The bells are ringing out the old year and we are promised a mighty celebration throughout Valletta to bring in 2018 when Valletta will be European Capital of Culture along with Leeuwarden in Holland. We are promised a year of festa, hundreds of cultural events, involvement for all across Malta and a legacy to make us proud. So I have promised myself a year of story-telling via this blog about how the year unfolds on the streets and in the culture of the residents of Valletta.
I have lived in Valletta now since before the bid for the title was made. I was involved with the community consultation process that was undertaken in drawing up the proposal. Since then, the community consultation dried up for a while but I kept my finger in the pie by attending the annual conference for Valletta 18 and getting deeply involved in the community consultation process undertaken for the proposed Valletta Design Hub at the Bicceria, the old Knights abattoir in Lower Valletta. The Design Hub is one of four flagship projects undertaken for Valletta 2018: MUZA is the recreation of the museum of Fine Arts as a museum of Community Art located in the Auberge d'Italie; Is-Suq tal-Belt will open its doors next week to a new life as the food and art hub of Valletta; and Strait Street has been "rebranded" as an upmarket night spot with some interesting alternative venues including the old Splendid Hotel.
Over the years, as lines of suited men announced this and that, I struggled to keep abreast with all the organisational changes at Valletta 2018. I observed how the gentrification of the city was speeding up, how restaurant tables and car parking were taking over the spaces that I loved to stroll, and Boutique hotels were mushrooming so that rents for ordinary residents were becoming impossible. I toyed with the idea of becoming a volunteer with Valletta 2018 as a way of staying engaged. In the end, I decided to remain independent and participate wherever and whenever I could. In 2017, I've been to workshops with TimesUp, Gewwa Barra, Transparadiso, and Orfeo and Majnun. I'll write more about all of these projects as the year progresses.
Here is the start of my year in Valletta. I hope it will be a creative and inspiring story but I'm not going to gloss over the tension.
Sunday 31 December 2017
Thursday 29 June 2017
Endings and beginnings
I have discovered that blogger will not allow me to write beyond a certain number of words so I am unable to edit the ending of my last blog. This is a pity because the post ends in the middle of a sentence and it is the ending that I intended to bring me back to the personal. So here I am, starting with the ending of my previous post. If you want a theoretical perspective, read 'The politics of growing things.'
I told the story of my friend in Brisbane, Australia, who grows endemic plants on the verges of the footpath outside her home. Further north on the Sunshine Coast, local people have joined together to grow food in public spaces. Local authorities worry about loss of control, about public liability, about registering these personal initiatives. Instead of working with communities to determine the boundaries of projects that seek a pathway linking care for people with care for ecological parameters, the authorities have stepped in to bulldoze those gardens that are not registered. It is a sad example of the tension between government and citizen even in democratic systems. The rule of law is not always the best way to determine boundaries.
Which brings me to my personal ending of seven weeks in Brussels as a citizen journalist with the Maltese Presidency of EU. Yesterday I packed up the household that has nurtured me during my stay in this fascinating and contradictory city. I gathered my herbs, flowering plants bought on a whim, ferns saved from death in the foyer of Justus Lipsius, which has been my workplace across town in the European quarter. I carried them through the backstreets of my local community where men sat in cafes on the footpath or hurried in their robes to the local prayer room. I left them with Juliette in her atelier, Orbany (see previous posts), so that she can pass them on to the Start Up in Les Tanneurs who are planting a community garden in the park across the road. Juliette is interested in visiting Malta, perhaps after the birth of her baby and sometime during 2018 when Valletta is European Capital of Culture. She would have a lot to contribute. My plants perhaps won't survive long in the robust environment of communal space but I like to imagine that my action is part of a wider pathway that helps to maintain safe pathways through our troubled world.
Last night was also the final cultural event of the Maltese Presidency. It was a concert of high culture held on the other side of town in pleasant suburbs. I walked, grappled with the metro, took a bus for eight winding stops and arrived at the huge community hall with time to spare before we were expected to be in our places. I spoke to no-one as the foyer filled with women in evening dresses and men in suits. The foyer continued to fill long after the time we were due to be seated. Outside, the driveway filled with large, black cars. In the end, I decided that my job was done and I got back on the bus. I have learned a lot about Malta whilst I have been in Brussels but that will need some reflection and perhaps another blog.
I told the story of my friend in Brisbane, Australia, who grows endemic plants on the verges of the footpath outside her home. Further north on the Sunshine Coast, local people have joined together to grow food in public spaces. Local authorities worry about loss of control, about public liability, about registering these personal initiatives. Instead of working with communities to determine the boundaries of projects that seek a pathway linking care for people with care for ecological parameters, the authorities have stepped in to bulldoze those gardens that are not registered. It is a sad example of the tension between government and citizen even in democratic systems. The rule of law is not always the best way to determine boundaries.
Which brings me to my personal ending of seven weeks in Brussels as a citizen journalist with the Maltese Presidency of EU. Yesterday I packed up the household that has nurtured me during my stay in this fascinating and contradictory city. I gathered my herbs, flowering plants bought on a whim, ferns saved from death in the foyer of Justus Lipsius, which has been my workplace across town in the European quarter. I carried them through the backstreets of my local community where men sat in cafes on the footpath or hurried in their robes to the local prayer room. I left them with Juliette in her atelier, Orbany (see previous posts), so that she can pass them on to the Start Up in Les Tanneurs who are planting a community garden in the park across the road. Juliette is interested in visiting Malta, perhaps after the birth of her baby and sometime during 2018 when Valletta is European Capital of Culture. She would have a lot to contribute. My plants perhaps won't survive long in the robust environment of communal space but I like to imagine that my action is part of a wider pathway that helps to maintain safe pathways through our troubled world.
Last night was also the final cultural event of the Maltese Presidency. It was a concert of high culture held on the other side of town in pleasant suburbs. I walked, grappled with the metro, took a bus for eight winding stops and arrived at the huge community hall with time to spare before we were expected to be in our places. I spoke to no-one as the foyer filled with women in evening dresses and men in suits. The foyer continued to fill long after the time we were due to be seated. Outside, the driveway filled with large, black cars. In the end, I decided that my job was done and I got back on the bus. I have learned a lot about Malta whilst I have been in Brussels but that will need some reflection and perhaps another blog.
The politics of growing things
On my final week in Brussels as a citizen journalist I extended my curiosity beyond my local community at the bottom of the lift next to the Palace of Justice. I experimented with routes through the fashionable quarters of the upper level.
