name to Philip Guston. He was deeply affected by the war in Europe and the Holocaust. And so he turned to his easel and painted the bombing of Guernica; children playing and fighting in ruined townscapes; haunted camp inmates.

‘That’s the only reason to be an artist… to bear witness.’

Martial Memory Philip Guston, 1941, Oil on Canvas

In the late 1940s, suffering a crisis of confidence, Guston destroyed everything he’d been working on. Perhaps he felt figurative painting could not do justice to the horrors that had so recently taken place.  

‘I began to feel that I could really learn, investigate, by losing a lot of what I knew.’

He decided to change course, and immersed himself in New York’s emerging Abstract Expressionist scene, hanging out with Rothko, de Kooning and Kline. 

‘The trouble with recognisable art is that it excludes too much. I want my work to include more. And ‘more’ also comprises one’s doubts about the object, plus the problem, the dilemma, of recognising it.’

Standing close to the canvas, Guston painted forms coming into existence – perhaps you can detect a body or a head - using gentle, complementary colours. Critics dubbed him an ‘abstract impressionist.’ His favourite shade was cadmium red, and it would continue to feature strongly in his work for the rest of his career. 

‘I like pastrami. I just like it. I couldn’t tell you why.’

Beggar's joys, Philip Guston, 1954–1955 oil on canvas

In the late ‘60s Guston was deeply moved by the Vietnam War and the political upheaval in the United States. 

‘The war, what was happening to America, the brutality of the world. What kind of man am I, sitting at home reading magazines, going into a frustrated fury about everything – and then going into my studio to adjust a red to a blue?’

Feeling that his art had to make more overt political statements, Guston made a dramatic return to figurative work.

‘The hell with it. I just wanted to draw solid stuff.’

He had always liked comics, and his new images drew on George Herriman’s Krazy Kat. He painted cartoonish, blood-spattered Klan figures driving around town in a childish car, pointing at the sights, the legs of a man projecting from the boot. He depicted similar hoods relaxing at home with a cigarette by the window; in the courtroom, at the office and drawn on blackboards - suggesting they were part of the curriculum.

'Look at any inspired painting. It's like a gong sounding; it puts you in a state of reverberation.’

Where previously Guston had shown Klansmen conspiring, in the act of racial assault, here they were engaged in the mundane activities of everyday life. It was as if he was saying: evil is all around us; it is institutional, systemic - in our courts and schools and on our streets; it is hiding in plain sight.

‘My attempt was really not… to do pictures of the KKK, as I had done earlier. The idea of evil fascinated me… I almost tried to imagine that I was living with the Klan. What would it be like to be evil? To plan and plot?’

Most striking among these works was a picture of a hooded artist at work in the studio, painting himself. 

‘I perceive myself behind the hood.’

The Studio, Philip Guston, 1969 Oil on canvas

Guston implies that we are all complicit in the injustices we see around us. We carry with us our own prejudices and partialities; our unconscious biases; our inertia and failure to act. We should turn our critical faculties on ourselves.

'There is another man within me that’s angry with me.’
Thomas Browne

Guston presented his startling new work at the Marlborough Gallery in New York in 1970. But the show was not a success and he only sold one painting. Critics were hugely disappointed that he had deserted the abstract cause, and he lost friends as a result. 

‘There is nothing to do now, but paint my life; my dreams, surroundings, predicament, desperation, [my wife] Musa – love, need.’

Depressed at the response, Guston turned to painting strange dreamscapes populated by objects that meant something to him – mental junk that he called ‘crapola.’ Repeatedly he depicted cigarettes, irons, clocks and steaming kettles; clocks, blinds and bare bulbs; sinister dangling light-pulls. And everywhere there were old shoes and severed legs - echoes of the Holocaust.

'The canvas is a court where the artist is prosecutor, defendant, jury and judge. Art without a trial disappears at a glance.’

In 1973 Guston painted himself: pastrami-pink, indolent, smoking in bed with a plate of ketchupped chips on his chest and a stack of shoes at his side. There’s a bare light bulb and a light-pull. His paintbrushes sit unused. It’s a desolate image. 

Interviewer: Do you think of yourself as kind of pessimistic?

Guston: I don’t think it’s pessimistic. I think it’s doomed.

In 1980 Guston died of a heart attack, in Woodstock, New York. He was 66.

