ALICE HERZ-SOMMER: THE LADY IN NUMBER 6, 3 YEARS ON

Photo sourced through http://nickreedent.com/photos/

Have you ever met a person whose life story seemed too big to conceive, whose presence seemed divine, almost holy, like a piece of history that accidentally found itself in your bare hands for a little while?

Her name was Alice, and she was my piece of history on a Wednesday afternoon in the winter of 2010. She was meant to be merely a University project, part of my ‘Interview Skills’ module, aimed to make me a better journalist. I never got to be a journalist, but I will not forget my teacher, who foolishly yet truly believed I could be one, constantly encouraging me to push my own limits and reach out farther.

My moment with Alice

I saw her one night on the Russell Howard’s Good News show, and immediately knew I had to meet her. I had no clue as to how to contact her, and so I did what every good journalism student does: research. I must have spent about a week Googling and Facebooking and Twittering until I finally got her phone number from a previous interviewer. And when I called, I shivered. And when she told me to ‘come tomorrow, two o’clock’ and put down the phone, I cried like a little girl.

I went up to North London and had my amateur interview with a professional pianist. She had just had her 107^th birthday, and her flat was filled with colourful flowers. She was warm, sharp, human, but mostly – happy. I asked her about her life, and she asked me about mine. I promised I would visit.

Alice and me in 2010

It has been nearly 3 years now, and I haven’t been back. I know, it sounds all too much like Mitch Albom’s confession in Tuesdays with Morrie, right before he realises his life isn’t really going the way he thought it was, and decides to spend less time working and more time with the people he cares about. Well, that might be relevant, but allow me to make a conscious decision to postpone dealing with this urgent matter for later.

I was recently emailed by a certain Dave N, notifying me of the upcoming documentary The Lady in Number 6, which has apparently qualified to receive a nomination for the Academy Awards. ‘As part of our appreciation for Alice as a person and as a sense of inspiration,’ he wrote, ‘the producers have started the "Alice Challenge." The goal is to give Alice 1,000,000 birthday wishes for her 110th birthday, and send an amazing message to a wonderful individual.”

I know I’m no saint, and re-posting about my experience would probably not clear my conscience or make me feel like a better person. But I at least owe this to you, whoever you may be, to share that bit of exciting news, hoping to take on the Russell Howard role rather than Mitch Albom’s, and inspire you to your own encounter with a piece of history, who, well, might make you cry like a little girl too.

Photo sourced through http://nickreedent.com/photos/

James Emmett, Media Photographer

An interview with James Emmett, photographer from Hackney, east London, who holds in his repertoire working as Chief Photographer in the Hackney Gazette, moving to the London's National News Agency, and currently working as freelance for national and international publications and magazines such as The Independent, Daily Mail, The Scotsman, New Books Magazine, The Oldie Magazine and Der Spiegel. 

Emmett has worked with musicians, authors and politicians, as well as covering local and national news.

We talk about his work, from photographing eccentric celebrities like Juliette Lewis and Wayne Coyne of the Flaming Lips to serious news events like the 2011 London Riots. 

He tells me about his biggest inspirations such as photographer Jim Marshall and his controversial photograph of Johnny Cash, artistic creativity that has to be drawn during a few seconds press shot, as well as the difficulties and limitations of working for national publications, complying to house styles and the ‘mission’ of shooting photographs as an automatic, mechanical action. 

As for the future of media photography, Emmett is quite positive that media photographers will stick around for longer: "There will always be a need for people to gather information, whether it's used online, on a watch, a newspaper, or the TV... They need humans to go and collect this information."

MY ATTEMPT AT LIVING WITHOUT MODERN TECHNOLOGY

My name is Iris and I’m a techno-holic. I live in London – a city that thrives on technology more than most places on earth, working, studying and socialising through modern technology.

The day I accidently left my mobile phone at work was the trigger to my experiment. Using my home landline to call my colleague who had my phone, whose number I got off another colleague who happened to be on Skype, we were planning a meeting point for me to pick up the holy medium. Yes, it was as complicated as it sounds. “If you leave your house in seven minutes, you’ll get there at roughly the same time as me,” said the nervous colleague once we’ve decided on a spot we both knew.

This operation was detailed to military level, and that was over a mobile phone. What happens when there are more variables lost in the equation? Emails, Skype, Facebook, Messenger: could you even imagine life without it?

The ironic thing is that this is just how we used to live until not so long ago. How we did it is long forgotten, a mission impossible for some. “Horrible idea,” my 43-year-old sister emailed me, “can’t you write about something else? Are you out of ideas?”. “Impossible,” my 16-year-old niece declared, “you’re not gonna make it.” Even my friend Jo, who adores a good experiment, was willing to put her money on my cracking after two hours of daylight.   

