View all notes
Available query params: commented=1, untagged=1
[...] wage theft isn't limited to fruit stands and single-factory garment manufacturers. "Some of the largest, most well-respected companies on the planet will shave a little time here, shave a little time there," Shalov says, "and at the end of the day if they end up saving money, if it helps their bottom line, that's what they're going to do." The Department of Labor is not equipped to spend years in litigation against every violator on the Fortune 500, while every violator on the Fortune 500 is absolutely prepared to spend years in litigation against the Department of Labor. The money field isn't even.
pano idea: someone acknowledges that they're doing wage theft, says it's ok cus it won't be enforced
By now you may have spotted the problem. When workers improve their skills it doesn’t entitle them to more pay, or ensure them more pay — it merely enables companies to pay more. And given the option, companies would rather not pay you more.
Employers like to talk about the “skills gap,” but there is a permanent and unbridgeable divide between the supply of and demand for skilled labor. Business owners want a flood of applicants for every position, who are so well-qualified that they require no training — and they want that flood of competition to allow them to offer lower pay. Workers, on the other hand, want to get paid as much as possible, preferably without having to apply for 100 gigs at a time, or spend a decade and tens of thousands of dollars developing their skills.
The idea that these two sets of interests could ever come into a happy balance is a myth perpetuated by factory owners looking for ways to save money.
[...] If there's one lesson we can learn from the War it's that fascists don't always lose. The arc of history is not a missile defense system and sometimes righteous solidarity makes for full prison camps.
oof
The operation of the camera supplied Pirandello with an image for a new detachment from life as it unfolds before one. Gubbio watches, observes, records, but remains unmoved by the dramas enacted before him. This professional attitude becomes a model for his behavior in all situations, extending to the complex love triangles of past betrayal and future revenge that make up the off-screen drama enacted by the personnel of Kosmograph Studio. Gubbio strives to remain detached -- "impassive," as he puts it -- a modern man trapped within his observing self-consciousness, alienated from both action and affection.
[...] Pirandello's comments on film in Shoot! played an important role in Walter Benjamin's influential discussion of cinema in "The Work of Art in the Age of Technological Reproducibility," published in 1936, with Benjamin emphasizing that the passing time and even the transition to sound film had done "little to diminish their relevance."
Benjamin drew specifically on Gubbio's discussion of the camera's alienating effect on film actors, depriving the performers of all the contingent elements of their living reality [...] Pirandello expressed here the uneasiness that many intellectuals and artists felt when they first encountered the cinematic image, disturbed (and simultaneously fascinated by) its mute, colorless, abstract, and even ghostly aspect. Benjamin brilliantly related this experience of lack to the cinema's destruction of the actor's aura, the unique presence of an individual personality. When the apparatus substitutes for an audience, Benjamin claimed, the actor is stripped bare by the camera's gaze -- as Pirandello phrases it, the actor becomes "exiled from himself" -- only to be presented later in this reduced state before an audience who cannot experience the aura of live presence.
cool! i should reread that (weird translation of the title tho)
I study people in their most ordinary occupations, to see if I can succeed in discovering in others what I feel that I myself lack in everything that I do: the certainty that they understand what they are doing.
At first sight it does indeed seem as though many of them had this certainty, from the way in which they look at and greet one another, hurrying to and fro in pursuit of their business or their pleasure. But afterwards, if I stop and gaze for a moment in their eyes with my own intent and silent eyes, at once they begin to take offence. Some of them, in fact, are so disturbed and perplexed that I have only to keep on gazing at them for a little longer, for them to insult or assault me.
No, go your ways in peace. This is enough for me: to know, gentlemen, that there is nothing clear or certain to you either, not even the little that is determined for you from time to time by the absolutely familiar conditions in which you are living. There is a something more in everything. You do not wish or do not know how to see it. But the moment this something more gleams in the eyes of an idle person like myself, who has set himself to observe you, why, you become puzzled, disturbed or irritated.
<3 <3 <3
"Excuse me, but haven't they yet discovered a way of making the camera go by itself?"
