Celebrity chef Anthony Bourdain launched the new series of his ‘Parts Unknown’ travel cookery show on CNN this week with an episode titled ‘Jerusalem, the West Bank and Gaza’. You can watch it here:
It’s had pretty positive reviews. The Washington Post thought it was “so good“. The Open Zion blog called it “groundbreaking reporting“. Amer Zahr, in +972 magazine, said: “Something amazing happened on CNN last night. Palestinians were portrayed as human beings.” The Jerusalem Post was tighter-lipped, glossing over the tougher issues, but even Jewish news site JTA found something to be enthusiastic about. Travel site Skift enjoyed it too.
Alongside it, CNN Travel published this piece, a punchy little travel round-up written by me and commissioned to complement Bourdain’s show. Originally, it ran like this, under my byline. But shortly after it appeared, I asked CNN to remove my name. Here’s why.
Last month, a senior editor at CNN Travel approached me to write “10 Things To Know Before Visiting Israel”. I wrote back accepting the commission, but alerting the editor to the fact that the piece would inevitably raise controversy. It’s impossible to avoid politics when writing about culture and travel in that part of the world, but I would pick my words carefully – and the editor was very supportive. “Don’t shy away from edgy issues for appeasement’s sake,” he wrote.
Then I raised the issue of Palestine – if I’m doing ’10 Things To Know’ about Israel, how about a parallel feature on Palestine? The editor’s response was that they “didn’t need a Palestine-focused piece right now” because my piece would accompany Bourdain’s show, which “will be purely shot in Israel (I think)”.
He sent me a draft treatment for the Bourdain show. But of 14 scene descriptions, only 4 were in Israel. The rest were in Palestine – 3 in East Jerusalem, 3 in the West Bank and 4 in the Gaza Strip. I suggested retitling the piece ’10 Things To Know Before Visiting Israel and Palestine’, but didn’t hear back on that idea.
I filed the piece shortly afterwards. Here it is, as I wrote it. I asked then, and several times afterwards, if I might be allowed to see the final edit before it goes live, to check all is well: this stuff goes out under my byline, after all, and though I have no objections to the edit process, sometimes things become garbled by mistake.
That didn’t happen. The first I knew about my piece being published was two weeks later, when someone on Twitter copied me into a link. Here is CNN’s version (it’s since been altered from how it first appeared). As soon as I read it I saw problems – factual errors that had been introduced, wordings and interpretations I would not use myself.
I wrote a quick email to the editor with half a dozen changes. That was fast-tracked up to one of CNN’s executive producers, who replied positively, adding that my piece had gone through numerous edit authorities within CNN, including Middle East specialists and legal teams, to ensure accuracy. He acknowledged, though, that I was right, errors did remain. He made three of my corrections, but disregarded the rest.
With hindsight, at that stage I should have provided a line-by-line analysis of the piece, pointing out every problem and every error, and providing rewrites.
But I didn’t. As a Middle East journalist I felt very uncomfortable at being placed on the record as saying things about the Middle East I did not believe and would not myself write – but I didn’t want to cause trouble. I let it lie.
That was September 11th. Two days later – still ahead of the Bourdain show airing – my piece had become the second lead item on CNN’s main US news front page. Heaven knows how many views it was getting. That was gratifying, but also unnerving, to have things which I knew were inaccurate and misleading being so widely read under my byline.
I should have acted then. But it was Friday evening and I was tired. This was a major global media client who had been very supportive in emails and explicitly appreciative of my skills in writing the piece. I didn’t want to sour a relationship. I didn’t want to cause trouble. I left it alone, and went to play with my kids.
But by the end of the weekend it was nagging away at me too much. Late Sunday night I emailed the editor, asking for my name to be taken off the piece. The alteration was made within hours.
Since then, further changes have been made, correcting material introduced during the editing process. At this writing, the most recent change was made less than 12 hours ago on 19th Sept, nine days after the piece went live.
Meanwhile, many of the 1,100+ comments – made before my name was removed – attribute editorially-introduced errors and distortions to me. Almost all the commenters are barking mad, but you can’t blame them for thinking I wrote what appears under my name. I’ve also had a string of personal emails from similarly froth-mouthed right-wing nutters, objecting to various bits of the article. A pro-Israel media monitoring group has published ’10 Things CNN Needs To Fix”, criticising me for things I did not write, and their deeply flawed analysis has since been republished by the Jewish press in the US. I couldn’t care less about all this – it’s mendacious rubbish, most of it – but it’s all salt in the wound.
I know deadlines are tight. I know editors are under pressure. I also know that editorial departments have immutable, company-wide standards to follow (I’m not surprised CNN couldn’t stomach calling the piece ‘Israel and Palestine’).
Writers need editors – editing is absolutely vital for good writing, and the lack of it sticks out a mile (this blog post, for instance) – but editors also need writers. Editing should be a meeting of equals. Both parties have unique skills and perspective to bring to the final product. The hopes and interests of both should be respected throughout.
What CNN wanted here wasn’t a bylined piece at all. They wanted a small slice of travel knowledge – which, in truth, anybody could have got from googling – wrapped in CNN’s take on the basics of the Israeli-Palestinian political situation. I’m gratified they came to me, but disappointed they then felt free to put words in my mouth.
My sense is this kind of thing is getting worse, as editors are squeezed from two sides by shrinking budgets and increasing workloads. Writers are treated as copywriters. Freelance contracts demand all rights. I think publishers imagine they get away with this scot-free, but they really don’t. First, they lose respect from writers. Then, because of that, they end up buying worse copy. That, sooner or later, will kill them.
