Mark Lovett

Is This the Time of Monsters or Miracles? – Angus Hervey at TED2025

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The story of our planet’s future is complex, with both positive and negative narratives unfolding. As Angus Hervey explains in his talk at TED2025, global collapse and unprecedented progress exist simultaneously within a state of “contested terrain,” and humanity’s ultimate trajectory is determined by the daily choices and deliberate actions we take in order to create a narrative of constructive solutions over destruction and despair.

From a storytelling perspective, how does Angus get his point across and create impact? One technique that he employs is a non-traditional structure built upon Juxtaposition and Paradox, contrasting a widely told “Story of Collapse” with the often-overlooked “Story of Renewal.”
You're already a storyteller guide at Lemon Squeezy

It’s a technique often used when describing social issues that essentially says, “You may be thinking this story is unfolding in one direction, and while there is truth in that view, there’s an alternate narrative that you also need to consider.”

Let’s take a look at how Angus takes the audience on a factual and emotional journey that ultimately leads to the message his story is designed to convey.

Note how he reveals his profession when he says, “I’m a solutions journalist.” Have you ever heard that phrase before? Probably not, so it becomes a hook, capturing your attention, as we’re curious about anything that’s unfamiliar.

He expands on this theme with, “reporting on stories of progress”, but then turns the narrative on its head by offering, “maybe I was wrong”. After three sentences we want to find out where his story is heading.

He illustrates the idea that he may be wrong by recounting a few present-day problems that we have heard about: the end of rules-based order, power over principle, science under attack, casual cruelty, etc. At this point in the story we feel the weight of the negative narratives that dominate our daily news cycle.

Ultimately, none of us know whether we are living in the downswing or the upswing of history.

But then he signals a shift in tone by saying, “There is something missing though from this story.”, and goes on to list off a much longer series of positive events and accomplishments that are happening around the world.

Both of these stories are true. But the only question that matters now is which one do you belong to?

This tonal shift is also apparent in his choice of words as he transitions from “monsters,” “vandalism,” and “unraveling” to using positive language, such as “bending the curve,” “protected,” and “breakthroughs”.

It’s a reminder that your word choice matters. So as you craft your story, seek out specific words and phrases that not only describe what you’re thinking, but also contain emotional impact.

Transcript

I’m a solutions journalist. For over a decade, I’ve been reporting on stories of progress.
But in the last few months, I’ve started to think that maybe I was wrong.

Almost a century ago, the Italian philosopher Antonio Gramsci, thrown into prison by Mussolini, wrote: “The old world is dying, and the new world struggles to be born: now is the time of monsters.”
Those words are haunting. It feels like he could be speaking to us today. A great unravelling is underway, and you know this story because it is everywhere.

The end of the international rules-based order. Power over principle. Aid budgets obliterated. Science under attack. Putin, Zelensky, Trump, Gaza, hospitals, hostages. Sudan, famine, DRC, rebels, Yemen, Venezuela, Turkey, Hungary, Taiwan. The United States of America. The economic vandalism, the contempt for the rule of law, the casual cruelty, the measles.

All of the values that we assumed were universal — truth, decency, common sense — face not just reversal but violent backlash. Beneath the surface, deeper, more menacing undercurrents: the digital platforms that were supposed to connect us now do the opposite. Algorithms breed paranoia, manufacturing division, drowning truth in deliberate falsehoods.

Carl Sagan warned us about this: an era where people, unable to distinguish between what feels good and what’s true, “we slide, almost without noticing, back into superstition and darkness.”
And as we argue online, planetary crisis: firestorms in our cities, plastic in our blood, the pollinators, the permafrost, the coral reefs, an ice-free Arctic within our lifetimes. The tipping points loom, and Gramsci’s monsters are at the gates, precisely at the moment that we seem least equipped to deal with them.

This is the story of collapse. It is on the front page of all the news sites. It is at the top of all our newsfeeds. We are intimately familiar with its graphic details. You can tune it out. You can turn it off. But you cannot ignore it.

There is something missing though from this story. Is there room in it for the words of people like Hellen Awuor O’ruro, a nurse from Kenya?

[Kenyan Nurse Voiceover]: “What I can say is that the deaths that we used to see from the severe forms of malaria in children under five have greatly gone down. And I think this is being attributed to the presence of this vaccine. The mere fact that we can now reduce these deaths, it’s really great for our community, because no one should lose a child.”

Just over 12 months ago, humanity began the roll-out of the first ever vaccine for malaria. And as you can hear, it’s working. The kids aren’t dying anymore. Already, over 5 million children in 17 countries have been vaccinated. By the end of this decade, the plan is to reach 50 million. 50 million children finally protected against a disease that has been killing children since before we invented writing. And that is not the only story that’s missing.

Since you were last all in this room, 11 countries have eliminated a disease, including Jordan, the first ever country to eliminate leprosy. Eight countries, home to over 100 million children, have either banned or committed to banning corporal punishment in all settings. Zambia, Sierra Leone, and Colombia all banned child marriage. Syria rid itself of a 50-year-old autocratic regime.

Bangladesh’s students sparked democratic change through massive protests. Voters in India, the world’s largest democracy, firmly rejected authoritarianism. England, Ireland, and Canada extended free contraception to more women. Indonesia launched a program to feed all 70 million of its school students. And did you know that Cambodia, once the world’s most mined country, is on its track to be landmine-free within the next few years?

In 2024, fewer people died from natural disasters than almost any year in history. The murder rate in the United States saw its biggest ever 12-month decline, beating the previous record which was set in 2023. And deforestation in the Amazon declined to its fourth lowest level on record, an achievement that gives me more hope for life on Earth than all the rockets that we send to Mars.

Last year, we installed enough solar panels and wind turbines to replace 6% of the world’s fossil fuel electricity. This year, we will install even more. We are bending the curve. Emissions are declining in Europe and America and have finally leveled off in China.

