I am sitting in bed in my sun-lit Manhattan apartment next to my sleeping boyfriend, working on the design for a literary magazine.
Listen, I know that the tirade about hipsters is a tired subject in modern journalism (once the Times covers skinny jeans[1] as a trend you know it has been buried in the ground and had its grave jumped upon), but living in the hub of the New York hipster scene I feel compelled to at least address the subject. My beef with the group of people who associate themselves with what can hardly be called a movement (considering there are no principles attached to the trends as there were with, say, original hippies or punk kids or even yuppies [if working a lot and making money can be called principles]) is not the oft-referenced claim that they are “posers” or phonies (if we’re going to get all Holden Caulfield about it). Honestly, I don’t give a shit. Don’t care. If you wanted to run around posing as a donkey with a hemp tail or a quail with a purple feather on your head, I would be offended just as much (read: not at all; although I would certainly be more amused at those two things than I am at dispassionate, bored twenty-somethings in loud clothing and ugly hats).
The main problem I have is not with the lack of principles displayed by these kids, it’s their lack of originality. I am honestly sick of having to see people file down the street, one after another, all in the same flannel shirt or stupid “vintage” boots, or oversized glasses, or overpriced, sweatshop-free lame’ somethingorother. Yes, it’s sort of vapid for me to complain about the aesthetics of this group when there are so many other issues with it outside of the sartorial realm[2], but I feel like this is one thing that hasn’t been addressed by countless of other complaining bloggers. I have a relatively humble level of knowledge about fashion (I guess more than most people considering I am at least partly in the business as a part-time photographer), but I was pretty sure that one thing I understood about it was that it was fickle and unapologetically un-accepting of the bland and already-been-done. Aren’t hipsters, by the nature of their definition, supposed to strive to be “hip” by trying to stay original and outdo one another in terms of quality of their outfits? Doesn’t all wearing the same thing go against everything they should be trying to do (which is, as even Merriam Webster knows6, to be “unusually aware of and interested in new and unconventional patterns”)?
Hipsters, though, from what I have seen in them thur magazine printy-thing-ma-bobs, are not embraced by the fashion world at-large. There are hardly any hipsters (in the Williamsburg proper sense) in Vogue (Chloë Sevigny does not count; she was always weird and I ascribe that to her personality and not to the current fashion trends), and it is likely for that reason that hipsters indeed care only about feeding into a certain prescribed list of what one may wear (any stupidly high-waisted shorts from the 90s[3] that you were embarrassed to see your mother in when she dropped you off to second grade) or may not wear (anything velour, which is actually a decision that I can stand behind [sorry, Jersey]). Indeed, these are the kids who, when I went to high school with them, wore Abercrombie and Fitch and would scoff at a pair of Doc Martens or anything not polo and/or pink. American Apparel and Urban Outfitters, though not necessarily to blame for the epidemic (I get that they’re businesses and want to make money off of the people stupid enough to consistently frequent their overpriced racks[4]), are really just reincarnated versions of the previously safe shopping options from the 90s, the preppy crap of yore, so to speak.
Look, I get it; certain people use trends in order to hide behind their lack of originality or fear of straying from the herd[5]. I guess I can hypothetically stand behind something that will lessen people’s therapy costs, I just don’t want to be subjected to staring at it, and only it, every time I walk to my apartment. These kids are incorrectly dubbed hipsters considering the definition of the term[6]. I suggest a return to the foregone “scenester” or even “trendster,” or perhaps a complete riddance of the scene and a re-emergence of originality so that we don’t have to make up bullshit social terms and spend time complaining about them on our blogs. I mean, come on, I have a Black Lips concert to get to and something high-waisted and shiny to squeeze myself into. I don’t have time for this.