As for my expectations, I gave it 48 hours, and I was being generous. As a foreign journalism student, with family and friends based in Israel, with whom I communicate online on a daily basis, not to mention my consistent correspondence with lecturers and potential interviewees – I am consciously throwing myself into a well of paranoia and anxiety.

I started “the cut-off” on Thursday morning, after replying all emails and letting the world know of my bold experiment (and possible insanity). I equipped myself with my old Sony Discman and picked out one CD to accompany the commute to Birkbeck’s library. Ashamed of my gigantic vintage gadget out in display in front of my fellow passengers, I hid it well in my bag and relished the shaking voices of Simon and Garfunkel as the train shook along. The cumbersome machinery did not leave my bag on the way back: I chose to listen to my carriage mates instead.

Getting home that evening, I had my dinner and was about to retire to my laptop for my studying-before-bed ritual. I swear I could feel a light shiver as I realised I couldn’t. I wanted to call one of my friends in Ealing and meet up for a late chat, so I rescued a few numbers off the prepared-in-advance hardcopy phonebook and literally picked up the receiver and dialed.

Iron Rule #1: People will generally not take late-night calls from unknown numbers. 

And so I found myself staring at non-quality television content for the remainder of the non-productive evening. 

Finally, realising I’m expecting a text from work, informing me of a pick-up time for tomorrow’s shift, I checked my mobile: crack of dawn pick-up. Disappointed in myself, I turned the phone off and started over.

The next morning was a struggle against the closest thing I know to addiction, realising I will not get my habitual dose of news and emails to go with my tea. So I managed to get to work without giving up to temptation, learning about the Japanese tsunami from horrified colleagues.

But unless I was aiming to get fired, my working day as a shift leader had to consist of not screening my manager whenever the mobile phone rang and projected the intimidating words “Omer Boss”. And, of course, the odd Google search for customers’ contact numbers. “You can’t do that,” one of my colleagues commented, justifiably. “What’s the point if you’re using it here?”

I postponed the experiment until after my usual working weekend at Heathrow had finished and started over.

Iron Rule #2: Anything relating to work will not regress 20 years with me.

On Monday I was scheduled to interview my next victim: James Sargent, a young eccentric musician. Needless to say, researching the character without going online equals no research at all. So I shamefully browsed his Myspace and Facebook profiles and gave myself one last serious take at this, starting over. Again.

After a successful technology-free day of studying at home and taking a long relaxing walk at Lammas Park, instead of my usual break of Facebook chatting and online fashion browsing, I headed for my Monday evening class. The interview was scheduled for 20 minutes later.

The commute to the meeting point, where tube delays are never strangers, raised my stress level to interfacing heart attack, as I wasn’t able to notify the young and restless musician of my possible tardiness. How did yesterday’s businessmen do it? According to my journalism teacher, Ross Biddiscombe, starting the interview on the wrong foot by being late is a suicide mission. So I chose life: I gave in and turned my mobile back on.

I know what you’re thinking: I didn’t live up to my goal. In fact, I didn’t live up to half of it. In my defense, my 16-year-old niece was surprisingly discerning: it’s impossible. I could do it, but then I’d be unemployed, isolated and most importantly – unable to practice journalism properly.

Iron Rule #3: Our world is so technologically dependent that we dread more the day our computer crashes than the death toll of a tsunami. 

Students, welcome to the jungle

“Welcome to the jungle,” Axl Rose chanted in 1987 about Kingston, Washington, as he realised how scary that strange town could be. Well, the 1980s have long passed, none of us shares the Axl Rose survival skills and London is certainly no Rural Town, USA. London embraces thousands of foreign students every year, most of whom in their early and innocent 20s, seeking a home away from home while adapting new lingual and cultural skills. Welcome to the jungle, version 2011, London, UK

Over the past 15 years, the number of Chinese students in the London School of Economics increased from 20 to more than 600. As a foreign student myself, I’m no stranger to the social anxiety one adopts in such a strange milieu. We come here to study, enrich our distant worlds and explore a new culture. But how much are we allowing ourselves to taste?

“I don’t see myself fitting in socially. Nada, Zero,” said Noga Kaplan, Tourism and Planning student at the University of Westminster, originally from Israel. “It’s a combination of having no opportunities and the locals not giving you a chance. I thought being in university would make me socialise with them, but it didn’t happen. They don’t share the same mindset.“

Noga wasn’t the only one facing the culture shock. Iranian student Talieh Zarezadeh told me of her experiences at South Thames College. “I honestly didn’t know how to talk to people or react to some of the things they said: are they kidding me or is it serious? Should I laugh or should I just listen to them?”

