This is a clip from the movie Best in Show. In this clip, a young couple named Hamilton and Meg Swan explain how they first met at different Starbucks establishments (across the street from one another) and knew that they were right for each other because they had similar consumption habits.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lQKdEdzHnfU
Here is one of my favorite parts of the scene:
Meg Swan: [Meg and Hamilton are talking about how they met at Starbucks] One day Hamilton gathered his courage and approached me...
Hamilton Swan: I remember, I was drinking a grande espresso.
Meg Swan: I know, and I remember I thought that was really sexy. I was drinking cappuccinos... then I switched over to lattes... now it's double espresso macchiato...
Hamilton Swan: These days I'm a big chai tea/soymilk kind of guy.
Meg Swan: [gravely] Because of the lactose. You're lactose-intolerant now.
One of the reasons why this scene was so funny to me was because, although it is obviously a parody of Starbucks faith and fanaticism (before it became uncool to patronize Starbucks), to be defined by your Starbucks order was not uncommon among the girls at my high school. At another point in the scene, Hamilton explains how surprised he was when he looked over to see that Meg was reading a J. Crew catalog, because at the time he was such a “huge J. Crew person” himself. Although we laugh at Hamilton for loading a small event with such undue significance, we do the same thing ourselves only too often. Bonding over similar consumption habits is easy to do, and often corporations themselves do all they can to encourage a feeling of community and exclusivity among their consumers. Here’s an example from an email I received from the clothing company Anthropologie: “It’s great to be an anthro gal - especially when we’re offering you (and you only!) 30% off all ornaments now through December 8. Simply show your anthro I.D. at checkout. So what are you waiting for? Deck those halls, lady!”
Thinking about catalogs was what originally brought this clip from Best in Show to my mind. When it comes to shopping for clothes, I usually prefer to visit brick-and-mortar stores rather than order online or through the mail, but one thing I’ve always liked to do since I was little is look through catalogs. At home, this was quite easy to do, as my parents were always receiving catalogues in the mailbox from retailers they had previously bought things from. One distinct memory I have is of a particular catalog that sold novelty and “vintage” items like jukeboxes, dollhouses, and grandfather clocks. I absolutely loved this catalog and carried it around with me everywhere. I was about six at the time, and while I didn’t have any use for about 95% of the goods advertised in the catalog, I could have recited the item descriptions from memory and used it often when playing “mall” with my friends. However, if anyone had asked me at the time to name one thing in the catalog that I truly wanted, I wouldn’t have been able to do it. I much preferred the idea of the things themselves all in a group.
Maybe I knew, on some subconscious level, that actually going through the process of ordering the items would only lead to disappointment, but I doubt that I was such a cynical six-year-old. I think rather that I was able, at that age, to fully believe in the Myth of Stuff - the idea that owning lots of interesting things can transform you into a better version of yourself. And by carrying that catalog around with me, I was able to channel that belief in a small way. Because I had had very little experience in buying things for myself at that age, that belief didn’t ultimately translate to me becoming a complete retail junkie. However, even today, after taking this class and becoming more aware of the deeper sociological meanings behind consumption and people’s shopping habits, I enjoy thinking about material goods and occasionally find myself believing in the promises behind them, even if I don’t shop as much as some of my peers do.
Here at Williams, one of the first stops I always make whenever I visit Paresky is the mailroom, where I first check my mailbox and then stop by the table of catalogs. Now that the holiday season is upon us, the amount of catalogues advertising “Great gift ideas!” and “Special deals and unbelievable sales!” has increased greatly, and like the sucker I am, I always end up taking away at least three different ones, usually, as it turns out, from J. Crew. J. Crew is certainly one of the best retailers out there in terms of communicating a lifestyle and image that goes along with its products, and although it mass-produces its clothing just like any well-known retail chain, it tries to create an air of exclusivity and “bespoke” by emphasizing the craft stories behind their clothes and charging higher prices than one would expect for a simple wool cable sweater.
For example, on one page advertising a coat in the new Holiday 2008 issue of J. Crew, the blurb on the side reads as follows: “If You Only Knew… this isn’t just any old double-cloth. It’s made by Lanerie Tempesti, an 80-year-old Italian mill known for its incredible wools. We loved their work so much we asked them to make this fabric especially for us. We know a good thing when we see it.” Sure, the coat might be mass-produced by J. Crew factories, and by buying it you’re not really being unique at all, as thousands of other people will probably purchase it as well. BUT: it’s not just any old double-cloth coat; it’s a coat with a story behind it. I read that paragraph and smiled knowingly to myself (“Ohoho, you J. Crew scoundrels! I, knowledgeable young student that I am, know better and will refuse to buy your $300 coat - not because I can’t afford to, although I really can’t, but because I refuse to buy into the myth that I will become a classier individual if I do get it!”), but at the same time, I found myself thinking longingly of the rolling hills of Tuscany, and somehow that became connected with my image of the coat.
After a while, I couldn’t help but deconstruct all of the pages of the J. Crew catalog, which, though fun for a while, only depressed me in the end. I put the catalog away, and began to wonder if learning more about consumerism in this class had completely taken any joy out of the act of shopping for me.
I decided in the end that this true, but only to a certain extent. Although learning about the ideology behind consumerism and the corporate trends of conformity used to perpetuate shopping habits certainly made me rethink my individual decisions as a consumer, being able to deconstruct ads and think critically about consumption had made me realize that joy, in terms of shopping, had never entered the picture in the first place. I can still take pleasure in a smart buy, or in purchasing gifts for friends or family, but I believe that part of “smart shopping” is the realization that consumerism is not, and should not, become the end-all, be-all to our needs and qualms about ourselves and everyday living. You can admire the color and cut of a high-quality coat, but in the end, you are good enough to get along without it.
To quote from another great movie, here’s Tyler Durden from Fight Club talking about the meaning of a duvet: “It's a blanket. Just a blanket. Now why do guys like you and me know what a duvet is? Is this essential to our survival, in the hunter-gatherer sense of the word? No.”
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
A simpler holiday season
Recently I came across this article in the New York Times Style Section. http://www.nytimes.com/2008/11/30/fashion/30laidoff.html?ref=fashion
Titled, “The Holidays Downsized: No Job and Fewer Gifts,” the article discusses a form of downshifting similar to what Juliet Schor explores in The Overspent American. In her book, Schor interviewed several people who, due to changed circumstances such as a dramatically reduced income or being laid off, were forced to change their spending and lifestyle habits, eventually scaling back significantly. Eating out became less common for these people, as well as vacations to the Caribbean, impulsive shopping purchases, and throwing extravagant parties. Some of the people Schor interviewed “made do” by substituting their previous purchases with other, cheaper ones (i.e. limiting family vacations to the annual summer Cape Cod trip, instead of going to Paris for Christmas), whereas others simply did without.
In her book Schor makes the distinction between downshifting, which usually resulted from changes in outside factors, and voluntary simplicity, which is just what it sounds like – people deciding to make their lives “simpler” by consuming less, thinking more about their consumption habits, emphasizing happiness from spiritual and family values rather than material goods, etc. The people interviewed for the New York Times article are examples of downshifting, as they are deciding to cut back on their usual holiday practices in light of the economic recession. Susan McCabe, for example, used to treat her friends and family for Christmas, going “all out” with gifts like “high-end cameras for adults, Nintendo Wii for the children” and “proudly treat[ing] the immediate family to dinner at romantic white tablecloth restaurants in Manhattan.” However, when her company failed and she lost her job, she found that she was struggling to pay the rent on her apartment, let alone treat her family to the traditional Christmas Eve dinner and expensive presents.
Even those who were not affected as directly by the recession are cutting back on their spending and party habits “in solidarity,” “out of unaccustomed need and shame,” or “prudent apprehension.” Even for those who may not have been as hard-hit by the economic downturn are aware that spending extravagant amounts on holiday preparations this season might be seen as gauche, risky, and awkward for friends and relatives who were affected adversely.
I thought the tone of the article was very interesting, as the author clearly sympathized with the downshifters but was also straining to keep a relatively light-hearted spin on the events: “Many people have a narrative about their holiday rituals: the worship, the setting, the food, the gifts, the personae, the drama. But this year, the economy is rudely tearing apart those yellowed scripts.” This personification of the economy as a rude, Grinchlike interruption on the time-honored traditions of these poor (both figuratively and literally for some) families seemed to be an attempt at undercutting the otherwise popular image of the economic recession as an immediate crisis. The article instead focused on the little, individual things that we can all do to cut down on costs for the holiday season, as was made clear by the following: “But Hanukkah, Christmas, Kwanzaa and New Year’s all honor light in a dark season. Perhaps that is why people around the country, in describing how they are adjusting celebrations this year, speak of finding the upbeat in the downbeat — at least until the last scrap of wrapping paper is tossed.”
