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Vienna, a set on Flickr.
Sometimes, it's nice to stop talking and take it all in. Here are some snaps I took in Vienna.
The cult of speed or the cult of noise? Maybe what we need is a Listening Revolution rather than a Slow Revolution...
Last week I took a long lunch break. I walked across London to attend a lunchtime lecture at the RSA entitled "The Slow Revolution." Transport for London had warned me that walking would take approximately 52 minutes, so I was pretty pleased when I calculated that I had done it in 36 minutes. Still, the man at the reception felt the need to point out to me that the lecture had started 9 minutes ago.
As I entered, Carl Honoré, author of In Praise of Slow, was listing the different Slow movements that emerged over the last few years. From Slow Food to Slow Parenting, and from Slow Medicine to Slow Sex, a number of increasingly broad ranging campaigns advocate that we take a breather and start reconsidering what we value in life.
After this overview Kate Fletcher talked about sustainable fashion. She pointed out the oddity of promoting slowness in an industry based on trends, while highlighting the fact that the issue wasn't intrinsic to fashion, but was the result of a business model based on consumerist values. She proposed that, to achieve sustainability, people in the fashion industry should focus, not just on garments as products, but on implementing alternative political visions, where the whole process of garment making and wearing has positive implications for the resilience of communities.
Then Gervais Williams talked about Slow Finance, and of the importance of reconnecting investors with the projects they are investing in, in order to generate positive outcomes at local levels.
Finally, Deepa Patel, from Slow Down London, introduced her talk by saying something really powerful. She said:
"I'm never going to have this moment again."
I found that really liberating. It reminded me why I had wanted to hear about this slow business in the first place. While all the other speakers had been focused on making sure they used their five minutes to tell as much of their story as they could, she simply used the opportunity to connect with the audience, by reminding us of our greatest commonality: we're all going to die.
Strangely, this realisation that time is precious is probably what is leading us to continually speed up our lives, by investing in ever faster trains, smarter phones, and other conveniently evil technologies. But as one person from the audience noted, maybe we are thinking fast to avoid thinking hard. We create distractions, so that we won't have to face the fact that, well, we're never going to have this moment again.
For me, London is the city that embodies this avoidance. It feels like a really impatient city. Not just physically impatient - I don't mind that, I can see why people would want to spend as little time as possible in the tube - but more frustratingly, intellectually impatient. Maybe it's because I work in the field of innovation, but I feel as if London is always on the verge of embracing a new trend of thought - and rejecting an outdated one. I see this city as a great platform for sharing ideas, but always wonder who really listens to those ideas? I mean really listening, not just being aware of them, not just spreading them, not just embracing them and exhausting them until they are replaced by the next buzzword.
Another notion that was discussed during this not-quite-debate was the one of being connected. The speakers seemed to share the assumption that slowing down implied connecting with others, connecting with the moment, connecting with where our food comes from, connecting with what our body feels, etc. One person from the audience mentioned how technological advances are precisely just about enabling connections, and yet the accent is still on speed. I think the point here though is that the connectedness that the speakers were putting forward is distinct from the connectivity enabled by these new sharing platforms. Connectedness implies depth, connectivity implies breadth (and potentially superficiality). In more conventional terms, connectedness implies quality, connectivity implies quantity.
I think this distinction is important, and brings another notion, which was only alluded at when one of the speakers mentioned that the Slow movement wasn't about slowing down everything, but about doing everything at the right tempo. It's the one of listening. To give everything we do the time it deserves, we have to listen really deeply to what the situation tells us. Similarly, when coming across new ideas, we need to give ourselves the time to really listen to them and understand what they mean. And taking those ideas away from the constant noise of the intellectual city might help us to connect with them more deeply, and interrogate what they really tell us, what they imply for our lives - until they become so embedded that we realise we're only having a dialogue with ourselves. Then we need to turn Twitter back on...
September People's Kitchen, a set on Flickr.
I'm a grown-up.
This week is a bit like grown-up week for me. For two reasons.
