As the semester draws to an end, I am compelled to write my final post.
From differentiating commercial from public media to writing of my current obsessions, this blog has been my creative outlet for the past three months. Through a journalistic lens, it has allowed me to express my thoughts, my likes, my dislikes, and what I have learnt in JOUR1111, freely. This course, and this blog, has opened me up to the wide world of social media, particularly igniting my love for Twitter and Blogger. I am now much more in-touch with what is happening in the world and have a great appreciation for the Internet's ability to share news on a 24/7 timeframe. I have discovered that journalism stretches much further than the 6 o'clock news and the daily newspaper, harnessing the developments of social media and customising the way we ingest what is happening in the world. It is an ever-changing field, moving forward and adjusting in shape and form, but never, ever losing importance. I now view journalism as a practice of storytelling, rather than a strict, dry reporting discipline. Journalists have the ability to probe deeply what is happening in our world, and inform the masses. They should convey the truths of our society, and seek to remain honest and dutiful in their role as factual storytellers, recognising the unparalleled importance of their job. My love for writing and, now, for blogging has made me want to continue a blog. Whether it be this exact one, or whether I create my own - I will most definitely continue to engage in the practice and open myself to the opportunities which come along with it.
Yes, only 12 days until my jetsetting obsession is satisfied as I venture to Paris and Greece... Heaven! Here are a few little photographs to wet your appetite!
A little darker than the previous story, but just as compelling!
Grandma's Roses By Sarah Evans
We were clearing Grandad's place. He'd died the day before and Mum wanted to blitz the old weatherboard house with its peeling paint and rotten floors.
"This feels wrong," I said, hovering at the back door.
"It's not," said Mum. She marched passed me, clutching two plastic buckets loaded with cleaning paraphernalia.
"Grandad would be evil. He hated us invading his personal space." I stepped inside. Memories flooded back of torturous Sundays sitting at the chipped Formica table, enduring Grandad's monologues on how society had gone down the gurgler since the war. He'd ranted about the fall of morality, loose women, adultery.
We'd forgiven him, because of Grandma.
During these tirades, Mum would disappear to tend Grandma's roses. Those sweet-smelling, deep red roses at the bottom of the garden were the only concession to beauty at the austere farm.
Mum interrupted my reminiscences: "He's beyond caring. Always was. Not that we should speak ill of the dead." She quickly crossed herself.
Grandad, a tough cocky farmer, had raised three children single-handedly after Grandma had shot through with a serviceman during the war. Mum had been ten, Uncle Wal thirteen, Aunt Sylvia six.
Grandma's desertion put a huge strain on the family, not least the loss of free labour. To compensate, Grandad swapped sons with the neighbouring farmer. The men reckoned they could extract more work from the boys doing it that way.
Dennis had slept in the sleep-out. It was freezing in winter and boiling in summer. He'd run away after six months, lied about his age and joined the army.
Inspired by Den's escape, Wal tried it too. But he got caught and Grandad flogged him half to death.
Mum took Grandma's desertion hard. She was forced to grow up fast. She'd had to clean, wash, cook, and be mother to Sylvia. But as soon as they were old enough. the girls left home.
Duty, Mum said, was the only reason she'd kept in touch with Grandad.
And the roses.
My job was the kitchen. It hadn't changed much in the ninety years of Grandad's life. Only the Metters stove had been upgraded. I started with the drawers. There was the usual build up of used envelopes, rusty drawing pins, perished rubber bands, discoloured lamb's teats and untidy bundles of oddment string.
I binned everything except an old tobacco tin that had something rattling inside. There were names written on the lid: May, Evelyn and Sylvia. Grandma, Mum and her sister. A deep scratch had almost obliterated Grandma's name. Age had welded tight the lid.
"Do you know what's in this?" I asked Mum.
"Bullets," she said and reached for the tin.
I lost interest. I'd found plenty of loose ammunition rolling about in the dusty drawers. What were another few bullets?
Mum traced the scratch mark. "One bullet for each of us," she murmured.
