Brand loyalty

Yesterday I was tweeting about coffee and I mentioned my Bialetti coffee maker. Suddenly I realised that whenever I need to buy a new coffee maker (every two to three years), I refuse to buy anything but a Bialetti. When I go to Italy, one of my favourite places to shop is the Bialetti outlet store. Why I wonder? What makes Bialetti the best brand in my little world? Why does my brain refuse to believe that other companies can make equally good coffee makers? And cost-conscious as I am, why pay more for a branded product?

The same goes for cornflakes. I only buy Kellogg’s. Not because they’re a client of the agency I work with, but probably because it’s the brand I grew up with. And having visited the Kellogg’s offices in Belgium has only reinforced my idea that its products best suit my taste buds. Then there’s make up. For me, it’s The Body Shop or nothing, even after having tried €50 Guerlain foundation.

In a way, as a translator, I’m responsible for selling products. I translate and localise press releases, product labels, marketing material, websites etc. On a professional level, I know exactly what goes into a 500-word press release. Months in advance, potential consumers are invited to try the product and give their opinion, which is then reworked into a motto or highlighted in a colourful textbox on the packaging. Translators are often sent internal guidelines and vocabulary lists. Every word is scrutinised by the marketing manager and the legal team. On a more personal level, I let my purchases be influenced by marketing and habit. Or is there more to it? I’m not sure what determines what we buy. Is it the position of the product on the shelf? Is it viral videos, ads, billboards? Or nostalgia maybe?

I’m quite sure in my case certain decisions are based on a nostalgic feeling that takes me back to my happy childhood years. My mum’s coffee (and caffè d’orzo when I was a little chipmunk) was and is to this day brewed with a Bialetti coffee maker. The only difference between mine and hers, is that hers is the traditional silver one and mine is… orange (that comes as no surprise if you read my blog). For breakfast I always had the Kellogg’s Variety packs, and I’d spend my first fifteen minutes of the day playing the games on the back of the packs. And if I remember correctly, my first lip gloss was one of those tiny pots by The Body Shop with raspberry flavour. So there you have it, brand loyalty explained from my personal point of view.

We all have brands we cherish. What are yours?

Peekaboo! Malta - part 2.

I promised I would post some more photos of my lovely little rock. So here you go!

Just your average Saturday in the Mediterranean...

Golden Bay, 10 a.m., 23 degrees Celsius. Pure bliss.

That calls for SPF 50+

Still a little too cold for a swim.

Heavenly lunch at Agliolio, Radisson Golden Sands.

Walk along the Sliema seafront.

Breathtaking views.
Note the painter with his sketch pad on the beach.

...

Sometimes I still pinch myself!

Kicked off the weekend with a bang… literally!

My hectic week came to an end yesterday, so hubby-to-be and I went out with some friends. The boys played football, the girls drank wine and gossiped. And while we were giggling and comparing wedding dress ideas, a leather football flew straight at my right eye and knocked my contact lens out. What a way to start the weekend!

I don’t really believe in the law of attraction; it’s pseudoscientific nonsense. Yet work-wise when one thing goes wrong, everything that follows also goes down the drain. Even at home (oh wait, I’m always home). You get irritated and frustrated. You’re angry with the world. Your negative mindset follows you wherever you go.

This week I got some feedback about a translation that didn’t turn out to be as good as I thought it would be. Being a proofreader myself, I know that at times, a translator can have a completely different approach to a text than the proofreader. Styles differ. So does vocabulary. And then there are those – hopefully rare – occasions when you’ve simply messed up – maybe the text was too difficult, maybe you weren’t familiar with the subject or the deadline was too tight. Shit happens, as they say. I’m not sure whether that’s what happened in my case (I’d like to believe it was all a matter of stylistic differences), but it did knock me down for the rest of the week, resulting in low productivity and self-loathing. And just as I was about to pick myself up, I was literally knocked down by a chubby kid and his first attempts at playing football.

I’m going to use my semi-puffy eye as an excuse to get pampered this weekend. Hopefully next week I’ll be back on track!

Flopdag.

This week was a hectic one. Too much work, too little time. Yesterday I was asked to translate the word flopdag. Easy peasy: off-day, I was having one, so I knew exactly what it meant… Both ears hurting, headache and 3,000 words to translate. Joy oh joy!

If you’re a translator, you know you can’t move your deadline simply because you’re feeling under the weather. You have to suck it up and finish what you’ve started. And to me, that’s one of the most underestimated aspects of my job. What do you mean, you can’t ask clients whether you can deliver your texts later? It’s not like their life depends on it. Well, apparently the launch of the latest curl-shaping shampoo can’t wait a few minutes. Just like that press release about the € 1,500 bracelet. Customers are already lining up on 5th Avenue!