That's how I stumbled on a lunchtime seminar at the External Cooperation Infopoint. Did you know EU are the largest donors of official development aid globally? In 2013, Member States provided €56.5 billion or 52% of the total amount donated from around the world.
I'm not sure what that means, but one thing I learned is that there is at least a large roomful of bureaucrats in Brussels who are concerned about human rights, electoral observation, governance and crisis resolution. At first, development aid in EU was regarded as a moral responsibility following decolonisation. Aid focused on former colonies of Member States. Today, millennial goals for reduction and elimination of poverty have broadened the scope.
The presenters at the seminar were Francois Busquet and Aurelie Boffa, Senior Researchers with an organisation called Cirad (www.realliance.org/resilience). The seminar was entitled 'Resilience and Development: from households to social and ecological systems.' The two academics shared theoretical perspectives emerging from a recent conference, and illustrated with examples of two development projects that they are working on. One of these involved the use of community theatre to bridge the tension between government and local knowledge. The other examined the idea of diverse trajectories when managing land use conflicts.
The projects were fascinating but it's the theoretical perspective that extended my own ways of thinking about my world in terms of individual and system resilience, and potential for change. What was new to me was the visualisation of diverse pathways to the future winding their way through twin boundaries of ecology and human rights. In hindsight, I recognise that the Futuring workshops run in Malta by TimesUp as part of our training as citizen journalists was informed by this perspective. If a particular pathway to the future breaches either boundary, then it is unsafe and requires change. The difficulty is that the boundaries are determined by human deliberation, although sometimes explained by divine intervention, and may change over time as we become more aware. Many of the pathways that humans have chosen in the past have already breached ecological boundaries yet climate change deniers still insist that the path is safe and the system does not need to change.
The example that rings in my head is the tragic shock of the Grenfell Tower fire, where authorities chose the pathway of dressing up high rise social housing using combustible material. The resilience of local people is told through stories of communities working together, of neighbours supporting each other, of heroism amongst local helpers and fire fighters. But anger against the system also emerged when stories were told of how the authorities had ignored the warnings from local people who advised that the people living in that volatile block had been placed on an unsafe pathway. Thankfully, the national government is now taking steps to change the cladding on multiple other high rise buildings in UK. To what extent will the system that allowed this to happen also change? The political debate is ongoing about the role of austerity, privatisation of public service and the divide between rich and poor.
But I want to finish with a few personal examples of how chosen pathways can work to connect people within safe boundaries. In Australia, a good friend has made a community garden on the verge outside her home in a suburb of Brisbane. Every morning at daybreak she is on the footpath tending to the endemic plants. She chats to her neighbours as they hurry to the train or take their children to school. She is part of a supportive community and she tells people about the importance of the local environment. But local authorities are anxious about residents assuming control of public space. They worry about insurance, about loss of uniformity, about risk. On the Sunshine Coast to the North of Brisbane, where local residents have linked up to create community food gardens
That's how I stumbled on a lunchtime seminar at the External Cooperation Infopoint. Did you know EU are the largest donors of official development aid globally? In 2013, Member States provided €56.5 billion or 52% of the total amount donated from around the world.
I'm not sure what that means, but one thing I learned is that there is at least a large roomful of bureaucrats in Brussels who are concerned about human rights, electoral observation, governance and crisis resolution. At first, development aid in EU was regarded as a moral responsibility following decolonisation. Aid focused on former colonies of Member States. Today, millennial goals for reduction and elimination of poverty have broadened the scope.
The presenters at the seminar were Francois Busquet and Aurelie Boffa, Senior Researchers with an organisation called Cirad (www.realliance.org/resilience). The seminar was entitled 'Resilience and Development: from households to social and ecological systems.' The two academics shared theoretical perspectives emerging from a recent conference, and illustrated with examples of two development projects that they are working on. One of these involved the use of community theatre to bridge the tension between government and local knowledge. The other examined the idea of diverse trajectories when managing land use conflicts.
The projects were fascinating but it's the theoretical perspective that extended my own ways of thinking about my world in terms of individual and system resilience, and potential for change. What was new to me was the visualisation of diverse pathways to the future winding their way through twin boundaries of ecology and human rights. In hindsight, I recognise that the Futuring workshops run in Malta by TimesUp as part of our training as citizen journalists was informed by this perspective. If a particular pathway to the future breaches either boundary, then it is unsafe and requires change. The difficulty is that the boundaries are determined by human deliberation, although sometimes explained by divine intervention, and may change over time as we become more aware. Many of the pathways that humans have chosen in the past have already breached ecological boundaries yet climate change deniers still insist that the path is safe and the system does not need to change.
The example that rings in my head is the tragic shock of the Grenfell Tower fire, where authorities chose the pathway of dressing up high rise social housing using combustible material. The resilience of local people is told through stories of communities working together, of neighbours supporting each other, of heroism amongst local helpers and fire fighters. But anger against the system also emerged when stories were told of how the authorities had ignored the warnings from local people who advised that the people living in that volatile block had been placed on an unsafe pathway. Thankfully, the national government is now taking steps to change the cladding on multiple other high rise buildings in UK. To what extent will the system that allowed this to happen also change? The political debate is ongoing about the role of austerity, privatisation of public service and the divide between rich and poor.
But I want to finish with a few personal examples of how chosen pathways can work to connect people within safe boundaries. In Australia, a good friend has made a community garden on the verge outside her home in a suburb of Brisbane. Every morning at daybreak she is on the footpath tending to the endemic plants. She chats to her neighbours as they hurry to the train or take their children to school. She is part of a supportive community and she tells people about the importance of the local environment. But local authorities are anxious about residents assuming control of public space. They worry about insurance, about loss of uniformity, about risk. On the Sunshine Coast to the North of Brisbane, where local residents have linked up to create community food gardens
Friday 23 June 2017
What is a citizen journalist?
The question has been asked often during the past six months and since I arrived in Brussels to perform the role.
Last night, at the Summer Breeze drinks at Orybany Atelier Boutique (see my previous post), I met young people who were artists and designers and parents and teachers and managers. What brought them together in this suburb of Brussels where social housing bore the tags of graffiti, where the tracks of the metro clattered through, where children played wildly in the concrete space and community garden across the road?
I struggled with my French to learn about the practice of these creative people. I admired the ease with which Juliette, our host, explained difficult concepts to me in English. She introduced me to three young entrepreneurs who had attended start up courses with her or who had completed management training in France. One young woman was working towards establishing a circus cafe, another was a chocolatier, a third was planning a health food establishment. They talked about how they were linked in to a group of people who supported their ideas and helped them to realise their visions.
