#outdoor hallway discourse

[nerves-nebula]

where i am the outside hallways aren't called anything because the only places that have them are small motels and mayyyybe a few other places. They're more likely to be referred to as a walkway/sidewalk with an overhang than anything else lol (though I live up north, like the type of north that sometimes in winter it's so cold your eyelashes freeze if you're outside for a few minutes, so)

im from the midwest, like one of the parts where it can get pretty cold, and tbh i havent really thought a lot about what they're called either since i dont see them a ton. where im from we'd probably not call them a sidewalk, MAYBE a walkway. but i think if my family was staying a motel and I was like "where is X Person" and someone responded "they're in the hallway" I wouldnt really bat an eye so idk why this is hard for some ppl to grasp.

[leftpress]

Jasper Bernes | July 10th 2019 | Commune

In the poems of Eisen-Martin, the violent truth of the racialized city, and an address to the forms of collective life that might survive it.

Heaven Is All Goodbyes Tongo Eisen-Martin City Lights | $15.95 | 136 pages

Tongo Eisen-Martin is the principal author, in conjunction with comrades in the Malcolm X Grassroots Movement, of a curriculum — “We Charge Genocide Again!” — that sets out to contextualize and organize against the extrajudicial police killing of black people. It situates extrajudicial murder in the broader historical and political context of “the maintenance of hegemonic power in the United States,” and defines it as a feature of US class structure, which in turn comprises interlocking modes of organized violence. One central claim of the text is that the ongoing practice of violence requires that extrajudicial murder seem not only justifiable but also logical, intrinsic to social function and reproduction. Disrupting that logic is one intervention a properly political poetry might make. Eisen-Martin’s collection Heaven Is All Goodbyes can serve as an example of what such poetry might look like.

Political poetry in this sense does not tell us how to vote or how to live, but instead makes us uncomfortably aware of the discrepancy between our desires and attachments — our investments and commitments — and the institutionalized avenues available for their satisfaction and realization. Such poetry may make us question whether voting, for example, is the best avenue through which to achieve substantive freedom. The contrasting term to “political poetry” here is not “mainstream” but “middle class” poetry, referring less to a class than an affective orientation toward the existing order. Such poetry resolves the apparent contradiction between quotidian pleasures and desires, on one hand, and the alienating, calculative logic of the unliving and unlivable, on the other, through the facile solidarities of interpersonal recognition, reinforcements of the common sense, and appeals to individual morality or sympathy. For all their crafted semblance of immediacy, middle-class lyrics typically present as universal normative experiences that reflect and reinforce the genocidal cultural logic Eisen-Martin’s curriculum outlines. Clichéd sentiments implicitly provide cover for quotidian violence, or personalize and depoliticize it, all the while evacuating everything messy and singular about subjectivity.

To my mind, this collection’s mode of political engagement reveals the ultimate intellectual and political bankruptcy of perennial debates surrounding the so-called “avant-garde.” As Fredric Jameson argued regarding the more fundamental “high”/“mass” culture binary, avant-garde and middle-class poetry are inseparably twin: they mutually reinforce forms of aesthetic production that correspond to historically specific moments in the development of capitalism. The issue is not that middle-class lyrics — often mischaracterized as “workshop poetry,” which in turn stands in for the shifting class, racial, and institutional dynamics surrounding poetry’s production — do not accord with readers’ experiences, but that their prestige forms too rarely offer a vision of desirable forms of life. The strength of Eisen-Martin’s work generally, and this collection in particular, is the glimpses it offers readers not only of the ways social life and organization exist, but the ways we might desire it otherwise.

Heaven Is All Goodbyes addresses itself to readers uncomfortable with poetry understood as a celebration of the paper-thin solidarities and small gestures of a shared morality, the celebration of survival that does not ask what makes life difficult. Yet, from its dedication — “Like 50 familiar postures in the dark . . . Run here. We will save your life” — its solution is not sloganeering through seemingly transparent expression. Neither the speaker nor addressee of the imperative “run here” is given; the collective “we” is hard-won rather than assumed as the outcome of readily obvious historical predicates and antagonisms. Forms of salvation are fraught and uncertain — the collection’s title itself is a caution against certain narratives or “familiar postures” of redemption. Read as a poem, which its presentation invites, it serves as an apt preparation for the strategies of the collection: assertive and advanced (not hindered) by implicit skepticism toward the given. Its discourse is terse but not obtuse, direct but withholding. Read as a private message it works in roughly similar ways.

From the first poem, “Faceless,” the collection blends flat assertion — “Warehouse jobs are for communists” — with an indirection and will to discrepancy that abuts surrealism: “But now more corridor and hallway have walked into our lives. Now the whistling is less playful and the barbed wire is overcrowded too.” The ironic reversal that has corridor and hallway walking, rather than walked through, initially appears playful. The next sentence undercuts play through metonymy insofar as “barbed wire” figures prison. Corridor and hallway apparently refer to passageways between defined spaces, indoors or outdoors, figuratively connecting the unthought spaces of incarceration and the nominally free. The next lines read:

My dear, if it is not a city, it is a prison. If it has a prison, it is a prison. Not a city

At the level of the nation or the planet, “overcrowding” usually activates a Malthusian argument promoting eugenics (I wanted to type “genocide”) as pseudo-feminist, anti-poverty measure. Alternatively, in the instance of prisons, it promotes an argument for constructing new carceral spaces and enhancing police budgets, which can only produce more “criminals” by broadening the category. Nowhere in the collection is the familiar notion that crime results from misfit “mentality.” Instead, the social situation does not fit the people; rather, the people fit the social situation. Here and throughout the collection, the prison is a defining feature of modern social space, so “barbed wire” is at least partially figurative. What keeps us captive? What would it mean to be free?

The latter question finds no answers in poetry, but rather in the change of society. Poetry can make the present situation thinkable, in part by giving names to common forms of experience that otherwise go unremarked. Heaven Is All Goodbyes does this by drawing attention to the alienated forms of sociality presently available, while maintaining a tough commitment to the sociality of speech and, beneath that, language. Recurrent references to cigarettes, labor, police, and prisons initially appear to be emblems of working-class solidarity, but those references operate alongside similarly prevalent references to unfinished or interrupted conversation and irregular irruptions of dialogue. Eisen-Martin blends prose and verse. Individual poems typically alternate staccato, clause-based lines, interpolated dialogue (untagged), and tight enjambed stanzas positioned near page margins. Altogether, they invoke the peculiar temporality of working-class life. Represented objects such as cigarettes alongside rhetorical tendencies to subordinate the sentence to the list, the litany, and other organizing forms of thought create little pockets for breath, little pockets of life within the suffocating texture of the unliving, moments best conceived as insolated seeds of time yearning for legibility as chronological progression, if not progress. Eschewing the singular voice or focalizing consciousness, the poetry instead features collectivities of different scales — the family, the neighborhood, the guild — drawing out the rhythmic feel of the attachments and common desires, not necessarily articulate, for alternative ways of living. Put differently, these poems limn a speculative architecture of what common life could be. The cumulative effect is moving, less sympathetic toward the dispossessed than in solidarity with them, with an aesthetic agenda at least as ambitious and deep as its political commitments.