Smoking, Eating . Philip Guston (1973). Stedelijk Museum Amsterdam/The Estate of Philip Guston

Guston was clearly a melancholy figure. But he demonstrated that, even at our lowest ebb, we can find some solace in art. He teaches us to be restless; to embrace radical change when we’re running out of steam; to see the enemy within; and to turn our critical judgement on ourselves. 

‘Probably the only thing one can really learn, the only technique to learn, is the capacity to be able to change.’

'People just ain't no good,
I think that's well understood.
You can see it everywhere you look,
People just ain't no good.

It ain't that in their hearts they're bad.
They can comfort you, some even try.
They nurse you when you're ill of health,
They bury you when you go and die.
It ain't that in their hearts they're bad.
They'll stick by you if they could.
Ah, but that's just bullshit, baby.
People just ain't no good.

People they ain't no good.
People they ain't no good.
People they ain't no good at all.’

Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds,'People Ain't No Good’ (N Cave)

No. 445

Sandwich Salvation at Clyde’s Truck-Stop: We All Need Something to Believe In

‘The sandwich is your pulpit, it’s where you preach the gospel of good eating.’

I recently saw ‘Clyde’s’, a play by Lynn Nottage currently at The Donmar Warehouse, London (directed by Lynette Linton, until 2 Dec).

Montrellous: This sandwich is the culmination of a long hard journey that began with a wheat seed cultivated by a farmer thousands of years ago.

This splendid work is set in the bustling kitchen of a Pennsylvania truck-stop staffed by ex-offenders. It’s the story of damaged lives and second chances; of confronting hard choices and recovering self-esteem; of finding salvation in a sandwich.

Montrellous: I think about the balance of ingredients and the journey I want the consumer to take with each bite. Then, finally, how I can achieve oneness with the sandwich.

Proprietor Clyde (Gbemisola Ikumelo) is a ruthless tyrant in high-heeled ankle boots. She has served time herself, and rules the business with an iron fist, periodically popping her head through the serving hatch with blunt demands for harder work and faster service. 

Clyde: Social hour’s over. Pick up the pace, or tomorrow I can get a fresh batch of nobodies to do your job. And I’ll make sure you go back to whatever hell you came from. Try me!

Rumour has it that Clyde is in debt to gangsters from down south for whom this is nothing more than a money-laundering operation. Certainly she shows little interest in the food.

Clyde: You melt American cheese on Wonder Bread and these truckers’ll be happy…You know my policy. If it ain’t brown or gray, it can be fried.

The kitchen, however, is the realm of Montrellous (Giles Terera), a wise, spiritual figure who is ‘the John Coltrane of sandwich making.’

Montrellous: Maine lobster, potato roll gently toasted and buttered with roasted garlic, paprika, and cracked pepper with truffle mayo, caramelized fennel, and a sprinkle of…of…dill.

Montrellous has coached his admiring colleagues Letitia (Ronkẹ Adékoluẹjó) and Rafael (Sebastian Orozco) to leave their troubles at the door; to aspire to better things; and to explore the art of sandwich making as a form of self-expression.

Rafael: We speak the truth. Then, let go and cook. Montrellous taught us that. We leave the pain in the pan. We got each other’s backs, and that’s how we get back up.

Letitia: Montrellous is a sensei. Drops garlic aioli like a realness bomb. He knows what we only wish to know.

Between them Clyde and Montrellous represent two poles: cynicism and pessimism versus positivity and hope.

Clyde: Look, I’m not indifferent to suffering. But I don’t do pity. I just don’t. And you know why? Because… dudes like you thrive on it, it’s your energy source, but like fossil fuels it creates pollution. That’s why.

As the play progresses, we learn that each ex-offender is struggling to escape an unfortunate past and a challenging present. Rafael is a recovering drug user who attempted to rob a bank when he was high. He could easily slip back into addiction. Letitia stole medicine for her sick daughter from a pharmacy, and took ‘some Oxy and Addy to sell on the side.’ She continues to contend with childcare pressures and an unreliable ex.

Lynn Nottage

Montrellous: And you know what they say: cuz you left prison don’t mean you outta prison. But, remember, everything we do here is to escape that mentality. This kitchen, these ingredients, these are our tools. We have what we need. So let’s cook.

