In elementary school, things were easy. Buy cards for everyone. Memory serving me poorly, this may have ment both boys and girls, but I am hoping it was just the sex of ones choice. I would write 20-30 Peanuts cards, droping each in a large envelop affixed to the given recipients chair. Low and behold, I would return to my desk to find roughly the same amount of cards addressed to me. How wonderful! The class was full of good cheer, hopped up on sugar from the teacher, and the notion that Valentine’s Day was complete shame far from the grasp of our one track minds. 

Highschool came and my notion of the day changed ever so slightly — it is by far the loneliest day on the calender. The school had the grand tradition of senior kisses, where by you, or your friends, could purchase a peck on the cheek from some wanted upper classman. My freshman year I recieved a kiss from a hottie named Pleasance. Promptly after I rubbed one out in the science center lavatory. I also got a kiss from a large bussomed girl named Betsy. She was a junior, and being a sad young thing I suddenly imagined she liked me. Wrong. Betsy was just being nice. Subsequent years followed with more pity kisses and increasingly lowered esteem. My senior year was the final straw, not a single young lady bought a kiss from me.

What kind of Saint would wish such a thing? 

Well, none really. There were, according newadvent.org, three St. Valentines, all martyrs and all had their feats on February 14. And thus we have a name and a date for the occasion, but are still lost as to where buying women gifts and celebrating love on the day comes from.

A little further research (wikipedia and newadvent) and we find that thanks to Chaucer, the feast of Valentine became associated with romance. Why? Damned if I know, my brother is the families Lit. scholar, not I. I do know that the Italian Renaissance was full of putti (fat cheribic creatures figuring in loads and loads of paintings), so that winged marksman of love adorning so many Hallmark’s has, at the very least, minor connections to the one of the Saint Valentines. As in, both spent some time (real or fictional) in Rome. This may also account for the belief many feckless men have that Italian dinners are incredibly romantic. Fictionalizing some account of the Saint, as Chaucer did, seems to have galvinized loads of people throughout time to woo women on February 14. And, while many people have also thought about going on a violent rampage on this day, a few people did in 1929. 

Violence never once threatened my Valentine’s. Bodily harm, however, has been endured (thank you alcohol). In my college years, Valentines Day went much like any other. Wake up, consume bloody mary, attend class, resume drinking. Later I usually ask myself this question: I wonder if anyone is lonely enough to sleep with me? Answer: NO. 

Much to my disbelief, bars on Valentine’s Day were not swarming with women who were gasping for it. Just people equal to my levels of social awkwardness. Even when lubricated, a room full of shy and nervous people does not make a party. Life went on, the day past, all of us went home and woke to a common bedfellow, a hangover. 

Post-college life was more fruitful. I celebrated proper Valentine’s days with gifts and meals. Partially for my own amusement and under the guise of archiving interesting objects of material culture I bought special edition air force ones and limited edition pendents, forcing them on my then partner. She accepted, and feigned interest, and we were, if for a fleeting moment, happy ever after. In the throws of love I didn’t once consider that my purchases, not being technically mine, would be a useless attempt at collecting as I would not have the items in perpetuity. 

The conflation of romantic gifts and the concept of “forever” came from the marketing genius of De Beers in partnership with the advertising firm N.W. Ayer. Sometime in the 19th century diamond engagement rings had become de rigur, but like all fashions there remained the possibility that the trend would slow or fall completely. De Beers wanted to ensure that interest in diamonds as symbols of love would remain, and as such N.W. Ayer worked to change and mold social attitudes about diamonds. Engagement rings were shown more clearly in film, celebrities employed and the notion of bigger and clearer diamonds equally bigger and better love was born. The slogan “A Diamond is Forever,” came into play in 1948 and with it the cultural construction of the stones meaning was further solidified. Today, diamonds are not just for engagement (obviously), and every tick tack jeweler in the nation flogs diamond heart pendants, earings and bracelets for Valentine’s. Love, romance and the stone. Brilliant marketing from bottom to top really.     

Diamonds are the best example of power of advertisers to push consumer perception and desire (in the Valentine’s day context). Our current hype market follows the belief that special editions are a way into consumers hearts. When the editions mark a special occasion, they must be doubly “special” right? They must perfectly articulate the love of an interest and the joy of sharing it. After all, how can you love someone who doesn’t at least understand your passions? It also must be special when the mecca of our hype market, MAGIC, falls around the same time as Valentine’s? A grand ode our infatuation with products and spending and looking good when looking for love. Undoubtedly, its just coincidence.

In fact, last year I was at MAGIC for Valentine’s. I went to PURE. A hooker told me I looked lonely. I was. She said she would do anything to make me happy. Like Betsy before, she was just being nice. I didn’t have enough to cover love’s tariff…

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I participated in the Montgomery Prize during my second year, and chose NMAH before I had picked an object. They had the broadest mission of the three, and I thought I might be able to find something a little more exciting. My classmates focused on more or less traditional antiques (toys, handbills, tools, broadsheets, toasters, etc). I walked fifteen minutes from my apartment to my favorite Mom and Pop and picked up a pair of Adidas Mutombo’s for $35.

