Monthly Archives: October 2011

Seven Billion

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I’ve been enjoying the visualisations that have been popping up to depict the trends and predictions of the world’s population, now it has officially hit 7,000,000,000 (the now universally accepted US thousand million and not the old british million million, i.e. 7,000,000,000,000).

There is a great interactive one on the BBC website called ‘What’s your number’ that is proving to be very popular. You type in your date of birth and it pinpoints on a trend graph where you were born relative to the rest of the population since the year 1500. It also gives you a number for when you were born in the history of mankind, which gives you a unique identity. The app is a lot of fun to play with, and R who had pointed it out to me, got much pleasure putting in all the birthdays of her family to see what a difference a couple of decades makes to their personal blips on the graph – especially given how the human curve has increased exponentially since the last century.

There are an awful lot of people that have joined us since we were born. Something like 300 babies are born every minute. For me:

When you were born, you were the:
3,036,891,918th
person alive on Earth

and the
76,686,259,872nd
person to have lived since history began

These simple interactive visualisations are very powerful cognitive amplifiers; they let you effortlessly compare your single digit self with everyone else who has lived. On the one hand, it really gives you a sense of being an inconsequential dot, while on the other, a building block in history. It is that contrast between bird’s eye view and ant’s view that is so evocative.

Sometimes, when I’m being crushed on the London Underground or trampled on when navigating my way through the myriad of student ant trails on the UCL campus as classes change, I feel the full weight of the 7 billion. And then I remind myself of what it was like living in downtown Bloomington, Indiana during the dog days of summer when all the students and sensible faculty had decamped, leaving the landlocked landscape devoid of human life. We used to drive around playing a game of people spotting on the sidewalk, cheering loudly if we happened upon one Hopperesque-soul.

Often disappointed and desperate, we’d end up driving to Target – the Hoosier heartland – in search of any life form, just to remind ourselves that a few tens of people existed – let alone seven billion.

Baltic Bin

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The Turner Prize has gone north for the first time in its 27-year history – to the BALTIC contemporary art gallery in Newcastle. I’ve always wanted to visit this splendid converted mill and, by luck, I was giving a talk in Newcastle this week, so was able to see both. And the exhibition was free, too, unlike when it is hosted expensively at the Tate in London.

Trouble was it was the first week of opening, half-term and raining. Even late in the afternoon there was a shivering queue snaking outside the building. We joined it and stood under dripping brollies and hoods, stamping wet feet. Eventually, we were counted in and went up the shiny glassy lift – that apparently many visitors like to spend their time whizzing up and down the floors to get a great view of the city. And then another 10 minute wait inside before we were let into the first gallery.

I always find it is a bit of an anti-climax following the slow moving anticipation associated with long queuing. You expect a big wow when released and it doesn’t materialize because you are in the wrong mindset. It takes time to settle one’s sensibilities again.

As a consequence, the first three rooms were rather underwhelming. We read the blurb on the walls and tried to imagine the raison d’etre behind the installations. S’s 5 year-old daughter A – who had accompanied us on her scooter – played with them, innocently picking up some fake leaves, touching a ragged sweat shirt bin liner in a funny shaped bin, and tracing lines on the sugar paper of another. And quite rightly so; they cried out for being touched – yet the posted guards posture suggested it was verboten. Happily, little angelic A skipped through her touches, deftly without catching their eye.

The last room stood out for me by a mile. I do have a penchant for paintings these days and the ones in this space by George Shaw were quite breath-taking. My money is on this man winning; he paints rain-stained streets, derelict buildings, ghostly garages and other desolate, dull images that are a permanent feature on every estate, dotted throughout the UK. I could immediately connect with them – a run-down council estate in Coventry, a poor working class one in Watford – what is the difference?

