The · Affected · Provincial’s · Almanack

As if trying to look "casual" wasn't just an uglier kind of affectation! To do away with such baseline standards of adult dress is the illusion of freedom, a lame gesture that leads to even more restrictive mores. Adolescent-minded Boomers won't be satisfied until the only socially acceptable way to present oneself is to dress like a six year-old. And when that day comes, none of us will feel free--just undignified and infantilized. Given the choice, I'd rather be coerced into looking like an adult than a child.

Much is made of the idea that not wearing a tie allows for more self-expression, which is idiotic. Not wearing a tie says "I'm not wearing a tie," and little else. Wearing a tie--with its endless palette of colors, knots and patterns--is where the expression lies. Like Wilde said, "A mask says far more than a face."

This general trend will result in less tolerance for self-expression, not more. I already get odd looks for wearing something as practical as a hat or something as innocuous as a pocket square, so I can imagine a time when someone will be beaten up for wearing a tie.

But that's progress for you.

Let's say that the Mormon fundamentalist fellow in question leads an exemplary life as it is defined by his beliefs; he amasses wives and offspring like so many box top coupons, then shuffles off his mortal coil. Will he then find that, after cashing in his chattel, the massive planet he is heir to has such a strong gravitational pull that all he can do in the afterlife is lie on his back, do his best to breathe and dream of one day managing to lift a toothpick?

And what exactly is the correlation between number of wives and size of planet? Is there a table somewhere, a point system? How many wives would one need to hit that 'sweet spot' needed for an Earth-like Class M planet? One too many, and you could find yourself eternally buffeted about like a feather by the 300 mph winds of a gas giant's ammonia-rich atmosphere (Perhaps those wind-catching dresses their ladyfolk wear are a contingency?) One wife too few, and you could wind up on a cold, tiny lump of frozen methane, evermore wishing you had been more of a cuddler.

And is there a correlation between number of children and the amount of moons you get? And where do comets figure in all this? Are they visiting relatives? And what do you have to do to get a ring around your planet? Is that a bonus of some sort, like for perfect church attendance or generous tithing?

~W

9. Well, I like poetry that is amusing, that maybe makes me chuckle a little. I'd rather read something reassuring and light than something complicated or gloomy. Is that bad? Does that mean I am a jerk?

Our laureate's reply?

"Yes."

Now, this raises both my suspicions and my hackles. Are we to believe that poetry is supposed to mean something and be good for you in order to be deemed poetry at all? Big fat finger to that. That's not an educated point of view: that's an indoctrinated point of view. It sounds too much like the predictable, pedantic dullard who insists that every piece of music should be "challenging"--as if "complicated and gloomy" wasn't itself a predictable trope!

Real depth and complexity has to include the simple, the reassuring, and the light. The idea that writing an Ogden Nash poem or the perfect pop song is easy is a pretty big assumption, and a false one at that. Much of the best art made over the last century that has had a lasting cultural influence wasn't even considered art at the time of its inception. It was a part of daily life. It was entertainment.

We westerners are often so heavy and clumsy in our allegiances: we really expect far too much from our Gods and our Art. It wasn't always so, but that lightness, fluidity, and vitality has become very elusive. The more ardently we chase our Muses, the further away they flee. Pan cares nothing for "the proper channels"!

There's something to be said for turning your back on the baggage that comes with big "A" Art and instead applying that creative energy to your everyday life, like the Ancients did. It requires letting go of our egos a bit, and refraining from trying to hit some Promethean height all the time. Does this open the floodgates of mediocrity? Not really: aspirations have little to do with artistic accomplishment. Art worth its salt isn't conquered, but coaxed. The arts, in order to reclaim their old vigor, should be reintegrated into our lives. People would get over themselves and jot little ditties on napkins over after-dinner drinks--and maybe once every fifty years, someone pens something for the ages. Seems a more sane, nourishing model.

~W

Jean-Luc and Simone, themselves in impeccably continental suits and bold shirts, looked on with blank, albeit sun-kissed expressions.