I shouldn’t be saying this, but sometimes I really wonder why companies write two-page stories (yes, literally stories, starting with Once upon a time) to promote their latest line of luxury ready-to-wear women’s clothing. Excuse me, prêt-à-porter. I’m not a marketing guru, but when you can afford to buy a dress that costs as much as a car, I doubt whether you’re going to take the time to read the press release. Why would you? Most of those purchases are impulse buys.

Or worse even… there are so many brands that invest serious money in high-tech applications (think interactive websites, viral videos reminiscent of Hollywood blockbuster trailers and weirder-than-weird smartphone apps), but don’t care about content. Can you believe some companies actually translate their texts with Google Translate? One word at a time. And I’m left picking up the pieces.

My programme for the day: bury my head in the sand. The beach is just a few minutes away… shouldn’t be too hard.

The picture-perfect home.

I wish I were an interior designer. Having said that, last week I wanted to be a neuroscientist and a chef, so let’s just say I wish I could be a bit of everything. I’ve mentioned my love for interior design before. And my love for colour.

When hubby-to-be and I first walked into our flat, we instantly knew this was to be our home. We looked at each other in sheer excitement and pretended not to be too interested to fool the real estate agent, who didn’t fall for it. Fast-forward five years and our house isn’t really a home yet. Let me explain. We have all the furniture we need, but the rooms are not 100% the way we had pictured them. They still look a bit empty, not organised, not spotless, not super tidy. And overall, out flat just doesn’t look anything like those picture-perfect homes in magazines, with frames in exactly the right places, colour-coordinated soft furnishings and not an item of clothing in sight. Where on earth do those people store their jackets? Where do they empty their pockets? Why is there not a single crease in their sheets? Seriously, do they even live there? I think I see flaws everywhere I look because this is not only where I live, it’s also where I work. I would like my office corner to look like a high-end furniture display, but unfortunately it’s more of a mix-and-match type of thing. With lots of colour of course, including my Mondrianesque painting (for more on that click here).

If there’s one thing I do like about our home, it’s probably the one thing most visitors question: colours, everywhere. Mismatched and far too bright, but it makes me happy (hubby-to-be not so much). When I was a teenager, I would wear these neon orange or yellow jackets, while everyone else in dreary Belgium was wearing black or grey. My classmates called me fluo Amy for a good six years. I didn’t really care. Then again, I now have a predisposition for plain black dresses, tops and trousers, so I think subconsciously that innocent teasing did have an effect on me. While my wardrobe has become boring, my home has become a colouring book. I add colourful accessories wherever I can. I have to stress all the colour is in the accessories, because hubby-to-be won’t give me permission to paint the walls in my favourite shades. At least not the ones visitors see. I got my way and the bedroom wall is now bright red. And our spare bedroom will have an orange wall. His reasoning: no one ever goes in there anyway...

A few colourful touches...

Colourful boxes in my office corner

My new kitchen shelf & biscuit tins

Spring is back in town!

Ode to Gizmo

Here he is... my cutie pie!

I dedicate today’s post to a very close friend – you know who you are – and her Hugo. 

If you know me personally, you know I’m totally and utterly obsessed with Mister Gizmo (a.k.a. Giz, Fiz, amore and some other twenty nicknames). Mister Gizmo is a black labrador that came into my life four years ago and showed me the meaning of true love, but also hard work and commitment. Gizmo is my everything – there’s no way I can put into words what he means to me. Even when he drives me insane with his non-stop barking and begging for food, when he destroyed two mobile phones, my favourite shoes, a passport and a chair because he was teething, and the dozens of times he peed all over the house after a two-hour walk… Gizmo has that something that makes your heart melt. Maybe it’s his droopy eyes. Or the way he knocks over glasses and vases on the coffee table every time he wags his huge tail. I’m sure everyone says that about his dog; still, Gizmo is special.

Our black beauty has epilepsy and is on barbiturates to keep his seizures under control. In theory his medication has a sedating effect, but the little rascal actually surprised several vets with his lively – make that hyperactive – attitude. We can take him out for three hours and he’ll still find the energy to play catch.

A dog can bring so much joy into your life, but it’s also a huge commitment. When you’re out having dinner, you know you have to be home by a certain time to take him for his walk. When you go on holiday, you have to beg your family to house and dog sit. Then there’s vet visits, expensive diet food, toys and accessories. But none of that is a sacrifice, because the unconditional love and loyal companionship you get in return is without a doubt the best gift ever. So take everything into consideration before adopting a dog, because a dog is for life.

I recommend the book Life with Beau, A tale of a dog and his family by Anna Quindlen. It’s short and sweet. And it perfectly describes the way I feel about my Gizzie.

How to find professional happiness

First off, I’d like to point out that I don't believe any job can truly become a dream job. A job is a job. You need it to survive. Full stop. I have my doubts when people claim they managed to turn their hobby into their dream job. The moment your hobby becomes your work, you’re faced with the harrowing task of making a living out of what used to be your escape, a moment for yourself. A hobby is by definition something you can enjoy whenever you like, no strings attached. Even if it’s a sport that requires training, discipline and commitment, you’re still free to give up. Your mortgage doesn’t depend on it. The sooner you accept this, the better. 

