"Notes on the Hipster, the Popinjay, the Dandy, and the Aesthete"

“Notes on the Hipster, the Popinjay, the Dandy and the Aesthete”

In light of the recent underwear commercial for H&M –featuring a tatted up, underwear-clad David Beckham—I feel the time has come to put forward a few lines on the state of male habiliment. While such a study can never be complete, it is the aim of this author to posit some boundaries between the categories aforementioned, namely, the Hipster, the Popinjay, the Dandy, and the Aesthete. 

H.

Three years ago, the blogosphere declared: “the hipster is dead!” What does that mean? Are the culture cognoscenti stating that the era of the urban-dwelling, beer-brewing, thick-rimmed-optical-wearing, unwashed, mustachioed tobacco-enthusiasts has played out? Hardly. Rather, the hipster no longer exists without irony; it is no longer a subculture of twenty-somethings, but has become a market catered to by Urban Outfitters, Target, Spencer’s, and the like. Instead of “like finding like” and the lived necessity of such affected pastichios of secondhand and first-rate equipage, tout le monde can don the hipster ‘look.’ Twenty-somethings from Asheville to Idaho Falls can now “buy into” the hipster mode, allowing access to the aesthetic regardless of locale and income. Such product placement has forced hipster to commit suicide via the hemlock of success.

Hipster (in the twenty-first century) was a way for the heartier, younger siblings of the 1990s grunge set to both connect and distance themselves from the family. The contemporary hipster was invested with her own sense of irony post 9/11 and Brokeback Mountain not winning the Oscar for best film. Authenticity became the buzz word—if the hipster is not authentic, he or she is nothing. Thus, the tautology of L’art pour l’art must be true. For the hipster, art certainly cannot be for anything, or anyone else. Life, then, does not imitate art but rather constructs new forms of art, new urban vocabularies from the detritus and secondhand flannels of those who were supposed to protect the young. Self-fashioning, then, becomes the anti-affair. Like the Futurists, hipsters are under no illusion of illusion. A hipster might take forever at his toilet but still emerge looking tired. He hopes others recognize the ruse. This is why so many hipsters embrace bisexuality, resisting the categorization of identity politics for as long as possible, and refuse to hold down a meaningful, monogamous relationship. When one is under no illusion that there is nothing and no one to trust, how does one love?

The V-neck tee, V-neck sweater vest scrawny man who collects soul records, the grown woman who looks like a twelve-year old boy with just as much vitriol against the world, the beefy, tatted flannel man, with the smartphone and the beard Burnsides would have envied, all these typologies are the embryotic, culturally-bred hopes for a “good ole days” that never existed. They call into question the very notion of a future worth investing in or sticking around for.  The hipster enclaves of Bushwick, Williamsburg, Silver Lake, Portland, and the Red Line of Chicago attest that for the first time in sartorial history, a subculture finds no excitement in mirroring the ills of society by existing among the bourgeois. At this new form of existentialism, living with mirror-images of the self, Hipsters would rather live among hipsters. They would rather grow their own veggies. They would rather die caffeinated from plants they donated money to harvest. They would rather find belonging and solace in peers, than look to Mummy and Bubby’s set to provide perspective.

Of course, the twenty-first century Hipster is not a contemporary phenomenon etymologically. The current hipster is a strange hybrid of the Ivy-League ‘beat’ of the Fifties, and the Kent State ‘hippie’ of the Sixties. They are well-educated, haute bourgeois, and politically active to the point of activism or opinionated malaise. One could argue that the hipster would be nowhere if it were not for Wikipedia, independent film, Prada loafers, and the FIFA World Cup. Hipsters would rather be anywhere than here, are more at home in languages they do not speak, and in climates of extremes rather than the comfy cubicles of Wall Street. And while hipsters can be dandies, and some even border on aesthetes, hipsters will not claim the label of hipster. It is redundant, and no one cared enough the first time, so why repeat the sentiment?

P.

