You will hear me say from to time that one of the things that bothers me, wherever I find it, is shoddiness, and the truth is you find it a lot. Carpenters who fit a door and leave it not quite square; the television announcer who mispronounces common words; the waiter in the restaurant who brings the coffee cold. That kind of “don’t care damn”, as we put it, is all over the map and it’s therefore a joy to see people around you who are so professional in what they do that you want to write them a letter of appreciation.
English soccer commentators on television, for instance, have my vote as the best you will hear in that arena. These gentlemen take an already interesting soccer game to another level with their interpretation of the game, their inside information on the players and on developments in the sport, their explanation of strategy that isn’t always obvious, and they do all this while avoiding the banal prattle that you hear delivered by so many other sports commentators. The English guys, God love them, know when to shut up and let the game speak for itself, and when to get excited and raise the volume with excitement. They are always interesting and they also do it without excessive verbiage.
In a recent Manchester United game, a player drives a shot over the cross bar, and the voice you hear says, “Mooney; right foot; always rising.” It’s sparse, and precise, and revealing. Drogba, turning to turn a header towards goal, produces a weak shot. The announcer says, as the replay shows, “Drogba trying to turn his neck muscles into that one, and failing.” Close to poetry, that fellow.
We often take that kind of professionalism for granted, as we take the columnist Al Creighton for granted. Writing for the very complex and often confusing arts scene for Stabroek News, Creighton always manages to bring some interesting insights to his subject. His knowledge of theatre, and especially Caribbean theatre, is very impressive as he often leans on the historic picture to develop a point, and his observations are often dead on. Arts critics, particularly in developed societies, often take the tack of cutting attacks on performances almost to the exclusion of balanced commentary, but Creighton’s critiques often contain constructive suggestions for budding artistes – a trait that sets him apart.
The kind of professionalism I am referring to is often a technical one, based on commitment, so that it can crop up in the house painter doing a Christmas spruce up, or in the mechanic who finds the problem in your car that stumped his colleagues.
There is, for example, a man named Carey Hurlston in Grand Cayman who makes and sells black coral jewellery, but also makes some of the most beautiful hand-made knives in his little back-o-wall shop off the beaten track. Understand that this is no table knife. This is a serious instrument – sort of like an outdoorsman’s knife – with a hefty handle, and a wide curving blade, razor sharp. The knives are almost a foot long, and no two knives are exactly alike; the handles and the blade guards differ in design and colour; each blade has slight changes in shape; he varies the minor decorative touches. Simply put, each knife Carey makes is a work of art, lovingly crafted; to see one is to immediately recognise that. He uses a combination of materials, including black coral, for the curving laminated handles of his knives, painstakingly grinding and shaping them into what we now call the ergonomic shape – when you pick it up, it holds your hand like an old friend.
The work is so beautiful and so highly finished that the knives are purchased mainly for their beauty; to use one is to mar it, so Carey’s knives end up on a mantel-piece or in a show case. You take them out and show them off and then put them away.
And here’s the most amazing part: the blades of his knives, mirror-bright in their finish, are made from old metal files – the kind of flat file we used to sharpen tools. Carey says he changes these old files into a gleaming finish only by polishing them with sanding stones and grinders, and the change is amazing; the blade looks like stainless steel. Even in the sharpening, Carey is particular to make the knife razor sharp as I discovered the day he touched the blade of a knife he was handing me, and cut his finger. I should stress, too, that Carey doesn’t get rich making these knives – they take too long to make, it’s laborious work, and that makes them expensive – but he takes his time, makes one, sells it, and so on.
It’s wonderful to see that kind of polish in someone’s work. There is, for example, a tall Indian police officer in Georgetown (if I knew his name I would cite it) who is an absolute joy to watch directing traffic. In general, policemen on that duty wave you on or hold you up, flexing the wrist, more or less efficiently, but this officer takes the chore to another level. The man reminds me of a matador. He’s never still. He swings from the shoulder, pointing with one finger, sometimes with the whole palm, turning traffic left and right around him. He’s in constant motion, turning, looking, directing. His gestures are always crisp – no confusion there – and he will move his feet and switch to deal with traffic behind him, as he alternates directions. I don’t know how long he stays at it (the exercise must tire him out) but while he’s there, you’re watching a specialist at work.
Of course, there’s a key. In all these scenarios – the soccer commentator; the theatre critic; the knife maker; the police officer – we are watching a true professional at work. We are watching people who are taking the time, and the effort, to be the best they can be. They are people to be treasured. Most of all, they are examples to be emulated.
Sometimes I make my point late – so it go.