The more we looked at Shaw’s paintings the more they revealed – his limited palette of humble Humbrol paints, the deliberate lack of any human life and a relentless stoicism that seeps into ones very sinew when faced with such void vistas each day. But there is hope in the journeys painted out of his childhood. What stands out in all the gloom is his delicious dash of humour, captured whimsically in his titles. My favourite, which did make me laugh out loud, was “Landscape with Dog Shit Bin”.

In the distance of the canvas one can see a tiny, brightly lit red artefact orifice that has become such a pervasive feature of our parks and streets, without us so much as noticing this has happened – taking over from the red BT phone boxes that used to reside on every street corner, and which by the same measure, have now virtually disappeared. This quirky reference to a new order, civilized society eases us out of the heaviness of life that spans the rest of the painting – there is a glimmer of light in the most unexpected place that helps us work out how to escape an otherwise mundane and melancholic world.

Hyper 3D

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This weekend my football team, Man U, suffered their worst defeat at home in 70 years, losing 6-1 to their noisy neighbours, Man City. It was utterly humiliating to experience such a thrashing unfold in real time – and it made our gloating rout against Arsenal earlier in the season, with an even greater scoreline, seem like a distant past.

Such unexpected beatings are extraordinary rare for any team. For long-time supporters of Man U – who have gotten used to being champions, the greatest and simply the best – it was even more galling to be knocked off our perch in such an undignified fashion.

Normally, I look forward to watching Man U’s games live at the local pub or on terrestrial TV. But more often than not these days, I end up listening to them on Radio 5 live or scanning the live updates on the BBC website and then watching highlights on MOTD. This time I switched the live feed off after our rivals hit 3 in the net; I could not bear to listen or scan the digital ticker tape any more. I had a premonition it was going to get much worse. And I could not even watch the highlights on TV – no disrespect for Man City – but it is too upsetting.

I wonder how much worse it would have been if I had had to watch it on 3D TV. There has been a lot of hype about the enhanced experience this new technology bring to one’s living room, especially for sports viewing. I have to admit the opportunity of watching Rooney score a scissor-kick overhead goal in glorious 3D does thrill me to bits. But by the same token the prospect of watching an opponent score in spectacular fashion seems more painful.

I wonder if this is the reason I am reluctant to embrace 3D at home. A fear of hyper reality invading the living room. However, one of my colleagues reassured me that this kind of suffering only serves to enhance the experience when your team scores next – like a roller coaster experience.

Technology Tapas

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Barcelona is gastronomy city, full of many amazing restaurants steeped in a tradition of Iberian cooking. The highlight for years – for the chosen few – has been a trip to elBulli. Anyone who is a foodie will know just how much it means to dine there – especially before it closed its doors for the last time this summer. It was a magical place where one could have the most extraordinary dinner, unimaginable, tasting sublime flavours, textures and aromas in beautiful surroundings.

Countless books, blogs, documentaries and articles have been written or made about the unique elBulli experience, covering every angle, from the sacrifices of being a stagiare to the privilege of being a diner – and for very good reasons. Apparently, over a million people have tried to book a table there, and those lucky enough to be selected have often had to wait a year before taking up their invitation. Such is the global fascination and world-wide reputation.

By serendipity, I was invited to attend a workshop in this majestic city, entitled ‘Gastronomy and Technology Days”, organized by the great man, Ferran Adrià, himself, in conjunction with the forward-thinking Spanish company, Telefonica. The opportunity to be in the physical presence of the former was exciting enough, but to be able also to spend a couple of days in the company of top foodies and techies from all over the world, talking about and sharing their insights on a diversity of themes related to food, dining and technology, was wild. I did not stop buzzing the whole time I was there.

I arrived late in the evening on the Monday and went straight to Estrella Damm– where the first night’s social event was just starting. This famous spanish brewery in conjunction with Ferran and some of his chefs had organized the evening, featuring a range of elBulli inspired Iberican tapas. I had literally jumped off the plane, sprang into a taxi and walked straight into a large bustling, happening dining cellar. It was full of people talking mainly Catalan and drinking Estrella’s special red star beer, poured by serious waiters from dark wine bottles into delicate wine glasses – a beer fit to sit proudly among the best of wines. It was the creamiest and most delicious-tasting beer I have drunk.