Brussels and the region through various NGOs and, in particular, Les Ateliers des Tanneurs (www.AteliersDesTanneurs.be) actively supports ventures like these. The old winery building, now beautifully restored, offers interesting space in the heart of Brussels at a competitive price, as well as a dynamic, creative environment including services and advice. I know a few people in Malta who dream of such a space!
One of the guests asked me the question. Luckily, she asked in English so I talked about the Maltese Presidency of EU, now winding down for the end of their tenure. I mentioned the Arts Council, the training of citizen journalists in Malta in Futuring workshops with the European arts group TimesUp, the interviews we conducted for the Beehive in which we asked about the future of the EU, even our watering of the plants in the foyer of the Maltese office building in Justus Lipsius. In most situations, the formal explanation would have been enough. But here, in this creative community space, I knew that I needed to give more.
"For me, the emphasis is on 'citizen'. Being a citizen journalist is about finding the stories linking people within their communities and telling those stories. I also try to research something of the stories of the powerful because they shape many of the boundaries within which ordinary citizens live. But I'm most interested in the stories of people in local areas and how their stories can shape their own lives. That's why I'm excited to find Les Ateliers Des Tanneurs because here government works with community to create a space in which stories are told and heard in conversation."
I thought about it further as I walked back to my flat three blocks away. By placing the word 'citizen' in front of an established profession like journalist or scientist we recognise that some knowledge resides within a community and is of value to the more powerful who shape the parameters of our world. The citizen journalist tries to make those stories heard so that the voices of diverse citizens help to shape the trajectory of our pathways to the future. I didn't know that when I first came to Brussels.
Last night, at the Summer Breeze drinks at Orybany Atelier Boutique (see my previous post), I met young people who were artists and designers and parents and teachers and managers. What brought them together in this suburb of Brussels where social housing bore the tags of graffiti, where the tracks of the metro clattered through, where children played wildly in the concrete space and community garden across the road?
I struggled with my French to learn about the practice of these creative people. I admired the ease with which Juliette, our host, explained difficult concepts to me in English. She introduced me to three young entrepreneurs who had attended start up courses with her or who had completed management training in France. One young woman was working towards establishing a circus cafe, another was a chocolatier, a third was planning a health food establishment. They talked about how they were linked in to a group of people who supported their ideas and helped them to realise their visions.
Brussels and the region through various NGOs and, in particular, Les Ateliers des Tanneurs (www.AteliersDesTanneurs.be) actively supports ventures like these. The old winery building, now beautifully restored, offers interesting space in the heart of Brussels at a competitive price, as well as a dynamic, creative environment including services and advice. I know a few people in Malta who dream of such a space!
One of the guests asked me the question. Luckily, she asked in English so I talked about the Maltese Presidency of EU, now winding down for the end of their tenure. I mentioned the Arts Council, the training of citizen journalists in Malta in Futuring workshops with the European arts group TimesUp, the interviews we conducted for the Beehive in which we asked about the future of the EU, even our watering of the plants in the foyer of the Maltese office building in Justus Lipsius. In most situations, the formal explanation would have been enough. But here, in this creative community space, I knew that I needed to give more.
"For me, the emphasis is on 'citizen'. Being a citizen journalist is about finding the stories linking people within their communities and telling those stories. I also try to research something of the stories of the powerful because they shape many of the boundaries within which ordinary citizens live. But I'm most interested in the stories of people in local areas and how their stories can shape their own lives. That's why I'm excited to find Les Ateliers Des Tanneurs because here government works with community to create a space in which stories are told and heard in conversation."
I thought about it further as I walked back to my flat three blocks away. By placing the word 'citizen' in front of an established profession like journalist or scientist we recognise that some knowledge resides within a community and is of value to the more powerful who shape the parameters of our world. The citizen journalist tries to make those stories heard so that the voices of diverse citizens help to shape the trajectory of our pathways to the future. I didn't know that when I first came to Brussels.
Sunday 18 June 2017
Up Cycling
A few weeks in Brussels and I have established daily routines that enable independent action. I continue to be a citizen journalist but I am a citizen first. That means that I am looking for the links that enable citizens to come together and influence the direction of their community.
In the mornings, I walk across town from my flat in the Arab quarter to my place of work in the European quarter where the EU offices cluster in concrete and glass. We citizen journalists do not have offices but we water the plants in the foyer of the Maltese Presidency in Justus Lipsius and hang about the public areas looking for honey for the beehive.
At first, the walk to work was anxious and I followed the main routes on my small tourist map. Each day, a key landmark would fall into place and I began to experiment with shortcuts and side roads. Often, I lost myself but Brussels is forgiving and I discovered alleys and galleries, gardens and cafe streets, as well as slightly chaotic residential areas where new developments blocked the footpaths and garbage bags piled high.
In time, I established the most direct route that includes taking the free lift, giving some change to the accordion player and passing the Palace of Justice with its golden dome and timeless scaffolding. Here men and women scurry in black robes with white legal lace around their necks.
Rue des Tanneurs is a quiet side street on my route up to the lift. On the corner, I began to take notice of the jumbled window display, the pallets formed into shelving, large light bulbs on timber bases, old suitcases with knitted socks and babies' bibs, folded paper objects. The neat lettering on the glass advised me that this was Orybany, Atelier Boutique (www.orybany.com), that their concern was with ethical practice, up cycling and sewing classes, and listed their opening hours.
Another week passed before I made a deliberate effort to go there when the shop was open. In the meantime, I explored the building and the street. The questions multiplied in my mind. Outside the shop window next door, Brewspot, I wondered if home brewing has become a radical act in the light of attempts by multi-national corporations to patent the natural products and processes of making beer. On the other side of Orybany, a creative cardboard emporium suggested the source of the practical sitting boxes used in the Singing Brussels festival that I had attended in Brussels on my first weekend in Brussels.
Further down the street, I walked through an arch into the building, past a homeless man looking very much at home, into a courtyard with cafe tables and beyond that, into a covered market; not a plastic bag in sight, olive oil on tap to fill your own containers, large, lidded barrels of nuts, seeds, grains to scoop into paper bags, boxes for loading fruit and vegetables to take to the check out. What enabled so many ethically responsible endeavours to proliferate on this quiet residential street?
The questions swirled until last Wednesday when I set off with the intention of finding Orybany open. And I did. Orybany is open in all senses. Two women, deep in French conversation, sat on a sofa amid the racks and shelves. I clutched my iPad after taking a photo of the window display. One of the women looked up and smiled a welcome, the kind of smile I had not seen anywhere in the European quarter.