The boyfriend/husband, a youngish fellow, stood behind her and looked timidly over her shoulder as she sat on her throne and scowled at the swatches through tangled, unkempt locks. It was clear he was dying to get a bold, colorful pattern, but his "mom-wife" wasn't having it. "You may like it now, but would you actually wear it?" Doing her best to talk him back from the edge of Style.

The young man had apparently visited the suite earlier that day, but returned with this shrewish, frumpy, overbearing, all-too-significant other for a "second opinion"--but from what I saw, it was more like permission. How sad that this guy allowed himself to be so cowed that he couldn't even pick out the kind of shirt he wanted to wear on his very own back!

This conversation was taking place on the love seat next to me, as I was narrowing down my choices between a aqua/plum pattern and a moss green/pink one. It was a little embarrassing, since the woman was clearly a bit too comfortable with treating her husband/boyfriend with thinly veiled contempt.

I felt her glances veering over my way from time to time, as though I were a fly in her ointment. Dressed in my usual bold colors, I was the very antithesis of her pedestrian tastes as well as a threat to the natural order, since I clearly had the audacity to select my own clothes without seeking my wife's approval.

I was exchanging swatch sample books with them, and as they expressed admiration for one of the more timid patterns I'd selected, I hinted to the fellow that if he had a low-key suit, he could easily use more vibrant tones and patterns in his shirts. Style 101, right?

Baba Yaga was not amused. "That's all right--I'm from the design world".

"The Kleenex box packaging district," I thought.

I'd never before encountered this "type" when visiting my shirtmaker Simone, who comes over twice a year from Florence. When I make my semi-annual pilgrimage to his Manhattan suite to select a couple patterns for new custom shirts, I've grown accustomed to being among other independent-minded male clotheshorses. It's interesting that one of these odious creatures managed to get loose in a fifth-floor suite at the Michelangelo Hotel--kind of like a fratboy crashing your favorite hipster dive. It felt as though a haven of mine had been sullied, and a ritual--nay, a sartorial sacrament--that I very much look forward to twice each year was loudly talked over by the attendees. Sacreliege! Uggs in the temple!

However, I've seen this dispiriting little suburban drama play out many times in middle-class or upper-middle haunts, particularly menswear retailers: the man almost invariably selects a bold color, only to be chromatically emasculated by the she-minion of the Pastel Politburo or the Ministry of Earthtones. These spineless wonders are then summarily given their punishment: a tie, shirt or suit that looks "nice". And you know what that entails. And you know what? The men deserve it, the wimps.

I wonder if these women treat their boy-men with such contempt because they resent having to play the role of mommy buying new clothes for junior. Soliciting an opinion as an equal is one thing, but what woman wants yet another responsibility dumped on her? I'd be condescending and curt, too, if I was the wife of a man who couldn't pour milk on his own cereal.

The old saw in our culture is that men shouldn't know how to coordinate an outfit for themselves, but that's infantilizing tripe. After all, what's more manly: having your wife pick out your clothes as though you were a child, or learning about male dress and buying them yourself?

Manhood, thy name is competence! Men should make their own damn decisions as to how to dress themselves, mainly because it's not their wife's responsibility. It's part of being a grown-ass man, like knowing how to change a tire, or knowing when to shut up and just hold her.

For heaven's sake, gents: don't go around looking like your wife dresses you!

(Got both of those patterns, by the way. One is a linen shirt with French cuffs. Zang!)

~W

Disclaimer: Of course, all this is null and void if he's a "kept man" and all of this is on her dime. In that case: mama gets what mama wants!

I've always thought of the sobriquet "Lord Whimsy" as an office more than a name. Anyone who walks in my ankle boots will soon realize that "lord" implies duty more than elevation, since there are many demands that come with it. One should be able to list it as an occupation on one's tax form; after all, being a Whimsy is something one must live up to, just as much as others must live up to being a doctor, policemen, or chef.

Think that was a preposterous analogy? Let me tell you something: when it comes to dedication, those "professionals" are rank amateurs. Amateurs! While those lazy architects and layabout professors are sleeping, I'm polishing my shoes well into the wee hours, because if I walk out of my house with smudged uppers, the spell is broken, and I must hand in my wand. Being a whimlord means never saying "I'm at the end of my laundry cycle".