The camaraderie amongst the kitchen crew is threatened when they are joined by Jason (Patrick Gibson), a felon with a violent record and white supremacist tattoos all over his face. It’s a combustible environment.

Letitia: You here cuz you done run outta options, ain’t nobody gonna hire you except for Clyde.

Gradually we witness how, through industry, truth-telling and mutual support; through learning new skills and raising aspirations, these troubled characters from diverse backgrounds can grow confidence, pride and a sense of identity.

Montrellous: Let whatever you’re feeling become part of your process, not an impediment… This sandwich is my strength. This sandwich is my victory. This sandwich is my freedom.

It would be easy to belittle the central premise of this play. Can you really rebuild lives by means of an obsession with the humble sandwich? Isn’t this all somewhat fanciful? Is the piece taking convenient finger food a little too seriously?

Montrellous: We all make our choices. You never know watcha gonna do when you meet the Devil at the crossroads…But, we ain’t bound by our mistakes.

I spent a whole career selling deodorant, jeans and fried chicken. It’s easy to mock that too. What I observed is that work provides an opportunity to focus on shared beliefs and goals; on building teamwork and purpose; on striving for something better. 

In our case, we were seeking to create compelling communication in a 30 second film or 6-sheet poster: emotional product demonstrations. We were on a quest for distilled truth. Absurd perhaps. But I learned that the activity itself doesn’t really matter too much. There is a dignity in labour. We all need something to believe in.

Rafael: Montrellous say the first bite should be an invitation that you can’t refuse, and if you get it right, it’ll transport you to another place, a memory, a desire cuz like everything he touches be sublime.

Eventually the humble truck-stop gets an enthusiastic review in a local newspaper – and Montrellous receives evidence that his endeavours have been worthwhile. He is fortified for a climactic confrontation with Clyde.

Montrellous: No! I won’t destroy the integrity of the sandwich!

In the final exchange, Letitia asks Montrellous if it’s possible to make a perfect sandwich.

Montrellous: Perhaps, or will it just awaken another longing? Let’s see.

‘I read a sign somewhere that said:
‘Everyone walking can always stumble over truth,
But never you mind, because we always get right back up and leave it there.’
Everybody wants to go to Heaven,
But nobody wants to die.
May as well have your Heaven on Earth.
Something to believe,
Something to believe in.
Someone to believe,
Someone to believe in.’

Curtis Mayfield, ‘Something to Believe In’

No. 444

‘Once Funny, Twice Silly, Three Times a Slap’: Comedy Requires Economy

Walter Richard Sickert The Music Hall, 1889

My first proper job after leaving university was as a Qualitative Market Researcher.

Initially I found the transition from discussing Socrates and Cicero to talking about baked beans and boilers a little uncomfortable. I was concerned that my career was not making proper use of a good education; that it was not entirely serious. 

I felt particularly awkward around marketing jargon. At that time the world of research was very much concerned with user values and usage occasions; with KPIs, USPs and SWOT analyses; with brand personification, cognitive dissonance and calls-to-action.

At one presentation, when I was required to talk off a chart containing a few buzz-phrases, I muttered, sotto voce:

‘Well, that’s what it says here.’

I guess it was my way of signalling to the client audience that I wasn’t entirely committed to the vocabulary.

I was somewhat surprised when my remark prompted a few laughs.

And so, a little later in the presentation, I repeated the joke.

‘This script features the product as hero and as such it successfully communicates a great many core brand values… Well, that’s what it says here.’

However, my second quip didn’t elicit any amused chuckles, and I was subsequently taken to one side by my boss. He pointed out that what I imagined were wry asides actually betrayed a lack of confidence and undermined my credibility.

I learned my lesson.

I was reminded of this recently when I came across the novelist Sebastian Faulks quoting an old ‘nanny saying’: ‘Once funny, twice silly, three times a slap.’ 

A helpful aphorism.

Many of us in the world of work like to lighten our presentations with wisecracks and witticisms. Humour can charm an audience. It can enhance engagement and drive home a point. It can make a theme more memorable. 

But I’ve attended many a pitch where the person holding the floor has taken advantage of the captive audience – indulging in too much droll embellishment and exaggeration. Some speakers over-egg the pudding, forgetting that their core objective is commercial, not comedic. 

A good gag repeated has diminishing returns. And, in time, that joke isn’t funny any more. 