It was clear that for some, cutting back on Christmas this year was only temporary as a case of short-term downshifting – or at least people like Carl Sartori hope so. Mr. Sartori, a marketing and advertising manager from Bloomfield, NJ, had always made a tradition of throwing “joyously over-the-top celebrations” and buying lots of presents for the holidays. However, after being laid off in October, Thanksgiving dinner at Mr. Sartori’s was much simpler, with a free turkey and ham from savings coupons. However, when asked by New York Times reporters how he felt about these changes to his holiday traditions, he made it clear that “This year is just a stumble” and that “Wretched excess will make a comeback…‘I’ll double up next year.’” If Mr. Sartori were hypothetically to invite Ms. Schor to one of his famous Christmas parties after bouncing back from his losses this year, I can only imagine the field day she’d have with him. “Merely the substitution of genuine family and holiday spirit with blatant materialism,” I can picture her sniffing as hordes of children descend on the wrapping paper with glee.
Schor would certainly approve, however, of others who are “recasting these pared-down celebrations as a return to the true meaning of the holiday,” and believe that “the changes they were making this year were not detours, but new roads.” Returning to one’s roots and emphasizing family traditions, as well as homemade gifts and home-cooked meals, have all become part of this new movement towards a simpler holiday season. Although it certainly can be mortifying for someone like the Sioux Falls, S.D. grandmother interviewed for the article to have to forgo giving Christmas gifts to the grandchildren, maintaining the old and relatively inexpensive traditions of family, food, and togetherness can be a source of comfort, inspiration, and security in the troubled economic times. And although many parents are afraid that gift deprivation this holiday season will send their children into fits of despair, it should be noted that having an over-the-top Christmas wasn’t always the norm and that, in the words of New York therapist Evan Imber-Black, children can be given “a sense of plentifulness in a different way than gifts under the tree” such as an increased emphasis on traditions or family gifts.
Honesty, simplicity, and gifts that have more meaning than monetary value attached to them – although the title of the article was “The Holidays Downsized,” renewed emphasis of these once-standard values doesn’t really seem like downsizing at all to me. Just as Schor notes in The Overspent American, being forced to downshift can lead, in the end, to greater appreciation of the things you do have, rather than a continual yearning for more material goods.
Titled, “The Holidays Downsized: No Job and Fewer Gifts,” the article discusses a form of downshifting similar to what Juliet Schor explores in The Overspent American. In her book, Schor interviewed several people who, due to changed circumstances such as a dramatically reduced income or being laid off, were forced to change their spending and lifestyle habits, eventually scaling back significantly. Eating out became less common for these people, as well as vacations to the Caribbean, impulsive shopping purchases, and throwing extravagant parties. Some of the people Schor interviewed “made do” by substituting their previous purchases with other, cheaper ones (i.e. limiting family vacations to the annual summer Cape Cod trip, instead of going to Paris for Christmas), whereas others simply did without.
In her book Schor makes the distinction between downshifting, which usually resulted from changes in outside factors, and voluntary simplicity, which is just what it sounds like – people deciding to make their lives “simpler” by consuming less, thinking more about their consumption habits, emphasizing happiness from spiritual and family values rather than material goods, etc. The people interviewed for the New York Times article are examples of downshifting, as they are deciding to cut back on their usual holiday practices in light of the economic recession. Susan McCabe, for example, used to treat her friends and family for Christmas, going “all out” with gifts like “high-end cameras for adults, Nintendo Wii for the children” and “proudly treat[ing] the immediate family to dinner at romantic white tablecloth restaurants in Manhattan.” However, when her company failed and she lost her job, she found that she was struggling to pay the rent on her apartment, let alone treat her family to the traditional Christmas Eve dinner and expensive presents.
Even those who were not affected as directly by the recession are cutting back on their spending and party habits “in solidarity,” “out of unaccustomed need and shame,” or “prudent apprehension.” Even for those who may not have been as hard-hit by the economic downturn are aware that spending extravagant amounts on holiday preparations this season might be seen as gauche, risky, and awkward for friends and relatives who were affected adversely.
I thought the tone of the article was very interesting, as the author clearly sympathized with the downshifters but was also straining to keep a relatively light-hearted spin on the events: “Many people have a narrative about their holiday rituals: the worship, the setting, the food, the gifts, the personae, the drama. But this year, the economy is rudely tearing apart those yellowed scripts.” This personification of the economy as a rude, Grinchlike interruption on the time-honored traditions of these poor (both figuratively and literally for some) families seemed to be an attempt at undercutting the otherwise popular image of the economic recession as an immediate crisis. The article instead focused on the little, individual things that we can all do to cut down on costs for the holiday season, as was made clear by the following: “But Hanukkah, Christmas, Kwanzaa and New Year’s all honor light in a dark season. Perhaps that is why people around the country, in describing how they are adjusting celebrations this year, speak of finding the upbeat in the downbeat — at least until the last scrap of wrapping paper is tossed.”
It was clear that for some, cutting back on Christmas this year was only temporary as a case of short-term downshifting – or at least people like Carl Sartori hope so. Mr. Sartori, a marketing and advertising manager from Bloomfield, NJ, had always made a tradition of throwing “joyously over-the-top celebrations” and buying lots of presents for the holidays. However, after being laid off in October, Thanksgiving dinner at Mr. Sartori’s was much simpler, with a free turkey and ham from savings coupons. However, when asked by New York Times reporters how he felt about these changes to his holiday traditions, he made it clear that “This year is just a stumble” and that “Wretched excess will make a comeback…‘I’ll double up next year.’” If Mr. Sartori were hypothetically to invite Ms. Schor to one of his famous Christmas parties after bouncing back from his losses this year, I can only imagine the field day she’d have with him. “Merely the substitution of genuine family and holiday spirit with blatant materialism,” I can picture her sniffing as hordes of children descend on the wrapping paper with glee.
Schor would certainly approve, however, of others who are “recasting these pared-down celebrations as a return to the true meaning of the holiday,” and believe that “the changes they were making this year were not detours, but new roads.” Returning to one’s roots and emphasizing family traditions, as well as homemade gifts and home-cooked meals, have all become part of this new movement towards a simpler holiday season. Although it certainly can be mortifying for someone like the Sioux Falls, S.D. grandmother interviewed for the article to have to forgo giving Christmas gifts to the grandchildren, maintaining the old and relatively inexpensive traditions of family, food, and togetherness can be a source of comfort, inspiration, and security in the troubled economic times. And although many parents are afraid that gift deprivation this holiday season will send their children into fits of despair, it should be noted that having an over-the-top Christmas wasn’t always the norm and that, in the words of New York therapist Evan Imber-Black, children can be given “a sense of plentifulness in a different way than gifts under the tree” such as an increased emphasis on traditions or family gifts.
Honesty, simplicity, and gifts that have more meaning than monetary value attached to them – although the title of the article was “The Holidays Downsized,” renewed emphasis of these once-standard values doesn’t really seem like downsizing at all to me. Just as Schor notes in The Overspent American, being forced to downshift can lead, in the end, to greater appreciation of the things you do have, rather than a continual yearning for more material goods.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Cultural consumption and irony
This past summer, while riding around in a friend's car on the way to another friend's house, the well-known David Bowie/Queen collaboration song "Under Pressure" came on the stereo. As the familiar bass line intro kicked in, my friend jokingly remarked that humming this part of the song while conversing with a stranger is one way to judge what kind of person they are: if the other person responds to the bass line with the words "Ice, ice, baby!" (in the words of rapper Vanilla Ice's 1990 hit single), it's an indication that they, obviously, have no soul.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xtrEN-YKLBM (Under Pressure)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vp-is6S_b_g&feature=related (Ice Ice Baby)
My friend was alluding to a bit of controversy that arose when Vanilla Ice's "Ice Ice Baby" was first released. At the time, Vanilla Ice, aka Rob Van Winkle, claimed that he owned no royalties for using the bass line that introduces the song, even though it was virtually identical to the intro of "Under Pressure," which had been released earlier in 1981. Later on, Van Winkle settled out of court, and songwriting credits were given to David Bowie and the members of Queen.
This was one of the first things that came to mind when we were discussing the idea of cultural condescension and capital in class the other day. Among most pop culture aficionados, it's agreed that "Under Pressure" is a much better song than "Ice Ice Baby," and I doubt you'd find any who would argue that Vanilla Ice's body of work is musically superior to that of Queen or David Bowie (this is evident in the fact that the name Vanilla Ice is practically synonymous with one-hit wonder, whereas Queen and David Bowie have had many hits to their respective names and continue to be appreciated after the 90s).