Contracts are another argument, but down at the coal face, as an editor, if you like what I write, run it. Tweak if you really need to, for clarity’s sake – but once you start moving things around, changing meaning or emphasis, and (especially) adding new material of your own, surely it’s basic good manners to tell me before you go and publish it under my name?
And if your deadlines can’t accommodate authorial review, then at the very least, show me your final version and give me the yes/no option of approving or removing my byline before it goes live.
You wouldn’t dream – I hope – of standing up in public announcing “In this situation, Matthew Teller would say…”
It’s my name, for heaven’s sake. As a writer, it’s all I’ve got.
See backstory here.
10 Things To Know Before Visiting Israel and Palestine (original)
By Matthew Teller – my original below, CNN’s version here
The Holy Land makes for inspiring, depressing, fascinating, confusing travel.
To some, the chunk of territory between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean Sea is all Israel. To others, it’s all Palestine.
For most, though – as so often in this region of shifting truths and manipulated histories – it’s a bit of both.
Things are rarely black and white. The country is painted as a war zone, but it isn’t: most of the time, in most situations, travel is safe, comfortable and rewarding.
But you need to come prepared. Take the place at face value, and not much makes sense. What you see is often less telling than what you don’t see.
1: When you visit Israel, you’re also visiting Palestine
The sovereign state of Israel came into being – apologies for the euphemism, and for glossing over the previous few millennia of history – in 1948, on a sliver of land along the Mediterranean coast, in the northern hills and the southern deserts, including the western districts of Jerusalem. This is where Israeli culture and the Hebrew language still dominate.
The eastern parts of Jerusalem (including the ancient walled Old City), plus a kidney-shaped piece of land either side of Jerusalem, and smaller chunks around Gaza and in the Golan region did not form part of Israel in 1948, but have been occupied by Israel since 1967. That occupation is deemed illegal under international law. These areas are where Palestinian culture and the Arabic language are strongest.
A Palestinian state, should one ever materialise alongside Israel, is likely to be centred on that kidney-shaped territory, known to most of the world as the West Bank.
Pockets of Israeli culture thrive across the West Bank in “settlements” – Jewish-only townships whose presence contravenes international law. And pockets of Palestinian culture remain strong across Israel, from the urban clamour of Jaffa and Haifa to rural hamlets in the countryside and desert.
When you visit as a tourist, you’re visiting two nations overlaid on top of one another. See only one, and you see only part of the whole picture.
2: Terms of engagement
Onlookers frequently cast the conflict here as between Jews and Arabs, but since some Jews are Arab, and some Arabs are Jewish, that’s not quite right.
Axe-grinders on both sides like to evoke an enduring death-struggle between Muslims and Jews. But historically no such struggle existed.
In truth, the problems of the last century or so are political – and it’s worthwhile knowing who’s who.
Most Israelis (a political identity) are Jewish (a religious identity) – and most take pride in their country’s ethnic diversity: European Jews, Russian Jews, African Jews, American Jews and many others mix more or less freely.
(There’s a reason for that: if you can satisfy Israel’s religious establishment that you’re Jewish – according to complicated rules of birth, ancestry or conversion – you instantly become entitled to Israeli citizenship and state benefits.)
Palestinians (a political identity) – most of whom are Arab (a cultural identity) – are chiefly Muslim, but there are substantial minorities of Palestinian Christians and others. Many face restrictions imposed by the Israeli state on their movement, rights and access to services.
3: Centre of the world
Medieval texts called Jerusalem the centre of the world. Few people forget their first visit to the Old City at Jerusalem’s core, still encircled by the crenellated walls built by the Ottoman sultan Suleiman the Magnificent in 1538.
Within this tiny area, roughly 1km square, the Via Dolorosa – walked by Jesus – leads to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, reputedly where Jesus was crucified and buried.
Steps away, Jews pray at the Western Wall, the last structure remaining from the Jewish Temple, destroyed by the Romans.
Nearby, the Al Aqsa mosque, mentioned in the Quran, stands alongside the golden Dome of the Rock shrine commemorating the Prophet Muhammad’s mystical Night Journey.
In terms of religious significance, that’s quite a plateful. And in amongst the holy sites, daily life roars on: souks crowd the narrow, stone-flagged alleyways, children go to school, libraries jostle with restaurants.
For some, it can be too much. Around 100 tourists each year succumb to Jerusalem Syndrome, a psychiatric condition linked to the city’s atmosphere of intensity. Sufferers typically show signs of prolonged agitation and religious fervour, spending days – often dressed in white robes (typically a hotel bedsheet) – declaiming religious verses or preaching public sermons on moral purity. Most recover.
Do a walking tour of East Jerusalem, such as those run by Green Olive Tours, or make a pilgrimage to the Palestinian city of Bethlehem – where Jesus was born – and you’ll run into Israel’s infamous security barrier.
This eight-metre (26ft) high wall of concrete was built to stop Palestinians moving freely between the West Bank and Israel proper. It mostly runs inside West Bank territory, rather than on the boundary line.
With its armed guards, watchtowers and fortified gateways, it’s as stark a symbol of Israel’s military-enforced occupation as you could dream up.
5: Bubble city
An hour away from Jerusalem, down on the coast, secular-minded Tel Aviv swings along amid beach parties, designer brands and hipster attitudes.
During the Jewish shabbat – the day of rest, which runs from Friday sunset to Saturday sunset – West Jerusalem remains quiet in prayerful contemplation but Tel Aviv lives the high life, seaside promenades crowded, stores busy and lounge bars packed.
