The Media Don’t Act Alone
Princesses never die. On the contrary, they live happily ever after. Perhaps this explains the overwhelming commotion caused by the untimely death of Princess Diana. Even I, who had criticized her in the past, was moved by it. As the princess recovered her status as a single woman, the ex-future queen of England seemed to have become once more Diana Spencer, a mature, beautiful and free woman, who accepted the responsibility of her actions and rejected the role of a victim of the Royal Family. Diana was being reborn, but left this world in a premature birth.
As soon as we learned that she was being followed by paparazzi at the moment of the accident, the media was found to be the culprit. According to many, the princess wasn’t killed by excess speed, but by photographers.
This unrelenting intrusion must have been awful. Such lack of privacy prevents celebrities from leading normal lives. Diana couldn’t open her window without cameras coming at her from all directions. She was living in a maximum security prison, yet the sensationalist media shouldn’t be the only one to get the blame. We also played our part on it.
There’s nothing more exciting than other people’s lives, or perhaps you read HELLO! magazine for its erudite content? These others are wealthy. These others are beautiful. These others have affairs, secrets and stories to tell. Even our neighbour’s house, looking from the outside, seems cosier than our own. Living our own lives is tedious. Other people’s lives seem a lot more interesting, and so get all the attention we can give.
As long as people pry in other people’s business we won’t be short of paparazzi. Some are more discrete than others, but all are ready to snap a private moment for our pleasure. We may find this kind of journalism unpalatable, but let’s not be hypocrites. There was a consensus that the photos of Diana, when she still drew breath in the car, wouldn’t surface. It was the least the publishers could do. But how many readers would have boycotted the papers had they published them?
Diana, through no fault of her own, was the perfect victim. She was blond, beautiful and aristocratic, which isn’t normal for mundane life. She was also unfaithful, divorced, and she enjoyed rock music, which isn’t normal for fairy tales. She was a modern princess, a crowned commoner, a fascinating contradiction. She was shy and strong, an extra and leading lady, all at the same time. More than a woman, she was an icon. We were the consumers who made sales take off when she was on the front pages. Life without Diana would be life without Coca-Cola.
Celebrities are consumer items, regardless of their work’s worth. John Kennedy, Madonna, Michael Jackson, the Pope. They’re all in the media spotlight together. Their images sell. Celebrities also benefit, if not financially, then in terms of publicity. Lady Di had a premature death because the driver was travelling too fast. Several conspiracy theories were raised at the time, but the main question remains: Were the paparazzi accomplices? Perhaps, but we voyeurs also played our part in this tragedy.
What Women Want
A baby’s born. It’s a girl! Soon the mother starts dreaming about a brilliant future for her little princess. She will meet a handsome boy, get married and live happily ever after. The girl is still in the crib and is already doomed to be a heart-breaker. Pretty dresses, frills, fairy tales – every woman has the Walt Disney syndrome.
Even the more modern and cosmopolitan ones secretly dream of finding their Prince Charming. Since there aren’t enough George Clooneys to go round, we settle for accountants, marketing directors, mechanical engineers, or simply mechanics. It’s tough. Are they all useless? Not at all. They’re kind, help with the children, work hard and are happy to take us out to dinner. They’re princes in their own way, and we, the improvised Cinderellas, say I do! I do! I do! Yet, deep inside, that pre-ordered dream promised to us in the cradle still demands to be fulfilled.
We want to be rescued from the tower. We want our knight in shining armour fighting dragons, witches and monsters for us. We want him to have sleepless nights thinking of us, suffering for us. We want him to do everything that Leonardo DiCaprio does in his films. We want him to say I love you in the final scene at the airport when he arrives at the last minute and stops us, just in time, from catching our flight.
