August 2009 Archives
It's not easy being a NASA researcher. You can spend years of your professional career working on a particular project, only to have it abruptly cancelled because a new Administration takes office or ... well, the country just shifts its sights and priorities. And your particular project no longer fits on the list. It's happened so many times over the agency's 50-year history that it's almost predictable. And the reasons for those shifts are numerous, and sometimes complex. But as a piece in this week's Science Times noted, NASA is coming to yet another research fork in the road. I saw this one coming back in January 2004, when President George W. Bush announced we were going to go back to the Moon, and on to Mars ... and then didn't actually allocate any extra money for the effort. NASA slashed other research budgets and drastically shifted program priorities to comply with the new directive, and began developing the basic technology the first steps of the effort would require.
It was clear to me, even at the beginning, that the program was more of a nice PR moment than any real commitment or serious priority. Money talks, and the money wasn't allocated. What's more, a new President is now in power, and he's indicating that more budget cuts in the program may be in the offing. So after decimating science and aeronautical programs to fund Moon and Mars-oriented technology development, the agency finds itself, once again, facing the possibility of having to tell its researchers, "never mind." It's "a hell of a way to run an airline," as the saying goes.
But in the article's discussion of possible funding and program options, one particular comment caught my attention. One cost-saving option on the table would be to bypass a Moon landing, and concentrate research efforts on a series of long-duration space flights (the type that a Mars mission would require). But Gabrielle Giffords, chairwoman of the House subcommittee on space and aeronautics, reportedly commented that she didn't find that option particularly exciting, and didn't imagine her constituents would, either.
My first thought was, "why does space research have to be exciting?" Do we require cancer research to be dramatic material for prime-time viewing? Of course not. All we care about is results. But the human space flight program, some argue, exists primarily not for its scientific value, but for its inspirational value. In which case, I guess its "excitement" factor becomes more relevant.
On the other hand, it's not entirely clear what Giffords meant by her comments. Perhaps she wasn't arguing that the space program ought to be a lightweight version of "exciting," as in "ready-for-prime-time photo ops," but exciting in the sense of its potential impact. And if that's the case, then I agree with her. Research, in cancer, technology, or space, should hold exciting potential for advancement or discovery. Even if the "big bang" advancement lies some distance in the future.
But what constitutes exciting? To some people, developing the technology to allow humans to live for extended periods of time on another planetary body is incredibly exciting. "So far, we haven't been space explorers. We've been space backpackers, taking everything we need to survive with us," says K.R. Sridhar, a scientist and engineer who developed oxygen generators for NASA's Mars research program, only to have the project cancelled just before launch. Maybe living on Mars doesn't sound like a particularly fun or worthwhile experience. But developing the technology to allow humans to live beyond planet Earth ... that's kind of exciting. And perhaps even important, if we want our species to have the ability to survive cosmic disasters.
On the other hand, there are lots of other exciting research possibilities in space that don't involve the cost of a human space flight effort. The Kepler telescope, launched in March, is designed to search out planetary bodies orbiting distant suns at the right distance (ergo temperature) to allow water, and life as we know it, to exist. The telescope uses a sophisticated photometer to measure dips in brightness in the suns, indicating the passage of planetary bodies in front of them. By the size and frequency of the shadows, scientists will be able to determine the planets' orbital distance from the suns.
What does that do for us? As they've gained knowledge about just how massive the universe and numerous its galaxies are, scientists have become more confident that there must be life elsewhere. If Kepler can narrow the search down to some candidates with at least the first prerequisite for life (distance from a medium-sized sun), they might be able to do further scans, with other instruments and telescopes, to determine if elements like ozone, CO2, or oxygen exist in those distant atmospheres. What then? Kepler's principal investigator, a scientist named Bill Borucki, who championed the idea for decades before finally convincing his peers to support the research, said in a recent interview with Newsweek that eventually, we might launch "a probe that can travel near the speed of light and gets there, shows us pictures, listen to their radio stations and television stations, and gives us a much better understanding of this new planet."
If that's not exciting, I don't know what is.
NASA's researchers have struggled for years with how to keep the public interested in what they do, because doing anything in space is expensive. NASA, and its predecessor, the National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics (NACA) were formed to tackle problems and explorations that don't have a clear commercial benefit, and so aren't likely to be pursued by commercial companies, or are too risky to be pursued by commercial companies. And even with the advent of more commercial space companies, that difference in goals and risk-tolerance still exists. But since the public is footing NASA's bill, there's additional pressure for its work to appeal to a voting public with many more near-term concerns than how to save the species if an asteroid threatens or the sun explodes.
