There’s that moment when you stop what you are doing, and think, “Wait. What’s the point?” When you need a corner to come back to in the face of questions. This isn’t always simple. I can’t find satisfaction in situational answers. I want what my software friends call, “the root cause.” I want the answer that doesn’t pose more questions.
So what’s the point of style? Here’s my personal answer. I can’t know what the point of style is unless I ask myself, what’s the point of life? Really. I mean, that’s the source. Life is the root cause. And, as I am not religious, I come up with only two answers.
Life is short. Life is unbearably sweet. But it ends. I can only assume that life itself is the point. And those feelings that cause us to keep living. Joy. Joy and all its minions. The point of life must be to bring joy to yourself. Or to others. Both would be good.
Of course, in the living, not so simple. Style is not something you say to yourself alone. You say it to others. Which means it’s part of the social contract. Which means you may not want to wear that pink boa every day, despite the joy of blush and rose and magenta and the branching patterns of feathers. Obligation may be involved. Social codes, sometimes complex, may be speaking loudly in the background. But it is possible, if social contracts prevent your style from bringing you joy, well, it is possible that it’s time to reconsider. Change isn’t the end of the world.
I write about a certain kind of style. But I want to be clear. High WASP? What I say is true. But it matters only inasmuch as you are amused. Or you enjoy a certain kind of persona, a certain kind of commitment to a certain social contract. This kind of look. And only if it makes you happy. I’m telling a story. No strings.
Right then. Carry on.