Steve Gillmor’s GestureLab

Even for me, the amount of silence I've been generating recently is a bit much. Between the things I can't, shouldn't, or won't talk about, there's not a lot left. I'm hoping to break the logjam over the next few days. The best place for now is The Gillmor Gang, where recent appearances by Jason Calacanis, Gabe Rivera, Robert Anderson, and Sam Whitmore have laid the groundwork for some very exciting developments that I can't wait to share.

But while I wait, I certainly can till the fields in preparation for the coming wave of developments. It's no secret that attention and gestures are accelerating their footprint in the technology conversation. The almost daily data crises from AOL, HP, Facebook, et al are just the tip of the iceberg. Below the waterline, Google, Microsoft, Yahoo, IAC, and others are shuddering as they see their once-carefree audiences starting to wake up to the dangers–and value–of their behavior. And in turn, the realization that it's not the quantity of their breadcrumbs but the quality of their gestures that increasingly will count.

Is it just me, or do you begin to notice that link free text is starting to look calmer, more conversational? Yes, my trolls, it's just me. But for the rest, do you see what I see? Naturally, my mind travels to a(ny) recent Doc Searls post as the exception that proves the rule. Doc loves links (I used to) and you can see why. Sometimes he peels the onion, then rewraps it with supporting links: look here where I or someone else said this better or first, join me in honoring this great mind, review the most recent conversation nodes, and so on. Why would anyone argue with that great aesthetic? It even makes me feel bad for a second.

But still I proceed. I've been in a biography frenzy for months now–after years of heads-down work, I've quietly set aside the machines and retreated to Dylan, The Band, Cary Grant, Hendrix, and natch, The Beatles. Occasionally I've rationalized it as inspiration or best practices for work–Grant's trail-blazing efforts to carve out an independent career and control of his creative and business landscape are remarkably prescient for this media reboot–but fundamentally I'm reconnecting with the emotions and exhilaration of a simpler sillier time when the world lay open beneath our feet.

The Grant bio, by Marc Eliot, is an eye-opener, not so much for its familiar retelling of the carefully controlled details of the actor's life, but for the persistent attempt to put his actions and relationships in a larger context. It becomes clear early on that the author is convinced of Grant's sexual preference for men, most notably his longtime companion Randolph Scott. In one startling section, Grant marries for the first time and moves from his shared home with Scott. The next day, Scott buys the house next door and moves in.

As the book moves through the decades, the struggles with four (of five) failed marriages, the fascinating detentes with directors including Hawks, Cukor, McCarey, and his most successful professional marriage, Hitchcock, the context emerges of a tough, loyal, fearful, pragmatic artist–a study in motion, not snapshots in time. The book's footnotes serve as gestures to the reader–here is what I found out, and here is why I make these assumptions about the essentially unknowable. The end notes reveal, even twenty years after the actor's death, a retreat into anonymity for those who discussed Grant's sexuality and stonewalling on the part of the FBI regarding Grant's apparent work for intelligence services under the direction of Hoover.

Do the footnotes satisfy? Do links matter? Of course. But the style of the author and even his thesis do not make the book what it is. For me, it's the careful gestures of respect for the fabric of the reading experience that resonate far more than the information (or lack of it) contained within. The footnotes satisfy not because of any additional revelation but more for their sense of coda, that that is what we think we know, now the ball's in your court. Doc's links matter because his style is energized by them, not (for me) because they point at the past and buttress the logic of the proposed future.

Having children has illuminated my childhood in ways I never anticipated. As I sit stroking my daughter's hair as she falls back to sleep after awakening from a bad dream, I am transported to riding in my father's car on the long drive back to Woodstock from the city, my head resting on his lap. I speak softly to my daughter in my father's voice, sharing that sense of safety and family that she will never know from my parents (both long gone) except through me. The past becomes prologue in a visceral, elegant way: I become and am becoming my daughter's father in the resonance of my own childhood.

I have no quarrel with links, just a profound love for the economy of gestures. The package, or container, the channel, the rhythm, the receiver, the quiet of the road not taken, the stepping aside to let the overtones pass through. To be continued.

Tuesday, September 26th, 2006 at 2:48 pm.
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