I explained about Malta, about my route to work, about my curiosity, about my wonder. She talked with passion and commitment about the four years since Orybany started up in a different part of the building before moving to this corner spot. She was Juliette Berguet and her partner and friend was Liliane Malemo who designed and gave sewing classes. The building was converted from an old winery and the floors above were now homes for people who struggled in the current economic environment. On the street level, spaces were made available at reasonable rent for ethical start ups.
"It's difficult for start ups to compete against the big corporations who push up rents and know how to avoid paying taxes. Making an area shiny is OK, but if it excludes the local community..."
Another woman came into the shop and Juliette greeted her. I wandered off to explore the space where sewing classes were given and find a small top for my nephew as well as an over cape for me..
"We include local women by offering free sewing classes," continued Juliette when I returned to the counter to make my purchases. "If someone comes in and can't afford the prices we have to charge because we have ethical employment practices, then we can tell them to bring an old dress to sew into a new fashion."
Juliette came with me to the door and pointed across the street.
"In that park, another start up is going to establish community gardens and next week there will be a concert with local musicians."
So that will be another blog along with some more questions and perhaps a few answers to explain the magic of Rue des Tanneurs.
In the mornings, I walk across town from my flat in the Arab quarter to my place of work in the European quarter where the EU offices cluster in concrete and glass. We citizen journalists do not have offices but we water the plants in the foyer of the Maltese Presidency in Justus Lipsius and hang about the public areas looking for honey for the beehive.
At first, the walk to work was anxious and I followed the main routes on my small tourist map. Each day, a key landmark would fall into place and I began to experiment with shortcuts and side roads. Often, I lost myself but Brussels is forgiving and I discovered alleys and galleries, gardens and cafe streets, as well as slightly chaotic residential areas where new developments blocked the footpaths and garbage bags piled high.
In time, I established the most direct route that includes taking the free lift, giving some change to the accordion player and passing the Palace of Justice with its golden dome and timeless scaffolding. Here men and women scurry in black robes with white legal lace around their necks.
Rue des Tanneurs is a quiet side street on my route up to the lift. On the corner, I began to take notice of the jumbled window display, the pallets formed into shelving, large light bulbs on timber bases, old suitcases with knitted socks and babies' bibs, folded paper objects. The neat lettering on the glass advised me that this was Orybany, Atelier Boutique (www.orybany.com), that their concern was with ethical practice, up cycling and sewing classes, and listed their opening hours.
Another week passed before I made a deliberate effort to go there when the shop was open. In the meantime, I explored the building and the street. The questions multiplied in my mind. Outside the shop window next door, Brewspot, I wondered if home brewing has become a radical act in the light of attempts by multi-national corporations to patent the natural products and processes of making beer. On the other side of Orybany, a creative cardboard emporium suggested the source of the practical sitting boxes used in the Singing Brussels festival that I had attended in Brussels on my first weekend in Brussels.
Further down the street, I walked through an arch into the building, past a homeless man looking very much at home, into a courtyard with cafe tables and beyond that, into a covered market; not a plastic bag in sight, olive oil on tap to fill your own containers, large, lidded barrels of nuts, seeds, grains to scoop into paper bags, boxes for loading fruit and vegetables to take to the check out. What enabled so many ethically responsible endeavours to proliferate on this quiet residential street?
The questions swirled until last Wednesday when I set off with the intention of finding Orybany open. And I did. Orybany is open in all senses. Two women, deep in French conversation, sat on a sofa amid the racks and shelves. I clutched my iPad after taking a photo of the window display. One of the women looked up and smiled a welcome, the kind of smile I had not seen anywhere in the European quarter.
I explained about Malta, about my route to work, about my curiosity, about my wonder. She talked with passion and commitment about the four years since Orybany started up in a different part of the building before moving to this corner spot. She was Juliette Berguet and her partner and friend was Liliane Malemo who designed and gave sewing classes. The building was converted from an old winery and the floors above were now homes for people who struggled in the current economic environment. On the street level, spaces were made available at reasonable rent for ethical start ups.
"It's difficult for start ups to compete against the big corporations who push up rents and know how to avoid paying taxes. Making an area shiny is OK, but if it excludes the local community..."
Another woman came into the shop and Juliette greeted her. I wandered off to explore the space where sewing classes were given and find a small top for my nephew as well as an over cape for me..
"We include local women by offering free sewing classes," continued Juliette when I returned to the counter to make my purchases. "If someone comes in and can't afford the prices we have to charge because we have ethical employment practices, then we can tell them to bring an old dress to sew into a new fashion."
Juliette came with me to the door and pointed across the street.
"In that park, another start up is going to establish community gardens and next week there will be a concert with local musicians."
So that will be another blog along with some more questions and perhaps a few answers to explain the magic of Rue des Tanneurs.
Thursday 15 June 2017
This is not a blog
In 1926, Magritte painted a large pipe for smoking and wrote underneath in clear, neat school boy writing "This is not a pipe".
At the time when Magritte was painting his picture, my mother, with her sisters, attended Floriana girls school in Malta, where she was encouraged to improve her deportment by walking around with a book on her head. At home, she changed this task into a game with her sisters and her mother, my grandmother. Together they defied the sanctity of my gradfather's study, extracted suitable books for size, and devised a model route around their townhouse in Hamrun. My Scottish, schoolteacher grandfather discovered them as they negotiated the stairs and he was so outraged at this abuse of books that the next day, he marched up to the Floriana Girls school and withdrew all his children. My mother's deportment remained excellent for the rest of her life and when she bore her children she read as many books as she could afford becuase she wanted do a good job of child rearing.
Eighty years later, in Much Ado bookshop in Sussex, England, I stumbled upon a book entitled 'This is not a book'. It contained quirky ideas about alternate uses for a book. I bought it for my niece who was in her early teens at the time. She loved it almost as much as I did even though she is not a reader.
So what is it about Brussels that has brought these two unrelated stories into my head and placed them next to each other in this blog that is not a blog?
Brussels is a city that juxtaposes contradictions every time the flaneuse turns a corner. On wide avenues lined with designer shops people sit with their begging cups. Two blocks away from
museums, galleries and palaces where tourists wander in search of a pissing boy, you are into residential quarters with Arab, African or Chinese grocery shops and every language spoken on the streets. Yesterday when I was walking to work at the Parliamentarium along the direct route I have now discovered that includes a free lift next to the palace of Justice, I was looking down at my feet to avoid stumbling on the cobble stones and I noticed three gold stones glinting like teeth. They were memorial plaques to three members of a Jewish family who were taken from that particular house to be killed in WW2 death camps. Later that day, I explored that district further and found more gold teeth as well as an old wine making factory now re-used as a hub for ethical start-ups including a minimal packaging market, an up-cycling shop that offers sewing classes and some kind of beer brewing shop. I've made a mental note to return there and write another blog about it.