The rationale? Well, selfishness for one. The size available was the exact size I wore when the shoe originally came out. (How’s that for nostalgia?). And, I thought I could build a compelling story that would surely wow the judges.

Signature shoes, to me, are inherently interesting. Beginning with Chuck Taylor, the idea is so tied to basketball and shoe culture. With the Mutombo shoe, I saw the potential of weaving a rather interesting tale combining athletic, corporate and personal interests.

Logically, I began by giving the assembled audience a brief rundown of the history of signature shoes in basketball (and because I am lazy I will quote from my original paper):

“The Converse rubber company of Malden, Massachusetts developed what is considered the first Basketball shoe in 1917. After several years of limited success, a young amateur ball player from Akron, Ohio named Chuck Taylor was recruited to help sell the Converse product. In 1923 the shoe was revamped and the Converse all-star that is familiar to many of us was born. With Chuck as its spokesman the shoe, to use a great understatement, became quite successful. The idea of using Athletes to sell Athletic shoes solidified, every major and minor shoe corporation built a stable roster of stars (Pete Marovich with Pro-Keds, Dominique Wilkins with Brooks, and even coaching legend John Wooden with Wilson Bata) particularly in the basketball arena through the seventies and eighties.”  

As we all know, by the nineties the signature shoe was really big business. Sports Illustrated ran a really nice tidy piece relating that fact, and thanks to Larry Johnson’s relationship to Converse, I had a clear link from Taylor to 1992. Also, with Larry edging Mutombo as rookie of the year, I had a great segue back to my object. Luckily, even the most out of touch intellectual is aware of Michael Jordan, and since Nike’s sales in the US for the years in question (1992 and 1993) averaged just under $2 billion, it was a rather simple task to outline who was boss in the sneaker world.

While Adidas had emerged the market leader in the U.S. during the 1970s, and got its hip-hop stripes via Run-DMC’s 1986 hit “MY ADIDAS,” things were looking rough in 1992. In February of 1993 they hired former Nike executive Robert J. Strasser, who was pictured in the New York Times holding a Mutombo sneaker, to head newly created Adidas America. The company hoped that basketball would spearhead a renaissance.  Adidas developed a shoe that was built for the center position, bulky and stable, but also an indication of Mutombo’s personality, past, and the proposed future of basketball, the African continent. The geometric patterning on the sides and interior of the shoe share a distinct resemblance to the cut-pile raffia textiles of Mutombo’s homeland, Zaire. This design cue follows not only Mutombo’s personal history, but figures cleanly into a popular urban aesthetic of the time. Afrocentric imagery and patterning were popular, and of course, who can forget Cross Colors. Plus, the connection of Adidas and hip-hop was already so firmly in place.

All this working together, I played up another point that museums love as well: Collectors. Few would probably argue against the hypothesis that, to an extent, hip-hop and street basketball play a major roll in forging a generation of sneaker collectors. Mentioning the proliferation and steady growth of periodical and web literature catering to collectors, as well as a few books, I hoped to hammer down the point that a ready made audience existed for museum interpretation of the shoe. It seemed supremely appropriate for the popular culture galleries at NMAH, reflecting clearly the aesthetic of the era, Adidas corporate history, and allowing entry into a longer trend of signature footwear.

Not surprisingly, I didn’t win.

I did, however, continue to think a lot about signature shoes. Growing into sneaker culture during an era heavy with athlete driven models, I remember fondly Grant Hill’s time with Fila and the battles waged on the tennis court between several members of the Nike family. You were not a star unless you had a shoe, and most importantly, people wanted to wear those shoes.

In 1992 I was swayed by Reebok’s ill fated Dan vs. Dan campaign, the first time in my memory personalities were really pushed to sell a non-signature model. I regard this as interesting because I think it connects to trends in current iterations of the signature shoe.  

During countless hours of college and NBA basketball this past holiday season, my interest in the signature shoe was reinvigorated by Nike’s new House of Hoops commercial. It states something to the effect of people wanting to wear an athlete’s foot on theirs. Get a taste of the glory, and not just live vicariously, but FEEL as well what the athletes have (at least technology wise). The idea of the commercial is great, but seems a few years out of date.

The cache granted athletes in the market has certainly dwindled (at least in traditional sports, as signature models for skate seem vibrant still), and attention granted to a new celebrity endorser passes with little enthusiasm. However, I have begun to consider shop model shoes in the same vain that I view athlete pro models. They are designed to appeal because of connection to personalities, spaces and places, and linked to the elusive notion of cool. Athletics is about performance more than ever, but off the field cool, and the connection to cool sells as well as ever. Linking back to Dan and Dan, the shop signature shoes are simply stamps on existing general models, just kicked up and (to use the most dreaded word in our common vocabulary) hyped up.

