One of the enduring images of modernism in the modern age is that of a
cliquey youth cult with a ruthless panel of judges by every dancefloor and
entrance. The novice believes that they will find themselves exposed to a
barrage of critical gazes as they make their first faltering steps toward
style.
Permit me an observation, gleaned at a rather shoddy London niterie
recently. It was a dressy affair, and yet lacking in any real personal
style. The air was thick with self-consciousness. There was not much fun to
be had.
But all the critical gazes present seemed to point inwards. Rather than
spending their time critiquing the young and poorly dressed many there
seemed more concerned with their own selves. Not dancing to the wrong
record, not spoiling anything by relaxing or having fun. Rather than
concentrating on the shoes of their neighbour, most were happy (or not)
scrutinizing their own.
The point being that there is no panel of judges electing the right trouser
length or right record. That panel is a manifestation of dozens of peoples
personal anxieties. It's the collective fear of all present. It's all in the
mind of the beholders.
Kind of like the id monster in Forbidden Planet.
Anyway, I suppose in the final instance the idea of a panel of critics
raises standards. But after a while age begins to make the whole construct
look stupid and you realise that an exacting set of personal standards are
more rewarding than a bogus notion of what is or isn't acceptable to an
invisble standards committee.
So after half an hour of watching people watching their shoes we hied it
down to the hundred club where folk are down with their own bad selves and
their own bad shoes.
In conclusion, a petty swipe:
Paul said:
>Now Matt - you're taking it the wrong way.... I was not meaning to be
>offensive to such people (ie. 90% of my friends)
90%? Do me several favours guv. I'm not falling for this implied large group
of friends guff. 90% of 1?
James
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