So although there's worth in any new knowledge or technology ... with limited resources, choices have to be made. Some already question the value of the International Space Station which, in the Moon/Mars plan currently on the books, would be dismantled only five years after its completion to free up funds for the next effort. A lot of other research was sacrificed to fund the Space Station. We surely don't want to keep doing that, if we aren't really excited about the results we get in the end.
We have a lot invested in the human space flight program, and the impact of dismantling it would be huge. Jobs, infrastructure, and knowledge now in place to pick up any new project would disappear--or at least scatter. Which means rebuilding it later, if we wanted to do that, would be an onerous task.(Dismantling it would also be politically tough, because of the jobs and local economic impact involved.) But maybe, radical as it might seem, "in the neighborhood" human space flight is something NASA can now turn over to the commercial sector. And maybe, especially in a time of tight budgets, NASA's money would be better used funding many smaller but very exciting projects like Kepler, and doing the risky work of figuring out how to explore the universe beyond our eight small planets. Rockets, after all, don't need humans on them to test new technology in ion or other propulsion systems, and even habitat technology like oxygen generators.
Then, if Kepler's descendants one day find a planet that looks suspiciously like a big blue marble, and has some interesting sounds bouncing across its ionosphere, we might have a reason to put humans back on the top of research rockets. A really, really, exciting one.
(Photo: Flickr User http2007)
When I was 19, I spent a summer working in the craft shops of Colonial Williamsburg, in the Tidewater area of Virginia. I was the only Yankee within sight, and my southern colleagues would say, repeatedly, that they could tell I was from New York.
"Why?" I'd ask. "My accent?"
"Nah," they'd answer. "Because anytime you walk anywhere, you put your head down and power on over like you're on a mission. Don't ever look left, right, or up." They'd shake their heads, as if I were a sad case in need of some serious help. "Girl," they'd advise, "you need to look around more, see what there is to see along the way!"
That story came to mind again this past weekend as I read about new research that's exploring the differences in how baby and adult minds perceive and approach the world. In a nutshell: babies are more like the slow-paced, observant Virginians I worked with, while adults are more like New Yorkers. Young brains, according to UC Berkekey psychology professor Alison Gopnik, are "remarkably plastic and flexible. ... But they are less efficient." They wander in all sorts of connectional directions, imagine all kinds of possibilities, and are drawn particularly to objects and events that are "new, unexpected or informative." Things, in other words, that will teach them the most.
Adult brains, on the other hand, have been honed to ignore superfluous information and events--especially when given a particular goal to achieve. Gopnik references an experiment where adults, told to count the number of ball tosses in a video, don't even notice a person in a gorilla suit who walks through the scene. Like the way I walked through Williamsburg, they focused on the goal to the exclusion of all other distractions.
But is that a bad thing? Depends. Focus and efficiency certainly have their place. I wouldn't want a trauma surgeon getting distracted by some interesting side-topic while performing emergency surgery. Ditto for a check-out clerk at the grocery store during a very busy shopping time.
But one can worship overmuch at the temple of efficiency--as my Virginia friends pointed out. We have spent much of the past century extolling the virtues of efficiency in everything from food preparation and daily life to production and processes in the business and manufacturing world. Books on achieving greater efficiency crowd the business section in bookstores. The "Six Sigma" management training program, which focuses largely on streamlining and improving the efficiency (and effectiveness) of management and manufacturing processes, is so popular there's now even a "Six Sigma for Dummies" book. Seriously. From factory floors to boardrooms, numbers-based efficiency rules, in an equation that reads, roughly: increased efficiency=increased production=increased profit. What that focus on machine-like efficiency does for the motivation and spirits of human workers is an open question, of course.
But more importantly ... as Gopnik's article and research point out, getting the brain to think creatively, about new possibilities, employs and requires a different process than focusing on efficiency and goal-achievement. Creative thinking is not something you can streamline or use time-management studies to improve, as any writer or artist well knows. Ideas have their own unique ways and schedule for coming into the world. And sometimes, ironically enough, they arrive most efficiently when we stop focusing on efficiency. I've come up with more breakthrough writing answers sitting in my back garden watching the hummingbirds (see my previous post on that subject here), when I wasn't even consciously looking for an answer, than at any other place or time. Lord knows I wish it were otherwise. Life would be so much easier to manage and plan.
But Gopnik's point also has implications for businesses. If an increase in efficiency-oriented thinking comes at the cost of a broader mental radar that's more tuned to unexpected or new possibilities, that could account for why more companies don't do better at innovation. Innovation requires imagining a process, product, or service that doesn't yet exist. It's a creative function. And minds long pressured and trained to focus on efficiency and numbers-based goals aren't even close to being in the right frame of mind, so to speak, to tackle the challenge. This is a major argument made by advocates of "design thinking" ... consultants like Darrel Rhea of Cheskin Added Value and Tony Golsby-Smith of 2nd Road, and educators like Roger Martin, dean of the University of Toronto's Rotman School of Management and Jeanne Liedtka of UVa's Darden School of Business. All of them would say that if you want more innovation and creative problem-solving in your ranks, you have to relax the laser focus on efficiency and short-term, numbers-based goal achievement.
