kunst pole elu

Economist.com kirjutab tänasest päevast. Tundub, et suurlinnas protestimisest on saanud eelkõige meediaaktsioon:

There seem to be 20 journalists for every protester. They mill around with enormous cameras, frowning critically into the sun, scouting for shots that are not entirely populated by other journalists (no easy task).

Policemen are also filming the protesters, recording any potential trouble-makers from the side of the road and from a helicopter circling above. But calm still prevails. Someone is carrying a sign saying “None are more hopelessly enslaved than those who falsely believe they are free”. It is a high-class of protester who quotes Goethe.

The more people we talk to and the more graffiti (in chalk—nothing too permanent) we read, the more grievances pile up. The world leaders are here to discuss the financial crisis, but this lot wants to talk about climate change, poverty, nuclear power, and Palestine as well.

Having captured all this, we decide it is time to head home, and here our troubles begin. Every road that leads away from the Bank of England is blocked by thick lines of police officers, letting no one in or out. When we ask why, their responses—from “maybe someone’s been hurt. Or maybe someone’s been silly” to “you’re not allowed to go through because we’ve taken control of the streets today”—are uniformly unsatisfactory.

Still trying to find any possible exit, we come across a man dressed like a banker trying not to dress like a banker (City workers were advised to “dress down” during the protests). He wears khaki trousers, a lilac sweatshirt and a baseball cap: he appears ready for a weekend on a yacht. He is evasive when asked what he does for a living but is thrilled to discover that we work for The Economist.

We seem to have found the one person on the streets today who whole-heartedly supports capitalism. He decides that we are his ticket out. He tells us that if we will let him to pretend to be our cameraman, and wave our press passes at the police, maybe the three of us can slip away. It seems cruel to ditch him so we agree to give it go. Alas, the police remain dogged, and there is no escape. Then, out of the blue, we get a phone call from a photographer friend to tell us that they have opened Queen Victoria Street. We make a run for it (all three of us) and manage to escape.