When done most effectively, these shoes can tell a story just as broad and exciting as the Mutombo can. Huf’s Air Trainer 1 designed by Benny Gold, in my view, is an exceptional articulation of place and space. From the theme to the materials, it is easily read in the material culture/art history vein, and smoothly fits into a discussion current marketing trends. 

To be honest, a great number of the many boutique designed shoes are useful as a starting point in a material culture analysis of contemporary trends. Naming some over others is a tad unfair, and my picks for those that are good, better or best are no more than examples of my subjective taste. What I really want to impart is my firm belief that these types of collaborations are significant in the overall history of the signature shoe. They have breathed a breath of life into catalog models and resuscitated interest in sneakers. They are what the kids are driven by, and if they are not buying them, they are buying things that are in essence cheap imitations. The beauty of this? Whereas I might have been called out for wearing the mid-price model based on a popular signature shoe, some kids will be lauded for their colorful GR dunk that bares passing resemblance to the UNDFTD clerks pack.

Cheaper. Easier. Cooler. Shop signature shoes are a great boon to the industry. They also privilege the perceived expert in a way unseen in traditional signature shoes. Sure, some nerds know Tinker Hatfield designed the Air Trainer 1, and give a nod of respect to HUF for using that canvas. But, for the most part, the “connoisseur” supersedes the true designer and is lauded for the extreme coolness of their color schemes.

Occasionally this backfires. The High Hair dunk, for example, was a brilliant concept that was lost for, perhaps, being too subtle aesthetically. The shoe fit an idea, captured regional identity, and was playful in articulation. Perhaps lacking a link to a major personality or shop killed off the potential of mega hype. As with sports stars, not all cool guy leaders are appreciated.

In total, these releases indicate the conflation of consumerism and culture that calls into question authentic interest and participation. Steven Vogel’s recent interview with Ian MacKaye relays this point very nicely, especially in regards to NIKE SB. Street culture exists in a rare balancing act between, what I will call here the vernacular, and the corporate iteration. There is a good amount of leverage generated for the key players, enough to not completely water down the end product, but often enough those who have INFLUENCED the players are thrown unwillingly into the fray. Sadly, this leads to a lot of pretending.

Part of the issue remains with the over reliance on nostalgia to push numbers.

I find myself wondering how a shift back to athlete driven sneaker culture is possible. Not in the sense of Nike SB, for only the P. Rod shoe actually pushes sneakers toward newness, but outside of sports that still hold that cache of difference and cool (and, yeah, cool is overused in the last few pages). Adidas’ plan for Gilbert seemed to fuse the limited and superstar molds that independently work to sell sneakers. Nike has tried with Lebron, and to be honest, who can truly say that those limited editions were either exciting, or genuinely generated interest.  (Let’s face it; they are a product of the disgusting cult of sole collector magazine).

Thankfully, there are several footwear companies emerging that go back to basics. Thrill with material choice, and avoid the problematic world of collaborations and signature models altogether. They won’t ever rule the sneaker world, for signature and sponsored products will likely always be with us, but they provide something for those of us wanting to cut through the crap, and will grow into a historic foil for the signature shoe for later generations of interested consumers/scholars.

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Like graffiti, break dancing is steadily making inroads into the institutional art world. Not new, just as street based arts have been in and out of favor with the art world for some decades, but stronger than ever, the notion that this art must be validated and understood outside the core culture building. Desire for institutional validation of American vernacular arts has plenty of precedents. Eric Porter beautifully describes Wynton Marsalis’ work with the Lincoln Center Jazz Orchestra in this context in his book What is This Thing Called Jazz. There is a clear avenue for advancement (institutionally) with Marsalis, elevate jazz to the same status as classical music.   

Progressive dance companies have occasionally mixed breakin’ in to spice up some pieces, but the flowering of purely hip-hop driven troupes in the past decade pushes the folk form more solidly into the academy. Philadelphia is a hot bed for hip-hop dance companies, most famously Renne Harris’ Pure Movement. Over the years I’ve seen a good number of them, mostly at Washington DC’s Dance Place, which next week will host its annual hip-hop dance festival. They kicked off a little early this year inviting olive Dance Theater in for a one week residence.

The mission of the theater is “validate indigenous American hip-hop dance forms, specifically Breakin’, through the creation and performance of new dance theater works.” Unfortunately, in offering authentic breakin’ AND poignant interpretive pieces the aim is stunted. Director Jaime stresses that breaking is the sole dance form employed by Olive. Certainly true, however the interpretation of breaking within the frame of contemporary dance minimizes the pace, pulse and power of break dancing. Isolating movements also works to limit the potential of the dancers to express a confident identity. 

olive undeniably is about breaking. The most powerful piece of the performance wasn’t even live. The film presentation “‘83″ nicely discussed the nature of community through mentoring, as well as opening my eyes to a new connection. Raphael Xavier, Olive’s lead dancer, also rides flat land. Moving between his riding and dancing, similarities in movement are apparent, and the linkage fascinating. In the film, the company best relays the power of street arts to combat social ills, and only here does the company really push the original intent of the hip-hop movement. 

