Journal (Peacocks)

I remember the times in Poland, back in the 1990s, when mobile phones slowly began to become popular. There was a joke back then that every businessman coming to a meeting would take out three phones from his briefcase and place them on the table in front of him: one from the Era network because it had better coverage, one from the Plus network because it had cheaper calls, and a very old one from the pioneering Centertel network, the size of a brick, to make it clear that he could always afford it.

I also remember a friend telling me about an incident that she allegedly witnessed, although I suspect it was also just an anecdote, where in a restaurant, a young man took out his mobile and, in a nonchalant pose, started talking very loudly to it as if he were in a call with someone, when suddenly his phone rang. The flustered man quickly left the restaurant.

To understand the humour of the latter, it’s important to remember that at that time, the rules of etiquette when it came to mobile phones, which were still a novelty, were completely different. On the other hand, this gadget was something that some—men, of course—tried to impress with. Back then, a phrase that describes them became common: skóra, fura i komóra (leather jacket, expensive car, and mobile phone). In Polish, it sounds a bit comical because these terms are slang and they rhyme.

What is most important in all this is that we will always find a way to show off, try to impress others, and demonstrate our superiority. By we, in most cases, I mean men. We are like birds in the mating season—peacocks trying to get a partner and mark their territory. And even if sometimes it is merely comical, it ultimately brings with it many problems. The question is: how can we change this testosterone-laden male culture?

Journal (The next Banksy)

Keeping in mind that AI is barely out of infancy, creations like the one I mentioned yesterday show its real potential and also confirm what I once said about the elimination of art from the pool of viable professions. There is no way any artist outside the realm of greatness, let alone aspiring ones, could survive competing for their share of the art market with algorithms that are capable of creating a piece of art as good, if not better, in a matter of seconds on demand. This is simply a question of when, not if, and I don’t mean a timeline spanning centuries, not even decades. I wouldn’t be surprised if we see auction houses offering AI-created paintings for sale before the end of this decade, although their authorship may initially be hidden under pseudonyms. Who knows, maybe the next Banksy will turn out to be an AI in disguise.

But this vision of doom does not necessarily mean the end of human creativity; it simply shifts the emphasis to the non-professional, private sphere. We will continue to paint, write, make music, or express ourselves in any other creative way, just not for sale but for our own eternal pleasure. Because if we stop doing that, the alternative is not particularly encouraging. In the not-so-distant future, we could face a progressing infantilization of our lives—the reality of the starliner Axiom may become our reality here, on Earth. So forget about the Terminator; watch WALL-E instead.

Journal (A true gift)

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, and although the overuse of this saying has reduced it to just another cliché, sometimes it still gets to the heart of the matter. As in the case of this image, generated by AI, which I play with from time to time to create illustrations for my texts. It is an expression of pure beauty. And I don’t just mean a beautiful woman painted by an artist. Both the picture he paints and the one of which he is the subject are wonderful compositions on many levels. The colour palette is also delightful. If only I could have it on the wall in my room.

In moments like these, I also regret that I don’t have artistic talent. Being able to create things this beautiful is a true gift. This is probably the only thing that, for me, comes close to religion (I mean faith, not an institution). That and music. I must admit that even though I grew up on the ambrosia of words and I also write myself, words have never made me feel an ecstasy equal to this one.

Journal (Am I old?)

Am I old? No. World War II veterans are old. Alan Greenspan is old. Clinton Eastwood Jr. is old. Even Neil Young is old. But me? No, not at all. And yet, I felt a strange twinge when I started reading the fifth edition of Software Engineering by Roger S. Pressman today. It begins with a reminder of the Y2K bug, and I realised that not only was I writing articles about the panicky preparations to prevent the end of the world at the time when it all happened, but that there is a whole generation of adults who can’t remember that atmosphere of impending doom because they were simply not even born yet. So perhaps I’m not quite there yet, but maybe it’s time to face the fact that old age is fast approaching.

Journal (Anorexia of the heart)

Regardless of whether my life is like my cooking or vice versa, I know one thing for certain: I have always been able to fill my stomach full, even if it sometimes results in indigestion. And yet, I’m still hungry. But this type of hunger can only be satisfied by another person. Although, after three years of fasting, I’m starting to see that I can live with this particular anorexia—anorexia of the heart.

Journal (Matthias of Calluses)

From the very first time, I was curious about all these F-, C-, or N-words I had heard of so many times and what they were all about, but I couldn’t figure them out myself, so I finally asked a friend who was a native English speaker, and only then did he explain them to me. Personally, the first thing that would come to mind when I heard the N-word would be “nerd,” given the way people often perceived me; for the F-word, it was “facetious,” as occasionally I turn to be; and as for the C-word, definitely “calluses,” as in the name of the place my clan’s roots are.

The last one is actually embedded in my surname, which, if translated into English, would be “of Calluses.” So, if I were born in Britain, I would be called Matthias of Calluses. It reminds me of all the stories my father, when he happened to be sober, told me about the legends of our clan. According to him, the founder of the clan was a knight who showed great courage during the Battle of Grunwald, and as a reward for this, King Władysław Jagiełło gave him as much land as he could travel around on his horse from sunrise to sunset. His mother’s clan was supposed to be of even higher rank.