1. LONDON SPUDS
I have managed to grow something. The spuds in my back garden have flowered. This is the first time in my life that I actually grow something for real (with some great advice). I mean I have dealt with numerous cacti in the past, but now we're speaking potatoes. We're speaking edible. And that's exciting.
2. PUBLIC SPEAKING
This Friday, I'm going to speak at a conference. On food and design. I'll be speaking about my MA project, spreading the idea of using food as a language to connect people from different communities, and share what I have learned from running the Brixton People's Kitchen project. And that's frightening.
May Brixton People's Kitchen, a set on Flickr.
Learnings from the kitchen: local strategies and global visions
I have spent most of the second half of 2011 speaking and writing about food and community action. So it is with great joy that I am spending the first half of 2012 cooking food and doing community action. The Brixton People Kitchen launched last December and the adventure has been really exciting so far. It is not perfect yet, and I still have a lot to learn, but I have already learned so much, that I thought it would be good to write it down.
This blog post is the first of an upcoming series, and it is about scaling up.
Scale is a concept that has been bouncing in my head for a bit now, and quite confusingly so. Since I heard the wise Ezio Manzini on the importance of localness, I have been wondering whether it is even relevant to talk about scalability when it comes to social innovation. Since I read Small Change, by Nabeel Hamdi, I have been interested in the "long-term, large-scale effectiveness of immediate, small scale actions.” Now that I work at the Innovation Unit, I wonder how to reconcile the radicalism of some ultra-local solutions and the desirability of wider system change (and I'm not alone):
Many social innovations are local responses to local challenges. They emerge from the energy of local people and are nurtured by the dynamics of a local culture. Once we have worked out how to make the best of these local contexts and built a solution that works and has a true impact in a specific place, how do we “roll out” what we have learned to other places?
And since I have been working on the Brixton People's Kitchen, I have been wondering about how the project can keep growing until it has reached the right scale, and most importantly, how we will know it has reached the right scale.
Then, a couple of weeks back, I had a refreshing meeting with the brilliant people who are helping to make the Brixton People's Kitchen run so smoothly. We were thinking about what we can do next, whether we have the capacity to run more regular events, and how we can promote them better. I am a designer AND a worrier. Which means that, not only I always want everything to be the best it can be, but also that I live in the future and in the hypothetical rather than in the now. I forget to appreciate what is right under my nose, and I rarely look back on past achievements. So when my kitchen friends rightly reminded to embrace slowness and to enjoy what we had built so far, I think I learned something very important. It helped me to come up with a better way of think about scalability.
Let's forget about growth. We should think about impact instead.
It seems obvious, but it's not. Our economic model, and therefore the big narratives that shape our society, are based on the idea of perpetual growth. And when we come up with ideas that could potentially change the world for the better, we feel the urge to... well... take over the world.
But the question we should be asking ourselves is not how can we grow, but how can we have the maximum impact? And sometimes it is by growing. But sometimes it might be by sharing learning. Sometimes it might by through collaboration and openness, rather than competitiveness. And sometimes it might simply be, not by knowing how to grow, but knowing when to stop. Knowing at what scale our model can be the most meaningful for people who take part in it. Are we going to affect the biggest change by organising massive one-off events, which people might engage with in quite superficial ways, or is it through small and intimate events, in which people can make substantial contributions? Scalability is about understanding at what scale our model can be the most impactful, and therefore understanding what sort of impact we want to have. The answer is obviously, and like always, it depends.
It depends on our vision, and it depends on a local context.
Thinking about what sort of impact we want to have led me to think about what motivated us at the first place. We obviously all have different reasons for getting involved in the project. But if we dig a bit deeper, we can probably understand people's motivation to take action (as social innovators, as community activists, as whatever you call anyone who tries to change something in a proactive way) as the friction of two things:
A VISION. If we have this urge to take over the world, it's probably because we are vision driven. And visions are global - or at least ideal, hypothetical. We wonder "what if the whole world was like this?" and this global vision of a transformed world is what makes a cause worth the bother.