My friend was, of course, joking at the time, as there could be any number of flaws or exceptions to this "rule." However, assuming that you encountered a person who was likely to be familiar with both "Under Pressure" and "Ice Ice Baby," humming this infamous intro and asking them to respond to it might actually be a somewhat valid means of obtaining a snap judgment of their character, or at least their taste in music. As we also discussed in class, modernity and the increasing prevalence and importance of the Spectacle to our lives have decreased the amount of time we have to get to know others, as well as make ourselves known to others. Consequently, we're more likely to turn to outside manifestations of personality such as wardrobe choices, CD collections, Facebook profiles, and iTunes playlists. We can bemoan the fact that our judgment of others has become limited to such seemingly superficial indicators, but I personally believe that this turn of events, although certainly not the best and most comprehensive way to get to know someone, is a legitimate and almost inevitable result of the "fast" times we live in nowadays. It's certainly an efficient one at that.
"But where do you draw the line?" I found myself wondering after our class's discussion. When does simple aesthetic criticism of a work translate to mere snobbery and putting-down of other people due to a lack of shared interests? And where does irony fit into this? On Friday nights when my friends and I do not feel like braving the cold to go outside, we discuss (and occasionally argue over) what movie to watch. It's usually a battle of wills between the side that wants a "movie that's actually good" and the side that wants to watch a more "fun" but probably less critically acclaimed movie like American Pie or The Bride of Chucky. And usually the case is that the latter faction, while certainly capable of enjoying the works of an Ingmar Bergman or an Alfred Hitchcock, would prefer, at that moment, to watch a movie that did not require much thinking or active appreciation. This is also the thought process I go through if I opt to watch a formulaic comfort movie like You've Got Mail (a predictable romantic comedy starring Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks that I've loved since I was 12) over Bergman's The Seventh Seal, which was widely acknowledged by "serious critics" and high art appreciators to be a cinematic masterpiece, etc. Another possibility is that a movie like the 1998 Godzilla, which was nominated for 5 Golden Raspberry (Razzie - like the Anti-Oscar) Awards, including Worst Picture, Worst Director, Worst Supporting Actress, Worst Screenplay, and Worst Remake or Sequel, might be enjoyed by viewers who only want ironically appreciate it and poke fun at its low-quality, terrible, or cheesy elements.
There is a definite distinction between a movie that one knows is not artistically superior but enjoys in spite of its flaws (for sentimental, comfort, or nostalgic value, like You've Got Mail) and a movie that is bad and is enjoyed because it is bad (for example, the notorious Showgirls, a movie starring Elizabeth Berkeley of "Saved By the Bell" fame as a stripper-turned-Vegas-showgirl, garnered a cult following despite dismal box office ratings because of its laughably bad overacting, cheesy sets, poor screenplay, and general terribleness). People can take pleasure in a bad move because by laughing at it, they are automatically elevating themselves.
But can ironic appreciation of a bad movie translate to genuine cultural enjoyment and enrichment? In "The Price of Irony," political theorist Benjamin Barber says no: "The dirty little secret of the ironist is of course that irony is always parasitic and can exist only by virtue of the earnestness it takes such pleasure in annihilating. Like sentiment, which has been called unearned emotion, the new irony is a form of unearned skepticism. It creates nothing of its own but waits to ambush moral purpose, to play havoc with common sense, to deny reason its moment. The only stand it takes is that there is no stand to be taken, so neither the author nor the audience has to take one." In this sense, irony can be seen as the ultimate cop-out; it only exists in order to poke fun at something else, and therefore it takes no risks and has no meaning outside of the thing it is making fun of. Another point that Barber makes is that "The ironic bystander (the phrase is redundant) is the citizen's jeering nemesis and the poet's wily shadow trying to make sure that truth and beauty and goodness, those stalwarts of the world before it was disenchanted, do not re-infect the postmodern's cool voice with hot earnestness. Or make us think too hard or feel too keenly."
I'm inclined to agree with Barber. However, I do believe that irony can be used quite effectively. Although irony is problematic when it becomes one's sole approach to life and art (how long can you keep mocking everything?), I believe that its existence also allows for increased appreciation of art as a whole. Irony is part of the human experience, and incorporating it and using it to examine different artworks can be an important tool for understanding where it fits into our lives. What I'm trying to say is ultimately that, while I would not be averse to an evening of ironically appreciating Invasion of the Animal People (a horror film wherein the country of Sweden comes under attack by aliens. And their pet Sasquatch), I would never be able to respond to the bass intro of "Under Pressure," a song I consider to be an inspirational anthem about the everyday "pressures" of life, with Vanilla Ice's lyrics, no matter how funny the words "Ice Ice Baby" might be. Irony can be a way of reexamining art and evaluating it on our own terms, but as Barber mentions, irony can also become a shield and set of blinders for those who are either too scared, insecure, or lazy to confront the issues brought up by the artwork in question.
Bourdieu, with his ideas of cultural capital as "the knowledge, experience and or connections one has had through the course of their life that enables them to succeed more so than someone from a less experienced background" (Wikipedia), might have argued that the ability to see something or appreciate something as being ironic vs. the inability to do so might be an indication of more cultural capital and sophistication (i.e. experience with art). This then answers the question of why irony is so popular; most people would prefer to appear culturally savvy and sophisticated than not, and poking fun at something gives you an edge over it that being earnest does not.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xtrEN-YKLBM (Under Pressure)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vp-is6S_b_g&feature=related (Ice Ice Baby)
My friend was alluding to a bit of controversy that arose when Vanilla Ice's "Ice Ice Baby" was first released. At the time, Vanilla Ice, aka Rob Van Winkle, claimed that he owned no royalties for using the bass line that introduces the song, even though it was virtually identical to the intro of "Under Pressure," which had been released earlier in 1981. Later on, Van Winkle settled out of court, and songwriting credits were given to David Bowie and the members of Queen.
This was one of the first things that came to mind when we were discussing the idea of cultural condescension and capital in class the other day. Among most pop culture aficionados, it's agreed that "Under Pressure" is a much better song than "Ice Ice Baby," and I doubt you'd find any who would argue that Vanilla Ice's body of work is musically superior to that of Queen or David Bowie (this is evident in the fact that the name Vanilla Ice is practically synonymous with one-hit wonder, whereas Queen and David Bowie have had many hits to their respective names and continue to be appreciated after the 90s).
My friend was, of course, joking at the time, as there could be any number of flaws or exceptions to this "rule." However, assuming that you encountered a person who was likely to be familiar with both "Under Pressure" and "Ice Ice Baby," humming this infamous intro and asking them to respond to it might actually be a somewhat valid means of obtaining a snap judgment of their character, or at least their taste in music. As we also discussed in class, modernity and the increasing prevalence and importance of the Spectacle to our lives have decreased the amount of time we have to get to know others, as well as make ourselves known to others. Consequently, we're more likely to turn to outside manifestations of personality such as wardrobe choices, CD collections, Facebook profiles, and iTunes playlists. We can bemoan the fact that our judgment of others has become limited to such seemingly superficial indicators, but I personally believe that this turn of events, although certainly not the best and most comprehensive way to get to know someone, is a legitimate and almost inevitable result of the "fast" times we live in nowadays. It's certainly an efficient one at that.
"But where do you draw the line?" I found myself wondering after our class's discussion. When does simple aesthetic criticism of a work translate to mere snobbery and putting-down of other people due to a lack of shared interests? And where does irony fit into this? On Friday nights when my friends and I do not feel like braving the cold to go outside, we discuss (and occasionally argue over) what movie to watch. It's usually a battle of wills between the side that wants a "movie that's actually good" and the side that wants to watch a more "fun" but probably less critically acclaimed movie like American Pie or The Bride of Chucky. And usually the case is that the latter faction, while certainly capable of enjoying the works of an Ingmar Bergman or an Alfred Hitchcock, would prefer, at that moment, to watch a movie that did not require much thinking or active appreciation. This is also the thought process I go through if I opt to watch a formulaic comfort movie like You've Got Mail (a predictable romantic comedy starring Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks that I've loved since I was 12) over Bergman's The Seventh Seal, which was widely acknowledged by "serious critics" and high art appreciators to be a cinematic masterpiece, etc. Another possibility is that a movie like the 1998 Godzilla, which was nominated for 5 Golden Raspberry (Razzie - like the Anti-Oscar) Awards, including Worst Picture, Worst Director, Worst Supporting Actress, Worst Screenplay, and Worst Remake or Sequel, might be enjoyed by viewers who only want ironically appreciate it and poke fun at its low-quality, terrible, or cheesy elements.