As the old proverb goes:

‘Once funny, twice silly, three times a slap.’ 

Oh, sorry. I’ve said that already…

'But that joke isn't funny any more.
It's too close to home,
And it's too near the bone.
More than you'll ever know ...
I've seen this happen in other people’s lives
And now it's happening in mine.’

The Smiths, 'That Joke Isn't Funny Any More’ (J Marr / S Morrissey)

No. 443

Lady in the Lake: Distinctive Film Techniques Can Either Enhance or Obstruct

Robert Montgomery and Audrey Totter in Lady in the Lake (1946)

‘MGM presents a revolutionary motion picture. The most amazing since Talkies began! You and Robert Montgomery solve a murder mystery together!’

The 1947 movie ‘Lady in the Lake’ is based on the Raymond Chandler novel of the same name. In many ways it’s a typical film noir, following hard-boiled LA private detective Philip Marlowe as he navigates a world of murder, mystery and a missing woman. There are crooked cops, unreliable witnesses and an enchanting femme fatale; cynical double-crosses, brutal violence and a crisp, caustic script.

'My name is Marlowe, Philip Marlowe. Occupation: private detective. You know, somebody says, ‘Follow that guy’, so I follow him. Somebody says, ‘Find that female’, so I find her. And what do I get out of it? $10 a day and expenses. And if you think that buys a lot of fancy groceries these days, you're crazy.’

What distinguishes ‘Lady in the Lake’ is the decision of lead actor and first-time director Robert Montgomery to use point-of-view cinematography: the viewer experiences the entire drama from Marlowe’s perspective.

‘You’ll see it just as I saw it. You’ll meet the people. You’ll find the clues. And maybe you’ll solve it quick and maybe you won’t.’

The subjective camera tracks along corridors and up staircases. It looks to left and right to review the situation, and then focuses in on the key protagonists, who address us directly. We see a hand on the door handle as Marlowe enters a room; smoke billows before us as he lights a cigarette; and the leading lady even gives us a kiss. On a number of occasions we catch Marlowe’s reflection in the mirror. And when he is punched in the face, we tumble to the floor and everything goes woozy. 

'Perhaps you'd better go home and play with your fingerprint collection.’

It was quite a challenge sustaining the point-of-view approach through the whole picture. To capture Marlowe’s walking movement the production team employed a new kind of dolly, with four independent wheels. A seat for Montgomery was attached at the front, so that the actors could respond to him. And for the fight scenes a camera with a flexible shoulder harness was used.

'I wonder how it would be to discuss this over a couple of ice cubes. Would you care to try?’
'Imagine you needing ice cubes.’

However, the production was problematic. Scenes planned for the lake of the title were cancelled because the technique proved difficult to execute outdoors. MGM studio bosses became frustrated that their expensive leading actor barely appeared on-screen, and insisted on the insertion of a number of awkward explanatory interludes where Marlowe reviews events afterwards in his office. They also demanded a happy ending.

‘Now what am I supposed to do? Reform? Become poor-but-honest? On what street corner would you like me to beat my tambourine?’

Watching the film today, initially the effect is intriguing. The characters seem to be addressing us personally. We feel involved in the action. We encounter the twists and turns of the plot as if we are detectives. We are Philip Marlowe! 

But over the one hour and three quarters running time, the approach becomes a little wearing, somewhat artificial. It is as irritating as it is interesting.

'Please don't be so difficult to get along with. I need help.’
'Like I need four thumbs.'

Robert Montgomery, Audrey Totter in Lady in the Lake (1946)

In the course of my career in advertising we often developed commercials that employed a distinctive technique. We played scenes backwards, slowed them down, re-ordered them and mixed filmic styles. We explored original editing, unusual music, eccentric sound effects, and more besides. 

Sometimes a fresh technique succeeded in prompting involvement; in drawing attention to the core idea. Sometimes it just got in the way. It was always a calculated risk.

Perhaps BBH’s most successful such experiment in my time there also involved point-of-view camerawork: Levi’s 1993 ad ‘Drugstore.’ 

We follow events from the perspective of a young man as he buys condoms from a general retailer and pops them in the watch-pocket of his 501s. He drives to his girlfriend’s house to take her on a date. When he knocks on her door, it is opened by the man who made the sale - her surprised, and concerned, father. The endline reads: 'Watch pocket created in 1873. Abused ever since. Levi’s 501. The Original Jean.’