And Dr. Gopnik, it seems, would agree.
But there's another intriguing dimension of these research results, as well. I often get asked why it is that young people have such passion for dreams and possibilities ... and why many adults seem to lose that passion and belief as they grow into middle age. Part of the answer is undoubtedly fear of failure, an increase in responsibilities and financial commitments, and a higher risk of loss--both of money and status--with any departure from the inertia of known routines. But part of it also may be that a continual focus on efficiency and goal achievement actually makes it harder for an adult brain to shift back to the habits of its youth, when it got excited by the things that would teach it the most. And when it focused not on efficiency, but on exploration, curiosity, and all the possibilities that an uncharted landscape, or path in life, might hold. (Photo: Flickr User Paul Foster and so.salem)
Quick opinion survey: If someone commits a crime or sin that is reprehensible, should they be forgiven or given a second chance at some point? It's a simple question, but surprisingly tough to answer unequivocally. If the answer is yes, under what circumstances? Universally? Or only if they repent? If they do something positive to balance the damage? How much restitution is sufficient? Can good deeds in the future atone for the sins of the past? Or is a grievous sin or crime such a damning statement about character that the offender cannot ever make up for it?
If you think you're sure about your answers on these questions, consider three cases that have hit the news in the past few weeks.
The most recent is NFL quarterback Michael Vick, who was signed to play for the Philadelphia Eagles this past week, two years after being convicted of running a dog fighting ring. Dog fighting involves conscious, intentional cruelty for sport; a horrific thought to millions of people--especially those who have and love household pets. Vick's arrest and conviction led to the loss of his contract with the Atlanta Falcons (with all the money that entailed) and two years in prison. Released two months ago, Vick says he's been humbled by his downfall, regrets his actions, has been rehabilitated through re-found faith and his time in prison, and now wants to be "part of the solution, not the problem." He's started working with the Humane Society of America to reach out to inner-city youth, in an effort to dissuade them from getting involved with dog fighting.
But opinions about Vick's return to eligible status in the NFL in general, and his signing with the Eagles in particular, are as heated as they are split. Any number of Eagles fans are incensed at owner Jeffrey Lurie hiring a convicted dogfighter to play for the team. Especially for $1.6 million a year. To some, and perhaps many, the intentional cruelty of Vick's past actions is unforgivable ... or if it's at some point forgivable, at least disqualifying in terms of a second, lucrative chance at an NFL career.
On the other side of the argument, there are fans who point to lesser sentences imposed on people who get drunk and kill not just dogs, but human beings. If those people get to go on with their lives again, why not Vick? Especially because he's done his time, claims he's sorry beyond words, and is promising to do community service work to use his position and hard/late-learned wisdom to help others.
Part of the objection may also be that Vick's signing is no altruistic act of charity on the part of the Eagles. Vick has talent. And somehow, getting a second chance at a golden life because you can throw, run, and make money for those who are giving you a second chance ... seems a bit unfair. As if Vick is getting a second chance that an average guy wouldn't get, just because he's one of the pampered athlete aristocracy.
Then there's the story of Joe Balzer, one of three Northwest Airline pilots who were arrested in 1990 after piloting a 727 airliner full of people while they drunk. Balzer, a long-time alcoholic, went to jail and lost all of his flight ratings. But in 1999, after eight years of sobriety and AA, and after re-qualifying for his pilot's ratings, he was hired by American Airlines--his current employer.
Does an airline pilot who put hundreds of lives at risk ... lives his very job was to protect, and which were spared more by luck than by design ... deserve another chance at flying passengers? Balzer says he's been sober for 19 years and now works to help others battling problems with alcohol. He's also written a book about his struggles called Flying Drunk, which came out at the end of July.
As with Vick, opinions are mixed on Balzer's comeback, both inside and outside the industry. As a pilot myself, I struggle with the case. Even if I grant that alcoholism is a disease, the fact remains that to take a passenger up with you, even in a small airplane, is an enormous gift of trust on their part, requiring an equal portion of responsibility on yours. Times a thousand for a professional pilot. To selfishly continue to fly drunk, knowing you have a problem with alcohol but not seeking help for it, and knowing that what you're doing is illegal as well as unsafe, and that you're risking the lives of everyone who boards your aircraft and entrusts you with their lives because you've promised to protect them, just to keep your career alive, is a horrific breach of trust, honor, and responsibility as well as the law. It is, in a sense, unforgivable. Even if you get lucky in the end and nobody actually dies.