There is a definite distinction between a movie that one knows is not artistically superior but enjoys in spite of its flaws (for sentimental, comfort, or nostalgic value, like You've Got Mail) and a movie that is bad and is enjoyed because it is bad (for example, the notorious Showgirls, a movie starring Elizabeth Berkeley of "Saved By the Bell" fame as a stripper-turned-Vegas-showgirl, garnered a cult following despite dismal box office ratings because of its laughably bad overacting, cheesy sets, poor screenplay, and general terribleness). People can take pleasure in a bad move because by laughing at it, they are automatically elevating themselves.
But can ironic appreciation of a bad movie translate to genuine cultural enjoyment and enrichment? In "The Price of Irony," political theorist Benjamin Barber says no: "The dirty little secret of the ironist is of course that irony is always parasitic and can exist only by virtue of the earnestness it takes such pleasure in annihilating. Like sentiment, which has been called unearned emotion, the new irony is a form of unearned skepticism. It creates nothing of its own but waits to ambush moral purpose, to play havoc with common sense, to deny reason its moment. The only stand it takes is that there is no stand to be taken, so neither the author nor the audience has to take one." In this sense, irony can be seen as the ultimate cop-out; it only exists in order to poke fun at something else, and therefore it takes no risks and has no meaning outside of the thing it is making fun of. Another point that Barber makes is that "The ironic bystander (the phrase is redundant) is the citizen's jeering nemesis and the poet's wily shadow trying to make sure that truth and beauty and goodness, those stalwarts of the world before it was disenchanted, do not re-infect the postmodern's cool voice with hot earnestness. Or make us think too hard or feel too keenly."
I'm inclined to agree with Barber. However, I do believe that irony can be used quite effectively. Although irony is problematic when it becomes one's sole approach to life and art (how long can you keep mocking everything?), I believe that its existence also allows for increased appreciation of art as a whole. Irony is part of the human experience, and incorporating it and using it to examine different artworks can be an important tool for understanding where it fits into our lives. What I'm trying to say is ultimately that, while I would not be averse to an evening of ironically appreciating Invasion of the Animal People (a horror film wherein the country of Sweden comes under attack by aliens. And their pet Sasquatch), I would never be able to respond to the bass intro of "Under Pressure," a song I consider to be an inspirational anthem about the everyday "pressures" of life, with Vanilla Ice's lyrics, no matter how funny the words "Ice Ice Baby" might be. Irony can be a way of reexamining art and evaluating it on our own terms, but as Barber mentions, irony can also become a shield and set of blinders for those who are either too scared, insecure, or lazy to confront the issues brought up by the artwork in question.
Bourdieu, with his ideas of cultural capital as "the knowledge, experience and or connections one has had through the course of their life that enables them to succeed more so than someone from a less experienced background" (Wikipedia), might have argued that the ability to see something or appreciate something as being ironic vs. the inability to do so might be an indication of more cultural capital and sophistication (i.e. experience with art). This then answers the question of why irony is so popular; most people would prefer to appear culturally savvy and sophisticated than not, and poking fun at something gives you an edge over it that being earnest does not.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Consumerism and art
Yesterday afternoon, I decided to take advantage of a free shuttle ride going into MassMoCA for the opening of the new Sol LeWitt exhibit with a friend. I had a nice, leisurely day walking in and out of the various art exhibits, and when it was time to leave, we decided to stop into the museum gift shop.
There were the typically overpriced children's colored pencils and "contemporary art" coloring books, t-shirts printed with the MassMoCA logo as well as wall drawings from the Sol LeWitt show, mugs, postcards, etc. I ended up buying five of the postcards there, but at the same time I found myself drawn to the other, more expensive items in the store. "It would be so cool," I thought, "to have a t-shirt with giant red and yellow circles on it. And contemporary art coloring books! I could always use a new coloring book to look at and color in whenever I'm free. And I could learn more about contemporary art at the same time."
I picked up the book and started flipping through it, and I found myself both fascinated and slightly appalled by the truly paint-by-numbers-like approach that this book adopted. It was no different from what I'd expected - pages containing outlines of famous works by modern artists, all white and ready to be colored in - and yet I was turned off it as soon as I began looking through it. It struck me as a little bit terrible and disheartening that these artworks, which were all considered original and daring when they were first produced, were then so easily commodified and packaged in this coloring book, to be then distributed for a $20 fee in art museums like MassMoCA all over the country. It was enough to keep me from buying the book, and while you could argue that my postcards were printed with the same principle in mind, I rationalized that it was alright for me to buy them because I really did love the images they depicte
d, and because I meant to appreciate them for their own individual merit.
Thinking it over now, though, it seems to me that at least some of the artists featured in the coloring book probably wouldn't have minded at all. Andy Warhol, for example, was all about bringing commercial aspects into art. At the height of his career, he didn't even create his famous silk-screens on his own; instead, he had a staff of assistants who made the works according to his introduction, and essentially his art was mass-produced. Hence the name "The Factory" for his studio in New York at the time. He made art using brands and icons, and his most famous works, such as the silk-screened Marilyn Monroe and the can of Campbell's, all draw on household names and the fact that such images were instantly recognizable. Instead of ignoring the fact that art could be a commercial product, he incorporated the idea into his works and took Art off its pedestal, using it to explore his interest in pop culture and all things mass-produced.
Part of his success also came from the fact that he really did love the idea of mass consumption and even saw a kind of poetry in it: "What's great about this country is that America started the tradition where the richest consumers buy essentially the same things as the poorest. You can be watching TV and see Coca Cola, and you know that the President drinks Coca Cola, Liz Taylor drinks Coca Cola, and just think, you can drink Coca Cola, too. A coke is a coke and no amount of money can get you a better coke than the one the bum on the corner is drinking. All the cokes are the same and all the cokes are good. Liz Taylor knows it, the President knows it, the bum knows it, and you know it."
In that sense I'm sure Andy would have had no objections to being featured in a coloring book. In fact, he was also known for a series of paintings called "Do It Yourself," in which he imitated the style of Paint By Number kits, which were very popular then.
I think that initially I was disturbed by the idea of art being so blatantly commercialized because I'm used to treating art with reverence. Art, when I was little, meant going on an outing to a museum in New York to stand in line and quietly admire gently lit oils from behind a velvet rope. And yet, Andy Warhol proved that art didn't have to be caught, tamed, and stared at like an exotic, endangered zoo animal. Art could be treated simply as a product, and, what's more, people could come to value art that depicted mass-produced products and art that was mass-produced itself. Instead of ignoring the buying/selling aspects of artworks (which are usually discreetly handled through auctions or art expert evaluations), he chose to flash them in the faces of his audience. True, he was reviled for it - but in the end, his legacy lives on because he challenged the definitions of what was art and what was commercial. I'd love to be present at a hypothetical meeting between Warhol and Adorno & Horkheimer. I imagine it would end with Adorno & Horkheimer sternly disapproving of Warhol's works and denouncing them as the products of a sick, hopelessly commercialized mind devoid of culture and artistic sensibilities, and with Warhol shrugging and saying in his signature deadpan: "If you don't like it, I can do another color for you that'll match your living room sofa. Would you like that?"
There were the typically overpriced children's colored pencils and "contemporary art" coloring books, t-shirts printed with the MassMoCA logo as well as wall drawings from the Sol LeWitt show, mugs, postcards, etc. I ended up buying five of the postcards there, but at the same time I found myself drawn to the other, more expensive items in the store. "It would be so cool," I thought, "to have a t-shirt with giant red and yellow circles on it. And contemporary art coloring books! I could always use a new coloring book to look at and color in whenever I'm free. And I could learn more about contemporary art at the same time."
I picked up the book and started flipping through it, and I found myself both fascinated and slightly appalled by the truly paint-by-numbers-like approach that this book adopted. It was no different from what I'd expected - pages containing outlines of famous works by modern artists, all white and ready to be colored in - and yet I was turned off it as soon as I began looking through it. It struck me as a little bit terrible and disheartening that these artworks, which were all considered original and daring when they were first produced, were then so easily commodified and packaged in this coloring book, to be then distributed for a $20 fee in art museums like MassMoCA all over the country. It was enough to keep me from buying the book, and while you could argue that my postcards were printed with the same principle in mind, I rationalized that it was alright for me to buy them because I really did love the images they depicte
d, and because I meant to appreciate them for their own individual merit.Thinking it over now, though, it seems to me that at least some of the artists featured in the coloring book probably wouldn't have minded at all. Andy Warhol, for example, was all about bringing commercial aspects into art. At the height of his career, he didn't even create his famous silk-screens on his own; instead, he had a staff of assistants who made the works according to his introduction, and essentially his art was mass-produced. Hence the name "The Factory" for his studio in New York at the time. He made art using brands and icons, and his most famous works, such as the silk-screened Marilyn Monroe and the can of Campbell's, all draw on household names and the fact that such images were instantly recognizable. Instead of ignoring the fact that art could be a commercial product, he incorporated the idea into his works and took Art off its pedestal, using it to explore his interest in pop culture and all things mass-produced.