Magritte played with the juxtapositioning of disparate objects and with the alternate realities that we can create with images and words. He also famously said that he thought poetry was a higher form than painting, whatever that means. Yet I love his playing with words and have bought a coffee mug from the museum shop with his word plays. Now when I take tea in my coffee cup (see what I just did there) I look at a bright image of the sun followed by the words ' est cache par les nuages' (is covered by clouds). In a way, Magritte was the forerunner of the Gif.
I'll finish this unblog by juxtaposing two more images from my wanders around the exhibitions of Brussels. One is Magritte's image of a coffin stiffly folded at right angles to enable the reality of death to recline on a couch like the images that we all have in our heads of more famous nude women. He does not use a skeleton to represent death as do the Knights of Malta in St John's Cathedral in Valletta. He chooses a coffin, the form in which the Western world dresses up, hides death and he bends the coffin in to imitate life.
Which brings me to my final image which is not created by Magritte but by Rik Wouters. It is his sculptured image of a wildly dancing naked woman, arms flung wide, grinning mouth, knee high. You can walk all round her and she is alive. You perhaps know her from a gif that shows a painting on a gallery wall and in front a small girl imitating the wild dancing pose.
This is not a blog because I still haven't worked out how to include images and sometimes my words are not enough
At the time when Magritte was painting his picture, my mother, with her sisters, attended Floriana girls school in Malta, where she was encouraged to improve her deportment by walking around with a book on her head. At home, she changed this task into a game with her sisters and her mother, my grandmother. Together they defied the sanctity of my gradfather's study, extracted suitable books for size, and devised a model route around their townhouse in Hamrun. My Scottish, schoolteacher grandfather discovered them as they negotiated the stairs and he was so outraged at this abuse of books that the next day, he marched up to the Floriana Girls school and withdrew all his children. My mother's deportment remained excellent for the rest of her life and when she bore her children she read as many books as she could afford becuase she wanted do a good job of child rearing.
Eighty years later, in Much Ado bookshop in Sussex, England, I stumbled upon a book entitled 'This is not a book'. It contained quirky ideas about alternate uses for a book. I bought it for my niece who was in her early teens at the time. She loved it almost as much as I did even though she is not a reader.
So what is it about Brussels that has brought these two unrelated stories into my head and placed them next to each other in this blog that is not a blog?
Brussels is a city that juxtaposes contradictions every time the flaneuse turns a corner. On wide avenues lined with designer shops people sit with their begging cups. Two blocks away from
museums, galleries and palaces where tourists wander in search of a pissing boy, you are into residential quarters with Arab, African or Chinese grocery shops and every language spoken on the streets. Yesterday when I was walking to work at the Parliamentarium along the direct route I have now discovered that includes a free lift next to the palace of Justice, I was looking down at my feet to avoid stumbling on the cobble stones and I noticed three gold stones glinting like teeth. They were memorial plaques to three members of a Jewish family who were taken from that particular house to be killed in WW2 death camps. Later that day, I explored that district further and found more gold teeth as well as an old wine making factory now re-used as a hub for ethical start-ups including a minimal packaging market, an up-cycling shop that offers sewing classes and some kind of beer brewing shop. I've made a mental note to return there and write another blog about it.
Magritte played with the juxtapositioning of disparate objects and with the alternate realities that we can create with images and words. He also famously said that he thought poetry was a higher form than painting, whatever that means. Yet I love his playing with words and have bought a coffee mug from the museum shop with his word plays. Now when I take tea in my coffee cup (see what I just did there) I look at a bright image of the sun followed by the words ' est cache par les nuages' (is covered by clouds). In a way, Magritte was the forerunner of the Gif.
I'll finish this unblog by juxtaposing two more images from my wanders around the exhibitions of Brussels. One is Magritte's image of a coffin stiffly folded at right angles to enable the reality of death to recline on a couch like the images that we all have in our heads of more famous nude women. He does not use a skeleton to represent death as do the Knights of Malta in St John's Cathedral in Valletta. He chooses a coffin, the form in which the Western world dresses up, hides death and he bends the coffin in to imitate life.
Which brings me to my final image which is not created by Magritte but by Rik Wouters. It is his sculptured image of a wildly dancing naked woman, arms flung wide, grinning mouth, knee high. You can walk all round her and she is alive. You perhaps know her from a gif that shows a painting on a gallery wall and in front a small girl imitating the wild dancing pose.
This is not a blog because I still haven't worked out how to include images and sometimes my words are not enough
Thursday 8 June 2017
Slow learner
I thank Arts Council Malta and the Maltese Presidency of EU for enabling me to spend seven weeks in Brussels, a city I would perhaps never visit otherwise. Slow travel, spending more than a week or two in one place, allows a different perspective to emerge. I am learning a lot about myself, about being a Maltese citizen, about the European Union and about Brussels.
This is my third week as a citizen journalist and I've just returned from a weekend in Malta where I voted for the first time in a National election. Brussels felt familiar when I got off the plane and took the train to Central. The ticket machine conned me into paying for a return ticket that could only be used that day. It was after 11.00pm. Still, I astonished myself by walking alone back to my flat in the Arab quarter through midnight dark streets where the beggars were all asleep. I had left all the drama behind in the streets of Malta where young people clad in red were hanging out of car doors waving flags and yelling their joy at the election result.
So what have I learned about myself apart from the observation about slow travel that has already become a feature of my life?
My attitude to work has changed. I remain committed to doing a good job but I have become clearer about why that is important. When we retire from full-time paid work, we continue to engage with life and the work required to sustain ourselves and make sense of our world. If we take on work in support of someone else's dream, a major factor is aligning personal values with the aims of the project. I applied for the role of citizen journalist because I am interested in the ways in which ordinary people might work together to comment on their circumstances and influence change. That remains a significant focus of my life and of my approach to the work I'm doing here in Brussels. However, I have discovered that sometimes the aims of a project get lost somewhere between the idea and the implementation. Usually, the loss occurs somewhere in the lines of communication and support between the decision-makers and the people on the ground. The loss places enormous strain on workers to find their own meaning and purpose in what they are doing. That's what I have been struggling with during my first weeks in Brussels. I have managed to cope with technological concerns new to an old person like me reasonably well. We three citizen journalists have valiantly interviewed people about how they see the future of the EU. We have edited and uploaded. But we have to grapple with a sense that all these words are going into a black hole never to be heard.