Thames Valley University music student, Julia Kalnobricka, from Latvia, experienced a more culturally suitable welcoming: “My first encounter with the culture was having drinks in a pub, at noon, which is weird. The local students were always bragging about how much they drank the night before. To them, for some reason, I seemed like a posh and extravagant stuck-up girl who doesn’t like them, which wasn’t the case.”

Apparently binge drinking is a consensus when it comes to British things one has to get used to. Mor Bakal, Israeli student at Goldsmiths College, told me: “Whenever we go out, it’s always drinking in a pub. It’s very British. I find it lovely, from a distant perspective. Like a need for a catalyst to express feelings and lose control. They all tell me they really want to see me get drunk – I don’t usually keep things inside, so I don’t feel I need this alcohol to let go. It’s nice every now and then, but I couldn’t do it too often. I’m not used to it.”

Daiki Ichikawa, Japanese student at Goldsmiths, sees it as a blessing: “I’m a typical Japanese character, so pretty shy. Pubs are a good opportunity for us to get friends, socialise.”

Julia isn’t particularly fond of “pub crawls”: “That’s just not for me. That’s a big difference between my culture and the British one: it’s all about getting drunk.” Indeed, a resistant liver is one of the most crucial things one must equip himself with when arriving to the Kingdom. But there is more to the British culture than alcohol. 

 

During the 1970s, the Chinese students living in a university residence in London shared one TV set with the British ones, and were only interested in watching current affairs. They set up a rota of guarding the TV from the British students, who wanted to watch football. But it seems like times have changed: most of the foreign students I talked to enjoy the ball chasing culture. Even girls: “It’s charming, being part of a community and belonging to a group,” said Mor.

So, is it as scary as we make it out to be? Apparently the major difficulty for most foreign students is the language barrier, which makes them seem less accessible to the locals. “Nobody likes waiting until the other person gets a sentence out,” Noga testified, understandingly. “It’s tiring.”

But the cultural barriers go beyond that. “Even though I speak English, the whole mentality is hard to get into,” said Nicole Micha, design student from Greece. “They have their own slang and celebrities, which I don’t know, so I don’t always get the jokes,” Noga added. “I copied them by observing them,” Talieh explained her way of coping, “researching words like ‘chav’ and ’posh’.”

Accordingly, the famous British “quiz nights”, where us students might find ourselves sometimes, socialising with the locals, could be tricky. “I refuse doing pub quizzes because I didn’t grow up here,” Julia explained, “so I don’t know the TV personalities and politicians. My British friends don’t realise it, as I spend a lot of time with them so in their minds I’m one of them.”

And yet, at the end of the day, this forging experience is invigorating. As Nicole stated, “you learn something new all the time.” Talieh even increased her appetite to go around the world and experience different cultures. “I haven’t had this feeling before I came to London,” she admitted.

So maybe not all of us always fit in, or it might just take more time than we expected. One thing is for sure– the best way to survive the jungle is to fully engage in it. And don’t forget to have fun.

Hotel Medea

22:45 on a Saturday night. Meeting point: North Greenwich Pier. Destination? Utterly unknown. Activity? Even vaguer. Just show up. Don’t be late, stated the anonymous email, the boat leaves at 23:00.

...Boat?

Hotel Medea is a Brazilian group of eccentric actors who have chosen to use a very interactive method of performing, while dramatising the enchanting myth of Medea, brilliantly ‘adjusting’ it to our everyday lives in the 21^st century.

For those of us less familiar with the story, Medea was the granddaughter of Helios, the god of Sun, and one of the great sorceresses in the ancient world. Jason, a handsome boy from another kingdom, tried to steal the Golden Fleece that belonged to her father, King of Colchis. But Medea and Jason fell inlove, and once Jason got holf of the Golden Fleece they ran away together, taking her younger brother with them. When the King started pursuing them, Medea killed her brother and bisected him, to delay the pursuit. After fleeing from Jason’s kingdom as well for using her sorcery to kill its King, they arrived at Corinth, where Medea bore Jason two children. But Jason had forsaken her to marry the king’s daughter, so Medea used her sorcery again to kill the bride, with a poison robe that burnt the flesh from her body, then killing her own two children as well.