Electric vehicles are biting into oil demand now. Wind, water, and sunshine will overtake coal this year as the world’s leading power source, regardless of what anyone says in the White House.
And thanks to artificial intelligence, we are now starting to see breakthroughs we once thought impossible: the biggest boost to human knowledge since the scientific revolution.

We are determining the structure and interaction of every single one of life’s molecules, inventing extraordinary new enzymes, new drugs, new materials, controlling plasma and nuclear fusion experiments.

Last year, we got a new miracle drug for HIV prevention, mRNA vaccines for cancer. We found the building blocks for life in an asteroid, decoded whale speech, and discovered fractals in the quantum realm.

Did you know that sea turtle populations are increasing around the world? Or that overfishing is declining in the Mediterranean? Or that last year China finished encircling its largest desert with a giant belt of trees, its very own Great Green Wall?

And this year, the United States created its largest conservation corridor, stretching from Utah down to California. These are all victories from the last 12 months, but they happened because people, often small groups of people, fought for years and sometimes decades.

And if we extend our time frame out, even better news: over 4 million square kilometers of the world’s oceans have been protected in the last four years. Air pollution has started to decline. In the last decade, over 250 million children have gained access to clean water, sanitation, and hygiene at school. And in this century—this insane roller coaster of a century—over a billion people have been lifted from extreme poverty.

Deaths from the world’s deadliest infectious diseases have halved, and for the first time in history, over 50% of students receive a high school education. We have no precedent for that: a world where the majority of people can read, write, and calculate, where most humans possess the tools to question authority and determine their own destinies.

So, which one of these stories is true? Is this the long-awaited fall from grace, or are we on a journey to the promised land? Collapse, or renewal?

The answer, of course, is that it’s both. And the truth is that it has always been this way. Even as we rebuilt from the ashes of the Second World War, the shadow of nuclear annihilation loomed. The pandemic devastated our communities, yet our scientific response was revolutionary.

Climate change threatens our future, yet its solution, clean energy, offers us a fairer, better world. This is not an easy paradox to hold in your head or in your heart: the understanding that in the same moment, innocent people are being snatched off the streets and children are dying in air strikes, the malaria wards are emptying across an entire continent, and in a faraway village under a thousand stars, a young girl who would once have been forced into marriage is studying equations under an electric light that wasn’t there a year ago.

Real life isn’t a story. History doesn’t have a moral arc. Progress isn’t a rule. It is contested terrain, fought for daily by millions of people who refuse to give in to despair. Ultimately, none of us know whether we are living in the downswing or the upswing of history.

But I do know that we all get a choice. We, all of us, get to decide which one of these stories we are a part of. We add to their grand weave in the work that we do, in the daily decisions we make about where we put our money, where we put our energy, and our time, in the stories we tell each other, and in the words that come out of our mouths.

It is not enough to believe in something anymore. It is time to do something. Ask yourself, if our worst fears come to pass and the monsters breach the walls, who do you want to be standing next to? The prophets of doom, the cynics who said “we told you so,” or the people who with their eyes wide open, dug the trenches and fetched water.

Both of these stories are true. But the only question that matters now is which one do you belong to?

Back to you…

So how did you feel after hearing Angus’ story? Did your perspective shift from doom to hope? The feeling of hope, or the belief that a better future is possible, is the most common goal when telling an impactful personal story.

The rehearsal process is where you have the opportunity to get feedback from trusted friends as to how they felt after hearing your story. If the impact wasn’t felt, you have more editing to do. But not to worry, as it typically takes a number of draft revisions to hit the reaction you’re looking for.

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Mark Lovett

Are We Still Human If Robots Help Raise Our Babies? – Sarah Blaffer Hrdy at TED2025

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We were all babies at one point in time, and as we couldn’t care for ourselves, that responsibility fell to one or more adults. Typically our parents, but in some cases other relatives. In any event, our upbringing was a matter of human-to-human contact. But what about in the future? With AI and robotics advancing rapidly, will non-humans begin playing a role in raising future generations?

In her brief talk at TED2025, Sarah Blaffer Hrdy reminds us of the process that’s been in place for many thousands of years, and poses this exact question. As an anthropologist and primatologist, as well as a Professor Emerita, Department of Anthropology at the University of California, Davis, Sarah has unique insights on this issue.

Artificial intelligence is going to change the nature of human work. But will it change human nature?

An interesting point that Sarah brings up is that neuroscientists have detected activity in brain regions associated with social understanding in young babies when interacting with people, demonstrating early social wiring in their brains. Which had me wondering whether that would still be true with a robot.

Soon, robots will be programmed to provide a wider range of services, ranging from bottle-feeding to keeping babies safe, warm, cleaned, and even educated.

To be honest, this is one talk that I feel should have been five minutes longer. It felt as if the question was posed, some background offered, but little attention paid to the answer. For me, this highlighted the fallacy of “less is more”. In this case, less was definitely less, to the point that the message fell short.

Transcript

I guess you’ve already figured out, like it or not, artificial intelligence is going to change the nature of human work. But will it change human nature? That’s going to depend on what we do with it.

Right away, the mother and the grandmother in me wants to know, “Ooh, hey, can we program robots to help us care for our sleep-depriving, time-consuming babies?” That’s before the evolutionary anthropologist in me cautions, “Whoa. Shouldn’t we first ask why such costly, costly, slow-maturing babies evolved in the first place?”

For that, we need to go back, oh, six million years, to when humans last shared a common ancestor with other apes. Babies back then, like this common chimpanzee baby today, would have to be held in skin-to-skin contact, never out of touch, not for a minute of the day or night for months after birth, nursed for years.

It just seemed natural to assume that among the bipedal apes in the line leading to the genus Homo, babies could similarly expect single-mindedly dedicated maternal care.

Until, that is, anthropologists figured out how hard it would have been for bipedal apes with only stone-age tools to survive and escape extinction in the face of climate change and other Pleistocene perils.

To stay fed and manage to still rear their helpless, helpless, slow-maturing babies, mothers needed help. Unless male and female group members other than the mother, allomothers, had helped to care for and provision babies, there is no way we humans could have evolved.

