Author: JP

Tomorrow is Oscars night. And there’s a possibility that I’ll stay up to watch the ceremonies “live”. Not because I’m a huge cinema fan. I’m not. I used to be. The only reason I’ll stay up is because the cricket is on a little later, and I may consider making a night of it.

It never used to be like this. Growing up in Calcutta, India, during the sixties and seventies, going to the movies meant something.

For one thing, we had real movie halls. None of this modern smelly-shoebox-with-popcorn-cola-floors stuff.

 

In those days the buildings were awesome. You felt you were going somewhere special just by walking in to the cinema lobby. Air conditioning. Bright lights and dazzle. Thick carpet underfoot. “Elegant” music. People dressed up as if they were going out. Because they were. Going out, that is.

[The buildings above may not look much to you: they’re mainly art deco installations seen a decade or more later, in the austere times of the Second World War. But they were still there when I was born, in 1957, and very much part of my childhood and youth. Elite. Metro. New Empire. Globe. Lighthouse. Minerva. Tiger. Those were the Seven Sisters of my upbringing.]

Going to the movies felt special.

The feeling of special-ness continued as you left the lobby and entered the cinema hall proper. There was only one hall, one screen, none of the modern ten-screens-in-a-shoebox-alongside-a-strip-mall nonsense. And it felt gigantic when you walked in. The aisles were wide, with ushers waiting to show you to your seats. There were queues, but space enough to deal with them, and people enough to help you. And there were ice-creams and chocolates and pop corn and soft drinks on sale. There were even programmes on sale for the film you were about to watch. If it was a musical, there were little booklets of lyrics. You felt special.

The “stage” itself had real, heavy curtains, probably the only curtains in the whole city that were operated electrically. At least it looked as if they were operated electrically. For some reason, the projections would start before the curtains were drawn open, so that you would see the folds and the frills undulate with print before disappearing for a while.

The seats were plush and comfortable. And everything was dressed up to the nines.

The lobby had bars. Real bars, with enough people serving behind the bar to let you get a drink with just a few minutes queueing. Or you could sit down at a table and wait to be served. You could even take your drink in to the cinema.

The entertainment wasn’t just about the main event. Of course you had trailers and advertising. But you also had at least one short film beforehand, sometimes two. Sometimes they were cartoons, but not always. And you had intermissions. At least one, sometimes two. Time enough for you to go to the restroom, get an ice-cream or a drink, talk to people about what’s happened so far, and then sit down again. If you were late for some reason, the ushers had torches that they used to help you, shining down discreetly on the floor in front of you. And there was space enough for you to get to your seat without making everyone in the row stand up. All you had to do was stoop to minimise getting in the way of people.

The entertainment tended to be wholesome, often formulaic. Indian censors made sure that what you saw was U if you were under 18 and A if you were old enough. But you didn’t care, you went for the experience, and to be treated like royalty.

And at the end of the film the national anthem played and everybody stood quietly and then went home. Usually chatting excitedly with the people they came with.

What happened to all that? I get told it was TV and VHS and DVD and streaming, but somehow it’s not that simple for me.

Going to the movies used to mean something.

Today, when I go to see a play in the West End, many of the things I associate with seeing a film as a child and young man are present. Of course theatre ticket prices reflect that.

Today, when I go to see the opera, I get all the things I associate with seeing a film as a child. People are dressed up. The queues are orderly. And there’s enough space for everything. Not a shoebox in sight. Of course opera ticket prices reflect that.

There’s at least one cinema venue in London that feels like the good old days, and I love going there when I can.

The rest of the time? I still go to the movies. But it’s not the same.

There are a lot more screens everywhere, mostly empty. Everything is smaller, dirtier, more commoditised. Nothing special.

Nothing special in the UK, nothing special in India, nothing special in the US. Somehow it’s all become about multiplexes and shoeboxes and any-colour-you-like-so-long-as-it’s-black.

You know something? People will pay good money, real money, to feel special.