But love in real life is a lot less thrilling. Saying I love you has become as romantic as Can you pass me the salt? Couples say I love you at the end of a phone call more often than when they see each other. This I love you over the phone comes easily, even after a fight. Are you going to be late? Again? For f*** sake what are you doing every night? Yesterday it was just the same, dammit! I’m not waiting until ten to have dinner, sort yourself out! Bye. Love you too. And they furiously hang up.
Yes, we all know that life doesn’t resemble Hollywood. We know there are only a dozen castles left in the world, and most of them are tourist attractions. We know that today’s princes are a bit bald, wear glasses and have pot bellies. They aren’t heroes and they don’t carry swords, but at least they are real, and most of them would enter a burning building to rescue us, providing the fireman’s ladder reached our floor. It’s not much, but it’s something.
Men rarely fulfil our expectations, but to see them trying is touching. Some bring us flowers, make dinner reservations at fancy restaurants, surprise us with presents and secret holidays. They are smart, charming, bold, brave and hard working. They fight for our love as if they were in battle. What for? All they get is a woman looking out of the window with a dreamy expression, longing for something unobtainable. Please, boys, forgive us our unrealistic expectations.
Surprise!
The work day has ended. Sweat, traffic, rain. You’re literally shattered. After a 10-hour shift all you want is to go home, have a shower and throw yourself on the sofa with HELLO! magazine; ah, such a guilty pleasure. It’s not long now. You park in the drive, get out of the car and walk to the front door. You open it and turn the light on. SURPRISE!
Balloons fly over your head. Banners are taped to the walls. Your favourite song is playing at full blast. Everyone is cheering. Goodbye shower. Goodbye bed. Goodbye HELLO! They’ve remembered your birthday. Forget you’re just an exhausted woman – now you’re The Hostess.
A surprise is an unexpected event. You’re 16. You have your first night, nine months later: SURPRISE! You tell your great-aunt to come and see you sometime, and one Sunday morning she turns up at the door: SURPRISE! Your brother tells you he’s in love. He takes a picture from his wallet. Your future sister in law has a beard and is called Paul: SURPRISE!
A surprise is a jump scare. A heart attack. A booby trap. Some say it’s an unexpected pleasure. Yeah, right. Your boss offers you a pay rise, Brad Pitt moves in next door, Simon Cowell hears you karaoke and makes you the next big thing. Wake up. Surprises like these are as real as Father Christmas.
I much prefer the expected. As The Fox says to The Little Prince, ‘If, for example, you come at four o’clock in the afternoon, then at three o’clock I shall begin to be happy. I shall feel happier and happier as the hour advances. At four o’clock, I shall already be worrying and jumping about. I shall show you how happy I am! But if you come just at any time, I shall never know at what hour my heart is to be ready to greet you…One must observe the proper rites…’
The best surprise is when you surprise yourself. When you achieve something you worked hard for, be it a simple pleasure or a new house. Things that come out of the blue, even when they are good things, may come at the wrong time. We might not appreciate them just because they’re out of place or out of season. Perhaps we’re too busy to enjoy them. Contrary to belief, planning your life isn’t a way to avoid emotion. Rather, it’s a way to leave the door open so it won’t swing back and hit you in the face.
The predictable can be as welcome as an oasis in the desert. If money randomly appears in my bank account I get annoyed. I want a bank statement, I want to know how the money got there, I want to know where things come from. If someone wants to give me a diamond ring, he’d better not put
it under my pillow, or inside a pie. Put it on my finger and tell me you love me; that will be just fine. If someone wants to pay me a visit, call me first. If someone wants to buy me a skirt, find out whether I like showing my legs. Learn me. Surprise me by getting it right.
No Time Like the Present
Time is divided between yesterday, today and tomorrow. Yesterday has gone. Tomorrow, who knows? Putting it like that makes it easy to see which is the most important one. The present, obviously. The past is important for the experiences we gain from it and the future is important on a fantasy level, but no one can ever reach it – we’re all stuck in this precise moment.