Fortunately for us, as brains were getting bigger and distinctively human prefrontal cortices were taking shape, our ancestors were increasingly sharing food and sharing care of children. Neural circuits crucial for mutual understanding co-evolved right along with shared care.

Fast forward to the ever-faster changing modern world. Mothers still labor to help support their families, as mothers always have. But many no longer live in mutually supportive communities, with kin far away and even with dads helping more, allomothers were in short supply.

Good daycare, even if available, unaffordable. No wonder parents everywhere use devices to keep their babies monitored and entertained. Already, 40% of US two-year-olds have their own tablets. Soon, robots will be programmed to provide a wider range of services, ranging from bottle-feeding to keeping babies safe, warm, cleaned, and even educated.

But given the role of engagement with others in the emergence of mutual understanding, is this a good idea? Think back to our hunter-gatherer ancestors. Still living and rearing children as people in this iconic photograph, taken about half a century ago among African foragers. Babies then, to stay safe, still needed to be held by somebody.

But that somebody did not have to be their mother. Right after birth, others might reach for the baby. This mother who has just given birth allows others to gather around. She’s passed her baby to her own mother to massage its scalp. If one of these allomothers happens to be nursing, the baby’s first sweet taste of milk will come from her.

Soon, babies will be monitoring nearby others, deciding who responds, figuring out how best to engage and appeal to them. By six months, the sharp little milk teeth are peeking through their gums, their appeals might be rewarded with kiss-fed treats, maybe honey-sweetened saliva or premasticated meat.

And babies soon are learning to reciprocate, starting to share. Babies everywhere will just spontaneously offer food to somebody else, anybody, really. Active agents in their own survival, babies are flexible about who or what they attach or consider as family.

Something to keep in mind if robots are programmed to respond even more rapidly and reliably than preoccupied parents do. And as they get older, they will spontaneously point to things, or hold something out, as if saying, “What do you think of this? What should I think of this?”

Eager to engage with other minds and learn what they’re thinking. They care. They care very much who notices them do something nice, like a toddler rushing to pick up something someone has dropped and hand it back. They care not just with what others think, but with what others think about them, their reputations.

As developmental psychologists were learning just how “other-regarding” human babies are, neuroscientists using new baby-friendly technologies made a surprising discovery. With a soft, wired cap slipped on the baby’s head, neural activity was detected in the medial prefrontal cortex, long before most neuroscientists even assumed it was active yet. As babies process eye gaze, actions, deciding who to trust, emulate, and love.

Little humans process their physical world in much the same way other apes do. Nothing much different there. It’s in these social realms where they really differ. Inter-subjective sensibilities starting to emerge early in life, right along with targeted social smiles.

Brain circuitry that evolved to help babies elicit care and survive, prepared our ancestors to mature into adults able to communicate and cooperate in new ways, whether constructing shelters or processing and sharing food, or eventually, one day, collaborating with widely dispersed others in order to send robots to Mars.

Tens of thousands of years from now, assuming Homo sapiens aiensis is still around, whether on this planet or some other, I have no doubt that they will be bipedal, symbol-generating apes, technologically proficient in ways we can’t even dream of yet.

But will they still be human in the way we think of humans today? Interested in the thoughts and emotions of others, eligible for mutual understanding? That’s going to depend on how, by whom, or what they are reared.

Thank you.

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Mark Lovett

The Moth – Live from New York – Give me Five – Stories of the Senses

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Every episode of The Moth Radio Hour contains storytelling gold, and this one recorded in New York — Give me Five – Stories of the Senses — was a perfect example of diversity in storytelling. Give it a listen, and think about how each story was constructed, and how each scene was portrayed.

The Moth Storytellers:

  • Peter Aguero’s life takes an unexpected turn in a pottery class.
  • Tighisti Amahazion finds creature comfort during an escape with her family.
  • Julian Goldhagen gets trapped in a walk-in closet.
  • Bryan Kett gets a chance to see in color for the first time.

While I encourage you to hear them all, this article focuses on Peter Aguero.

Peter Aguero is quite the storyteller, with his rapid fire delivery that jumps from scene to scene, keeping the narrative, as well as audience interest, going along. Peter’s a masterful writer that offers up a combination of personal insights and humor. Check out this description of the woman he meets at the pottery studio. If there’s an unusual character in your story, think of how you can describe the essence of their appearance, both visually and metaphorically.

This woman comes up to me and she’s wearing mismatched six shades of pink somehow. And two different colored socks and sandals. It’s October. She looks like she’s been happily cutting her own hair for the last 50 years.

It’s one thing to describe how you feel, but in this exchange with his pottery teacher: “And the second rule is today we’re just going to have fun. And I tell him, I’m not so sure I remember how that even feels.” We’re left to consider Peter’s frame of mind, that he has forgotten what fun feels like. Sometimes meaning only requires a few words, and the audience empathizes with you.

So, what I realize then is now I can make anything. I can make anything for who I am today. I can make things to honor who I had been. I can make things for what is. And all I have to do is joyfully, mindfully, with intent and with compassion for myself, is to sit still and take a breath and make a move and the shape changes. And I take a breath and I make a move and the shape changes. And I take a breath and I make a move and the shape changes.

You’ll understand this ending once you hear his story, and you’ll see how he took the lesson he learned when working with the clay and applied it to his life. That’s the gift he’s handing to the audience. To take a breath, make a move, and watch the world change. But let’s take a step back for context.

I’m crying and it just feels terrible. The weight of the entire world feels like it’s on top of my shoulders, on top of my body, pressing me into this carpet.

In just this one sentence you can feel Peter’s pain. He’s not in a good place. And although he obviously wants relief, he doesn’t have a path to make that happen. And then comes a simple suggestion from his wife.

Sarah says to me, Peter, you need to take a pottery class.

This is the pivot point. The one sentence that opens up an entirely new world to Peter. A world where he finds himself and creates a path forward: take a breath, make a move, and watch the world change.