Going to the movies used to mean something. And I hope it will, again.

Because feeling special is a Good Thing. If the theatre can do it, if opera can do it, so can film.

 

Photo courtesy of Dionna Raedeke

 

The act of sharing involves two or more people. At least two.

Sharing involves participation. Active participation. By two or more people. At least two.

Not two anythings. Two people. Not machines. People.

In the past I’ve written about the role of design in sharing; about why people share, and what people share; if you’re interested in the subject, please just search for “share” on this blog and you’ll see dozens of posts. Today I want to concentrate on another, critical, aspect to sharing.

Speed. And intensity.

Any activity that involves two or more people needs to be based on something tacit, an understanding of the reciprocity implied within the relationship(s). We humans are subtle creatures, and our understanding of reciprocity is nuanced, shaded, complex. So the reciprocity is not necessarily either short-term nor crude. You don’t expect that everyone will buy everyone else a drink when there are “rounds” at a bar, at least not in the same evening. But “over time” you expect a balance. You don’t expect that everything you do for someone else is going to be reciprocated in the same currency by the specific recipient: there’s an altruistic pay-it-forward mentality in many of us. We are not, in the main, manipulative creatures; our expectations of reciprocity are probably better described by a sense, an expectation, of “fairness” rather than a mechanical give-and-take. Compromises are involved, trade-offs do happen, but usually not in any simple short-term bilateral space.

Instead, we have this notion of fairness. Sometimes this extends into something even harder to describe, a sense of what is “reasonable”.

So when two people meet and start to build a relationship, when they begin to share things — time, experiences, views, beliefs, ideas, anecdotes, whatever — there is a need to watch for these human notions. Notions of what is fair. And notions of what is reasonable.

[All this has nothing to do with technology. Not yet anyway.]

Most of us seem to be able to pick up the signals to determine what the appropriate levels of reciprocity are, in the context of fair and reasonable. And then we put that learning into practice as we navigate each relationship. It’s a voyage of discovery, one where the pace and the depth of the conversation is  tacitly negotiated by the parties involved.

And relationships grow and flourish as a result.

These things, natural to us in the world of flesh and blood, are much harder to achieve in digital space. But they matter nevertheless.

In a digital relationship, you do have to care about what you share, how much you share, and how quickly you do it. Sharing is meaningless unless what you share is appreciated by the people you share it with.

Appreciated. Now there’s a good word. Appreciation is about estimation of worth, appraisal. It is also about something increasing in value.

When you share something, think about who you’re sharing with, why you’re sharing. Think also about whether the person or people you’re sharing with will appreciate your action.

Because the value of sharing comes in the appreciation.

 

Image courtesy AFP via The Coffee House

 

Monsoon. A word that evokes wonderful memories in me: the welcome smell of parched earth receiving badly-needed nourishment; the happy sound of mud-heavy footballs kicked by mud-heavy children wearing mud-heavy clothes and boots; the joy of splashing through waist-high flooded streets on the way to school in the morning. Monsoons were always happy times for me.

The 1974 monsoon was a bit special, the months preceding the rains were drier than normal, and the monsoon was wetter than normal.

Data taken from Weatherspark’s historical weather records for Calcutta, West Bengal, 1974

I remember the rain for another reason. Physics class. A particular question. And the sheer joy of working on the answer. The question was taken from the Resnick and Halliday Physics books; I think Part 1 was correctly referred to as Resnick and Halliday while Part 2 was Halliday and Resnick. The strange things one remembers after nearly forty years. Anyway, the question was simple. And here I’m paraphrasing:

Drops are falling steadily in a perpendicular rain. In order to encounter the least number of raindrops while travelling from point A to point B, would you travel at (a) your fastest speed (b) your slowest speed (c) some intermediate speed? Explain your answer.