As I read this collection, I found myself thinking about an early debate between W. E. B. Du Bois and Alain Locke about the possibility of a political black modernist art, a debate framed in terms of the relationship between art and propaganda. Du Bois famously declared that “all art is propaganda and ever must be”: that is, all cultural production under capitalism necessarily serves ruling interests, so black artists have an obligation to take the side of the oppressed. Locke rejoined that propaganda (or, in more contemporary terms, protest) “perpetuates the position of group inferiority even in crying out against it. For it leaves and speaks under the shadow of a dominant majority whom it harangues, cajoles, threatens or supplicates.” Both ultimately describe the conditions of art, and reveal the falseness of the binary between “political” and “middle class” poetry I described previously. However, if one is to avoid the poetry of pity, which provides an affective release for the oppressor, or of cheap solidarity, which can preclude historical and political understanding of domination, the question is how one is to take sides. The strength of Heaven Is All Goodbyes in this regard is that it manages to transcend empty sloganeering and refuse the seductions of easy pessimism, bombastic militancy, or unearned optimism. Its value is not its interpretation or representation of the world, though poetry inevitably represents, and representation is an interpretation of the world. Rather, it invites readers to examine their attachments; it helps generate new concepts and encourages aesthetic and political experimentation; and it invites readers to a world, this one, where we might live otherwise.

In its awareness of the character and texture of life shaped by the possibility and threat of spectacular black dying, Eisen-Martin seems to set himself to answering a question June Jordan posed: “What shall we do, we who did not die? What shall we do now? How shall we grieve, and cry out loud, and face down despair? Is there an honorable non-violent means towards mourning and remembering who and what we loved?” “All friendships have dead people in them,” Eisen-Martin writes, and mourning is part of what it is to live a life. It is right to focus on the ways the state and those who understand themselves to act on its behalf deploy different scales of violence. Focusing on only the most extreme and spectacular forms of violence takes attention from the forms of life and social reorganization that grow within and despite quotidian violence, tempting us to see conspiracy rather than the system’s intended functioning.

But violence is only part of the picture. The other part is collective investment in the cruel optimism of bourgeois society — that is, in the social forms and horizons of fulfillment that stand to destroy life as such. More than grieving the dead and the ideology that normalizes their killing, poetry should encourage disinvestment in the state of affairs that normalizes death and suffering. It should encourage broad reimagining of social arrangement, and address itself to the forms of collective life that may emerge. Heaven Is All Goodbyes does just that, and offers a glimpse of what poetry might follow the dissolution of the current order.

The post The Bourgeois and the Boulevard appeared first on Commune.

[Read More On LeftPress.org]

[trendingnewsb]

Inside Adidas Robot-Powered, On-Demand Sneaker Factory

Last winter, the sportswear giant Adidas opened a pop-up store inside a Berlin shopping mall. The boutique was part of a corporate experiment called Storefactory—a name as flatly self-­explanatory as it is consistent with the convention of German compound nouns. It offered a single product: machine-­knit merino wool sweaters, made to order on the spot. Customers stepped up for body scans inside the showroom and then worked with an employee to design their own bespoke pullovers. The sweaters, which cost the equivalent of about $250 apiece, then materialized behind a glass wall in a matter of hours.

The miniature factory behind the glass, which consisted mainly of three industrial knitting machines spitting forth sweaters like dot-matrix printouts, could reportedly produce only 10 garments a day. But the point of the experiment wasn’t to rack up sales numbers. It was to gauge customer enthusiasm for a set of concepts that the company has lately become invested in: digital design; localized, automated manufacturing; and personalized products.

Storefactory was just a small test of these ideas; much bigger experiments were already under way. In late 2015, Adidas had opened a brand-new, heavily automated manufacturing facility in Ansbach, Germany, about 35 miles from its corporate headquarters. Called Speedfactory, the facility would pair a small human workforce with technologies including 3-D printing, robotic arms, and computerized knitting to make running shoes—items that are more typically mass-produced by workers in far-off countries like China, Indonesia, and Vietnam. The factory would cater directly to the European market, with digital designs that could be tweaked ad infinitum and robots that could seamlessly transmute them into footwear customized to the shifting preferences of Continental sneakerheads. By placing factories closer to consumers, Adidas could ostensibly leapfrog over shipping delays and expenses. “What we enable is speed,” said Gerd Manz, vice president of Adidas’ innovation group. “We can react to consumer needs within days.”

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Speedfactory, Adidas claimed, was “reinventing manufacturing.” Media reports were no less grand. “By bringing production home,” wrote The Economist, “this factory is out to reinvent an industry.”

In September 2016, the first pair of Speedfactory sneakers came off the line: a very-limited-­edition running shoe called Futurecraft M.F.G. (Made for Germany). To hype its release, the company put out a 3-­minute teaser video highlighting not just the shoe but its manufacturing process. A suspenseful, intense electronic soundtrack set the mood for a series of futuristic close-ups: dusty white residue on a computer keyboard, various digital control panels, an orange robotic arm sliding into action. When Adidas released 500 pairs of the Futurecraft M.F.G. in Berlin, ­people camped out on the street to buy them, and the sneakers sold out almost instantly.

A wall of fabric allows for experimentation at a “Maker­Lab” inside Adidas HQ.

Ériver Hijano

Alongside its unveiling of the Futurecraft M.F.G., Adidas made another big announcement: It would soon be building a second Speedfactory—in Atlanta. The future of manufacturing was coming to America too.