This hedonistic city, gazing west into the Mediterranean sunset, has also carved out a new identity as a gay capital, offering a uniquely accommodating welcome to LGBT visitors and residents alike.
In a country where the Jewish religious establishment generally calls the shots, Tel Aviv embodies a bubble of liberality and easygoing apathy. That’s great if you want to party – but Tel Avivians are also renowned for sticking their heads in the golden beach sand and pretending everything in the garden is forever rosy.
6: Signs of conflict
Israel has military conscription, which means you’ll often see young, college-age men and women in uniform, an automatic weapon slung over their shoulder, travelling between postings on public transport.
Having that weapon dangle inches from your face on a crowded bus while its owner laughs with her friends takes some getting used to.
Expect airport-style security at hotels, malls, bus stations and other public buildings, with metal detectors at each entrance and guards searching bags.
7: Leave the city behind
For the best of the Holy Land, get out into the countryside.
The West Bank is crisscrossed by walking trails. Many are devoted to nature, some – such as Birzeit’s Sufi Trails – to culture.
One of the best is the Abraham Path, linking the Palestinian cities of Nablus, Bethlehem and Hebron in a two-week trek – also manageable in shorter day-stages, with overnight stops at homestays and rural guesthouses.
Israelis have a long tradition of nature tourism, centred on national parks, wildlife reserves and forest walks, including the stunning Jesus Trail, which coils through the hills above the sparkling Sea of Galilee.
To stay, plug into Israel’s network of ‘zimmers’ – rural B&Bs ranging from farmstays to exclusive country retreats.
8: Red, Med and Dead
Israel is hemmed in by sea.
For the Red Sea, go snorkelling and beach-bumming in Eilat.
For the Med Sea, aim for the stunning cliffs at Rosh HaNikra.
And for the Dead Sea, float your cares away at Ein Bokek, where the salty waters of this inland lake effortlessly support your body.
9: Just deserts
Don’t miss the vast, scorching desert that fills Israel’s southern third – known as the Negev in Hebrew or Naqab in Arabic.
Head to the engaging Kibbutz Lotan, an agricultural community in Israel’s deep south run on environmentally sound lines: they have fine ecolodge-style cabins for visitors to get a flavour of frontier life.
But despite the camels and the tents, few of the Negev’s hippyish ecotours have much to do with the original inhabitants of this desert. To meet them in person, book ahead through Bedouin Hospitality – a social enterprise founded by civil rights activists – to be hosted among bedouin tribes and hear stories of desert life.
10: Prickly on the outside – and the inside
Sabra is the Hebrew word for cactus fruit – prickly on the outside, sweet in the middle. It’s also how native-born Israelis proudly describe themselves.
The metaphor is very apt: social graces aren’t high on Israel’s list of priorities, and service in shops and restaurants can be brusque. But if you peel away the prickly exterior of contempt there’s generally warmth and affability beneath. Maybe even a smile.
Yet in terms of tourism it’s almost as if the sabra has been reversed. Travel in Israel seems sweet: everything works, the history astounds, landscapes wow. But dig below the surface to peel back the ready-supplied narrative and you soon encounter the prickles of competing histories, neglected places and untold stories.
Intriguingly, the same word in Arabic, saber, connotes patience and tenacity: tough hedges of cactus are still used to mark land boundaries across the West Bank, and the idea is linked to a key concept in Palestinian self-identity – sumud, meaning steadfastness or quiet resolve.
One plant, two peoples, three interpretations. So typical.
Last night (29 July) the news came through from Syria that Father Paolo Dall’Oglio, a highly respected Jesuit priest who has lived in Syria for thirty years, had been kidnapped. Rumours began to swirl on social media, first about his kidnapping, then about his supposed late-night release.
At this writing (30 July) it’s not clear exactly what’s happened, or where Father Paolo is.
This is no ordinary abduction (if abduction it is). Since the revolution began in Syria in 2011 Father Paolo has campaigned vociferously among the Syrian people and the international community for a peaceful democratic transition. In 2012 he wrote an open letter to the UN’s envoy Kofi Annan. Then the Assad regime expelled him. He has been living in exile since – and continues to call for ‘victory without revenge‘. His is a voice of sanity amid the madness which has engulfed his adoptive country.
For news of Father Paolo, and the appalling war in Syria, follow the independent media project Syria Deeply.
I have never met Father Paolo. Middle East writer and campaigner Daniel Adamson – a good friend of mine – has. Daniel wrote the following story in 2005, after visiting Father Paolo at the monastery of Deir Mar Musa outside Damascus. He has given me permission to post it here. Read it. It’s beautiful.
God is Shy
Father Paolo dall’Oglio and the monastery of Deir Mar Musa
By Daniel Adamson, 2005
When Paolo dall’Oglio was a child his father gave him an illustrated book on the life of Saint Paul. In its pages he found old-fashioned black-and-white drawings of the Middle East: desert-dwelling Arabs, bedouin tents, the impossibly old cities of Palestine and Syria.
For a boy growing up to Catholic parents in 1950s’ Italy, these were images of a land far, far away. But they gave Paolo his first glimpse of a world that, many years later, he would make his own, and his first inkling of an idea that would determine the path of his life: Christianity is an Eastern religion.
As a young priest in the Society of Jesus, Paolo made his way from Rome to the desert, tracing the journey of his faith in reverse. In Damascus he heard of a monastery abandoned in the mountains to the north and, looking for a quiet place to pray, he made his way up to the ruins of Deir Mar Musa.