How we loved that question. Boys battled with beakers, twirled their test-tubes, studiously engaged in getting wet while “learning”. Others sprinted from point to point, yet others walked slowly and purposefully, as if they were wearing cement boots. Some preferred discourse to action, so addas formed. Deep discussions on the difference between “encountering raindrops” and getting wet. Lots of arm-waving, lots of pontificating. It was a microcosm of Calcutta traffic, because children from other classes and years went serenely about their business while all this was going on, and miraculously no one bumped into anyone else. Not a drop spilt from beaker or test-tube.

We observed, we imitated, we tried out, we refined, we discussed, we argued. We learnt.

And we laughed.

Incidentally, the question of how to approach travel when it’s raining continues to excite scientists. Take a look at these papers: Whether or not to run in the rain (2012) or Walking or running in the rain: A simple derivation of a general solution (2011) or Is it really worth running in the rain (1987)

Learning from observation and trials. Learning by copying and imitating. Learning in groups. Learning with laughter. The DNA of memories I have of school and of university. Phrases like “How did you do that? Could you show me? Where did you find that out? Can I watch you? It doesn’t happen when I try, what am I doing wrong?” …. these were the phrases of childhood and school, with teachers there to facilitate learning rather than just to teach.

I still learn mainly by watching others and trying things out.

Take cooking. So much of food preparation is about tips and tricks, observation, trial and imitation. Here’s a small list of what I’ve learnt by watching others. Want your whole grilled fish not to warp or tear when you’re finishing it off under the grill for that crisp golden look? Then take a knob of butter, rub it against the grain of the scales so that tiny slivers of butter get under the scales. Then, when you apply intense heat, the skin won’t contract faster than the flesh, and everything looks the way you want it to. Want to peel garlic without the stickiness and the mess? Take the cloves, put them under the blade of a large knife, then slam the blade with the flat of your hand. Hey presto the cloves are peeled. Don’t like the sound of that? Then just put the separated cloves in a cocktail shaker and shake very vigorously for a minute. Same difference. Want to make ultra-thin pancakes for Peking Duck? Roll the flour into a long thin cylinder, maybe half an inch thick. Chop cylinder into 3/4 inch bits. Then take one bit at a time, slice in half, moisten with oil, put the two halves back together. Then take the re-integrated bit and roll it out into a pancake using a standard rolling pin. Steam the result, you’ll find you can peel the pancake into two ultra-thins.

The ability to observe. The ability to imitate. The ability to try it out for yourself. The ability to get quick feedback. Four critical requirements for learning.

We’re in the midst of a digital revolution. Everything that happens can be observed by more people than has ever been possible before. The internet is a copy machine, the ability to share and to imitate has never been cheaper. Tools continue to be invented to make it possible for all of us to be able to try more things for ourselves than we could ever do before.

This digital revolution is a learning revolution. As long as we don’t waste it. Waste happens when we constrain the ability to observe, to imitate, to try out, to get feedback. Particularly when we have the opportunity to make it all affordable, ubiquitous.

Education drives the solution to so many of our perceived problems. Education is so incredibly accelerated, assisted, augmented by digital infrastructure. If we let it.

We who are here on earth today can make a difference to that earth by ensuring that we don’t waste this incredible opportunity, of using digital infrastructure to enfranchise everyone, to provide the opportunity for all to learn.

Battles like SOPA and PIPA and ACTA are not about access to films and TV and music and books and magazines. The internet was not conceived to be a new delivery mechanism for Hollywood.

There will be more SOPAs. More PIPAs. More ACTAs. Because change is difficult, and some are more affected by change than others. We don’t have as many farriers or blacksmiths or fletchers as we used to have. We don’t have as many gramophone manufacturers or tape recorder makers or VHS rental shops as we used to have.

Digital infrastructure disrupts many forms of publishing industry. That very disruption, while apparently affecting those industries adversely, allows for education to scale in ways we couldn’t ever have imagined. Just look at what’s happening with MOOCs.

And the publishing/entertainment industries don’t have to be affected adversely. They just have to learn to create, market, deliver and price differently. Like everyone else is doing.