"Sorry"
"During the war your Grandad would chart the progress of both the Allies and their enemies on a big map he had pinned up there." She gestured to the nicotine-stained wall. "As the Japanese flags got nearer to Australia, he put these bullets in the tin. He told Wal that they were for Mum, Sylvia and me if the Japs invaded our farm."
"He would have shot you?"
"He reckoned it was a better fate than being taken by the enemy."
"Good job he didn't panic and use them."
She stared at me, or was it beyond me?
"He wanted us to believe that she'd betrayed us. That she had failed as a wife and mother and left us. But we knew. We were too afraid to say anything, but we always tended Mum's roses. 1t was the least we could do."
"Mum?"
"Open the tin."
After much exertion; I levered off the lid.
"Where's the third bullet?" I said.
Mum wasn't listening. She was gazing out at Grandma's blood-red roses.
This and my next post are two of my favourite very short stories. Weirdly enough they're both about roses, maybe it's a subconscious thing of mine I'm not too sure... But their storylines are both so compelling despite the paradoxical moods they portray. Read them if you will, they really are fabulous.
The Red Rose
Author - unknown
John Blanchard stood up from the bench, straightened his Army uniform, and studied the crowd of people making their way through Grand Central Station. He looked for the girl whose heart he knew, but whose face he didn't, the girl with the rose.
His interest in her had begun thirteen months before in a Florida library. Taking a book off the shelf he found himself intrigued, not with the words of the book, but with the notes penciled in the margin. The soft handwriting reflected a thoughtful soul and insightful mind. In the front of the book, he discovered the previous owner's name, Miss Hollis Maynell.
With time and effort he located her address. She lived in New York City. He wrote her a letter introducing himself and inviting her to correspond. The next day he was shipped overseas for service in World War II. During the next year and one month the two grew to know each other through the mail. Each letter was a seed falling on a fertile heart. A romance was budding. Blanchard requested a photograph, but she refused. She felt that if he really cared, it wouldn't matter what she looked like.
When the day finally came for him to return from Europe, they scheduled their first meeting - 7:00 PM at the Grand Central Station in New York. "You'll recognize me," she wrote, "by the red rose I'll be wearing on my lapel." So at 7:00 he was in the station looking for a girl whose heart he loved, but whose face he'd never seen.
I'll let Mr. Blanchard tell you what happened:
"A young woman was coming toward me, her figure long and slim. Her blonde hair lay back in curls from her delicate ears; her eyes were blue as flowers. Her lips and chin had a gentle firmness, and in her pale green suit she was like springtime come alive. I started toward her, entirely forgetting to notice that she was not wearing a rose. As I moved, a small, provocative smile curved her lips." "Going my way, sailor?" she murmured. "Almost uncontrollably I made one step closer to her, and then I saw Hollis Maynell. She was standing almost directly behind the girl. A woman well past 40, she had graying hair tucked under a worn hat. She was more than plump, her thick-ankled feet thrust into low-heeled shoes. The girl in the green suit was walking quickly away.
I felt as though I was split in two, so keen was my desire to follow her, and yet so deep was my longing for the woman whose spirit had truly companioned me and upheld my own.
And there she stood. Her pale, plump face was gentle and sensible, her gray eyes had a warm and kindly twinkle. I did not hesitate. My fingers gripped the small worn blue leather copy of the book that was to identify me to her. This would not be love, but it would be something precious, something perhaps even better than love, a friendship for which I had been and must ever be grateful. I squared my shoulders and saluted and held out the book to the woman, even though while I spoke I felt choked by the bitterness of my disappointment."
"I'm Lieutenant John Blanchard, and you must be Miss Maynell. I am so glad you could meet me; may I take you to dinner?"
The woman's face broadened into a tolerant smile. "I don't know what this is about, son," she answered, "but the young lady in the green suit who just went by, she begged me to wear this rose on my coat. And she said if you were to ask me out to dinner, I should go ahead and tell you that she is waiting for you in the big restaurant across the street. She said it was some kind of test!"