Founded by early Christian hermits on the site of a Roman fort, this monastery was already old when the new faith of Islam pushed the Byzantine Empire back into Anatolia. Protected by its extreme isolation, the monastery survived centuries of bedouin raids, the rise and fall of the Umayyad and Abbasid caliphates, the incursions of Mongols, and even the collapse of Byzantium itself.
But it could not survive the birth of the modern world. Towards the middle of the nineteenth century the last monks died or drifted away, and fifteen centuries of monastic silence faded into the older, deeper silence of the desert.
In the summer of 1982, Paolo found nothing more than a shell. The roof of the church had collapsed, the Byzantine frescoes were fading in the sun, and goats were penned inside the stone walls. He spent ten days alone, praying and walking in the desert. When the time came to leave, Paolo knew that in Deir Mar Musa he’d found his home, his work, and his reason to be in Syria.
Over the last twenty years he has restored the monastery – not as a historical monument but as a living centre of Christian prayer, work, and hospitality in the heart of the Islamic world. The six monks and nuns who form the community now keep their own goats and tend their own gardens down in the valley; they’ve built a dam across the gorge to hold the winter rains, and created a library of books that range across the world’s religious traditions.
In 2003 the restoration of the church’s twelfth-century frescoes was completed at last, and it is here, watched by the severe, candlelit faces of saints and apostles, that Paolo holds the evening mass.
The celebrants, guests along with the monks and nuns, sit barefoot on the carpets as they did in first centuries of Christianity. Slowly people settle into the flickering semi-darkness. Silence. After so many years of empty, desert silence, this is the full and present silence of human prayer. It feels like the stillness of water, like the surface of water undisturbed.
An hour passes. Quietly at first, music touches the quietness that has gathered in the church; psalms and prayers follow, sung in the Arabic that, centuries ago, displaced Aramaic as the language of liturgy here. Bibles are handed round for the day’s reading, candles re-arranged, and Paolo, wearing his white smock, seated cross-legged at the low wooden lectern, asks and answers the questions that arise from the text, shifting easily from Arabic to French, English to Italian.
At the end comes the lifting and blessing of bread and wine, the passing round of the glazed earthenware goblet and the little plate with its pieces of unleavened bread. Do this in memory of me.
In this nightly celebration Paolo leads his community towards the stillness at the centre of monastic life. It is not a social event, a sermon, or a ritual enacted for its own sake. It is a reaching back towards the meaning of this place, towards the spiritual ground on which the monastery was built so long ago. Without it, Deir Mar Musa would rapidly lose touch with its original reason for being, for silence does not always prevail here.
Every year the monastery is visited – invaded might be a better word – by hundreds of people from across the world. Most of them are what might be called ‘spiritual refugees’ from a Europe that has lost its faith: young backpackers who come up here for a day, a week, a year, looking for something to which many of them can give no name at all. In the summer these travellers, combined with the bus-loads of local schoolkids who arrive with their teachers or their priests, can turn Deir Mar Musa into something that feels more like a youth hostel than a monastery.
But Paolo would not turn anyone away. “I have learnt that hospitality is a spiritual attitude,” he says, “as well as a moral imperative.”
Alongside this sense of hospitality is the hope that some of these young people might feel called to stay at Deir Mar Musa for a lifetime. But it is not easy, in the twenty-first century, to find people with a vocation for the celibate life of a desert monk. Only six young people, Syrians and Europeans, have made that commitment over the last fifteen years. Others have come close. Paolo told me of a French boy who had embarked upon his novitiate only to fall in love and leave with one of the girls staying here.
In one of his more memorable statements, a disappointed Paolo explained that although God may draw people towards the religious life, He does not force His will onto anyone: “God” he said, “is shy.”
That comment is typical of the odd and unexpected ideas that enliven Paolo’s conversation, thrown out in an imperfect English that is often more expressive than a native speaker’s could ever be. His Arabic, on the other hand, is flawless. It is hard not to smile at how completely this bearded Italian priest has absorbed the language and identity of the Middle East. “We Syrians…” he will declare loudly in a public meeting. “We Semites…”
Driving away from Deir Mar Musa with Father Paolo at the wheel of the monastery’s jeep, I asked him what was in his mind when he was first sent by the Church to study Arabic in Beirut and Damascus. Did he know that his identity would be entirely re-cast by the culture of the Middle East?
“I came in the first place to try to become Arabic, to try to assume as deeply as possible the Islamic culture, and to see what happens to Christian faith when it is exposed to the cultural, human, religious value of Islam. I was sent to love Islam and Arabs. It was as clear as that.
“My mission was to go and love, to go and understand, to assume the culture. That was the way I understood the Christian mission at that time. To be a disciple of Jesus of Nazareth means to be sent all over the world, and wherever you find yourself you are called to love the people, to deepen your knowledge of their culture, to try to understand their culture, to look for the values of that culture, to discover the richness of that culture, and to perceive the activity of the holy spirit in that religion. You have to try to understand what the spirit of God is doing in this place, and to look for what role these people have in the history of human spirituality, in the history of salvation.”
A more conventional priest might have sunk beneath the weight of such a mission. To become Arab? To love Islam? Paolo swam. What began as a study has developed into something much more profound: an immersion in the culture and faith of the Middle East so complete, so sustained, that Islam has soaked right through Paolo. Though it has never displaced his belief in the person and meaning of Jesus Christ, Islam has become a part of his own faith.
This is something that goes way beyond the term ‘dialogue’, implying as it does the exchange of views between two separate and distinct sets of beliefs. As a young priest, Paolo felt instinctively that Islam would be the next big question.
“Somebody”, he said in an interview in 2004, “had to go into this question so deeply as to be within himself a kind of answer.”
