Wednesday, July 28, 2004
Someone asked me the other day if I thought I was a snob, thinly disguising the fact that she thinks I am.
In certain ways I think I am too.
Not in the sense of coveting gold and Versace and a big house and an au pair (although I wouldn't say no to Marc Jacobs), but in terms of demanding a certain level of intelligence/taste/reasonability from my surroundings.
I don't care if people like Kelly Clarkson/Helen Fielding/Titanic, but I assert my right to utter derogatory comments about these things. Not people, but the things people like. Does that mean that I am making barely concealed comments about people, through their taste? Probably. The same way as people are allowed to hate what I like. My snobbery is not socially determinded, but intellectually (does that in itself make me sound far, far up my own ...?).
I find that most people are snobs, one way or the other. Inverted snobs, you may say, if not actual. I mean, look at this definition:
snob [ snob ] (plural snobs)
noun
1. somebody who looks down on others: somebody who admires and cultivates relationships with those considered socially superior, and disdains those considered inferior
2. somebody who feels superior: somebody who looks down on people considered to have inferior knowledge or tastes
[Mid-19th century. Origin unknown.]
Ad. 2: Somebody who looks down on people considered to have inferior knowledge or taste. Don't we all believe ourselves to be:
a. right
and
b. have good taste?
I do not like people just because they are rich. Or possess a so-called higher status in life. I like people because I like them. Some people have an inherent determination that I, because I am interested in art, art history, architecture, theatre and the like, is a superior-feeling, self-centered, patronising snob. This is a stereotype that I cannot be much bothered with. It is patronising my intelligence. I suspect that the British class-system strikes again and that the middle classes will always look down upon the upper classes (while still coveting what they have). But please feel free to hate my taste as long as you don't make assumptions about me based solely on it.
In certain ways I think I am too.
Not in the sense of coveting gold and Versace and a big house and an au pair (although I wouldn't say no to Marc Jacobs), but in terms of demanding a certain level of intelligence/taste/reasonability from my surroundings.
I don't care if people like Kelly Clarkson/Helen Fielding/Titanic, but I assert my right to utter derogatory comments about these things. Not people, but the things people like. Does that mean that I am making barely concealed comments about people, through their taste? Probably. The same way as people are allowed to hate what I like. My snobbery is not socially determinded, but intellectually (does that in itself make me sound far, far up my own ...?).
I find that most people are snobs, one way or the other. Inverted snobs, you may say, if not actual. I mean, look at this definition:
snob [ snob ] (plural snobs)
noun
1. somebody who looks down on others: somebody who admires and cultivates relationships with those considered socially superior, and disdains those considered inferior
2. somebody who feels superior: somebody who looks down on people considered to have inferior knowledge or tastes
[Mid-19th century. Origin unknown.]
Ad. 2: Somebody who looks down on people considered to have inferior knowledge or taste. Don't we all believe ourselves to be:
a. right
and
b. have good taste?
I do not like people just because they are rich. Or possess a so-called higher status in life. I like people because I like them. Some people have an inherent determination that I, because I am interested in art, art history, architecture, theatre and the like, is a superior-feeling, self-centered, patronising snob. This is a stereotype that I cannot be much bothered with. It is patronising my intelligence. I suspect that the British class-system strikes again and that the middle classes will always look down upon the upper classes (while still coveting what they have). But please feel free to hate my taste as long as you don't make assumptions about me based solely on it.
Saturday, July 24, 2004
Matthew Modine's Full Metal Jacket-diary. What starts as a landscape description in best Beat-style, quickly continues into something almost bizarre and very amusing. Heh.
Friday, July 23, 2004
I loose the ability to think, when it's hot outside. I cannot read, cannot sleep, and even worse, cannot speak English, cannot write - is stumblingly incoherent.
The four phases of English to a foreigner in old Blighty:
1. New kid on the block.
English not that good, natives must speak slowly, no accent to speak of (only the neutral sound of English school-teachers elocuting letters like "h" as "eitch" and not "heitch")
2. My way?
An oddly-shaped accent appears, depending on the company kept, this can either be posh, east end or Portsmouth over Galway and Scarborough. No particular difficulties understanding the language (except of course from Scottish, which is a bitch at the best of times). Phone calls can be made in a relatively smooth fashion. (It is also at this point one stops calculating Pounds into Danish Kroner in order to find out whether or not an item is expensive)
3. Been there, done that.
A certain tiredness kicks in. One does not worry about sounding authentic anymore and therefore loses all sign of accent and reverts back to English as spoken in Danish primary schools. English can be spoken, listened to and read at all times. (One no longer thinks in Danish and dreams only in Danish at appropriate times).