So when you see the next SOPA or ACTA rear its ugly head, think of the changes that good education can bring about. Changes to do with climate, the environment, water, energy, nutrition. Changes that enable more to be gainfully employed. Changes that teach people to fish rather than to receive fish.

That’s what the battle is about. And you know something? I’m singin’ in the rain. Because it’s over.

I thought I’d continue with the theme of the internet as a complex adaptive and open platform, and use this post to share a number of stories on how people are using the internet in amazing ways:

The internet is a treasure trove of incredible empowerment. In April last year, I read about a boy, whose brother was working as a sweeper on India’s trains, who got lost and separated from his mother in 1986, when he was five. He found her. A quarter of a century later. Using Google Earth. Did the designers of the internet, the Web, Google Earth or the device used actually plan for this eventuality? That someone would retrace twenty-five-year-old steps to reconnect with a parent? No. But that’s not important. What’s important is that the internet could be used this way. That the Web could be used this way. That Google Earth could be used this way. And that the device could be used this way.

More recently I read that someone designed an app that used location/checkin data, in this instance from Foursquare, to help direct blind people. Now that’s augmented reality. Reality augmented by crowdsourced data overlaid on an open platform. Would the app have been perfect? No. Will this particular app succeed? Who knows? Not material. What matters is that the internet could be used this way, that GPS could be used this way, that Foursquare could be used this way. None of these things came for free. None of them needed to be designed this way. It happened because the people involved had a vision. A vision to do good.

A year ago, I read about someone who was checking in on her pet remotely, via the web, and found herself observing a burglar in her home. They caught the burglar.

A week or two ago, I took my family on vacation to a remote island. I didn’t realise how remote it was. We had to land at one of the larger islands in the group, and then take a small propellor-plane for 20 minutes. It wasn’t that simple. The BA flight arrived an hour late. We rushed, got on to the hopper plane, taxied and waited for clearance to take off. Not forthcoming. Why? The control tower hadn’t been able to raise anyone at the remote island airport to confirm that the lights would be kept on until after we landed. The pilot told me I’d better get hotels organised for the family and then fly the next day. I wasn’t having any of that, too much of a palaver. So I did the usual thing. Googled civil aviation at the remote island. Got a number. Called it. When someone picked up, passed the phone to the pilot. And then proceeded to negotiate a small fee for their keeping the airport open until after we landed. Simple ubiquitous connectivity, a browser, a search engine, people prepared to be flexible, and Robert is your parent’s sibling.

Just today, following my The Internet Contrives post yesterday, an old colleague and friend alerted me about something he knew I’d like. A tiny gadget that you slip into your luggage that then lets you track that piece of baggage with your smartphone. It even sends you a message when it comes into short range, so that you “know” when your bag is coming up the carousel.

There’s so much happening, so much that will gain quantum energy when the invention enters connected space. Organ printers. Drug printers. Movements small and large. Bluetooth stickers. Slinky on a treadmill.

Who could imagine such things?

Someone did.

All this was possible only because some people imagined a world where all this was possible. Because they designed things in a way that social, common good could come out of it.

My personal thanks to all those people, those that imagined the internet and the Web and GPS and so much we take for granted. People like Vint Cerf and Yogen Dalal and Carl Sunshine working on RFC 675. People like David P Reed and his work on TCP/IP and UDP. People like Tim Berners-Lee and the World Wide Web. People who saw how open adaptive platforms, that helped provide compute, storage and communications access, could form a foundation that can change the world.

Everything is getting disrupted. Everywhere. Our personal lives and our public lives. Businesses and homes, our education, our health. The way we entertain ourselves. Our work and our play. Even government.

Everything.

Because people had the vision to build open platforms.