This October, the company announced a project called AM4—Adidas Made For—a series of sneakers that would be designed with input from various “running influencers,” ostensibly tailored to the needs of specific cities. The shoes are said to be designed around the unique local challenges runners face: in London, apparently, many runners commute by foot; they need sneakers with high visibility for dark nights and rainy days. New York City is constantly under construction and is organized in a grid, so runners need a shoe that can deftly handle multiple 90-degree corners. Los Angeles is hot and by the ocean. In Shanghai, preliminary research suggested that people primarily exercise indoors. All AM4 shoes would be made in the company’s two Speedfactories and released in limited editions.

At some point I became a bit mystified by all of this. It struck me that most decent running shoes on the market could probably handle Manhattan’s grid. And if a selling point of the Speedfactory was expedited time to market, why use it to manufacture shoes that would have to travel from Germany to China? (The ultimate aspiration is to open Speedfactories in many more regions, but not right away.)

The factory feeds into the jittery discourse about automation replacing human workers.

It seemed clear that the Speedfactory concept fit into a larger economic narrative; I just wasn’t sure which one. Adidas was not alone in betting on the importance of customization; practically every major consulting company—McKinsey, Bain & Company, Deloitte—has issued a do-or-die report in recent years about how “mass personalization” is the wave of the future. And in glancing ways, Speedfactory simultaneously delivered on the dream of distributed manufacturing that the era of 3-D printing was supposed to usher in, and on Donald Trump’s seemingly hallucinatory campaign promise that factory jobs would return to America. Stories about the factory’s reliance on robots also fed into the jittery discourse around automation replacing human work.

The cynical side of me wondered if perhaps the Speedfactory was an elaborate, expensive branding exercise. As with so many new ideas in our current age of innovation, I couldn’t determine whether the rhetoric surrounding the Speedfactory was deeply optimistic or deeply cynical. I was especially curious about what it might mean for America. But the Atlanta factory had not yet opened. So I went to visit the ur-Speedfactory in Ansbach—effectively its twin. To learn about the future of manufacturing in the American South, I needed to travel approximately 5,800 miles to a cornfield in the middle of Bavaria.

The first Speedfactory, in Ansbach, Germany. A second is set to open in Atlanta.

Ériver Hijano

Adidas’ headquarters is stationed in Herzogen­aurach, a town of 22,000 just outside of Nuremberg whose claim to fame is that it is home to both Adidas and Puma. The competing sportswear companies were founded by brothers Adolf (Adi) and Rudolf Dassler, rumored to have had a falling out while taking cover in a bunker during World War II. For a time, their rivalry supposedly divided residents; Herzogen­aurach was nicknamed “the town of bent necks,” due to the local habit of entering conversation by peering at the feet of one’s interlocutor in order to identify their corporate and social affiliations.

This was not a problem on Adidas’ campus, where affiliation was unambiguous: Everyone in sight was wearing sneakers made by their employer. The campus, dubbed the World of Sports, occupies a sprawling 146-acre former Nazi air base that corporate communications understandably prefers to describe as an old US military station. (After being commandeered by the US Army in 1945, the base was returned to the German government in 1992 and was acquired by Adidas five years later.) Some of the original barracks still stand and have been repurposed as office space. They cut an odd silhouette next to a glass-enclosed cafeteria named Stripes and a mirrored, angular office building named Laces that looks like a high-design airport terminal. Inside Laces, glass walkways crisscross elegantly from side to side, as if pulled through the eyes of a shoe.

The campus holds a full-size soccer pitch, a track, a boxing room, and an outdoor climbing wall. There are multiple outdoor courts for beach volleyball, basketball, and tennis, and employees actually use them. When I visited in early July, small packs of well-shod workers trotted diligently across the campus, threading through sidewalks and toward forest trails. Nearly everyone, on and off the courts, was wearing Adidas apparel along with their sneakers. Disc-like robotic lawnmowers rolled through the grass, munching slowly. Though I am predisposed, as an American Jew descended from Holocaust survivors, to be slightly uneasy at a former Luftwaffe base populated by several thousand well-behaved young people with unifying insignias, the campus had an energetic, spirited vibe. The employees, who hail from all over the world, seemed healthy and happy. It all felt a bit like what you’d imagine if The Nutcracker had been set in a Foot Locker.

Adidas' German headquarters felt a bit like a production of The Nutcracker set inside a Foot Locker.

Compared with the World of Sports, the Speedfactory—an hour-long bus ride from headquarters—is a relatively featureless box. It is housed in a white office building in the middle of the aforementioned cornfield; the exterior is marked with Adidas flags and the logo of Oechsler Motion, a longtime manufacturing partner, which operates the facility. I went there with a small group of other visitors for a tour. In a carpeted foyer, we pulled on heavy rubber toe caps, a protective measure. Liability thus limited, we traveled down the hallway toward the back of the building and shuffled inside.

The factory was white and bright, about the size of a Home Depot, with high ceilings and no windows. There weren’t many people, though there weren’t that many machines either. Along an assembly line made of three segments, an engineered knit fabric was laser-cut (by robots), shaped and sewn (by humans), and fused into soles (a collaborative, multistep, human-and-machine process). At the far end of the room, an orange robotic arm, perched high on a pedestal atop a particle foam machine, moved in a majestic, elegant, preprogram­med sweep.

The raw components of the sneakers being produced inside the Speedfactory were minimal: rolls of engineered knit fabric; finger-wide strips of semi-rigid thermoplastic polyurethane, which fuse to the exterior of a shoe to give it structure; white granules of thermoplastic polyurethane for Adidas’ signature Boost soles; an orange neon liner imported from Italy; and a “floating torsion bar,” purportedly for increased support, that looked like a double-headed intrauterine device.

A worker whistled as he placed oddly shaped, laser-cut flaps of the knit fabric onto a conveyor belt. They looked a bit like Darth Vader’s helmet in silhouette. The conveyor belt glided them through white, cubelike cases with tinted glass, where a machine heat-fused the strips of thermoplastic polyurethane onto the fabric in a precise pattern. A factory worker riding a white forklift rolled slowly past.

Another worker passed the flaps of fabric back to a line of sewing machines operated by humans, who stitched them together to form three-­dimensional little booties—the uppers of the sneakers. These were then stretched by an additional factory worker over a contraption that bore two model feet, as if a mannequin had been lying on its back, playing airplane. The feet were then detached—also by a human—and placed into a large, glass-doored machine. In what can only be described as a genuinely dramatic 93 seconds, the door to the machine slid shut, a hot light flared up from behind the bootie-clad feet, and the knit uppers fused to a pair of soles. In traditional shoe factories, this process generally involves a messy and imprecise feat of gluing, performed by the dexterous hands of warm-blooded people. Here, it was done by what looked like a neo-futuristic Easy-Bake Oven. Later, another human would thread the shoelaces.