Spoken words of ordinary people are not high profile like big name concerts or exhibitions. I want to make my job meaningful by raising the profile in some way. That's why I started this blog, why I have written a poem, 'The Winner's Circuit', about Trump's visit to Brussels and why I will collaborate with the current group of citizen journalists to write a report about more than 100 interviews that have been uploaded. It would be great to stage an all-singing, all-dancing community theatre production based on the interviews but that would require a team of artists and theatre workers! Maybe next time.
I'll finish this post with a recent ah-ha moment about Brussels. In my first weeks of getting lost walking from my flat to my workplace, I kept stumbling on wide avenues that look the same and disorientated me. On Monday I discovered that these avenues circle the centre of town and follow the lines of the outer defensive walls that no longer exist. I now have a clearer, more confident map of Brussels in my head.
This is my third week as a citizen journalist and I've just returned from a weekend in Malta where I voted for the first time in a National election. Brussels felt familiar when I got off the plane and took the train to Central. The ticket machine conned me into paying for a return ticket that could only be used that day. It was after 11.00pm. Still, I astonished myself by walking alone back to my flat in the Arab quarter through midnight dark streets where the beggars were all asleep. I had left all the drama behind in the streets of Malta where young people clad in red were hanging out of car doors waving flags and yelling their joy at the election result.
So what have I learned about myself apart from the observation about slow travel that has already become a feature of my life?
My attitude to work has changed. I remain committed to doing a good job but I have become clearer about why that is important. When we retire from full-time paid work, we continue to engage with life and the work required to sustain ourselves and make sense of our world. If we take on work in support of someone else's dream, a major factor is aligning personal values with the aims of the project. I applied for the role of citizen journalist because I am interested in the ways in which ordinary people might work together to comment on their circumstances and influence change. That remains a significant focus of my life and of my approach to the work I'm doing here in Brussels. However, I have discovered that sometimes the aims of a project get lost somewhere between the idea and the implementation. Usually, the loss occurs somewhere in the lines of communication and support between the decision-makers and the people on the ground. The loss places enormous strain on workers to find their own meaning and purpose in what they are doing. That's what I have been struggling with during my first weeks in Brussels. I have managed to cope with technological concerns new to an old person like me reasonably well. We three citizen journalists have valiantly interviewed people about how they see the future of the EU. We have edited and uploaded. But we have to grapple with a sense that all these words are going into a black hole never to be heard.
Spoken words of ordinary people are not high profile like big name concerts or exhibitions. I want to make my job meaningful by raising the profile in some way. That's why I started this blog, why I have written a poem, 'The Winner's Circuit', about Trump's visit to Brussels and why I will collaborate with the current group of citizen journalists to write a report about more than 100 interviews that have been uploaded. It would be great to stage an all-singing, all-dancing community theatre production based on the interviews but that would require a team of artists and theatre workers! Maybe next time.
I'll finish this post with a recent ah-ha moment about Brussels. In my first weeks of getting lost walking from my flat to my workplace, I kept stumbling on wide avenues that look the same and disorientated me. On Monday I discovered that these avenues circle the centre of town and follow the lines of the outer defensive walls that no longer exist. I now have a clearer, more confident map of Brussels in my head.
Wednesday 31 May 2017
Malta from a distance
The day that Trump came to Brussels was eerily quiet. He brought his "political pornography" to town on a public holiday. My workplace for the day, BOZAR, Centre for the Fine Arts, was open but empty. The only people working appeared to be security men. My young citizen journalist colleague met me at the appointed time but felt so vulnerable that our Brussels connection advised her to go home.
I used my badge to gain entry to to the Pol Bury exhibition and to Malta, Land of Sea. Each exhibition is fascinating and together they set my brain whirling.
I have seen so many exhibitions in the two short weeks I have been here. The previous weekend, I loved Singing Brussels, also held at BOZAR, when local choirs invited visitors to sing with them. I felt that locals were inviting me into their space. The exhibitions have been International and most of them I could never hope to see in Malta. Even Malta, Land of Sea, would perhaps be different viewed in the context of Malta.
So my whirling brain has been circling the relationship between the local and the global, between thinking and action.
Around BOZAR square, hoardings mask development of some sort. A series of street portraits, perhaps of identities that would be recognised by local people, turn the square into an outdoor gallery. Each portrait is presented in a different style and one is distorted in a particular way. It draws my eye each time I walk here from my flat in the Arab quarter. In the Pol Bury exhibition, I understood the local influence on that particular portrait.
I did not know the work of local artist, Pol Bury, before and I was entranced by his slowly, imperceptibly moving pieces: fine dots on thin wires bunching and separating like growing things; monumental steel forms that move according to ancient irrigation principles, local and global together.
Yet it was fame on a global level that brought the resources enabling the artist to explore expensive materials like metal. If I have to choose, I prefer his fine work with wire points and the slightly clunky movement of wood blocks. Perhaps I want my art to remain grounded in the local rather than taking on a global patina. I like to discover the local through the work of local artists, to feel a sense of place in the cultural processes whereby artists have both responded to and created the local.
Which brings me to Malta, Land of Sea. The exhibition is self-contained, introspective, focused on the small archipelago at the heart of the Mediterranean Sea. The objects are juxtaposed according to line and form rather than following the chronological patterns of a retrospective. This is not an exhibition about the history of colonisation although most of the artists represented are not locals. Rather, the placing of pieces encourages the viewer, the flaneur, to consider the local in shaping the lines and forms given life through creative endeavour over millennia.
With catalogue in hand, today I return to Malta to vote in National elections for the first time. I wish I could vote according to art rather than artifice.
I used my badge to gain entry to to the Pol Bury exhibition and to Malta, Land of Sea. Each exhibition is fascinating and together they set my brain whirling.
I have seen so many exhibitions in the two short weeks I have been here. The previous weekend, I loved Singing Brussels, also held at BOZAR, when local choirs invited visitors to sing with them. I felt that locals were inviting me into their space. The exhibitions have been International and most of them I could never hope to see in Malta. Even Malta, Land of Sea, would perhaps be different viewed in the context of Malta.
So my whirling brain has been circling the relationship between the local and the global, between thinking and action.
Around BOZAR square, hoardings mask development of some sort. A series of street portraits, perhaps of identities that would be recognised by local people, turn the square into an outdoor gallery. Each portrait is presented in a different style and one is distorted in a particular way. It draws my eye each time I walk here from my flat in the Arab quarter. In the Pol Bury exhibition, I understood the local influence on that particular portrait.