As we reached the end of our drive, Paolo drove the point home. “I believe in Islam,” he said. “I believe in its spirit, I believe in its beauty, I believe in Islamic prayer, I believe in the Sufi traditions, I believe in the Islamic pilgrimage, I believe in the Islamic aesthetic, I believe in the Islamic fire of jealousy for the One God. But I remain a disciple of Jesus of Nazareth, and I believe there is a place for the Christian minority in the Islamic world.”
These are not empty words. At Deir Mar Musa, Paolo has created a community that receives hundreds of Muslim guests every year, each one welcome to stay the night, to drink tea, to share a meal or pray in the church. This was not, perhaps, what the Bishop of Homs had in mind when Paolo first proposed the restoration of an early Christian monastery in the desert. Paolo laughs.
“They wanted me to be a goat, an old Syrian goat!”
The bishops were not alone in their reservations. In the early years many of the locals found it hard to understand exactly what was happening up at Deir Mar Musa.
“Some thought that I was just new kind of proselyte, and they were not completely wrong. Some believe that I’m more Muslim than Christian, and they’re not completely wrong. For a long time people thought that I was up there to look for gold and treasure, and they were not completely wrong either: the church and the frescoes were a marvellous treasure.”
Despite the suspicions and the naysayers, Paolo – through sheer force of personality – has made Deir Mar Musa into a living reality. With its unique forms of worship, its armies of young travellers, and its doors wide open to the beauties of Islam, it may seem an unconventional kind of place.
Looked at another way, the ideas that Deir Mar Musa represents – Christianity, monasticism, hospitality, fraternity between Syrians of different faiths – all have a long history in Syria. None of them is alien to this place, and in that sense Deir Mar Musa, even in its new form, stands firmly on the ground where it was built fifteen hundred years ago.
Perhaps this is the real reason that Paolo has been able to breathe life into the ruins that he found twenty-five years ago.
“I believe in traditions,” he says. “And the oriental tradition is rich and full of value. The fourteen centuries of common life between Christians and Muslims is not something to be cast aside lightly.”
Everyone takes photos. I’m not a professional photographer – I wouldn’t call myself a photographer of any kind – but everywhere I travel I take pictures and, sometimes, editors buy them and publish them.
Most of the time, though, they don’t. That’s often for editorial reasons – my travel snaps of farflung corners of the Middle East, even if they’re up to snuff quality-wise (which they often aren’t), don’t have the wow factor for art directors. I tweet them or blog them – Jordan here, Egypt there, occasional oddities – but that’s it.
It’s also often for practical reasons. Maybe the editor has an ongoing deal with one of the larger picture agencies, to buy in bulk for mass invoicing at the end of the month. They need an image quickly and I’m in the back of beyond on a dodgy 3G connection. They want to buy full world rights in all media in perpetuity, and I refuse.
Benji Lanyado, though, has had a big idea.
Last year [says Benji] 9 million images were added to global image stocks. Over the same period of time 142 BILLION images were added to Facebook and Instagram alone. The majority of these are not fit for market, but if 0.01% of them are – which I’d bet they are – that’s 14 million images. 14 million images that aren’t getting to market.
0.01% might be way off. Then again, 0.001% (1.4m images each year – and, presumably, growing) or even 0.0001% (140,000) would still represent significant numbers. Benji has identified not just a gap in the market, but a whole new market. He has just launched Picfair to change the way images are bought and sold online, and to make the world of image licensing less exclusive.
See? Couldn’t be more straightforward. Picture agencies are notoriously complicated to deal with – look at Alamy’s guidelines (and they’re one of the easier ones). None of my pics would pass their quality control for submission. I’ve got thousands, from trips going back years, sitting on my hard drive doing nothing. Occasionally I’ll sell a handful of recent ones, but the rest just sit there.
It seems I’ve got nothing to lose by uploading them to Picfair.
Or that’s what I first thought.
So I chewed over some issues, got in touch with Benji on Twitter, and emailed him some questions – I made them as hardball as I could, not because Picfair is a poor idea (it isn’t), but because such a good idea merits testing to destruction, or as near as you can get.
You’ll see that I came at this from a ‘creatives’ angle, which is my home turf. I don’t know anything about tech, marketing, business management, any of that. Please, tech journalists, marketing types, legal folk, pick up the ball and run with it.
Q&A with Benji Lanyado of Picfair
[MATTHEW TELLER:] Picfair’s whole concept rests on single-use licensing made easy. Downloaders may be reputable firms or individuals – or they may not. Once the original is downloaded, the downloader can do what they want with it – and, since it’s only cost them peanuts, they’re unlikely to value it as highly as if they’d paid market rates. They’re also unlikely to fear the consequences of unauthorised reuse: Picfair’s 10x penalty on a £5 image (or even a £20 image) is no penalty at all for a mid-circulation magazine. What is Picfair doing to prevent misuse of images?
[BENJI LANYADO:] As much as it can. We can’t scour the entire web for unauthorised use, but if we discover it, we’ll act appropriately. If the penalty rates need to be higher, we’ll raise them. Also… I’d dispute your use of the words “peanuts” and “market rates”. If a photographer thinks their image is worth £5, that is its rate on the market. Market rates shouldn’t be fixed by an agency looking at a P&L column, they should be determined by the market. I also think it’s unfair to think that an editor/buyer is more likely to abuse an image if it’s cheaper than an overpriced image from an legacy agency – the vast majority of picture editors want to play fair, and are increasingly aware of the consequences of image misuse in the name-and-shame internet age.