In the more “serious” pieces, olive faces tension between salient points and actually doing great dance. There are moments of excitement and flow in each, but they never quite hit a stride. Ultimately, the attempts at validation are overly focused and sadly miss the proper fusion of vernacular and high art. 

I am reminded of Donte Ross’ review of the recent Banksy instillation in my thinking about olive. The New York show raised similar questions about intent. The small scale pieces presented in NY divorce Banksy from the interactive power of the street paintings and his large scale instillations. The connection is limited, however, in that olive minimizes their own mission in the work, whereas Banksy falls to the hands of outside curators. 

What does build in both is the difficulty of bringing new forms of folk art to traditional audiences. Balancing expectation and authenticity has pitfalls. Certainly, as I mentioned above, street arts have taken the fancy of the art world before. Basquiat is the prime example. But, street arts now have more cultural and economic capital, and I would argue there is more at stake with current moves toward validation. The core purveyors of the culture have more power to ease the entry, and have opportunities to positively push agendas. 

With olive, I was bothered by the overall feel of the product. They have an ambitious mission, but have a long road ahead in pulling it off the right way. Break dancing needs passion. There is a need to react, to the music or to fellow dancers. Formalizing the movements, while an interesting exercise, removes the EXCITEMENT. The dancers faces showed just that and the audience could feel it. They had come to be enthralled, and left (at least in my case) uninspired and a little let down.   

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I was introduced to my greatest guilty pleasure as an eighth grader. After graduating from a rather childish series of books, I discovered the work of Clive Cussler. They appealed to my interest in history, vague sense of adventure and desire to be a bon vivant. Dirk Pitt and later Kurt Austin, Cussler’s two all-American heroes, are cut from the same cloth as Indiana Jones. Except, they exist in the present and are sadly represented (at least Pitt) on screen by the hapless Matthew McConaughy and not my friend Jed’s favorite male lead, Harrison Ford.

Over the years, even as I have dispensed of most reading material I deem crap (maxim, vibe, the source, and countless others), Cussler has stuck with me. Paint by numbers novels appear with frightening frequency, and hold my interest without fail for the day or so it takes me to get through them. When Sahara hit the silver screen, I was dreadfully disappointed, perhaps thinking that had the movie been excellent, my pleasure would have been marginally validated.

Last week, I read The Navigator. The writing was weak, and the editing worse than my own, but still I turned each page as quickly as the last, and felt momentarily lost in Cussler’s world. I passed it on to my newly teenage cousin, hoping that at the very least, the NUMA adventures would make him fall in love with books as I have.

Customarily, Cussler has provided an escape from an ever growing list of books that I must read. I often wonder- do other people avoid reading by reading? Perhaps so. In any event, I have returned to my stack and am catching up on some much overdue tattoo reading.

Half way through Sarah Hall’s The Electric Michelangelo and I am enormously pleased with her treatment of the tattoo trade. I shouldn’t really be surprised, the book, after all, was a Booker Prize finalist (note: in reading this book, I have decided that I will not review fiction, and rather reflect on it in rambling entries like this instead). The first third of the book cleanly captures the tensions of the apprenticeship system, and even better the unmitigated attraction some men (and women) have to the art.

The appearance of tattooing in fiction has always been a real point of excitement for me. Hall’s book marks a nice change too; it’s well researched and hinges more on human passions than sensation. Hers is a perceptive handling, great fiction, encompassing a contemporary and reverential view of tattooing.

The only thread linking my two recent reads is an emphasis on historical record to drive plot. On the one hand, Cussler’s wild tales heightens the sense of adventure, whereas Hall’s precision underlies her brilliance. In essence, the methods define the divide between guilty and absolute pleasure.

There remains minor anxiety though, as I don’t wish to dismiss the guilty as a blip in my consumer history. Despite less artistic and historic merit, books like Cussler’s are strong signifiers of what punters want, and how they choose to be entertained. As I am a proponent in pushing the value of any item of the past as valued historical marker, I’ve hit a road block. If I privilege some items in my life over others, am I bound to ignore interesting documents in my work?

This will likely be a never ending question of both my intellectual interest and integrity.

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In film, the depiction of Louis Kahn via My Architect fits my notion of the artist genius. Family life disregarded, finances a secondary thought, Kahn searches for a perfection that many can see, but only he can truly understand. There are a good number of films that portray individual artists, who share the obsessive drive to perfection in a given medium. For no particular reason, I have always found the idea of genius far easier to grasp in architects, and thus in architecture, than any other art. I love space, movement and texture. I love to be enveloped by structures.

