“To me, everything was fresh and new and ready to be photographed.”

NYCPP : New York City Polaroid Project

creativetroublemaker:

Everyone has a story. Watch a day in the life of people from all over the world.

8BL is a platform for short documentary films. Each film features a day in the life of a real person.

Why?

To celebrate our diversity – we want to share stories of people from all walks of life, with the mission of fostering global citizenship.

To satisfy our curiosity – you can use our site as an educational tool to take a closer look at the daily habits, lifestyles, and dreams of others.

To recognize our interconnectedness – our world is becoming more global, but we don’t always understand how others live. We believe that video is a great tool to connect people who might not otherwise interact.

Via: TBD

This is absolutely everywhere on the internet right now because it is absolutely awesome. The Nike Music Shoe video features Tokyo DJ duo Hifana playing different Nike shoes via bends, bounces, and slams. Easily one of the most creative branding videos we’ve seen in a long while. Talk about inspiring too. After watching Music Shoe I want to run, paint, jam, fly and do just about everything creative I can possibly do.

via ISO50 - The Blog of Scott Hansen

some new background music… earbuds in?

Being a piano player, I was particularly compelled by this video, but though you might enjoy it too. I¹m just blown away by the creative piano/cello variationŠ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xXtVBJDPs6k -Hillary deRoo

If you have 6 minutes to burn or need a fun pick-me-up, I highly recommend this video (#2 all time at YouTube).

(thanks Jay Milliken )