What sets ‘Drugstore’ apart from other technique-based executions is the sheer quality of the filmmaking. Nick Worthington and John Gorse’s script had at its heart something of a Benny Hill gag. But they chose exceptional director Michel Gondry to shoot it with style and panache – with suggestions of ‘Grapes of Wrath’ and O Winston Link. And they selected a contemporary electronic soundtrack by Biosphere to give it an eerie, haunted quality. And to keep people on their toes, they also filmed a gender-switch version where the young woman buys the condoms.

In the midst of all this inventiveness the point-of-view camera technique enhances rather than obstructs the drama. And maybe that’s the lesson.

‘You stick your nose into my business and you’ll end up in an alley where the cat’s looking at you.’

So what became of ‘Lady in the Lake’?

Well, Chandler, whose own version of the script had been rejected, was unimpressed with the finished product and demanded that his name be removed from the credits. Critics were also largely underwhelmed. And Montgomery, who had been under contract with MGM since 1929, never made a film with them again. 

Despite all this, the movie was a box-office success.  And perhaps this was the biggest mystery of all.

'Put yourself in my place
If only for a day.
See if you can stand
The awful hurt I feel inside.
Put yourself in my place
For just a little while.
Live through the loneliness
The endless emptiness
I go through.
And when you lose a little sleep at night
Cause you ain't been treated right,
Then you know heartaches are sad.
Sitting by the telephone
Being left all alone,
Then you know why I'm feeling bad.
Put yourself in my place.’

The Elgins, 'Put Yourself in My Place’ (Holland–Dozier–Holland)

No. 442

Manet, Baudelaire and the Flaneur Strategist

Manet, ‘Music in the Tuileries’ 

‘Modernity is the transitory, the fugitive, the contingent - that half of art of which the other is eternal and immutable.’
Charles Baudelaire

Édouard Manet painted the vibrant modern world that was emerging around him in mid-nineteenth century Paris. Working in his own simple, direct style he created a bridge between Realism and Impressionism, and he is considered by many to have been the first modern artist. Some also think he was an archetype for Baudelaire’s ‘flaneur’: a debonair, detached onlooker, wandering the metropolis making acute observations on contemporary life.

Manet prompts us to reflect on our own engagement with change, culture and the city.

'Every new painting is like throwing myself into the water without knowing how to swim.’
Édouard Manet

Manet was born in Paris in 1832, into an affluent middle-class family. His father Auguste, a judge, wanted his son to follow him into the law. Then, when the young Édouard struggled at school, he suggested a maritime career. But a voyage to Rio de Janeiro culminated in failed Navy exams. Finally Auguste relented and allowed his son to pursue his long-held ambition to train as an artist. 

Whilst Manet was a great admirer of the Old Masters, particularly the Spanish School, he was not fond of the Romantic art that dominated French painting at his time. Religious, historical and moral themes seemed less relevant to him than the Realism recently pioneered by Gustave Courbet.

Manet’s inclination towards Realism may have been inspired by the phenomenal structural and social change that was going on around him in his home town. France had been in constant upheaval since the revolution of 1789. When in 1848 Napoleon III became Emperor, he set out to transform Paris from a cramped medieval city into a vibrant modern capital. The Emperor commissioned Georges-Eugène Haussmann to carry out a massive urban renewal programme - demolishing existing streets to create space for a network of interconnecting boulevards, lined with cafes, restaurants and theatres; for new parks and railway stations; for gaslight and improved sanitation.

'I paint what I see and not what others like to see.’

Édouard Manet

Portrait of Charles Baudelaire in Profile by Edouard Manet

Around 1855 Manet became close friends with the poet and critic Charles Baudelaire. Each day they would stroll together through the new boulevards and parks of Paris, discussing the emerging industrial age, the thrill of modern city life and the responsibility of the artist to depict it.

In his essay ‘The Painter of Modern Life’ (published in Le Figaro in 1863) Baudelaire celebrated the work of Constantin Guys, the  war correspondent, water colourist and illustrator. In particular he drew attention to Guys’ mastery of the fleeting moment; of passing fashion; of the here and now.

