Long Gone

“Why does traditional lettering have serifs?” I would ask my design students, as an introduction to our unit on typography. “Who first had the idea to decorate alphabetic characters with little hats and shoes? Why go through the extra work?”

Most students had no answer, not ever having considered the issue. A few would cite studies purporting to show that serif typefaces enable faster reading than sans-serif typefaces — something about the serifs giving the eye a more obvious line to follow. (Even if there are such studies, they’d offer no evidence about how serifs came to exist in the first place.)

As it turns out, I was asking a trick question. My question assumed that unadorned letterforms came first, and that serifs were a flourish that was added later. In reality, serifs were there from the beginning. It’s only in relatively recent times, when efficiency became valued above all, that designers deliberately went about removing them.

Serifs are a relic of the calligrapher’s pen, from the time when all writing was done by hand. Although they had some practical value in managing the ink flow from a quill pen, serifs persisted, and became more refined, because they made the text beautiful. As most calligraphy was done by monks who were copying religious texts, the role of writing was not simply to convey information; it was to glorify the word of God. Beauty was part of the job.

Our attitude that utility is primary, and that beauty is an optional add-on, is a historical anomaly. For most of human history, it was assumed that if something was worth bringing into the world, then it either was inherently beautiful or deserved to be made beautiful. Beauty and truth, to paraphrase Keats, were indistinguishable from each other.

As unlikely as it may seem, what all this leads up to is the story of an 18th-century British carpenter-turned-clockmaker named John Harrison, who singlehandedly revolutionized marine navigation. Great Britain, you see, had an empire to rule; administering that empire required a fleet of ships; and each of those ships needed to know exactly where it was on any given day. Calculating a ship’s latitude was easy; it merely required measuring the distance from the sun to the horizon at midday. But calculating a ship’s longitude was next to impossible.

While latitude is measured in relation to the equator, longitude must be measured in relation to an arbitrary reference location — in this case, the Prime Meridian, which in 1721 had been established to pass through the Royal Observatory in Greenwich. Unlike the equator, whose position is fixed, meridians of longitude move with the rotation of the earth. Therefore, calculating a ship’s longitude required making precise observations of the positions of stars and planets, and comparing them to where an almanac predicted that they ought to be at specific places and times. That was not a very dependable method, especially since making accurate astronomical observations was hopelessly tricky aboard a rocking ship under an often cloud-covered sky.

In theory, all of this messiness could be dispensed with if a ship had a clock that continuously displayed the current time at the Prime Meridian. Then it would be simple to calculate the ship’s longitude by comparing that reference time with the local time. But the only type of clock that could theoretically maintain the required level of accuracy — one driven by a relatively new invention called the pendulum — was practically useless aboard ship, since the rocking of the ship and constant changes in temperature and humidity caused unacceptable variations in the pendulum’s motion. No clock had ever been made that could keep time reliably on a sea voyage.

Harrison — given the incentive of a £20,000 reward that the British Parliament had offered to anyone who could create a dependable marine clock — set out to solve the problem, pairing impeccable craftsmanship with an uncanny ability to invent new technologies as needed. He spent five years developing his first sea clock, now known as H1, which maintained unprecedented (if not yet sufficient) accuracy on its test voyage. He spent another five years creating H2, and then an astounding 17 years completing H3, before starting from scratch on an entirely new design — resembling a large pocket watch rather than a standing clock — that six years later became H4. That model, completed in 1759, proved so accurate that it is credited as having forever changed the nature of sea travel.

All four of those clocks are now on exhibit in Greenwich, and all but the last are still running. (H4 remains in working condition, but is too delicate to be kept in continuous use while on display.) Debra and I visited the Royal Observatory just for the touristy fun of being able to straddle the Prime Meridian, with one foot in the Western Hemisphere and one in the Eastern, but I had no idea that our visit would also include an opportunity to view Harrison’s historic clocks.

The experience was astonishing — not just because these clocks so improbably still survive, but because they are so achingly, breathtakingly beautiful. Some of the beauty is inherent in their engineering: The precise machining and flawless polish that are necessary to their functioning, and the perfect discipline of their movement, are as soul-satisfying as any piece of art could ever be. But beyond that, Harrison — whose background was in fine cabinetry, and who sang with (and later led) his church choir — clearly did all he could to make the aesthetic appeal of his clocks commensurate with their scientific and historical importance.

Not only do all four timepieces have elegant faces engraved with delicate scrollwork; H4 goes so far as to save its most exquisite ornamentation for inside the watch case, which only the person who wound or maintained the device would ever get to see. Every tiny element of the mechanism reflects profound thought and meticulous care (some of which was provided by other skilled craftsmen whom Harrison hired to do the work).