Of course, I'm not the first whimlord: Lord Buckley and the fictional Sayers character Lord Peter Wimsey are predecessors. Seeing other whimlords here and there means that any claims of uniqueness are stifled in the cradle: I'm merely a species within the genus Whimsyii. Of course, the more of us, the merrier. Why, the permutations are endless: Lord Breaulove Swells Whimsy, Lord Avery Puckish Whimsay, Lord Durty Button-Whimsee, Sir Cottonpork Whimsley, Lady Whoopsie du Whimseé, etc. A league of gentle, ridiculous, curious dilettantes. Could be quite a club, no? It's like being a Sith Lord with better dialogue, or a timelord with a better haircut.

So: if you were to be a whimlord, what would be your handle, and what would you look like?

I do enjoy and appreciate instances of audacious glamor (Nicole Kidman's green Chinese dress floored me several years ago), but I also can't help but to cheer on the willful indiscretions (Remember Bjork's swan dress that brought to mind Diagaliev's surrealist ballets? Of course, you do.)

Now by conventional standards, the ensembles to the left are awful: The fit! The bows! The break in the trousers! The brown suede shoes with the black tux! The piping!

But were their intentions conventional? Did they really intend to look like George Clooney or Nicole Kidman, and fail? Or might we give them more credit and assume they're more complex, interesting and groovy than that?

Dana Stevens has what I think is an astute take on what appears at face value to be rather daft sartorial choices:

"Daniel Day-Lewis' wife is Rebecca Miller, daughter of playwright Arthur Miller and photographer Inge Morath. She's a published fiction writer who's also directed several films (Personal Velocity, The Ballad of Jack and Rose). She's just too smart and cool to be wearing that dress unironically. I honestly suspect that she and DDL were deliberately spoofing the whole who-are-you-wearing red-carpet culture by dressing as they did—note his brown suede clodhoppers poking out from that black tuxedo (which, for all we know, he made himself during his summer interning with a master Florentine cobbler). Rebecca's dress even has a certain Victorian/frontier-brothel vibe that may be a tribute to the period setting of There Will Be Blood. After observing him throughout this awards season, I've decided that Daniel Day-Lewis actually is some sort of hyperevolved exemplar of superior humanity. He's what every doting parent falsely imagines their child to be: more beautiful, gifted, intelligent, and gracious than anyone else alive. Maybe Rebecca's dress is her way of saying, 'Fuck you, world. I've landed Daniel Day-Lewis and I can wear anything I want.'"

Of course this little analysis was written with tongue firmly in cheek, but like Dana Stevens, I too feel they were taking the piss a bit. What strong, independent-minded person with any kind of soul wouldn't on such a night, in such a ludicrous setting? It's the only healthy response, really: It's a red carpet gala in Hollyweird--don't take it seriously! Go have fun!

After all, to merely aim for "elegant" or "timeless" out of fear isn't necessarily a safe bet on The Carpet Perilous: One can just as easily look like a bland yet impeccable dumbass who drank the "Classic Hollywood" Kool-Aid.

ladykalessia

To me, this video reinforces my personal notion that ultimately it's the inherent qualities found in older things that compel us to cling to them, not nostalgia: Texture, not time. What's truly compelling to me about these old presses isn't the historical aspects, but their nourishing, humane aesthetics: the ritual, the dimensionality of the imprint, the sounds and sculptural beauty of the 'organic' mechanisms.

Speaking of organic mechanics brings to mind another fellow: David Metz's bicycle museum is a treasure for this very reason, as he is not just a preeminent bicycle collector. He's also amassed a large collection of curious mechanical household utensils of astounding intricacy and ingenuity: cherry pitters, toasters, etc. He's also obsessed with collecting and building unusual and strangely elegant mousetraps--the simpler and more ingenious, the better.

But of course this is all but half of the equation: I'd like to see elegant technology that complements our own bodies to continue with us into the future, as we'll need energy-saving solutions like these again. It would be nice to see a world in which we are able to dance with our machines, and thus set the pace.