I think I’ve found the job for me. That doesn’t mean it’s perfect, but it suits me. I manage to get through the day without counting down the minutes. I see challenges and opportunities. And more importantly, I’m good at my job. I’m a very humble person, but in my opinion there’s no harm in saying that you’re good at what you do. Otherwise what’s the point of doing it?

How to pursue professional happiness:

1)   Set high standards for your work. Don’t accept so-so. Make an effort to give it all you’ve got.

2)   Don’t let ambition blind you. There’s no point in working solely towards future goals. Focus on what you’ve got on your plate right now and give it your all. Remember that future successes depend on current performance.

3)   Don’t compare your work with that of others. Maybe your colleagues are better at project management than you are… See it as an opportunity. Don’t be afraid to ask for help. You can learn from them and they can learn from you.

4)   Work is work. No need to take it home with you. Easier said than done, but do try to make a clear distinction between your professional and your private life. Clear your head after hours. Taking a step back will take you two steps forward!

5)   Happiness at home comes first. If you’re unhappy privately, you’re bound to be counterproductive professionally.

6)   Be realistic. There are going to be bad days. You will make mistakes. You will be judged and criticised. And when that happens, just take a deep breath, shrug it off and start over. Slamming doors gets you nowhere.

7)   Friendship between colleagues is optional. Your job calls for teamwork, but you can’t stand the sight of them? Clench your teeth, have a double espresso and just get the work done. Forget friendly chats. Have your after-work drinks with a different crowd.

8)   Set clear boundaries. If there’s something you refuse to do, make it clear from the start. That way, you’ll avoid confrontations at a later stage. It takes guts to do this, but it shows you’re determined to play by your rules in order to succeed.

9)   Accept recognition. Don’t be one of those people who respond to a compliment by returning the compliment. If you excel at something, you’re allowed to feel good about it. No need to become arrogant, but a little pat on the back can go a long way.

10) Finally, a reminder: the perfect job doesn’t exist. Don’t waste your life looking for it. Just try to bag a job you enjoy (not easy in these hard times, I’m aware of that) and remember frustrations are part of it. Whenever there is money involved, you can expect some pain and suffering. But that only makes you stronger.

And last but not least: as contradictory as it may sound, tell yourself work is not everything. It’s important, essential even, but work doesn’t define who you are. It merely keeps you busy while trying to figure it out!

Who’s behind this blog?

The online universe is a strange one, isn’t it? We read articles, watch videos and listen to music without really knowing who’s behind them, although we feel an affinity with these works and consequently, with their creators, who enter our lives and influence us. Have you ever asked yourself whether you would find these people equally interesting in real life? Whether you’d be friends?

Since you’re reading my blog, I suppose you’re curious to find out more about me. Here are a few tidbits about my life. Nothing too exciting though.

-       Being half Belgian, I love chocolate. Belgian chocolate of course. Nothing beats authentic Belgian pralines with creamy fillings.

-       I have my dumb blonde moments. An example: I didn’t realise an unfertilised egg can’t produce a chick.

-       Ironing is my worst nightmare. In the past six years I’ve broken five irons, including an expensive semi-professional steam iron. I’m allergic to them. They slip out of my hand.

-       I’m very interested in the “paranormal” and the “unexplained” – ghosts, NDEs, OBEs... You’re allowed to think I’m a weirdo.

-       The word “sports” is unknown to me. Unless shopping can be considered a sport.

-       I love chick flicks (how can anyone resist “The Notebook”?) and Jennifer Aniston is my girl crush.

-       I love bargain hunting: a 5-euro T-shirt can make my day.

-       On Friday evenings I can’t resist a glass of prosecco. And to end my meal I need either a coffee or a sip of Gozitan limoncello. Or both.

-       I like watching TLC and E! Entertainment.

-       I smile at total strangers.

-       Adoro l’Italia, ma mi pare di averlo già detto, o sbaglio?

I could post a picture of myself. I could show you the outfit I’m wearing (it’s so boring you wouldn’t even want to see it). I could attempt to describe my personality. Still, I think the best way to get a glimpse of a person’s true self is to find out these silly details. Little facts, stralci di vita vissuta, for you to form your own opinion of me…

How to be an awful translator

A few rough guidelines:

1) Idiomatic expressions? Translate them literally. Isn’t that creative?

2) Editable graphics? Just pretend they were non-editable and skip them.

3) Names? Don’t google them. You wouldn’t mind if people misspelled yours, would you?

4) Don’t even bother to open background texts. Who has time for that, right?

5)  A PDF document as reference material? Doesn’t the ADOBE converter do the job perfectly?

6)  Don’t like the original font and layout? Use your own. The designer will appreciate your efforts.

