4 ★ FT Weekend 4 April/5 April 2020A
t home I enjoy large help-
ings. Down here I’m learn-
ing to value small pleas-
ures. The subtle shades of
the snow. The light wind.
Hot drinks. Cloud formations.”
I wrote this on day 22 while walking
alone to the South Pole. In the course of
three weeks I’d not seen nor heard a sign
of life. No people, no animals, no air-
craft. I’d put some 500km behind me
and had more than 800km to go. When I
began that journey I felt that everything
around me was completely white and
flat, all the way to the horizon, and that
above the horizon it was blue.
But over time I’d started to see things
differently. The snow and ice were no
longer just white but myriad shades of
white, with glints of yellow, blue and
green. I slowly began to see variations in
the flatness — formations that on closer
inspection were like works of art, and
different shades of colour.
“It’s a clear day. The hugeness of the
landscape and the colours of the snow
make me happy. Flatness can be beauti-
ful too, not just mountains. I used to
think that blue is the colour of poetry,
white of purity, red of passion, and green
of hope. But here such classifications
don’t seem natural. Now all of them
stand for poetry, purity, love and hope.
And tomorrow blue and white might
stand for storm and frost.”
Your experience of your surroundings
can change dramatically over time,
even if your surroundings don’t. What
alters is what’s inside your head. “What
in truth is sublime must be sought in the
mind of the judging subject, and not in
those objects of nature which give rise to
the mood,” wrote Immanuel Kant.
What is beautiful lies in nature, but for
our surroundings to be truly sublime, a
transformation has to occur between
our ears rather than in what we see.
What seemed beautiful to me at the out-
set of my trek to the South Pole became
in time sublime. It was all about details:
a mountain on the horizon, the wind, a
snow crystal, a formation in the ice.
The Antarctic stillness is more pro-
found, and can be heard more clearly
than almost all sounds. Silence is elo-quent. At home there’s always a radio
on, a packed metro, a phone buzzing, a
car passing by. There are so many
sounds during a normal day that I barely
hear them. In the Antarctic, when there
wasn’t any wind, the stillness was far
more powerful than back at home.
In my journal for day 26 I wrote:
“Here stillness is all-absorbing. I feel
and hear it. In this endless landscape
everything seems eternal and without
limit. The soundless space does not feel
threatening or terrifying, but comfort-
ing.” At home I barely notice what hap-
pens around me, but there I was so
attuned to my environment, that still-
ness became part of me.
If I had enough energy for it, I made
new discoveries every day. I was isolated
from anything beyond my horizon, so it
was only my nearest surroundings I
could relate to. As the weeks passed, my
impressions of them became stronger.
Gradually I worked up a dialogue with
them, that was dependent on what I
could contribute. It was not a conversa-
tion, but an exchange nonetheless, in
which I sent out thoughts and received
ideas in return. Towards the end of the
journey, on New Year’s Eve, I wrote :
“Just as I have felt my own smallness
in relation to the natural environment,
I’ve also felt an inner greatness. I’ve
experienced terror and joy, known relief
and disappointment, beauty and pain,
have asked questions and found some
answers, sensed closeness to the ele-
ments, given of myself and received,
had the joy of physical exertion, and
been strengthened in the view that there
are still challenges and dreams worth
giving one’s all for. Although the great
truths have not been revealed, I can
understand that time in the desert was
decisively important for great leaders
like Jesus and Buddha. Here one may
experience what one cannot elsewhere.”To be quarantined, as we have been in
Norway since the middle of March,
reminds me of the solitude and silence I
experienced in the polar regions. Whenthe world expects us to be available at all
times, grounding yourself in nature can
be hard. I forget about it sometimes, and
when I look around, I get the feeling that
many people forget about it all the time.
The past weeks have been different.
In suburban Oslo I have again started to
listen to nature. If you listen closely,
you’ll hear that the air, the birds, the
grass, the wind, the sun, the trees have
their own language and consciousness.
They tell us where we come from and
what may lay on the road ahead.
When I think back, it’s that closeness
to the environment which made the
greatest impression over the 50 days I
was alone in the Antarctic. At times, cul-
ture and nature can be contradictory,
but not on a journey such as this. My
imagination and language were good
tools for creating a bond with nature
rather than distancing me from it. I
became a part of the ice, the snow and
the wind over the course of that journey,
and that environment gradually
became part of me. On the ice and
oceans, and in the mountains and for-
ests, I learnt that less can be more.