Just a thought.

~W

In Laurence Sterne's wonderfully digression-riddled novel, Tristram Shandy, Tristram's father is described as being the lively-minded sort of fellow who, despite not being a deep scholar, was adept at picking up fancies and notions, playing with them for a half hour's time, refining the points, adding some of his own, polishing them idly in his hands—then blithely tossing them aside in favor of some other trifle.

That's Affected Provincialism in action: modest in scale, but broad in scope. Rather than a grand ball it's a fête champêtre; instead of a court painting it's a pastorale; and rather than a huge symphony it's a string quartet, or perhaps woodwinds on the grass. It's a lighthearted synthesis of small, provisional, disparate ideas--a bit of a muddle, actually. I think Sterne put it best when he wrote:

Affected Provincials are prolific crackpots brimming with the amateur spirit. They are often autodidacts and do-it-yourselfers not accredited in their field(s) of study, often living on the margins of where the action is purported to be. With their boundless energy and restless minds, they tend to be entrepreneurs, philomaths, aesthetes, dilettantes, and jacks-of-all-trades. You'll know an Affected Provincial by the air of improbability they have about them, and by their nonchalant rumpledness; their style is a bit off, but has its own kind of dash. Erasmus Darwin, Benjamin Franklin, the Wright Brothers, Joseph Cornell, Erik Satie, and Edward Gorey all had a bit of the Affected Provincial in them. Affected Provincials are cosmopolitan in their own way: They may travel widely and get about in cities, but they will consciously choose to cloister themselves in some way--either in a secluded urban oasis or a geographically isolated area. Because they need space for the peculiar milieus they create for themselves, they live in a state of self-imposed exile, keeping the world at arm's length.

Affected Provincialism can take many forms, but personally I prefer borrowing heavily from the combined qualities of the naturalist, philomath, dandy and aesthete. Independence, liberality, optimism, playfulness, curiosity, lightness, and generosity are integral to Affected Provincialism; it's modeled loosely on the idea of the eighteenth-century gentleman amateur, as wrongly imagined by a twenty-first-century twit. Aspects of the urbane, aristocratic parlor vulture combine with the contradictory image of a country gentleman puffing a clay pipe under a sweetgum tree, breezing through a field guide on wildflowers (an archetypal dandy would never be caught in such a setting, let alone gushing enthusiastically about it). I enjoy the inherent contradictions in a notion like pastoral dandyism: a silk tie in the shade of a straw hat.

The Affected Provincial is a slightly more droll, playful creature than his cool, reserved cousin in the city; he doesn't take himself too seriously; he believes that humor and playfulness are far more civilized than bitchiness and bile. Victor Hugo wrote: "The provincial dandy wore the longest of spurs, and the fiercest of moustaches." Hugo implied disdain, but where he found fault, I find something reassuringly exuberant. Because the diasporan, aesthetically feral Affected Provincial lives beyond the city's halls of mirrors, he is free to nurture the idiosyncrasies that would have been pruned in more proscribed, fashion-conscious environs. Thus, he tends to raise eyebrows when he sticks a feather in his cap and rides into town. Affected Provincialism proposes that not all of our innovations, in the interest of our culture’s health, must bear urban DNA—especially in a time when cities (and in some cases, the people in them) are becoming more alike.

Like Sterne's father, I presumptuously fancy myself a man of parts--but it may be more accurate to say I am a deeply committed dilettante. Being a sort of dabbler, I'm not an expert in any one field of study or discipline, but I do fancy myself an expert in synthesizing what I know. Some people might describe such a state of mind as postmodern. I would call it making the best of a public education.

~W

The idea that the United States of America as a governmental entity is a failed experiement--that it is a bloated, clumsy, corrupt, bureaucratic, brutal, plutocratic monolith that no longer serves its people, and should be dissolved and reformed into a loose federation of independent entities--seems to be growing beyond its original crankish enclaves. Indeed, it seems to be gaining attention in the media, and I'll admit that it holds a stong appeal for me, personally. After all: what could possibly be more American?

