I'm fascinated by the confluence of creative and commercial worlds. 

As a consumer, it's entirely possible to lap up what's on offer without giving it a second thought. Consider the so-called personal recommendations you get on Amazon or Netflix or even Ocado. As it happens, the novelty in the 'new' is preciously rare. What consumers get are the products of commercial decisions made by some pretty risk-averse individuals far removed from the creative process. We have to forgive them: it's their job. But if we want genuine inspiration from the arts and innovation from products and services, we need to act smart. This is how.

I used to buy a new book without thinking about what it took to get it picked up and published. It's only when I wrote my own memoir, Bird's Milk, that I learned about the inner works of the publishing industry. Every book (and every TV series and every play performed on stage) is a product of a formulaic set-up. True, it all begins with an idea and some often masochistic creative genius who works hard to bring that idea to life. Most creatives follow their own calling and write what's important to them. It's because it's pretty hard to keep going otherwise and tinker with something you care little about. Then a book or a script lands with an agent who must sell it to a publisher or a TV executive. It's at this stage that a script becomes "Fleabag meets Gossip Girl" or "Pride and Prejudice set in Pakistan". Publishing and show business are inherently risky industries where many fail and money is made from rare hits. The works that get picked up are usually those which can be compared best to previous success stories. No heads would roll if you commission something which looked like the next Game of Thrones.  

The same happens in non-creative industries where similarly risk-averse decision makers rule on which new products will be displayed on Tesco shelves, which start-ups will get funded and which projects will get backed. The fastest growing early stage businesses this year are on-demand grocery delivery startups because why fund a climate-crisis solution when you can pop more money into the pockets of Getir, Dija, Kavall, Gorillas or Weezy? This year alone investors ploughed hundreds of millions into these highly unoriginal ventures. The irony of this 'comparable' thinking is that Deliveroo is yet to make a profit while marketing identical services to consumers will erase even the possibility of breaking even. 

In the world where commercial decisions are so dependent on comparables and formulas it is a wonder that we get to consume anything genuinely original. Truly original art and products are nearly impossible to sell. This is precisely why creators from underrepresented backgrounds are finding it hard to break through: their stories are too different from what commissioning editors are used to and the problems their startups aim to tackle are too obscure for the average Etonian investor.

The fact that we now read and watch stories by Black writers is a testament to their perseverance and to the progress we as a society are making towards giving everyone an equal opportunity. Some of the recently published novels like Luster by Raven Leilani are groundbreaking. Earlier this summer I went to the Kiln theatre to see a play called Reasons You Should(n't) Love Me written and performed by Amy Trigg. It was about a twentysomething woman navigating work, love, friendships and spina bifida in a wheelchair. The show was remarkably humorous, tender and uplifting, and it made me look at the world from an entirely different point of view of a person who doesn't need my pity or help, but my understanding and empathy.  The play came to stage because Amy Trigg won the Women's Prize for Playwriting in 2020 and Paines Plough, a theatre company dedicated to new writing, helped to produce it. It wasn't Chekhov or Shakespeare - it was modern, relevant and incredibly inspiring. 

At the end of the day, it all comes down to us, consumers. It's up to us to signal what we like and want more of. You can either binge on the truly terrible revival of the Gossip Girl or head to the West End to see a play just because of its celebrity cast. Or you can challenge yourself to see something new and possibly uncomfortable and if you like it - make sure you tell everyone about it. 

The same goes to products and services we use every day. Try Oddbox for fruit and vegetables delivery, Rubies in the Rubble for ketchup and mayo, switch to sustainable energy providers, buy an electric or a hybrid car and, for goodness sake, don't get involved with fast grocery delivery apps - use your money to shape the world you want to live in. 

Cataclysmic events tend to have not just profound effects on people's lives but they also inspire remarkable works of art often causing a shift in culture. World War II, for example, was followed by a new movement on stage, producing "Theatre of the Absurd", dramatic works by Samuel Beckett, Eugène Ionesco and Harold Pinter, to name a few. Theatre of the Absurd stemmed from the era of spiritual emptiness, when amidst precariousness of human existence all traditional values and meaning of life itself seemed to have become irrelevant. Theatre of the 1950s and 1960s produced narrative without plots, babbling monologues and incongruous settings. Yet the legacy of the bewildered, anxious, disoriented humankind we inherited through those "absurd" works is uncannily relevant to our own experience today.