Perhaps 30 was late to be coming to
this realisation. I remember as a child
how a small piece of cake tasted better
than a big piece — “Little tastes good,less tastes more,” as the Swedish poet
Wille Crafoord writes — but I never
drew any conclusions from that. Each
new spoonful tasted less good than the
one before, and if I ate enough I felt sick.
That’s what economists call the law of
diminishing returns. The next time I got
the chance to eat cake again I ate as
much as I could stuff down, naturally.
But when there was only a small piece to
be had, it meant I savoured it.
Now and then I still think it can be
good to go whole hog and dig in — but
I’m glad I’ve become aware of the pleas-
ure of enjoying small helpings. Archi-
tects, of course, made this discovery
long ago. “Less is more” is a principle
attributed to the German architect Mies
van der Rohe. This might be a tad unfair,
considering the expression was familiar
in architectural circles in Germany
before it was officially credited to him.
He was, however, one of those who
really applied the consequences of this
philosophy, and in so doing became one
of the groundbreaking powers in mod-
ern architecture. He showed that the
function and beauty of every object
could be highlighted through the omis-
sion of certain elements. Its strength as a
whole was be increased by using less.
In the Antarctic I had the freedom tochoose what I wanted at any time, much
as at home. But, unlike at home, I had
only a few options to choose from. When
I wasn’t on skis, I tried to do at least two
things at the same time. To prepare
lunch and fill Thermoses while reading
and eating, and so forth. By and large
these duties were routine and on my
to-do list. There was nothing more to
choose between or think about. All in all
I was very efficient on the ice, and got
done everything I had to in the course of
the day. If it was not too cold, I tried to
read a little every evening. To save
weight, the books I brought had as many
thoughts and ideas as possible per
gramme. Later, I recirculated the pages I
had read as toilet paper.
At home I value options, and being
able to pursue things at will. The more
I’m involved, the more I feel I am getting
from life. The problem is that at times it
can be limiting to have so much to
choose between. It’s lovely to think of
being faced with a choice of three jams
at breakfast, but it can also feel exces-
sive and, therefore, wasteful. On expedi-
tions I don’t miss the alternatives; I sim-
ply eat the same thing — oats, dried
meat, chocolate with extra calories,
honey, dried fruit, different sorts of fat,
formula milk — and I feel I have earned
my meals. The more exhausted I am,
the better it tastes.
The secret to a good life, seen from the
ice, is to keep your joys simple. That
doesn’t mean my goal is to live simply all
the time, but nor do I believe it’s best to
be faced with infinite choice. It’s about
having enough options to feel that I canchoose the one that works for me, but
not so many that I feel unable to assess
the merits of each one. There’s not as
much difference as it appears between
having no options and having a pleth-
ora. Both can render me powerless.On the eighth day of my journey to
the South Pole, I discovered that the oat-
meal soup tasted rancid. I was afraid of
becoming ill and had to throw it away. In
my journal I recorded: “I look down on
the snow in front of me. The soup has fil-
tered through the snow. The grains of
oatmeal and the dried apricots are lying
on top. Haven’t the heart to let the apri-
cots just lie there. I take off my right
glove and pick them up, one by one. It’s
cold and laborious work. Stuff them into
my mouth. Get my glove on. A bit of the
sweet taste is left — I relish it.”
I remember that taste even now, and
how those apricots felt in my mouth,
and I’m in no doubt that they are the
best I’ve ever tasted.
I’m not going to tell my three daugh-
ters that their lives will be better if they
eat a couple of freezing apricots for
breakfast. But I hope they won’t grow up
believing that life is most pleasurable
when every meal is a feast. Or that they
should sit inside and live in images of
the world rather than in the world. If
they should ask me how they can bal-
ance the great and the small in life, I
won’t have an inexhaustible supply of
answers for them. But the virus that has
changed their lives for now has given
them an answer they didn’t learn at
school before it was closed: you will not
experience a golden mean for long, your
goals may be different the next day, the
world has changed, but it’s good to strive
for them nevertheless.