If you haven't read this book, or even part of it, you have to! I am a strong believer that journalism is a practice of storytelling. My interest in the discipline lies in its ability to convey a person's story to the masses. I see journalists as storytellers, rather than mere 'reporters'. This book revolves around the idea of storytelling in journalism and public relations. This is an extract from the introduction to the book by Tony Silvia and Terry Anzur - both notable journalistic educators in America:
'The constantly changing universe of multimedia is the focus of much study and endless debate. This book is about what does not change: the basic human need for a good story. As a storyteller in the present day, your tools may be a camera, a microphone, and a computer. But you are carrying on a tradition that dates back to the first person who used the wall of a cave and piece of charcoal to draw pictures that might point the way to a successful hunt, or the first sculptor using stone as a tablet to record the outcome of an epic battle. From the beginning of human history, we have depended on storytellers to pass on our legends to the next generation, to share practical information needed for survival, to encourage our sense of community and to inspire our faith in something greater than ourselves. And, yes, we also want to be entertained while we are being informed.
Effective storytelling has long been a blend of words, sounds and pictures. In the days when most people could not read, religious stories often came to life through images and music in a house of worship. Wandering minstrels spread the news of the day while performing their songs. Playwrights and actors gave us insight into the human condition by portraying archetypal characters and dramatic situations on a stage. The printing press made it possible for storytellers to reach a wider and more educated public, leading to the development of worldwide mass media in the present day. What all effective storytellers throughout history have in common is the ability to engage the audience, not merely capturing attention, but challenging the users, viewers, listeners or readers to process information and apply it to their own lives.'
I love this excerpt from American journalist and NBC anchorman Lester Holt's foreword to the fantastic book, "Power Performance: Multimedia Storytelling for Journalism and Public Relations". He emphasises the timeless importance of storytelling and the ever-changing roles technology and social media have in the development of the journalistic practice.
'Technology enhances storytelling. With tweeting and blogging we can be a bit more informal. There’s something about the TV camera that implies more formality. We choose our words more carefully because it’s a big stage. But then we get on our BlackBerries or iPhones and start tweeting and it becomes a more personal reflection on the story, what it smells like, what it feels like. It can give people the background and the texture for the entire story.
Shrinking resources are the new model. We see people having to do more than they used to, because there are fewer people in the newsroom. I really love what I do. I love telling stories. The thrill has never worn off for me. I work with a small group of tight-knit people. As we draw down in terms of resources we become more focused and rise to the challenge of getting the broadcast on the air. In a war zone or a disaster zone like Haiti, you have to become creative. I’ve used Twitter, cell phone video and Skype. I probably wouldn’t think of those things when doing a story in Manhattan. But when you’re in a difficult place, you start thinking out of the box and realizing you have a lot of tools in the box. You eventually find the right digital outlet. We have a lot more ways to get the story out, even if it’s just a tweet.'
This lecture seemed to come at the perfect time. As I blogged earlier, I am in the midst of a serious 'twobsession' (twitter obsession), and have obviously become more and more addicted to the blogging discipline. Thus, our guest lecturer - entertainment blogger Steve Molk - was perfectly suited to my current interests.
He began by asserting that each and every one of us involved in the journalistic discipline, as well as elsewhere, have created and must control our own personal brand. A brand that will grow, shape and develop along with us. This brand allows for us to angle the deliverance of a certain story tailored to what we stand for, what we enjoy, who we are.
Interestingly, he described the label "blogger" as cringeworthy. To be honest, when I first learnt that we were required to write a blog for this course, I cringed myself despite having always loved many other blogs. I was not at all looking forward to the process, in fact dreading it would not be an understatement. However, as I began to write about the lectures and blog about my personal interests, I began to love it. I savour the moments where I sit down and blog about certain things. Now, when I see something or remember something I love, I immediately think to blog it. Despite my newfound love, I completely understand when Steve refers to blogging in this negative way. I think it is something that must be put into practice to really appreciate.