Popinjay was not the term I was going to use. Originally, I was going to go with “metrosexual.” However, as the catwalk has ditched the pages of Vogue for the streets, the epithet historically reserved for rakes and fops of the most velveteen nature seemed right. For what is more popinjay-esque than turning one’s figure into art? And what is more transubstantial than the recent trend in tattoos? While it can be argued that humanity, no matter how elaborately arrayed, cannot hold a candle to the peacock or male moose, the popinjay is the opposite of the Dandy. While the latter regards the world, not with the disdain of the hip, but the indifference of the experienced, the popinjay seeks to regale the world with his magnificence. The sleeve tattoo (boasting khoi fish, no less!) of Sir Beckham of the Pitch is case-n-point. Such intentional gerrymandering for attention is what earned youth in Napoleonic France the name, les incroyables. The slim waist, the well-defined the thighs, the colored tattoos along necks, ankles, and crotches, the long hair buzzed unevenly on the sides so that the top pompadour blows back, adds to the idea of whimsy, of effort, of untouchable, unattainable, conscientious but tortured theatrical performance. For the popinjay, a trip to the corner bodega for cigarettes is as much contemplated as a box seat at Lincoln Center: the conversation must sparkle, the shoes must be pointed, and the iPod blaring Brazilian samba must be noticeable at all times.

Of all the subgroups, it is the popinjay whose desired object is most in question. Are they gay or are they straight? Are they “queer as in allied” or “queer as in queer?” In the immortal words of Carrie Bradshaw trying to identify one of Charlotte York’s most wonderful dates: “He is a straight-gay man or a gay-straight man?” Like the metrosexual, the popinjay is a unique blend of young manhood interposed with the shops and cuisines of the metropole, and the disposable income in the post-industrial, capitalist dynamo. In constrast, the popinjay (akin to the hipster) finds queries of sexuality and desire irrelevant. If you have to ask, you have not been paying attention. If you have to ask, you no longer belong in the club. The game is strict: one must appeal. Desire is not gender-specific, why should their look be? While beauty as it is defined in the here and now is of the utmost importance, the appetite is decidedly virile, consumptive, decadent. All day can be spent deciding which tie to wear, which shoes to buy. Where the metrosexual concerns himself less with fashion and more with self-fashioning vis-à-vis grooming (pedis, manis, pube-‘scaping, tanning, gym regimens, the popinjay hides all manner of insecurities and sins of hygiene under the pinstriped worsted wool of a double-vented English suit with a purple scarf, three too many sprays of expensive perfume, and the entrancing art of the ::sigh::

Popinjays and hipsters regard each other as rivals on friendly turf. While the popinjay dismisses the hipster for his hypocritical disregard for success and materialism, the popinjay inhabits the same ‘hoods, frequents the same bars, but once a week goes uptown for a quiet evening of something “nice.” The popinjay gives off the scent of pampered-ness, either through his own means or someone else’s. The hipster, on his part, looks upon the popinjay as an unrealized version of himself. There is the faint smell of nouveau riche clinging to the popinjay’s silks and the hipster catches it. The hipster is happy with whatever is on his plate. The popinjay is only satiated when he looks at the plates and wine list of the people seated to his right.

D.

Next, we must separate the dandy from its -ism. Dandy/ism are not synecdoches nor pars pro toto. The dandy is no king over the kingdom of dandyism. Just as ‘hip’ and hipster are distinct, so too are the dandy and the malady which befalls those in his thrall. The dandy (also known as a beau or a gallant) has often been characterized as a nonchalant parishioner in the cult of Self. I find little qualm with such a hyperbolic description, finding it true, for the most part. But what must be emphasized is the sense of precariousness of the world the dandy inhabits. Not for the dandy (nothing rises to the level of danger for him) but for those who are enamored by his quick wit, his good looks, his refined manners, his sportsmanship. The dandy surrounds himself with the pretty things of life but seems to take little enjoyment from them. Akin to the opinionated hipster, the dandy sits at the head of someone else’s table and deftly precedes to pass judgment over all creation, leaving nothing unscathed, including the business details of the hosts who are feeding him. Simultaneously delightful and insolent, the dandy is an ascetic of the worst sort. Monica L. Miller has executed a tour de force with her study of the Black Dandy, entitled Slaves to Fashion. The premise of the work might strike Anglo- and European readers with wonder but Diasporic readers as handed-down, orally-transmitted fact: men of color have different relationships to cloth, grooming, and couture than White men. Race and ethnicity are paramount to a reading of how the dandy and the aesthete move and transgress in society. Though my brief lines do not touch upon these topics with more gusto, I hope, someday, to do so.

