I’d like to take a moment to discuss a subject very near and dear to my heart…
ME.
Now hear me out - I hope that this will actually inspire some thoughtful conversation about our socio-cultural and individualistic natures.
A bit of context for the unfamiliar - I was raised in a closed environment outside of traditional society, and once I became an adult I found that I preferred the familiarity of that cultural isolation. I rejected staples of global culture such as religion, mass media, and the majority of pop culture, (particularly its music). I had a great distaste for contemporary mass-produced goods and clothing. As I’ve mentioned before I left television, radio, magazines, newspapers and shopping in stores all behind nearly 20 years ago. Instead I became a cultural custodian and media archaeologist - digging for great cultural treasures and building an archive of the most inspiring works I could find. And when I did make a purchase, whether it be electronic, a book, LP, hi-fi equipment, or a textile product, I always sought out exceptional antiques, or enlisted an artisan to create it for me, or I built it myself.
Wardrobe is one of my favorite outlets of creative self-expression. The way a man dresses himself speaks volumes of his character. And socially, it identifies an affiliation with a facet of a particular subculture and its respective value set.
Cultural scholar Simon Reynolds summed it up exquisitely in his book, Retromania: Pop Culture’s Addiction to Its Own Past where he writes -
“Remember the Pop Boutique store in central London with its slogan 'Don't follow fashion. Buy something that's already out of date'? Just as vintage can have an undercurrent of recalcitrance towards fashion, similarly it is possible for rock nostalgia to contain dissident potential. If Time has become annexed by capitalism's cynical cycles of product shifting, one way to resist that is to reject temporality altogether. The revivalist does this by fixating on one era and saying: 'Here I make my stand.' By fixing identity to the absolute and abiding supremacy of one sound and one style, the revivalist says, ' This is me.'”
I’ve always opted for fantastical fashion - period clothing with a touch of class and a dramatic and extravagant flare. Now at 34, I have a respectable career where, thankfully, the CEO delights in my disco-era fashion and I am free to dress as I like (within reason) at the office.
But at this age, social circles dwindle and recede to a few life-long friendships. Former cohorts and fellow mischief-makers settle down and occupy themselves with more pressing matters like those of work and family. Curiously, I find my own social sphere expanding as of late. I am forming friendships with cafe owners, baristas, fellow scholars, artisans, and members of the residential cooperatives in my area. Whereas my world previously comprised only the 3 coworkers I encountered from my walks to and from the office, these new friendships have lured me from my curmudgeonly hobbit hole and given me a glimpse of society for the first time in decades. I’m becoming a mainstay at area haunts like used book shops, antique shops, cafes, and at a local diner.
And this is where the problem is presented. Unfamiliar with contemporary fashion trends, I performed a brief survey of modern-day apparel and quickly warmed up to the comfortable, relaxed, but artistically-savvy stylings of the NYC metrosexual neo-bohemian. The style incorporates characteristics of the shabby-chic gypsy, the California boho artist, and the intellectual sensibility and literate edginess of Ginsberg-era hipster culture. This was certainly something I could get behind.
Unfortunately, like all subcultures, the laymen distilled the essence of the neo-hip to a laughable, haughty, post-postmodern rejection of all things mainstream, heavily-doused in ironic cynicism. (Though really… have I not been guilty of precisely that practice for the last 20 years?) Paradoxically, my incorporation of knit caps, thick glasses, and genital-suffocating trousers is perhaps the ultimate act of irony - an individualist’s sacrifice of his own identity at the altar of social-belonging.
I wish it were so simple to say, “to hell with the masses!” and to disregard their foregone conclusions of the nature of my character. The impediment so squarely fixed in my path is that I am not the island I fetishize in my utopian dreams. There are unequivocal consequences to the inability of others to take a man seriously. What uniform, then, might one don if he wishes to walk free from such criticism?
Perhaps the dilemma is purely etymological. For a man to champion individualism with his attire, and to visually assert freethought and intellectualism, the error is in the word, “uniform” itself. By its very definition, enrobing oneself in (effectively) the flag of another cultural subset is directly antithetical to the value of the individual.
It would appear that my engagement in fashion extremes (like the costumes of my last 20 years) works to undermine my present goal of meshing with society while retaining my unique identity. The trick would be to concoct a subtle and smart blend of nuanced characteristics from each of the microcosms of culture that I favor. Complementary accessories, colors, fabrics, and footwear which speak to the world in a rich and refined tone, rather than to shout at it from the sidelines.
It is an intriguing challenge, which I shall embrace fully in the months ahead. I am fulfilling my destiny to become… the Meta-Hipster.