7) Don’t re-read your translation when you’re done – the proofreader or client will be more than happy to correct all your typos and syntax errors.

8) Don’t use the spell checker. I’m sure you know how to write anyway.

9) Save your file in a different format. Let the proofreader or client figure it out.

10) And last but not least, deliver an hour late. Deadlines are overrated.

Thank you for a job well done!

Fooooood. Glorious fooooood. No meat.

I’m a horrible chef. Make that wannabe chef. My main problem is my lack of creativity in the kitchen. Hubby-to-be jokes (or maybe he’s serious?) that we always have the same ingredients in the fridge: vegetables (ok for the whole 5-a-day thing, but in our case it’s more like 10-a-day), pastry, cheese and eggs. My specialty is mixing them (yes, literally) to create some bland concoction that is nothing more than a variation on the same theme: über healthy, no salt, no flavour. And no meat.

I’m not a meat lover. I find it smelly and unhygienic. Not to mention a cruel, barbaric way to nourish myself. Yet my body seems to crave meat from time to time. It must be some innate urge dating back to prehistoric times. I tried to become a vegetarian a while ago, but after five days my body gave up on me. Although (I thought) I was eating enough protein and carbohydrates, my energy levels dropped below zero. Maybe I should’ve tried a gradual approach instead of going cold turkey. Maybe I should have enlisted the help of a dietician. Somewhere along the way I failed. The whole idea behind it was that I would not only save animals, but also protect the environment, because meat production is an energy-intensive activity. I’ve resorted to eating meat once, maybe twice a week, and buying mainly local products. That way I feel like I’m contributing to a healthier planet, but in reality I doubt whether it makes that much of a difference. For the time being, our menu is semi-vegetarian, until I come up with some other fad.

Not only do I find meat a little disgusting, I just have no idea what to do with it. I know meat shouldn’t equal boring, but in my kitchen it usually does. Generally speaking I’m a super creative person, but give me a chopping board, a knife and a piece of dead animal and I’m lost. Roast has to be my biggest fail: it’s drier than a popcorn fart. And my rib eye tastes like chewing gum that’s been in your mouth far too long and has that horrible aftertaste of bad breath and faint mint flavour. Veggies are more fun to work with. They’re versatile and allow for mistakes. If you overcook a carrot it's not going to taste like wet cardboard. Or is it?

Below one of my creations. I liked it. Hubby-to-be just added salt. And sighed.

Roasted tomato and spinach quiche

I should’ve become a neuroscientist.

One of my favourite books is a textbook, Consciousness, An introduction by Susan Blackmore, which takes you on a fascinating journey through the brain and its functions, a universe that science hasn’t managed to unravel. We know more about space than we do about the human brain.

Inspired by this book, which I will certainly mention in future posts, because it also tackles other interesting subtopics, I would like to share a few little exercises to help you improve your ability to live consciously. Because let’s face it, how many times a day do you stop and think about what is going on in your head?

The first exercise the author suggests is seemingly a simple one. Seemingly, because you’ll soon realise it’s anything but easy and obvious. You don’t need pen nor paper, you don't even need to make time for it. All you need to do, is ask yourself “Am I conscious now?” throughout your day. Then analyse your answer. What makes you say you are conscious? Does this question raise other questions? If so, which ones? Was this an easy exercise? Did you forget to ask yourself this one "simple" question at some point? Or did it come spontaneously?

Then, try to define consciousness. Any definition, even the silliest, will do. Quite a challenge, isn’t it? Did you link consciousness to physical processes in the brain? If so, how do you explain that these physical processes give rise to subjective experiences? If everyone’s brain works in the same (mechanical) way, why do we all experience things differently? Why are no two (emotional) reactions the same?

Good luck!

Poetry and translation

Not many people know this about me, but I’m a big fan of poetry. In fact, my M.A. thesis was a study of poetry from the Veneto region, with a selection of dialect poems translated into Italian and Dutch. I might eventually publish a few here. Let me know if you’re interested!

Poetry is not an easy genre. It’s often misunderstood. Many are convinced that poetry is so deeply entrenched in its language that it can’t be translated. I personally believe that poetry and translation are not mutually exclusive. A poem can be translated, but it will lose some of its original flair, tone and cultural richness. There’s no way around it. However, a translation does not simply take away key elements, it can add to them. Maybe a sound effect is lost in translation, but another one can be introduced, creating an entirely new dimension. The translation takes on a life of its own, based on the words and feelings conveyed in the original text and on the interpretation of the translator, which can be entirely different from the ideas the poet had intended to communicate. As such, translation equals co-creation.

Translating poetry is an art. It requires a thorough knowledge not only of the language, but also of the place where the poem took form, the circumstances when it was produced, the poet’s life and personality. Stylistics can also be tricky. I remember having a heated discussion with my tutor because I claimed that rhyme was an intrinsic part of the poems and, where possible, it had to be preserved in the translation. She disagreed, but I did things my way and I was quite happy with the final result.