The whole process was mesmerizing. As I leaned against the window of the bus back to Nuremberg, I realized that I hadn’t thought about the Second World War for at least five hours, a personal best for my time in Germany.

A motion-capture system collects data on an Adidas shoe.

Ériver Hijano

Speedfactory and Storefactory are both the brainchildren of a division within Adidas that is focused on new technologies called the Future team—a kind of Google X for sneakerheads. The division is small—some 120 people on a campus of 5,000—and its definition of the future is modest: just two to seven years out. “We are like a little company within the company,” a tall, gregarious employee named Klaus told me. As he gesticulated toward the glass doors to the Future team’s offices, which are at the back of Laces, his voice had the breathless tenor of a whisper without being quiet; everything he said sounded like it could be followed by a magic trick. “We try to push our company: Come on, get off your lazy ass, go into a new area.”

Take Storefactory, for example: Klaus described how the idea could scale globally. A user (“I hate the word consumer,” he sighed) could take a body scan once, then order custom clothing to be delivered anywhere in the world. “The future will become so much more versatile and free,” he said.

In the center of the Future team office, a sneaker dangled from the grasp of a small industrial robotic arm, called the LBR iiwa, made by the German automation company KUKA. Engineers were experimenting with ways it might be used in a Speedfactory. Designed for lightweight, intricate assembly work, the arm is sensitive and responsive to touch. It is curved and sleek, like something out of a Pixar movie, or a sex toy.

Some Future team engineers offered to let me teach the iiwa a motion by guiding it with my own hands. I cautiously swirled the arm in a figure-eight and waited for the robot to repeat the gesture. But it remained motionless; the sneaker hung limply. One of the engineers furrowed his brow and tapped at the control panel. I asked what role they thought the arm could play in a Speedfactory. Like many questions posed to the Future team, the answer to this was either top secret or as yet undetermined. “You can make a shoe with totally different materials if you have a robot that can wrap wire around it,” said Tim Lucas, a senior director of engineering. Then he stopped himself. “The robot can work in three dimensions. You don’t necessarily have to have a material that’s cut off a sheet. You can create new, very interesting materials.”

Klaus reappeared, holding a half-full glass of a violet beverage he identified as Purple Rain—“a reminiscence to Prince,” he explained—procured from the campus smoothie bar. As he escorted me back through Laces, we passed a loft-like Maker­Lab, modeled after a hackerspace and stocked with bolts of textiles, bins of materials, and an array of machines for sewing, woodworking, and 3-D printing. In an atrium, employees congregated near full-size, living trees; they tapped at their laptops by an amphitheater, where TED-style talks are held regularly during lunchtime. The whole scene felt like a startup staffed by athletes.

At a time when the world’s most highly valued and influential companies hail from the West Coast, there is a powerful narrative in the business world that all companies should become tech companies or else risk obsolescence. As the adage goes: innovate or die. Members of the Future team spoke frequently and enthusiastically about their “open source approach” to research and development. When, in October, the AM4 series was announced, a video spliced footage of runners with footage from the Speedfactory, with a voice-over that mimicked the sound of an astronaut urgently transmitting over a weak radio link from the moon: “Athlete data-driven design,” the voice said, mysteriously. “Open source cocreation. Man and machine.” It sounded a bit like an algorithmically generated Silicon Valley word cloud. “Production line of innovations,” it continued. “Accelerated crafting from months to hours. Optimized for athletes.”

This isn’t the first time Adidas has emphasized technology in its products and their branding. In 1984 the company put out a shoe called Micropacer that held a small computer to calculate distance, pace, and calories. That same year it rolled out the Fire, a sneaker with removable foam inserts of varying densities. In recent years, Adidas has introduced a number of high tech, exclusive sneakers, including the Futurecraft 4D, which boast a 3-D-printed sole “crafted with light and oxygen.” Lately, Adidas has worked with more sustainable materials and recently released a number of products made with “Parley Ocean Plastic”: a recycled plastic collected in the Maldives by a nonprofit organization.

A cart full of the company’s proprietary Boost midsoles.

Ériver Hijano

But perhaps more than the tangible qualities of products themselves, Adidas is altering the long-running scripts for the ways consumers build a narrative around fashion. With sneaker manufacturing so tied to sweatshops in Asia, companies like Adidas and Nike have long downplayed the origin stories of their products. But with the push toward sustainability, robotics, and personalized goods, Adidas is encouraging consumers not only to consider where their shoes come from but also to pay a premium for the origin story. Boost midsoles are already being produced in more traditional factories, such as those in China, and at a much higher volume. They don’t need to be made in a Speedfactory. Producing components that are usually made elsewhere in a high tech manufacturing environment struck me as less of a way to optimize a supply chain than a conceit—a story to be told. Tech, or at least its aesthetic, has a halo effect.

When the Atlanta Speedfactory opens at the end of this year, it will bring about 160 new jobs. The party line is that Speedfactory’s robots will not replace humans but instead provide job opportunities for “upskilled” factory workers. Job listings include roles for quality inspectors, tailors, process engineers with robotics experience, and technicians with fluency in machining. The Speedfactories will produce about half a million pairs of shoes—just a sliver of Adidas’ total annual output, which runs close to 300 million. The Speedfactory sneakers, at least in the short term, are likely to be sold to a niche audience that’s willing to pay upward of $260 for a limited-edition pair of shoes.

Some economists are bullish on ideas like Speedfactory and see it as the start of a much larger trend. “We are finally escaping from the manufacturing trap that we’ve been in for the last 20 years,” says Michael Mandel, chief economic strategist at the Progressive Policy Institute in Washington, DC, referring to the mass offshoring of production to Asia. Improvements in automation can now finally substitute for cheap foreign labor, which will naturally push factories closer to where the consumers are. As manufacturing shifts from offshore mass production to customized, local fabrication, new jobs will open up for human workers, some of which have yet to reveal themselves. “We used to have distribution built around manufacturing,” Mandel says, referencing the centrality of offshore factories, “and now I think that manufacturing is going to be built around distribution.”

There's a powerful narrative in business that all companies should become tech companies.