4. Being boring.
One becomes English, which includes wearing football shirts at all times and eating only chips on holidays abroad, preferably in English 'restaurants'.
The four phases of English to a foreigner in old Blighty:
1. New kid on the block.
English not that good, natives must speak slowly, no accent to speak of (only the neutral sound of English school-teachers elocuting letters like "h" as "eitch" and not "heitch")
2. My way?
An oddly-shaped accent appears, depending on the company kept, this can either be posh, east end or Portsmouth over Galway and Scarborough. No particular difficulties understanding the language (except of course from Scottish, which is a bitch at the best of times). Phone calls can be made in a relatively smooth fashion. (It is also at this point one stops calculating Pounds into Danish Kroner in order to find out whether or not an item is expensive)
3. Been there, done that.
A certain tiredness kicks in. One does not worry about sounding authentic anymore and therefore loses all sign of accent and reverts back to English as spoken in Danish primary schools. English can be spoken, listened to and read at all times. (One no longer thinks in Danish and dreams only in Danish at appropriate times).
4. Being boring.
One becomes English, which includes wearing football shirts at all times and eating only chips on holidays abroad, preferably in English 'restaurants'.
Thursday, July 22, 2004
I am sorry, but I've just read an article in a Danish newspaper, in which it is stated that the Danish Integration minister is considering a proposition from the national party (I'm sorry, People's Party) of asking every Iraqi immigrant in Denmark if they would please piss off back to Iraq.
And people wonder why I stay in London???
And people wonder why I stay in London???
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
Weekend sleb-spots:
Bill Nighy, Simon Amstell.
Gina McKee, Helen McCrory, Jeremy Northam, both during and after. Paparazzi outside the stage-door. A small Portuguese cafe. The whistling roller-bladers.
Summer's back.
Bill Nighy, Simon Amstell.
Gina McKee, Helen McCrory, Jeremy Northam, both during and after. Paparazzi outside the stage-door. A small Portuguese cafe. The whistling roller-bladers.
Summer's back.
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea.
Behind her is the river, in front the big city, above seagulls are circling the courtyard. Inbetween her voice is sweet like honey and hard as ice.
Summer is turning out lovely.
(As it is, the man in my life is not entirely happy, thinking the whole affair a bit sterile. I don't mind, I think she's just grown up a bit, had the edges removed, or rather, turned into something else. She is girly in a way she didn't used to be, but the voice still remains (has gotten even better?), and the back catalogue, and the way around a good story. Can you fall in love with a man and remain unscathed?)
Behind her is the river, in front the big city, above seagulls are circling the courtyard. Inbetween her voice is sweet like honey and hard as ice.
Summer is turning out lovely.
(As it is, the man in my life is not entirely happy, thinking the whole affair a bit sterile. I don't mind, I think she's just grown up a bit, had the edges removed, or rather, turned into something else. She is girly in a way she didn't used to be, but the voice still remains (has gotten even better?), and the back catalogue, and the way around a good story. Can you fall in love with a man and remain unscathed?)
Monday, July 12, 2004
/rant/
I do not want to sit in a circle, I do not want to hold hands, I do not want to discuss me and my childhood and how I came to be what I am.
I do not want to dicuss literature, if literature is all Helen Fielding and no Beckett, then I'd rather talk about Quentin Tarantino and Manga films.
I will not accept that Busted is the norm and that fat-arsed girls who drink Chardonnay are not semi-born from chick-lit and that chick-lit is not a crap term and an even crapper genre. I will not under any circumstances discuss Tony Parsons at all.
/end rant/
I do not want to sit in a circle, I do not want to hold hands, I do not want to discuss me and my childhood and how I came to be what I am.
I do not want to dicuss literature, if literature is all Helen Fielding and no Beckett, then I'd rather talk about Quentin Tarantino and Manga films.
I will not accept that Busted is the norm and that fat-arsed girls who drink Chardonnay are not semi-born from chick-lit and that chick-lit is not a crap term and an even crapper genre. I will not under any circumstances discuss Tony Parsons at all.
/end rant/
Saturday, July 10, 2004
A privileged view of National Gallery after hours. Accompanied only by the faint sound of classical music and heels on wooden floor, we slowly wander and momentarily pause, in front of Holbein's two ambassadors, a couple of Rubens', a bit of Gainsborough.
And at the Portrait Gallery I found items (especially the mask) that I am sure a certain blogger would appreciate.
And at the Portrait Gallery I found items (especially the mask) that I am sure a certain blogger would appreciate.
Thursday, July 08, 2004
The little man enters in usual fashion, looking busy, yet pleased with himself. He doesn't utter a word, but fiddles with a couple of videotapes and a DVD of Meshes of the Afternoon. A woman asks a question which he ignores, whilst still looking introspect. When complete silence finally ensues, he looks up - pause - and bids his welcome.