Quarantined, I have been thinking a
lot about life on the ice — because, in its
simplicity, it was uncommonly rich. Not
unlike these past two weeks.Erling Kagge is author of ‘Silence, In the
Age of Noise’, translated by Becky L Crook
(Viking)Above: Erling Kagge on
an Icelandic ice cap in
March 2010—HaraldurOrnOlafssonRight: A lone pedestrian
walks along an empty
street in Oslo on
Wednesday—BloombergLife&Arts Life under lockdown
At home I barely notice
what happens around me;
in the Antarctic I made newdiscoveries every day
Ajourney to the South Pole taught
explorerErling Kaggeto find the
sublime in small things — and prepared
him for life under quarantine in Oslo
Lessons for
a life on ice
How to show
affection — from
a distance
O
ne of the most enjoyable
articles I’ve ever read was
called “Up And Then
Down”, by Nick
Paumgarten. It was
published in the New Yorker in April- Today, it would be described as a
long read. Back then it was simply an
exhaustive study of the life and times
of the elevator, or as Brits would call
them — lifts.
Apart from the brilliance of the
writing, the piece has stayed with me,
more than a decade later, for the
theories of social distancing the
elevator helped evince. In particular, it
illuminates the work done in the 1970s
by John J Fruin, an engineer who
developed the concept of the “touch
zone”, an area of three square foot
around the body which, if encroached
upon, would be considered an invasion
of one’s personal space. The typical
area of comfort, he concluded, was
about 10 sq ft of room. And yet a
packed elevator gives each occupant a
proximity of less than 18 inches. It was
an intimacy Fruin described as being
“psychologically disturbing”.
We are all in the touch zone now.
Except our touch zone is not only
psychologically disturbing, but a place
of danger. Every time we leave the
house, each interaction is charged with
fear and caution. Overnight, and quite
intuitively, we’ve started using odd
manoeuvres and behaviours to ensure
we safeguard our health.
Fruin’s personal comfort area
measured a full metre more than the
two metres’ distance we are advised to
keep in preventing the spread of the
coronavirus. But two metres is hard to
mark, especially if you are trying to
manage basic errands such as doing the
weekly shop, walking the dog, or
having the misfortune to be anywhere
near an urban jogger — that curious
alpha species that deems itself immune
to illness and therefore eligible to
dominate the path. Even when we’re
trying to give other people room, we’re
still a bit too close.
In the attempt to avoid each other,
our normal exchanges have become
less intimate as well. We don’t have
time for chit-chat. Our heads are down.
We cross the street away from
strangers in exaggerated acts of corona
courtesy that would otherwise seem
rude. It’s a strangely hostile world we
live in. Seeing friends — even at a
distance — is frowned on. Loved ones
are quarantined. Work colleagues have
become two-dimensional avatars we
see only via a screen.
It makes you wonder what will
happen to the other codes of bodylanguage. Already the handshake, a
badge of businesslike braggadocio since
the days of Ancient Greece, is being
eliminated fast. Europeans have had to
quash the habit of the traditional
double kiss. Even the elbow bump — a
recent alternative to the high five — is
too close for comfort now.
Writing on social media recently, the
actress Jamie Lee Curtis wrote abouther sadness at the demise of the high
five; a universal gesture of celebration
that was supposedly born at LA’s
Dodger Stadium in 1977, and credited
to the baseball player Glenn Burke.
Burke, a closeted gay man, died from
complications from Aids in 1995.
“Today, another virus may
temporarily bring an end to his legacy,”
wrote Lee Curtis about Burke, whose
biography she has long been trying to
turn into a film. “The beautiful gesture
of joy, celebration, love and support
that crossed every boundary, every
socio-economic line, every race, every
gender, from members of royal families
to our most vulnerable young
immigrants, the high five stood the test
of time and I am not giving up on it.”
Although I’d happily eradicate most
forms of physical contact — I’m all in
favour of a ceremonial bow — I’d still
like to find a gesture to see us through
the next few weeks. But a wave feels too
royal, and a thumbs up looks too dumb.
Maybe it’s time to introduce my
grandmother’s old favourite — when
you do something she approves of, you
get a little wink. It’s friendly, informal,
cheeky, and it shows solidarity. Plus,
you can read it from a distance. Rethink
the wink — it’s the touch zone hug.Jo Ellison is editor of How to Spend ItJo Ellison
Ina shopping mall lift in
Indonesia, areas are
marked to ensure social
distancing—APAPRIL 4 2020 Section:Weekend Time: 2/4/2020 - 18: 01 User: andrew.higton Page Name: WKD4, Part,Page,Edition: WKD, 4, 1