While still in boarding school, I actually talked about that to a history teacher who sometimes came to night duty in our dormitory. He told me that if the entire population of the village has the same surname, the most likely reason is that in the past, their ancestors were serfs belonging to the noble Modzelewski family. When Poland was partitioned, some noble families granted freedom to their serfs, but the only way to do this was through an act of adoption, so overnight the entire village would become a family adopted by the nobleman. This has the hallmarks of probability, although it does not explain the ownership of fields, meadows, and forests.

I don’t know how much truth is in all these stories my father told me or if perhaps the teacher was right, but when I was visiting my grandparents as a kid, I always liked running down the hills that gave the name to our village, then jumping over the stream and running all the way to our forest. It was all so different from my life in the city. I can’t believe I haven’t been there for over thirty years.

Journal (To be young and beautiful)

Immortality is just the cherry on top of the cake, because in order to achieve the desired state of happiness, people not only want to live forever but also be young and beautiful, which is what the entire fashion and cosmetics industries, allied with the pharmaceutical industry, prey on.

I can understand that people during the Renaissance put on thick layers of make-up and wore wigs to hide the effects of syphilis, but when I see modern women, especially very young, even teenagers, powdered so much that it is difficult to tell what their facial features are because they look as if they were covered with plaster like a building façade, then I have a reflex of disgust. The same is true with perfumes. In the times when hygiene was a problematic matter, perfumes probably made sense, but now using a lift with someone drenched in Chanel No. 5 or whatever it is they used borders on torture, especially for a person like myself, endowed with a sensitive sense of smell. And these are only aesthetic impressions, although I doubt that make-up is really neutral for skin. But what about things that actually hurt, like shoes on high heels, botulinum toxin injections, or steroids used by bodybuilders?

When I watched Mothering Sunday with Odessa Young some time ago, the sight of her unshaven legs bathed in sunlight was a picture of absolute beauty (the film takes place in the interwar period, and the director Eva Husson paid attention to realism in detail). I have never been able to understand why women shave their legs, armpits, and pubic hair, especially since I sometimes see undesirable results in the form of rashes. Men don’t do this. And if I were a woman, I would spare myself the argument that they do it for men, because personally, being just an average guy, I like hair, and I’m certainly not alone in this. And if it’s a matter of some stupid fashion, maybe it’s time to change it?

Journal (It’s not me—it’s the world)

Montaigne said that as our birth brought us the birth of all things, so in our death is the death of all things included. But with that in mind, why would I trouble myself with death if it’s not me who died—it’s the world that ceased to exist? And shouldn’t those rather laugh at the end of this spectacle who cried at the beginning, especially if they might have already outlived their purpose?

Here, in the Western world, death has a particularly bad press—if mentioned at all—but you can’t avoid it if you ask about a happy life, since, to follow Ovid in Metamorphoses, we should all look forward to our last day: no one can be called happy till he is dead and buried (from The Essays of Montaigne—Volume 03 by Michel de Montaigne, translated by Charles Cotton). But sometimes, just like everyone else, I ask myself: Was—or is, as I’m still alive—my life a happy one? The problem is, I’m not even sure what that actually means—a happy life. I would say adequate. It’s like the dust on my desk—sometimes I wipe it off, but most of the time I get along.

We value human life exactly because it’s so frail and because it eventually ends—because of death. What would happen to that respect once death was gone?

Journal (Like attending Sunday mass)

An artist should either speak through art or not speak at all. How come? When I was returning from a walk on the beach, while passing the gallery in Castlegate, I noticed through the window that inside there was a group of people sitting on folding chairs, listening to a conversation between a slightly tense young host and a relaxed artist. The gallery walls were hung with images of roosters, which I assume were made by this very artist. I stopped, wondering whether to enter, but not wanting to cause unnecessary commotion, I decided not to. However, I stayed there to watch this gathering through the window for a moment, like a TV programme with the sound muted, especially since the glass reflected everything that was happening in the square behind me, so together it created an interesting composition. And then I saw her.

Her teenage face was marked with such obvious boredom that it was astonishing. I could see her because she was sitting at a certain angle, clearly not interested in the meeting that her parents sitting next to her had dragged her to, and playing with the pile of wristlets on her lap. At one point, she noticed me too and freaked out. The show was over. She pointed at me and whispered to her parents, who, of course, immediately turned towards me, but seeing that I was interested in the artist, they also went back to listening to him. To keep up appearances, I stood there a moment longer and finally decided to go my way.

But let’s return to our artist and the whole setup. I must admit, I have never understood this kind of gathering. Their artificiality seems so obvious that I cannot shake the impression that the only reason for taking part in them is snobbery or habit, like attending Sunday mass, even though the faith has long since faded and doesn’t rise above the façade. And isn’t it demeaning to the work of art if it requires the artist’s crutches in reception, assuming, of course, that the artist actually has something more than a handful of platitudes to say?