If you are a little bored of Netflix, I encourage you to seek out a YouTube version of Beckett's play Happy Days, written and first staged in New York in 1961. (I watched the film version with Rosaleen Linehan as Winnie, directed by Patricia Rozema.)   

On the surface, the play is absurd. A middle-aged, well-preserved (Beckett's words, not mine!) woman wearing a low cut bodice and a pearl necklace is buried up to her waist in a mound amidst a desolate landscape. Beside her there is a large black bag which contains a bunch of items such as a toothbrush, a hairbrush, a mirror, a parasol and - I'll be candid with you - a revolver. There is a hole nearby, where her monosyllabic husband Willie dwells.

In Act I, Winnie wakes up and goes about her daily routine: brushing her teeth, making up her face, all the while chatting merrily, obviously putting an effort to stay cheerful and oblivious to her predicament. In Act II, we find Winnie buried up to her chin, a revolver still nearby but out of reach. Husband Willie is predictably useless, and the last scene ends with a song (the playwright is Irish, remember).

​I have no idea what Beckett was originally alluding to with his clever play but you won't be short of ideas of how to interpret his allegory. Winnie might be stuck in a hopeless marriage or she might have lived all her life in a small town, never daring to explore the world beyond her milieu. Winnie could have stayed in a  job she hated all her life, but she wasn't brave enough or believed she didn't have the means to move on. Winnie could be stuck at home self-isolating with her good-for-nothing husband, lonely and desperate for help and genuine human contact. She could even represent the entire humankind buried alive amidst the climate crisis, while her husband represents useless governments and policy-makers. 

My fascination with the play stems from its very vivid representation of the British "grin and bear" culture. The woman is unhappy, she is in some difficulty, yet she puts of a brave face day in, day out, talking to herself: "No, no... mustn't complain... so much to be thankful for..." Winnie keeps herself sane with her daily routine and her positive mental attitude: "What I find wonderful that not a day goes by without some blessing in disguise." Personally, I'm a big fan of practising gratitude, finding a silver lining in every cloud and keeping to a routine in uncertain times, but Winnie takes "glass half full" attitude to a whole new level. 

What's clearly helping Winnie is her bag. It's a sense of security, something solid to hold on to. It helps to understand why people are stockpiling non-perishable items during the Covid-19 outbreak: it's not about the fear of staying hungry - it's about doing something to restore one's peace of mind.

There is a scene where Winnie takes out a parasol from her bag and opens it up. Winnie is struggling to hold it up, she is very uncomfortable, and yet - she finds it impossible to put it down. That's another ingenious metaphor representing all sorts of burdens people are determined to keep carrying instead of resolutely dropping them and taking off both physical and mental loads. So often we feel "grinning and bearing" is the right approach, the righteous path even, but sometimes turning back down the mountain when struck with altitude sickness; closing down an underperforming business or walking away from an unhealthy relationship is the wiser thing to do. I found myself shouting at the screen: "Drop it down, you silly woman!" I can't say she heard me. 

What struck me about Happy Days is that it shows how reluctant we are to call for help. They say that the three most difficult things to say are "I'm sorry", "I love you" and "Help". I think "Help" is by far the hardest. Whether you are British and have been brought up with the "stiff upper lip" attitude or whether you are simply a modern independent human being used to relying on yourself, reaching out for help may seem like admitting a weakness or defeat. Now especially one is tempted to think that we are all in the same boat struggling to make sense with what's happening in the world. Asking for a favour may seem like an unreasonable indulgence.

It is not. Asking for help is not a weakness - it's a brave thing to do. You might get ignored, but you might get a lifeline. Most people - who are well, who are safe financially, who are simply fortunate to have their spirits up - are looking for ways to be useful. They want to help and it would make them feel good to do so. History and anthropology tell us that humans survive hardship through cooperation. We wouldn't be here today if our ancestors didn't get together to hunt, fight and look after the weak, i.e. the elderly, pregnant women and children. We wouldn't love our family and friends so fiercely had they not been kind to us when we needed their support.