Whilst we were waited on by the electable staff, Ferran swanned around the tables doing the rounds, to the delight of his captivated accolades, happily obliging to put his arm round those wanting to capture the moment on their phones. I watched in awe.

My memory of tapas is of wholesome, comfort food: spicy potato bravas, thick crusty bread, succulent olives, pungent garlic mushrooms, textured tortilla and for those who eat meat – the sight of hearty sausages, meatballs and seafood dishes. The tapas served to us at Estrella, however, were in a different league of sensational tastes, scented smells and sumptuous sights; locally produced, creatively designed and artfully combined – befitting of elBulli. It was a culinary experience that required one’s undivided attention at tasting rather than being backgrounded to the ongoing bright conversations.

Reluctantly, I skipped the meat and fish dishes, but nonetheless enjoyed them vicariously through the descriptions and facial expressions of the international group of participants I had joined. When the desserts arrived, I was able to return centre stage to the shared foray; sampling from the delicate bowls various combinations of cheese, sorbet, ice cream, fruit, biscuit, caramel and cinnamon flavours and textures. The tiny scoops were divine, hitting the spectrum of my tastebuds in perfect harmony.

But then out of the blue, the last tapas that enveloped my sensory perception system, hit me with an enormous thud.

It was called “Pera escalibada, toffee de moscovado, mantequilla tostada y nube helada de pera y trufa”.
Emanating through the mix was a very strong taste of meat – almost like its very essence. It was such a shock. I have not tasted meat for over 30 years now and yet the memory of it came vividly and immediately back to me in a rush. But how was it possible that a dessert could produce such an intense flavour of meat for someone who had assumed it to have faded into the distant past (later on, one of my culinary companions explained the science of why such a sensation could happen). It was not that it was unpleasant, rather that it came upon me so suddenly and so strangely. I didn’t know what to do next.

As a reality check, I commented on what I had just experienced to K, who was standing next to me. He agreed he’d tasted the same. I exclaimed how was this possible? He smiled and ate some more. My mind and emotions then went into overdrive. Supposing it really was meat I had tasted – would I become ill (the reason I refrain from eating meat) or, if not, would it mean I could start eating meat again and this time enjoying it? I imagined myself going down to the buffet the next day for breakfast and loading up my plate with bacon rashers. But then fear returned.
Panic started to mix with anticipation.

And then a memory from my childhood flooded my consciousness – the first time I could remember eating meat. It was when I was about six. I had gone round to a friend’s house for tea and was confronted with the bright coloured flesh of a spam fritter whose fullness was only revealed to me when I cut into its battered coat. It looked pretty in pink but I remember it tasting foul.

Presciently, my talk the next day was called “Transforming Dining Through Technology-Induced Perceptions and Proustian-Invoked Memories”. I presented some nascent ideas about how we might capitalize on our food memories (both positive and negative) and design pervasive technologies that would enable people to make more of their ephemeral experiences and subsequent shadow memories, through transforming them in new directions. But Proustian moments are usually so personal and private. I wondered what it would mean to make them more public; turning the unexpected assault of a powerful memory into more of an intense shared experience.
The next night we went to a very down-to-earth looking Tapas bar in the centre of Barcelona. It was simply called Tapas 24. No booking and a simple menu to choose from a small chalked black board and the back of a manila envelope. The ambience was convivial and a small group of us from Korea, America, Chile, the UK and Spain sat closely together at a shiny counter tabletop, that was brightly lit.

