{an}aesthetic ethic

{pause the tragic ending}

2009-02-01T21:46:00.002-08:00

I read something today that gave me pause. I won't link to it here because I don't feel it's the sort of thing one ought to link to, however important the sharing of knowledge and life and personal experience. I will say, however, that it has got me thinking of that very grim, difficult (for so many reasons!) topic, which is to say... death.

I didn't want to write on this at first, mostly because I had the notion that it's still too early in the life of this blog for certain kinds of heart-break, but then I realized that's just silly. My father has been stressing the unpredictability of death every day of his life — thanks to this, there's hardly a moment now when I don't wonder if I've somehow, inexplicably, lost him — and setting parameters for when I ought to talk about something that remains defiantly without parameter would be, I think, missing far too much of the point.

In fact, today started, rather abruptly, with a death entirely unrelated to the one implied above. At 8:30 this morning (I was still in bed, but not asleep), there was a violent pop and an eruption of dogs barking. The power went snapping out all over the house (and, it turns out, all up and down the street). A squirrel, dashing madly from one telephone wire to another, had leapt full throttle into a transformer box, which, housing live, uninsulated currents of electricity, exploded on the spot. My town being low-crime and mostly sleepy, the fire department had a truck on the scene within minutes. They removed one very small, very charred body from the damaged box and had our power restored by 9:45.

Shocked though I was by the unexpected violence of this event, I still managed to grouse to my mother about my inability to check e-mail. She responded with the following:

"Ha! Your power is out, but think of that poor squirrel. That squirrel is saying, 'You think your life is tough, but what about me? I'm dead!'"

Ignoring, for a moment, the unlikelihood of this particular anthropomorphism (even if that squirrel were capable of communication in English, it would no doubt have been foiled by the still-recent condition of its non-existence), I felt immediately horrible. My mother was right, of course. As I write this now (and as I paced my living room this morning), I am not dead. There was, I'll admit, a considerable period of my life during which my first instinct might have been to envy the squirrel (if not its method of self-destruction, then at least the end result), but I am no longer that girl (however necessary she was to my overall growth and development), and I'm fairly certain I now value what life is left for me. Unfortunately, this has the added effect of making death seem cruel and disruptive and unwelcome, however thoroughly unavoidable.

So, death of squirrel firmly in mind and feeling genuinely remorseful, I managed to find my way to a truly draining Helen Simpson short story, the overwhelming message of which was something along the lines of 'we're all going to die, not least because we refuse to change the way we live our lives' and 'as one gets older, one starts to view life as a postponement of death, and therefore becomes grateful even for plane delays'. Helen Simpson is a fantastic British author whom I absolutely adore, and she is responsible for one of the most beautiful mother-son short stories in existence (Early One Morning; I wept at the end of it), but today she succeeded in further unsettling me, and I reacted not unlike her willfully ignorant main character. Which is to say I got a bit dour, attempted to shrug it off, consumed some food, and thought about Eva Marie Saint.

This proved successful in the short term, but then, shortly after dinner, I wound up reading something absolutely heart-rending and was struck numb with vicarious grief. I realized that if I am to go on as always (which I, being young and ridiculous and fairly devoted to not being miserable, undoubtedly will), I need, at least, to recognize the feeling, set it down and measure its weight.

There was a period in my life (in no small way tied to the above-mentioned period in my life) when I was obsessed with human tragedy. I believed the more I knew about it, the more complete I would be as a proper human being. I believed the best (most brilliant) sort of people were fundamentally damaged and that my own lack of damage made me insufferably naïve, unworthy of attention or respect. I attempted to amend this lack first by reading everything I could find on war and poverty and genocide, and later by driving myself as near to madness as I could manage in an effort to claim some small sliver of loss for myself. Clearly neither solution served its purpose — not least because said purpose was ill-conceived and its necessity ill-perceived — but only recently have I begun to understand the complexity of why.

We are, for the most part, desperate communicators. We want to know what has happened and where and why and when, and we want to know as quickly and as thoroughly as possible. We believe this knowledge will somehow complete our understanding, not only of the world we inhabit, but also of ourselves, and we therefore find it convenient to equate what we hear (read, see) with our total appropriation of it. Granted, we bicker over the accuracy of news sources and gossip and rumor, we grill our friends and teachers and therapists, we master the skeptic's brow. But we also seem, for the most part, to act as though it is possible to indisputably know something, given the right sort of fact acquisition.

