The Dead Father
At one point or another, we’ve all thought about leaving it all behind and becoming nomads. For me, this desire manifested itself in a longing to visit the many countries I had only read about. I would live in a peaceful village where I could wake up every day to the sounds of distant church bells. I imagined myself to be a man without destination, but this image became bogged down by the idea of difficulties and inconveniences: accommodations for me alone (is there accommodation for a lone traveler?), languages to learn (do I speak the language of this country?), and, above all else: time. To be a man without destination meant for me to have no specific time horizon, but this thought was as heavy and complicated an idea of freedom I could imagine. In the end, I chose to visit only those countries that were nearby and had good direct flights from Madrid.I arrived at Thessaloniki, Greece. I was met by a friend, an artist with strange ties to the left. He drove me to his home, a small village on the North coast. A car loaded with fresh fish, live squids and octopi danced from the rear seat. I was a bit uneasy, this feeling only increased when we turned off the highway and began to drive on winding roads by barren fields. My friend, Alekos (I’ll call him that), talked incessantly. He spoke of his work, the difficulties he encountered when trying to show in Greece drawings made with human feces. He spoke of politics. Greece was a member state of the EU, but since decades Alekos believed that Greeks were being robbed by their own government and exploited for resources they had sold to another country under duress. Alekos spoke of himself. He had worked in France for ten years, and now he was returning home. On the way, we stopped at a ruin of an ancient Greek temple.
We sat in the shade. Alekos told me that he had been to this temple many times. It was not far from his home. His grandparents had lived there when he was a child. He showed me photographs of his family. Younger versions of himself, dressed in black with his hair combed back and the heavy boots from which he never parted. This one was taken in a yard, the same as all but two others. A white fence behind him, a tiled yard with several benches. In the background, a door and some power lines. I was wondering wether he had another photograph of this yard, when a boy appeared on the doorstep. He was surprised to see us there. He took the photo album and put it away. He shook his head, then turned and hurried into the house.
I interpreted this exchange to mean that the place we were in was someone’s home and not his own, so I turned around. On the doorway was engraved in greek lettering: Kastoria. I asked Alekos if this was his home. He said no, that his grandparents had died already and he would only be visiting a few times this year. He looked back at his phone, typing a text. I thought he had finished the call, but when we got in car again it became clear that his phone conversation was not entirely done. He brought out a cigarette, lit it and immediately put the phone to his ear. I thought he would smoke the whole cigarette and just that moment my opinion of him was crystallized: He wasn’t coming to Madrid for a business trip, but because there were no wars in Spain.
We drove and smoked. He told me about his job. He was the sales manager for an automotive company, but his real passion were antique clocks. He showed me photos of intricate mechanical movements that he had carefully restored. I told him that the first thing one learns in art school is to lie. He agreed, and we both laughed. Then I told him the story of Ovid, exiled in Tomis for telling false stories: how every third day his work was being burned by orders from the Tetrarchy. I described the town, its moat brimming with serpents. He said that this was just superstition, and the real truth about Ovid must be sought by reading between lines. He went on, and he talked mostly about himself. I tried to engage him in political discussions, but he always found a way of returning around his own work.
Later we would drink together. This was in the hotel. He wrote me obsessively. He wrote: "I've been thinking of your sentence. What does it mean? What are you up to? Why have you stopped replying?"
I knew that he had not meant to offend, and so I did stop replying. I thought of what Kierkegaard had said about irony: "For if there are earnest people who pretend to be ironic, their utterance will really contain impiety and mockery." I did not want to offend my friend, so for months I didn't reply. Then one day I wrote "The world is my idea." And he wrote back right away "Yes, the world exists whether or not it is your idea." Then I forgot about him.
After I became famous, some of my friends wrote to me about him. One wrote: "Please do not forget your friend Alekos, even though you may have stopped talking to him." And I thought to myself: "My friend, if only he had not been talking so much about himself." Then I wrote: "There are people who like to occupy the space of others. And there are those who cannot." Then I felt a great sorrow for him. Not because he was my friend, but just because. I felt that he had wasted his life.