When one hears or reads about the dandy, certain names come up: D’Aurevilly, Brummell, Oscar Wilde, Charles Ryder, Algernon Moncrieff, André 3000, Count Robert de Montesquiou, Tom Wolfe, Kanye West, and Thom Browne… In my estimation, only Brummell and Thom Browne fit the category of “dandy.” The rest are popinjays or aesthetes or merely rich. My list of famous and infamous dandies would include: Gay Talese, Andy Warhol, Walt Whitman, Dorian Gray (before the aesthete portrait nonsense) Federico Garcia Lorca, Frank O’Hara, Langston Hughes, Stalin, W.E.B. Du Bois, Stokeley Carmichael, Fred Aistaire, Usher, Edward Carpenter, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, and Paul Robeson.  

Here is the thing about the dandy. The dandy is as much at home in a tuxedo as a black graphic tee, as comfortable at the country club as he is the board room, the gym locker room, a grimy college bar, or the opera. The dandy dresses just slightly above the norm or just slightly below it not to cause a sensation but to feel the most confident in his own skin. A dandy’s sense of self-worth or comfort stems from his reception in society. He wants to be acknowledged for his effort in dress, his decision to be pleasing, but it is undoubtedly for his mind, not his looks, that the dandy wants to be welcomed by politicos and bus-boys alike.  Dress, along with the social graces to know when to laugh, when to wink, when to pick up the bill, and when to leave, are all part of an entrancing, all-consuming one-man production, entitled, “How to be a Gentlemen, or How to Succeed in Life Without Looking and Sounding Tired.” Self-presentation is everything because it is nothing— it is a trifle, an extended thank you note, a bagatelle one gives to please, flatter, and prove to others that you care. Thus, the dandy often finds himself invited to the most exclusive parties without paying the social dues of the other guests. The dandy’s company is always prized by women and men, children and dogs.

There is a reason why Ralph Lauren and the Brooks Brothers clothiers continue to cater to certain élite clientele. The fabrics are versatile and if cared for, long-lasting. The prices are not cheap, but the designs are in no-wise trendy. It is up close and personal where the dandy shines. From a distance, he is merely a “tuned-up” part of the crowd, noticeable, but one of the gang, surely. Conversely, the popinjay’s slim, aspirational trendiness visualizes a hope that his shoes, his scent, his coat will be recognized for its expense and rarity by even the lowest amongst us. The dandy takes joy in getting away with mixing and matching high and low brands all in the name of “best fit” and comfort. A man of any size can be a dandy; there is no glory in starving or denying oneself.

All this, mind you, is performed and arranged with the studied air of indifference. To care too much, to go into hysterics or to assent to anger is thought to be the most egregious of a dandy’s sins. It does not mean that they do not care, in fact, many dandies dedicate their life to one cause or another. However, they are able to compartmentalize their lives and save the drama for their diaries or the piano (dandies are often musical). The dandy and the concept of “the duel” is a prime example of attenuated nonchalance. One drinks, one chooses pistols, one chooses seconds, one bows and paces at dawn. Only a dandy who views life as no great honor would risk a 50-50 chance at its loss.  

A.