So: Must we forsake America in order to save it? Has the time come for a more nimble, fluid, syncretic, and humane form of statehood? An ecosystem of various governing models? A viral commonwealth? Or are such notions silly? Irresponsible? Downright dangerous?

Now obviously, countless pragmatic concerns immediately arise--but at the moment let's just play "what if": if you were to secede and claim yourself North American rather than American, what form of society would you try to establish? Can dissolving the union be done peacefully? Should there be a complete break, or a loosening of ties--an alliance rather than a federation?

Here's a recent article on the subject which might interest.

That said, I wish you all a lovely yule, and a happy solstice.

~W

Lady P and I recently attended a little party at our friends Mark and Audrey's cavernous top-floor loft in Philly's Northern Liberties. To many, their place would seem an urban El Dorado: a stylishly boho loft with huge arched windows that display a panoramic view of the city skyline with rooftop access for summer parties. All this for criminally cheap rent. Did I mention it has a swing?
( Have a seat, grab some mulled wine... )
Anyhoot...during our visit, Mark tossed this Wired article onto my lap concerning the phenomenon of what Clive Thompson calls "microcelebrity".

Microcelebrity. Now see, I've always thought that the word "notoriety" sufficed, but these days everything must sound vaguely technical to be deemed intellectually sexy enough to discuss--much like how many people prefer "biomorphic" to "organic". Perhaps it's apt in this case, since this particular kind of fame has technological implications--but I digress.

The article starts:

"Whenever Peter Hirshberg is at a party, someone eventually pulls out a camera and takes a snapshot with him in it. Hirshberg — chair of the executive committee at the blog-search company Technorati — performs a quick mental calculation: Does the photographer look like one of those people who will immediately dash home and post all their candids to Flickr? 'If I think it's going to end up on the Web, I straighten up more, try to smile the right way,' Hirshberg says. 'Because if it goes online, people I know will probably see it.'"

Further down, Clive Thompson lays out his definition of microcelebrity:

"Microcelebrity is the phenomenon of being extremely well known not to millions but to a small group — a thousand people, or maybe only a few dozen. As DIY media reach ever deeper into our lives, it's happening to more and more of us. Got a Facebook account? A whackload of pictures on Flickr? Odds are there are complete strangers who know about you — and maybe even talk about you."

This is akin to the mutated Waholian aphorism propagated by our man imomus back in the 90's: "In the future, everyone will be famous for fifteen people". He too has used and commented at length on this trend, even citing me as an example of this phenomenon in a Wired article he wrote earlier this year. In the article he paints a knowing, half-serious portrayal of me as a kind of postmodern huckster who has parlayed an obscure online journal into a book and film (although the role of cheeky impresario is irresistibly McClareneque, the sad truth is that my savvy agent is largely responsible). Momus' article is also an indictment/examination of his own self-mediation over the past twenty-five years, putting on masks and airs for fun and profit. This isn't to say that self-mediation must involve self-misrepresentation; if anything it involves self-distillation, bringing one's own native traits to the fore (for fun and profit). A commenter named "2fs" writes in response to his article:

"...Nick, I'm surprised that you'd say it's sometimes hard to tell where the man ends and the promotion-slash-image begins with Lord Whimsy. (Actually, I'm not surprised you'd say that. I'd be surprised if you believed it.) In fact, one of the most attractive things about "Lord Whimsy" is how very human, and humane, he/his persona is. I suspect that aspect of "Lord Whimsy" is a reflection of Allen Crawford's daily character...insofar as that character is separable from "Lord Whimsy" - but if I were wrong, if in life he were an arrogant asshole, would that make "Lord Whimsy" any less charming?"

The timing of this more recent article on microcelebrity seems a bit odd; this technology-fueled social phenomenon has been around for quite some time now, although it has certainly grown and intensified in recent years. We are all becoming more adept as self-mediators: It has become one of those necessary twenty-first century life skills, right up there with knowing a few key phrases of HTML or knowing how to put one's cell phone on vibrate mode. To quote Clive Thompson: "The truth is that people are developing interesting social skills to adapt to microfame. We're learning how to live in front of a crowd." In the words of Quentin Crisp, we've learned to "urinate with style".