The woman in front, right, has brought smelly cheese pops and hot chocolate. The woman behind, right, is half asleep. The man, back centre, keeps popping out to the loo, carrying his rucksack. When he is present he continually speaks, leading some to believe he has been doing his bit with the old charlie. He also speak in a strange faux posh accent, about Gene Hackman and Anne Bancroft and UCI as if it was the most alternative cinema(chain) ever seen.
Clips from Fahrenheit 911 are shown. The little man is very excited about this, as it is an important film, which tells the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
(One interesting point that came across was that Michael Moore seems to deliberately have dumbed down/sentimentalised his language in order to accommodate an American viewer.)
Discussion ensues. People seem to agree.It is an important film that tells the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. The little man is pleased with himself. Suddenly a person, a Swedish person, no less, dares to imply that this is not an informed objective discussion, but rather a perpetuation of agreement, a back-slapping, vomit-inducing, self-congratulary, didactic affair, given that none of those present have ever seen the entire film, the little man included. A near-riot. Uproar. How dares she. We are the righteous, with common sense and Michael Moore on our side, better people than the entire Bush administration (but equally democratic). This is the point where the girl, middle row right, gets up and leaves. She probably should have raised her voice and lent backup to the poor Swede, but life is too short and liberation is at hand.
After The Book Group and The Smoking Room and The Office, The Evening Class should be next in line.
The woman in front, right, has brought smelly cheese pops and hot chocolate. The woman behind, right, is half asleep. The man, back centre, keeps popping out to the loo, carrying his rucksack. When he is present he continually speaks, leading some to believe he has been doing his bit with the old charlie. He also speak in a strange faux posh accent, about Gene Hackman and Anne Bancroft and UCI as if it was the most alternative cinema(chain) ever seen.
Clips from Fahrenheit 911 are shown. The little man is very excited about this, as it is an important film, which tells the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
(One interesting point that came across was that Michael Moore seems to deliberately have dumbed down/sentimentalised his language in order to accommodate an American viewer.)
Discussion ensues. People seem to agree.It is an important film that tells the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. The little man is pleased with himself. Suddenly a person, a Swedish person, no less, dares to imply that this is not an informed objective discussion, but rather a perpetuation of agreement, a back-slapping, vomit-inducing, self-congratulary, didactic affair, given that none of those present have ever seen the entire film, the little man included. A near-riot. Uproar. How dares she. We are the righteous, with common sense and Michael Moore on our side, better people than the entire Bush administration (but equally democratic). This is the point where the girl, middle row right, gets up and leaves. She probably should have raised her voice and lent backup to the poor Swede, but life is too short and liberation is at hand.
After The Book Group and The Smoking Room and The Office, The Evening Class should be next in line.
Wednesday, July 07, 2004
Tuesday, July 06, 2004
I can go for very long without reading a book. Reading a book does not relax me, it makes me think and feel and leaves me exhausted. When I'm busy I can't really read books.
I can't even say that I'm addicted to words. Wordlessness can be as gorgeous as words aplenty. And then again, I love language. Different meanings in different contexts. Sentence-structure. The unsaid, as important in language as what is said. That by choosing to change one single word in a sentence I can control and shift and alter meaning.
I love stories. Stories in books, yes (resounding), but also in films, in magazines, newsprogrammes, signs, everywhere, everywhere, a good story to read.
And so I went to the House of Lords yesterday "on business" (if you knew me, you'd laugh) and as much as that institution stands for a fairly grim class division and perpetuation of tradition, the building itself is full of stories. Lovely.
Am also nursing a serious Sims addiction. That it should ever happen to me!
In other news:
Last night the computer started smelling burned. And then I turned the bastard off. And so the smeling slowly vanished. I am now officially afraid of technology.
I can't even say that I'm addicted to words. Wordlessness can be as gorgeous as words aplenty. And then again, I love language. Different meanings in different contexts. Sentence-structure. The unsaid, as important in language as what is said. That by choosing to change one single word in a sentence I can control and shift and alter meaning.
I love stories. Stories in books, yes (resounding), but also in films, in magazines, newsprogrammes, signs, everywhere, everywhere, a good story to read.
And so I went to the House of Lords yesterday "on business" (if you knew me, you'd laugh) and as much as that institution stands for a fairly grim class division and perpetuation of tradition, the building itself is full of stories. Lovely.
Am also nursing a serious Sims addiction. That it should ever happen to me!
In other news:
Last night the computer started smelling burned. And then I turned the bastard off. And so the smeling slowly vanished. I am now officially afraid of technology.
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