[Matthew responds:] That’s absolutely true: my question was focused more on the potential for people who aren’t working in media to misuse cheap, single-licensed images, either through negligence or ignorance. I made the “peanuts” comment because Picfair’s whole model rests on eliminating agency commissions from the photographer-publisher transaction. By definition that will sharply reduce the cost to buyers. Picfair images will be cheap in monetary terms; I’m concerned they may also feel cheap in value terms – and a free market could, worryingly, end up nudging photographers to compete on a race to the bottom.
What motivation is there for professional photographers, with pre-existing relationships with larger agencies and publishers, to use Picfair to sell their world-class images?
[BENJI:] The larger agencies are usually ripping them off. The average cut taken by an agency is 74%, and, increasingly, they take your copyright from you too, and re-sell the images in bulk. Look at what AirBnB did to the holiday rental market – they removed the agency tier because it doesn’t need to be there, connecting the buyer to the seller so everyone gets a better deal. The image licensing industry can be viewed in exactly the same way.
As a writer-photographer, I’m worried that if I upload to Picfair I could potentially be putting my existing relationships in jeopardy. Say I upload a travel image to Picfair and put a price of £10 on it. Then I get commissioned to write about that destination for a magazine. I send the editor a selection of my images, including the one I uploaded.
Scenario 1 – the editor buys my image directly from me for £100, then later discovers they could have had the same pic for £10 from Picfair, accuses me of deception and blacklists me.
Scenario 2 – during layout the editor finds my image on Picfair, quietly downloads it for £10, emails me to say they’ve found another source so won’t need my selections, then runs my image in the mag anyway. I suddenly hate the editor. Picfair has left me £90 out of pocket. I hate Picfair too.
In both scenarios, wouldn’t I have been better off if I hadn’t tangled with Picfair at all?
[BENJI:] Yup, agree. But this represent a *very* small use case. If you weren’t to “tangle” with Picfair, however, you’d be preventing the possibility of 20 licenses from 20 different publications. Ok, you’ve made £100, but have you stopped yourself from making £200? Every photographer who adds an image to Picfair will run this risk, however small it is. We aren’t pushing people to add their images to the site. If they want to license them separately, they are free to delete their image from Picfair’s database. The majority of Picfair users, however, will be non-professionals, who have never had a platform on which to license their material – this is a huge value add, both for them and for people wanting to look beyond legacy agency options.
[Matthew responds:] It is, I agree – but what Benji just said seems to me to be a big deal. The implication – once we’ve all given a thumbs-up to new, value-added interaction between casual uploaders and casual buyers – is that Picfair could end up being a back-channel way for corporate media buyers to bypass pro photographers at the legacy agencies. Picfair’s model has the potential to penalise pro photographers. They may, then, stay away – but if the picture eds they usually deal with are buying replacement images quickly and easily from non-professional sources via Picfair, that could seriously damage an already-squeezed market. Instead of levelling the playing field, Picfair could end up making it harder for pro photographers to earn a living – and easier for media firms to maintain the whip hand.
Flat-fee licensing raises questions. Getting £10 for a pic being used on a little-known website isn’t too bad. Getting £10 for it being used 1/4 page in a mid-circulation magazine is a serious blow. Getting £10 for it being used full-bleed as a wraparound cover for a market-leading title is an utter disaster. Doesn’t the fact that print magazines pay different rates for images used at different sizes on the page mean that Picfair’s fees are doing photographers seeking print publication a disservice?
You’re creating an entirely new market – but if there are no hints as to which images sell (and which don’t) at different price-points, how can uploaders know if they’re selling themselves short?
[BENJI:] Picfair is five days old. Really we’re still waiting for the market to develop and mature – soon I want the site to be dripping in data, helping photographers “intelligently” price their images. But one thing will always remain – Picfair doesn’t price the images… the photographers do. Of course this runs the risk of undervaluation, but such is a market. You find bargains on eBay, why shouldn’t you find them on Picfair?
I’d flip this theory on its head too: a photographer who has never added an image to a marketplace or agency, and then gets his/her image in a magazine for £10 – they have £10 more than they did when they started. If they feel they could have got more, they can increase the price of the image for the next time it gets licensed.
[Matthew responds:] It’s a great answer, but I’d be interested to know what ‘dripping in data’ might mean, and what specific tools will be available for uploaders to be able to ‘intelligently’ price images. Mark Hodson of 101 Holidays also raised this on Twitter here. Note Benji’s response there.
What’s to stop Picfair becoming a bargain bucket for dross images? Couldn’t anyone upload any old rubbish, tagged with any keywords they like? Doesn’t Picfair’s simplicity and useability mean serious buyers might end up having to slog through pages of £1 snaps to find anything good – therefore quickly giving up on Picfair altogether?
[BENJI:] Picfair relies on image views and our “trending” algorithm to sort images, for now. Have a look at the site right now, I think it sorts things very nicely indeed. If an image is “dross”, it’s highly unlikely to have accumulated many pic views or social shares. Our search functionality currently takes all of this into account, so that the algorithmically determined “wheat” can rise to the top. It isn’t perfect, yet, but I believe it’s a compelling alternative to editorially-curated search results – images chosen by their popularity. I’ll improve the code until it works for publishers – we’re considering adding an “editor’s pick” function whereby high-standard images are given extra prominence.
[Matthew responds:] The trending idea works well for casual browsers – but many time-pressed buyers will have specific wants, in terms of keywords and/or subjects. My sense is they will care less about images that are popular, and more about ones that are good – the two don’t necessarily coincide. If left unchecked, the quality factor could be a serious pitfall in the months ahead, as Picfair’s image database grows.