Praising the individual is pretty easy. Less complex than thinking critically about the mass of apprentices, carpenters, contractors, electricians, and what have you that go into the actual creation of a building. But, while it is important to remember that these “geniuses” are pretty brilliant, their talents were fostered somewhere, aided by someone and those experiences too tell a great story. 

As an awkward segue — my family does Christmas stockings. This year along with a Cooks Illustrated magazine and a bottle of hot sauce, I received Fully Awake a documentary about Black Mountain College. Covering the short history of the College, the film reveals a remarkable story about communal invention and the fostering of individual expression. The list of people with connections to Black Mountain reveals a few familiar names: Willem de Kooning, Josef Albers, Jacob Lawrence, Buckminster Fuller and Ben Shahn. But, as easily as they stand as individuals, the nature of the College, and really the experiment stands above. I am fascinated by where things happen, and love their tales, so the film really fit the bill.

Fully Awake is not one of those documentaries that is likely to become part of the cool guy must see list. The music is bad, the people interviewed are a little over the hill, and it has an aura of museum video about it. Yet, looking past the minor faults, the whole thing is fantastically engrossing.

The school was founded on a premise of progressive education and from initial seed to launch, it all happened in six weeks. There were no sports. No grades. No fraternities. It wasn’t like any other place around. And, this was in the 1930s. Students were encouraged to pursue their interests, with the idea that art cultivates independence and self discipline (you may begin to gather how I slowly fused this story with some of the ideas I have about street culture, and have discussed many times over).

Josef Albers brought to Black Mountain the Bauhaus notion of pedestrianizing the arts, and pushed students to see themselves and to understand material, texture and color. This sophistication, transferred to the college by European refuges like Albers, followed into the progressive nature of the pedagogical system at Black Mountain. A co-op structure from the start, all faculty worked to build the curriculum, and students were always involved in the goings on.

Things weren’t easy, as you might imagine, but perseverance through economic downturns proved the power of the environment and the faith in the experiment. People simply believed in the idea of liberal freedom and the power of imagination to yield a total education. They fought through the McCarthy era, a time where the communal nature of Black Mountain was certainly a risk. Freedom of exploration being one of those perceived tenets of American life, Black Mountain provided an actual venue for something often so closed off.

By 1948, the American avant garde had emerged, and Black Mountain remained central to the growth. Fuller came, there was tremendous collaboration on campus and the mingling of the arts flourished. Happenings were invented. Things that speak of a slightly later generation (or at least do for me, probably because dates confuse), came to early fruition down in North Carolina.

The school closed in 1956.

I don’t want to discuss too much of the film, because I honestly believe it worth watching. It struck a nerve, and began to fulfill a much needed push away from personal biography and the lauding of the individual in the arts (for me) toward a greater and better understanding of the strength of community to inspire, grow, reflect and invent.

That can, and does, happen in street culture. There is mingling of the arts, and it’s fun and exciting in that way. I can’t help but think that the hyping of the individual works to circumnavigate that truth. Think about where street art is moving as it infiltrates the art market, how the artists are removed from context, and divorced from the creative environment that birthed them.

Suddenly, Banksy becomes Louis Kahn, and I’m struggling to find the great community story.

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This year I was asked to contribute to one really great year end review, and to write blurbs for another. I consider the former a great honor (thank you, Steven), and the latter a bit of a pain in the ass. Given that my views are available elsewhere and more so that my lists are completely off base, it seems appropriate to finish the year with a post about something so often avoided in year end reviews, the best (or really, my favorite) exhibition. 

2007 was a pretty good year for me and exhibitions. Without second thought I would say that in this calendar year I visited a wider variety of exhibitions than in any other, in more cities and in more diverse settings. Some were curated by friends, others by foes. Some displayed the work of new acquaintances, others the craft of dead cabinet makers. It was a year in which breadth of voice was privileged, and collaboration between the museum world and the practitioner expert delightfully achieved.

On that note, my favorite exhibition of the year came in the form of the Imperial War Museum’s (LONDON) Camouflage instillation. When launched, the exhibit received considerable attention from the streetwear blogs, in most part due to the association with the good people at Maharishi. I thought this brilliant – expand audiences, bring in intelligent collaborators and push the boundaries of the museum a little.

Despite my initial excitement, I was wary of what I might find. Fearful that the praise might be unjustified, and that the sum of its parts would come off as a lame attempt at cool. Turns out my fears were unwarranted.

The exhibition played out in two clear parts. First, there was a concise and complete history of camouflage in military use from World War One, and second, an exploration of camouflage in contemporary fashion. From my perspective, the opening section was the stronger. The history was full and the sources varied, and the presented objects were so engaging. From discussion of the artistic influences of early military camouflage, both naturalist painters and cubism, to the earliest vogues in fashion (popular camouflage parties) there was so much to discover and a wealth of connections to make and dissect.