In this simple view, past and future only exist to mark time on our calendar, as a way to indicate who we were when we were younger and who we will be when we grow up. However, past and future are precisely the time frames that control the planet. The present, poor thing, has no weapons with which to fight against those two superpowers, one called Memory, the other Expectation.
The past is a photo album where the out of focus has no place. It’s an altered reality; to remember it is to forget life’s triviality. Say a date, for example. Two people meet, exchange glances, touch, kiss, talk, smoke, kiss again, disagree, laugh, make promises, sneeze. A week later, this date will be remembered slightly different. The disagreements, the cigarette smoke and the sneezes will be gone. We’ll be left with the kisses, the words, the glances. It was a nice date, but it will be remembered as magic.
You’re enjoying your holidays, but it’s been raining for three days. The place you’re staying at isn’t exactly what you expected and you miss – don’t tell anyone – work! Yet, when you’re back home your memory will embroider those weeks at the beach and you’ll tell everybody what a wonderful time you had. Even heartbreaks have a new meaning once they’re over. All that time you spent contemplating jumping off a cliff was a path to self-knowledge. You’ve learned something. Once the wounds have healed, a broken heart is always enlightening.
The future is another “perfect” idea. Expectation makes us beautiful, wise and wealthy. Somehow we’ll have a better job, earn more money, have a new relationship, and our next summer holiday will be absolutely spectacular. Will it all happen the way we planned? Hardly. Reality will never match the imagination.
Thus the present gets crushed between these two symbolic periods of time – the past and the future – when truly, it should be the star of the show. The before and the after are only abstractions. It’s in the now that the pleasure is real, that our legs falter, that our hearts race, that the embrace is still warm. Life is brief and all we have is this moment. Tic-toc, tic-toc. Time is unforgiving.
Women in Black
Just as with Man in Black we ought to have a blockbuster called Women in Black. The film would be about the invasion of unimaginative women at parties, happy hours and nightclubs. You’ve already seen it, haven’t you?
We can live with being called unoriginal, but don’t tell us we aren’t classy. No woman would dare to have a wardrobe without that all time saviour, the little black dress. In fact, we have several of them. We never know when we’ll need to impress.
Black is always a safe option. As soon as the sun sets, black comes out to play. Shoes, stockings, dresses, tops, coats and skirts take to the streets, making entire towns look like Gotham City. The material may vary – leather, cotton, wool – but the colour of mourning never goes out of style. Why? Because this is war, and black always wins.
First and foremost black wins the battle against broad hips and round bellies; it lengthens our figure and disguises the box of chocolate we stuffed ourselves with in the afternoon. If there’s no time for a crash diet – black! Secondly, it wins the battle against fashion disasters. It’s a lot harder to make a bad style choice when you choose black over pink. When in doubt, don’t risk it. Leave that red, white and blue chequered dress for the next World Cup.
Black suits black, ginger, and blond hair. It suits fair and dark skins. It goes well with patterned scarves, decorative buttons, lipsticks and nail varnish of all colours. It’s appropriate for a rock concert or an opera, for a wedding or a funeral, for those under 15 or over 100. Black’s only enemy is dandruff.
So, where’s the catch? Well, it’s not only you and I who follow this script. With the exception of Lady Gaga, women all over the country wear black to go to restaurants, chic soirées and raves. It has become a uniform and hence it produces the opposite of the desired effect – instead of standing out, we’re camouflaged. A friend of mine flirted with an attractive man in a nightclub once. She got his phone number and called him the next day. She tried to identify herself: I was the one in black. Hmm…
It’s in moments like these that we see the value of a bright yellow dress.
It Takes One
Every now and then I read about famous couples separating after a long relationship. When asked who took the initiative for the break up the reply is almost always a very civilized: It was a mutual decision. One day they woke up and found out, together, that they didn’t love each other anymore. It was 9:24 am. They each took their suitcases down from the attic and set off for a new life. A clean break.