[1] http://www.nytimes.com/2006/05/04/fashion/thursdaystyles/04SKINNY.html
[2] And even within; the fact that everyone insists upon buying mass-produced clothing and supporting large conglomerations with poor business practices who exploit their workers and sell overpriced crap that would not even last the season if it were not already going to be thrown out for being out of style
[3] Another interesting point: that these kids, those in my generation, are coming of age and trying to do what every generation ever has done: relive their childhood (which, considering that these people are hardly ever over 26, was likely mostly experienced in the late 80s and early-to-mid 90s)
[4] tee hee, overpriced racks
[5] Or for intimidation’s sake, I guess. I went to the nauseatingly swanky hotel bar Tribeca Grand yesterday and was amused by the hierarchy of the situation. Not only was everyone so concerned with glaring at anyone who stepped within ten feet of themselves to make sure that they were cool enough to be in such proximity to them (because, really, there’s no other reason for everyone in the room to be giving my too-ghetto-to-be-there friend and I the stare-down when we walked in), when we sat down at the table of painfully trendy people who were purportedly supposed to be friendly to us, we got the same glare-down. (I wish you guys could have seen the grand poobah of the table, some party promoter who looked as though he had never seen the light of day [but certainly could see every pore on your face considering how large his glasses and intense his stare were]).
[6] http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/hipster
Hello blogland,
It’s been terribly rainy and unseasonable lately, so I figured that I would check in and write about some things. There have really been more experiences in the past month than I can even remember without prodding (I really spend more time being angry with myself for not recording them than I do actually putting down the memories), but I’ll make a full-assed (why doesn’t anyone ever use that term? Isn’t it as graphic and weird as half-assed?) attempt to let you know what my first half of living in Williamsburg has been like.
The weather of the past few weeks has just been awful, so I’ve been spending a lot of time inside the apartment reading books (the terror that is introductory college English [Literature Humanities, for you core-loving folk] made me forget how much I truly love poring over a book and engrossing myself inside its world). I’ve been getting outside every chance I get, though, and spent a good hour before interning yesterday basking in Central Park and enjoying Suze Rotolo’s A Freewheelin’ Time, her memoir about her years dating Bob Dylan. I can’t say that I was ever particularly into Bob Dylan, but the world that she described in the book (Greenwich Village in the 1960s) made me realize just why so many people in every post-60s generation are engrossed with the period.
I also recently came back from a trip to Canada to see my sister, brother-in-law, nieces, and nephew and revel in the cuteness that is little children. It was a really enjoyable trip (the kids were relatively well-behaved the whole time, which is impressive for three kids in the one to four year-old set) and I got a few really choice soundbites out of the little ones:
(I recently [well, within the last year or so] got quite a few piercings, and could notice when I was sitting on the couch with my oldest niece, J, her clearly looking up at my septum and nostril rings.) Me: What are you looking at? (not angrily, more like I knew something amusing would come of asking) J: Um… (very diplomatically looks away and up at the photographs on the wall behind me) At the photos mom took! See? (looks outside) And it’s raining!
(At the zoo, my two nieces [J, age 4, and E, who’s almost 3], sister, and I crammed into a single handicapped stall to make “potty time” easier. The kids went to the bathroom and my sister sat down to do likewise, at which point J says [quite loudly in a public bathroom, might I add]:) MOM, I CAN SEE YOUR VAGINA! (pause) I love you.
Needless to say, it was an amusing five days.
Before that, back in New York, I spent a lot of time exploring Brooklyn and downtown Manhattan, an area that I am unfortunately quite robbed of spending time in because University is so far Uptown (I know it doesn’t sound like such a schlep, but it’s hard to find time to make the forty or so minute trip down to the Village when you’re drowning in homework). Lovely Rena (meter maaaaaaaaaaaaaid) came in from New Jersey to visit me and we spent some time at our favorite non-carding bar, Heartland Brewery in Union Square (I know it’s expensive, but they have really nice beers that they brew in house. Can’t really beat that with a cheap Japanese restaurant, eh? Okay, so maybe you can. Shush.), after which we stopped to listen to a man playing accordion and a woman accompanying him with her lovely voice. We danced around tipsily and, after listening to their whole set, decided to go sit on the stairs of Union Square near the now disappeared Virgin Store (anyone know what’s going to take its place?). A bit later, quite unexpectedly, they came up behind us and introduced themselves (by inscribing it on my knuckles) as “Projekt Hex,” hailing from Germany. We had a really lovely conversation about their travels and experiences in New York, and were soon joined by a number of other buskers, including an aging breakdancer (“I’m older than you think I am; I was here before all of these young kids got their start!”) and a somewhat socially awkward, albeit kind, magician. Rena began talking to a crackhead who had sat down next to her (smoking a crack pipe in public, no less, although time was moving quickly into the early hours of the morning) about politics, and we gradually all separated.