Whenever someone says, “I don’t have a story to tell.“, I begin to probe, ask a few questions, dig a little deeper into their life experiences. And sure enough, there comes a moment in the conversation when they tell me about a pivot in their life. A change that started with one sentence, thought, idea, etc. It could have come from a friend or a family member. Someone at work or school or church. Hell, it can come from watching the television or reading a book.

The point is, this happens to everyone, but too often we overlook the impact that such event have on our life. Think about your own life journey, and see whether something similar arises. An event, and a lesson learned that others could benefit from hearing. And if you already have your story idea in hand, while considering the events you plan to include in your narrative, try to be aware of any pivot points that are worth sharing.

Transcript (edited for readability)

So I’m sitting, laying face down on my living room floor, and the carpet is rough against my cheeks and all I want to do is just burrow underneath the carpet. I want to hide. I want to dig in a hole. I want to get my body, my soul, my everything underneath, to hide, to get away from everything. There’s bees in my head. It’s anxiety. My heart is beating. I’m crying and it just feels terrible. The weight of the entire world feels like it’s on top of my shoulders, on top of my body, pressing me into this carpet.

I am trying to write a new show. I had been working for 20 years hustling as an artist and what I’ve been working on lately is what I’ve been calling, autobiographical, first-person narrative, which is just a fancy way of saying, telling a story. And anytime you have a fancy way of doing something, it gets all messed up. So my wife, Sarah, is brushing my hair and she’s reading my tarot cards and she’s holding me like the Pieta, and I’m just trying to get through this moment.

I thought I was writing a comedy about myself. Turns out it was a psychological horror story, and it didn’t feel good. I had made the choice, the medium I was going to work in my life was generally going to be pain.

I found it to be true early on, that whenever I would talk about a time in my life where there was some kind of change or some growth, it never happened in a victory or out of joy. It was always in heartbreak or pain or misery or failure is where I would grow. And so, that’s how I would present my medium. That was what I was working, in the pain of my past and I was tired of it. I didn’t want to do it anymore. I just didn’t care. I didn’t care about myself or telling any more stories or doing anything and I’m just crying and it’s just about over and Sarah says to me, Peter, you need to take a pottery class.

And I’m 40 years old. I had never taken a pottery class. I had played with Play-Doh when I was a kid, probably. I went to Catholic school. We didn’t have the money for pottery classes. It was, okay babe, I kind of dismissed it. Thank you so much, but, you know, how’s that going to help anything? And then I spend the rest of the night trying to go to bed to end that day to get to the next one, which is the way it goes when you feel that way.

And at the end of the next day, Sarah says to me, have you registered for a pottery class yet? And I said, no, I haven’t. She says, I’m going to take a shower and by the time I get out of the shower, I want you registered for a pottery class. And I get on the computer and I start to look for a pottery studio near where we live in Queens and I’m looking around and I find this place called Brick House in Long Island City.

I’m like, I like the Commodores. So I register for a private lesson. And she comes out and she says, did you register? I said, yes, I did. I have a lesson in five days. I said, why can I ask you? Why a pottery class? She just looked at me. She said, I think it would be gentle and I think it might feel like a hug.

So five days later I’m in Long Island City and I walk into the ceramic studio, a place I’d never been in my life and I don’t understand what is going on. There are walls packed with shelves and things. There are tennis balls next to WD40 next to cornstarch next to yard sticks next to bundles of sticks, random buttons, all kinds of weird, just strange things.

The floor feels like it had been wet and dried and wet and dried and wet and dried to the point that now it feels like stale waffles underneath my feet. I’m looking around and feeling the clay dust. I can feel it gritting in my teeth. I can smell the earth in the air. I look around and everyone in the place is working with these balls of this brown clay.

This woman comes up to me and she’s wearing mismatched six shades of pink somehow. And two different colored socks and sandals. It’s October. She looks like she’s been happily cutting her own hair for the last 50 years. She says to me, are you here for Peter? I say, I am Peter, and this confuses her, and she says, my name is Liberty Valance. I said, what? And now I’m confused.

And then this guy, who looks if the Queensboro bridge had a troll, it would be this guy. And he’s got a red beard and he’s chuckling in the corner and I’m looking around like, oh, I get it, this is where the weirdos are. Okay.

So then Peter comes out. He’s the teacher and he looks like me-in-30-years. He’s a robust older gentleman with a halo of hair loosely tied in a ponytail, a big long gray beard that reaches the center of his chest. And he comes over to me with kindness in his eyes. He says, I’m Peter. I say, I’m Peter. And it doesn’t register any confusion with him.

And the kindness in his eyes runs deep and his hands look strong and he says, have you ever done this before? I said, no. He said, good. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to just teach you. There’s no grades. I’m not your first grade teacher. Don’t worry about it. And the second rule is today we’re just going to have fun. And I tell him, I’m not so sure I remember how that even feels.

And he just nods his head and says, come this way. So he walks me over to the pottery wheels and we sit down and he takes a ball of clay and he places it in my hand, and it’s both wet and somehow dry at the same time. It’s cold to the touch in my hand. It is about the size of a grapefruit. It’s heavy.

You know when they tell you when you go to the produce section to get produce that is a little heavier than it looks and you never understand what that means. This is what clay feels like in my hand and it’s earth. It’s the earth. And it’s in my hands, touching my skin. And Peter says, okay, the first thing we’re going to do is we’re going to center.

And I don’t know what that means. He turns on the wheel and the wheel starts going around and says, and he puts the clay in the center of the wheel and he says, you can’t center a little bit. You’re either centered or you’re not. And that’s blowing my mind and he shows me how to use my body, how to brace my arm up against my ribs and to make my hands into the shape of a tool and I would hold my hands over the clay and not let the clay…

He says, don’t let the clay, he’s got this voice, it sounds like if you drizzled honey over some soft summer thunder. And he’s telling me, okay, so you’re going to adjust, it’ll just be, and then it’ll be centered. He says, you’re going to learn how to do this, you’re going to forget it, and then it’s okay because I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.