And perhaps we come now to the most-discussed but least understood dude of the bunch: the aesthete. The aesthete takes his name from an –ism, and, like any new convert, is ravenous in his adherence. He can only be roused from the slumber of life by the true thing: that which is beautiful enough, sensual enough, ethereal enough, to move him to fits of laughter or tears. In some ways, I think the aesthete is nearly extinct. Like the scarlet A of Hester Prynne and Dimmesdale, everyone has an image of what the archetypal form looks like but none of us have ever seen it. The homosocial enclaves of Edwardian Britain with its sixth forms, is dying. All of our grand examples are men born around the turn of the twentieth century who existed, well into their adulthood, in an academic, philosophical, laboring world of predominated by men. 

Regarding dress and food, the aesthete constructs for himself and for others strict rules of conduct: Prosecco and champagne are always appropriate, the color black should be a rare occurence, and money proves a necessary evil, best to be placed into a budget but never adhered to.  The muse of the aesthete is systemic yet egalitarian. There are no hierarchies in the pantheon of beauty, only that which is beautiful, that which is heartbreaking, that which calls one out of one’s monastic existence and allows for the dangerous encounter with the Divine.

Danger is essential to any understanding the aesthete. The aesthete disrupts society by transgressing upon the limits of taste. As Kant and Burke relate, taste is contrived by social orders But when the aesthete takes those objects which are universally acknowledged as beautiful and elevates them to the level of personal gods, the beautiful comes dangerously close to being reconfigured into the realm of the Sublime. In this sense, the aesthete and the dandy are opposites; the latter is conditioned by and thrives in society while the former seeks to inadvertently break its back. Imagine Dorian Gray after Sibyl Vane’s death, Lord Alfred Douglass’ insistence that Wilde confront the Marquess of Queensberry, Anthony Blanche in Brideshead Revisited, or Zooey Glass in the bath.  Aesthetes possess little regard for decorum once their ire had been raised. The angel and the devil have never been as closely-wedded than they are in the personage of the aesthete. In fact, there is a reason why authors from Milton to C.S. Lewis and Tolkien have depicted Lucifer’s sin as one of aesthetic reorganization. I am reminded of the controversial 1947 photograph of a twenty-three year-old Truman Capote taken by Halma. Truman confronts the viewer, his eyes black and devilish, daring the viewer to find the contrast between his inner darkness and outward blonde-twink-dom beautiful, while his own eyes gaze out, cold and seductive, finding only his own reflection in the camera’s lens worthy of his kowtowing.

While the hipster, the popinjay, and the dandy trade on illegibilities of desire, the aesthete is always young and always queer. He is either perverse, asexual, or homosexual (if not in practice, by association). His worship of beauty pantomimes the death-drive, his wit a double-edged blade which cuts him off from the riggings holding aloft the fragile bridge of affection. Too smart and too bold for his own good, the aesthete is a danger to himself. He rarely lasts long. Like a witch, he must be picked, tried, and made an example of. Granted, one can recover from aestheticism, or be resurrected into it; one rarely suffers under its sign forever. The aesthete’s taste and response to beauty is Pavlovian, it is a nurtured, curated taste. Outside of Oxford, outside of the drawing-room, the theatre, and the botanical garden, the aesthete begins to fade. Like a junk habit, it must be constantly fed, or it wilts, and dies, and the soldier (Rimbaud), the politician (Clive Durham), the pater familias (Michael Jackson) is born.

So in conclusion, I ask, ‘Where are we now?’ Truly, men exist in an age of possibility. The array of acceptable male toilette has rarely been more accessible and more nuanced. One can play the popinjay in Midtown at MoMA and the hipster in Brooklyn at Roberta’s. And of course, there are other categories which nestle between these four: the slop, the fop, the biker, the bro, being noteworthy additions. There are also subgroups to each of these main categories (i.e. the androgyne, the musician/poet, the politico).  Perhaps it is more interesting to name what we see and to reason how we ourselves both fit within and stretch the limits of such a hodge-podge of paradigmatic choices. For yes, grooming and fashion are a choice. And in the twenty-first century, fashion might prove the one way to safely read the person before us, to understand their world, and their sensibilities and assumptions about when and by what means, their world might end.