I did not know the work of local artist, Pol Bury, before and I was entranced by his slowly, imperceptibly moving pieces: fine dots on thin wires bunching and separating like growing things; monumental steel forms that move according to ancient irrigation principles, local and global together.
Yet it was fame on a global level that brought the resources enabling the artist to explore expensive materials like metal. If I have to choose, I prefer his fine work with wire points and the slightly clunky movement of wood blocks. Perhaps I want my art to remain grounded in the local rather than taking on a global patina. I like to discover the local through the work of local artists, to feel a sense of place in the cultural processes whereby artists have both responded to and created the local.
Which brings me to Malta, Land of Sea. The exhibition is self-contained, introspective, focused on the small archipelago at the heart of the Mediterranean Sea. The objects are juxtaposed according to line and form rather than following the chronological patterns of a retrospective. This is not an exhibition about the history of colonisation although most of the artists represented are not locals. Rather, the placing of pieces encourages the viewer, the flaneur, to consider the local in shaping the lines and forms given life through creative endeavour over millennia.
With catalogue in hand, today I return to Malta to vote in National elections for the first time. I wish I could vote according to art rather than artifice.
Sunday 21 May 2017
Piss poor
Maneken Pis is small. The blue plastic copy outside the waffle shop is ten times larger. If, like me, you prefer to discover a place by wandering, you would miss it except for the crowds of tourists taking selfies. But, at the end of my first week in Brussels, I have seen the small boy pissing naked on a weekday and dressed in the football gear of a Spanish club on Saturday. Currently, work is proceeding on the facade behind and the tiny Maneken is backed by hessian sacking drapes yet he continues to piss in public with great confidence.
On Saturday, our free city centre tour guide (departs three times a day every day from the Grand Place) asked why the boy pisses and then proceeded to offer three mythical explanations. Two stories are heroic battle tales of Maneken saving Brussels from her enemies by (1) pissing from a tree into the eyes of the opposing warriors and (2) peeing on the lighted fuse of the dynamite intended to blow up the city. The third explanation is more Shakespearean. Ammonia in piss was highly valued and poor people in the city would send their children to this spot to pee for money. Hence the expression "piss poor".
The tour guide, an actor trying to pay the rent, probably made more from tips than Maneken Pis would see in a lifetime, probably more than all the beggars in Brussels would make together in a week.
And there are plenty of beggars in Brussels. Old and young Caucasian men beg from their sleeping quarters in doorways and under construction scaffolding. Women with white hair neater than mine sit on the floor in the Metro, begging cups held out as though offering tea. Women, and a few men, cradle children with one arm and hold out their other hand. One man has a dog. The man outside the Bourse, where I visited The World of Steve McCurry exhibition, looks like Bob Marley grown old.
I have already spent most of my allowance for six weeks on the rent of my flat, so I try not to notice the beggars. Yet the thrust of so many begging cups threatens to burst my bubble as I float through my first week as a citizen journalist. I am already overwhelmed with the clash of appearance and reality, of rhetoric and a good enough truth.
This has also been Pride week in Brussels. On Wednesday, we three citizen journalists attended a debate, Colors of the Rainbow, at BOZAR, centre for Fine Arts. I learned that Malta has been placed at the top of the EU league in terms of LGBTQ rights. In the rainbow bag (in Australia it would be called a show bag) we found a blow up beach ball with the slogan be Equal, be.Brussels. At the reception afterwards, wine and canapés were consumed in bulk. On Saturday, the city was a crush of humanity for the parade. My internal map of Brussels grew as I tried to dodge the gridlock around dancing queens and deafening music. On Sunday, the pavements were covered in shattered glass and
in corners off the main thoroughfares, a smell of piss lingered as though Meneken had lost his aim.
Along with the beggars, two thoughts have been worrying at the back of my mind. The first is that the LGBTQ community, like the social justice movements of 1970s and 80s, has become dominated by men. The concern is less about creating a world where all people are respected and heard, regardless
of sexual orientation as one aspect of our humanity that makes us diverse. The focus appears to be about strengthening the rights of a particular group of men in relation to another dominant group of men. The parade was mostly about individual men strutting their stuff, drinking lots of beer and pissing in public.
The other thought brings me back to the beggars. Pride week in Brussels has been a costly celebration of our diversity. The expense of police presence in securing the parade route and of cleaning squads to sort out the mess afterwards perhaps could provide hot meals and a bed for all the beggars in the
city. I know that this is too simplistic but I continue to grapple with the contradictions of my first week as a citizen journalist. In Europe, the Union has brought peace and prosperity for a growing number of people but the gap between the very rich and those who are living in abject poverty has to be addressed.
On Saturday, our free city centre tour guide (departs three times a day every day from the Grand Place) asked why the boy pisses and then proceeded to offer three mythical explanations. Two stories are heroic battle tales of Maneken saving Brussels from her enemies by (1) pissing from a tree into the eyes of the opposing warriors and (2) peeing on the lighted fuse of the dynamite intended to blow up the city. The third explanation is more Shakespearean. Ammonia in piss was highly valued and poor people in the city would send their children to this spot to pee for money. Hence the expression "piss poor".
The tour guide, an actor trying to pay the rent, probably made more from tips than Maneken Pis would see in a lifetime, probably more than all the beggars in Brussels would make together in a week.
And there are plenty of beggars in Brussels. Old and young Caucasian men beg from their sleeping quarters in doorways and under construction scaffolding. Women with white hair neater than mine sit on the floor in the Metro, begging cups held out as though offering tea. Women, and a few men, cradle children with one arm and hold out their other hand. One man has a dog. The man outside the Bourse, where I visited The World of Steve McCurry exhibition, looks like Bob Marley grown old.
I have already spent most of my allowance for six weeks on the rent of my flat, so I try not to notice the beggars. Yet the thrust of so many begging cups threatens to burst my bubble as I float through my first week as a citizen journalist. I am already overwhelmed with the clash of appearance and reality, of rhetoric and a good enough truth.
This has also been Pride week in Brussels. On Wednesday, we three citizen journalists attended a debate, Colors of the Rainbow, at BOZAR, centre for Fine Arts. I learned that Malta has been placed at the top of the EU league in terms of LGBTQ rights. In the rainbow bag (in Australia it would be called a show bag) we found a blow up beach ball with the slogan be Equal, be.Brussels. At the reception afterwards, wine and canapés were consumed in bulk. On Saturday, the city was a crush of humanity for the parade. My internal map of Brussels grew as I tried to dodge the gridlock around dancing queens and deafening music. On Sunday, the pavements were covered in shattered glass and
in corners off the main thoroughfares, a smell of piss lingered as though Meneken had lost his aim.
