Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music

Are you sitting comfortably? Did you have a nice breakfast/lunch/dinner (depending on what time you are reading this post)? Did you have tea or coffee with your meal? Are you even a tea or coffee drinker? Did you sleep well last night? Did you wake up this morning and looked through your bedroom window? Does your bedroom window provide you with a nice view? Does this view make you feel alive? Does this view make you aware of your own existence and as a consequence you feel happier?

To be honest I am interested in your answers, but I am more interested in the process that led you to those answers. I am interested in the intricate web of sensations and thoughts that shaped your responses. There is no right or wrong in any of your answers. Then, again there is no right or wrong when it comes to consciousness.

I am fascinated by the phenomenon of consciousness. You could say it permeates my blog and the posts I write, although not always explicitly. Why do I feel so attracted to consciousness? Because it is at the core of who we are as humans is one answer. Another could be that it is the most (un) human element, the most mysterious one, the one that has eluded scientists and philosophers so far.

I began this post straight after reading Oliver Burkeman’s recent excellent essay on the subject of consciousness. One reason why I loved Oliver’s article was because it was not heavy on scientist lingo. I am still a layperson when it comes to defining, explaining and making sense of consciousness. That does not detract from my fascination with the topic, but as soon as you mention the thalamus, you lose me.

What is consciousness, then? To me, in a nutshell, is the awareness of being. That sounds easy, but it’s the “how we get to that realisation of being” that has divided the scientific community and pitted scientists against philosophers and theologians.

If I exist, then it follows that I can be measured, weighed, assessed and observed. En bref, I can be explained. There is evidence to substantiate my existence. But what if the way to prove my existence is a non-physical phenomenon that can only be perceived by me internally?

Burkeman traces the origin of the debate back to the 1600s and Descartes’ famous maxim: “I think, therefore I am”. What? I am what? I still remember asking myself that question when I first heard that phrase many years ago. I am what? A person? A being? Consciousness minus the body?

The main point about Descartes’ theory is that you might arrive at the conclusion that your surroundings are illusory, that your physical self exists only in the eyes of others, or in relation to others, but consciousness does not work the same way. When you make sense of your existence through a “device” that is non-physical you eliminate the possibility of perception by others. Especially because said “device” is based within yourself.

Descartes mentioned the g-word. That might be the reason, as Oliver explains, why scientists avoided the subject of consciousness for many centuries. As we became more rational, God became more distant.



What's inside?

And yet...

If you have seen the film 21 Grams by the Mexican director Alejandro González Iñárritu, you know that the film explores various themes, such as love, death and whether the latter can be weighed or not. If it can, it is alleged that we all lose 21 grams (hence the title) at the exact moment of our death. If you can measure such a difficult and hard-to-describe phenomenon, can we not apply the same principle to consciousness? The brain weighs 1.4kg, how much do you think consciousness weighs? If the answer is that we can’t weigh consciousness because it is not physical, then, does that necessarily mean that this particular phenomenon on which we all depend to make sense of ourselves was gifted to us... by... someone... else?

I can see you, my fellow atheists, frowning and wondering if yours truly was a closeted religious believer all along. No, but it is science that dictates that to close down the argument on a subject is to deny the possibility of error and of further development. My explanation is completely amateur and befits my layperson’s category. To me consciousness is an essential part of the brain in as much as rim tape is an essential part of a bicycle. Without the latter you will get puncture after puncture. But do you see it? Same with consciousness. Without it, we would not be able to make sense of the world, or you, readers and fellow bloggers, would not be able to make sense of this post. The difference, as some of you will hasten to add, is that if you dismantle a bicycle’s tire you can see the rim, whereas if you open the brain... mate, what did you do with my consciousness?

I don’t know whether I am right or wrong. As I mentioned at the beginning of the post I am more interested in the process(es) my consciousness unlocks and sets in motion. Read Oliver Burkeman’s essay (it’s part of The Guardian’s The Long Read series, so, make sure you are sitting comfortably) and let me know what you think. Remember, there’s no right or wrong.



© 2015

Next Post: “Urban Dictionary”, to be published on Wednesday 4^th February at 11:59pm (GMT)

Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music

The recent news of Kodak going bust took me by surprise. Apparently the photographic film pioneer couldn't keep up with the challenge posed by digital cameras and has had to file for bankruptcy protection.

I wasn't aware of Kodak's travails, to be honest. For me George Eastman and his yellow boxes were always there, as part of the background. Even in Havana, where the brand was not as ubiquitous as it was elsewhere in the world, we knew about the "Kodak moment".

But on finding out about the demise of this company that once boasted 90% of sales of film in the States, I didn't think of "Kodak moments" in my life. That's because I never had any. What I did have were "Soviet moments".

My cousin had an old Russian camera which she was given before she started her university degree. It was the beginning of a process that I still remember after all these years. Snap away, give the film to her mum to be developed (my auntie used to work next door to a photo studio and she knew everyone there), count the days (it usually took a fortnight) until the photos were ready, head for the studio to pick up the envelope and voilà! enjoy the often chaotic images: too much light, or none at all, red eyes due to the flash effect, heads lopped off, ears à la Van Gogh, little finger and forefinger sticking out from behind someone's head and drowsy eyes pleading with the photographed not to be papped. And yet, we all loved those images.

These yellowed, family photos when placed to their modern counterparts, which can be taken either on a digital camera or mobile phone, are the equivalent of the drunken uncle dancing his head off at the wedding banquet whilst embarrassing his hipster nephew sitting in the corner. They really did that? With that? My generation will have fuzzy images to remember, greasy fingerprints revealing the spot where many hands left their mark before. My children's generation will have "files" instead of photos - with names such as jpgs, gifs and bitmaps - and will depend on a hard drive to keep them safe for their own progeny. Back then, all photos, regardless of their quality, or lack of it thereof, were put into albums. That ephemeral "Soviet moment" was preserved for eternity. Those snaps became part of our heirloom, passed down from grandparents to parents to offspring. In my case, these amateur images were one of the reasons why I fell for photography as an art.

I know some people who don't think much of photographers, especially if they're of the weddings/birthdays/graduation ceremony variety. After all, what's so hard about mounting and adjusting a  shutter? Anybody can do that. Well no, I beg to differ. Even though photography is more reality-based than, say, painting, it's still an art that demands high skills of its practitioners. I'm not just referring to the light and space symbiosis, which is important, but also to the subject (what or who to photograph?) and background. Some of my favourite photos look like paintings and carry a heavy historical baggage, despite the fact that they're nothing but the result of an instant. And this is without the undesired added effect of Photoshop. A good photographer is like an archaeologist. He or she will help you discover a treasure of which you were not aware. It could be an angle or a shade. A brilliant photographer will go beyond that; he or she will expose the soul of their subject.

Eventually my cousin's camera fell into my hands. By then, I was already in university. Looking at those old pictures now, the majority of which are on Facebook (there you go, I'm just doing my bit to help Mr Zuckerberg sell shares in his seven-year-old "baby". How much will you give me of the total $100bn, Mark?), I marvel at the innocence and candidness they convey.

Some people had "Korda moments". In my case, those initial "Soviet moments" (random family occasions snapped by a Russian device) changed into "Havana moments" - my uni years, my barrio and my friends. Whether you call them Korda or Havana, these are moments. Ours to cherish.

© 2012

Next Post: “Pieces of Me, Pieces of Havana”, to be published on Wednesday 8th February at 11:59pm (GMT)