The internship is going well; I’ve been enjoying doing various odd jobs (graphic design, mostly) for the Neo-Futurists, and am glad that I’ve been able to get into their shows for free. I’ve been unable to find a second job, though, and have been sort of stressing about that. Ah well, c’est la (shitty) economie, no?
July should be a good month; there are a bunch of free concerts in Williamsburg and I’m expecting better weather than that which characterized June (although today doesn’t really set a great precedent for that, although it has sort of lightened up in the time that I’ve been writing this post). There’s also a potential photo project coming up for a Syracuse student-run magazine, which is random but should be fun. What I’m really hoping for is that I’ll be able to start writing fiction again. For some reason that I haven’t quite discovered—self-consciousness, lack of confidence, or otherwise—I have been creatively stifled recently to the point where if I even think about writing I want to run away screaming. It’s extremely disheartening, but I guess that considering how prolific I had been throughout high school it was bound to happen. I know it will pass, I’m just trying to get it to do so more quickly than it would if I just sat on my ass and pouted about it.
Speaking of sitting on my ass and pouting, I’ve been having some oddly major life-shifting dilemmas lately. I don’t want to turn this into a therapy session because I know you don’t necessarily want to read it (and, to be honest, I don’t necessarily want to spill my little nineteen-year-old guts out to a public audience, no matter how small it may be), but I just feel like I’m at a crossroads in my life and don’t necessarily know which way to go. To be honest it almost feels like puberty all over again, which is bizarre but the most appropriate description that I can ascribe to it. I just feel sort of aimless and am having a weird longing to share that aimlessness with someone. I’ll be honest and admit that reading Rotolo’s book didn’t help much (“why can’t I be with someone exciting and intellectually stimulating like Bob Dylan?”), but I don’t entirely know how to deal with this sort of situation. I’m actually going to stop talking about it, because it’s just making me feel awkward and despondent.
Also, I have a mosquito bite on the middle section of my right pinky. What are the chances of that?
Let's just skip past the requisite returning-to-my-blog nostalgia and apologies; I left, now I'm back, let's resume from where we left off. I guess I didn't write much about my freshman year of college, which is something I regret in theory but not in practice (considering I never really had much free time, and the free minutes I did have I certainly did not want to spend cooped up in my dorm room on my computer). I actually had a really excellent time in school these past few months, made some great friends and learned some really valuable things. And now that summer is here, I will be working with the New York Neo-Futurists in the East Village as a Managing Director Intern, and hopefully getting some writing done for the first time in at least a semester. I've also moved out of my parent's house in New Jersey and am living in Williamsburg, Brooklyn (in what my landlord described as the "proper, ungentrified" part that is supposed to give me "street cred" or something).
We walkied through Highland Park today... enjoyed great food and music!
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The weather reached the low 80s today. We decided to take advantage of the beautiful, sunny day and drove to Webster Park. There were lots of families there having picnics, fishing, wading in the Lake... and even a guy juggling! There were lots of dogs there, too. What a great way to enjoy the day... and no fighting hours of traffic!
Left for work this morning and caught this beautiful sight...
I'm so excited to announce that a book of my drawings is being published and will be released in April. Yes, that's next month!
It's 144 pages, full colour, hard cover. It's being published by teNeues, the venerable art, architecture, and photography book publisher. Serious Drawings is how I've unofficially labeled my work for a while now, and seems like a pretty good title.
I took a bunch of photos of the proofs from the printer and put them on my blog. Get a sneak peek here.
I had a Reuben sandwich and a mystery green punch for lunch today. Happy St. Patrick's Day!
Our friend JBM was in town for the weekend for a visit. One of our stops was Casa Larga, where we also opted for the tour...