To this day, poems are my favourite texts to translate. I’m not sure whether it’s the challenge of preserving both form and content, albeit in a different context, or the deeper meaning behind such texts, but there is something about poems that intrigues me. Poetry needn’t be abstract, boring or difficult to comprehend. Poetry is a window to the soul. With some time and effort, even the most "complicated" of poems can be translated, or rather, moulded into a new, exciting version to be enjoyed in a different linguistic and cultural context. Remember, as a translator you shouldn’t feel trapped, but free to explore and create.

Peekaboo! Malta - part 1.

Since I love photography, I want to treat you to the occasional photo post, aptly called Peekaboo! I can’t afford a professional camera for the time being, so you’ll have to forgive me for the quality of my shots, courtesy of my very old Fujifilm Finepix camera.

There are things that words cannot describe. My love for the rock is one of those things. Its colours, its history, its oddities. A few random shots. Indulge in the beauty of this tiny little gem in the Mediterranean!

The Mediterranean. Crystal-clear, hypnotising waters. Never knew this shade of blue even existed. This photo was shot in Gozo, near the Azure Window.

The Imnarja folk festival in Buskett, celebrated every year on 29th June (which happens to be my birthday). Farmers displaying the best our arid rock has to offer. And believe me, there’s more to it than prickly pears and oranges!

Grand Harbour, as seen from Valletta. It doesn’t get any more grand than this.

View from the Dingli Cliffs. This always reminds me of a nativity scene. Even in summer. One word: mesmerising.

Don’t ask. Valletta has its charming little shops, old houses and remnants of an era gone by. If you know what this used to be, let me know in the comments please. Is it what I think it is?

On your way to the Blue Grotto in Zurrieq there’s always something to discover… How can this even be real? It looks like heaven on earth. It is heaven on earth.

Thirsty for more? Don't worry, there will be a new Peekaboo! very soon.

Logic. No idea what that means.

If you follow my blog I’m sure by now you’ve realised the word “logic” does not feature in my dictionary. I was just talking to a friend about this new… let’s call it “project” for lack of a better description, and she pointed out that it really does reflect who I am: spontaneous, optimistic, impulsive and somewhat illogical. One day I write about art and the next my dog takes centre stage. And sometimes my dog becomes art.

Last week I registered on Bloggers.com and I realised my blog doesn’t really belong in any of the given categories; I figured “Personal” was the best match. It got me thinking about the lack of structure and logic in everything I do. Even work-wise. I usually manage to meet my deadlines – a fifteen-minute delay doesn’t count, does it? – yet I don’t have a “system”. I just “go with the flow”.  The more pressure, the better. I don’t work in a “logical” manner. Sometimes I even start translating the last page of a text first, simply because it looks more interesting (or colourful). And that tends to get me in trouble, because many clients want partial deliveries. How do you explain you started working on page twenty instead of page one?

This random approach seems to empower me. The more complicated I make things, the better I perform. I purposely step into a labyrinth of complexity to challenge myself. No logic in this method, I know, except that it boosts my enthusiasm. And consequently also the quality of my work.

What is logic anyway? Who establishes what is logical and what isn’t? Should we all follow a set of rules when finishing our work? Isn’t productivity a by-product of creativity? And isn’t creativity by definition deviant? I choose to stray from the norm. Page twenty it is!

 

Trilingual?! – Because I get this question a lot.

So let’s clear this up once and for all. My mum’s Italian. My dad’s Belgian. I was born and raised in Belgium, but I travelled a lot, mainly to Italy and the UK. My dad’s Belgian, but London and all things English run through his veins (long story). And now I live in Malta, a.k.a. the rock.

At home I spoke Italian and English. At school I spoke Dutch. Does that make me trilingual? I suppose so. It’s a very unusual situation, I know. And people just don’t get it. Many are skeptical, and I don’t blame them. How can you speak three languages fluently? How can you feel comfortable switching between them? Which one’s your mother tongue? Does your voice change according to the language you speak?

First things first: I feel more Italian than Belgian. My readers know that I have a penchant for il bel paese. Unfortunately I was born in the wrong country. Not that I don’t like Belgium, ma non mi fa né caldo né freddo. I don’t miss it at all. And I certainly don’t miss speaking Dutch. It’s a language that makes me feel uncomfortable. Whenever I meet my colleagues in Belgium I feel awkward knowing I have to speak Dutch. But when they hear me talk – or when they read my translations – nothing gives away my lack of confidence. Or so they say.

I consider Italian to be my mother tongue. Apparently I dream in Italian. Once my dad woke me up, in English, and I mumbled something in Italian. Hubby-to-be and I speak mostly English – although when we first met, we’d switch between English and Italian; there was no logic, yet it worked. When we argue, I switch to Italian and he switches to Maltese. It sounds complicated, but it isn’t. It comes naturally. Our house is a happy mishmash of North and South.