In times like this, don't be a Winnie. Be brave and ask for help. 

graffiti
writing or drawings scribbled, scratched or sprayed illicitly on a wall or other surface in a public place

Last week I was on a graffiti tour of Bogotá in Colombia. Bogotá is considered a friendly city among the graffiti community with restaurants and cafés in the historic centre even paying artists on occasion to have their façades painted. A school in the heart of Candelaria regularly invites artists to demonstrate graffiti technique to children, using a fence surrounding the school premises as a canvas.

This hard reality does not seem to stop graffiti artists. Well aware of the temporary nature of their art, they invest in paint, take their time and pour their hearts into their work. It is perhaps even liberating knowing that you can try things out, dare to be different and truly innovative, having no guarantee of permanence. It gives one permission to experiment, make mistakes, be honest, whilst doing your best.

Are you a graffiti artist? Do you write because you love putting your thoughts down on paper and explore the library of the language? Do you compose or play music because it heals and makes you feel good? Are you an entrepreneur who is not afraid to try something on not because you are banking on that idea making you rich but because you are truly passionate about your product or service and the value it creates for your customers? Are you a teacher who loves seeing your students absorbing knowledge and going on to explore new pastures, inspired by your lessons? Are you tinkering with an app for the ingenuity of it?

What will you discover by practising your art without reward, praise or an apparent incentive? It may well be gold dust.

It's been years since I've read any poetry. Then last week I found myself easing into a 5-minute forward bend, listening to one. I was at a yin yoga practice, a slow-paced, meditative style of yoga with postures held for longer periods of time. My teacher, Norman Blair, occasionally adds a contemplative experience to a class by telling a story. 

This time he read us a poem by the German-born American writer Charles Bukowski.  Here it is:

the bluebird
there’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see you.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that he’s in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay down, do you want to mess me up?
you want to screw up the works?
you want to blow my book sales in Europe?

there’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out
                                                                                                         but I’m too clever, 
                                                                                                         I only let him out at night sometimes
                                                                                                         when everybody’s asleep.
                                                                                                         I say, I know that you’re there, so don’t be sad.

                                                                                                         then I put him back,
                                                                                                         but he’s still singing a little in there, 
                                                                                                         I haven’t quite let him die
                                                                                                         and we sleep together like that
                                                                                                         with our secret pact
                                                                                                         and it’s nice enough to make a man weep, 
                                                                                                         but I don’t weep, 
                                                                                                         do you?

I took the liberty to record my own reading of the poem, which is available here.

I travelled to New York and spent the first couple of days gorging on the treasures of Manhattan’s art museums. Met's and MOMA’s collections are enviable - Picasso, Cézanne, Matisse, Klimt, Modigliani - to give you my personal highlights. Taking it all in, I could not help but think about the talk by the philosopher Alain de Botton, I attended earlier this year.

Alain de Botton and art historian John Armstrong wrote a book Art as Therapy, proposing an idea that art has a purpose beyond aesthetic pleasure. Art may serve as therapy and help us with such difficulties as restlessness, stress, anxiety, fear, finding purpose, fulfilment and love.  

It goes like this: feeling anxious about your status? Longing for glamour? Consider Johannes Vermeer’s The Little Street 1658. The artist chose to paint simple quarters with women going about their daily work: sweeping the yard, sewing, minding children. There is no glamour on the canvas, instead, Vermeer showed preciousness of the modest life and tranquility of daily chores. If the Dutch painter chose to accentuate the beauty of the ordinary life, might his work help to lessen our status anxiety?

At MOMA I stumbled upon Henri Matisse’s Dance I. I found it impossible not to smile. There is so much joy in that painting, with dancers floating in the air, so much hope and optimism, communicated through the colours of blue and green. It is no wonder Matisse apparently referred to Dance I as "the overpowering climax of luminosity”.  

It’s not surprising that MOMA’s visitors choose to sit down and stay a while in the room with Cézanne’s Water Lilies. The painting is so enchanting in its tranquility, it allowed me to time travel through memories of summer, smelling of wild flowers and bathing in warm sunlight. I felt instantly at peace, as if after meditation. 

Alain de Botton also thinks that we are subconsciously drawn to works of art, which may help to fill in a hole or re-balance us. A while ago when I was still working in the City, I bought a print by Edd Pearman Too Eager To Please. I saw it at an art fair in London and liked it at once even before hearing its story. The artist interviewed his friends in their 20s who got jobs in the City. He asked them whether the ‘high-flying’ jobs met their expectations and how they felt about their lives. It’s true that one picture says a thousand words.