'He has sought, everywhere, the passing beauty of present-day life, the fleeting character of that which the reader has allowed us to term modernity. Often bizarre, violent, excessive, but always poetic, he has succeeded in concentrating, in his drawings, the flavour, be it bitter or heady, of the wine of Life.'
Charles Baudelaire

In the same essay Baudelaire also described the flâneur, the artist-poet of the modern metropolis.

'The crowd is his element, as the air is that of birds and water of fishes. His passion and his profession are to become one flesh with the crowd. For the perfect flâneur, for the passionate spectator, it is an immense joy to set up house in the heart of the multitude, amid the ebb and flow of movement, in the midst of the fugitive and the infinite. To be away from home and yet to feel oneself everywhere at home; to see the world, to be at the centre of the world, and yet to remain hidden from the world... The spectator is a prince who everywhere rejoices in his incognito. The lover of life makes the whole world his family…The lover of universal life enters into the crowd as though it were an immense reservoir of electrical energy. Or we might liken him to a mirror as vast as the crowd itself; or to a kaleidoscope gifted with consciousness, responding to each one of its movements and reproducing the multiplicity of life and the flickering grace of all the elements of life.'
Charles Baudelaire

Manet shared Baudelaire’s enthusiasm for realism, modernity and the city (though he articulated his passion with fewer words).

'One must be of one's time and paint what one sees.’
Édouard Manet

His 1862 work ‘Music in the Tuileries’ presented contemporary Paris at leisure. We see a crowd of smartly dressed dignitaries, intellectuals and socialites, seated, standing and promenading under the chestnut trees. They rejoice in their fashionable clothing, in seeing and being seen. 

We must assume from the title that a concert is taking place, but we can see no orchestra. Manet painted the assembly with loose strokes of the brush, distributing the figures across the picture as if in a frieze, with no obvious focal point. Most of the faces are just a blur. This is a brief passing moment; a story half told. 

In amongst the throng in ‘Music in the Tuileries’ we can identify the painter’s brother Eugène, along with other family members and friends - including the musician Jacques Offenbach, the artist Henri Fantin-Latour and Baudelaire. Manet himself stands at the far left of the picture, impeccably dressed and holding a cane, a participant in the scene, but also slightly detached from it. 

Edouard Manet - Le Chemin de fer (The Railway)

'It is not enough to know your craft - you have to have feeling. Science is all very well, but for us imagination is worth far more.’
Édouard Manet

Baudelaire’s description of the flaneur and Manet’s evocation of it may still resonate with us today. 

We can imagine the Flaneur Strategist: a wandering observer, immersed in contemporary urban life. Someone who engages in culture and change; celebrates the new, the innovative and the fashionable. And yet also stands to one side – watching, witnessing, taking notes – alone in the crowd. 

But the concept of the Flaneur Strategist also poses a challenge. With new technology we increasingly hide behind screens, pods, buds and beats. With maturity and success there is a tendency to withdraw; to cocoon ourselves in comforts. We retreat to the country, to bigger houses and better cars; to our own private bubbles. 

If we want to sustain our careers over the longer term, we would do well to stay in touch with ordinary people; with the rhythm of the city, the clamour of the crowd, the commotion of change – participating in culture, reviewing it from the inside, not the outside.

‘Genius is childhood recovered at will.’
Charles Baudelaire

When it was first exhibited ‘Music in the Tuileries’ was poorly received – by both journalists and the general public. They were uncomfortable with Manet’s contemporary subject matter, his unusual composition and loose technique. Although the artist was fiercely independent, he was always sensitive to criticism.

Édouard Manet - Un bar aux Folies Bergère

'The attacks of which I have been the object have broken the spring of life in me... People don't realize what it feels like to be constantly insulted.’
Édouard Manet

Nonetheless, Manet persevered. ‘Music in the Tuileries’ was followed by more masterpieces: 'Le Déjeuner sur l’Herbe', ‘Olympia’, 'A Bar at the Folies-Bergère;' by vital pictures of social events, and street and café scenes; by enigmatic portraits of fashionable people. He became the quintessential artist of the contemporary city; and something of a father figure to the Impressionists - socialising with them in city cafes and offering advice.

What we do not know is whether Baudelaire approved of Manet’s work. The writer remained curiously silent about his friend’s output. Perhaps Manet was not quite ‘The Painter of Modern Life’ that he had in mind.