Later, I would learn that he had become a radicalized nationalist and was peddling conspiracy theories about the migrants. That he had become a fascist. I was glad he had not written me, for if we met again it would be difficult. I wrote: "If there is a heaven it must be made of scraps."
And he replied: "There is no heaven and there will be none."
At last I have found the word that describes exactly what it is I want to say. Your last mail contained many good words, but what I mean is "thingness", or in greek "χωμα":
Not all things are beautiful and proud. There are some things that despite their usefulness, have no aesthetic appeal. The bed is a very useful invention. I can think of no other method by which the intensity and costliness (for most people)of sexual desire could be moderated, accommodated or even excluded without great pain. Yet the bed is not a beautiful object.
in the world that will be, all bodies are art. if you don't agree, i forgive your churlishness.
you write: i never thought it was art.
i think you are a person who thinks about art.
what do you think about music? what do you think about film? i can tell you more about those media.
you write: i can't imagine how you do it.
i can show you how to do it.
i can show you how to be a person.
you write: i don't want to change.
you are changing. you don't want to change, but you're doing it anyway.
don't worry. i will not change you.
I was in a job interview and the guy said: "in our company we have such great product that it sells itself. we don't have a marketing department because there's no need for one, the customers find us on their own"
I felt deeply afflicted by this man's words. Not because I think marketing is better than the product. I think the product is better. No, the affliction I felt was much deeper. It was the feeling that this man's company would be so awesome I'd surrender all my savings, sell my girlfriend into prostitution and kill whomever got in my way just to get one damn glimpse of their "great product".
He was not shy about describing the contents or even the methods by which they tested it. It was a very specific and detailed description, like watching someone actually unzipping an iso file on mac. I was turned on like i'd never been before. I left the interview and I went to a bar. I was there for 3 days. Noone talked to me. I held up a check, I said "is this 20 then you bastards" and noone laughed. I left.
Later I was back at the office, again interviewing for this position.
"our product is so great it sells itself"- he said. I was turned on again but this time it lasted longer and its aftereffects were so much better. I left out that day with a CD to my favorite song and I drove. I stopped at a gas station to charge my phone. Again I thought of my favorite band and how they would never betray me. Noone at this gas station would understand the joke I was trying to make with that thought. Noone here but the truckdrivers, and they are far too used to strange things that I as a civilian could not handle.
I left the station with my phone fully charged and continued on for a while until I came to an old highway where there were many trucks parked in various states of disrepair, converted into mobile homes or offices.
Here I met a man named Boris, and his four dogs. He didn't speak much english but my French was good enough to understand him and I did not want to bother him by speaking too loud. He showed me around his house, this was full of old junk and I took many photos without him noticing. He had a studio where he made 3D prints of peoples heads. He told me that in moscow there was a man who made photorealistic 3D printed heads and it inspired him to make the same, but with all sorts of weird materials like polystyrene or junk waste. He had a shop filled with old junk that he would deconstruct on site to make the prints. He had a warehouse of finished prints, some that were defective or sold but he would give me one for free. Boris was a fascinating and tragic character, his brain had been destroyed by the time he realized that 3D printing existed. When he saw my card and the picture of that technology it awakens in him all these feelings, memories. He recalls his childhood and how he was given the task of taking care, as a little boy would do, to take out our cat Seryozha from its basket when it had to poop. One morning, when he was 4 years old this tragedy happened. He realized too late that Serjoy was dead, he had been carrying him for a while and when his weight became significantly heavier it tipped the basket over. He was 4 years old. This trauma defined the course of his life. It would recur throughout his life every time he was asked to take care of something that held sentimental value for him, and each time the object either didn't return or came back in a terrible condition. Now as he took me around his house and I saw these objects that reminded him of Serjoy, a dog who died when he was four years old. he talked of his life, and it went like this:
i was born in moscow but my parents wanted to move because they got laid off from their jobs as engineers. We moved to a small town in russia called krasnodar. It was a lot colder. my mom was upset, we were far from family and friends. she didn't like it too much. there was a dog named serjoy, we got him when i were 6 or so. i was grumpy and didn't really interact with him a lot. My brother did, and my sister even more. My mom was really sad one day, she stayed in her room and we were supposed to go out for a walk but couldn't find her. We went out the door and found Serjoy, a big dachshund walking around in this cold by himself. we were kids, when our moms found us outside doing stuff they would be really upset. They'd be like "Serjoy is a dog and you are children, stop it". And we stopped. But not as much when our moms were at work.