Does an "I'm really sorry and I've paid my dues and I won't do it again" make up for that? And even if that's enough for forgiveness, is a recovering alcoholic who's committed that crime really the best possible bet for position where hundred, or thousands, of lives are at stake ... especially when thousands of pilots without that blemish on their records are looking for jobs?
But Balzer did not, in the end, actually cause anyone's death. Compare that to another famous case that resurfaced in the news recently ... that of Ted Kennedy and Chappaquiddick. Kennedy wasn't a professional endangering hundreds of lives, and Chappaquiddick was only one night. But his actions on that night in 1969--whose 40th anniversary brought the story back into the forefront in July--led to the death of a young woman. Clearly, the car going off the bridge was an accident. But it's suspected that Kennedy was intoxicated at the time (a point which couldn't be proven because he didn't report the accident until the next day). And Kennedy's delay in reporting the event ... arguably weak, at best, and criminal, at worst ... was even more damning, in many people's eyes, than the accident and his failure to save his companion. And, as with Vick, part of the grumbling about Kennedy undoubtedly stems from a feeling that he got special treatment because of his place in the social and political aristocracy.
To many people, Kennedy's actions that night were then, and remain now, unforgivable, despite his 40 years of tireless legislative effort on worthwhile causes like education and healthcare that followed. To others, even those who agree that his actions that night were reprehensible, the years since have balanced the scales. Of course, whether or not you consider Kennedy's subsequent actions redeemable probably depends, in large part, on whether you value or agree with the bills he's helped to pass. Which raises the question ... who decides what actions are "sufficient" for forgiveness or a second chance?Still ... at what point does the price a man (or woman) pays, or their subsequent actions, make up for a terrible mistake? Never? And if we answer affirmatively to that question, what does that do for us? Do we want sinners to be ruined for life? If we don't forgive or grant second chances, the concept of "rehabilitation" becomes somewhat hollow. Not to mention the greatness, wisdom, and strength that can come from the depths of a fall and the dark nights of the soul.
Is it possible to forgive and yet still require some life-long cost? Or to grant someone chances to atone and go on with a normal life without ever really forgiving the original sin? And if we differentiate between Vick and Balzer, or Balzer and Kennedy, how do we rationalize our variations? Or the fact that 10 different people might, in good conscience, come up with 10 different answers to that question?
Whatever else can be said about forgiveness, it's clearly a long, painful and complex process that, ironically, draws us into a parallel struggle along with those we judge. Perhaps there's a lesson or purpose in that somewhere. But that also may be part of what we find so hard to forgive.
(Photo: Flickr Users Keith Allison and diggersf)
I was on Minnesota Public Radio's Midmorning with Kerri Miller yesterday, discussing uncertainty, change, and how to successfully cope with the fear that comes with those things. We didn't discuss the health care debate. But our conversation was relevant to the discussion. "Why," a caller wanted to know, "do so many people tell you that you can't succeed when you say you want to try something different or go out on your own?"
The conversation went back and forth a bit, partly because the reasons are undoubtedly complex, and also because I hesitate to assign motivations to people I've never met. But after Kerri pressed the question a third time, I finally answered, "Fear." In the context of the caller's question, I meant that some people resist leaving secure and known circumstances or places because they're afraid. Afraid of change, afraid of the unknown, and afraid about their ability to do well in the wilderness of a changed or uncertain environment. But they comfort themselves by saying that it can't be done, or that striking out into something new is an irresponsible or bad choice.
Why do they try to discourage others, as well? Because if someone else "escapes," or succeeds at a new or passionate pursuit, the naysayers might have to look more honestly at the real reasons for their own reluctance. And facing your own fears is a lot harder than convincing everyone else to have them, too.
I think that last bit also at least partly explains the vitriolic tone of some of the recent discussions about changing our health care system. Frank Rich wrote a column that spoke to this point a couple of days ago. In the same vein of the marriage counselor mantra, "what you're fighting about isn't what you're fighting about," Rich says that he doesn't believe the anger at the proposed health care plan is really about the proposed health care plan.
"The twisted distortions about 'death panels' and federal conspiracies 'to pull the plug on grandma' are just too unhinged from the reality of any actual legislation," he argues. "Those bogus fears are psychological proxies for bigger traumas." What traumas? The economy and job loss? "That's surely part of it," Rich says. "So is fear of more home foreclosures and credit card bankruptcies. So is fear of China, whose economic ascension stands in stark contrast to the collapse of traditional American industries from automobiles to newspapers. So is fear of Barack Obama, whose political ascension dramatizes the coming demographic order that will relegate whites to the American minority."