And yet, for the moment, there isn’t a ton of incentive for Adidas to back out of its global supply chain. The company has done extremely well in recent years: In the second quarter of 2017, sales grew by 21 percent, and all signs pointed to a gain on Nike, its primary competitor. “If you’re Nike and Adidas, you’re making enough money with a large workforce subcontracted through so many factories and so many countries, there’s no desperate urgency to change things around and invest in automation,” says Sarosh Kuruvilla, a professor of industrial relations at Cornell University. “People love to talk about how technology is changing the world, and there’s a lot of buzz around this kind of stuff. One has to look closely at the economics. I think it’s a much slower process.”

Instead, Kuruvilla sees Speedfactory less as a harbinger of large-scale change for all US manufacturing and more as one company’s attempt to keep pace with consumer expectations—expectations that are being set not by historic rivals like Nike but by trends in fast fashion and technology companies like Amazon. If consumers today expect rapid delivery and abundant choice, that’s in part thanks to Amazon Prime, Kuruvilla points out. Speedfactory, in other words, is Adidas’ attempt to develop the capacity to deliver customizable goods quickly. Adidas is already experimenting with embedding chips inside shoes—an approach that could one day collect data on consumer behavior, and in turn inform more customized designs.

This past spring, Amazon—which already has troves of data about buying and spending habits, and a direct line to consumers—received a patent for a manufacturing system that produces “on-demand” apparel. This is exactly the sort of advancement that Adidas’ Future team is bracing for, and, in many regards, hoping to beat.

Adidas uses a ball-kicking robot to test products at its headquarters.

Ériver Hijano

During my visit, Adidas’ chief information officer, Michael Voe­gele, brought up the Amazon patent and compared the athletic apparel industry to incumbents in the taxi and hotel industries. “We didn’t want to be disrupted by the outside,” he said, explaining one impetus behind the Speedfactory. I was sobered by the prospect of yet another company being laid low by an online superstore that trafficks in cloud-computing services, whose algorithms recommended inflatable furniture alongside literature in translation.

The specter of the tech industry looms large, as both an aspiration and a threat. Thinking back on Voe­gele’s comments later as I trudged through the cobblestone streets of Nuremberg, I felt a wave of sadness and sympathy, two emotions I had never experienced on behalf of a corporation. All this talk of technological advancement and running shoes that can handle 90-degree corners. All this talk of innovation, the ocean plastic, the 3-D-printed midsoles. There was so much uncertainty. I wondered if we weren’t all just doing the same thing: working our hardest to find a foothold in the future, then trying to keep that hold for as long as we can.

Anna Wiener(@annawiener) lives in San Francisco and works in the tech industry.

This article appears in the December issue. Subscribe now.

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[nerves-nebula]

wait sorry adding to the sidewalk with overhangs ask, "outside hallways" is associated with sketchiness where I am. It's a sign that a place either didn't have enough money to actually pay for a hallway/walls, a place that's old and/or rundown, a place that doesn't care about the safety of their customers/people who'll use it, or an american business trying to move in (but failing, and here america is kinda dunked on lol)

It's odd seeing people talk about them in a positive light because here if they are ever talked about (so rare that I've had MAYBE one conversation about them, but that's it) it's in a negative light. It's cool that it works in other places though!

woa, idk where you're from, and maybe its the poor in me that makes this next observation jump out to me, but associating outdoor hallways with sketchiness is kind of interesting to me. cause the two main places i see them (where I'm from) are low income housing and motels. two places that are famous for housing poor people and poc. maybe thats why ive never really associated them with anything bad despite their bad rep, cause i kinda like those groups of people.

not saying that kind of prejudice is necessarily whats happening where you're from (i have no idea where ur from) but its an interesting thought to me.

any dunking of american business is usually deserved so w/e

[nerves-nebula]

oh shoot sorry it sounded like prejudice, my apologies

(long, also tw??) It's more like in my town there's only like 2 motels and one is 1000% a love motel (which, not saying those are bad, but that building is such a health hazard that it gets closed down a lot. Anyone going there is risking their life tbh). And the other one shut down a while back after the roof collapsed.

There's a fair bit of shady things that go on around here (we're a town that's big enough to be considered a city but it's more like a small town that just kept growing to include other small towns. It's weird and means that there's sections of town that's built up and large sections of older houses kinda falling apart) which means we're uhh on route between larger cities for not great things. (trafficking, kidnapping, etc sorta bad stuff).

Even though there's strict gun laws here there's a surprising amount of covered up shootings (and in general murder and unnatural deaths) that happen, like we're not in america and we have multiple-times-a-year shooting drills at school. Our town was once called the murder city before the 2000s lol.

It's more for general safety, though there's a huge homeless issue here. There's not enough homes, rent is extreme, there's far more people than there should be dying on the streets of overdoses, etc etc and a lot of covering it up/it not being reported/publicized. However the locations of the motels are too far from the main downtown so it's more of a "it's horrible that people have to choose between the streets and walking for an hour or three for an overpriced mouldy room".

ig that's just reflective of the current climate here, I could go on but the town's gotten pretty bad lately. Cops suck, town section divides, stalking/harassment, and all the other stuff I could go on about. It really is terrible that there's nothing happening to push for more affordable housing and help for those that need it, and I really really hope the best for everyone in a bad situation (i myself was homeless for a month before getting an overcharged room with a shady dude. I ended up sleeping in trees lol) but it's like balancing between sympathy and not wanting to get attacked, hate crimed, stalked, or whatever else.

Not to say that it'll happen the moment someone goes outside, but it's also like.. more common than it should be. I've had some run in with people on the bus harassing me and trying to find out where to find me where there wouldn't be surveillance. It's pretty easy to find drug deals going on. There's extremely few mental health resources and even less that are even available and there's a huge shortage of doctors. There's a tent town that has appeared in the news coercing children into "moving in," and the police basically said the kids are choosing to run away and if the parent's can't stop them it isn't their issue. A guy one of my cousins was dating was shot by a cop because his older brother was involved in all that (RIP).

ig it's a thing my parents taught as a way of protection. Kids in our family get pocket tools (aka protection aka legal way to carry a knife) once you're old enough to be out and about on your own, and it's probably added to a part of the family having to talk to protective services because of gang related issues and other stuff. My uncle (ayy hunter moment) on one side is a known child predator with a group of friends with similar tastes and has tried kidnapping a different cousin (and possibly other kids) and tried doing that to me at his own son's funeral (my name was changed so I could better avoid him). He's connected with my aunt who was forced into a situation where they were group raising kids and a few died and child protective has done nothing :/

We ain't rich and it's more of developing a radar of "will that place kill you or not" sorta thing, possibly related to all the shit happening in my family. Like there's SO many people cut off because they've tried killing kids or other stuff. We've been robbed the few times. My family will choose to park the car outside of the city and sleep in it rather than use the motel rooms, or camp in the better seasons. We had to do that when I was in grade 7 because we were homeless for a few months. Had a lot of sleep overs that time lmao.