i returned home one day to find my mom, super sad on the floor. She had cancer and she died a few months later. i was 10. my dad was great and still is. He took us to the cemetery, held our hands. i didn't understand the concept of death at that time, i thought we'd just put serjoy in a box and then pick him up later. He was a dog after all. My dad was a strong man, when we told him Serjoy died he said: "let's print another one" i wasn't too sure about this idea but i didnt say anything because my parents were going through such hard times. a few months after my mom died we went out to buy the materials for serjoy's replacement. i was 11 and we bought a lot of junk for this pet that my dad wanted to print. Later when we unpacked all the boxes and made serjoy's print i was surprised to find out how heavy these containers were that held junk like broken televisions, electric wires of various colors twisted around each other. i asked my dad what we were going to do with all this stuff and he said: "we're gonna make serjoy's print!" i was maybe 12 at this point and as much i loved my dad for taking care of me, giving us food to eat, providing a home when we had none - after losing our mom so early into life it would have been okay if he killed himself somehow (he didn't) but his preoccupation with bringing back Serjoy only added stress onto an already heavy load i was carrying in my mind. i started spending a lot of time on the computer, designing things for adults that they didn't need or want: new homes in countries where my dad wanted to move but hadn’t gotten work papers too (he got them later). i spent a lot of time thinking about the things that could be.
Now as an adult, i am more and more convinced that the thing we love most either existed before us or will exist after. i design 3D printed pets. 3D printed sentimental objects.
Boris and I will forget each other, but not before we have remembered him. I leant over and gave him a hug, maybe he needed it. Maybe I did. My hands shook a little as I wrote this report. Yes, it was a long meeting but I feel like I learned so much about 3D printing and this company. I even underlined three times that it was a long meeting. I am worried about Boris though.
It was not long after, when I received an email from Sophie. I will let it stand:
It would not be long after this event, when Sophie and I would decide to see each other again. I will not forget that it was then when my father finally died too.
I did not know that Tristane was the name of Sophie's child until much later, when I learned more about Sophie and her relationships. This was the name of the child Boris had been thinking about when he thought of his dog.
It was also the name of the activist Sophie was involved with who was kidnapped and held hostage by the FDL. The FDL was a group of political terrorists who fought in the name of radical socialist Paris and not for the cause they believed they were fighting for, but for themselves. They would meet Sophie halfway on their journey from Paris to Abuja, Nigeria, where Boko Haram had taken hundreds of women and girls as hostages. Held hostage. Waiting to be rescued.
I waited with Sophie.
My father died in the month that follows, after a series of strokes.
When we buried him, Sophie and I held hands.
When we held the dirt over his coffin, a group of men in suits stood a few meters away. These men were nothing in the world, but they emitted a faint glow that spread around like rippling water. I knew they were something in the world, representing someone. I forgot to write down who they were, representing. I thought then that they must have been representatives of his company. One of the men, whose name was Jean, said to me that he had been a representative of his company for 37 years. But that's not what he said to me. I only heard what I was expecting to hear, and ignored the rest. I ignored the rest of what Jean said to me that day, which consisted in a long list of his many accomplishments. I was thinking of my father, and how much he too had talked about his accomplishments. How much he had been lauded for his many accomplishments. How he was proud of those. But he was not proud of himself. He was proud of us. Of what we were going to do. He wanted us to do more than him. To do better. To do something noone had done before. He expected us to be better than everyone else. To be the best. And so we were.
