kitsch.
Around age three, during my family’s regular summer pilgrimage to Memphis, we stopped off at Graceland. I have very few memories from childhood, but I vaguely remember that faux gild, the kaleidoscopic colors, a deep, crimson velvet. Looking at photos of the mansion-cum-museum now—walls and ceiling of the pool room at once Klimt-esque and reminiscent of the backroom of the bar in Cheers, peacocks rendered in stained glass, the exterior a derivative of Monticello and the interior a Tennessee Versailles—I realize that my draw to the aesthetic excess of Graceland as a child was formative exposure.
The other day as we walked home, my partner referred to my style as “kitschy”. At first, I bristled, as my immediate association with the descriptor was a stylistic cousin to tackiness, or cutesy nostalgia—the failed imitation of true style or a clash of cheapish aspects that don’t quite go together. I was a little sore, even though I knew it was said with love. It took me days to realize that he was right on the mark, and maybe another day after that to realize that I actually delighted in kitsch, and being kitschy.
It then became clear to me that I have been kitschy all my life. As a toddler, it was the ruby red slippers from my Dorothy Halloween costume with my regular outfit on any given weekday. As a tween, it manifested in fringy ponchos paired with corduroy culottes. As a teenager: fishnet tights under denim shorts. I have been called “Punky Brewster” by my mother at various points in my stylistic evolution, a reference I had to Google. Now, a predilection for these mauve cowboy boots that I try to wear with everything, and which decidedly match nothing. My truest state is in the zebra-printed cape I wore to my best friend’s engagement party (accompanied by gigantic 80’s clip ons, naturally). Or placing my evening martini on my coaster featuring that nude picture of Burt Reynolds smoking a cigar. Kitsch is, in part, an approximate repurposing of nostalgia that is anachronistic, and just slightly off kilter.
Rococo is original kitsch. The stepchild of Baroque, much like Elvis’ palace, it’s characterized by a heavy hand: an excess of gild, and excess in general. It just can’t help indulging in every single aesthetic impulse it has, uninterested in whether or not they coalesce and unperturbed when they don’t. Most associated with Louis XV (le bien aime) it’s ornament for the sake of ornament. In the dark of my high school art history classroom, my eyes traced the deceiving visual tricks of Trompe-l'œil and felt that same pang I felt when I was three.
A while back, there was a tweet distinguishing taste and style that I liked. I don’t remember what it said…something like taste is hierarchical or classist in so many words, maybe. Taste is kind of like a participation in social code. But style is so specific, so individual, that even when someone doesn’t adhere to widely-accepted notions of taste, the fact that they have style cannot be denied. Houston’s souped-up lowriders are not particularly tasteful, but they’re damn stylish. In my life, taste shows itself in being able to lie about noticing the tannins in a wine, or having little pewter opera glasses in my clutch for the Lyric. I care so much more about having style. More about being flashy and a little garish and certainly memorable because of it. Yes, I am partial to plain, clingy little black dresses, but it never fails that even those are paired with two forearms full of semi-clashing bracelets that jingle loudly when I move, and a salvaged 80’s Avon ring on 6 out of 10 fingers. If I’m not wearing cowboy boots, on the weekend you’ll most certainly find me in lilac crocs topping off a completely aesthetically opposing outfit. My leather jacket with tons of fringe and gold and silver grommets is a prized possession, and while working at the used bookstore, I once found a Singer upholstery catalogue from the 70s that matched the vest I was wearing exactly. I think being a quirky black femme is a virtue, which is what my boyfriend might have been saying. And I forgive the few people that have called me a manic pixie dream girl. (yeah my hair is pink, but I don’t even have bangs!) I think this is part of why my favorite era is a tie between the 70’s and 80’s, when big lapels and shoulder pads were commonplace, and neon and animal print and fur was a given. I am always attracted to displays of drama. To a time when soap operas were unafraid of freeze frame, and didn’t balk at silk flowers. My aesthetic is indulgent, much like the practice of my life. I’m insecure about the amount of butter I use when cooking, but there are only so many delicious things in this life. Give me more, more, more. There’re a few trusted vintage shops on Milwaukee we can duck into—join me if you wish.
(Me & my auntie Dee Dee—I am sporting her glasses with the lenses poked out, predecessor to my current style)
Suggested Reading:
This tiktok by Landon on gaudy:
https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZT8F84GG6/
This article about 70’s bathtubs, and really this whole website: https://www.messynessychic.com/2019/10/11/when-sex-kitsch-collide-a-brief-compendium-of-retro-tubs/
Uncle Charlie & the Gap Band in these outfits repping Tulsa hard:
(Next, probably something on the golden age of airlines because baby…an inflight choice of american or european cigarettes? Midair boeuf bourguignon??)