Steve, however, emphasises that blogging is becoming more and more influential, particularly in the world of journalism. It is growing from being somewhat naff, to a potential business opportunity - a place in which people can create a mini empire, if you will (such as Mia Freedman with her Mama Mia blog), as well as a place where someone can show their work - a digital portfolio of sorts. No longer are we entirely locked behind what the "media machine" tells us. It is a forum allowing unlimited expression. This raises the issue of who to trust. If anybody can write anything, what is the real story?
This led into talk of Twitter. Twitter has allowed us avergage joes access to the shapers and makers of the world. It is a place where you can ask anybody a question and, if they reply, you can use that information in many ways - one of which is to create a story. It is a great interactive platform which promotes succinct, brief messages in its 140 character limit requiring great restraint! Steve describes Twitter as "noisy". A place which is not only about broadcast, but rather about creating a dialogue. It allows for the instant spreadibility of news, every follower immediately notified of your tweet via their newsfeed. It has opened the world to a unique and different form of news deliverance.
Molk described that the way we understand and interpret the information given to us impacts the kind of journalists we become. He has chosen to write and talk about TV that is topical. He has had some great opportunities to interview and write about figures in the television industry, one of his favourite being his discussion with comedian Wil Anderson:
This is only part one of the extensive interview - such a good interview, take a look at all parts!
Steve's advice was to find the contacts we need and push them - take every opportunity you are presented with and not only that, but make opportunities for yourself. He said something that really stuck with me - "Exposure breeds opportunities" - so very true! Something I will definitely take forward in my career. From these opportunities you are exposed, and from this exposure, you gain an audience (very important!) and offers may spawn. He stresses that this is the forum in which to project your message.
This is where people start taking notice.
I adore Caroline Issa! It's more than her striking Chinese, Lebanese and Iranian influenced beauty, and her enviable position in the front row of some of the most influential fashion shows in the world, but it is her entrepreneurial savviness and timeless style which intrigues me most.
Growing up in a very multi-cultural home, she has lived in Montreal, Philadelphia, San Francisco, Seattle, Texas, Singapore and London and is now the publisher and executive fashion director of London-based Tank magazine after retreating from a career in finance. I became familiar with Caroline through Garance Dore as they are good friends and she regularly features on her blog as well as Scott Schumann's The Sartorialist. She also graces the pages of notable magazines such as Vogue more and more as she becomes a pronounced figure in the industry.
Her signature tightly slicked chignon and red lip are marks of her timeless elegance. Always donning fashionable and flattering clothing, Caroline is never swayed by passing (sometimes questionable) trends, yet always manages to be trendy. It is a thin line to tread, and she seems to navigate it unfailingly.
In 2009, Caroline helped launch Because London, Tank magazine's digital affiliate mag which closely documents fashion and culture across the world - http://becauselondon.com/ - Take a look, its phenom!
As you all know, Anna Wintour is another of my icons. Her career is one I could only wish to replicate. This film released in 2009 documents the extensive preparation involved in the production of Vogue's 2007 September issue which, to date, remains the largest magazine issue created, weighing over 4 pounds and selling thirteen million copies, it alone impacted the $300 billion fashion industry more than any other publication.
Of course, I saw it the moment it was released in 2009 and have re-seen it many times since. As procrastination urges hit this swotvac, I have keenly watched it once more and realised that with each viewing I uncover something new. This time I have been able to understand the journalistic side of the documentary much more than I had before. I have always had an immense appreciation for the written word and the power of an image, however journalism as a whole discipline is something I have not grasped this well ever before - all thanks to this course!
Garance Dore. As you all know she is one of my favourite people in this world infusing her passion for photography, illustration and fashion into everything she does. This video is to wet your appetite for her series "Pardon My French", which is a compilation of short videos that show her experiences during this year's fashion week. The episode 'Women' is one of my favourites. If you are the least bit interested in the inner workings of fashion week (New York City, Milan and Paris) I cannot recommend it enough - I'm addicted and Garance is my drug!
