Hipsters at NYU?

Yesterday, @NYULocal (if you're not following them on twitter, do so promptly) tweeted: "Gallatin panel discussion tonight on, 'Hipster Culture and its Legacies.' I bet there'll be vegan cookies." (Props to witty references). A talk about hipsterdom: the "definition" of the NYU community. The NYU non-community. I had to go.

Hipster: The rebel. The creative. The fraud. The artsy. The different one. Beards. Moleskin journals. Skinny. Fake glasses. Hand me-downs. All of the above apply. But none give a proper definition.

Let me explain...

The discussion panel was led by three NYU professors-- sociologist Stephen Duncombe, Nina Cornyetz, Hallie Franks a

nd Becky Amato, who was also the mediator. Two of them are self-proclaimed hipsters.

Duncombe first introduced the concept of the bohemian as a way to contextualize hispterdom. The bohemian movement aroused in the Parisian art world in the mid 19th century as a form of rebellion to the bourgeoisie. Bohemians were everything the bourgeoisie were not--while the bourgeois was soft spoken and proper, the bohemian was loud and improper.

During the 1940's, as Duncombe explained, while segregation and racism were at it's height, the white took on the role of bourgeoise, and the black that of the bohemian-- the other. In 1944 the word hipster made its way to the dictionary and since then it has remained linked to the black culture.

The underlying idea is that the bohemian, the black, the HIPSTER is a definition of the self that arises as an opposition to another entity. Duncombe said it best, "It's a dance between two antagonists."

The hipster is born as a reaction against a counterpart--usually against the bigger fraction of society. Against the mainstream.

Franks contextualization went even father back in history. She referenced the Greek Empire and argued that Socrates himself was a hipster. The founder of western philosophy saw his fellow Athenians as selfish--readily concerned with wealth and pride-- and so he removed himself from his society. He distance himself from the theater culture which stood at the center of the male Athenian community.

An interesting theory. But nothing tops what came up next.

The entire room--

unsurprisingly "hipsters" in it's majority-- went silence as images of Asian girls, their faces covered with a metallic brown powder and their eye lids with a thick white paste, walked around the streets of Tokyo. (watch the youtube video here) Professor Cornyetz presented this video on the "Ganguro women"-- a 90's trend in Japan where women wore "westernized" sexy clothes, bleached and straightened their hair and wore massive amounts of dark make up in their face to resemble black faces in America.

Black skin in Japan obviously does not foster the same connotation as it does in the states. With the idea of Japanese having "yellow" skin, they are excluded from the white vs. black struggle.

The Ganguro come into effect as hipsters within their own culture. In Japanese culture the ideal beauty has always alluded to the whitening of the skin-- the Geishas. The black skin is a counteract to the idea of the beautiful woman. It's also a breaking point from Japanese traditional culture.

But we were there to talk about Brooklyn and having no money for rent. So why do we care about Bohemians, Socrates and wannabe black Asians? Because they were all rebelling against the norm and in doing so they trace back to the core of hipsterdom.

Transfer to 2010. Contemporary New York. What are Jack Kerouac's wonder children, who live on the other side of the river, rebelling against?

One student in the discussion said the rebellion is against the lack of interpersonal relations (facebook, twitter and the like have done a successful job at minimizing this type of rapport). This brings forth the idea of a "nostalgic pursuit", the quest for "what it was" which leads you to defy "what is." This might explain why vintage (i.e. previously worn items) might sell for more than brand new clothing.

The question of authenticity was also brought up. In the globalized world we live in-- where each time we resemble more to one another and cultures merge and disappear--wanting to be unique is not all that rare. And if in fact, we agree with the nostalgic argument, then hipsterdom, in the NY-NYU sense could almost be interpret as the one "culture" that is trying to preserve it's genuineness in the city's melting pot. Hipster's legitimacy lies at their never-ending quest to be different.

That. Or it could also be just a trend.

But the fact is the defining of one self is a lifelong pursuit. What's the point of rejecting society and the mainstream? Eventually the hip and the different become popular and conventional and we're back to where we started.

So, where does this leave us? If the hipster is the underdog, but I see them as the mainstream (especially in NY) who's the hipster? Them, me or you, who sees beyond the both of us?

So the question remains as Duncombe said -- "who is it that actually lives in Williamsburg?"

In the sprit of Valentines Day...

My family believes so firmly in the institution of marriage, most members have walked down the aisle multiple times. Divorce is just another way of making sure they can sign the wedding contract again.

There's a total of 13 divorces in a family where there's only 9 people eligible for marriage at the moment. Only two couples have managed to stick together in their first try. Relationships of the not-so-serious type are a commonality. Christmas is rarely spent with the same people. There's always a new face, a new name to learn. Boyfriends and girlfriends come and go. New wedding means new divorce. New divorce means new relationship. New relationship means new wedding. And so it goes.

I doubt it comes as a surprise for anyone what I'm going to say next. But from the bottom of my most cynical self... I do not, by any means, believe in eternal love. More importantly, I do not believe in the signing of a contract that forces love to be permanent.

As my genetics have taught me, I love love, love being loved, love loving, love the idea of love. But the idea of "forever" holds as much truth in my eyes, as the world being at the center of the universe did for Copernicus.

