It took less time to decide on a name for this column than to drive from north to south of Msida. (According to the grapevine, after all the digging, we are now close to finding the treasure that gave Rue D'Argens its name.)
Since day one on earth, whether we admit it or not, each and every one of us has been subjected to signals; either in their making or in their interpretation. For signals give away one's emotional state: Are you happy? Or just pretending? They uncover our innate abilities. Just how smart is this smart alec? And signals also denote one's behaviour in the future. Will he, or she, be a good friend?
When the direct evaluation of a person, or situation (or a person at a given situation), gets too difficult to decipher, we have no option but to settle for signals. Animals also do it. When a bird wants to determine whether the butterfly it is about to eat is poisonous or safe, just before it takes its first bite, it relies on the signal given via the butterfly's markings on its wings. Before taking a person on board, the prospective employer wants to know whether the candidate facing him will be successful. He has to rely on signals, as presented in the shape of the candidate's CV, school certificates, and his actions and appearance during the interview.
We are continuously assailed by signals. They range from the obvious to the most ambiguous of say, smiles, denoting warmth; to a wedding ring signifying a marital state; to the smooth skin that invokes youth; right down to the big house, or flashy car, that equals wealth.
Then there are the signals that provoke. According to Trevor Zahra's genital opus, wearing a tie has now been found to be chockful of sexual innuendo. (Eat your heart out sur Freud). The manner a tie is knotted, the direction its arrow-shaped part is pointing, is fraught with sensual signals.
As publicly imparted at the National Theatre the information becomes official. Hence the slogan: From dawn till late; Ties do titillate.
The American Indians used smoke signals to communicate in ways the white man could not decipher. Grandmaster Wignacourt built 14 strategically placed towers and assigned them their first local voyeurs. When the enemy was spotted, they lit bonfires to signal the impending danger. Then our big boys rushed inside the citadel, lit up the furnaces, and started burning the oils until the right temperature for pouring it over the invading heads was reached. The message was self explanatory. "Please do go back!"
Nowadays things are done somewhat differently. Signals are conveyed through advertising. I don't believe I have ever seen as much street advertising as in the Big Apple. Everywhere you turn, you are bombarded by messages urging you to buy, spend and acquire. Although nothing beats New York when it comes to things theatrical, I find this intense commercialisation something of a turn off. The rectangular slice of Manhattan that is Times Square, can best be described as psychedelic, and navigating through it is almost as complex as traversing by car across Msida.
The stroller is bombarded by a dizzying profusion of everyday icons, in the form of road signs, public notices and advertisements which convey the zeitgeist of our times. (The Museum of Modern Art's gift shop sells a sign which reads: Thank you for noticing this new notice. Your noting it has been noted.)
Incidentally, what are the effects of such intense advertising? How far can matters go before we begin to consider advertising as an intrusion on our privacy? As an excessive means of psychological manipulation? Today's society is rightly concerned about second-hand tobacco smoke and the effects of pollution. What about this kind of visual pollution? Does it cause stress? Can this almost surreal litany of strong signals cause people to feel bad about themselves and their limitations?
The advertisers' ceaseless, unrelenting sensory bombardment must lead to some kind of inner dissatisfaction. How do the roadside billboards affect the aesthetics of a small country like Malta? Some artists I know look upon billboards as a defacement of our environment. Others equally view logos/ advertising as an art form.
I am still stuck in this traffic jam; am still at Msida; I recall this politico, measuring the country's progress by the number of cars owned by each family. And boasting about it to the high winds.
Of course, signals may be badly misconstrued.
I am still stuck in this traffic jam.
Since day one on earth, whether we admit it or not, each and every one of us has been subjected to signals; either in their making or in their interpretation. For signals give away one's emotional state: Are you happy? Or just pretending? They uncover our innate abilities. Just how smart is this smart alec? And signals also denote one's behaviour in the future. Will he, or she, be a good friend?
When the direct evaluation of a person, or situation (or a person at a given situation), gets too difficult to decipher, we have no option but to settle for signals. Animals also do it. When a bird wants to determine whether the butterfly it is about to eat is poisonous or safe, just before it takes its first bite, it relies on the signal given via the butterfly's markings on its wings. Before taking a person on board, the prospective employer wants to know whether the candidate facing him will be successful. He has to rely on signals, as presented in the shape of the candidate's CV, school certificates, and his actions and appearance during the interview.
We are continuously assailed by signals. They range from the obvious to the most ambiguous of say, smiles, denoting warmth; to a wedding ring signifying a marital state; to the smooth skin that invokes youth; right down to the big house, or flashy car, that equals wealth.
Then there are the signals that provoke. According to Trevor Zahra's genital opus, wearing a tie has now been found to be chockful of sexual innuendo. (Eat your heart out sur Freud). The manner a tie is knotted, the direction its arrow-shaped part is pointing, is fraught with sensual signals.
As publicly imparted at the National Theatre the information becomes official. Hence the slogan: From dawn till late; Ties do titillate.
The American Indians used smoke signals to communicate in ways the white man could not decipher. Grandmaster Wignacourt built 14 strategically placed towers and assigned them their first local voyeurs. When the enemy was spotted, they lit bonfires to signal the impending danger. Then our big boys rushed inside the citadel, lit up the furnaces, and started burning the oils until the right temperature for pouring it over the invading heads was reached. The message was self explanatory. "Please do go back!"
Nowadays things are done somewhat differently. Signals are conveyed through advertising. I don't believe I have ever seen as much street advertising as in the Big Apple. Everywhere you turn, you are bombarded by messages urging you to buy, spend and acquire. Although nothing beats New York when it comes to things theatrical, I find this intense commercialisation something of a turn off. The rectangular slice of Manhattan that is Times Square, can best be described as psychedelic, and navigating through it is almost as complex as traversing by car across Msida.
The stroller is bombarded by a dizzying profusion of everyday icons, in the form of road signs, public notices and advertisements which convey the zeitgeist of our times. (The Museum of Modern Art's gift shop sells a sign which reads: Thank you for noticing this new notice. Your noting it has been noted.)
Incidentally, what are the effects of such intense advertising? How far can matters go before we begin to consider advertising as an intrusion on our privacy? As an excessive means of psychological manipulation? Today's society is rightly concerned about second-hand tobacco smoke and the effects of pollution. What about this kind of visual pollution? Does it cause stress? Can this almost surreal litany of strong signals cause people to feel bad about themselves and their limitations?
The advertisers' ceaseless, unrelenting sensory bombardment must lead to some kind of inner dissatisfaction. How do the roadside billboards affect the aesthetics of a small country like Malta? Some artists I know look upon billboards as a defacement of our environment. Others equally view logos/ advertising as an art form.
I am still stuck in this traffic jam; am still at Msida; I recall this politico, measuring the country's progress by the number of cars owned by each family. And boasting about it to the high winds.
Of course, signals may be badly misconstrued.
I am still stuck in this traffic jam.