Part of his success also came from the fact that he really did love the idea of mass consumption and even saw a kind of poetry in it: "What's great about this country is that America started the tradition where the richest consumers buy essentially the same things as the poorest. You can be watching TV and see Coca Cola, and you know that the President drinks Coca Cola, Liz Taylor drinks Coca Cola, and just think, you can drink Coca Cola, too. A coke is a coke and no amount of money can get you a better coke than the one the bum on the corner is drinking. All the cokes are the same and all the cokes are good. Liz Taylor knows it, the President knows it, the bum knows it, and you know it."
In that sense I'm sure Andy would have had no objections to being featured in a coloring book. In fact, he was also known for a series of paintings called "Do It Yourself," in which he imitated the style of Paint By Number kits, which were very popular then.
I think that initially I was disturbed by the idea of art being so blatantly commercialized because I'm used to treating art with reverence. Art, when I was little, meant going on an outing to a museum in New York to stand in line and quietly admire gently lit oils from behind a velvet rope. And yet, Andy Warhol proved that art didn't have to be caught, tamed, and stared at like an exotic, endangered zoo animal. Art could be treated simply as a product, and, what's more, people could come to value art that depicted mass-produced products and art that was mass-produced itself. Instead of ignoring the buying/selling aspects of artworks (which are usually discreetly handled through auctions or art expert evaluations), he chose to flash them in the faces of his audience. True, he was reviled for it - but in the end, his legacy lives on because he challenged the definitions of what was art and what was commercial. I'd love to be present at a hypothetical meeting between Warhol and Adorno & Horkheimer. I imagine it would end with Adorno & Horkheimer sternly disapproving of Warhol's works and denouncing them as the products of a sick, hopelessly commercialized mind devoid of culture and artistic sensibilities, and with Warhol shrugging and saying in his signature deadpan: "If you don't like it, I can do another color for you that'll match your living room sofa. Would you like that?"
Monday, November 10, 2008
Jammin
(excuse the off-color language)
This is one of the images that came up when I entered the term “culture jamming” into Google Images. It’s from an online comic website called “Toothpaste for Dinner.” Even though I think culture jamming is not without its merits, I had to laugh when I saw this because it made sense in that it echoed many of the common objections to culture jamming.
During our last class, while we were discussing the idea and practice of culture jamming, the question came up as to whether we believed culture jamming could be an effective way of getting people to reevaluate their consumer choices. The general consensus of the class seemed to be that putting a sticker on a bus stop ad wouldn't necessarily bring a corporation to its knees, but that it could be a thought-provoking means of starting a dialogue (at least a mental one) between the corporation and the average consumer, or potential consumer.
While I had been somewhat familiar with culture jamming before watching the documentary about it, I hadn't known that it had a following strong enough to be considered an actual "subculture." Viewing the film made me realize just how much of the culture jamming ethos I agreed with; I do believe that too many people are merely "consumers" who soak up messages from the media without giving them a second thought. And deconstructing ads is certainly an effective means of debunking those false, corporate-created messages. I've always thought it curious that TV commercials and ads instantly seem shoddy and transparent when viewed from an outsider’s perspective. For example, if I’m watching a movie and focusing on a character that happens to be watching a commercial or reading an ad, my attention is shifted to the central storyline and the character’s doings, and therefore the ad or commercial appears much paler and banal in comparison. However, if I were to come across similar pieces of media in my own day-to-day life, I wouldn’t realize how silly they were unless someone specifically pointed it out to me. Watching the culture jamming documentary was a bit like that - a feeling of recognition and understanding (along with some uncomfortable squirming at Carly the Media Tigress’s terrible rapping) came over me.
This isn’t to say, however, that I agreed wholeheartedly with the culture jammers and their arguments. Reverend Billy’s earnest espousal of the need to do away with all meanings of signs in our culture didn’t offend me personally, but I could see how other people would have been deeply upset by the “crucified” Mickey and Minnie. The larger argument he brought up of whether a cross (an acknowledged religious symbol) should or should not mean something to someone who does consider themselves a Christian detracted from his points about Disney’s sweatshop practices. This falls into another point that was brought up in class, that culture jamming can deteriorate into a senseless attack on everything – simply agitation for agitation’s sake.
Another example of how culture jamming can go wrong is through AdBusters’ new “Blackspot” sneakers. For only $75.00 (including shipping and handling) you can now “kick corporate ass” with a pair of eco-friendly, 100% organic hemp sneakers that look exactly like Converses – minus the logo.
http://www.adbusters.org/category/culture_shop/ethical_alternatives/blackspot_shoes
This new offering from AdBusters reminded me of the printed Che Guevara t-shirts that were so popular a few years back. Taking a revolutionary icon and using him or her to sell merchandise isn’t a new ploy by any means, but the Che Guevara t-shirt, when it was still popular, is a prime example of taking something original and genuine and changing it into a mere fad. Wearing the Che Guevara t-shirt because it looked unique and rebellious and seemed to stand for something vaguely cool was a common pratice. Although Che himself despised capitalist consumer culture, the t-shirt became a part of youth “subculture” and was worn by many who had no idea of who Che really was or what he did. And while the manufacturing practices used to produce “Blackspot” sneakers might be more equitable than Nike’s, the idea remains the same: you can sell anything, even the concept of consumer rebellion, as long as you make the consumer think you are on their side.
To summarize: culture jamming is effective as long as its goal remains to raise consumer awareness and encourage the deconstruction of ads. Its faults do not lie in the fact that it does not produce solutions for these problems, as that is not one of the culture jammers’ goals. Rather, culture jamming becomes flawed when it either 1) in turn tries to market itself, or 2) goes to the other extreme by simply attacking anything smacking of “authority,” “the establishment,” or “the Man.” As long as culture jamming continues to carefully tread the line between selling out and immature teenager-like acting out, it can be an effective means of provoking thought about corporate agendas.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Logos
I was thinking about the practice of wearing logos today when I noticed someone wearing socks with the Nike swoosh on them, with a pair of Nike sneakers and Nike shorts. And once I noticed that, I started seeing logos everywhere. Even my innocuous college sweatshirt seemed suspect - as proud as I am of being a Williams College student, in those brief moments of paranoia I suddenly resented everything that bore resemblance to a logo. As I walked from class to class, I found myself taking much more notice of the brands emblazoned on people's clothes. They ranged from the relatively small, like American Eagle's Polo-esque embroidered eagle, to obviously branded sneakers, like the omnipresent Nikes, Adidases, and New Balances.
Which brought me to my next train of thought: while the sheer amount of logos present in our wardrobes is shocking at times, is it possible to incorporate those logos into what can ultimately become a unique sense of style and fashion?
This question was brought up during the last class when we were discussing the issue of logo tattoos, and most people seemed to think that wearing a branded T-shirt was significantly different (and much more excusable) than getting a Nike swoosh tattooed onto a part of your body. There I'd have to agree as well. Getting a tattoo implies that you are willing to be branded for life, and even though as a consumer there are certain brands that I prefer over others, I don't think I'd ever allow myself to become a permanent walking billboard for them. Another issue that was brought up was that company images are subject to change, and what's considered cool one day might be uncool the next. On a more serious note, getting a logo tattoo for a company that is found to have been associated with sweatshops and human rights abuses would probably be a decision most people would regret.
So what's the difference between branded clothing and branded skin? As mentioned above, there's the issue of permanence - clothes can be removed and substituted for others, whereas tattoo removal is much more painful and expensive. Another point, which I mentioned above, is that whether we like it or not, logos have become a part of fashion. Wearing the brand of a cool company can be a way of transmitting a message to other people that you yourself are also hip and desirable - by wearing a company's logo, you can take on that company's image as your own, and my guess is that at least 75% of the $200 you pay for a pair of fancy sneakers might as well be for that image alone.
However! True fashion comes, I believe, from the ability to exude ease and style no matter what you're wearing. And in that sense, shouldn't it be possible for an individual to be stylish without having to resort to giant, obvious logos? Or even small, "classier" ones like the Ralph Lauren polo player and his horse? I think so. And while avoiding brands may be impossible in this day and age (after all, a brand name can also have a legitimate claim to better quality than a virtually unknown name), it's up to the consumer to be a filter and decide how comfortable he or she is with being branded in this manner. So while I don't necessarily buy into Nike's self-promoted image as sportswear for athletic gods and goddesses, I do appreciate the fact that they sell good running shoes. I won't be purchasing any pairs upwards of $100 anytime soon, but having owned Nike shoes in the past, I know that there is a certain promise of quality that comes with the Nike name - and to me, that is worth something.