As we were to discover, it was far from being your average tapas spread. The owner, Carles Abellan (who had worked for many years with Ferran Adrià) has removed the aura of “sacredness from high cuisine”, making it possible for all to enjoy at a very affordable price. On the bar’s website, it notes “the keystone of Carles Abellan’s proposal are his tapas, which are based on the tastes of memory…”

We had a brilliant evening getting to know each other, sharing food memories and the current culinary delights. This time, the desserts did not shock with meat essence but were unbelievable. I could not stop myself scraping the plates for a last taste – the one I will remember most was the chocolate truffle-mouse drops in olive oil coated with Iberian salt.

Our hosts chose mainly dishes that I could eat (my glimmer of hope of being able to eat meat again was short-lived) despite my protestations. It was genuine altruism. They wanted me, too, to be able to open and close my eyes, go ahhhhhh, ummmmm, and talk excitedly about the dishes. And only later did I realize that such selflessness actually heightened the pleasure for them.

Memories and personal stories were regaled by all sitting round the tabletop. The conversations flowed in many different directions, each of us following up ideas from our respective talks and then returning to social talk, seamlessly moving between ideas for the future and reminisces from our past.

We left full of endorphins.

It made me rethink my view on technology and food; you don’t need the former to make the best of food or food the best – all you need is a convivial atmosphere, an appliance of science and lovingly created interactive ingredients. But maybe there might be a more compensatory role for it when you can’t have those.

Smart Cards

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This morning I received an email from [email protected] that was every bit automated. If only question marks could become pounds we could solve the economic crisis in Greece overnight:

“Due to an operational issue, you are due a payment of ?2.50. This is now ready for collection at Victoria [London Underground].”

I should have taken this database spew as a premonition rather than marvelling at how the revolutionary Oyster Card system can detect an issue, solve it and let you know it will be fixed next time you slap your card on one of their readers at the ticket barrier.

But it was not to be.

My card did not collect any question marks at Victoria [London Underground]. Instead, it resolutely did nothing. I slapped it a few times on the yellow circle, normally such a seamless operation, turned it over and slapped it again – but to no avail. A London Underground employee then appeared and did the same, and resignedly said “the mechanism is broken. You need to go over there and change it.”

I looked over to ‘there’ and saw a long line. My smugness of being a well-oiled commuter instantly changed into Frustrated from Hove. I was already 20 minutes late due to some unknown ‘issue’ on the train from Hove – and which the driver had admitted being clueless about. I walked over to there and stood at the end of the line, cussing and cursing for 10 minutes, until eventually Window 3 barked at me.

Another London Underground employee listened to me behind the glass and then went off to a tray at the back of the office and pulled out a tatty looking form. Her voice sounded tinny, raspy and echoey as she relayed what I need to do through the intercom system. I wondered what I sounded like to her as I puffed and snorted my ‘issue’ with Oyster pointedly at the microphone that was sticking awkwardly out of the glass (I often think the same in taxis which have a similar system in place – it seems so weird to talk to the driver through an artificial amplification system when you are in such close proximity to them).

I snatched the form from under the glass. It looked like one of those over-photocopied ones (cranked out from an overworked machine) that was slightly wonky and has lots of spaced boxes to fill in so that a computer can read it automatically. Trouble is it requires us humans to think and write quite unnaturally, forcing us to etch letters from box to box rather than flowing from one to the next.

So, I started filling in my name, address, date, email, password, etc., and then realized I’d filled the wrong boxes in – I crossed some of them out and filled in some other ones. If this had been a US customs form I’d have been sent to the back of the line and severely chastised. But luckily for me this is Britain.

The woman behind the glass looked nonchalantly at me as I slipped it back to her. She turned it over and slipped it back. There was another whole side to fill in! There was no point in huffing and puffing anymore. Instead, I staccato-ed my way through the same details as I had on the other side. It is at this point of being so far out of my comfort zone that a streak of mischievousness can kick in. I thought about adding my favourite country, my mother’s maiden name, the name of my junior school and my favourite band, what I had for breakfast, even, but knew my petulant attempt at humour would be wasted.