So I breathe out and I brace my arm and the clay wobbles and wobbles and wobbles and wobbles and all of a sudden it doesn’t. It’s still and it’s spinning. I raise my hands and it’s spinning so fast but it’s not moving at all. It looks like it’s completely still and he says, there you go, you’re centered.

And then he tells me, okay, you’re gonna wet your hands and then you’re gonna drop your first hole, and you take your fingers and you put it in the center of the dome of clay and you drop your hole and you open the clay. And it opens so quickly. I take to it like a duck to water. It feels so satisfying, like when you’re cutting wrapping paper and the scissors just slide up the wrapping paper. It feels like that.

And he tells me okay, now he shows me how to lift, and he shows me what to do, and all of a sudden this lump of clay went from being nothing to a cup that turns into a bowl, that turns into an object that exists in the whole world. And all of the art I’ve been making has been ephemeral, just performance and it disappears.

And this is now a thing that actually exists. And he cuts it off and he puts it to the side and he puts another ball of clay and I center it again and he tells me that all I got to do now is just make sure that I breathe. He says that’s the most important thing. He says, you’re going to touch the clay gently, you’re going to take your hands off the clay gently and in between every move you’re going to breathe. And then that piece starts to wobble a little bit and all I have to do is cut it off and get another piece of clay. I can just start over. There’s no stakes. It just feels good.

As Peter is telling me and we go through about four, four different balls of clay. He tells me, uh, all these things again, these steps over and over because I learn them and I forget them, but he’s there. But what I hear is the subtext of what he’s actually saying to me, which is, you take a breath, you make a move, and the shape changes.

The hour goes by like that and I stand up and I tell him, I say Peter, thank you so much. I’ve been depleted. I needed that so bad. My battery has been empty and I just have not been feeling good. And he gives me a hug, because me-in-30-years is a good hugger. And then, as he hugs me, he tells me he’s proud of me.

So I start to cry. And, me-in-30-years, is a great crier too, and we’re just holding each other and crying and the bridge troll and the pink lady are just laughing. Everybody’s having a wonderful time and I leave the studio, I wave goodbye to the island of broken toys and I go home and I get back to my apartment and I sit on the couch and, Sarah says, how was it? And she tells me later that in this very small voice from my very big body, I just gently say, I loved it. I can’t believe somebody lets me do this. And she nodded her head and she said, okay, I want you to go sign up for a weekly class. So I did.

About two weeks later I show up for my Thursday 10:00 AM weekly class. I go in there and I walk directly to the wheels and on the wheel that’s supposed to be mine is a pile of brand new tools, some wooden carving sticks, a wooden knife, a wire, a sponge.

There’s also this blue bowl, rudimentary, kind of thick walled blue bowl. And I pick it up and on the underside of it, it’s carved Peter underneath. Teacher Peter had fired it, glazed it and fired it for me and left it on my wheel. And I pick it up and the glaze is cool in my hand and it’s very smooth like glass and it feels perfect in my hands because my hands were the things that made this and the grooves are the grooves of my fingers in the surface of the clay. And this object is now part of the world and I made it. It was the earth and I shaped it and inside the way the glaze melted is the universe.

And I put it to the side and I get another ball of clay and I sit down and I start to center. And I look all around me and I can see all the people working everywhere and and and everyone here is taking these, uh, balls of clay or slabs of clay or or pieces of clay and they’re turning into something and it’s coming from a place inside their soul that is supported and beautiful and joyful.

So, what I realize then is now I can make anything. I can make anything for who I am today. I can make things to honor who I had been. I can make things for what is. And all I have to do is joyfully, mindfully, with intent and with compassion for myself, is to sit still and take a breath and make a move and the shape changes. And I take a breath and I make a move and the shape changes. And I take a breath and I make a move and the shape changes.

Thank you.

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Astrid Sauer @ TEDxLisboa 2025 – What would life be like without art?

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While I enjoy and appreciate all artistic expression — air, music, dance, etc. — I must admit that I tend to do so in the moment, without thinking about its effect on the fabric of society, or in a historical context. It takes a reminder, an outside nudge to make that happen. So it was a delight to have the opportunity to work with Astrid Sauer in preparation for her talk at TEDxLisboa on March 15, 2025.

The topic, What would life be like without art?, reminded me of how vital art is in the present, as well as how it has profoundly shaped cultures around the world for centuries. To illustrate that point Astrid begins her talk by challenging those sitting in the audience to imagine a stark, grey world devoid of art – lacking any paintings, music, dance, theatre, or literature — a world that’s been reduced to pure functionality. For me it exemplified the poignant phrase, “You don’t know what you have until it’s gone.”

Art is more than just decoration. It is a universal language that speaks directly to our hearts and minds, shaping our emotions, ideas, and interactions.

When she states, “I still remember during the Salzburg Festival, musicians would often stay at our house, playing intimate concerts for family and friends.”, I could only image what that must have been like. That was not the case for me growing up, but from the perspective of personal storytelling, this one sentence tells us where her passion for art came from. Note: every passion has an origin story.

But art also serves as a powerful medium for cultural transformation. Whenever art crosses borders, it reshapes and influences the identities of different cultures. And this phenomenon can be observed in various artistic forms, from architecture to music, from literature to visual arts.

So what did I learn from that experience? Without art, our world would lack colour, depth, and connection. And this is not just true today, but has been throughout the greater part of our history.

If your story is founded on your passion, either personal or professional, pay attention to how Astrid takes the audience on a journey from the origin of her passion to framing the topic in a historical context before bringing the subject into modern times. It’s clear that the world we live in would be a very different place without the influence of art in its many forms.

Art isn’t just a luxury; it is a necessity. It is the foundation of culture, of innovation, and human connection. Each of us has the power to contribute to a world that values creativity.