Which brought me to my next train of thought: while the sheer amount of logos present in our wardrobes is shocking at times, is it possible to incorporate those logos into what can ultimately become a unique sense of style and fashion?
This question was brought up during the last class when we were discussing the issue of logo tattoos, and most people seemed to think that wearing a branded T-shirt was significantly different (and much more excusable) than getting a Nike swoosh tattooed onto a part of your body. There I'd have to agree as well. Getting a tattoo implies that you are willing to be branded for life, and even though as a consumer there are certain brands that I prefer over others, I don't think I'd ever allow myself to become a permanent walking billboard for them. Another issue that was brought up was that company images are subject to change, and what's considered cool one day might be uncool the next. On a more serious note, getting a logo tattoo for a company that is found to have been associated with sweatshops and human rights abuses would probably be a decision most people would regret.
So what's the difference between branded clothing and branded skin? As mentioned above, there's the issue of permanence - clothes can be removed and substituted for others, whereas tattoo removal is much more painful and expensive. Another point, which I mentioned above, is that whether we like it or not, logos have become a part of fashion. Wearing the brand of a cool company can be a way of transmitting a message to other people that you yourself are also hip and desirable - by wearing a company's logo, you can take on that company's image as your own, and my guess is that at least 75% of the $200 you pay for a pair of fancy sneakers might as well be for that image alone.
However! True fashion comes, I believe, from the ability to exude ease and style no matter what you're wearing. And in that sense, shouldn't it be possible for an individual to be stylish without having to resort to giant, obvious logos? Or even small, "classier" ones like the Ralph Lauren polo player and his horse? I think so. And while avoiding brands may be impossible in this day and age (after all, a brand name can also have a legitimate claim to better quality than a virtually unknown name), it's up to the consumer to be a filter and decide how comfortable he or she is with being branded in this manner. So while I don't necessarily buy into Nike's self-promoted image as sportswear for athletic gods and goddesses, I do appreciate the fact that they sell good running shoes. I won't be purchasing any pairs upwards of $100 anytime soon, but having owned Nike shoes in the past, I know that there is a certain promise of quality that comes with the Nike name - and to me, that is worth something.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Commodification of education
This past weekend, I had my first taste of "real civilization" since August when I visited the other side of
Visiting my friend at Harvard only served to heighten this sense of surreality. I asked my friend if all the groups of people taking pictures of one another at one end of the campus were all parents and prospective students. "Nope," he said, "half the people here are just tourists from foreign countries."
Although Williams certainly gets its fair share of tourist groups, it's certainly not as well-known as Harvard, with its reputation for being the best university in the world and home to many of the world's future leaders and thinkers. In fact, when I first told relatives that I had been accepted to and would be going to
To put it bluntly, Williams is only really known as a top-notch institution among rich white people, usually in the northeast
As a high school senior, I felt disillusioned and burnt out by the entire college admissions process of selling yourself to the highest bidder (in the case of high-commodity students and scholarships) or trying to persuade bidders that you were worth the gamble of an acceptance letter. The atmosphere at my high school was also very competitive, and out of sheer contrariness I decided to forget about applying to any Ivy League schools. And although you could argue that Williams itself is just as name-brand as Harvard or
Once I heard back from Williams and the time came for me to send in my own acceptance letter, however, the questions began to annoy me. And although I knew that my future was in no way jeopardized by the fact that my next-door neighbors and my parents’ friends hadn’t heard of the school, it still bothered me that I had to explain myself every time someone asked me where I went to school.
“So, is that like William & Mary? Or Roger Williams?”
“Uh, no… It’s just Williams. It’s in
Of course, I could get self-righteous and wave Williams’s U.S. Report ranking around like a banner, but since then I’ve learned to take pleasure in the simple fact that I go to one of the best schools in the nation. As my JA put it, “The only people who will have heard about Williams are the ones that matter.” And although this might seem counterintuitive, as any college would naturally want as many qualified people to apply as possible, maybe that’s the objective of the admissions department after all - not to overexpose Williams College to people everywhere, but to perpetuate its current image of being a very sheltered, nurturing, close-knit, and bucolic college community by focusing more on actual student selection rather than direct marketing. After all, in the world of higher-level institutions, the best colleges and universities aren’t necessarily the ones that spend the most on in-your-face advertising (a degree from a school that advertises on the radio and on TV would probably not be as impressive in the workplace as, say, a degree from a Columbia or a Yale or a Swarthmore). As far as recruiting and college fairs go, although they are necessary to a certain extent, the objective of an elite institution should be to get the student to court the institution, not for the institution to court the student.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
The Great Computer Debate
Today in class we were talking about Debord's concept of the spectacle and the gradual downgrading process from being, to having, to appearing. As a class, we discussed the idea that the transition into a modern capitalist economy, as opposed to a mass market, has changed our society by standardizing and popularizing the monologue (visual statements and imagery about oneself projected onto the world) as opposed to encouraging a dialogue between people. I think this is very true in that nowadays, people (including myself) tend to make snap judgements about others just by looking at their clothes, iPod playlists, DVD collections, etc. It's very easy to get a superficial idea of what someone is like just by going online and looking them up on Facebook, as was mentioned today in class.
One topic that came to mind while we were discussing this was the question of Mac computers and PCs. When I was a freshman in high school, Macs were considered frustrating, and hard to use. And then suddenly, around junior year, everyone started getting Macs. Macs were cool, and by comparison PCs were frumpy, archaic, impractical, and definitely not as aesthetically pleasing as Macs. I can't say what exactly prompted this sudden change in computer fashions, but since then Macs have become the computer of choice among most of my peers. As the lone PC user in my circle of friends, I'm the only one who can't use features like Mac Photobooth and iChat (a form of video chatting on Macs). Although video chatting would certainly be a lot of fun, having a hip computer isn't a big deal to me. And: after putting my Inspiron through all kinds of hell (spilling tea and dropping bits of shredded wheat onto the keyboard, unintentionally destroying its battery life, dropping it), watching it come back to life every time, and having to work with Macs that froze up and died all the time last year at an internship, I don't buy into the hype that Macs are technically superior to PCs.
However, there is definitely a stereotype among computer users (at least among those who are geeky enough, ahem, conscientious enough to care) that Mac users are cooler, more creative, more culturally savvy, and more knowledgable than PC users, which is a mindset that Apple certainly capitalizes on at every opportunity. The go-to example for this would be Apple's Mac vs. PC commercials, in which a "hip" young actor portrays a Mac and an overweight, nerdy-looking middle-aged actor portrays a PC.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ci2D1ig4df4
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1EbCyibkNB0&feature=related
But recently, I was watching TV when a commercial that looked an awful lot like the Mac setup (white room, PC guy introducing himself as a PC) came on. However, it was a PC commercial designed to reclaim PCs, featuring people like Vera Wang, Kevin Spacey, and Eva Longoria - people who eschew the nerdy PC sterotype.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kkZdkHylJ3w
However, even though I am a PC user myself, I don't find the message effective or intriguing at all. It doesn't seem to be a commercial so much as a self-righteous, slightly annoying rebuttal to Apple. Instead of explaining how PCs might be superior to Macs, the commercial only shows the viewer a bunch of famous people in an attempt to raise the self-esteem of a hypothetical audience of disgruntled, sad sack PC users. In addition, although the commercial does attempt to point out how the PC had universal appeal by showing different PC users from other countries, it is not successful in a marketing sense because it fails to communicate a sense of lifestyle or brand. Part of Mac's success comes from the fact that they market to a specific clientele - usually young people who can take advantage of features like Photobooth, iChat, and iTunes, or people working in creative professional fields like film, photography, or music.
In class today, we also discussed the concept of detournement, in which traditional expectations and/or messages are subverted through recycling old, familiar elements. Although there are countless Mac vs. PC parodies available on the Internet, I thought this one, which uses animation from South Park (speaking of subversion) was the funniest and most apt - enjoy.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Id_kGL3M5Cg
One topic that came to mind while we were discussing this was the question of Mac computers and PCs. When I was a freshman in high school, Macs were considered frustrating, and hard to use. And then suddenly, around junior year, everyone started getting Macs. Macs were cool, and by comparison PCs were frumpy, archaic, impractical, and definitely not as aesthetically pleasing as Macs. I can't say what exactly prompted this sudden change in computer fashions, but since then Macs have become the computer of choice among most of my peers. As the lone PC user in my circle of friends, I'm the only one who can't use features like Mac Photobooth and iChat (a form of video chatting on Macs). Although video chatting would certainly be a lot of fun, having a hip computer isn't a big deal to me. And: after putting my Inspiron through all kinds of hell (spilling tea and dropping bits of shredded wheat onto the keyboard, unintentionally destroying its battery life, dropping it), watching it come back to life every time, and having to work with Macs that froze up and died all the time last year at an internship, I don't buy into the hype that Macs are technically superior to PCs.