That isn't to say it isn't problematic, of course. Abuse and misuse is inevitable in such nebulous regions. As stated in the article, "Corporations are getting humanized, and humans are getting corporatized." In this new environment, we are all in danger of becoming mere brands.

Obviously, I am a fairly conspicuous example of this phenomenon, which is why my friend Mark had brought the article to my attention in the first place. As an artist, designer and Illustrator, I've used my tools on myself; that said, even a narcissist needs a break from his mirror. In fact, I've almost deleted this journal several times over the years, wishing to recede back into my private little world again; but paradoxically, doing so would be even more narcissistic than posting endless portraits of myself in countless ensembles. What started out as a personal exercise has now become a social (possibly even a public) obligation; a role, a profession, an ideal which one must live up to. Some people are poets, priests, firemen, doctors, or professors. I'm a Whimsy.

Adopting a pen name which strongly suggests a persona doubtlessly puts off people who are suspicious of artifice--or those who simply haven't thought the matter through--but it has also proven very beneficial for many reasons, some of which are only apparent in hindsight. After spending years toying intuitively with such things, I've worked out what those benefits are. Below are three that come immediately to mind:

First, such a practice entertains readers and fans with its use of symbols, archetypes and expectations which evolve and grow in complexity as time goes on (more on this in a moment).

Second, it creates an aesthetic framework--a set of personal parameters to obey and violate, which makes for lively form and vigor.

Thirdly (and most importantly from a personal point of view), it provides a means of synthesis and self-transformation for those of us whose imaginations outstrip our realities. What starts out as crude two-dimensional shtick slowly becomes more subtle and multifaceted as one gradually occupies it, ultimately becoming the very thing one originally pretended to be. This process of changing from the outside in has been used by everyone from Julius Caesar to Groucho Marx. The mask eventually becomes the face; one wakes up one day to find that the piece of tape clinging to one's upper lip has become a moustache. Eventually, one finds he or she is hiding in plain sight.

For me, walking down the street once felt like a performance; but now, it feels more like a recital. I now feel quite at ease with the fact that others see Whimsy, because that's who I see as well. Indeed, what you see is now what you get: a failed dandy, passionate dabbler, and middle-aged weirdo.

Nevertheless, for those of us engaged in such enterprises, new pitfalls open under one's feet every day. My book was a commercial failure and thus rendered innocuous, but have I tripped a fatal snare with the film deal? Too early to say, although I'm sure there are those out there who feel they already know the eventual outcome. But from where I'm standing, things are quite murky but hopeful. We'll see.

I'll let Clive take us out:

"You could regard this as a sad development — the whole Brand Called You meme brought to its grim apotheosis. But haven't our lives always been a little bit public and stage-managed? Small-town living is a hotbed of bloglike gossip. Every time we get dressed — in power suits, nerdy casual wear, or goth-chick piercings — we're broadcasting a message about ourselves. Microcelebrity simply makes the social engineering we've always done a little more overt — and maybe a little more honest."

All too true.

Interesting to ponder such things while sitting in front of an array of huge windows with a chattering crowd over your shoulder.

~W

Visited the new Perelman wing of the Philadelphia Museum of Art yesterday, which concentrates on photography, costume, and design. Wonderful work I hadn't seen before--inflatable Italian furniture, embroidered gowns inspired by Cy Twombly, large color photos of colorful backyard "shrines" with taxidermed squirrels dead pigeons and stacks of fruit with cheap colored lights overhead.

Afterwards, I ascended to the rocky museum mount overlooking Boathouse Row and Fairmount Park. Below, among the bike paths and Beaux Arts marble waterworks along the river were a troop of willowy, white-clad ballerinas stretching and practicing their pas de deuxs--for what purpose I've no clue. Nearby were century-old trees, ornate fountains and throngs of people enjoying the gorgeous weather. "Here be Elysium", I thought.

Cornell and Baudelaire might have enjoyed it--the dress, rhythms of traffic and speech, body language--but the lot of a flaneur is a solitary one. To each, his own age.