Most importantly, Astrid turns the spotlight on the audience with a reminder that everyone has the ability and opportunity to engage in art. While I wasn’t blessed with much artistic DNA, I support the arts frequently, as I appreciate humanity’s magical creative spark. How are you engaged with some facet of artistic expression? And if your personal passion is something others could benefit from hearing about, why aren’t you telling your story?

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Transcript

Imagine a world without art. No paintings, no music, no literature, no dance, no theatre. Just a vast grey landscape of pure functionality. A world of spreadsheets, reports, and concrete walls. Yet we often overlook how deeply art is woven into the fabric of our daily lives.

Today, let’s explore what life would be like without art and why we can’t afford to live in that world. Art is more than just decoration. It is a universal language that speaks directly to our hearts and minds, shaping our emotions, ideas, and interactions.

From the architecture of our cities to the music that lifts our spirits, art surrounds us, even if we don’t consciously notice it. But let me tell you how my journey with art began, and why I’m still so passionate about it today.

Growing up, I was fortunate to be immersed in a world rich with art and culture. My parents would take me to concerts and opera performances from a very young age. I still remember during the Salzburg Festival, musicians would often stay at our house, playing intimate concerts for family and friends.

We would sing together during the Christmas season. I learned my first instrument, the flute, at the age of five, then moving on to the violin, later the piano, which I still play today. My mother would take me to vernissages and introduce me to local artists, sparking my interest in art collection at the age of 16.

But I was also influenced by my father, a practical engineer and successful business owner. So I decided to study business, embarking on a career as a financial and strategy consultant.

After a couple of years, however, I started to feel a void. Something was missing. So, on a therapeutic trip to the Golden Triangle, deep in the jungle of Vietnam, I sketched a business plan on a napkin. A plan that would lead to a new company that would combine my consulting experience with the cultural sector. And this allowed me to reconnect with my passion for the arts. All of a sudden, my world felt whole again.

So what did I learn from that experience? Without art, our world would lack colour, depth, and connection. And this is not just true today, but has been throughout the greater part of our history.

Let’s travel back to 15th-century Florence. The Medici family, bankers by trade, didn’t just fund artists like Michelangelo, Botticelli, or Leonardo da Vinci. They cultivated a culture of creativity. They financed the construction of the St. Peter’s Basilica, which is a universal symbol of the Catholic Church.

They commissioned the construction of the Florence Cathedral, a masterpiece of Renaissance architecture. They even funded the invention of the piano. They brought together artists, scientists, and philosophers, creating an environment where innovation thrived.

So imagine if they would have said, “Art isn’t our responsibility. Art is not important to society.” Would the Renaissance have happened in the same way? Would we still have the masterpieces that inspire us today?

And although the Renaissance was an evolution of the cultural movement of Humanism that was already active in the mid-14th century before the rise of the Medici, history changed because of that spark, because they cared.

The Renaissance then traveled through trade, history, and humanist scholars to other regions, leading to significant cultural transformations across Europe. Artists like Jan van Eyck in Holland or Albrecht Dürer in Germany started to incorporate Renaissance techniques such as realism and perspective into their paintings.

Just look at the magnificent Arnolfini Portrait of van Eyck, one of the most complex and original masterpieces of Western art, with its geometric orthogonal perspective and the expansion of space through the use of a mirror.

But the spread of Humanism also led to other wealthy families and royal families getting inspired by the Medici family. So they wanted to create a legacy of their own. And one such example was King Francis I of France. He invited artists from all over the world, including Italy like Leonardo da Vinci, to his court, fostering a unique French Renaissance. He’s responsible for the creation of notable castles such as Chambord or Fontainebleau.

But the humanist scholars like Erasmus of Rotterdam and Thomas More in England also promoted the establishment of universities across Europe. They emphasized the importance of education as a means for personal development and civil responsibility. Art doesn’t just entertain us; it propels humanity forward.

Think about the last time a song lifted your mood or a painting calmed your mind. Studies have shown that engaging with arts reduces stress, anxiety, and depression. More specifically, a 2019 World Health Organization report found that artistic engagement significantly improves mental health. And here’s a fun fact: even mice benefit from art. Scientists discovered that playing Mozart for lab mice helped them learn faster. And if it works for mice, imagine what it can do for us!

Let’s crunch some numbers. People participating in a cultural activity are 38% more likely to report good health. And this number increases to 62% if it’s dancing. So sign up for that dance class you always wanted to! People who read for pleasure are 33% more likely to report good health.

High school students who engage in cultural activities at school are twice as likely to volunteer and 20% more likely to vote as young adults. So art is essential for learning. Students who engage in artistic activities during high school are better in reading and mathematics.

A US study of 25,000 students found that taking part in arts and cultural activities increases student attainment, they have better SAT scores, better thinking skills, and better cognitive abilities. They become more empathetic, more socially aware, and better prepared to navigate a complex world.

Beyond education, art is an economic powerhouse. Just look at this photo of the Louvre with the crowds flocking in. On average, 28,000 people visit the Louvre Museum each day. Did you know that in the European Union alone, as of 2019, the cultural and creative industries employed more than 7.6 million people and contributed 643 billion euros to the economy? This represents 4.4% of European Union’s GDP. This is more than the agricultural sector, more than the telecommunication sector. So art isn’t just a luxury; it is a livelihood. It plays a significant part of our country’s economies.

But art also preserves our history and identity. Cultural landmarks from the Great Wall of China to the Mona Lisa connect us to our past and inspire future generations. And speaking of the Mona Lisa… there she is. Did you know when it got stolen in 1911, its disappearance caused global panic? Newspapers all over the world printed headlines about the missing art piece. So art isn’t just seen, it’s felt.

But art also serves as a powerful medium for cultural transformation. Whenever art crosses borders, it reshapes and influences the identities of different cultures. And this phenomenon can be observed in various artistic forms, from architecture to music, from literature to visual arts. Let’s take the National Tile Museum in Lisbon as an example, showcasing how the history and the craft of the tile were influenced by different cultures over centuries.