Along with the beggars, two thoughts have been worrying at the back of my mind. The first is that the LGBTQ community, like the social justice movements of 1970s and 80s, has become dominated by men. The concern is less about creating a world where all people are respected and heard, regardless
of sexual orientation as one aspect of our humanity that makes us diverse. The focus appears to be about strengthening the rights of a particular group of men in relation to another dominant group of men. The parade was mostly about individual men strutting their stuff, drinking lots of beer and pissing in public.
The other thought brings me back to the beggars. Pride week in Brussels has been a costly celebration of our diversity. The expense of police presence in securing the parade route and of cleaning squads to sort out the mess afterwards perhaps could provide hot meals and a bed for all the beggars in the
city. I know that this is too simplistic but I continue to grapple with the contradictions of my first week as a citizen journalist. In Europe, the Union has brought peace and prosperity for a growing number of people but the gap between the very rich and those who are living in abject poverty has to be addressed.
Thursday 18 May 2017
Finding place
I am in Brussels. I am not full of muscles. If you are not from the land down under, you may not find that funny.
Anyway, I am in Brussels as a citizen journalist with the Maltese Presidency of EU. If you are from the land down under or indeed anywhere else in the world, several aspects of the previous sentence need explaining. Hence this blog. I already have one blog at footloosewithjo.blogspot.com but when I tried to go in from Brussels, I could read but not write. My trusty little machine kept informing me that I didn't have a blog and would I like to start one. So here it is.
This job and this blog are experiments. In both cases, I don't know what I'm doing. Last year, I responded to the ad because I liked the idea, I wanted to find out more about Malta in relation to EU and I figured a few weeks in Brussels would be interesting. Once I got into the selection process just before Christmas, I became more excited because it seemed that I was tapping into a collaborative way of working that is still rare in Malta, at least in relation to an outsider who can't speak Maltese. The applicants were invited to go along to a series of Futuring workshops run by an organisation called TimesUp, a European arts company who have just completed their project with the Maltese presidency by presenting an exhibition at Solipsis in Rabat in Malta. Way back before Christmas and before citizen journalists, I had registered for TimesUp Floriana workshop. It looked like the strands of my interests in Malta were starting to weave into a picture.
So, I got the job along with nine others, mostly young and recently out of college. The beurocratic business of signing contracts proceeded and I was happy to see that I would be working with TimesUp on gathering material to go up on a beehive at the entrance to Dar Malta in Brussels. Ten citizen journalists met with the artistic director and worked out when we would go to Brussels in groups of three. Time passed. The first group set off. I learned incidentally that TimesUp were no longer involved even though they continued with their Malta project. I continued to meet them from time to time at cultural events. I heard nothing from anyone else. I had imagined that we would all have access to the beehive so that we could build a sense of a developing project and spark off other citizen journalists' input. The hive was not accessible. I got in touch with the two others who would be in Brussels at the same time as me. We supported each other in our ignorance.
I arrived here last Friday, late in the evening, having booked an apartment for a week with the intention of finding something cheaper when I was here. That story is told on my FB page. The week has been exhausting as I started to learn about a fascinating new city, a political union across an entire continent and a job that appears to be non-existent except as an appearance of an idea. The citizen journalists have conducted interviews and these have been uploaded carefully but there is nothing beyond the mirror. Like the Maltese construction industry, there is nothing behind the heritage facade.
Which brings me again to this blog. This is my attempt to bring meaning into seven weeks in Brussels. Tomorrow I move to another apartment, not much cheaper than this one but in a more pleasant area. My colleague citizen journalists are coming to help me move and we will trundle my luggage, including the books I have already succumbed to, across Brussels. At the weekend, I will write the story of my first week as a citizen journalist in Brussels.
Anyway, I am in Brussels as a citizen journalist with the Maltese Presidency of EU. If you are from the land down under or indeed anywhere else in the world, several aspects of the previous sentence need explaining. Hence this blog. I already have one blog at footloosewithjo.blogspot.com but when I tried to go in from Brussels, I could read but not write. My trusty little machine kept informing me that I didn't have a blog and would I like to start one. So here it is.
This job and this blog are experiments. In both cases, I don't know what I'm doing. Last year, I responded to the ad because I liked the idea, I wanted to find out more about Malta in relation to EU and I figured a few weeks in Brussels would be interesting. Once I got into the selection process just before Christmas, I became more excited because it seemed that I was tapping into a collaborative way of working that is still rare in Malta, at least in relation to an outsider who can't speak Maltese. The applicants were invited to go along to a series of Futuring workshops run by an organisation called TimesUp, a European arts company who have just completed their project with the Maltese presidency by presenting an exhibition at Solipsis in Rabat in Malta. Way back before Christmas and before citizen journalists, I had registered for TimesUp Floriana workshop. It looked like the strands of my interests in Malta were starting to weave into a picture.
So, I got the job along with nine others, mostly young and recently out of college. The beurocratic business of signing contracts proceeded and I was happy to see that I would be working with TimesUp on gathering material to go up on a beehive at the entrance to Dar Malta in Brussels. Ten citizen journalists met with the artistic director and worked out when we would go to Brussels in groups of three. Time passed. The first group set off. I learned incidentally that TimesUp were no longer involved even though they continued with their Malta project. I continued to meet them from time to time at cultural events. I heard nothing from anyone else. I had imagined that we would all have access to the beehive so that we could build a sense of a developing project and spark off other citizen journalists' input. The hive was not accessible. I got in touch with the two others who would be in Brussels at the same time as me. We supported each other in our ignorance.
I arrived here last Friday, late in the evening, having booked an apartment for a week with the intention of finding something cheaper when I was here. That story is told on my FB page. The week has been exhausting as I started to learn about a fascinating new city, a political union across an entire continent and a job that appears to be non-existent except as an appearance of an idea. The citizen journalists have conducted interviews and these have been uploaded carefully but there is nothing beyond the mirror. Like the Maltese construction industry, there is nothing behind the heritage facade.
Which brings me again to this blog. This is my attempt to bring meaning into seven weeks in Brussels. Tomorrow I move to another apartment, not much cheaper than this one but in a more pleasant area. My colleague citizen journalists are coming to help me move and we will trundle my luggage, including the books I have already succumbed to, across Brussels. At the weekend, I will write the story of my first week as a citizen journalist in Brussels.
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