Hubby-to-be says my voice sounds “better” and “sweeter” (whatever that may mean) when I speak Italian, con la cadenza veneta. It’s less harsh, probably because Italian calls for a softer, more rounded pronunciation. My English has probably been influenced by Minglish* over the past few years. My Dutch has a hint of Gents in it.

So why do I write in English? No idea. Just like shouting comes natural in Italian, writing comes natural in English. The brain works in mysterious ways. Maybe one day I’ll decide to write in Italian or in Dutch, but for now English it is.

I am so incredibly grateful for the opportunities I’ve been given. My parents should be very proud of themselves. Not because I speak three languages, but because I’m so happy being who I am and doing what I do. Languages are my passion, and they instilled that in me. They taught me the importance of communication. They urged me to keep perfecting my skills. They made me the optimistic “trilingual” person I am today. Grazie mammina. Thank you daddy.

* the English spoken in Malta

Speaking of art...

I’m going to contradict myself today. I’m a woman, that’s what we do. So bear with me please.

Yesterday I mentioned that for me art is anything but replication. Today I’m going to show you one of my paintings, which adorns my tiny office corner. It’s my personal adaptation of Mondrian’s style, with my favourite colours. Yes, kind of a replica.

It’s not that I didn’t have the creativity to come up with something myself. I simply wanted to bring a Mondrianesque feel into my house. A splash of colour, a dash of symmetry and… some puzzled looks. Yes, I am aware of the fact that not everything adds up. I did that on purpose. I like it when artworks have a hint of the unexpected. My work is not unique. It’s not extraordinary. But I do love and cherish it, because it shows who I am and it translates my humility. I don’t see myself as an artist and I’m certainly not progressive. I’m a woman in search of the meaning of life. Through all life has to offer. Looking at a painting and feeling an instant connection is such an emotional experience. Art “makes sense” if it does precisely that. It needn’t be a positive emotion. Controversy and anger are equally good.

When speaking of art, there is one thing that truly upsets me: it being perceived as limited to a niche audience. I feel art should be accessible to everyone, regardless of age, gender or social background. I happen to live in an area with quite a few art galleries. A few times a month I witness fancy cars pull up in front of those perfectly painted doors flanked by expensive flower pots. Men in pinstriped suits standing on the pavement sipping champagne, showing off their trophy wives and chattering about anything but art. Is that what it’s all about? Are exhibition openings nothing but the perfect occasion to show off that new Gucci cocktail dress with matching Prada bag? A way to blend in with the nouveaux riches? It seems to me that in our society art is the key to acceptance in higher social circles. Sad but true.

The making of.

What is art?

I’ll never forget the first time I went to the Municipal Museum of Contemporary Art (S.M.A.K.) in Ghent, Belgium, my hometown. I walked into a large room. Four walls, all painted white. Inside the room nothing but a small metal plaque engraved with the text THIS IS ART. Brilliant. Or sheer stupidity?

Over the years I’ve visited countless museums and exhibitions – I’ve witnessed styles and creations from different eras, continents and cultures. I’ve been lucky enough to explore some of the greatest art cities in Italy (yes, here we go again). Soon I’m going to New York and I can’t wait to visit the MoMA and the MET. But all of this is the traditional view on art. Paintings, architecture, sculpture. This is what we learnt at school. A paintbrush dipped in red, blue and yellow paint aged three is how it all began. We were brainwashed into thinking art was the product of a set of rules. That it had to be displayed in a particular setting in order for it to exist, to work, to be acknowledged and accepted. My generation was taught that any deviation from the norm violated the very essence of the concept of art.

Times have changed. And thank God for that. Contemporary art is based on freedom of expression. Rules are passé. Art no longer exists in museums only; it has become part of society. Anything is possible, to the point where it can become absurd even in terms of cost. Remember the controversy Jan Hoet caused with his columns covered in ham to create a marbled effect? A waste of food according to many (although the artist insisted the ham was not suitable for human consumption). Art according to many more. My first and only reaction: indifference. Yes, it was an original idea. But it was nothing extraordinary. A replica of an existing texture created with an everyday item. Been there, done that. It was nice, nothing more than that. The stench, however, was unbearable.

My personal view is that art is everywhere. And its interpretation is highly personal. I see art in everything: first and foremost in nature, in humans, in animals, in plants. And then in everything we’ve created, crafted, developed, built upon: architecture, music, photography. And in the interaction between all of these elements. The mind and body of both humans and animals are the epitome of art. They cannot be replicated in any way. Any attempt to recreate them is futile to me. That is what the concept of art should mean. Something exquisite, original, unique. Art should astonish and shock you. It should put you in a position where you question your very own skills and knowledge. Your existence. It should make you feel humble, in awe. So before you talk about art in terms of paintings and sculptures, look at yourself  and at your surroundings, and discover art in its purest form.

