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Fake is the New Real
Soul Food. Ribs, grits, greens, cornbread, and lemonade. Your food is dished up on old Melmac plates – scratched, chipped, and a little yellowed. Your lips feel the gritty glass threads of an old Mason Jar when you gulp a little lemonade down.
Disregarding all the niceties of etiquette that your mother and grandmother tried to teach you, your elbows rest on aluminum-bounded linoleum in that gray-white, black-grained, faux marble look. The chair’s red vinyl sticks to your pants. It’s not dirty. Vinyl sticks. You know that if you’ve sat on it before.
It all feels and smells so real, like the woody smoke from the pit where the ribs are caressed by fire. That smoke’s greasy and the ribs are juicy. The greens drizzle fatback grease and the black pepper stings a little bit.
Not bad for a couple of white guys, huh? The Smithsonian couldn’t do any better. This joint isn't decorated; it's curated. The menu, ambience, décor, fixtures, smells, tastes, and attitude – everything works together to create that soul food hit that every-night’s lip-smackers crave. It’s like authenticity is something that can be created, not something that just is.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t escape the irony. Soul Food. Everything’s there, everything, that is, but the soul.
Haven’t you heard? As my friend Jed Birmingham quipped last night at Cigar Connection, “Fake is the new real.�
In this fashionable Creative Economy I find myself working in, everything is up for grabs–especially culture. If it’s cool, if it’s hot, if it’s in demand, everybody says, “it’s mine! I just gotta make it so.�
Down on Columbia Pike, you’ll find Thai Restaurants run by Koreans. Mexican restaurants run by Chinese. Sushi places with no Japanese in sight. I could go on, but it’s too depressing.
Maybe I’m superstitious or just plain stupid, but I believe that real feels better, tastes better, works better, and is just more satisfying. I don’t want to buy deli from a Presbyterian. Call me narrow-minded, but I believe culture has DNA strands in there somewhere. When it comes to cultural things, I hope I can taste what’s missing. Maybe it’s the “soul� in soul food.
As I’ve pondered these things, I’ve found myself all tangled up in my own opinions. I know, I mean I KNOW that I haven’t got this all figured out.
I ask myself, “what do I do with the fact that I love Eric Clapton’s Me and Mr. Johnson recording?� Touchy-feely, Unity-going, wishy-washy liberal that I am, I lamely try and convince myself that Mr. Clapton’s got a right to love Robert Johnson. Maybe he’s channeling for him? Then I listen to these old scratchy recordings of Mississippi John Hurt and Blind Willie Dixon and realize that I’ve been seduced alongside the guy at the next table who’s sucking every last bit of applewood bacon fat from his curated collard greens.
Fifteen years ago, I wrote an essay about cultural vampirism. I framed it as a particularly insidious, strip-mining version of what others were framing as cultural appropriation. It was a big topic in those days but it seems to have faded somewhat – that question of who owns what. I gotta say I’m surprised it’s not a big issue. A real big issue.
In a creative economy, people and organizations will thrive using cultural capital. I think about my old employer, Arena Stage, a no-question-about-it white institution. And that’s institution with a capital “I.�
Every year, right about now, there’s a musical or a review on stage that is targeted at, excuse me – I mean serves, Washington’s African-American audiences. Now, Lady Day at Emerson’s Bar & Grill is on-stage, and according to the Washington Post, they’ve nailed Billie Holliday. I’m not surprised. Those productions are always pretty good. The audience loves them. And guess what? They make a pretty penny, too. I wonder, though, is this another barbecue joint that’s curated authenticity? Is there soul in that food?
There are a lot of people that would object at my even raising this question? It will be read as hitting below the belt, playing the race card. That’s not my intention here. I have listened to conversations among the leadership at Arena Stage where this issue was sweated over. People want to do the right thing. But, the money is so good. So, an African-American director is engaged, etc. We make our deal with the devil and we do the best we can. Like me. I haven’t thrown my Clapton recording away, either.
I’m probably going to get in trouble with this post. People are still talking about the Wilson-Brustein debate on this issue. Personally, I always thought August Wilson was on the side of the angels. I thought he was right.
I think he could taste what was missing.
PS: Another Point of View
In his blog, The Artful Manager, Andrew Taylor contemplates the question of cultural ownership from a different point of view.
The point - counterpoint frames of reference are quite interesting. As always, Andrew is compelling. Give it a read.
Who Owns Culture?
http://www.artsjournal.com/artfulmanager/main/007894.php
Posted on April 11, 2006 09:33 AM | Permalink
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Comments
I was once at the Moosehead Pub...a Canadian-themed pub in Paris, run by Australians. The decor included all the requisite beaver pelts, lobster traps, and maple leafs. Moosehead beer was on tap, of course.
The appropriation of aesthetics has plagued architecture for more than the last two decades. After the sleek lines, vast surfaces, simplicity, and elegance of mid-20th century modernism we have to endure the pastiches of present-day suburbia...a bit of Roman ruins here and an Egyptian sarcophagus there. Is this because there really is nothing new under the sun? Or do we simply cater to unrefined taste? Do we just create what sells? Enough with the stucco-bumps.
I applaud this blog. And you wrote it so well, Neill. A real pleasure. So, bro', keep it real.
Right On Neill! The recognition of the right of cultural ownership would go along way toward establishing a level playing ground. This is, however, not likely to happen in a place that won't admit that the existence of slavery as an institution in its not too distant past has any real manifestation in its current life. Organized denial of unpleasant realities lies at the heart of our daily existence. Still we never stop fighting until the fight is done.
I was discussing this conversation with my associates a few minutes ago. The topic seems to resonate with them a longing for authenticity. It seems they desire to feel comfortable with the visceral response to accepting a Japanese sushi chef as better than Bif cutting raw fish. I think the fake as the new real not only diminishes authenticity, it also introduces a certain arrogance where Bif feels he can challenge and excel and capitalize on centuries of a culinary art form.
As we discussed this topic, I sensed a low grade anger from the participants...because fake as the new real is still costing us "real" money as opposed to "fake" money. Your article captures the essence of what I sensed from my associates. Very good writing....
Great stuff, Neill, as ever.
I wonder if there's some way to clarify the words "fake," "real," "authentic," and "inauthentic." Most conversations on this subject seem to use these terms interchangably, without defining any.
The sushi chef is a great example -- is it really the ethnic heritage of the chef that makes the preparation of sushi "real" or "authentic"? Or is it, instead, the extended connection to the craft and the tradition, the overlapping layers of skill and ritual that go into the preparation?
If it's the latter, then ethnicity might be correllated to authenticity, but isn't the causal link.
The other sandtrap is between frozen versions of cultural expression, and dynamically evolving ones. To one observer, for example, straight bebop jazz might provide an authentic cultural moment. To lovers of jazz as an evolving art, however, "authenticity" would only exist at the edge of experimentation.
This is a fabulous topic, wonderfully framed. Thanks Neill for nudging us along.