 

 

 

In a little border town, it doesn’t matter where, there once lived a man. He crossed the border every day, like clockwork. Each morning the guards would see him wend his way to them, pushing a wheelbarrow full of manure. And each morning, like clockwork, they would put gloves on and sift through the manure. And find nothing. Each morning they would, reluctantly, let him cross. And each evening he would return.

This carried on for decades. They were sure he was smuggling something. But they couldn’t, for the life of them, figure out what. And then one day it was all over. He retired. Hung up his boots. Told them he was calling it a day. And they never saw him again.

Except that this isn’t a real story. So a few weeks later they did see him. He went to say hello. And over a warm cup of tea the guards begged him to tell them what he was really up to, what he’d been smuggling. He smiled at them and said “Wheelbarrows”.

For the past few weeks I’ve been putting forth the idea that 2013 is the Year of the Platform. Particularly the open adaptive platform, modelled upon the mother of all such platforms, the internet.

Yesterday I spent some time explaining why I continue to be optimistic about the internet. It went something like this. More and more people are getting connected to the internet every day. Devices are getting smarter. Costs are going down, availability’s going up. We’ve moved past post and telegraph and radio and TV to everything multimedia. Open source software is now in use everywhere and in everything. Open source hardware is now an affordable reality. And open source specifications are now a force to be reckoned with, as 3D printers head towards affordability. As Steven Johnson reminds us in his book “Future Perfect”, the world as we know will just come to a juddering halt if everything open source disappeared overnight.

And there’s a lot of magic happening as a result. As I said yesterday, everything’s getting disrupted. Everywhere. All the time.

Yet people remain concerned. And rightly so. Because disruptions affect the status quo.

And affecting the status quo just won’t do. Not if you’re a powerful incumbent. So there’s a lot of SOPAing and PIPAing that’s still to come, some ACTAing out, some real WCIT deeds.

During the financial crisis we started hearing that some banks were “too big to fail”. Having observed events in technology for the past thirty-odd years, I’ve realised that some of the incumbents really think they’re “too big to change”, and that they can use their market muscle and lobbying power to put the changes off indefinitely.

They’re wrong.

The internet really does route around obstacles.

The internet contrives.

When I lived in India, I used to marvel at just how the local car mechanics would keep vehicles in working order, usually with no access to spares, often with no access to documentation. They contrived.

The Maker Generation is here to stay. Armed with connectivity and smart devices. Able to use open source software and hardware, open specifications and open data. Able to contrive.

Human beings can do incredible things when they’re given the opportunity and the tools.

Let’s take communications. Do you remember a time before Skype? A time when you needed a mortgage to make a long-distance call? I’m old that way. I do remember those times. People in India needed to make international calls without having to enter some form of bankruptcy. So what did they do? They made person-to-person international calls, then referred to as PP calls. When you made a PP call, the operator would call the other number, ask for the person, and only put you through if the person you were calling was present to take the call. If the other person wasn’t there, then you weren’t put through, and there was no charge.

So what did many Indians do? Simple. They contrived. They used the name-space for the called party to send messages. So you’d call your son, visiting friends a zillion miles away, but instead of asking for him by name, you’d use the space to get a message to him. A call for Dartmouth Smith meant that the boy Smith had received a scholarship place at Dartmouth. And so on and so forth. Today it doesn’t matter any more, international calls are affordable to most places.

More recently, the same thing happened with mobile phones. Prices were too high. So what did people do, in India, in Africa, even in parts of China? They “gave someone a missed call”. Called, and then hung up the phone before the calling party answered. A painless way of letting the other party know to call back. The Missed Call feature had been subverted to make it possible to get over the affordability barrier.

It’s not just about affordability. Connected people with access to tools do the strangest things. Like using Product Reviews to pen literature, satire, humour. Or adopting digital conventions into everyday speech. [I’m still getting over my then 13-year-old daughter looking at me and appending something she said with “hashtag justsayin”.]

People will contrive. The internet will route around obstacles. And every now and then I will share the stories. Feel free to add to that store here, let others know of the routing-around-obstacles stories you’ve come across.