Sorry for rambling, I've been trying to move outta here for a while but the nearest towns are pretty bad too. The only times I've been to the motel is when helping out my cousin who does prostitution sometimes and sometimes has had clients that are too much trouble so there's definitely some trauma association there.

Anyways I'm glad to hear that outside of my town outside halls are good and not a sign of risk!!

no need for apologies i was sure you had reasons and I didn't necessarily expect an explanation, it just reminded me of stuff going on in my home town is all.

im sorry you're in such a shit situation, it sounds awful. I hope you can move away sooner rather than later. but for now your "will that place kill you or not" radar seems useful so I'm glad you have it.

and i dont mind rambling. i like to hear about other people's lives (in case that wasn't clear from me reading and responding to almost every ask I get hah) and I like hearing why you think the things you do, or why you have certain associations that I don't. its always interesting.

[trendingnewsb]

Inside Adidas Robot-Powered, On-Demand Sneaker Factory

Last winter, the sportswear giant Adidas opened a pop-up store inside a Berlin shopping mall. The boutique was part of a corporate experiment called Storefactory—a name as flatly self-­explanatory as it is consistent with the convention of German compound nouns. It offered a single product: machine-­knit merino wool sweaters, made to order on the spot. Customers stepped up for body scans inside the showroom and then worked with an employee to design their own bespoke pullovers. The sweaters, which cost the equivalent of about $250 apiece, then materialized behind a glass wall in a matter of hours.

The miniature factory behind the glass, which consisted mainly of three industrial knitting machines spitting forth sweaters like dot-matrix printouts, could reportedly produce only 10 garments a day. But the point of the experiment wasn’t to rack up sales numbers. It was to gauge customer enthusiasm for a set of concepts that the company has lately become invested in: digital design; localized, automated manufacturing; and personalized products.

Storefactory was just a small test of these ideas; much bigger experiments were already under way. In late 2015, Adidas had opened a brand-new, heavily automated manufacturing facility in Ansbach, Germany, about 35 miles from its corporate headquarters. Called Speedfactory, the facility would pair a small human workforce with technologies including 3-D printing, robotic arms, and computerized knitting to make running shoes—items that are more typically mass-produced by workers in far-off countries like China, Indonesia, and Vietnam. The factory would cater directly to the European market, with digital designs that could be tweaked ad infinitum and robots that could seamlessly transmute them into footwear customized to the shifting preferences of Continental sneakerheads. By placing factories closer to consumers, Adidas could ostensibly leapfrog over shipping delays and expenses. “What we enable is speed,” said Gerd Manz, vice president of Adidas’ innovation group. “We can react to consumer needs within days.”

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Speedfactory, Adidas claimed, was “reinventing manufacturing.” Media reports were no less grand. “By bringing production home,” wrote The Economist, “this factory is out to reinvent an industry.”

In September 2016, the first pair of Speedfactory sneakers came off the line: a very-limited-­edition running shoe called Futurecraft M.F.G. (Made for Germany). To hype its release, the company put out a 3-­minute teaser video highlighting not just the shoe but its manufacturing process. A suspenseful, intense electronic soundtrack set the mood for a series of futuristic close-ups: dusty white residue on a computer keyboard, various digital control panels, an orange robotic arm sliding into action. When Adidas released 500 pairs of the Futurecraft M.F.G. in Berlin, ­people camped out on the street to buy them, and the sneakers sold out almost instantly.

A wall of fabric allows for experimentation at a “Maker­Lab” inside Adidas HQ.

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Alongside its unveiling of the Futurecraft M.F.G., Adidas made another big announcement: It would soon be building a second Speedfactory—in Atlanta. The future of manufacturing was coming to America too.

This October, the company announced a project called AM4—Adidas Made For—a series of sneakers that would be designed with input from various “running influencers,” ostensibly tailored to the needs of specific cities. The shoes are said to be designed around the unique local challenges runners face: in London, apparently, many runners commute by foot; they need sneakers with high visibility for dark nights and rainy days. New York City is constantly under construction and is organized in a grid, so runners need a shoe that can deftly handle multiple 90-degree corners. Los Angeles is hot and by the ocean. In Shanghai, preliminary research suggested that people primarily exercise indoors. All AM4 shoes would be made in the company’s two Speedfactories and released in limited editions.

At some point I became a bit mystified by all of this. It struck me that most decent running shoes on the market could probably handle Manhattan’s grid. And if a selling point of the Speedfactory was expedited time to market, why use it to manufacture shoes that would have to travel from Germany to China? (The ultimate aspiration is to open Speedfactories in many more regions, but not right away.)

The factory feeds into the jittery discourse about automation replacing human workers.

It seemed clear that the Speedfactory concept fit into a larger economic narrative; I just wasn’t sure which one. Adidas was not alone in betting on the importance of customization; practically every major consulting company—McKinsey, Bain & Company, Deloitte—has issued a do-or-die report in recent years about how “mass personalization” is the wave of the future. And in glancing ways, Speedfactory simultaneously delivered on the dream of distributed manufacturing that the era of 3-D printing was supposed to usher in, and on Donald Trump’s seemingly hallucinatory campaign promise that factory jobs would return to America. Stories about the factory’s reliance on robots also fed into the jittery discourse around automation replacing human work.

The cynical side of me wondered if perhaps the Speedfactory was an elaborate, expensive branding exercise. As with so many new ideas in our current age of innovation, I couldn’t determine whether the rhetoric surrounding the Speedfactory was deeply optimistic or deeply cynical. I was especially curious about what it might mean for America. But the Atlanta factory had not yet opened. So I went to visit the ur-Speedfactory in Ansbach—effectively its twin. To learn about the future of manufacturing in the American South, I needed to travel approximately 5,800 miles to a cornfield in the middle of Bavaria.

The first Speedfactory, in Ansbach, Germany. A second is set to open in Atlanta.

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Adidas’ headquarters is stationed in Herzogen­aurach, a town of 22,000 just outside of Nuremberg whose claim to fame is that it is home to both Adidas and Puma. The competing sportswear companies were founded by brothers Adolf (Adi) and Rudolf Dassler, rumored to have had a falling out while taking cover in a bunker during World War II. For a time, their rivalry supposedly divided residents; Herzogen­aurach was nicknamed “the town of bent necks,” due to the local habit of entering conversation by peering at the feet of one’s interlocutor in order to identify their corporate and social affiliations.