Moscow Moments

So I don¹t have any particular problem with prostitutes. Let me be clear about that. They seem nice enough. They have their own ROI to work out. And I have mine. This isn¹t a judgment thing. I am not in the market for their services, but it is abundantly clear that many people at a certain luxury hotel in Moscow are very interested. Generally older men. Much older. Really older. The buyers are well dressed, graying and/or balding guys with paunches, a slight limp, and a world-weary confidence (and muddied sense of propriety) that somehow compels many of them to actually take the elevator down with their ³guests² ­ after whatever goes on up there (talks about politics, illicit sex, unexpected crying, competitive cribbage, analyzing the final episodes of ³Lost,² etc.) ­ and they escort the ladies out to a taxi. Or more likely a car service from what I now know about Moscow. They come down in conservative cardigans or a smart jacket, only to step outside for a minute to see their special friends off into the cold Russian night. The elevator banks are glass, exposed to the lobby, and you see them ferret businesspeople with their luggage up and down almost as frequently as you see the occasional ³pre² and ³post² transaction pairs moving to some unknown moment in their brief relationships. The lobby here is like a transfer point for those that have obligations, needs, or a certain wanderlust that must be tended to. Not unlike myself. Except my demands are relegated to presentations and business cases of a different sort. And the women here are absolutely beautiful in the common western sense of the ideal. Tall, blond, fair-skinned and dressed in voluptuous furs and commanding knee-high stiletto boots. (You can actually hear them approaching.) You can imagine the trauma/drama/intrigue for a man who grew up working in a shoe store. The hotel is accommodating to guests, like every establishment I have found myself at here in Moscow. They greet you warmly and take your coat at the door. They don¹t want you to be encumbered by all the layers that you have to maintain to survive to cold or the outside world ­ or your own mind. Ladies of the night are no exception. As I sit in the lobby, late in the evening, struggling with the bitch goddess that we call PowerPoint, these ladies sit quietly, reading a book, sipping a coffee, their coats carefully stowed by the same staff that handles the essential outer garments of all the people transacting other business deals every day here in the hotel. And the deals that these women strike seem just as valid as those that are finagled by the international intelligentsia and carpetbaggers that flood these rooms nightly. Just another entrepreneur, another dreamer. Just another one seeing the potential of the Russian market. By 2am, the pair of women that I have seen down here most nights is looking forlorn, yet hopeful. They stare into the upper reaches of the atrium, searching for any lonely eyes that might be gazing down at them with curiosity, amusement, or ³purchase intent² from the floors above. Excuse the lingo, but I have been way too concerned about brand funnels. [insert joke here. I guess what is most strange is that many women here in Moscow are gorgeous in a way, so you have to wonder why these women are doing what they do. They are gorgeous in the sense that many foreign men, unaccustomed to their ubiquitous and unassuming presence, are likely to walk into traffic or accidently miss igniting their cigarettes and light their faces on fire because they are momentarily distracted by the sudden, visceral Vogue magazine that has come to life before their very eyes. Every one could be a model in a dozen magazines. Every one has the potential to dominate the average gaze. And there is a certain lonely carnal vibe that haunts the Russian night in winter. It¹s really really cold out there. And Moscow is a rough town. These ladies are waiting, patient in the lobby amidst the security guards, the bell hops, the wait staff, and the patrons ­ many of whom must see them night after night ­ but they don¹t pay them any mind. Not a word. Not a glance. Unlike like hotel guests with credit card imprints in a drawer and official registrations on file with the Russian government, these ladies are comfortable. Part of the scenery. Part of the amenities. OKŠI have been writing from up in my room, just remembering the past week like a dream, but I decided to move down to the lobby again, so that¹s where I am now as I write. AndŠthere you go. Two different ladies down here tonight. I guess it makes sense that they work in teams for appearances and safety ­ and the occasional opportunity for a ménage-a-trois ­ you knowŠportfolio extensions. (I am so sorry that I can¹t stop thinking about business, but I have been learning a hell of lot the past week and I might as well try to share some of this knowledge with all of you.) How do I know that they are working and not just preferring the coffee here instead of the Starbucks next door? Let¹s just call it a hunch. And there¹s the fact that some of them wear the same really low cut dresses night after night. And that they sit in the same area of the lobby bar. And that they move to the main lobby when the bar eventually closes. And they keep staring at me. Not looking. Staring. Occasionally there is a bat of the eye. The subtle nod. They eventually leave by 3am. I see no reason to move elsewhere. One of them even waved to me when I was taking the elevator down a few nights ago. They seem content, if not a little tired. In fact, as I have watched this scene transpire night after night while working to make this session a success, I have come to realize that these beautiful women ­ each a foot taller than I am and the rightful heiress to a runway at Fashion Week ­ is working in the mid-tier market looking for someone to up-trade (Yeah, the marketing stuff is in my head). In the course of an hour after midnight here in the lobby, you are guaranteed to see at least three or four young women ­ boots and furs and blond ­ riding the elevator, accompanied on the way up, alone on the way down. Different women around here have a much more effective ­ and much more premium ­ distribution model. How do I know that they are working? Am I just making assumptions? Am I just being a chauvinistic American? Or a shallow male? WellŠI thought so until I saw a woman walk into the lobby and get escorted by a security guard to the elevator (you need a room key to get anywhere above the second floor). He swiped his master key and up she went leaving him behind. All of this is visible because of the glass elevators. She walked out alone thirty minutes later. A good night¹s work, it seems. Now I am no prude. I really don¹t care. If anything, I think that there is an artificial, puritanical approach in many places like the good old USA that only leads to ³the oldest profession² becoming something that is marginalized, stigmatized, hidden and ultimately dangerous. Or more dangerous than many other actions, I should say. But it is there all the time. And who is to say that consulting isn¹t dangerous? Many of our clients today were quietly frustrated because their flights back to Geneva did not leave for six hours after the session. There was an earlier direct flight, but half the group was forced to take the later flight. Company policy. Can¹t have all of your executives on one plane. What if something happens? We were evacuated from our venue today because of some ambiguous security threat. This is dangerous stuff. Won¹t someone please think of the shareholders? Oh waitŠthey do. Holy crap, I just witnessed a pair of women relieving the current team. They gave each other the traditional three cheek kiss ­ right cheek, left cheek, and then left again ­ and they went off to get their furs at the coat check. Perhaps some ladies at the hotel think that I am a male escort, waiting for my opportunity. Maybe I am. Am I not wide-eyed and staring at the passersby, holding their gazes as they try to figure out what the hell could be so important that I am typing away in the middle of the night? Maybe it is the perfect cover. Maybe I am waiting to be approached? Waiting for my moment. ShitŠthey all just left, furs and boots and all. It is late and I am the only one here in the lobby, racing to speak my mind before the battery on this thing runs out.

-Ben Armbruster