Things either forgotten or simply unknown clicked. Disruptive camouflage on ships, for example, made such an amazing visual statement, and the paintings and photographs depicting them worked as both documentary artifact and art object. The duality of everything presented made the experience so memorable, as each and every selected article shared historical value and aesthetic sensibility. And it wasn’t just history, art and fashion; there was some science thrown in too, and also a dash of humor.

The Imperial War Museum, point blank, does visitor interactive correctly. Through video and reproduction pamphlets, the curators offered examples of how the general public engaged with camouflage. Protecting homes, protecting bomb shelters, and disguising tanks; after this portion of the exhibition I felt as if I could do it all. There was also an opportunity to test my understanding and knowledge of the history, bang on a touch screen, and celebrate being smarter than my brother.

Highlighting the exhibition was a long case displaying a wealth of camouflage from a range of inter-national military units. The shapes, colors, patterns and even cuts of the clothing were astonishing. Even amidst such a bounty of terrific objects, the uniforms shone. Of course they did. That’s why we were there! Still, I was refreshed that the uniforms not only exercised star power, but as the central objects they were treated as such. Brilliantly lit, simply explained and, in the flow of the instillation, a perfect segue to the more strictly driven fashion portion.

Given the excellence of the first half of the exhibition, I must admit to being a tad let down by the fashion element. The scholarship was certainly weaker, though the points solid and well articulated. Perhaps I was upset by the reliance on the contemporary. Or, it might have been a result of having just literally been at the DPMHI store two hours prior. I felt the drop off in historical connections, but not in visual impact, which was maintained throughout.

Despite my downplaying of the final section, what should be applauded is the contrast of dense history to clean celebration of aesthetics. I cannot recall another exhibition that so simply and easily appealed to a multitude of learning styles. It offered so much, so quickly, to so many. I have complaints about every exhibition I attend. Its in my nature, I’ve worked in the field; I scrutinize everything from hanging hardware to the material labels are printed on. And, yet at the Camouflage show, I could only complain about the limited text in a portion that was so stunning I really forgot about reading altogether.

I’ve done the work no justice. It was perfect balance of history, art, science, sociology, and that cantankerous beast we call fashion. It set a new standard, and I am pretty sure I will spend the rest of my life trying to match it in my own work.  

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Without fail, the matches that come my way are touted as between 80% and 86%. By my math, that is B- to solid B range. Do I want a mate that is merely a good match? No, I want at least an A- (though bra size could sway me to settle for a B+). If my immediate reaction to the thumbnails is anything to go by, I shudder to think how a woman might respond to finding me in their mail.

Would it be like the 8^th grade? Each morning I faced the indignity of walking toward my homeroom via the sixth grade hallway. Each morning I heard the budding popular set whisper “He’s so ugly.” I knew it wasn’t true, but the words still stung. Weren’t these young ladies supposed to lust after the older man? Was this evidence that I had no swagger?

Apparently the latter question rings true in both person and via web correspondence. Very few of my winks and emails are returned. I do find it amusing to send really sleazy emails to match.com girls, and I suppose this could account for the inactivity in my inbox. Also, I never really pay much attention to profiles or exercise any diligence to see if the girl of choice frequently visits the site anyway. I have pledged to exercise greater caution, and use the options with greater confidence, lest my monthly tariff fritter away.

New outlook in mind, I was braced for Monday’s “Your Matches” email. To great surprise, the first pictured lady was touted as a 90% match. Finally an A-! This was worth investigating. I clicked. I signed on. I reminded myself to carefully scrutinize her profile.

All looked good. Until, I arrived at the dreaded turn-on/turn-off section. The turn-offs were simple and clear, tattoos and sarcasm. Bollocks. These are my bread and butter. How can this lady be a 90% match? Where does Dr. Phil get off? The bald git has clearly got something wrong here.

I noticed a genuine attempt at humanity on the profile. “I return all emails and winks.” Ok, I thought, there is still hope that this A- is a true grade and not the type they give at Harvard. Summoning much courage I hit the “email her” button.

To: JLP11907 

Date Sent: December 17

Subject: In an email I just received

I was told you and I are a 90% match. Based on the fact that I am pretty heavily tattooed and you are turned off by them, I find this rather bizarre. But, I am willing to give match.com the benefit of the doubt. I see we enjoy similar things and think that a quiet dinner would turn your aversion to body art (at least on me).

Anyway,

Happy Holidays,

Nick

I know, I know. I said I liked to send sleazy emails to match.com girls. Hell, sometimes you have to switch the approach, act out of character, and see where it goes. As for her claim of returning emails, fucking lies. My damaged soul is nearing the stage of irreconcilable disinterest.

And, so the experiment with internet dating remains a complete waste of money. I have no dates, and have spent more time than I wish to admit looking for provocative cleavage shots. At bars, I always felt leering was something I was supposed to do. On websites, it makes me feel creepy (not on all websites mind you).