Art is... seeing beauty and perfection in the little things.

Art is... capturing those little things.

Art simply is.

Photo motivation - Italy

It’s Friday. That means Facebook and Twitter users will soon start posting their “TGIFs” and photos of barbecues and dinner tables to illustrate what lies ahead – if they don’t work weekends that is. I usually don’t work on Saturdays and Sundays, except when I’ve got some urgent assignment to finish. So for me, Fridays are motivating days. Sort of.

Motivation – it’s probably my no. 1 problem. When you don’t have a boss looking over your shoulder, it can be difficult to tell yourself “Go on, work!”. Discipline is key. I take short breaks and then I “get crackin’” as my Malteser says. And during these breaks I like to… look at photos of my favourite places. I find it soothing. It brings back memories. And we all know how powerful memories are.

Italy is my passion. It’s where I find solace when I feel lost or stressed. Italy is pure beauty. Italy is love in all its forms. Italy cannot be described, it can only be savoured to the full. Like every other country it has its own scents and colours, and a unique atmosphere that takes me back to my youth, to happy times, family, friends and laughter. Italy is a feast for the senses…

Florence, Rome and Venice. Cities that reflect who I am. What’s more motivating than looking at the beauty of art, architecture and the Italian lifestyle to make you feel alive, to make you smile and to get you through the day? When you're feeling down, remember that it's the little things in life that count - sure, the bills still need to be paid, dinner won't magically appear on your kitchen table and your report won't write itself, but at the end of the day motivation is a reflection of your will to keep going, to never give up, because life is worth living, with its ups and downs, with its Mondays and Fridays. La vita è bella. Sempre e comunque.

Like Ben the Talking Dog…

Gizmo the Labrador and I have our way of communicating – kisses, paws and all that. When the Malteser and I first adopted the fur ball, I was convinced I could turn him into the world’s first talking labrador. How cool would that be? Like the husky on YouTube that says “I love you”. I failed. So I talk, he listens (I think). In a nutshell, I talk to myself.

A while ago I met a friend who’s taking his first steps in the world of teleworking. He told me the thing he misses the most about his previous life as an office worker with a busy schedule, a secretary and vending machines, is the sound of people around him. You know, chitchat, mobiles, pens clicking. He feels the need to talk to people. He has two dogs. I wonder whether he’s tried to convert them into talking animals. Like Ben the Talking Dog… (just got my first smartphone, so forgive me for mentioning the silliest of apps...).

So, I talk to myself... I know I’m not the only person who does that. Not many will admit it, but I know it’s quite common. I see people talking to themselves while driving all the time. Granted, they could be on the phone, but you’re not going to tell me everyone has a hands-free set – including a seventy-year-old farmer driving a ramshackle van. I admit it: I have entire conversations with myself. I congratulate myself when I’ve finally found that synonym I was looking for – like a little pat on the back. And occasionally I curse my own stupidity – “een zongele kanarietatoeage" (a sun-yellow canary tattoo) instead of “een kanariegele zontatoeage" (a canary-yellow sun tattoo), seriously, what was I thinking?

When I'm translating a text I also read it out loud (I quite like the sound of my voice, but hubby-to-be says it's squeaky). If there's one thing I'll always remember from my translation lectures at uni it's this: the key to a good translation is that it shouldn't sound like a translation, but like an entirely new text. Not an easy task, especially if you're aware of the fact that it is a translation. If you're a translator, let me know whether you agree with this approach or whether you think it's a little unusual!

Words I love

Today’s post is a little different. Since I work with languages all day, every day, I thought I’d share my favourite words with you – and explain why I love them so much. I’m not going to include the translations, because that would turn you into a lazy reader. I like a challenge, and therefore I challenge you to find out the meaning of the words you don’t know. Not by using Google Translate, but by finding a native speaker who can help you out. I said this in an earlier post: I like personal contact more than I like computers, so make this your task of the day. Communicate. Discover. And look at language from a totally different perspective. Pronounce these words, try to give them your very own meaning. Use them in a sentence. Find synonyms and antonyms. Have fun!

By the way, the languages are in no particular order.

Dutch

Sowieso: a tricky one – many native speakers can’t even spell this word. I think it’s trendy. It makes me feel young and dynamic.

Genieten: it doesn’t sound as peaceful and relaxing as it should, yet it conveys a certain calmness.

English

Gizmo: the name of my adorable dog and such a unique word. A tad aggressive and buzzing.

Odd: I use this one a lot (you’ve probably noticed). It’s short and powerful. And a little quirky.

Italian

Affascinante: passion, beauty, Italy at its best. Sexy, but not vulgar. Blissful. Reminds me of romantic restaurants in the Trastevere district of Rome.

Cucciolo: cuteness overload. Perfectly rounded pronunciation, I always say this with a baby voice. It reminds me of years gone by, green fields, blue skies and daisies.