What is Picfair doing to make it worthwhile for art directors with bigger budgets and mass-market editorial reach to visit regularly?
[BENJI:] Nothing, yet. Picfair is there for everyone, from art directors to bloggers.
[Matthew responds:] I’m afraid this strikes me as another cause for concern. Picfair is fun to use, and embodies an exciting, iconoclastic approach to business – but I need to know that the time I spend uploading means my images will get to be seen by more than just passersby and other uploaders. I want my images to sell. Picture editors worldwide need to be persuaded to jump in, and media companies need to be convinced to switch budgetary resources away from the legacy agencies. If that doesn’t happen, I can’t see Picfair making it.
Picfair is a brilliant idea that deserves to succeed. The current system of image licensing is a mess. It’s not hard to see that the trade-off it embodies – publishers benefiting from complex contracts and control of rights, photographers benefiting from royalties and variable spot rates – has been blown out of the water by social media, free sharing, smartphone quality, citizen journalism… er, just about everything.
Picfair’s model, by contrast, offers single-use licensing as a great alternative for photographers, and easy flat fees to draw in new buyers. That’s a win for images that are currently not being brought to market, and a win for photographers who currently have no access to buyers.
For everyone else, though, it’s still a trade-off. And I’m not sure, yet, how that will play out. It’s tempting to see Picfair as a new easyJet – yes, the idea is that good – blasting a hole in cosily ossified relationships that only please the suits, sparking fresh demand by creating a whole new market, putting power in the hands of ordinary people.
But it’s not quite there, I don’t think. I can foresee problems arising from Picfair’s conscious lack of curation (or what used to be called editorial control). An unregulated free market in images has the potential to, firstly, drive down prices – great for big business, handy for enthusiastic amateurs, terrible if you’re trying to make a living from your pictures – and secondly, to drive down quality, with the best photographers staying away altogether, and the best of the rest drowning in a sea of hopeful uploads tagged speculatively low.
You could raise philosophical issues of value-creep: instead of making beautiful images and sharing them – or just keeping them, in the knowledge that there’s no viable mechanism by which people could pay even if they wanted to, maybe we will now, somewhere subconsciously, be putting a price-tag on a sunset. You could also raise issues of model release liability, which I haven’t covered here at all (hat-tip to David Whitley for raising that with me; I’ll let him make the point).
Nobody has to upload to Picfair at all, of course. But the (very slight) potential is there for Picfair to have a negative impact on my (minuscule) photo earnings, even if I do nothing.
That said, I am also happy to lend support to an exciting idea - and, as I said at the top, I’ve got quite a few not-terrible images lying idle, so I might as well try and leverage some value from them. But I’ll be doing so with a few reservations. And I probably won’t be posting my best, most saleable work just yet.
Always a slow adopter, me.
Huge thanks, of course, to Benji, for taking the time to answer my questions.
I met Guido Romero for the first time 3 or 4 years ago, on a drive out of Amman with a mutual friend. Guido is from an Italian family inextricably linked with the 20th-century development of Amman. His grandfather, Dr. Fausto Tesio, founded Jordan’s first hospital, in 1921, and Guido’s mother, author, artist and gallery-owner Flavia Romero, set up Amman’s famous Romero restaurant group, also playing a prominent role in the cultural life of the city over many years.
Guido is a doer, with a business head screwed on very tight. When I heard he was setting up a B&B, I guessed it might be good. I got in touch, and was lucky enough to spend a couple of nights there. He’s calling it By The Lemon Tree.
The B&B made it into the 2013 Rough Guide to Jordan – and the UK Independent on Sunday ran my review a couple of months ago – gratifyingly, across a double-page spread – though by then word-of-mouth (and positive online reviews from customers) was already having an impact. From what Guido has been saying, the place is pretty much full, pretty much all the time.
Amman needs more of this. Guido tells me he’s got all sorts of plans, for this property and others – and I believe him. Guido gets things done. I’m happy to count him as a friend, but here’s a shameless plug anyway: go to Amman and stay at By The Lemon Tree. It’s really rather nice.
Here’s the Independent on Sunday article:
B&Bs are a Middle Eastern rarity. In a region which favours five-star glitz – and where complex guest/host dynamics can foster a confusing kind of arm’s-length hospitality – chances to stay in local homes are few and far between. The Jordanian capital Amman, though, is starting to break the mould. By The Lemon Tree stands hidden among the old villas of Jabal Webdeh, a mostly Christian district on a hill above Amman’s downtown bustle. It’s a perfect way to duck out of Jordan’s standard offering of a big hotel in some bland tourist zone. Webdeh forms one of the capital’s loveliest residential quarters, arty, tasteful and walkable. You live amongst the comings-and-goings of an Ammani family. The streets smell of pine and sun-warmed limestone. Birdsong prevails.
The B&B occupies an extended 1960s’ townhouse alongside the Italian Embassy. But despite its evocative name and leafy location, you’ll search in vain for chintzy domesticity – and forget altogether about Arabian-style swagger. Interiors are sleekly modern, plain white walls offset with dark woods and antique chests, with floors of cool polished tile and cream canvas drapes to filter the bright sun. Six doubles and four twins all include ensuite bathrooms, a touch clinical with their neutral colours and designer fittings. From the large common area, arrayed with sofas, dining table and ultra-modern kitchen for guests’ sole use, stairs lead up to chairs and loungers on a shaded roof terrace. Wifi is fast and free – I got a reliable signal everywhere. Each guest gets a free bottle of wine on arrival, along with an open invitation to join the host family’s weekly drinks parties.
