It's been a year since I last attended a conference. I figured it might be interesting to revisit my responses to the last one and share a few whilst I'm knee-deep in this one.
This conference is the Association of British Orchestras annual shindig. If last year's was about communicating about how things would be bad when things were cut, this year appears to be about observing the lack of colour in the faces of executives who are now faced with the challenge which greets them before the next conference. The word 'grim' has been used a great deal.
I certainly wouldn't want to be in their shoes. The session on 'How to Survive the Funding Landscape' was something which - I have no shame in admitting - left me thinking that someone else really needed to have the responsibility of making things pay. I can barely make my own finances add up.
Mind you, as an observer - or commentator - I don't need to worry about that. I don't need to sympathise .. or empathise .. or whatever the word is. I don't pity. I don't feel the need to outline how awful it is for the arts.The arts knows how bad it is. They don't need telling. The audience probably doesn't need to know - or care - given that they're more concerned about their own income and whether that's secure. It's pretty awful for everyone.
What I'm struck by one year after my first conference, is this. Nobody wants to speak to me. Everyone looks in the middle of my chest, clocks the word 'journalist' on my name badge and then looks at me in the eye with a mixture of relish or withering resignation.
Some consider me the perfect conduit for their anger and exploit the situation. Others maintain a tiresome detachment from me and the doom and gloom spelled out from the platform and reach for another glass of red. The others - mostly from the BBC - look at me with a vague air of concern: what exactly are you doing here and what are you planning on saying?
The sub-text lingering underneath all of this is that the one thing you absolutely don't want to do is to have the word 'journalist' on your name badge. It attracts people. It also puts people off. Agendas hover all too close. Cynicism reigns. PR and Comms cast disapproving eyes.
You also should steal away from any conversation in which you sense you're asking questions of the person you're talking to as though there's a massive TV camera positioned somewhere behind your shoulder. Not every exchange is interviewing practice. You'd be surprised quite how many people can spot the desperate wannabee a mile-off.
But the other - perhaps most important - conclusion to be drawn from the experience is the role a journalist should adopt by attending such events.
For starters, you need to adopt an incredibly thick skin. Ask loads of questions and be incredibly personable. Make sure you remain true to your word. Don't drink too much. And - just like last year - make sure everything is fully charged and that you're in close proximity to a mains outlet.
The output - your output - shouldn't necessarily be the message that everyone around you wants you to spit out. Ignore the very thing which makes you feel dirty. This exercise is as much about projecting yourself as it is about providing a snapshot of what's going on. And providing a snapshot isn't necessarily about reporting the facts hard and fast like you've witnessed a car accident.
What I've learnt - one year on - is that journalism is a (thankfully) fluid affair. You are your own master. You tell the story you feel needs to be told. You create your own narrative as you see it playing out in front of you.
Just make sure that when you tell that narrative you adhere to some basic principles. Think of your boss. Think whether he (or she) would be happy with what you've pedalled. Make sure you've depicted the people who have contributed in a fair and balanced way. Avoid personal agendas. Be personal in what you write. Satisfy yourself.
Anything above that is a distinct bonus.
This conference is the Association of British Orchestras annual shindig. If last year's was about communicating about how things would be bad when things were cut, this year appears to be about observing the lack of colour in the faces of executives who are now faced with the challenge which greets them before the next conference. The word 'grim' has been used a great deal.
I certainly wouldn't want to be in their shoes. The session on 'How to Survive the Funding Landscape' was something which - I have no shame in admitting - left me thinking that someone else really needed to have the responsibility of making things pay. I can barely make my own finances add up.
Mind you, as an observer - or commentator - I don't need to worry about that. I don't need to sympathise .. or empathise .. or whatever the word is. I don't pity. I don't feel the need to outline how awful it is for the arts.The arts knows how bad it is. They don't need telling. The audience probably doesn't need to know - or care - given that they're more concerned about their own income and whether that's secure. It's pretty awful for everyone.
What I'm struck by one year after my first conference, is this. Nobody wants to speak to me. Everyone looks in the middle of my chest, clocks the word 'journalist' on my name badge and then looks at me in the eye with a mixture of relish or withering resignation.
Some consider me the perfect conduit for their anger and exploit the situation. Others maintain a tiresome detachment from me and the doom and gloom spelled out from the platform and reach for another glass of red. The others - mostly from the BBC - look at me with a vague air of concern: what exactly are you doing here and what are you planning on saying?
The sub-text lingering underneath all of this is that the one thing you absolutely don't want to do is to have the word 'journalist' on your name badge. It attracts people. It also puts people off. Agendas hover all too close. Cynicism reigns. PR and Comms cast disapproving eyes.
You also should steal away from any conversation in which you sense you're asking questions of the person you're talking to as though there's a massive TV camera positioned somewhere behind your shoulder. Not every exchange is interviewing practice. You'd be surprised quite how many people can spot the desperate wannabee a mile-off.
But the other - perhaps most important - conclusion to be drawn from the experience is the role a journalist should adopt by attending such events.
For starters, you need to adopt an incredibly thick skin. Ask loads of questions and be incredibly personable. Make sure you remain true to your word. Don't drink too much. And - just like last year - make sure everything is fully charged and that you're in close proximity to a mains outlet.
The output - your output - shouldn't necessarily be the message that everyone around you wants you to spit out. Ignore the very thing which makes you feel dirty. This exercise is as much about projecting yourself as it is about providing a snapshot of what's going on. And providing a snapshot isn't necessarily about reporting the facts hard and fast like you've witnessed a car accident.
What I've learnt - one year on - is that journalism is a (thankfully) fluid affair. You are your own master. You tell the story you feel needs to be told. You create your own narrative as you see it playing out in front of you.
Just make sure that when you tell that narrative you adhere to some basic principles. Think of your boss. Think whether he (or she) would be happy with what you've pedalled. Make sure you've depicted the people who have contributed in a fair and balanced way. Avoid personal agendas. Be personal in what you write. Satisfy yourself.
Anything above that is a distinct bonus.
