13/09/2007 Think Tank
Midsummer Madness
The style media: don’tcherjusthate’em? A-walkin’ and a-talkin’ as if they’re party to a Masonic society of cool which excludes all but their own inbred social sphere (simpering fashion pricks with socks worn as hats and ugly, superior post-intellectuals incapable of speaking without an arched eyebrow of disdain). For those of you who wish biblical plagues of pustules visited upon the faux-grimy streets of Shoreditch – glad tidings! A peculiar malady has descended upon E1 and we in Notion towers are not immune…
‘So what’s happened?’ you cry, ‘And, more importantly, why should we do aught but rejoice? For is it not true that the style media’s constitution is exclusively people who pride themselves on their inability to be offended by, say, films about new forms of “cock fighting”? Those who would merely smirk at the sight of a man’s penis pecked to a pulp by a steroid-loaded rooster before a crowd of distressed, wailing orphans instead of being morally outraged? Fie to them! We wish them death by laxative!’
While we admit we’re yet to be convinced of the style press’ actual worth to the moral quality of society, you’ve gotta hear us out on this. You ask what’s wrong? This summer, in the private viewings and preview screenings we all frequent, the atmosphere of insouciant cultural critique has descended into tempests of partisan fashionista violence, all of us irate at this or that lacklustre piece of contemporary art rather than taking our usual joy in dismissing it. What had happened? Had we become so human as to no longer see others’ failures as an opportunity to re-assert our own fine taste? We were all perplexed (unusual in itself for an industry of know-alls). Whenever such storms would break out, we began to reassure one another by quoting the Bard – “Why,” we’d say, “this is very midsummer madness!” Thus spake Olivia in Twelfth Night, comparing the behaviour of her besotted servant Malvo’lio to the actions of rabid dogs beneath the glare of the June sun.
Slowly, we realised the aptness of this statement – it was indeed a form of midsummer madness that had afflicted us all. But this summer it could hardly have been the glare of the sun which had sent us all mad. Nor, we hasten to add, is anyone at Notion afflicted with rabies (except, perhaps, the Editor). Still, when torrential rain and gales put a crimp on our wine-and-olives summer-park habits, we need some art that’s going to chase us down alleyways, up fire escapes and across the roof-tops, art that runs us so hard the act of breathing feels like it might break our chest bone in half, art that dangles us over the edge of a 15 storey building for shits and giggles. We need art that’s not afraid of breaking our face with stiletto heels, films that can illuminate the filthy crevices of our mind and live spectaculars like bombs in our crotches.
Our midsummer madness, this debilitating malady laying waste to Hoxton, we realised, it’s brought on by the complete dearth of decent shit. So what’s this midsummer madness? It’s a poncy way of saying: WE’RE BORED! You’re boring us! Artists! Musicians! Filmmakers! Theatres! What’s this shit you’re showing us? How the fuck are we supposed to proclaim our superiority from our artfully designed pages when what you’re showing us to write about is B-O-R-I-N-G?! This is the reason exhibitions frequented by lifestyle editors are beginning to resemble illustrations from Dante’s Inferno, limbless torsos wailing that they’re doomed for eternity to wear tanktops and shorts.
Festivals are obvious, line-ups uninspired. The multiplexes are filled with continuations of franchises that we really couldn’t be arsed with to begin with – “amazing, it’s Arachnidboy 14½! Let’s spend forty quid on popcorn RIGHT NOW!” is exactly what we haven’t been saying this summer. We’ve now seen so many retrospectives of Surrealism that when we need to make a phone call, we dive into the nearest seafood restaurant and order lobster. We were beginning to doubt we’d get the art-exhilaration vaccine we needed to survive the next few months. Without it, the style media might perish…
But, Deus Ex Machina, we were saved! We began to come across events that bombed out the auditorium with muscles and nudity, the promise of death and slapstick comedy. We were rejuvenated by artists over-reaching and over-achieving, and by filmmakers ripping it up and starting again. Artists challenging themselves, vainglorious failures and supreme successes at once. This is what we want to write about! And you, you who snort and guffaw at we pretentious fools’ pain – be glad! For as we fell upon it all like some hipster Lawrence of Arabia would fall upon crates of Redstripe and Stoly after crawling across the desert, we realised that there was more and more – not merely an oasis of a crate, but an ocean of a free bar. We can hope again! We can tell you all about it again, and be superior again. We present to you just a few of those things that re-invigorated our passion in culture – in the hope that our passion might inspire you to find medication for your own midsummer madness. When you do, you – like us – will know the joy of displaying your superiority through your supreme good taste. It’s wrong, but it feels so good… |