This illusion shatters in myriad little ways, every day, but it is well and truly vaporized in the face of tragedy. When something devastating happens, we are thrust back into ourselves and the stubborn idiosyncrasies of our individual perceptions. Horrific situations strike us as intensely, irredeemably personal, wholly resistant to outside comprehension. When we are outside a catastrophe, looking in, we want every piece of information we can find because we want to know what it was like. When we are inside, looking out, all the people looking in seem to us like naïve, if well-meaning, alien lifeforms. No matter how sympathetic we might be to their will to understand, we believe such understanding — vicarious as opposed to experiential — is impossible.

This last is likely true. We will never perceive the world through any lens but our own, and no matter how many other perceptions we expose ourselves to, we will only be able to claim bare, heavily qualified, approximations of them. We are inherently untouchable to each other in this regard and our comprehension of the world is inherently limited.

Yet we persist in our efforts to communicate. Because death is ever imminent and (in most minds) permanent. Because we realize, on some level, that even bare approximations, however pale and pixelated alongside the real thing, expand the fabric of human consciousness, heighten our raw capacity to react to each other with genuine respect and compassion.

However sorry I am that my hearing or seeing or reading of death is painful evidence of its having occurred (particularly when it strikes closer to home than I might have anticipated), I am decidedly not sorry to have been trusted with the knowledge. I accept that my understanding of most things will remain eternally peripheral and that my understanding of some things will remain fundamentally (infuriatingly) inexpressible. What inspires me from day to day is not some questing desire to fully apprehend the dimensions of existence, but rather the quiet fact that we have not grown so hopeless in our difference to cease interacting and stripping ourselves bare.

Our views may be at times obstructed, but it appears, at least for now, that we would rather be reminded of our flaws and limitations than shut our eyes entirely and think ourselves alone.

{an}aesthetic ethic: an illustrated lexicon

2009-01-12T13:40:00.000-08:00

'Are you a lesbian?'
'No, I'm an aesthete.'
'WTF is that supposed to mean?'

I have never actually had this exchange with anyone — admittedly, I'm too scared of certain lesbians, mostly enlightened, if sometimes otherwise, to place myself so thoroughly in their line of fire — but I've come to conclude the following:

Claiming oneself as an aesthete in lieu of affirming one's sexual identity along commonly accepted (if, at times, perplexingly convoluted) labeling lines is, to some, both wildly inappropriate and disturbingly callous — a response that manages to dismiss {undermine!} centuries of struggle (ongoing) for recognition, restitution, and/or basic civil rights. It may also reek of indirectly disclosed bisexuality (gasp!) or, at best, one of those nebulous, free-floating, postmodern orientations (pansexual, omnisexual, PoMosexual) that spur so much in-fighting on Craigslist.

This is unacceptable. This is like saying, 'I appear to be of your species right now, but I may one day find that I am also part platypus (and/or other species that you most definitely are not).' Even worse is the implication of Cuisinart functionality: 'Of course we're the same species! Because I'm every species. All in one! Isn't that handy?'

The world functions because we have diced it up into relatively neat sections — geographically, financially, ethnically, intellectually, politically, sexually — and our ability to predict/maintain/control the parameters {perimeters, predispositions} of those sections allows us to fend off things like world peace and nuclear warfare. There are, of course, certain glaring exceptions, but we try not to think about those except by way of cautionary tale. Clear, undisputed division is simply the best way to go, not least because it's simple and, we would like to believe, reliable.

A timidly voiced testament to the idiosyncratic minutiae of attraction between individuals — whether physical, emotional, intellectual, or otherwise — smacks of avoidance and a high potential, especially among women, for conflict. Unwillingness to compromise the ambiguities of human nature is, perhaps unfortunately, impossible to differentiate from such undesirable character traits as flakiness, immaturity, and naïve uncertainty.

Small wonder that I've avoided excising myself from an otherwise lovely portion of the dating pool by refraining from uttering something inherently alienating; life is too short to lose a great girl over minced words and theoretical conceptions of identity. Never mind that I think attraction (of every kind) adheres to highly subjective perceptions of beauty, and that this may result in distinct gender biases, but is not, in fact, defined by them. The blunt truth is that I've only ever slept with women and it is highly unlikely this will ever change. There is a convenient term for this behavior. Why make things more complicated than they have to be?

Well, full disclosure, for one. And a fledgling attempt to contextualize the title of this blog, which, beyond this post, I'm sure I'll neglect to explain.

So here. Have some words as defined in the fantastic New Oxford American Dictionary (and selectively illustrated with the aid of Google images):

———

beauty |ˈbyoōtē|
noun ( pl. -ties)
1 a combination of qualities, such as shape, color, or form, that pleases the aesthetic senses, esp. the sight : I was struck by her beauty | an area of outstanding natural beauty.
• a combination of qualities that pleases the intellect or moral sense.
• [as adj. ] denoting something intended to make a woman more attractive : beauty products | beauty treatment.