~W

"...the stream of secession is fed by many American springs: the participatory democracy dreams of the New Left, the small-is-beautiful ethos of the greens, the traditional conservative suspicion (fading fast under the Bush eraser) of big government and remote bureaucracy, and that old-fashioned American blend of don’t-tread-on-me libertarianism with I’ll-give-you-the-shirt-off-my-back communalism."

“'This isn’t right or left,' said one advocate of an independent New Hampshire. Peaceful hippies, good-naturedly radical Vermonters, and anticorporate leftists broke bread with southern Christians and men wearing Confederate flag lapel pins, and the skies did not darken nor the earth crack. In fact, the most striking feature of the conference was that if an auditor closed his eyes and blocked out the accents, it was hard to tell who was the leftist and who was the arch-conservative."

"Were there fruits and nuts? Sure, a few. But just as cranks keep this country turning, so too are fruits and nuts a sapid alternative to Wonder Bread....If some secessionists are wool-gathering gnomes, the best of them are patriots in the truest sense: they cherish the music, literature, accents, agriculture, history, and quirks of their places."

"What we need, says Baldwin, is “homestead security”: sustainable agriculture, small shops, a revival of craftsmanship, local citizenship, communal spirit. The vision is one of self-government. Independence from the empire but interdependence at the grassroots. Neighborliness. The other American Dream."

So: is the new motto, "Divided we stand, united we fall"?

"Some people forget that we are saying something about ourselves every time we get dressed..."

(Thanks, Lisa!)

~W

apperception

.......

Part I:
The Ugliness of Society: A Polemic

It seems to me that if the general trend of our society--even in its most critical quarters -- is toward more rudeness and more ugliness--all done in the interest of being "casual", "free", "unpressured", "equal", etc.--then we're in a lot of trouble. If the society we're envisioning is one in which we can't even count upon people to behave properly, then what's the point in freeing them in the first place? If we're not going to address the pernicious leveling tendencies of our society that stamp out all forms of unique, radical, individual expression, then I'm not sure we're moving toward an alternative at all...

.......

Part II:
On the Virtues of Being Taut, High-Strung, Idealistic & Prissy; Or, Against the Dog-People

Rather than constantly being on the look-out for that which would make one look "pretentious" or "ridiculous", one should lie awake in bed every night choking with the terror that he has grown accustomed to accept with defeat and resignation what is merely contingent and could be flicked away with a finger.

Indignity is the enemy into which we must plunge our daggers, not audacity! Remain on the balls of your feet, and to hell with what other people think! No one judges you who will live forever anyway. Refuse to compromise! It's better to demand too much from the world and fail trying than to never have demanded enough.

Sad to read about how shoddy "luxuries" have become, but such things aren't really what I'd consider true luxury, anyway; it seems such "luxuries" are often desired by those who collect them simply because they are expensive, not because of their intrinsic qualities, like exquisite craftsmanship (turns out much of it isn't even well-made anymore, anyway).

I'm on shaky ground here, since I own bespoke suits and custom shirts made in Florence--I even have a velvet tie made by the same Roman workshop that makes the Pope's vestments, for Heaven's sake. But I don't consider such things luxuries as much as unjustifiable extravagances, or--if you can manage not to roll your eyes--"aesthetic equipment". A painter needs proper brushes, now doesn't he? And like me, a painter must often supplement his ambitious murals with less costly arte povera projects, like street sketches and junk collage. Thus, thrift. But both ends must be engaged if one is to properly show one's depth and breadth as an artiste: Too many murals and court portraits, and you're an unimaginative academician hack. Too many junk assemblages and you're a kooky outsider crank.

For me, luxury is mainly about time--time to exercise one's creativity, and to enjoy simple pleasures--"an exuberance of the mind, not the wallet". Any overpaid dolt can buy an Hermes bag, but how many have the time in the middle of a weekday to walk through the woods, read/write a book, or tend their gardens?

What Oscar said about people knowing "The price of everything, and the value of nothing", and all that.

So, what do you have that you'd consider a luxury?