From its origins that can be traced back to the Islamic period in the Iberian Peninsula, with its geometric patterns and vibrant colors, to the Renaissance artists that would incorporate themes of mythology and religion, to the depiction of historical moments and everyday life during the Baroque period, or the influences of the Portuguese colonial times from Africa to South America or Asia. And finally, contemporary artists who would reinterpret the traditional tile form, experimenting with new techniques and themes. This evolution shows the dynamic nature of art as it crosses borders and fosters cultural exchange.

But let’s travel back to our grey, artless world. Without art, our cities would lack character. Our workplaces would feel lifeless, and our homes would be mere shelters instead of places of inspiration. Companies would struggle to connect with their employees. Communities would lose their sense of belonging.

And here’s the real question: If we neglect art today, what future renaissance are we preventing?

Art isn’t just a luxury; it is a necessity. It is the foundation of culture, of innovation, and human connection. Each of us has the power to contribute to a world that values creativity. Whether we support the arts, we engage with them, or simply take a moment to appreciate them. We all contribute to a richer, more vibrant world.

So the next time you listen to a song, you read a book, you watch a play, remember: Art is what makes us human. And without it, we would lose more than beauty. We would lose ourselves.

Thank you.

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100% My Fault from the StoryCorps Podcast

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I’m thankful that I’ve never been in a life-threatening situation, but millions of people around the world have, and those who made it through the experience have riveting stories to tell.

In this case, it wasn’t just a single person in danger; it was two friends. And that means there are two story lines, two unique narratives. So in this episode of the StoryCorps Podcast we hear a recount of events as they unfolded, as well as a reunion of sorts where their innermost feelings are finally shared.

In addition to Alex Lewis and Matt Koch — the pair of storytellers who were up on the mountain — Michael Garofalo, StoryCorps chief content officer, also narrated this story. It’s an interesting format where the two main characters take turns telling their story, with the narrator jumping in to carry the plot along. It’s why I’ve included the transcript. Listen to the episode, then give the transcript a read. While you hear distinct voices on the audio, the script reads much more fluid, allowing you to appreciate out the episode was put together.

It’s also worth noting that a full recounting of this story could take hours, yet this version comes in under 15 minutes. Try to imagine what was cut out, and think about what was left in. As you craft your own story — life-threatening or not — consider all that could be in your story, and which elements tell the most impactful story in a limited time frame.

Transcript

Michael Garofalo (MG): In December 2016… longtime friends Alex Lewis and Matt Koch hiked into a mountain pass in Colorado for a backcountry ski trip. This wasn’t a casual thing— they would be in the mountains for days… miles away from the nearest town.

Alex Lewis:  We got to the trailhead and it was snowing fairly constantly and a decent wind. We had the feeling of feeling small because you’re in these big mountains, but you couldn’t even really see much of them because of the snow.

MG: Alex and Matt were pretty serious outdoorsy guys… and this is exactly the kind of adventure that their friendship was built on… camping… hiking… But they hadn’t been able to do anything like that in a while.

The year before… Matt had been diagnosed with Hodgkin lymphoma. After a difficult year of treatments, Matt was declared cancer-free. And what better way to celebrate than a backcountry ski trip with his buddy…

Matt Koch:  This trip was kind of a opportunity for me to prove to myself that I could do things that required a physical fitness level I thought maybe I’d never have if I was a cancer survivor.

This was my message to the universe of like, you didn’t get me. I’m still here.

And then… things unravel.

MG: Matt and Alex had never really talked about what happened in that mountain pass… until now. I’m Michael Garofalo. It’s the StoryCorps Podcast from NPR.

MG: Matt and Alex were headed towards a ski hut… which would be their home base for the weekend. It was nothing fancy, just bare bones – think hostel, not hotel – but there was a staff, heat, they’d get two meals a day, and beds for the night. And the only way Matt and Alex could get there was by skiing 3 miles UPHILL through a steep, snowy mountain pass.

Matt Koch: I think as we were hiking, Alex, I was becoming aware that I was not physically prepared for this; I wasn’t where I should be. Every step my pack just felt heavier and heavier.

Alex Lewis: The first time that I had some concerns, you said something to the effect of, ‘Well, I dumped out my water because I felt like it was too heavy.’ I was like, oh man, we need that water.

Matt Koch: You had stopped and said, like, ‘Give me your pack. I’ll carry it for you.’ And I, I kind of remember being a tough guy and saying, ‘No, no, no, I got it. I got it.’

Alex Lewis: It was starting to become nightfall, and the wind was picking up, and the snow was picking up.

Matt Koch: The discussion was, you know, we’re, we’re further in than we are out and we just needed to let this storm go through.

Alex Lewis: And we decided the best course of action was to go off into the trees and build a snow pit where we could stay for the night.

MG: Matt and Alex started burrowing into the snow with their hands… to make a shelter where they could stay the night.

Matt Koch: Couldn’t have been more than a big dog bed size. It was pretty tiny.

Alex Lewis: We crammed as close together as possible to stay warm. And one of the things I remember overnight is hearing the howling wind.

Matt Koch: Yeah, the wind was just relentless.

Alex Lewis: It’s a little scary to wake up in the middle of the night to see the makeshift shelter that you’re sleeping in starting to fall apart and deteriorate.

Matt Koch: God, it was just cold, and, bundled up inside of my coat and couldn’t get comfortable. The situation was bad.

MG: They woke up the next morning happy to still be alive… and they could see the ski hut by that point. There wasn’t much farther to go.

Alex Lewis: The weather was continuing to get worse and extremely snowy and windy there. Our progress was pretty slow, because of the steep terrain and fresh snow. And I just remember taking this step, and, all of a sudden, hearing kind of, this rushing water sound.

Alex Lewis: And being knocked off my feet onto my hip and starting to slide. And I realized that I had triggered an avalanche right underneath me.

And I slide about a hundred feet and see these trees that are in my path. I was able to pin my skis to the trees and let the avalanche slide right past me, and continuing on down the mountain as I stood there in disbelief.