Harrison’s clocks did not have to be attractive to qualify for the £20,000 reward; they only had to work. But Harrison evidently knew what the designers of early typefaces had known — that any physical manifestation of truth must also be beautiful. The only other influential person in recent times that I can think of who knew this was Steve Jobs. Are there others?

Inside H4
Read Me 2 comments

Come to Cheeses

I’m sure that everyone has a list of foods that offended them when they were children, but that they enjoy — or even crave — as adults. Mine includes fish, liver, olives, horseradish, and (of course) alcoholic beverages. But way beyond any other item on the scale of repulsiveness was cheese. Cheese — any sort of cheese — was simply disgusting. Even the sound of the word, with its harsh initial consonant followed by a long e-e-e sound that made your face sneer when you said it, was off-putting. Having heard a bit about the process by which cheese was made — which apparently involved curdled milk, bacteria, and juice from a cow’s stomach — did nothing to stimulate my appetite for it.

Whenever I was mistakenly served a cheeseburger rather than a hamburger, I wouldn’t let it anywhere near my face until I’d picked off every bit of melty cheese. On those very rare occasions when my family had takeout pizza for dinner, I refused to eat it. Pizza, after all, was pretty much just a delivery mechanism for cheese.

It wasn’t until late in my senior year of high school that I was cured of this affliction. I was out with a bunch of drama-club friends who decided to go out for pizza, and as a captive in the same car, I had to go with them. I was not invulnerable to peer pressure, and if everyone else was eating pizza, I had to try it too. I did, and it was good. Incredibly good. So good that I cursed myself for all the years of pleasure I’d forgone for not eating pizza. I’ve been making up for that lost time ever since.

Pizza — along with its paesani, calzones and lasagna —turned out to be the gateway drug that led me to appreciate other types of cheese, even those unaccompanied by dough and tomato sauce. I have to admit, however, that my openness to cheese remains limited. I’m still squeamish about soft or smelly cheeses, or cheese made from sheep or goat milk. Processed “cheese food products” such as American cheese, Velveeta, and Cheez Whiz are abhorrent. Any cheese that features mold is out of the question. (My wife, a non-meat-eater, will generously transfer the bacon slices from her Cobb salad onto my plate, but if one of those slices is contaminated by even a molecule of blue cheese dressing, my entire meal can be ruined.)

Still, even my limited gamut of acceptable cheeses includes plenty that are irresistible. Swiss, or Emmental — not to mention its Norwegian cousin, Jarlsberg — is my everyday favorite for snacking. Provolone is the perfect finishing touch for any Italian cold-cut sandwich. Smoked Gouda, especially the aged version known as Old Amsterdam, is addictive.

But the absolute king of cheeses, so far as I’m concerned, is cheddar. Even standard blocks of mass-produced cheddar are OK, but nothing compares to a multi-year-aged, extra-sharp cheddar, with its pungent flavor, crumbly texture, and crunchy crystals. Unfortunately — and for reasons that I’ve been unable to determine — that type of cheddar is almost impossible to get in California. Although it’s a sacrifice that Debra and I knowingly made when we moved from the east coast to the west more than 30 years ago, the absence of extra-sharp cheddar still hurts.

It was a delight, then, to arrive here in London and discover that high-quality cheddar is commonplace. I suppose that it shouldn’t have been a surprise, since the town of Cheddar, where the cheese originated, is only 100 or so miles away. Still, I would never have expected that you could walk into any grocery store and find a variety of cheddars, sliced or in blocks, ranked numerically by level of maturity.

Because we’re here for two months, we prepare many of our meals at home (although it’s hard for me to resist the temptation to have breakfast, lunch, and dinner at one of our several local pubs). Still, even an ordinary lunchtime sandwich becomes a real treat when it includes a slice of tangy, mature cheddar. I don’t know what’s going to happen when we return home to Oakland and once again have to resort to eating Tillamook. I may long for the time when I refused to eat any cheese at all, and therefore had no idea what I was missing.

Read Me 1 comment

Yay Us!

“Can you believe it’s been 35 years, and we still enjoy each other’s company?!” Debra has been wont to comment lately.

“Less so each time you say that” is my mock-irritated reply. But I have to admit that it is pretty remarkable, especially since the last of those years culminated in a ten-day confinement in a small London apartment while we slowly recovered from COVID.