This was not a problem on Adidas’ campus, where affiliation was unambiguous: Everyone in sight was wearing sneakers made by their employer. The campus, dubbed the World of Sports, occupies a sprawling 146-acre former Nazi air base that corporate communications understandably prefers to describe as an old US military station. (After being commandeered by the US Army in 1945, the base was returned to the German government in 1992 and was acquired by Adidas five years later.) Some of the original barracks still stand and have been repurposed as office space. They cut an odd silhouette next to a glass-enclosed cafeteria named Stripes and a mirrored, angular office building named Laces that looks like a high-design airport terminal. Inside Laces, glass walkways crisscross elegantly from side to side, as if pulled through the eyes of a shoe.

The campus holds a full-size soccer pitch, a track, a boxing room, and an outdoor climbing wall. There are multiple outdoor courts for beach volleyball, basketball, and tennis, and employees actually use them. When I visited in early July, small packs of well-shod workers trotted diligently across the campus, threading through sidewalks and toward forest trails. Nearly everyone, on and off the courts, was wearing Adidas apparel along with their sneakers. Disc-like robotic lawnmowers rolled through the grass, munching slowly. Though I am predisposed, as an American Jew descended from Holocaust survivors, to be slightly uneasy at a former Luftwaffe base populated by several thousand well-behaved young people with unifying insignias, the campus had an energetic, spirited vibe. The employees, who hail from all over the world, seemed healthy and happy. It all felt a bit like what you’d imagine if The Nutcracker had been set in a Foot Locker.

Adidas' German headquarters felt a bit like a production of The Nutcracker set inside a Foot Locker.

Compared with the World of Sports, the Speedfactory—an hour-long bus ride from headquarters—is a relatively featureless box. It is housed in a white office building in the middle of the aforementioned cornfield; the exterior is marked with Adidas flags and the logo of Oechsler Motion, a longtime manufacturing partner, which operates the facility. I went there with a small group of other visitors for a tour. In a carpeted foyer, we pulled on heavy rubber toe caps, a protective measure. Liability thus limited, we traveled down the hallway toward the back of the building and shuffled inside.

The factory was white and bright, about the size of a Home Depot, with high ceilings and no windows. There weren’t many people, though there weren’t that many machines either. Along an assembly line made of three segments, an engineered knit fabric was laser-cut (by robots), shaped and sewn (by humans), and fused into soles (a collaborative, multistep, human-and-machine process). At the far end of the room, an orange robotic arm, perched high on a pedestal atop a particle foam machine, moved in a majestic, elegant, preprogram­med sweep.

The raw components of the sneakers being produced inside the Speedfactory were minimal: rolls of engineered knit fabric; finger-wide strips of semi-rigid thermoplastic polyurethane, which fuse to the exterior of a shoe to give it structure; white granules of thermoplastic polyurethane for Adidas’ signature Boost soles; an orange neon liner imported from Italy; and a “floating torsion bar,” purportedly for increased support, that looked like a double-headed intrauterine device.

A worker whistled as he placed oddly shaped, laser-cut flaps of the knit fabric onto a conveyor belt. They looked a bit like Darth Vader’s helmet in silhouette. The conveyor belt glided them through white, cubelike cases with tinted glass, where a machine heat-fused the strips of thermoplastic polyurethane onto the fabric in a precise pattern. A factory worker riding a white forklift rolled slowly past.

Another worker passed the flaps of fabric back to a line of sewing machines operated by humans, who stitched them together to form three-­dimensional little booties—the uppers of the sneakers. These were then stretched by an additional factory worker over a contraption that bore two model feet, as if a mannequin had been lying on its back, playing airplane. The feet were then detached—also by a human—and placed into a large, glass-doored machine. In what can only be described as a genuinely dramatic 93 seconds, the door to the machine slid shut, a hot light flared up from behind the bootie-clad feet, and the knit uppers fused to a pair of soles. In traditional shoe factories, this process generally involves a messy and imprecise feat of gluing, performed by the dexterous hands of warm-blooded people. Here, it was done by what looked like a neo-futuristic Easy-Bake Oven. Later, another human would thread the shoelaces.

The whole process was mesmerizing. As I leaned against the window of the bus back to Nuremberg, I realized that I hadn’t thought about the Second World War for at least five hours, a personal best for my time in Germany.

A motion-capture system collects data on an Adidas shoe.

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Speedfactory and Storefactory are both the brainchildren of a division within Adidas that is focused on new technologies called the Future team—a kind of Google X for sneakerheads. The division is small—some 120 people on a campus of 5,000—and its definition of the future is modest: just two to seven years out. “We are like a little company within the company,” a tall, gregarious employee named Klaus told me. As he gesticulated toward the glass doors to the Future team’s offices, which are at the back of Laces, his voice had the breathless tenor of a whisper without being quiet; everything he said sounded like it could be followed by a magic trick. “We try to push our company: Come on, get off your lazy ass, go into a new area.”

Take Storefactory, for example: Klaus described how the idea could scale globally. A user (“I hate the word consumer,” he sighed) could take a body scan once, then order custom clothing to be delivered anywhere in the world. “The future will become so much more versatile and free,” he said.

In the center of the Future team office, a sneaker dangled from the grasp of a small industrial robotic arm, called the LBR iiwa, made by the German automation company KUKA. Engineers were experimenting with ways it might be used in a Speedfactory. Designed for lightweight, intricate assembly work, the arm is sensitive and responsive to touch. It is curved and sleek, like something out of a Pixar movie, or a sex toy.

Some Future team engineers offered to let me teach the iiwa a motion by guiding it with my own hands. I cautiously swirled the arm in a figure-eight and waited for the robot to repeat the gesture. But it remained motionless; the sneaker hung limply. One of the engineers furrowed his brow and tapped at the control panel. I asked what role they thought the arm could play in a Speedfactory. Like many questions posed to the Future team, the answer to this was either top secret or as yet undetermined. “You can make a shoe with totally different materials if you have a robot that can wrap wire around it,” said Tim Lucas, a senior director of engineering. Then he stopped himself. “The robot can work in three dimensions. You don’t necessarily have to have a material that’s cut off a sheet. You can create new, very interesting materials.”