LOCAL CHALLENGES. If we actually take action, it is often because we have identified something our community needs, or even something that will make us happier as an individual (to feel valued, to contribute, to meet like-minded people, to develop skills, to overcome boredom...). We have identified a gap, within our remit of action, which might accommodate our vision.
In other words we are constantly juggling with both global and local ambitions. Which might explain why scale is such a complex topic when it comes to social innovation.
My latest blog post on the Innovation Unit's website.
"If you have any sense of responsibility at all, stay with your riots here at home... You will know what you are doing, why you are doing it, and how to communicate with those to whom you speak. And you will know when you fail. If you insist on working with the poor, if this is your vocation, then at least work among the poor who can tell you to go to hell."
To Hell with Good Intentions, Ivan Illich
Making the most of what we don't know: ignorance and innovation.
Despite being a woman in my mid-twenties, I know less about pregnancy than I do about the English football Premier League. This is not quite a flaw worth mentioning in itself, but, as one of the projects I am currently taking a part in at the Innovation Unit aims at improving antenatal services, it feels like I should start working on addressing this imbalance.
However, taking part in workshops with new mums and clinicians aimed at understanding the challenges they have faced or are facing when dealing with the antenatal care system, has made me realise that ignorance can be an asset.
EMPATHY & IGNORANCE
Designing better services requires designers and innovators to take an empathetic approach. This is based on the belief that users are the best placed to solve the problems of a system: they know better than anyone else where the system has worked for them, and where it has let them down.
So we listen. We try to understand their experience. We try to put ourselves in their shoes. We value the contributions of everyone affected. We try to include as many different perspectives as possible. This approach is extremely valuable, and is the best way to make sure solutions are relevant to users' needs, and that outcomes are better for users' lives.
But during the workshops we ran with new mums, probably due to my inexperience, I struggled. I struggled to take it all in. I struggled to navigate from one perspective to another. I struggled to know which questions to ask. I struggled to know when to decide I had a complete enough picture of the problem.
This is probably because I had experienced nothing close to what the women were sharing. I couldn't put myself in their shoes.
This might seem counter-intuitive, but, with the distance, having nothing to compare with, can be regarded as a luxury. Simply because it takes the attention away from myself. It prevents me to rely on the assumptions I would have formed through the experience. It prevents me to confront the experiences of others with my side of the story.
IGNORANCE & QUESTIONING
The best analogy I can find is the one of languages. Though unquestionably daunting, speaking a foreign language, is probably one of the most freeing experiences - not knowing how to express one thing, having to find your way through words, and all the questioning that comes with it, that is. It is no surprise that the King of Questioning, Samuel Beckett, ended up writing in French, to free himself up from all the linguistic assumptions one has usually been immersed into since birth - and completely rethink both languages as a result.
So, the power of ignorance is in the questioning. That does not make it a guarantee against assumptions. On the contrary, I am forced to make assumptions in order to fill the gaps, but the point is that I am not precious about them, because I am detached enough from the subject to accept that I am probably wrong.
This is particularly true of the process of having to visualise complex systems, like has been the case in the Mums' Power project. Mapping what we know is mostly useful to highlight what we don't know. It leads us to ask the right questions. It opens up the innovation process. It generates conversations.
As Nabeel Hamdi puts it, in the most helpful design book I have ever read, “not knowing ... changes fundamentally power relationships because it invites questions, the answers to which are not already pre-set. In this sense, not knowing encourages the participation of others to engage with each other in search of ideas not based on pre-established routines, nor on so-called best practices.”
Brixton Women's Resourceful Feast
So, the MA is done, and the joyful white nights spent distilling thoughts and findings gathered during a two month exploration of how local food systems can be used to engage culturally and socially diverse communities around sustainability issues, seem really far away. However, the digestion process, just like the previous sentence, is long and cumbersome. My brain is still somewhere in the blurry transitional space between all the writing that has happened and all the sharing that will happen.
What I won't speculate too much about, however, is taking action. The people I have met during my research have truly inspired me to do more and think less.