Maltese

Ejja: when I moved here, I vowed never to include this in my repertoire. Alas, I have failed. It’s so typically Maltese. It perfectly reflects the local lifestyle, a little laissez-faire and a little rushed, but always cheerful.

Hanini: another word I thought (and hoped) I would never use. Adorable.

French

Bonjour: this word makes me smile. In fact, my first e-mail of the day always starts with “bonjour” regardless of the recipient. It’s French but international. It’s elegant and sweet.

Bonbon: how cute is this? Playful, delicious and a teeny-weeny bit childish, but in a good way.

Why not make a list of your favourite words? If you had to define a language using only two words, which ones would you opt for and why? What do you associate your favourite words with?

Back on the rock! Tired. Very tired.

Yummy Easter eggs!

I was away for a few days – I spent my Easter holidays nel bel paese. Three days (and a few kilos of chocolates and sweets) later I am back on the rock, after an exhausting 1.5-hour flight – yes, short intra-European flights can be a real nightmare. You see, I fly Ryanair. Don’t worry, this is not one of those typical posts bashing the number 1 no-frills airline that everyone loves – although, let’s face it, we all hate to admit it, because it’s more fun to complain about the sale of scratch cards, smokeless cigarettes, perfumes and key rings, all announced with a cheerful ringtone-ish tune, the ridiculous but profitable (for O’Leary) two-queue system – “priority” and “other” (usually the ones complaining are the “others”, myself included) and last but not least, the wonderful charade stressing the fact that this Ryanair flight has once again landed on time – never mind they add half an hour to the flight time and chase you through the aisle when you enter the plane, basically pushing you in the first available seat.

You know what? I quite like Ryanair. Their planes are all relatively new (not clean, but who cares if there’s chewing gum on the carpet, right?), their staff is friendly, despite all the talk about miserly salaries and sub-human work conditions, they really do land on time (again, they purposely add half an hour to the fight time, but at least you get the impression you’ve arrived early), they hardly every lose luggage (because in order to take one suitcase you need to part with half your monthly salary – well, maybe that’s a little exaggerated) and I like their colour scheme (because I’m colour blind).

Joking apart, their prices may not always be competitive, but if you plan ahead, you can bag a bargain. And at the end of the day you’re not crossing the Atlantic, so who needs free coffee and in-flight entertainment? I’m interested in reaching my destination safe and sound. And Ryanair can guarantee that.

I’m exhausted because as I explained in an earlier post, I don’t particularly like flying. Even the whole airport experience tires me out. I anxiously drop off my luggage at the check-in desk hoping they won’t notice I’m carrying a few extra kilos of food, shoes, make up and other stuff I could’ve easily bought on the rock. I go through security with sweaty palms and armpits, because for some reason metal detectors hate me (and the speck, cheese, salami and cameras stored in glass IKEA jars that I carry along). I get pushed over when queuing to board the plane, maybe because I’m tiny and blonde, and I carry a flashy blue and green suitcase, sometimes adorned with stickers (I’m weird... and it helps me not to lose my carry-on). By the time I’ve settled in my seat next to some noisy, chubby fellow passenger unwrapping cheese sandwiches while we’re still on the runway, I’m knackered. It might take me a few days to recover (I’m old). Meanwhile, a totally unrelated question: why are we no longer clapping on Ryanair flights? That was my favourite part!

Arrogance & talent

I can’t stand arrogant people – you know, flaunting their skills (or lack thereof) in such a way that others feel belittled. Using a tone that leaves no scope for constructive criticism. I feel if you’re truly talented, you don’t feel the need to flaunt it. That doesn’t mean talent should go unrecognised. The key to success is allowing others to discover your talent. It is giving them the opportunity to assess your skills and decide whether or not you meet their expectations. It is also accepting defeat. Everyone has bad days. Everyone makes mistakes. Even the grammar and spelling police. But admitting you’re wrong doesn’t mean you have failed. It means there is room for improvement – there always is – and you’re willing to accept that.  

Why this rant? I often correct translation tests and I must say some translators, even when backed by decades of experience, can mess up pretty badly and react in a totally unacceptable manner when put on the spot. Luckily, I only correct the tests; I don’t write the feedback e-mails. That would be a really bad idea, because I’m left with zero communication skills (given my lack of social contacts), and subtle hints are not my forte.  

I understand it must be quite embarrassing to discover that you don’t meet the criteria to work with a certain agency. But does that make the agency “bad”? “Too strict”? “Too picky”? No, it simply means you’re not the right person for this particular employer. Maybe you really are a bad translator, maybe you weren’t feeling well or you were pressed for time when you did your test (next time think twice), maybe you misinterpreted the assignment… A test can go wrong for many reasons, but rest assured that if you heed the advice you’ve received, things can only go uphill. So put on those hiking shoes and start walking!