Instead, a third of the way through the form I gave up, slipped it back to her and she nodded, chewed, and started tapping at her computer. I asked her why this part of the process could not be automated and she replied wryly “just is that way.” After a few more minutes of tapping and then pulling out a receipt from another machine, she handed me a brand new activated Oyster Card. My relief was palpable – but short lived. She then told me that I now had to go to the London Underground website and change the details for my card since the auto top-up would not work anymore. Luckily, there was enough credit on the new card (it had miraculously been transferred) to get me to work with some small tiny residue of composure.

So much for smart cards.

Apple Eternity

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Steve Jobs death last week resulted in unprecedented global outpourings of respect, sadness and admiration – millions of blogs, tweets, newspaper articles, radio and TV reports have been posted alongside many spontaneous personal messages written on post-it notes and bitten into apples left at all the Apple stores from fans across the world.

I have read, listened and watched avidly – it is without question he was a truly great man who changed the face of computing, media and the user experience. The obituaries paint a picture of an extraordinary genius, single-minded with a vision and passion unsurpassed. I, like millions of others, have been profoundly affected – his life taken away too soon by a cruel and unremitting cancer.

I was extremely fortunate to be an employee of Apple’s Advanced Research Labs back in the mid 90s when the dot.com bubble burst on the scene in Silicon Valley. Besides meeting some amazingly creative and bright people I got to work on developing the big ‘what next’. Everyday I would drive into work from my cottage in Los Altos Hills in my boat car (affectionately known as the marshmallow sofa) against the backdrop of the big Californian azure skies and never ending golden sunshine. Always smiling and with a big heart, I would enter the cavernous atrium of 1 Infinite Loop, buy a Cappuccino from the avante garde café and strive forth into the big unknown. I remember on my second day walking with my boss from our building to the cafeteria for lunch and him telling me how everyone at Apple can have 20 great new ideas a day just taking this short excursion. The secret, however, was to work out which of the many to pursue.

Steve Jobs had the killer instinct to select the right ones. As does Jonathan Ive – the brilliant British designer. He once showed me his lab of future designs for laptops. I was completely bowled over by the ingenuity and outrageousness of his ideas – of which I could never share with my friends outside of Apple because of NDA. But a few years down the line some of those concepts and prototypes became famous products and I was able to smile inwardly knowing I had seen them in their inception.

Apple will continue to be the greatest technology company in the world, leading the way forwards in quantum leaps, where others can only envy. Steve created the iWorld and his legacy will remain forever etched in modern history as “Mr iPod, iPad, iPhophet, iMerchant, iProdigy, iBoffin, iPriest.” (The Times, 7th October, 2011).

Retiring Roles

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Today, I was invited to Andrew Herbert’s career celebration (sic) at Microsoft Research Cambridge. What I liked about the title of Andrew’s bash was that it was a celebration of his achievements – and not seen as an early retirement do. Andrew had also asked everyone who was scheduled to present to look to the future. There was to be no roast or sentiment; instead we were given a nicely balanced combination of occasional reminiscing with much looking forwards.

A time to reflect on how fast the world of technology and the field of computer science have both moved and to use this as a spring board to envision and consider new challenges – befitting of a person who has achieved so much and been so influential.

It is common for people who retire to travel extensively and then settle down to new leisurely pursuits, such as playing golf, spending more time with the grandchildren and gardening. But not Andrew. By the sounds of it, he will be just as active – if not more – pursuing boyhood passions and mind-boggling hobbies. Amongst many projects up his sleeve, he mentioned just two; one, to restore a replica of the enormous mainframe computer – the 1947 Cambridge Edsac – and two, to restore a Supermarine Seagull V plane. Both sound hugely ambitious undertakings – he’ll project manage both – that will take groups of people several years to complete, requiring painstaking attention to detail, involving a multitude of skills and much collaboration.

