A Little Nonsense
In Praise of Bad Taste
I love beautiful things. Good design, interesting music, thoughtful interiors. I appreciate restraint and elegance.
But I also have a considerable weakness for trash, kitsch and things of spectacularly questionable taste.
And I make absolutely no apologies for it.
I used to dance to Stacey Q’s Two of Hearts at my favourite gay club. They played it at the height of the night, and it was glorious. Not exactly the sort of music one would expect to find in a carefully curated collection. But who cares?
Then there was the infamous party on South Street in Philadelphia, which Barbara and I still call the “Schizo Party.”
My two best friends were visiting me. We’d met some people while out one night and somehow ended up at their apartment. A one-bedroom place with practically no furniture, just a dark carpet and a kitchen.
It was an evening of truly remarkable bad taste.
Among the people there was a woman who announced, “My name is Rita, and I can whistle.”
She then proceeded to demonstrate that she couldn’t whistle at all.
Whistling Rita, as we came to call her, has remained unforgettable.
Barbara and I still talk about that evening all these years later.
I’ve attended considerably more sophisticated gatherings that I can barely remember.
I also have a soft spot for kitschy objects, outrageous outfits and bad-taste parties. Sometimes the more excessive, the better.
I can be very particular about aesthetics. And then, quite happily, enjoy the complete opposite.
I have a particular affection for things that are so wonderfully awful they become magnificent.
There is a time for cultivating good taste.
And a time for having absolutely none.
Rooted in Depth. Radiating Light.
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