And if we can't decipher the meaning of eternity, what the hell are we doing giving love--the most asbtract feeling of all-- such a quality?

The idea of forever cuts away from the romanticism in a relationship. If it's a given that we're spending the rest of our lives with this same person, then why even try to make things more passionate? It's pointless, not to mention unnecessary, to want to make you're partner fall deeper in love. It's a contract and it's been signed. Sorry buddy. You're in this for the long run. Whether you're still loving me or not.

Let's be realistic. When the concept of marriage was invented, people lived shorter lives than we do today so they could actually bare with their companions. But now, an extra 25 years have been added to life and try being with the same person for 50 years. Every day, for ever. F-o-r e-e-v-e-r. Jeez.

If we get over heartbreaks, over people we were so in love with, then why would we believe that love is forever? By ourselves we have empirically proven otherwise. Love is fluid, it goes from one person to the next. Love is also circumstancial-- today you love someone because he listens to the same music you do, or because he sings well and you're into singers, or because you're into the way he dresses. But what if all of a sudden you decide you like a different type of music and singers aren't as cool as actors. Then what? Different circumstances, different feeling, different person to love. Or not to love. Bye bye plaid shirts, hello white v-necks.

After 13 divorces, it's been settled in my mind that love is as eternal, as the feeling is there and as long as you can't picture your life without your love. But, again, if the circumstances change, so might your feelings.

I don't oppose celebrating Valentine's Day. In fact, let's celebrate the fact that love exists. But don't get tide down to the idea that it must be for ever. Plus if the feeling is so great, why settle for one when we can have many loves?

Yes. It's freezing.

*Pictures were taken from my fire escape... below 14th street, of course.

MJ came back from the dead

Last Friday Chlo and I got crafty again. This time, it was for a better reason than Halloween, though. It was MJ's birthday and we decided to throw her a surprise party (which, if I might add, was extremely successful. I saw a few tears).

First of all, as proof that yours truly did in fact help with the decorations please check out the picture below. That's right, I cut those babies up my self. And no, that's not a silhouette of Jesus

(rule #1 no religiously themed parties are allowed in The Hallway). It's a carving of Michael Jackson's "This is It" pose. Michael Jackson--MJ--Maria Jose-- get it? The party was themed "MJ's not Dead" since MJ is in fact. Not dead. She's 21. And alive.

Barely, though.

As I said, it was a good party.

So MJ, the living one, had to leave an hour into the celebration in a quasi cadaveric state. Happy Birthday M! And, ironically enough, Chlo and I had an entire wall of our apartment that read--MJ's not dead. And random guys, who supposedly were friends of a friend of a friend but who no one really knew* were questioning our thematic.

Apparently the "Michael Jackson Greatest Hits" DVD that was playing in the TV the entire night was creepy and confusing. Not cool. Damn. So close.

It's all part of the syndrome that Chlo and I have coined as our "Misunderstood Brilliance"--parties and costumes that no one understands and that we believe should be reason enough for a Nobel Prize for Brilliancy.

Now that we've established that MJ's not dead and that brilliancy isn't always so obvious, let me tell you about the fire. I made the mistake of telling our Colombian guests that I had arepas. "We have to have one" they said in unison. Midway through the cooking my friend comes up to me and with a very non-chalant tone says "Lau, I think we have a problem in the kitchen." You think? Because there are flames coming out of the stove. And if my nose serves me right, that metal decaying smell is not exactly normal.

Tiff Almighty manages to put the fire off and, since neither the fire alarm nor the carbon monoxide detector work in The Hallway, the majority of the party remains unaware of the burning episode. Rule #2 If you're going to cook arepas, make sure to leave the door open. Just in case, you know, you have to sprint out.

So no more fire and no more toilet paper. Halfway through the party the toilet paper supply is gone. People going into the bathroom were using paper towels from the kitchen. Not a problem though, since our bathroom is so conveniently located inside the kitchen.

Our freezing kitchen. Which reminds me of our new roommate. Since Remy (the mouse) left, we needed a new friend, so we purchased R2D2-- our loyal and trustworthy heater. All night people congregated around him (her?) and by 4am what was left of the party was basically R2D2 and the random guys who, again, no one knew. Apparently we underestimated the success of "Misunderstood Brilliance."

But the party was not over. The next day the Herrera Clan (my super and his look-alike cousins) decide to stop by at 10am to put up our coat hanger. Oh yeah, we had 30 people over in the middle of winter and we had no coat hangers.

So the Herreras walk into a trashed apartment where everywhere you look there's pictures of MJ with falic drawings on its body. (This would be images of the late MJ. I would never put up falic pictures of the living MJ. I doubt she would approve of this.). Since I'm obviously still asleep and not even a bomb explosion would wake me up, it's Chlo's turn to let them in. Chlo who likes to sleep, well, with few clothes on. Welcome the Herreras. Make yourselves at home!

Rule #3 (Chlo) Make sure to put on clothes before opening the door to The Hallway.

* We accept and embrace, especially embrace, everyone at our parties. So if you're not invited to the next one, just show up. Just make sure that no one knows who you are.