Klaus reappeared, holding a half-full glass of a violet beverage he identified as Purple Rain—“a reminiscence to Prince,” he explained—procured from the campus smoothie bar. As he escorted me back through Laces, we passed a loft-like Maker­Lab, modeled after a hackerspace and stocked with bolts of textiles, bins of materials, and an array of machines for sewing, woodworking, and 3-D printing. In an atrium, employees congregated near full-size, living trees; they tapped at their laptops by an amphitheater, where TED-style talks are held regularly during lunchtime. The whole scene felt like a startup staffed by athletes.

At a time when the world’s most highly valued and influential companies hail from the West Coast, there is a powerful narrative in the business world that all companies should become tech companies or else risk obsolescence. As the adage goes: innovate or die. Members of the Future team spoke frequently and enthusiastically about their “open source approach” to research and development. When, in October, the AM4 series was announced, a video spliced footage of runners with footage from the Speedfactory, with a voice-over that mimicked the sound of an astronaut urgently transmitting over a weak radio link from the moon: “Athlete data-driven design,” the voice said, mysteriously. “Open source cocreation. Man and machine.” It sounded a bit like an algorithmically generated Silicon Valley word cloud. “Production line of innovations,” it continued. “Accelerated crafting from months to hours. Optimized for athletes.”

This isn’t the first time Adidas has emphasized technology in its products and their branding. In 1984 the company put out a shoe called Micropacer that held a small computer to calculate distance, pace, and calories. That same year it rolled out the Fire, a sneaker with removable foam inserts of varying densities. In recent years, Adidas has introduced a number of high tech, exclusive sneakers, including the Futurecraft 4D, which boast a 3-D-printed sole “crafted with light and oxygen.” Lately, Adidas has worked with more sustainable materials and recently released a number of products made with “Parley Ocean Plastic”: a recycled plastic collected in the Maldives by a nonprofit organization.

A cart full of the company’s proprietary Boost midsoles.

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But perhaps more than the tangible qualities of products themselves, Adidas is altering the long-running scripts for the ways consumers build a narrative around fashion. With sneaker manufacturing so tied to sweatshops in Asia, companies like Adidas and Nike have long downplayed the origin stories of their products. But with the push toward sustainability, robotics, and personalized goods, Adidas is encouraging consumers not only to consider where their shoes come from but also to pay a premium for the origin story. Boost midsoles are already being produced in more traditional factories, such as those in China, and at a much higher volume. They don’t need to be made in a Speedfactory. Producing components that are usually made elsewhere in a high tech manufacturing environment struck me as less of a way to optimize a supply chain than a conceit—a story to be told. Tech, or at least its aesthetic, has a halo effect.

When the Atlanta Speedfactory opens at the end of this year, it will bring about 160 new jobs. The party line is that Speedfactory’s robots will not replace humans but instead provide job opportunities for “upskilled” factory workers. Job listings include roles for quality inspectors, tailors, process engineers with robotics experience, and technicians with fluency in machining. The Speedfactories will produce about half a million pairs of shoes—just a sliver of Adidas’ total annual output, which runs close to 300 million. The Speedfactory sneakers, at least in the short term, are likely to be sold to a niche audience that’s willing to pay upward of $260 for a limited-edition pair of shoes.

Some economists are bullish on ideas like Speedfactory and see it as the start of a much larger trend. “We are finally escaping from the manufacturing trap that we’ve been in for the last 20 years,” says Michael Mandel, chief economic strategist at the Progressive Policy Institute in Washington, DC, referring to the mass offshoring of production to Asia. Improvements in automation can now finally substitute for cheap foreign labor, which will naturally push factories closer to where the consumers are. As manufacturing shifts from offshore mass production to customized, local fabrication, new jobs will open up for human workers, some of which have yet to reveal themselves. “We used to have distribution built around manufacturing,” Mandel says, referencing the centrality of offshore factories, “and now I think that manufacturing is going to be built around distribution.”

There's a powerful narrative in business that all companies should become tech companies.

And yet, for the moment, there isn’t a ton of incentive for Adidas to back out of its global supply chain. The company has done extremely well in recent years: In the second quarter of 2017, sales grew by 21 percent, and all signs pointed to a gain on Nike, its primary competitor. “If you’re Nike and Adidas, you’re making enough money with a large workforce subcontracted through so many factories and so many countries, there’s no desperate urgency to change things around and invest in automation,” says Sarosh Kuruvilla, a professor of industrial relations at Cornell University. “People love to talk about how technology is changing the world, and there’s a lot of buzz around this kind of stuff. One has to look closely at the economics. I think it’s a much slower process.”

Instead, Kuruvilla sees Speedfactory less as a harbinger of large-scale change for all US manufacturing and more as one company’s attempt to keep pace with consumer expectations—expectations that are being set not by historic rivals like Nike but by trends in fast fashion and technology companies like Amazon. If consumers today expect rapid delivery and abundant choice, that’s in part thanks to Amazon Prime, Kuruvilla points out. Speedfactory, in other words, is Adidas’ attempt to develop the capacity to deliver customizable goods quickly. Adidas is already experimenting with embedding chips inside shoes—an approach that could one day collect data on consumer behavior, and in turn inform more customized designs.

This past spring, Amazon—which already has troves of data about buying and spending habits, and a direct line to consumers—received a patent for a manufacturing system that produces “on-demand” apparel. This is exactly the sort of advancement that Adidas’ Future team is bracing for, and, in many regards, hoping to beat.

Adidas uses a ball-kicking robot to test products at its headquarters.

Ériver Hijano

During my visit, Adidas’ chief information officer, Michael Voe­gele, brought up the Amazon patent and compared the athletic apparel industry to incumbents in the taxi and hotel industries. “We didn’t want to be disrupted by the outside,” he said, explaining one impetus behind the Speedfactory. I was sobered by the prospect of yet another company being laid low by an online superstore that trafficks in cloud-computing services, whose algorithms recommended inflatable furniture alongside literature in translation.

The specter of the tech industry looms large, as both an aspiration and a threat. Thinking back on Voe­gele’s comments later as I trudged through the cobblestone streets of Nuremberg, I felt a wave of sadness and sympathy, two emotions I had never experienced on behalf of a corporation. All this talk of technological advancement and running shoes that can handle 90-degree corners. All this talk of innovation, the ocean plastic, the 3-D-printed midsoles. There was so much uncertainty. I wondered if we weren’t all just doing the same thing: working our hardest to find a foothold in the future, then trying to keep that hold for as long as we can.

Anna Wiener(@annawiener) lives in San Francisco and works in the tech industry.

This article appears in the December issue. Subscribe now.

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