In other words, all the hyperbolic rants could be boiled down to, "I want my world back!"--a wish whose futility only fuels the angry fires. Change is coming. Slowly but surely. And that may be part of the problem. Not the change itself, but the relative slow pace of its process.
Ernest Gann, a brilliant writer whose memoir Fate is the Hunter paints a gripping picture of the early, dangerous years of airline flying, talks about the difference between fright and fear. Fright, he says, is a sudden emotion that is actually useful because it sends adrenaline through the body and focuses the mind on fixing whatever caused the fright, or adapting to the new circumstances. Fear, on the other hand, is an insidious emotion that takes longer to set in but, if allowed to take hold, degrades thinking and performance to the point of disaster.
Humans, in other words, react better to a sudden change in circumstances than they do to a slow shift that allows them too much time to think, and allows fear to creep in around the edges. And the longer any amorphous fear sits there, the more it grows. Especially if a person feels helpless to do anything about it.
Several researchers and business consultants say the same thing. Dr. Mark Feldman (who wrote Five Frogs on a Log) and Alan Deutschman (who wrote Change or Die) both conclude in their books that quick change, even if brutal, is far more successful in the long run than slow change. A slow pace gives people time to feel scared about the change, and to grow correspondingly more resistant to the process.
Which is to say, if the health care system had just changed one day, we might complain, but we'd adapt. (Same with the country's demographics or economic standing in the world.) But one of the problems with a participatory, democratic process is that it's slow. And that gives fear time to gain a foothold ... and even hijack any rational thought or discussion.
So what do we do about that? Unfortunately, the process isn't likely to speed up, especially now. And when people get really afraid, they often stop listening altogether. But perhaps President Obama would do well to dust off FDR's famous "we have nothing to fear but fear itself," speech and give it an updated spin. Because the truth is, we adapt to change better than we imagine we will, when it finally comes. It's our fear of it that's debilitating. I've often said that the best antidote to fear is knowledge; we cease to fear things we know and understand well. But on that long, hard road to knowledge, a little inspiration never hurts.
(Photo: Flickr User Rob Stemple)
Woodstock, of course, is the icon. The music festival, which is back on everyone's minds because of its 40th anniversary this weekend, is the name-turned-definition of a Utopian, peace-love-and-creative-expression community. An idea as much as an event. A moment in time where the normal rules of commerce and capitalistic society as we know it were magically suspended.
Woodstock was also an accident. Planned as a straightforward, money-making, commercial music concert, it unexpectedly morphed into something bigger that overwhelmed commercial control. People behaved, the government provided support, and everyone stumbled upon a rare "moment of grace," as one New York Times writer put it this week.
Coming as it did, in the midst of violent social unrest and upheaval, Woodstock was a particularly precious moment of reprieve. But the idea of Woodstock; the idea of a perfect, peaceful, cooperative community, where everyone shares and gets along with "crass" commercialism, has been around for a very long time.
Sir (Saint) Thomas More wrote the book Utopia way back in 1516. I'm not entirely sure whether More, a devout Catholic who was later beheaded for refusing to acknowledge King Henry VIII's divorces as legitimate, was being earnestly wistful or caustically satirical in his description of a fantasy island where money was unimportant and communal cooperation abounded, along with niceties like religious tolerance and legalized divorce. But in any event, very serious attempts at making that fantasy a reality have cropped up over and over again in the years and centuries since.
Sir (Saint) Thomas More wrote the book Utopia way back in 1516. I'm not entirely sure whether More, a devout Catholic who was later beheaded for refusing to acknowledge King Henry VIII's divorces as legitimate, was being earnestly wistful or caustically satirical in his description of a fantasy island where money was unimportant and communal cooperation abounded, along with niceties like religious tolerance and legalized divorce. But in any event, very serious attempts at making that fantasy a reality have cropped up over and over again in the years and centuries since. Dreams of communal utopia also often mix with dreams of a simpler and more organic way of life--not only because it's more egalitarian and ecologically friendly, but also because if you're going to do away with 9-to-5 jobs and the money they bring in, you're going to have to be more self-sufficient. Ideally, of course, this self-sufficiency mixes with time and space to be creative and fun-loving. Utopia wouldn't be nearly as perfect without those qualities.
One recent iteration of this enduring dream is the floating "Waterpod" community that's been cruising the waters around Manhattan this summer. The moveable barge/art project/commune was envisioned, Melena Ryzik wrote in yesterday's Times, 
as a 3,000-square-foot experiment in self-sufficient "community living and artistry" that could serve as a prototype for sustainable communities in a resource-scarce future. Structures on the grant-funded barge were built by volunteers out of recycled materials. Chickens and an on-board garden provide the food, the sun provides the energy, and the residents can balance the tasks of food preparation and maintenance with time for creative art. A Utopian solution to hard times.