However, there is definitely a stereotype among computer users (at least among those who are geeky enough, ahem, conscientious enough to care) that Mac users are cooler, more creative, more culturally savvy, and more knowledgable than PC users, which is a mindset that Apple certainly capitalizes on at every opportunity. The go-to example for this would be Apple's Mac vs. PC commercials, in which a "hip" young actor portrays a Mac and an overweight, nerdy-looking middle-aged actor portrays a PC.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ci2D1ig4df4
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1EbCyibkNB0&feature=related
But recently, I was watching TV when a commercial that looked an awful lot like the Mac setup (white room, PC guy introducing himself as a PC) came on. However, it was a PC commercial designed to reclaim PCs, featuring people like Vera Wang, Kevin Spacey, and Eva Longoria - people who eschew the nerdy PC sterotype.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kkZdkHylJ3w
However, even though I am a PC user myself, I don't find the message effective or intriguing at all. It doesn't seem to be a commercial so much as a self-righteous, slightly annoying rebuttal to Apple. Instead of explaining how PCs might be superior to Macs, the commercial only shows the viewer a bunch of famous people in an attempt to raise the self-esteem of a hypothetical audience of disgruntled, sad sack PC users. In addition, although the commercial does attempt to point out how the PC had universal appeal by showing different PC users from other countries, it is not successful in a marketing sense because it fails to communicate a sense of lifestyle or brand. Part of Mac's success comes from the fact that they market to a specific clientele - usually young people who can take advantage of features like Photobooth, iChat, and iTunes, or people working in creative professional fields like film, photography, or music.
In class today, we also discussed the concept of detournement, in which traditional expectations and/or messages are subverted through recycling old, familiar elements. Although there are countless Mac vs. PC parodies available on the Internet, I thought this one, which uses animation from South Park (speaking of subversion) was the funniest and most apt - enjoy.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Id_kGL3M5Cg
Thursday, September 25, 2008
summer silkworm sales
This past summer I went on a trip to Korea with my family. Among our travels, we visited an island called Chejudo that is known for its rocky topography, small horses, and wonderful orange groves. We were part of a tour group that went on a loop throughout the island on a bus, stopping at several famous locations on the way so that we tourists could get out and snap a few pictures here and there. It was very hot out, in spite of the cool island breezes, and I was feeling tired and disoriented when the bus stopped at a local orange grove. We were urged to get off the bus and take a tour of the orange grove, which was being led by one of the workers there.
He greeted us with a few stock phrases in the Chejudo dialect (which is significantly different from what mainland Korean) and walked us around the different orange trees, pointing out the different varieties and explaining the merits of each type of orange. I admittedly wasn't paying very much attention to the tour, being too tired to care about the slight differences between two types of oranges that to me, looked identical, but I did find it strange when we were ushered into a room and the guide suddenly began talking about silkworms. Silkworms? I assumed that the orange grove also raised silkworms as a side business and that we were about to begin the second part of the tour now. But instead, we were treated to what turned out to be a blatant sales pitch for silkworm powder.
Not cocaine
"Look at these jars!" our guide said, dramatically gesturing towards a neatly arranged pyramid of plastic jars off to the side of the room. They were filled with what looked to be shiny stalks of yellow grass. He passed one jar around the room and announced that inside were silkworms busily working away. I'm not sure as to the biological logistics of how the powder was produced (my Korean isn't that great), but for a bargain price, we could purchase silkworm powder from the orange grove workers in lovely prepackaged boxes and jars. Drinking tea brewed from this powder would then not only relieve all aches and pains, but also provide the added benefits of better circulation, improved digestion, and a more positive outlook on life. "Drink two cups of silkworm powder tea everyday," the guide told us seriously, "and I can guarantee you that you will never experience sickness or fatigue for the rest of your life."
I didn't know whether to laugh or... what. I looked around the room, scanning the faces of the other tourists to see if any of them were as shocked by this as I was. The bait-and-switch method our guide had used on us was so obvious I couldn't help but wonder if I was on a hidden camera show. A guided tour on oranges to - silkworm powder? I felt amused, insulted, and disturbed. Sure, we were tourists, practically walking cash cows for all the locals of Chejudo (tourism happens to be one of the main industries of Chejudo), but never had I been subjected to such a transparent attempt at selling a product in real life.
I walk by giant billboards and posters and ads all the time, and of course I watch TV and go shopping in malls and go on the Internet, but I’ve learned to tune out most of the appeals made by the media on my wallet and my time. If anything, I pay attention to ads that I think are funny or clever or interesting, but that doesn’t mean it’ll make me want to buy the product more if I’ve already decided against it. I’m kind of stingy with my shopping habits, and I consider spending upwards of $30 on myself to be verging on the extravagant. Which isn’t too surprising I guess, since I’m not really a breadwinner yet and received money from my parents all throughout high school whenever I needed it. I’m always reminded that the spending money I have isn’t “really” my own in the sense that I’ve earned it through a job, and I guess that stops me from spending as much as some of my friends. I enjoy shopping when I have a specific goal in mind, like a new pair of jeans or a present for a friend, but I hate malls and try to spend as little time in them as possible. I find online shopping convenient but nerve-wracking, and I’m always convinced, even when punching in my security code to buy a 99-cent song on iTunes, that one day my identity will be stolen by some faceless, devious Internet villain.
While our tour guide continued to extol the virtues of the silkworm powder, I whispered to my mom, “I can’t believe this.”
“Shh. This is interesting.”
“Mom! I can’t believe you’re falling for this. This is such a blatant sales pitch; we were supposed to take a full tour of the orange groves, not be brainwashed into buying silkworm powder.”
She turned to my father: “Do you think your sister would like some? We could get a jar for ourselves and some for her.”
I became indignant. “But that’s exactly what they want you to do! Don’t you see it’s a trap?!”
“You’re being overdramatic. They’re just trying to make some extra money. And who can blame them? The least we can do is buy some of their wares. And silkworm powder tea is very good for you, last I heard.”
“MOM.”
My parents ended up buying one economy-sized jar for our family and about four more smaller jars for friends and relatives. My dad was especially excited about the product, and claimed that the sample tea we received from the tour guide was wonderful and that he could already feel the difference in his stomach and through his veins. I remained skeptical and disapproving, and was chided by my parents for being a wet blanket.
Parents: “Try some of this tea; you said you were tired before, this will energize you!”
Me: “I don’t feel any different. I don’t think we should get it; it’s probably just a scam.”
Mom: “You’re being cynical. A scam, pshaw! They’re just trying to make some money on the side.”
Dad: “Mm, this tea is wonderful! I feel more energized already!”
It’s now been two months since we came back from our trip, and although the smaller jars have since been given as gifts to our family friends and relatives, the economy-sized jar of silkworm powder is still sitting around somewhere, untouched and unopened. In truth, I’d forgotten all about it until taking this class.
Was I wrong to have felt so cheated and used when the tour guide began his sales pitch? Maybe I shouldn’t have been so critical of his motives (after all, tourist season doesn’t last forever, even on Chejudo), but thinking about it now in relation to the more American marketing techniques of “buzzing” and word-of-mouth discussed in the New York Times Magazine article, I still think my reaction was a valid one.
What disturbed me most about this incident was not my reaction to it, but the reasons for my reaction. Was I upset because our tour had been cut off with a sales pitch? Or was it that I had felt insulted by the obviousness of the sales pitch? Maybe I’ve just become accustomed to the subtleties of most advertising nowadays, media-saturated sponge that I am. In that case, all of my assumed moral superiority about malls and online shopping comes down to nothing: I’m just as susceptible to commercial calls as everyone else in that I expect to see them in a sales context and feel their lack when I don’t.
I didn't know whether to laugh or... what. I looked around the room, scanning the faces of the other tourists to see if any of them were as shocked by this as I was. The bait-and-switch method our guide had used on us was so obvious I couldn't help but wonder if I was on a hidden camera show. A guided tour on oranges to - silkworm powder? I felt amused, insulted, and disturbed. Sure, we were tourists, practically walking cash cows for all the locals of Chejudo (tourism happens to be one of the main industries of Chejudo), but never had I been subjected to such a transparent attempt at selling a product in real life.