So together with Virginia, who is equally obsessed with Brixton Market and food waste as I am, Ego, from the Lambeth Women's Project, Kasia, who gets most of her fresh food from the skips of New Covent Garden Market, and Camilla, who is working with me on setting up a Brixton's People's Kitchen, we organised a skipped meal with the Brixton Women's Institute.
We kept the recipe pretty simple. What it took was:
1 hour of initial planning
Kasia's experience of skipping and a 30mns visit to the bins of New Covent Garden Market
Ego's smile to get M&S to donate some wine and the Old Post Office Bakery to donate some (not quite stale) bread
an afternoon of cooking
some undesirable "weed" from Virginia's back garden to make the table pretty
and an evening of enjoying beautiful food and talking about waste
Here is what we got (note the massive bowl of girolles, super posh and super tasty wild mushrooms in the middle! Half of them became mushroom soup and the other half was blended into the most exciting vegetarian paté I've ever tasted):
Here is what we decided to do with it:
Here is what we did:
What I learned:
Stale bread put in the oven for 10mn with a bit of water spread on it will come out as fresh!
Simplicity is always good. And free food is always a good way of spreading happiness.
New Covent Garden Market is a little world I would like to explore further. Mostly to understand how security guards put up with the weird role play they are pushed into, when it is clear that they share everyone's feeling at seeing piles of perfectly edible food being thrown away.
I'm ready for more. Bring on the Brixton's People's Kitchen!
(All pictures by Virginia Nimarkoh)
They shout they want to shape a better future, but it's not true. The future is only an indifferent void no one cares about, but the past is filled with life, and its countenance is irritating, repellent, wounding, to the point that we want to destroy or repaint it. We want to be masters of the future only for the power to change the past.
Milan Kundera, The Book of Laughter and Forgetting, 1978
Sustainable. Resourceful. Delicious.
It's no news: our food system is unsustainable. Food miles and unnecessary waste are just two of our globalised and sanitised diets' adverse side effects.
When we consider the extent of the problem and the interconnectedness of the system, the amount of work that will need to be done to bring back some sanity onto our plates seems gargantuan. Forum for the Future have broken it down in a very helpful way by identifying three priorities:
Rebalance economic equity in food chain, by valuing producers. This is a strong focus of the marvelous People's Supermarket, which sources nearly all of its fresh produces from local producers, and establishes long-term, meaningful and rewarding relationships with them.
Reconnect people with the food they eat, by allowing them to appreciate the many stories behind a meal, from social capital and animal welfare to nutritional value.
Restore resilience to the food system by making more effective use of resources and eliminating unnecessary waste.
I would like to add one more re- word: reevaluate. We need to turn problems upside down and search for opportunities in the existing system. We need to understand that waste, like beauty, is in the eyes of the beholder. Finally, we need to celebrate, not moralise. Here are two very admirable initiatives that illustrate these points by positively challenging the idea of waste.
THE PEOPLE'S KICTHEN, DALSTON
Every Sunday, The People's Kitchen is providing good food and good mood to the people of Dalston and beyond. Collecting food surplus from local businesses and inviting anyone and everyone to have a go at transforming it into a delicious feast, The People's Kitchen feels to me like a very welcome weekly celebration of... well, people.
Founded by inspired and inspiring chef Steve Wilson, it operates in a very non hierarchical way. While having to improvise a giant pudding from a loaf of stale bread in front of twenty hungry strangers might seem a bit daunting, the satisfaction that comes from seeing everyone's contribution equally valued is truly comforting. In other words, not knowing your turnips from your swedes does not make you less of a People's Chef.
The obvious benefits of spreading awareness of food waste are doubled by the joy of communal cooking, and tripled by the prospect of tasting every single dish improvised by the many hands that decided to come together on that day.
The People's Kitchen is a model of resourceful innovation: seeing solutions in what is already available to us. Taking part reminded me that opportunities for happiness are everywhere: in supermarket bins, in ugly tomatoes and mushy apples, and in all the people we don't normally speak to.