And I recall, yelling out ‘Avalanche, avalanche’, so that you could at least hear my voice and know where I was.

MG: Alex looked around for Matt… who was okay. But he also realized that with these conditions… it was too dangerous to keep going.

Alex Lewis: I remember taking a deep breath and realizing that this was the, the final straw. We weren’t going to make it to the hut. It was time for us to head down the mountain.

MG: But by this point… Matt was struggling to go anywhere.

Matt Koch: Every footstep hurt. And what little I had left in my batteries drained. I sat down and I just quit, and I don’t think you could move me if you wanted to.

Alex Lewis: I remember saying something like, ‘You didn’t let cancer kill you. You can’t stop here. You can’t quit now.’

Matt Koch: But I was resigned. I just had nothing left.

Alex Lewis: We had a, a really hard conversation around what to do. Then I took off. And I…it was extremely hard to leave you, but I also didn’t think we had another option. I needed to continue down the hill to get help.

MG: While Matt huddled alone in the cold and snow, Alex skied down the mountain pass… trying to get reception on his phone.

Alex Lewis: I got down the trail, was almost back to the car, and I got through to the sheriff. And he said, you know, ‘The avalanche dangers and risk are so high, I can’t send in three search and rescue team members to potentially save one knowing that I might lose all of them. If we can’t respond, what’s your backup plan?’

MG: Calling the sheriff HAD been the backup plan… and now it seemed like Matt was truly stranded.

Alex Lewis: When you were up there, after I left you, did you think you were going to die?

Matt Koch:  I don’t, I don’t ever remember thinking about dying. I just, I kept thinking about you. I kept thinking about if you were ok.

I think I was pretty delirious, being hypothermic. It was like being drunk. I started realizing how thirsty I was. I knew that if I would eat snow, it would lower my core temperature. I had one little guy on one shoulder telling me not to, and another guy on the other telling me, “But you’re so thirsty.” I kind of negotiated with myself that I could have just a little bit like, you know, help is on the way.

MG: For six hours, Matt didn’t move from the spot where Alex had left him… until finally a rescue team was able to get there.

Matt Koch: I was apologetic. I, I was so weak and demoralized and just frustrated and angry with myself for allowing this to happen. I just completely did not respect mother nature and her power.

I don’t remember pain of any sort, but my hands were definitely purple. I couldn’t really use them, they were so stiff. The toes were just frozen solid.

A helicopter came and got me. And when I got to the hospital in Denver, just kind of being a joker, I looked at the doctor and I said, ‘How bad on the fucked-ometer am I?’ And he goes, and ‘You’re nine out of 10, man. I don’t know if you’re gonna keep your fingers.’ I wasn’t ready for that.

MG: Coming up… when you’ve left your friend alone… knowing he might die without you… what do you say to each other after that?

Alex Lewis:  I was apprehensive about visiting you in the hospital because I wasn’t sure what would happen to our friendship.

MG: Matt spent several days at the hospital being treated for severe frostbite. It was so bad they had to put him in the burn unit. And all those days lying there in bed… unable to use his arms or legs… Matt had nothing but time to think about how he had gotten there.

Matt Koch: It ended up becoming kind of a slap in the face that, because I had cancer, I wasn’t physically ready for this trip. This was my fault, and it could have been avoided. Everybody was putting themselves in danger to save me, and they didn’t have to.

MG: Matt had plenty of visitors… his family was there with him… but the visitor he was most anxious to see… was Alex.

Matt Koch: What did you feel when you saw me?

Alex Lewis: I was nervous to go to the hospital, and I remember coming into the hospital and you’re kind of sitting there, wrapped up kind of like a mummy in multiple layers of bandages.

Matt Koch:  I think my mom was in the room and I asked her to leave so I could thank you. I don’t know if it was shame or embarrassment, but, um, I was thankful. I was glad to see you were ok. I was sad that I, uh, put you in that spot. I would never want for somebody to get hurt because of my actions, and that’s exactly what almost happened, um…

Do you harbor any anger towards me because of this?

Alex Lewis: No.  I helped get us in that position where we needed to do something to save your life. Plenty of things happened that day that were my fault. And so I was concerned you would feel that I was responsible for what had happened.

Matt Koch: I, I had no idea that you felt any level of guilt. I’m sorry that we’ve never had this conversation until now. This was 100 percent my fault. I knew the risks, and I wasn’t fit enough to be in the backcountry. You did everything within your power. I hope you know that. You did everything right. You rescued me, you saved my life.

Alex Lewis:  Yeah, and I think – you know, I appreciate you saying it because it does paint it in a different light. We had never really discussed it and kind of, always danced around it, but coming from you, it means the world to me.

Matt Koch:  Yeah. Well, I think the accident and cancer shifted my perspective because I’ve been a lot closer to death than many others. It’s made me realize what’s important to me. And I’m so thankful that we’re friends, because if I didn’t have you, I would be dead right now.

Alex Lewis: It’s what I would have done anyway for you and for our friendship.

Matt Koch: Well, I know I feel it now, and I think I felt it then, that I’m thankful to have you in my life. Not just because of this incident, but, no matter where I go, if I need you I know you’ll be there.

MG: It’s been almost a decade since that trip… and every year now, on the anniversary, Matt calls Alex to thank him for saving his life.

Matt’s injuries ended up being much less severe than they could have been. He kept his fingers… although he does have lasting nerve damage.

Today he lives on a boat in Florida… so he never has to feel cold again.

MG: We love it when you leave us voicemails… and this week we’d like to know: What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done for a friend? Tell us about it in a message at 702-706-TALK. That’s 702-706-T-A-L-K.

This episode was produced by Max Jungreis. Jud Esty-Kendall is our Senior Producer. Our Technical Director is Jarrett Floyd. And our Executive Producer is Amy Drozdowska. The art for this episode was created by Liz McCarty.

I’m Michael Garofalo. Thanks for listening.

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