 
'Some time,
Great times,
Troubled time.
Fire for the times,
Ringing out footsteps,
Calling out steel-heels.
Promised land.
Great times in commotion.
Here comes every day,
It only lasts an hour,
Unhappy the land that has no heroes,
No! Unhappy the land that needs heroes.’

Simple Minds, '20th Century Promised Land' (B Mcgee / C Burchill / D Forbes / J Kerr / M Macneil)

No. 441

A Crisis with the Recycling Bins: Anxiety Expands To Fill The Time Available

I woke up in the middle of the night worrying about the recycling bins.

The council had neglected to collect our refuse the previous day. And so I had donned my Crocs and trotted down the road to review the situation. 

They’d clearly picked up everyone else’s. I wondered if they were punishing me for some crime of refuse mismanagement. Had I left the bins in the wrong location? Had I included inappropriate materials? Had I misallocated some coffee cups or bubble wrap?

Over the coming week I would have to eke out the small amount of space left in the green containers. With a little prudent packing and assiduous compression, I could perhaps make it through. But then I realised there was a public holiday approaching and I’d need to survive an extra day before the collection.

And so here I was in a cold sweat, uneasy and apprehensive, calculating in the dark.

Of course I shouldn’t be stressed at all. Since I’ve stepped back (as they say) from the front line of professional engagement, I have been fortunate to lead a relatively easygoing life. The recycling collection is really not that important.

And yet, when I think about it, the amount that I fret has remained pretty constant. In the past I was anxious about pitch strategies, client relations, budget reconciliation and redundancies. Now I’m equally troubled by desk clutter, ticket booking and sandal closure; by muesli stocks, thank you cards and name recollection.

'To be without some of the things you want is an indispensable part of happiness.’
Bertrand Russell

I read a review of the recently published book 'After Work.' Its authors Helen Hester and Nick Srnicek cite what’s known as Cowan’s Paradox. Some years ago American historian Ruth Schwartz Cowan established that the amount of time spent on domestic work did not decrease at all between the 1870s and the 1970s. The benefits of a century of labour-saving devices had been countered by behavioural and attitudinal changes in the home - such as increasing standards of hygiene, more intensive parenting and more elaborate cooking practices. 

This phenomenon calls to mind Parkinson’s Law. In an article about bureaucracy in The Economist in 1955 the naval historian C Northcote Parkinson observed that officials tend to want subordinates, not rivals; and that they like to make work for each other. Consequently ‘work expands so as to fill the time available for its completion.’

Reflecting on my recycling dilemma, perhaps, in similar vain, anxiety expands to fill the time available.

'My life has been full of terrible misfortunes, most of which never happened.’
Michel de Montaigne

Certainly it is human to worry. We naturally get upset and unsettled, whether about substantive issues or trivialities. We torment ourselves with dark thoughts and grim forebodings. We toss and turn; brood and stew. Small annoyances become massive grievances. Trifling concerns become tremendous fears.

Of course an excess of stress can be crippling. We need to do everything we can to help sufferers and limit its effects.

But that doesn’t mean we should seek to eradicate anxiety entirely. In moderation and properly directed, our worrying wards off complacency. It builds preparedness and resilience. And, more than this, it stimulates creativity; motivates change; propels action.  

'Anxiety is the hand maiden of creativity.'
T S Eliot

This prompts me to conclude that we should regard anxiety, not as an enemy to be defeated, but as a troublesome friend to be accommodated. 

And with respect to our work worries, we should endeavour to keep them in proportion. In my own experience, the most irritating incidents, the most troublesome clients, the most disturbing prospects, don’t seem so important with the passing of time.

'Worrying is paying interest on a debt you might not even owe.'
Mark Twain

Now, a few weeks on from my sleepless night, I’ve caught up with the recycling, and the refuse collection has resumed its natural rhythm.

I should relax. But of course I have other things to worry about.

'Success is having to worry about every damn thing in the world, except money.'
Johnny Cash

'Do I worry cause you're stepping out?
Do I worry cause you got me in doubt?
Though your kisses aren't right, do I give a bag of beans?
Do I stay home every night and read my magazine?
Am I frantic, cause we lost that spark?
Is there panic when it starts turning dark?
And when evening shadows creep, do I lose any sleep over you?
Do I worry? You can bet your life I do.’

Ink Spots, ‘Do I Worry?’ (B Worth / S Cowan)

No. 440