A trio of staff – Rowena, Juvi and Lisa – keep everything shipshape, which includes serving breakfast al fresco in the rear courtyard, under the huge lemon tree for which the B&B is named. It’s quite a spread: after tea and fresh-squeezed juice, I had hot toast (the bread is home-baked), scrambled eggs, tomatoes, grilled halloumi and – a rare delicacy hereabouts – proper bacon, everything served on handmade local crockery. After all that, pancakes with maple syrup seemed an over-indulgence. Beware, though: no breakfast is served on Fridays, Jordan’s one-day weekend. Amman’s always-busy downtown hummus parlours are a short walk away, but instead, on the Friday I stayed, I strolled three minutes up the hill to the Stop and Shop minimarket, assembled my own breakfast and picnicked on the roof terrace.
The owner, Guido Romero, whose Jordanian-Italian family has roots in Amman stretching back almost a century, lives downstairs, while the B&B occupies the building’s two upper floors, reached through a separate entrance. There’s not much molly-coddling – Guido, with characteristic forthrightness, has titled a section on the B&B’s website “Do Pay Attention!” – but instead you can expect razor-sharp repartee and cheerful down-to-earth practicality from a guy who is always ready with a laugh and a story. Guido’s grandfather founded Amman’s Italian Hospital in 1921: tap him for tales of local history.
It’s a few minutes’ walk to the contemporary art gallery Darat Al Funun (+962 6464 3251; daratalfunun.org), shoehorned into an atmospheric old villa amid trees and views. Open 10am-7pm, closed Fri; admission free. Several more galleries and arts venues lie within walking distance, including Jordan’s National Gallery (+962 6463 0128; nationalgallery.org), showcasing a fine collection of contemporary Islamic art. Open 9am-7pm, closed Tues & Fri; admission JD3 (£2.50). After exploring the downtown souks, head over to Rainbow Street, a funky quarter of espresso bars, pavement cafés and antiques shops, enhanced on summer Fridays by a relaxed flea market of clothes, crafts and music known as Souk Jara (facebook.com/soukjara).
Near the B&B, in another of Webdeh’s old townhouses, Maria Haddad runs Beit Sitti (+962 777 557 744; beitsittijo.com), an impromptu cooking school where you spend a couple of hours learning how to chop, prepare and assemble your own three-course Arabic meal under expert supervision. Bookings are essential, from roughly JD35 (£31) per person. For another culinary adventure, book at The Winemaker (+962 6461 4125; zumot-wines.com), a combination retail outlet and private restaurant run by local vineyard-owner Omar Zumot: a tasting of his world-class wines, accompanied by light bites or a full meal, sheds memorable new light on Jordanian culture. Prices vary.
By The Lemon Tree, 1 Hafeth Ibrahim Street, Jabal Webdeh, Amman 11191, Jordan (+962 777 955 559; www.bythelemontree.com). Doubles start at JD50 (£45), including breakfast. There’s a two-night minimum stay.
The Independent‘s sister paper, the i, has a daily “Postcard From…” strand. A month ago I wrote a short “Postcard from Qena” (a city in southern Egypt) for them, with a mini-profile of the dynamic but controversial local governor. I heard nothing back – and what with all the, er, changes in Egypt I thought it had just been spiked.
Yesterday one of the foreign editors tweeted me to say they wanted to run the piece. I quickly tweeted some people and made a couple of phone calls, and discovered that not only was the governor no longer in post, his replacement had also just resigned. I rewrote the crucial para and refiled the piece. It ran in today’s paper – but the rewrites pushed up the word-count, which means the subs cut it to fit. Which lines did they cut? The ones referring to the recent changes.
So now it reads somewhat oddly – as if time stopped in 2011 (for some Egyptians that’s almost true, but not quite in the sense the Indy’s subs have left things…).
Click here for the piece as published. And below is my original, for your delectation. All this, for a 30-second read!
Qena lurks on the edge of things. This southern Egyptian city stands close enough to the tourist hotels of Luxor – sixty-odd kilometres – that nobody stays, but far enough away that nobody visits either.
Tour buses sweeping in from the Red Sea coast head straight for King Tut’s tomb, bypassing Qena. Itineraries to the temple of the love-goddess Hathoor, at Dendara nearby, include direct transport from Luxor by bus or boat – though these days there’s precious little demand.
What’s so awful about Qena that passers-by always detour? I walked on neat, shaded streets, causing cheerful pavement jams chatting to doorway loafers.
Ex-governor Adel Labib is credited with giving Qena some spit and polish after the devastating Islamist insurgency of the 1990s, building civic participation in schemes from fixing rubbish collections to launching a women’s football team.
Labib, with a background in state security, was rewarded by former president Hosni Mubarak with a transfer to Alexandria. He was governor there in 2010 when activist Khaled Said was beaten to death by police – one of the sparks for the Egyptian revolution. Days after Mubarak resigned the presidency in February 2011, Labib resigned his governorship.
He wasn’t gone long. Six months later, Egypt’s ruling military council sent him back to Qena – only for him to be kicked out by ex-president Morsi last month, a fortnight before Morsi himself was ejected from office. The new governor, Salah Abdel-Meguid, lasted 22 days; he resigned on Monday morning.
Regardless, Qena’s big families keep the streets calm. On a warm night in the main square, a group of teenagers around a booming sound system is drawing a crowd with backflips and 80-style bodypopping. Tambourines and trumpets fanfaring a street wedding add to the cacophony of car horns.
Insulated against tourist no-shows and ruled by familiar faces, it’s like the revolution never happened.