One important detail: the two main organizers of the project had no prior knowledge or experience in either gardening or carpentry. If they had, they might have had a better idea of just how much work they were getting into. As it is, they've been surprised to discover that after two months, they've had some great communal moments, but not a lot of art is getting done. Turns out that organic, self-sufficient living is very hard and time-consuming work--a fact that Thomas More clearly knew, because he included household slaves in his vision of a Utopian dream island.
as a 3,000-square-foot experiment in self-sufficient "community living and artistry" that could serve as a prototype for sustainable communities in a resource-scarce future. Structures on the grant-funded barge were built by volunteers out of recycled materials. Chickens and an on-board garden provide the food, the sun provides the energy, and the residents can balance the tasks of food preparation and maintenance with time for creative art. A Utopian solution to hard times. One important detail: the two main organizers of the project had no prior knowledge or experience in either gardening or carpentry. If they had, they might have had a better idea of just how much work they were getting into. As it is, they've been surprised to discover that after two months, they've had some great communal moments, but not a lot of art is getting done. Turns out that organic, self-sufficient living is very hard and time-consuming work--a fact that Thomas More clearly knew, because he included household slaves in his vision of a Utopian dream island.
It is possible to live a simpler, close-to-the-land, self-sufficient existence. Farmers around the world have been doing it for centuries. It's just tough to do that and also have the time and energy to be a creative artist.
The Waterpod organizers are also discovering a second reason why few Utopian communities last: humans have a tough time getting along in communal bliss for long stretches of time--especially if they all have separate visions of personal expression and freedom. Most traditional tribal villages have a strong sense of community and sharing. But they also tend to have very strict rituals and rules of behavior that don't allow for a lot of narcissistic or free-wheeling experimentation.
But take away the requirement that it last, and have the experiment be a voluntary event instead of a lifestyle where actual survival is at stake, and anything can become possible. It's worth noting that Woodstock's ideal, mystical joining of community and creative expression only had to last three days. Ditto for the Burning Man festival, which now draws almost 50,000 people to the Nevada desert each August for what's called "an experiment in temporary community dedicated to radical self-expression and radical self-reliance." Emphasis on temporary. For seven days, Burning Man attendees pay to immerse themselves in an artistic community in the middle of a remote dry lakebed. They share peacefully, express themselves creatively, feel the love ... and then go home to more comfortable surroundings.
Leave those same people in the middle of a harsh desert for two years without rescue, and some very different dynamics might ensue. But that's okay. At least we still dream of peaceful, cooperative communities where life is good, art is plentiful, and love abounds. Ideals are important compass cards for a civilization.
In Latin, Utopia means a place that doesn't exist. But perhaps it's more like Rogers and Hammerstein's fictional town of Brigadoon, which wasn't on any map because it only emerged from the Scottish highland mist for one day every 100 years. So while the dream endures, we stumble upon it only rarely and briefly; for a week each summer in the Nevada wilderness or ... once upon a time ... for three days on a farm in upstate New York.
(All photos from flickr.com)
To hear the subjects talk about it, you'd think they'd discovered a new law of physics. Shocking as it might seem, it turns out that if you're not live-blogging or tweeting or reporting on an event as it unfolds--and you know that nobody is going to quote you or write about the event after the fact--you act and experience an event quite differently. "You actually listen to the conversation, not just wait for your turn to speak," marveled a blogger who, the New York Times reported in a recent article, has begun organizing strictly off-the-record gatherings in New York.
The difference between reporting an event (or performing for reporters) and simply experiencing an event or conversation is one journalists learn very early. Twenty years ago, when I got my first job as an aviation journalist and was assigned to cover air shows, my pilot friends were green with envy. I was going to get paid for what they'd do for free. But reporting on an event is very, very different from simply experiencing it. It turns you from a participant into an observer. You have to step back and gauge what facts are the most important to gather; what story line you're going to pursue. The same is true for photographers. The eye of a photographer is an analytical one; judging the best angle, best light, best focal length in a world reduced to whatever narrow slice is visible through a view-finder. Real-time impressions and emotion are sacrificed for a lasting, illustrative image. There is a cost to recording an event; a cost paid in removal from full immersion or enjoyment of the moment as it actually happens.