Being honest with myself, it’s time for a cancellation.

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Common perceptions about Japanese street fashion are too often limited to the most recent derivations and those brands that fit into American and, largely, Western definitions of streetwear. Hiroshi Fujiwara, Visvim, Bounty Hunter, and of course, BAPE ring out immediately for the hoards of youth populating internet communities. As forward thinking and exciting as these figures and labels are, they represent just one faction of a multi-layered and vibrant scene. 

Tiffany Godoy’s new book, Style Deficit Disorder, broadens the scope and contextualizes the breadth of our basic understanding of Japanese fashion. Focusing on Harajuku, a neighborhood in Tokyo that has fostered the growth of the nations fashion industry since the ‘60s, Godoy details the leading figures, stores, bands and publications that have made the area the epicenter of Japanese youth culture for decades.

Familiar names are present through the entire book, from Comme des Garcons to Hysteric Glamour to the Ura-Hara brands that are so present in the daily blog rolls. Brief portraits of the brands and their leading personalities serve to neatly tie in influences from across the globe, while beginning to express their uniquely Japanese approaches. Not only is it obvious that each generation of Harajuku has its own leading star (as far as brand), but also that the neighborhood has an unbelievable capacity to reinvent old ideas and foster new ones.

The strength of Godoy’s effort comes in the clarity of definition for each subgroup in Harajuku’s history. She is clear in her assertion that Japanese street culture is purely fashion driven, a point that comes most clearly in the proliferation of periodicals setting out to document the latest movements… not so much for archival purposes, but almost exclusively to track trends. For those readers unfamiliar with the Japanese fashion rags, the photo spreads in Style Deficit Disorder act as wonderful introductions to the general idea.

Godoy’s account of Harajuku no doubt raises some questions. For example, I am left wondering how the subgroups interact. Do the leaders of each style connect? In the end, these are of little consequence in the overall effect of Style Deficit Disorder. As an introduction to both the neighborhood (and Godoy does a great job framing its growth and setting the geographic scene) and the inhabitants, the book becomes a perfect starting point for people just getting interested in Japanese fashion, and a fantastic quick resource for those who are long time fans of Harajuku’s offerings.

Style Deficit Disorder releases next week.

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This year, for the first time, I hold an NBA season ticket. With it comes an increased engagement with the team. Being able to watch the warm-ups each night, and see how the players interact with each other, as well as the slow and steady development of the rookies, all fantastic. A season ticket affords some other activity as well, an opportunity to view and digest the various attempts made by the league to interact with fans and provide a full “Sports and Entertainment” package. By spring, I will endure hours of bad music, will see hundreds of horrendous dance routines by season end, and watch 41 virtual races between a bagel, donut and cup of coffee. Fan appreciation is the name of the game; the benefit is to a slew of corporate sponsors.

Accepting that many in attendance are more excited by the prospect of a free burrito than a well drawn play has been difficult. Yet, my love of the game has not diminished, and I’m able to cast a blind eye to the lame attempts at filling downtime in the arena. A new scoreboard has brought with it new methods of engaging fans, a sort of web 2.0 for the sports patron.

Encouraged by a flashing “snd ur txt,” attendees can offer fellow fans good wishes and spur on the team by punching a few keys their mobile phones. The majority of the takers are obviously youths. Last night I learned that more than a few boys are interested in a girl named Alicia. Apparently she is SEXY, and most of Prince George’s and Montgomery counties want to holler at her.     

This type of user (or fan) generated content is not surprising. Why not use a massive scoreboard to reveal a High school crush? What’s wrong with minimizing the sense of community the franchise has so generously granted?

What fascinates me most is how the encouragement of txt language works in opposition to the leagues chief philanthropic concerns – literacy and education. Britain reels in fear over how texting denigrates English. Reading emails from my cousins who live in London worries me. My spelling was bad enough in primary school without having to learn two written tongues. 

In some respects, it is both interesting and affirming to see how people react to user interaction outside the auspicious of the net. Affirming in that, well, it seems exactly the same — one more massive platform on which to advertise private and inane thoughts and conversations. Interesting, because people are obviously convinced that is what these opportunities are for.

Really, I am in no position to complain. Since owning a blackberry, I converse with my brother solely via BB MESSENGER. I probably waste time typing in full sentences. TXT life is really unavoidable. Researching Ph. D programs over the last year I have noticed a growing interest in Web communities and internet language among the people that populate culture programs. This was somewhat validating, as I didn’t realize that my obsession with such things could be transferred to a field of study. I find it very exciting when things that some deem “a waste of time” (like looking at Niketalk) can be passed of as legitimate study.

But still, there is a tension. If it is fine for the hallowed halls of higher education to discuss txt language and community, shouldn’t it be ok to encourage kids to share their slang with the world? Is there a risk of promoting a basically bilingual writing style (at least we hope that the youth can also pen prose in proper English). Where does responsibility rest?  