I can still see that gentleman's face; delicate, pale, with thin, fair hair; keen, blue eyes; a pointed, yellowish beard, behind which there lurked a faint smile, that tried to appear timid and polite, but was really malicious. For by his question he meant to say to me:
"Is there any real necessity for you? What are you? A hand that turns the handle. Couldn't they do without this hand? Couldn't you be eliminated, replaced by some piece of machinery?"
I smiled as I answered:
"In time, Sir, perhaps. To tell you the truth, the chief quality that is required in a man of my profession is impassivity in face of the action that is going on in front of the camera. A piece of machinery, in that respect, would doubtless be better suited, and preferable to a man. But the most serious difficulty, at present, is this: where to find a machine that can regulate its movements according to the action that is going on in front of the camera. Because I, my dear Sir, do not always turn the handle at the same speed, but faster or slower as may be required. I have no doubt, however, that in time, Sir, they will succeed in eliminating me. The machine--this machine too, like all the other machines--will go by itself. But what mankind will do then, after all the machines have been taught to go by themselves, that, my dear Sir, still remains to be seen."
"Excuse me, but haven't they yet discovered a way of making the camera go by itself?"
I can still see that gentleman's face; delicate, pale, with thin, fair hair; keen, blue eyes; a pointed, yellowish beard, behind which there lurked a faint smile, that tried to appear timid and polite, but was really malicious. For by his question he meant to say to me:
"Is there any real necessity for you? What are you? A hand that turns the handle. Couldn't they do without this hand? Couldn't you be eliminated, replaced by some piece of machinery?"
I smiled as I answered:
"In time, Sir, perhaps. To tell you the truth, the chief quality that is required in a man of my profession is impassivity in face of the action that is going on in front of the camera. A piece of machinery, in that respect, would doubtless be better suited, and preferable to a man. But the most serious difficulty, at present, is this: where to find a machine that can regulate its movements according to the action that is going on in front of the camera. Because I, my dear Sir, do not always turn the handle at the same speed, but faster or slower as may be required. I have no doubt, however, that in time, Sir, they will succeed in eliminating me. The machine--this machine too, like all the other machines--will go by itself. But what mankind will do then, after all the machines have been taught to go by themselves, that, my dear Sir, still remains to be seen."
What is to be done? I am here. I serve my machine, in so far as I turn the handle so that it may eat. But my soul does not serve me. My hand serves me, that is to say serves the machine. The human soul for food, life for food, you must supply, gentlemen, to the machine whose handle I turn. I shall be amused to see, with your permission, the product that will come out at the other end. A fine product and a rare entertainment, I can promise you.
omg
It was in November, a bitterly cold night. I was wandering in search of a modest lodging, not so much for myself, accustomed to spend my nights in the open, on friendly terms with the bats and the stars, as for my portmanteau, which was my sole worldly possession, left behind in the railway cloakroom, when I happened to run into one of my friends from Sassari, of whom I had long lost sight: Simone Pau, a man of singular originality and freedom from prejudice. Hearing of my hapless plight, he proposed that I should come and sleep that night in his hotel. I accepted the invitation, and we set off on foot through the almost deserted streets. On our way, I told him of my many misadventures and of the frail hopes that had brought me to Rome. Every now and then Simone Pau raised his hat-less head, on which the long, sleek, grey hair was parted down the middle in flowing locks, but zigzag, the parting being made with his fingers, for want of a comb. These locks, drawn back behind his ears on either side, gave him a curious, scanty, irregular mane. He expelled a large mouthful of smoke, and stood for a while listening to me, with his huge swollen lips held apart, like those of an ancient comic mask. His crafty, mouselike eyes, sharp as needles, seemed to dart to and fro, as though trapped in his big, rugged, massive face, the face of a savage and unsophisticated peasant. I supposed him to have adopted this attitude, with his mouth open, to laugh at me, at my misfortunes and hopes. But, at a certain point in my recital, I saw him stop in the middle of the street lugubriously lighted by its gas lamps, and heard him say aloud in the silence of the night:
oh my god