2 a beautiful or pleasing thing or person, in particular
• a beautiful woman.
• an excellent specimen or example of something : the fish was a beauty, around 14 pounds.
• ( the beauties of) the pleasing or attractive features of something : the beauties of the Pennsylvania mountains.
• [in sing. ] the best feature or advantage of something : the beauty of keeping cats is that they don't tie you down.

ORIGIN Middle English : from Old French beaute, based on Latin bellus ‘beautiful, fine.’

{Carmel Beach, CA; an 'area of outstanding natural beauty'}

{beauty products}

{Hedy Lamarr}

———

aesthetic |esˈθetik| (also esthetic)
adjective
concerned with beauty or the appreciation of beauty : the pictures give great aesthetic pleasure.
• giving or designed to give pleasure through beauty; of pleasing appearance.

noun [in sing. ]
a set of principles underlying and guiding the work of a particular artist or artistic movement : the Cubist aesthetic.

ORIGIN late 18th cent.(in the sense [relating to perception by the senses] ): from Greek aisthētikos, from aisthēta ‘perceptible things,’ from aisthesthai ‘perceive.’ The sense [concerned with beauty] was coined in German in the mid 18th cent. and adopted into English in the early 19th cent., but its use was controversial until late in the century.

{from an ad pimping the merits of 'natural' beauty}

{Nathan Selikoff's algorithmic art: Æxploration (Aesthetic Exploration)}

{incomparable fuel for aesthetic debate}

———

aesthete |ˈesˌθēt| (also esthete)
noun
a person who has or affects to have a special appreciation of art and beauty.

ORIGIN late 19th cent.: from Greek aisthētēs ‘a person who perceives,’ or from aesthetic , on the pattern of the pair athlete, athletic.

{Oscar Wilde, Victorian aesthete and 'modern fop'}

{André Pretorius's Aesthete, oil on canvas}

{Coco Chanel, aesthete for the ages}

———

anesthetic |ˌanəsˈθetik| ( Brit. anaesthetic)
noun
1 a substance that induces insensitivity to pain.
2 (anesthetics) [treated as sing.] the study or practice of anesthesia.

adjective
inducing or relating to insensitivity to pain.

ORIGIN mid 19th cent.: from Greek anaisthētos ‘insensible,’ related to anaisthēsia (see anesthesia ), + -ic .

{administering anaesthetics circa the late 1920s}

———

anesthesia |ˌanəsˈθē zh ə| ( Brit. anaesthesia) noun
insensitivity to pain, esp. as artificially induced by the administration of gases or the injection of drugs before surgical operations.
• the induction of this state, or the branch of medicine concerned with it.

ORIGIN early 18th cent.: from modern Latin anaesthesia, from Greek anaisthēsia, from an- ‘without’ + aisthēsis ‘sensation.’

———

Which brings us to the following:

anaesthete |ˌanəsˌθēt| (also anesthete)
noun
a person who has or affects to have a certain insensitivity or indifference to matters of social perception.

I am coining this word. Not because it doesn't already exist in myriad unofficial forms — or even because it appears, as yet, to be undefined by supposedly reputable sources — but because it has the potential to be so apt and fantastic it ought to be willed into existence by sheer force of nerdy arrogance. (I am, after all, a rabid fan of Verbotomy, which paradoxically fuels my bookish elitism and encourages my destructive tendencies toward the English language.)

Not to be confused with someone who has no appreciation for beauty (I refuse to believe, given the highly subjective nature of beauty, that this sort of person exists), an anaesthete is effectively {efficiently} numb to defining societal pressures (what was that I mentioned about treading and lines and Lohan/Ronson blasé?). Too PoMo?

I further propose this word be made available as an adjective to avoid confusion with current uses of anaesthetic. To wit:

anaesthete
adjective
willfully insensitive or indifferent to matters of social perception : her refusal to describe her sexual identity in concrete terms was frustratingly anaesthete.

{prototype of an anaesthete anaesthete}

{ha!}

On the surface, it may seem damaging and counterproductive to condone any sort of indifference to, well, difference. But consider the merit of these excerpts from Kate Gross's review/overview of Rebecca Huntley's Generation Y musings:

According to Huntley, 'freedom and uncertainty are the yin and yang of the Y world'. Despite being 'the first generation to fully experience divorce, downsizing and user-pays education' from birth, the Boomer-shaped world in which Gen-Yers were born and raised provided them with a relatively comfortable and happy childhood. However, the Boomers' unrelenting grip on culture, wealth and the labour market have made this generation's transition to adulthood far less certain than it was for their predecessors. But because Gen-Yers view insecurity as a natural part of life, they have been able to respond to uncertainty with optimism and resilience, unlike their characteristically cynical Gen X older siblings.