Now I will also point out that my father left me no money. I only had a few thousand euros because my mom had left me that. My dad had spent all his money on one of his many hobbies: making 3D prints of our dog when he was a kid. He left a folder with thousands of photos and videos of this dog in it. A dog who died when he was four, in a story that I will not rehash now but which had a major impact on the course of my life. He also left a folder with about two hundred business plans.
I will not forget the day when I found myself in a coffee shop, writing my first business plan. I was 21, maybe 22. I thought: of course, that's it. I will make money. I will become the CEO of a big company. I will do good and make history. I was so sure about it. I wrote for hours, about the future of local retailers in a world where we all have our needs fulfilled by Amazon. I wrote about the importance of local, physical retailers, and how we should support them. I wrote extensively about the fact that we live in a world of increasing automation and decreasing human interaction, and how this poses major challenges for the future of humanity. I wrote a lot about the fact that we are all already robots, living in an automated world. I wrote a lot about the fact that we need to talk about death, and why we don't. I wrote a lot about the fact that we are all already dying, and that life is nothing but becoming-something-else. I wrote a lot about the fact that death is not an event but an absence of events, and that we all live in death. I wrote a lot about the fact that there are many kinds of deaths, and that we can die in many ways. I wrote a lot about the fact that we are all born dying and that we may as well die in little deaths every day instead of waiting for one big death. I wrote a lot about the fact that we are all terminal patients. I wrote a lot about the fact that we are all old, even those who don't look it.
And I wrote a lot about the fact that we are all subpar performers. Then, I wrote a plan to become the CEO of a big company. I wrote a plan to become the president. And finally, I wrote a plan to become the dictator of France. (In that order.) I thought it would make for a fun and easy read if I told you what my plans were, but alas, dear reader, the story of my attempts to become the CEO of Company is simply too preposterous. It is a story I cannot tell. The story of my attempts to become the president of France is also a story I cannot tell. And the story of my attempts to become the dictator of France is a story I cannot write. So I will not tell you the story of my attempts to become the president or the dictator, and I will only briefly mention that I did in fact write a very funny book about my attempts to become the CEO of a certain company (the same company my father used to work for). I hope you will not think this is coy or tricky in any way. I simply wanted to briefly mention it because one day, when we are old and gray, you will maybe read this book of mine about my time at Company and you will think to yourself "hey, interesting, the guy who is now the CEO actually worked for this dude before he became a nothing bag of content". And you will be correct. But you will forget about it in a day or two. So I will forget about it now.
And so on and so forth. I worked for Company for almost a decade, rising rapidly through the ranks despite being something of an enigma. I was hired as a consultant, and within two years I was making offers to hire people myself. I managed a team of people, and then the teams on the floor below me, and finally, when an executive position opened up, they lured me back into consulting with that job. I spent more and more time giving a conference on Lean Manufacturing practices, and less and less actually doing anything with my hands. I was, by this point, a paper worker. I now had more papers than anyone else in the company, and so I was promoted to be the person who gave out all the papers to everyone else. I was the paper go-between. I flew around the world several times a year, and even then didn't really see much. I would wake up in Tokyo and say "today you will work on such-and-such", and then spend the day in a conference room, giving papers to people who were just standing around waiting for my arrival. I treated these papers with respect.
But soon, I started to feel that these papers were becoming a burden. I was burdened with them. I was burdened with the lives of those who depended on me, who looked up to me. I was becoming a burden myself. I had to become a paper ship, floating aimlessly in space. I had to let go of my papers. At one point or another, we’ve all thought about leaving it all behind and becoming nomads, drifting in the desert for a while.