Thirty-five years ago today, Debra and I stood in a rustic Quaker meeting house in New Jersey and recited vows to each other. There is no clergy at a Quaker wedding; it is the collective declaration of the people who are present — represented by their signatures on a large certificate — that makes the marriage official.

That certificate still hangs on our living room wall. As the years have passed, fewer and fewer of the people who signed it are still around to see what became of the young couple whose vows they affirmed. Not all of the intervening years have been pleasant; there were painful periods that sometimes raised doubts about whether our relationship would survive. But like the caterpillar that turns to gunk inside a chrysalis and then somehow comes forth as a butterfly, our marriage has emerged as something light and lovely.

We do still enjoy each other’s company. We make each other laugh every day, no matter what either of us might be going through. We support each other completely, whether that means giving each other space to do the things we want to do individually, or coming together to do the things (home maintenance, anybody?) that neither of us wants to do alone.

Not many people know that we ran a business together for ten years. Our skills were perfectly complementary — Debra handling the aspects that required social skills, me handling the technical aspects that she had no patience for — and when meeting with clients, we were able to communicate solely by eye contact, since each of us knew exactly what the other was thinking. That business was dissolved long ago (Debra, for some reason, thought it would be preferable to do work that would actually earn us money), but we still have a natural knack for collaboration, whether it involves fostering kittens or opening our living room for monthly house concerts.

Our partnership runs so deep that neither of us knows what we’d do without the other. That has become more than a theoretical question, as our bodies age and our infirmities accumulate. But as much as we rely on each other for practical things, we depend even more on the deep and constant knowledge that there is someone who knows us, cares about us, and loves us more than anyone else on earth. To imagine living without that is impossible.

I’ve always resisted writing blog posts that deal solely with my personal life. Although each post may revolve around some experience I’ve had, I always make sure that there’s some larger point, some more universal insight, that makes it more than just a piece of writing about me.

This post will have to be the exception. I have no conclusion to draw, no advice to offer about why our relationship has lasted as long as it has and how yours can do the same. Our experience is strictly our own, and doesn’t lend itself to generalizations. But Debra, who is so often a supporting character in these posts, deserves for the world to know how much more than a supporting character she is in my life. I am incredibly fortunate. We are incredibly fortunate. May your life be equally blessed.

Read Me 4 comments

All Bets Are Off

I’ve written previously about how puzzled I am by the use of walkathons, bikeathons, and similar events as a way of soliciting charitable donations. If a friend were to come to you and say, “I’d like you to demonstrate your loyalty to me by contributing $50 to cancer research, which is a cause I strongly believe in,” I think most people would consider that rude —taking inappropriate advantage of a friendship. Yet if the same friend were to say, “I’ll be walking ten miles in support of cancer research, and I’d like you to sponsor me at a rate of $5 per mile,” that would be considered perfectly legitimate. I’m not sure why, since the only difference between the two cases is that the latter one requires the friend to engage in a thoroughly unproductive activity that does nothing to contribute to curing cancer.

Lately I’ve been having a similar reaction to the many requests I’ve been receiving — by email and, increasingly, by text — from political candidates asking me to contribute to their campaigns. That’s certainly considered legitimate, but I’m not sure why.

A contribution to a political campaign is not the same as a charitable gift. If I donate to a charity, it’s because I know that my contribution will support work that I consider valuable. But in the case of a candidate, even if I think that the candidate intends to work toward noble goals, my contribution does nothing to advance that work — it only indicates my wish for the candidate to be elected. If the candidate is not elected, my money has accomplished nothing.

You would probably object that my contribution doesn’t merely represent my desire for the candidate to get elected; it actually helps the candidate get elected. If that’s the case, perhaps my contribution should be thought of as an investment rather than a charitable donation. After all, if I invest in a business venture, I have no assurance that the venture is going to be successful; it’s quite possible that I’ll lose my money with nothing to show for it. But a campaign contribution is different from an investment in two important ways.

First, if I do invest in a business, it’s because someone has shown me exactly how my money is going to be used, and has demonstrated to me in detail how their plan for building the business is likely to pan out. With a political campaign, I have no idea how my money will be used, and I have no reason to be confident that my contribution will change the outcome of the race.

Second, my investment in a business buys me something. I become a part-owner of that business, and therefore benefit directly from its success. My contribution to a political campaign buys me nothing. You might argue that if my candidate wins, I will benefit from the policies that elected official will put in place, and that would constitute the payoff from my investment. But people who didn’t contribute to the campaign would get exactly the same payoff, so what is the benefit to me of making that contribution?