In the wake of some really good conversation about web 2.0 (check Vogel’s comments on black lodges), I thought mentioning other ways that people are interacting via technology at a large scale may be of interest. Though I am tempted to rail against the NBA for the text thing, I suppose my real concern is not the messages, but how they can be incorporated positively. No doubt, visitor interaction is the cool, hip, fresh thing to have… the only doubt is whether the higher ups take the time to think about the ramifications.

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I am always interested in how pedagogy differs from discipline to discipline. An essay dealing with arts education by Alison Armstrong, struck me. “Visual Literacy: Humanities and the Fine Arts Curriculum” (which you can read here if you please http://www.nccsc.net/2007/8/15/visual-literacy) emphasizes the importance of humanities training in arts education. Education in literature, poetry and history assist in better visualizing thoughts and theories. Armstrong’s ideas (and those that buttress them) are completely valid. There is danger in over specialization! Not only can it be boring, but creativity too can be stifled.

Armstrong mentions artists in history who are accomplished writers and musicians, but does not discuss music as an integral part to of visual art education. If the literary can expand and push thought, so too should music. The aesthetics of streetwear are so dependent on musical culture (rather than music in the strict sense), that exploring the musical connection appears, at the surface, fruitful.

I saw Nigo DJ for the Teriyaki Boys a few months back. Now, to be certain, Nigo competently covers the decks without displaying any real musical genius. However, his musical forays are indicative of the cross pollination of streetwear and several forms of music (often more accomplished than Mr. Number Two). Theoretically, both the DJ and streetwear designer share similarity in cobbling together bits and pieces of pre-existing material to formulate a new sound, aesthetic and cultural product (and BAPE is famous for liberally “remixing”). But, this is not new to either exercise. Ginsburg and Burroughs played with cut ups well before this, happily experimenting while holed up in a cheap Parisian hotel. Here the literary and aural come together, as the rhythm of the spoken words changes with the reforming of each given work. With streetwear, the music and the visual product remain separate, despite obvious influence and suggestions of compatibility. There are, of course, references to music in much design, but it is a visual created to compliment rather than stem from the sounds.    

Music has, and does, influence art (no groundbreaking thought here). An exhibition of Romare Bearden’s collages at the National Gallery was wonderfully narrated (via audio tour) by Winton Marsalis. This connection, between collage and jazz, simply and clearly relayed by one of jazz music’s great orators hammered down a simple point — artists of different mediums are often attempting to use their chosen vocabulary to explore the same ideas. The joy of the audio tour came in Marsalis reverence for Bearden’s work, and sense of shared agenda.  With jazz and painting connections to emotive phrasing can be challenging for people (like myself) who are not cognizant of the nuances in each.

Streetwear, and much of music’s complimentary visual, avoids this problem all together. Rock (and its many derivations) and rap being the two keystone musical genres informing street culture as it stands, allow for literal to visual interpretation. And so, we get lots of lyric inspired graphic, often text based. This has set the standard. My essential question here is: can sound really begin to push and influence the visual?

I’ve been thinking for some time about this, and reached no real conclusion. Perhaps it is fruitless. There are obvious roadblocks too. For one, the idea of literacy as it applies to non-letter based arts. In some respects, it is so much easier to understand visual arts than to understand (really understand) music. Literary, visual and aural arts all intertwine in fascinating ways, and require separate vocabularies for discussion and dissection. The Annales School, founded by Febvre and Block, championed new studies of history focused on everyday lives. Sound was an important aspect. For example, in my work, I have pondered how electricity changed the environment of the tattoo shop in the late 20^th century. Essentially, what people heard, and what people hear, is as important to a full examination of life as what they tasted, felt, heard, read and saw.

Since a vague sense of history (read nostalgia) seems so important in current design, where does that sense of sound history fit in? Above, I identify what we may call the precedents for musical inspiration in visual street culture. Armstrong’s notion of the danger of specialization does not apply as concretely to street culture as it does to arts in the academy. People have broad and diverse interests. They do not, however, often articulate those interests in broad view. The danger comes in narrow thinking rather than narrowly focused efforts. It seems that the wide lens approach of the Annales School could be equally beneficial to design (in the streetwear sense), as it was to pushing history back to the concerns of everyday life.

Let me now attempt to round back to the impetus for this discussion — Visual literacy and humanities education. There are many courses offered in music, and in my experience they rank quite low on the priority of many students. The visual and the literary are privileged, and pop music, especially, has limited appeal to most academics. In reverse, pop music often replaces the literary in street culture. Recognizing that, more creative interaction between sight and sound seems very possible. Promoting and exploring the wonderful dialogue that already exists between music and streetwear beyond the base impact might just be an avenue for creating new cultural forms that some people are starved for. 

 

 

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