INVISIBLE FOOD, BRIXTON
Closer to home, in Lambeth, is another beautiful community food project, run by local artist Ceri Buck. Each month, she takes an ever evolving group of local residents on a foraging walk around the Loughborough Junction estate. Looking for wild food in the city is an amazing learning experience. Again, it is about discovering opportunities for positive action in what is already available to us.
Thus, thanks to Invisible Food, I found a few weeks ago what seems like a limitless supply of free blackberries just five minutes away from my house. Together with 15 other people of all ages and all origins, we joined efforts to make just about a litre of blackberry ice cream. It might seem like nothing, but it was a masterpiece! Best ice cream ever! This was followed by a potluck picnic, and a short walk during which we spotted not less than 15 edible plants I had no idea existed.
The amazingness of Invisible Food lies in its playfulness. It encourages participants to look at their urban environment differently, like peckish explorers, and to experiment and learn from eachother by sharing recipes. In Ceri's words:
"Invisible Food lives in the conversations held and the relationships that spring up during the walks."
Being located in ethnically and socially diverse Brixton, Invisible Food is also remarkable for its inclusiveness. Previous projects include, for example, the production, of a local Nettle and Ginger beer made and sold by local children in Brixton Village, West African plants growing and cooking at Brockwell Park Community Grennhouses, and a series of coffee ceremonies with Eritrean and Ethiopian residents near Myatt's Field Park.
To me, Invisible Food is a great example of the idea that food is a language everyone speaks.
What does Brixton taste like?
My final MA project is an exploration of how local food systems can be used to engage culturally and socially diverse communities around sustainability issues. I am focusing on Brixton, which I see as a very exciting food hub (what's not to get excited about a food hub?).
My first mission could be described as a very delicious scoping exercise. Not only I am trying to map out local food initiatives with a social and environmental edge to them, but I am also trying to understand the various relationships local residents have with food in general and with Brixton market in particular.
So last Sunday, I proceeded to a very spontaneous - and therefore pretty loose - taste audit at the Brixton Splash festival. Armed with 20 colour markers, 60 paper plates, a camera, 3 generous classmates mates and a smile, I asked people in the crowd to draw their favourite dish, and to talk to me about their shopping and cooking habits.
Here are a few of the pictures from the day:
And here are some of the results:
And finally, here is my favourite plate, from Issa, who decided bubble gum was, without a doubt, tastier than anything else.
What have I learned?
Quick and cheap feels good. It takes the apprehension of talking to strangers away and keeps things simple. Methods of engagement do not need to be over designed. Most of it is down to attitude and friendliness.
A bit of planning would have been good too! Mostly to make sure the questions I asked and the conversations I had remained relevant to my research.
Getting people to draw works quite well, and not only with children. It gave me time to engage with them on a deeper level while they were drawing, and at the same time, it gave them space to stay silent and not feel too pressured to answer.
Festivals make it easier. They offer a relaxed and celebratory setting which makes the whole process feel less intrusive.
My classmates are amazing!
The power of us
As our academic journey through design and sustainability is coming to an end (or at least, to a new beginning), we are having more and more frequent conversations about what we have learned that will be very valuable for us in the future. Is it the knowledge that we have gathered through our reading? Is it the critical spirit that we have developed through our writing? Is it the design methods that we have explored? Is it the contacts we have made with practitioners and academics? Well, it’s surely all of these, but I can’t help but feel that first comes the very special friendship we have formed.
As a very small group of five confused souls coming from five corners of the world to try and do good, I think we’ve done pretty well. We are five different brains, five different languages, five different design disciplines, five different parts of London, ten different countries, and fifty different fingers. But we have managed to find a common ground, we have developed a shared language, and we have realised that we have similar values and motivations. We have also learned to collaborate in very meaningful ways, valuing what is unique in each one of us.
Having to work together on a few projects, we have had to be ready to listen to each other, and to try to find solutions together. But as we spontaneously started to help each other on our individual projects, I realised that collaboration is more than just team work. It’s an attitude. It’s a mindset. It’s a willingness to approach the challenges we face individually in a non-competitive way. It’s about building on each other’s thoughts without being precious about them. It’s about sharing.