I walk by giant billboards and posters and ads all the time, and of course I watch TV and go shopping in malls and go on the Internet, but I’ve learned to tune out most of the appeals made by the media on my wallet and my time. If anything, I pay attention to ads that I think are funny or clever or interesting, but that doesn’t mean it’ll make me want to buy the product more if I’ve already decided against it. I’m kind of stingy with my shopping habits, and I consider spending upwards of $30 on myself to be verging on the extravagant. Which isn’t too surprising I guess, since I’m not really a breadwinner yet and received money from my parents all throughout high school whenever I needed it. I’m always reminded that the spending money I have isn’t “really” my own in the sense that I’ve earned it through a job, and I guess that stops me from spending as much as some of my friends. I enjoy shopping when I have a specific goal in mind, like a new pair of jeans or a present for a friend, but I hate malls and try to spend as little time in them as possible. I find online shopping convenient but nerve-wracking, and I’m always convinced, even when punching in my security code to buy a 99-cent song on iTunes, that one day my identity will be stolen by some faceless, devious Internet villain.
While our tour guide continued to extol the virtues of the silkworm powder, I whispered to my mom, “I can’t believe this.”
“Shh. This is interesting.”
“Mom! I can’t believe you’re falling for this. This is such a blatant sales pitch; we were supposed to take a full tour of the orange groves, not be brainwashed into buying silkworm powder.”
She turned to my father: “Do you think your sister would like some? We could get a jar for ourselves and some for her.”
I became indignant. “But that’s exactly what they want you to do! Don’t you see it’s a trap?!”
“You’re being overdramatic. They’re just trying to make some extra money. And who can blame them? The least we can do is buy some of their wares. And silkworm powder tea is very good for you, last I heard.”
“MOM.”
My parents ended up buying one economy-sized jar for our family and about four more smaller jars for friends and relatives. My dad was especially excited about the product, and claimed that the sample tea we received from the tour guide was wonderful and that he could already feel the difference in his stomach and through his veins. I remained skeptical and disapproving, and was chided by my parents for being a wet blanket.
Parents: “Try some of this tea; you said you were tired before, this will energize you!”
Me: “I don’t feel any different. I don’t think we should get it; it’s probably just a scam.”
Mom: “You’re being cynical. A scam, pshaw! They’re just trying to make some money on the side.”
Dad: “Mm, this tea is wonderful! I feel more energized already!”
It’s now been two months since we came back from our trip, and although the smaller jars have since been given as gifts to our family friends and relatives, the economy-sized jar of silkworm powder is still sitting around somewhere, untouched and unopened. In truth, I’d forgotten all about it until taking this class.
Was I wrong to have felt so cheated and used when the tour guide began his sales pitch? Maybe I shouldn’t have been so critical of his motives (after all, tourist season doesn’t last forever, even on Chejudo), but thinking about it now in relation to the more American marketing techniques of “buzzing” and word-of-mouth discussed in the New York Times Magazine article, I still think my reaction was a valid one.
What disturbed me most about this incident was not my reaction to it, but the reasons for my reaction. Was I upset because our tour had been cut off with a sales pitch? Or was it that I had felt insulted by the obviousness of the sales pitch? Maybe I’ve just become accustomed to the subtleties of most advertising nowadays, media-saturated sponge that I am. In that case, all of my assumed moral superiority about malls and online shopping comes down to nothing: I’m just as susceptible to commercial calls as everyone else in that I expect to see them in a sales context and feel their lack when I don’t.
**MAGIC**
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Sex and the City
I didn’t start watching “Sex and the City” until its run on HBO had officially ended. In fact, my first exposure to the famous TV show was through the significantly censored, half-hour-long reruns that played on Channel 11. Considering that the show first began in the year 1998, when I was in third grade, this was probably a good thing. I started watching “Sex and the City” sometime in high school, and my friends and I were instantly hooked. Even though we knew how silly the show was, we kept coming back.
For the uninitiated, “Sex and the City” was a very successful TV program about the lives of four New York City women, especially that of Carrie Bradshaw, a sex columnist and Manolo Blahnik devotee. “Sex and the City” focused on their romantic and professional lives. Recently, a movie was released (I dragged one of my less SATC-inclined friends to the theater with me) detailing the story of Carrie’s marriage to Mr. Big, a business tycoon with whom she had a turbulent on-again off-again relationship throughout the TV show’s six seasons.
So, why am I (and countless others, no doubt mostly female others, throughout the United States and beyond) fans of “Sex and the City”? Its premise doesn’t sound so different from any other girlfriends-centered serials that have been floating around the TV networks for the past ten years. There are all kinds of possible explanations out there, from more erudite explorations of how the feminist ethos “Sex and the City” speaks to high-powered single females in today’s fast-paced world to the personal opinion of my friend Jane: “It’s just fabulous.”
While it’s true that the writing on the show has won awards for its light-hearted wit and examinations of socially relevant issues like STDs, the changing roles of women, sexual experimentation, etc., I’m inclined to agree with Jane as to why I enjoyed the show so much. The lifestyles of the four women in “Sex and the City” are indeed fabulous, in every sense of the word - wonderful, marvelous, and “resembling or suggesting a fable: of an incredible, astonishing, or exaggerated nature” [Merriam Webster]. When I'm watching the show, I don’t question the fact that Carrie, a newspaper columnist, can afford an apartment on the Upper East Side, tables at the city’s hottest restaurants, and $400 Manolo Blahniks. And when she steps out of her brownstone in the morning wearing a dress with a flower bigger than a newborn baby pinned to it, my first thought isn’t “Ouch” (although it probably would be if I were to see something like that in real life). Instead, I think “WOW, that’s such a GOOD idea.” SATC does things like that to me.
Exhibit A
“Sex and the City” is defined almost entirely by the act of consumption; Carrie and her friends do a lot of shopping and lunching. In fact, most of their heart-to-heart conversations about Men and Relationships take place in fancy clothing stores or restaurants. In addition, I’d say that about 84.3% of “Sex and the City” is devoted to shots of Carrie’s newest outfits and purchases. And although each of the four women on the show have main men, I’ve always thought that the most compelling relationship on “Sex and the City” was not the one between Carrie and Mr. Big, or even Carrie and her “girls,” but rather the one between Carrie and Manolo Blahnik.
"Manolo Blahnik Mary Janes! I thought these were an urban shoe myth!"
In all six seasons, the only reality check Carrie receives regarding her spending habits occurs in one episode when she needs money for a loan as a down payment on her apartment. While shopping with Miranda, she realizes just how much money she has spent on shoes over the years:
Carrie: "Where did all my money go? I know I've made some."
Miranda: (Holding one of Carrie's designer shoes), "At $400 a pop--that's $40,000. There's your down payment."
Carrie: "I spent $40,000 on shoes and have no place to live. I literally will be the old woman who lived in her shoes."
In the end, the problem is solved when wealthy Charlotte offers Carrie her ring as a loan, which she accepts. The money in Sex and the City comes and goes very easily, which is probably the primary reason why it’s such a fantasy-come-true for fans. The idea that one’s consumption habits can be used to create a glittering new lifestyle for oneself and have no (very) severe repercussions on your bank account is certainly an enticing one.
Adorno & Horkheimer would probably have hated Sex and the City with a passion, for the reason that it is one of the most successful television shows to have stomped all over the boundaries between art and consumption. A typical episode plotline: Carrie is dumped by a boyfriend; upset, she goes shopping and buys a new pair of heels; she wears them and goes out with her girlfriends. Not only did Sex and the City make Manolo Blahnik a household name, it also made the idea of retail therapy more acceptable and glamorous to women everywhere. Case in point: I really think that Sex and the City is nothing more than a very entertaining sales pitch, not necessarily for specific shoe or clothing brands, but rather for an entire lifestyle centered around consumption, and yet I wholeheartedly and unironically enjoy the show.
And while I would never be able to go out and buy myself a pair of designer shoes if I just felt like it (let alone be able to afford it), I can take pleasure in watching Carrie Bradshaw do it and look ridiculously fabulous (or fabulously ridiculous) while doing it. This might be the more de Certeau-oriented part of me talking; that part of me has no problem with Carrie defining her personality and lifestyle with preposterously expensive stiletto shoes. De Certeau would probably argue that the shoes are, for Carrie, a symbol of empowerment and her ability as a strong, independent woman to get over any guy who dumps her. Carrie's fashion sense and taste in shoes could be considered an extension of her personality, and in that sense her purchase of them is a form of creative expression and therefore completely acceptable.
At least that's what I tell myself when I'm turning the TV on.
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