Completely implausible! Not even the greatest authors of romantic bestsellers would come up with such an unrealistic scene. Couples don’t stop loving one another at the same time. It doesn’t work like that. If it did, the word ‘rejection’ would be banned from the dictionary. There’s always one who takes the initiative. Even if things have been awful – even if divorce is the only solution – whoever takes the first step recovers soonest.
Mutual consent only happens when couples first meet. They study each other, they search for each other, and the first kiss always happens with the certainty of reciprocity. From then on it’s party time. Until that moment when both, in silence, start to evaluate the relationship. Their lips still touch, but their minds stray. Each looks at the situation from a different perspective, until one of them says goodbye. The other is left in silent abandonment.
There isn’t such a thing as synchronised separation, and perhaps here lies the greatest pain. Whoever is rejected carries the pain of completely unprepared desertion, and what’s worse, of standing before a future they never chose. When love has fled, their pride is always hurt.
The end of a relationship is always painful – both have to face the sorrow and frustration of a shattered dream. Yet the one holding the reins, the one who had the courage to stop the carriage midway, has their pain diluted by the strength they found in taking the decision. Each agrees to follow their own path, but only one manages to set off. The other is left trying to understand this great chasm that words have now created.
What’s the answer? Be ready and think quickly. He says: “We need to talk.” You say: “No problem, you can have the children on Wednesdays and Saturdays.” He says: “You’re very important to me, but…” You finish his sentence: “…I understand, I’ve fallen in love with someone else as well.” Ah, that’s what I call a civilized ending, not that battlefield of accusation and recrimination. So now you know, if this evening he starts a conversation with “Look, I’d like…” don’t even let the villain finish his sentence. Cut him short with “You can keep the Piazolla CDs, but the microwave is mine.” You can never be too careful. Perhaps he only wants to invite you out for dinner, but who knows.
Locked Out
In the foreword of a wonderful book called Writers’ Houses, Marguerite Duras asserts that the only place where we can feel truly alone is in our homes. In the garden there will be birds and cats, but inside a house we’re so alone that we sometimes lose ourselves.
The book takes the reader into the homes of writers such as Jean Cocteau, William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway, Knut Hamsun, Marguerite Yourcenar, Hermann Hesse and many others, exploring the ties between their homes and their work.
Writers’ houses are more than homes – they’re their offices, their hiding places, their bunkers. It’s where they assem
ble their memories, soothe their fears, encourage their ideas and create the necessary solitude. To walk through the door is to step into those scenes created by the author where there are no borders between the real and the imaginary. Even when the author’s home isn’t deeply tied into the stories they write, it’s still a place that arouses respect; as if that desk in the corner of the living room is a kind of altar and not just another piece of furniture.
The English writer Virginia Woolf – who is also in the Writers’ Houses – published, in 1929, an essay called A Room of One’s Own. She asserts that, “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” A nice room with comfortable chairs and fine furniture is said to inspire many writers. It also becomes a place of gatherings, and animated and heated discussions. A place of insight.
I thought about all of this after watching the tragedy of Grenfell Tower, in 2017. As far as I know there were no writers living in the building, but all those homes also had the ingredients with which we make literature: ornaments, photo albums, cots, paintings, comfortable chairs. Suddenly, all those residents found themselves locked out, unable to go back to the stories they had created. They went unpublished, but no less important than the ones in print.
In a sense we write our biographies in our houses. Behind closed doors we make poetry and create novels. Those who became homeless had to find refuge in the homes of neighbours, relatives, friends, or in temporary accommodation. They lost the gift of privacy, which is central to any life story.
Die Slowly
Die slowly those who cling to the same ideas, who repeat themselves over and over, stubbornly denying their own contradictions.
Die slowly those who become the slave of habit, following the same routines day in day out, never changing their pace. They go to the same shop with the same shopping list. They always wear the same label and never risk a new colour. They shrink away from new experiences and people they don’t know.
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