So, Andrew has not retired at all – far from it. He is transitioning to work in a different space, far beyond the corporation, that will involve him applying a wealth of knowledge, wisdom and creativity built up over his lifetime. No doubt it will give him tremendous pleasure. However, I am sure it will also reach many other people, giving new understandings and instilling much wonderment. It makes me wonder, too, how many other people there are out there who will be retiring, but still have so much to give. We talk about the need for role models in our work places but maybe we also need new ones to inspire those who are transitioning. Andrew is perfect for that.

Facing Fame

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The other night on the train home I sat down and heard a voice that sounded familiar. I looked across and immediately recognized the guy sitting by the window – Steve Coogan.

Trains are great places to spot and talk to people but Steve was completely preoccupied with his agent. He was also eating and drinking. So not approachable. But that did not deter me. After he had finished his roll and scrunched up the bag it was in, I got up from my seat, faced him and said a little impertinently:

“Excuse me, now that you have finished eating, do you mind if I take your photo? I do like your work, especially the Trip.”

He gave me one of those pained “I am busy, leave me alone” looks but replied courteously and curtly “only if it doesn’t take long”, thereby clearly signaling he did not want any further conversation. I snapped him quickly on the iPhone, nodded and returned to my seat, appropriately put back in my place.

Now Fabio Capello was a different ball game. About a year ago, while waiting in line at the EasyJet check-in at Palermo airport for a flight back to Gatwick, we spotted him standing by himself. Various people asked him for his autograph but we continued to wait in line, looking discreetly, pretending not to be excited. After we had checked in we turned round – and lo and behold he’d gone. We were disappointed by our earlier nonchalance – ruing the moment for not having snapped him to show off to the folks back home.

But as we passed through customs to our gate we sighted him again, this time sitting by himself on one of the benches reading a book. No hesitancy this time – we boldly sat next to him and asked if it was OK to have our photos taken next to him. He nodded and gave that craggy Capello smile. Then we got chatting and before we knew it were escorting him through the throng of people to board the plane, shouting “speedy boarding, speedy boarding’” at the jaw-dropped crowd, as if we were his minders. Once planeside, I turned back to ask if he would like to sit next to us. He hesitated and then said “sure” with another craggy grin.

C sat by the window, I sat in the middle and Fabio in the aisle.

The flight took an hour longer than scheduled because of a French air strike (we had to circumvent France) so we had several hours to strike up a conversation and compare notes. He was well read, and despite struggling occasionally with his command of English, we had several in-depth conversations and jokey chats about wine, olive oil, Sicily, modern art, books, family, having to fly with EasyJet (only flight on a Saturday to London) and, yes, lots about football. At one point, I took out my map of Sicily to show him where we had been and he used it to point and tell us all about the places he’d been to and where to go next if we ever came back to visit. He then took out his modest mobile phone and started showing us photos of his olive grove and some of his modern art collection in his garden. He’d just got hold of a Calder and wanted to see if I liked it. It was bright yellow and stood proud amongst the trees. Luckily, I was up on my outdoor Calders (there is a stunning one on the Bloomington IU campus I used to walk passed every day) and so was able to make an intelligent comment rather than simply a ‘that’s nice’ one. He was impressed.

It was his unguarded self that has stayed with me most from facing fame. Fabio seemed at ease sharing memories and moments with complete strangers in the way one does with family and friends. And throughout our encounter he touched my arm several times with a familiarity that was endearing.

Even though I could never get away from always knowing that I was in the presence of the Fabio Capello – whom we’d seen hundreds of times on TV, read so much about in the papers and online, while talking endlessly about him in the pub, especially during the world cup – I was able to relax in his company rather than be a nervous groupie.

So why do we mere mortals behave like infatuated children when we come face to face with a famous face? I’d been talking earlier in the summer with Rafi about his fascination with famous people and seeing them in the flesh. There is something magical about being in the presence of someone (having seen them so many times on TV or online) who has become famous for having achieved something special – like being a brilliant comedian who can spot-on satirize life or a world-class football manager who knows how to play the beautiful game at the highest level – that makes us so deferential and star-struck. A raw wow moment.