It might not seem like much, but experiencing this makes me happy. One of our theoric learnings is that the path towards sustainability depends very much on sharing and co-production. Therefore seeing that we are applying these principles into our working process is a way to feel that we are actually practicing what we preach. And it’s almost as comforting as a cherry and apple crumble accompanied with lime and coconut ice cream.
Who owns social change?
Last Friday, I went to see one of the very first screenings of Just Do It, a brilliant documentary about a joyous bunch of passionate climate change activists, ready to flirt with illegality to push governments and corporations to take responsibility for the environmental impacts of their economic actions. The film is beautifully shot by Emily James. The message is very inspiring. I strongly empathise with the values they defend, and I admire the creativity and fearlessness with which they do it.
(Photo by Rob Logan)
But there is a but. Or in fact, there are questions. Loads.
I'm naive, I'm French, and I'm new to the UK. Through my MA, I have spent the last few months immersing myself into the wonderful world of social innovation and sustainability. I came across many beautiful projects, and got involved in some of them. I learned a lot, most of which I was looking forward to learn.
But one thing I didn't really expect, is how aware I became of class divisions in England. The issue is probably more complex than I can express it, but what particularly strikes me, is the tacit acceptance of these divisions. Before moving here, I lived in Dublin, where social classes are very obvious, and easily identifiable, even for my naive French self. Coming from a very multicultural and "hybridised" suburb of Paris, I felt as if Dubliners were walking stereotypes. But it didn't bother me. Maybe because it didn't seem to hinder communication between different groups.
In London, where people are much more diverse, social divisions are more diffuse. They are almost intangible, but seem to be deeply rooted in mental representations. And instances of mis-communication, or in fact, non-communication, are quite striking. Particularly when it comes to physical spaces. Streets, shops, cafés. Truly inclusive places seem really hard to find. It feels as though there is no neutral ground.
But what does this have to do with the environmental movement?
I started to formulate this thought while working with a couple of my classmates on a project with social change agency UsCreates for the Urban Physic Garden (100 Union Street, SE1). This temporary project has beautifully transformed a neglected site into a medicinal garden, and represents great potential to inspire and educate people about urban growing and sustainability. The problem is, very few local residents seem to make use of it.
So, we have been trying to figure out ways to engage local residents. We have been conducting micro interviews in the street and in some local estates, and realised that many people simply didn't relate to the space. We encountered a lot of enthusiasm, but also quite a bit of misundersanding, and sometimes even some resentment. Too museum-like, too closed-off, too sophisticated, too intimidating, too "middle-class."
The "it's not for us" feeling.
This lack of broad community ownership seems to be an issue for many "sustainability-minded" projects. In the words of Transition Towns hero, Rob Hopkins, inclusion and diversity are essential ingredients:
Transition tends to appeal to what academics call the ‘post-consumerists’ i.e. those who have reached a level of sufficient wealth and education to feel comfortable in letting go of some of it, who are often, but not always, white and middle-class. However, if Transition is serious about creating resilient communities but fails to create a process over which all sections of the community feel some sense of ownership, it will not truly be creating resilience.
Does the environmental movement only belong to an elite of, as a friend of mine once cheekily said, "middle-class hippies"? Does the social background of those who are driving positive change even matters? How much does it affect the credibility of such projects?
These are questions that need to be addressed if we want the spaces, where conversations around environmental and social change happen, to engage everyone. Again, as Rob Hopkins says:
There is a perception often in environmental groups that some sectors of society are ‘hard to reach’. What is less often considered though is the possibility that it is actually we who are ‘hard to reach’, that for many people, due to how we work, communicate and position ourselves, we can be seen as remote, distant and irrelevant.
Can the environmental movement become more inclusive? How can it avoid preaching only to the converted? How can it find the right language to speak to everyone? Finally, how can it go beyond this "us" and "them" paradigm?
For my final MA project, I will be researching positive examples. And, like I tend to do with everyting, I trust food is the answer...