[...]

Generation Y is a generation of contradictions. They value marriage but are happy to experiment with multiple partners and sexual experiences before considering it for themselves. While placing a high premium on choice, they are motivated by the desire to 'fit in' that they have absorbed from the ubiquitous consumer culture in which they were raised. As the generation that will shape society over the coming decades, Huntley therefore concludes that Gen Y possesses the potential for both 'radical transformation and terrible conformism'.

Yes, all these paradoxical issues seem to magnify a hundred-fold when they are complicated by queer dynamics. Yes, a frequent consequence of so-called open-mindedness is a decreased awareness of and/or will to fight erstwhile pertinent battles. But ultimately, the only way out of a paradox (in this case, the seemingly futile struggle between our burgeoning will to accept all manner of individual and our pressing need to embody attractive social norms and flashy consumer culture) is balance and compromise and the ability to take flak from others once we've figured our pieces.

———

ethic |ˈeθik|
noun [in sing. ]
a set of moral principles, esp. ones relating to or affirming a specified group, field, or form of conduct : the puritan ethic was being replaced by the hedonist ethic.

adjective rare
of or relating to moral principles or the branch of knowledge dealing with these.

ORIGIN late Middle English (denoting ethics or moral philosophy; also used attributively): from Old French éthique, from Latin ethice, from Greek (hē) ēthikē (tekhnē) ‘(the science of) morals,’ based on ēthos (see ethos ).

———

I may be driven in large part by idiosyncratic notions of beauty, but I would be foolish to think myself beyond the influence of popular culture, beyond the need to find a niche within said culture and identify with more than just the inexpressible shape of myself. Ideally, I would be both aesthete and anaesthete, in awe of the world and thrilled to be alive without caring one jot for outside opinion or feeling any pressure to describe myself in one way or another. But my basic and inextinguishable desire for human companionship precludes me from that scenario. Too much of what I deem beautiful is tied up in people, and I doubt I'll ever see that as an incurably bad thing.

So here's to moderate anaesthetism and controversial aesthetics. Here's to competent keyless citizenry and infuriating aquacities of thought and language. Here's to being a lover and a consumer and the wide-eyed product of optimistic incertitude.

{birth of a blog}

2009-01-05T09:46:00.000-08:00

There comes a time in the lives of certain web-savvy {web-obsessed, web-deluded} individuals when starting a blog seems suspiciously like a good idea. This time often coincides with personal realizations concerning one or more of the following:

supreme arrogance of taste and opinion
thinly veiled desire to take over the world
gross excess of intellectual clutter
natural (if wholly obnoxious) inquisitiveness
stark lack of love life
general loneliness
paralyzing boredom
shiny optimism (owed entirely to the start of a New Year)

By no means an exhaustive list, but it is probably safe to assume that, on occasion, the idealistic resolution-making of an affable — if largely inquisitive and intellectually cluttered — twenty-three-year-old will spill over into the blogosphere. Consider this post proof-positive.

Of course, in all my arrogant, wishful scheming, I was hoping a blog might spring, brilliant and fully-formed, from the soft tissue of my skull...

...requiring little-to-no compositional effort on my part. I have since learned that human-interweb relations have not yet reached the necessary point of integration (though some accounts of online gaming leave me wondering).

Definitive portrait of the modern individual {beatific bearer of absolute wisdom}, this is not.

But if you're interested in the spontaneous musings of a sometime incisive, skeptically trendy, girl who sleeps with other girls — who appreciates art and life and clever reporting, and doesn't mind treading the hazy line between Lohan/Ronson blasé and complex {convoluted} considerations of social identity (is the former, in fact, a smart and studied critique of the latter, or does it all reek of carelessness and ingratitude for battles fought, lost, won?) — watch this space.

I can't guarantee my posts won't, on occasion, appear juvenile, naïve or poorly formed (at twenty-three, I reserve the right to certain lingering immaturities), but I will offer the following caveat in defense of my integrity:

Should the ratio of semi-intelligent content to incoherent confessions of deeds ill-done grow unattractively small — my parents, being more or less non-religious and thereby sparing me the weight of Catholic guilt, failed to warn me of all the other things a well-meaning global citizen might encounter and feel awful about — this blog is toast.

(Coherent confessions are, of course, another matter entirely.)