The difference between reporting an event (or performing for reporters) and simply experiencing an event or conversation is one journalists learn very early. Twenty years ago, when I got my first job as an aviation journalist and was assigned to cover air shows, my pilot friends were green with envy. I was going to get paid for what they'd do for free. But reporting on an event is very, very different from simply experiencing it. It turns you from a participant into an observer. You have to step back and gauge what facts are the most important to gather; what story line you're going to pursue. The same is true for photographers. The eye of a photographer is an analytical one; judging the best angle, best light, best focal length in a world reduced to whatever narrow slice is visible through a view-finder. Real-time impressions and emotion are sacrificed for a lasting, illustrative image. There is a cost to recording an event; a cost paid in removal from full immersion or enjoyment of the moment as it actually happens. By the same token, there's a night-and-day difference between a public versus a private conversation. Any journalist, spokesperson or politician could tell you that. So could anyone who has spent much time watching cable television pundits talk past each other in mind-numbing diatribes sparked by the presence of cameras and their attendant promise of publicity and notoriety.
But it used to be that only certain professionals understood, or had to struggle with, the downsides of either recording events, or being the subject of a recorded event. Now, almost everyone is getting a taste of it, thanks to the prolific spread of blogging, Facebook, twitter and other mass publication vehicles. And--thanks God, as my Italian neighbors would say--some of them are beginning to realize that the sword has two sides. That perhaps not everything has to be, or even should be, transmitted instantly into the universal, public realm.
There are many things to applaud about a world where more people can have voices and communication among groups is easier. Twitter proved an invaluable tool in aiding the protesters in Iran with regards to public gatherings and police movements. And the mass proliferation of blogs reminds me, at least in some ways, of the dawning of the cable television era, when niche groups suddenly found programming targeted specifically to them.
There's also nothing inherently evil about any of the new communication methods or technologies. But most advances come with some kind of tradeoff, and anything used to excess begins to be problematic--as some people are beginning to find out with an all-shared, all-the-time, lifestyle. One clear issue is preservation of privacy--especially for those who didn't volunteer to be part of a global chat-room. But living a reported life 24 hours a day also has a cost, not only in terms of the type and quality of the interactions and conversations it allows, but also in terms of how present the reporters are in any given moment.
It's possible to both experience and report an event, but not instantaneously or simultaneously. When I had an assignment to fly a a U-2 spy plane last fall, high enough to see the curvature of the earth, I got so preoccupied with taking photos and notes that I realized, part-way through the flight, that I wasn't actually experiencing any of it with any real depth. And to write anything of substance, I needed to first experience something of substance. So I turned off my intercom microphone, put the camera down, and just sat for a while. Looked out the window. Focused on what my senses were experiencing. Let my mind wander and my eyes drink in my surroundings. And in the richness of that silence, impressions softly bloomed. Of how fragile the world's atmosphere appeared. How being that high above the earth felt as if we were surreptitious invaders at the edge of a foreign realm ruled by powerful titans who needed no heat, air pressure or oxygen to survive. Of how lonely even a beautiful planet would be without anyone to welcome you home again.
And even those thoughts, put so cleanly into words here, took time to process and ferment, once I came back to earth.
New technology is all well and good. But the fact remains that it's tough to talk and listen at the same time, or be connected to an outside audience (even that of posterity) and still be fully immersed in the place, time, and dynamic of where you are. And that's a long-standing law of physics--or at least of human neuroscience and psychology--that I doubt any new technology is likely to overcome.
Honest to goodness, I thought it was just me.
When Survivor first aired, I watched the initial episode with the naive idea that it was actually a show about survival. As in, dump a group of people on an island, and the one or ones who is the best at building shelter, figuring out sources of food, and keeping their innovative and rational wits about them, win. With rescue teams to keep the others from actually dying. Imagine my disappointment to discover that it was, instead, a show offering a re-run of junior high cliques and pout-fests. "Oh, dear god," I thought. "Junior high was bad enough the first time. Spare me the torture of watching it all over again." But I reassured myself with the thought that surely, this kind of show wouldn't last.
Granted, reality show contestants have the option of leaving at any time--a significant difference. And one could argue that if contestants are stupid enough to sign on for the 15 minutes of humiliation fame reality shows offer, they deserve what they get. But even if contestants have visions of easy money or fame, I'm not sure they really know what they're getting into. Many may assume they can beat the system, knowing that they don't normally behave like the people they see on the shows. But even the stalwart feminist warrior Germaine Greer, who signed on to Britain's "Celebrity Big Brother" show in 2005 in the hopes of raising money for her rainforest charities, was overwhelmed by the abuse and dysfunction and quit after only four days. (Her account of her brief stay makes for interesting reading.)
There are undoubtedly any number of individual vulnerabilities and character flaws that plays into the equation, as well. But isolation, group pressure and sleep deprivation are powerful behavior-altering techniques, regardless of who's involved. That's why interrogators use them. When I was 16, I spent a week at a "Girl's State" convention that was ostensibly aimed at teaching us how to be better citizens. By the standards of reality TV, the experience was mild. But we were kept up late, roused early, and subjected to non-stop mandatory lectures each day. Group pressure to approve and conform was great. And within only a few days, almost all individual thought had evaporated. Each speaker got a standing ovation. Any differing opinion was booed, and the questioner ostracized. It was a frightening glimpse into how easy brain-washing and behavior modification are to accomplish--especially in a group.