Although the story goes on, this is actually where the play stops. Jason was left mourning for his two children lying in their beds, covered with roses and teddy bears that the audience, i.e. your humble servant and the rest of the random passer-byers, had thrown on their beds. Then we all moved to the main room, where a long table was set for a feast. We sat down, looking at each other, looking at all the marvellous food, looking at Medea sitting at the head of the table – finally saying, “...was it too much?” as if to share her doubts with her loyal audience. She then got up to open the doors facing the river Thames, so we all could see the crack of dawn at 5:00 am on the London docks.

It was then that we all started dining shamelessly, like starved peasants biting on warm Pain au Chocolate and some aristocratic full grain bread with butter & strawberry jam. After dancing as joyous tribe members to the celebrations of the princess’ marriage, after acting as hyped journalists covering Jason’s campaign, after being put to bed as Medea’s children (and pampered with lovely hot chocolate), after being led through alleys by the caretakers with our pyjamas when Medea decided to kill us... After being the audience for such a dynamic and brilliant spectacle, one cannot properly describe the hunger of a post white night celebration and convey this (literally) awakening experience. Giant bowls of fruit, juicy watermelons and hot porridge happily filled the magnificently long table. And once we settled our stomachs down, we got to mingle with the actors, now not in character, and listen to their perfect English that was concealed by their sexy Brazilian accents during the play.

5:30 on a Sunday morning and the game is over. My knackered date for the evening and me hopped on a shuttle that took us back to civilization, where we began our journey to bed for recovery. Sadly the distance between east London and Ealing didn’t allow me to lay my head down before 8:00, but the glorious performance hadn't left my thoughts: this was by far the most exciting and unusual night I've spent in London.

Sadly enough I don’t have any pictures of the evening, but a quick look at this video here would give you a vague idea...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0soIo4-OJLM

And of course, the link to the guys’ official website:

http://www.medea.tv/indexeng.html

Two Breakfasts in Farringdon

The Modern Pantry, 47-48 St John’s Square, Clerkenwell, London EC1V 4JJ (020 7553 9210). Breakfast for two, including service, £40

The Zetter Restaurant, 86-88 St John’s Square, Clerkenwell, London EC1M 5RJ (020 7324 4455). Breakfast for two, including service, £35

It was a lazy, hung over Sunday morning and the Modern Pantry at Farringdon was our desired destination. After reading a praising review in TimeOut magazine, which rated its breakfasts as one of the best in London, we rushed to see what the fuss was all about, and maybe taste some of it too. But much to our disappointment, the Pantry was as packed as a London tube train during rush hour, and my significant other and I were left with two choices: sitting outside and dining in the rain, or leaving empty stomached.

Disappointed and ravenous, we quickly stepped outside the tumult, seeking the nearest place that serves food for common folk. Just a few meters away stood the Zetter Hotel and Restaurant, looking like a place none of us could possibly afford. Lack of alternatives led us inside to familiarise ourselves with the live and pretentious Jazz performance, consisting of one saxophone player and one very banal female vocalist. We were immediately thrown into a Sex and the City atmosphere. But to our empty stomachs and low expectations, the humble oasis offered an interesting menu, on which we joyously drooled while struggling to pick out just two breakfasts out of the four we were contemplating.

 We ended up ordering three: one “Avocado Bacon & Mozzarella Bagel” for myself, one “Full Zetter Breakfast” for my hungry partner, and one Eggs Florentine to share. The appetising dishes arrived quickly, accompanied by freshly squeezed orange juice. That minimalistic bagel combination turned out to be nothing less than three bursting flavours that satisfied my fastidious palate with honour. The Zetter breakfast included two poached eggs and toast with smoked bacon, honey roast sausage, black pudding, grilled tomato and roasted field mushroom. This standard English Breakfast certainly pleased my companion’s stomach, and watching him relish the bacon has tempted me to verify its mouth-watering appearance: a refined English breakfast indeed. The Eggs Florentine included two poached eggs with spinach on a toasted bagel, with a tasty creamy sauce, which we both joyously gobbled down, ignoring how full we already were. We ended up having our teas with no dessert, fearing our stomachs would start sending out war signals. Amazingly enough, as fancy as the place appeared,  and after ordering three breakfasts plus drinks, the bill only amounted to £37.07.

The following Sunday morning, your humble servant and her ever-hungry assistant eagerly headed towards the notorious Modern Pantry again, this time having reserved. The Pantry was still full, though we were lead to a table rather quickly. We tried to control ourselves, ordering only two breakfasts: one potato waffle with bacon and maple syrup, garnished with rocket leaves, for myself, and a traditional English breakfast for my traditional English partner. The promising dishes arrived quite quickly, though my request for “extra maple on the side” was blatantly ignored. The waffle was a sinfully delicious combination of sweet and savoury, and the rocket leaves added a nice peppery twist. The size of the dish, however, was not too generous and I ended up with room for much more. The traditional English breakfast was a very mundane dish which included two poached eggs and toast with smoked streaky bacon, slow-roast tomatoes and buttered mushrooms. My gluttonous companion was not too impressed, nor was I.