Well then, if donating to a political campaign isn’t equivalent to a charitable contribution, and it’s not equivalent to an investment, what is it? Perhaps it should just be thought of as gambling. I put down my money, and I either get the reward that I want, or I don’t. The outcome is a result of pure luck, or more accurately, a complex interplay of forces beyond my control.

You might say, as before, that the money I put into the system affects the outcome, and that therefore what I’m doing is technically not gambling. But there are plenty of other situations that are similar. If I buy more raffle tickets than any of the other participants, my chance of winning is better than theirs. If I drop quarters strategically enough into a Las Vegas quarter-pusher machine, I have a better chance of making a bunch of quarters spill over the edge. But in both cases, what I’m doing is still considered gambling.

As a rule, I don’t gamble, and so it would be easy enough for me to say that I therefore will ignore all of those requests for campaign contributions. And yet, that conclusion doesn’t feel right, either. As much as I believe that political candidates shouldn’t have to raise huge amounts of money to run for office, and that some sort of public financing is the best solution, it seems unlikely that any such thing will come about in the foreseeable future. We have a rotten system, but it’s the only system we have. I only wish that people would stop accepting it as reasonable and normal, in the way that they so inexplicably have accepted walkathons.

Read Me 2 comments

Passé

It’s been fascinating to track the changes in societal attitudes toward COVID over the past (nearly) three years. At the beginning of the pandemic, the message from public health experts was: You’re going to get COVID. Everybody’s going to get it. We just have to make sure that everybody doesn’t get it at the same time, so as to avoid overwhelming the health care system. That was the idea behind “flattening the curve” (a phrase that now has a fairly quaint ring to it, like “surfing the web”).

Then came the sudden, miraculous appearance of the Pfizer, Moderna, and Johnson & Johnson vaccines, which changed the prevailing wisdom to: Nobody has to get COVID, as long as we all stay current on our vaccinations.

Eventually the emergence of Omicron and its many rapidly evolving subvariants brought us back to: Well, it turns out you’re going to get COVID after all. But so long as you’re vaccinated (and boosted), it’s not going to kill you.

Now, so far as I can tell, the general attitude of both the government and the public is: Yeah, OK, whatever.

At least that’s my impression here in the UK, where Debra and I celebrated the third week of our two-month stay in London by contracting a juicy, joint case of COVID. (I can’t say that I’m surprised, given that nobody — and I mean nobody — wears masks here. As much as we’re trying to live like average Londoners, when we put on our KN-95s while riding in a crowded Underground train, we immediately and blatantly label ourselves as outsiders.)

As soon as we saw the positive results of our antigen tests, we went online to find out what resources were available for us. The National Health Service fortunately has lots of easy-to-find information on the subject, which can pretty much be summarized as “COVID — is that still a thing?”

I’m not kidding. It’s fortunate that we brought our own supply of COVID tests from home, because they’re difficult to come by here. The NHS offers free COVID testing to people who have serious health conditions, who are being admitted to a hospital, or who work in social services. According to the NHS website, if you’re not in any of those categories, then “you’re no longer advised to get tested.”

And what happens if you do get your hands on a test, and it turns up positive? The NHS’s advice is “Try to” — and yes, it actually does say “try to” — “stay at home and avoid contact with other people for 5 days.” That’s basically it.

So we’ve been self-isolating in our basement flat since Sunday, depending on food-delivery services to keep our refrigerator stocked. (My favorite of the UK delivery services is Deliveroo, whose slogan is, “Food — we get it!”) Not that either of us has had much of an appetite. To confirm our positive test results, we went through the list of COVID symptoms, and found that we both had textbook cases: “Fever, yup. Coughing, yup. Shortness of breath or difficulty breathing, yup. Muscle or body aches, headache, sore throat, congestion or runny nose — yuppity yuppity yup.…” Fortunately, one symptom that we haven’t experienced is loss of taste or smell. Which brings me to the bright note on which I’d like to end this post: peri-peri chicken!

Peri-peri (sometimes spelled piri-piri) is a South African hot-pepper sauce that we first encountered during our visit to Cape Town ten years ago. I thought that peri-peri chicken was strictly a South African specialty, but for some reason, every chicken joint here in London seems to offer it. Even during my first few days of COVID, when I had no desire for food at all, finding some leftover peri-peri chicken in the fridge was enough to revive my appetite, to the point where I immediately devoured half a bird. The flavor is irresistible, and the spiciness cuts through all of that COVID-induced congestion. I was brought up to trust that chicken soup is the cure for everything, but clearly my Jewish relatives had never been to South Africa, or London.

Read Me 2 comments