When Survivor first aired, I watched the initial episode with the naive idea that it was actually a show about survival. As in, dump a group of people on an island, and the one or ones who is the best at building shelter, figuring out sources of food, and keeping their innovative and rational wits about them, win. With rescue teams to keep the others from actually dying. Imagine my disappointment to discover that it was, instead, a show offering a re-run of junior high cliques and pout-fests. "Oh, dear god," I thought. "Junior high was bad enough the first time. Spare me the torture of watching it all over again." But I reassured myself with the thought that surely, this kind of show wouldn't last. Last, of course, doesn't begin to describe what's happened in the reality TV world. Rabbits should reproduce and spread so prolifically. And even a number of my very intelligent friends have become avid fans of one show or another.
My own view, however, has remained unchanged. If a sinister power wanted to get state secrets out of my hands, a few days of non-stop reality TV show watching would do the trick. Enough back-to-back Bridezillas, The Janice Dickinson Modeling Agency, and Bachelor-babe catfights, with no hope of turning the channel, and I'd be pleading for mercy. But I'd also assume that I was the only torture victim in that equation.
A New York Times article earlier this week, however, suggests otherwise.
Drawing on interviews with reality TV show contestants whose non-disclosure contracts have now expired, the article, headlined "Tired, Tipsy, and Pushed to the Brink," details a broad range of techniques routinely used on contestants, including sleep deprivation, isolation, taunting, food deprivation, and pushing of alcohol consumption. Take out the alcohol, and the list reads like a page straight out of a manual for enhanced interrogation techniques. Which both explains a lot, in terms of the bad behavior on those shows, and also provides a vivid illustration of why those techniques don't always get reliable intelligence from suspects.
Granted, reality show contestants have the option of leaving at any time--a significant difference. And one could argue that if contestants are stupid enough to sign on for the 15 minutes of humiliation fame reality shows offer, they deserve what they get. But even if contestants have visions of easy money or fame, I'm not sure they really know what they're getting into. Many may assume they can beat the system, knowing that they don't normally behave like the people they see on the shows. But even the stalwart feminist warrior Germaine Greer, who signed on to Britain's "Celebrity Big Brother" show in 2005 in the hopes of raising money for her rainforest charities, was overwhelmed by the abuse and dysfunction and quit after only four days. (Her account of her brief stay makes for interesting reading.)There are undoubtedly any number of individual vulnerabilities and character flaws that plays into the equation, as well. But isolation, group pressure and sleep deprivation are powerful behavior-altering techniques, regardless of who's involved. That's why interrogators use them. When I was 16, I spent a week at a "Girl's State" convention that was ostensibly aimed at teaching us how to be better citizens. By the standards of reality TV, the experience was mild. But we were kept up late, roused early, and subjected to non-stop mandatory lectures each day. Group pressure to approve and conform was great. And within only a few days, almost all individual thought had evaporated. Each speaker got a standing ovation. Any differing opinion was booed, and the questioner ostracized. It was a frightening glimpse into how easy brain-washing and behavior modification are to accomplish--especially in a group.
Add alcohol, taunting, and the other tactics that seem commonplace in reality TV show environments, and you have a disturbing cross between George Orwell's 1984 and a modern-day Roman Coliseum. And yet, like the Romans of old, we cheer. We laugh. We watch. Seemingly without any twinge of conscience. And the puzzling question is ... why?
Is the entertainment quality of the shows that much better than the scripted programs we used to watch? I can't imagine I'd find many who'd say that. Are we so twisted that we love seeing other humans suffer? Or does watching the immature manipulative behavior, suffering and humiliation of seemingly-willing participants on those shows make us feel better about our own lives, no matter what we're going through?
Perhaps, like the contestants themselves, we don't realize what we're endorsing when we watch the shows, or buy the products they advertise. But that's beginning to change. As more information about the treatment of contestants comes out, will we continue to watch? Even knowing that that the last thing the behavior on reality TV shows represents is reality .... unless it's the reality of what vulnerable people will do under harsh and artificially-induced conditions?
The producers of these shows may be behaving as badly, or worse, than their inebriated, sleep-deprived contestants. But they could rightly argue that just as the slave trade depended on having people willing to buy the slaves, the reality TV shows depend on having audiences willing to watch. We are complicit. And as long as we are willing consumers of the product, the torture will continue--both for viewers who have increasingly fewer options in terms of what to watch, and for those hapless souls who sign up for a dream, and end up in a nightmare.
Lane Wallace