We decided to give the Pantry (and our stomachs) another chance, ordering two desserts. I went wild with a scone accompanied by kumquat preserve and clotted cream, to go with my Gen Mai cha – Japanese green tea combined with roasted brown rice. The tea was intoxicating with its oriental aroma. The scone was plain and crumbly but the exotic kumquat preserve succeeded in upgrading the whole dessert. My companion with an eclectic taste went for the green tea muffin with Vegemite, accompanied by English Breakfast tea. As the Englishman bitterly summed it up: “Vegemite is a poor second to Marmite.”

It was finally time for the bill, everyone’s least favourite stage of the meal, which was significantly prolonged by the various waiters who had to be constantly reminded we were still there and waiting. 17 minutes later, we paid our bill of £39.09 and walked out of the Pantry, disappointed as we were when walking out the previous week.

Given the immense hype that the Modern Pantry is getting, it really turned out to be nothing but a posh restaurant that serves small dishes of plain food. True – the hidden gems, such as the kumquat preserve and the Gen Mai Cha, were a delight, but everything around it was dull and bland compared to the restaurant just next door, and the dishes were quite stingy. The fake bourgeois atmosphere and the horrific service were no joy as well.

By the end of our experience, we agreed: definitely go back to the Zetter and order that fourth breakfast on the menu!

My very own Christmas Carol

This month has been quite a successful one. Thanks to good old nepotism, I got the opportunity of going to the press screening of Disney’s new film A Christmas Carol, followed by an intimate press conference with the staff, which was held at some posh hotel ball room where they served us endless amounts of tiny cucumber sandwiches, high society salmon wraps and alcoholic drinks. I almost felt like a pro.


After watching the ageing (yet charming, in his own way) Jim Carrey talking nonsense for an hour, occasionally interrupted by the striking Colin Firth as well as the well known and respected director Robert Zemeckis, I wrote a news report in English, which got translated to Hebrew as well as (painfully) edited and on the Israeli youth magazine Ma’ariv LaNoar, and can be (partially) read here:


http://www.nrg.co.il/online/24/ART1/971/000.html


This is the authentic version of my story:






Jim Carrey arrived in London to illuminate Oxford Street while promoting his new film – Disney’s A Christmas Carol, premiering tonight in Leicester Square.



The new 3D animated remake for Charles Dickens’s classic A Christmas Carol, directed by Robert Zemeckis and starring Jim Carrey, Gary Oldman, Colin Firth and Bob Hoskins, will be released in the UK on November 6th. Firth and Hoskins will light up Regent Street and St Paul’s Cathedral tomorrow while Carrey will be switching on the traditional Oxford Street Christmas lights simultaneously, in celebration of the new film.


“We finally have the tools to bring this story to life,” said Zemeckis about the novella that takes place in London, “I could never have imagined setting the film in any other country,” continued the Academy Award winning director of films such as Forrest Gump, The Polar Express, the Back to the Future trilogy and Cast Away.


The film (rated PG) tells the story of Scrooge (Carrey), the misanthropic old man who despises Christmas, and is being visited by the ghost of his deceased friend and business partner Marley (Oldman) as well as the three spirits (Carrey) of Christmas Past, Present and Yet to Come. When asked whether he thinks this film is suitable for children, Carrey replied that “it is certainly no scarier than Pirates of the Caribbean!” while Firth added that “this film is all an act of kindness, and kids love to be scared”.


The new technology used in this film has certainly been a real challenge for the cast, as Firth explained, describing his strange experiences such as the “unfamiliar process of being scanned”, yet it enables a middle aged man to play a little boy and vice versa. “It’s so spooky,“ explained 47 year old Carrey, “Scrooge actually looks just like my father, so I got a glimpse of what I’m going to look like.”


Carrey has recently become a devoted Twitter user, explaining “that’s where you’ll see the whole development of my ego problem.” Before his arrival to London, the American comedian twittered: “Hope to see the whole commonwealth at 'Christmas Carol' premiere. London, Tues the 3rd. It's my honor to light the lights at Oxford St.”


Firth himself does not seem too keen on Christmas, as he admitted that during Christmas he tries “not to turn on the radio” explaining that “one sound of it could make us all homicidal.”