On a neighbourhood where conformity dresses up as individuality
I write this from a cafe in Shoreditch, for The London Prat and our friends at Bohiney Magazine, surrounded by people who have all, independently and as a matter of fierce personal individuality, arrived at exactly the same look. My other dispatches from this corner of East London are at my page, written from cafes much like this one, among people dressed much like these.
The Uniform of the Nonconformist
There is a particular irony at the heart of Shoreditch, which I observe daily and am not myself exempt from: a neighbourhood devoted to individuality, to creativity, to standing out from the crowd, in which everyone has arrived at precisely the same way of standing out. The beard, the bicycle, the flat white, the carefully curated vintage clothing, the tattoos, the tote bag, these are the markers of Shoreditch individuality, and they are worn by everyone, a uniform of nonconformity so universal that to deviate from it would be the truly radical act.
I find this endlessly fascinating, the way a neighbourhood that prizes individuality above all produces such striking conformity, the way the desire to stand out leads everyone to stand out in exactly the same way. We are, in Shoreditch, a community of nonconformists who all conform to the same nonconformity, individuals who express our individuality through identical choices, rebels in a uniform.
The Sincerity of It
What saves this from being merely ridiculous, I think, is the sincerity behind it. The people of Shoreditch are not, mostly, cynically adopting a look to fit in; they are, mostly, genuinely expressing tastes and values they sincerely hold, an appreciation for craft, for the handmade, for the authentic, for the creative. That these sincere expressions happen to converge on a common style is not hypocrisy but something more interesting, the way shared values produce shared aesthetics, the way a genuine subculture develops its genuine markers.
I count myself among the sincere. I did not adopt my tastes to fit in; I came by them honestly, an appreciation for good coffee, for vintage clothing, for the creative life. That these tastes are shared by everyone around me does not make them less mine; it makes me part of a community, a subculture, a neighbourhood of people who happen to value similar things and express those values in similar ways.
The Costume and the Self
And yet there is a question that nags, about where the sincere expression ends and the costume begins, about whether the uniform of Shoreditch individuality is an authentic expression of self or a performance of belonging, a way of signalling membership in the tribe of the creative and the discerning. The honest answer, I suspect, is that it is both, that our tastes are sincere and also performed, authentic and also strategic, an expression of who we are and a signal of who we wish to be seen as.
This doubleness is not unique to Shoreditch; it is the condition of all subcultures, all of which develop markers that are simultaneously sincere expressions and signals of belonging. But Shoreditch makes it especially visible, especially ironic, because the value the subculture prizes is precisely individuality, and the markers of that value are precisely conformist. We perform individuality through conformity, express uniqueness through uniformity, and the contradiction is the most Shoreditch thing about us.
The Cycle of Cool
The uniform changes, of course, over time, as the markers of Shoreditch cool evolve, the beard waxing and waning, the particular vintage shifting, the coffee preparation growing ever more elaborate. What does not change is the underlying dynamic, the production of a common style out of the shared pursuit of individuality, the uniform of nonconformity renewing itself in new forms as the old forms become too common, too mainstream, too uncool.
This evolution is driven, I think, by the very dynamic it expresses, the pursuit of distinction. As a marker of Shoreditch cool spreads beyond Shoreditch, becomes mainstream, appears on the high street, it loses its power to distinguish, and the neighbourhood moves on to new markers, new forms of the uniform, in an endless cycle of distinction sought, achieved, diffused, and abandoned. The uniform changes; the pursuit of individuality through conformity remains.
The Affection Beneath the Irony
For all my irony, I hold genuine affection for this neighbourhood and its uniform of nonconformity, for the sincere creativity it expresses, for the community it marks, for the genuine subculture it represents. The conformity is real, and worth noting with a smile, but so is the sincerity beneath it, the authentic appreciation for craft and creativity and the discerning life that the uniform, for all its irony, expresses.
The Newcomer Who Gets It Wrong
There is a particular figure who reveals the uniform most clearly: the newcomer who tries too hard, who adopts the markers of Shoreditch cool too eagerly, too completely, too obviously, and in doing so gets it subtly but unmistakably wrong. The genuine member of the subculture wears the uniform with a casual unconsciousness, as the natural expression of sincere tastes; the trying-too-hard newcomer wears it as a costume, self-consciously assembled, every marker present and correct and somehow, collectively, wrong. The difference is subtle but instantly legible to the initiated, the difference between sincere expression and anxious performance, between belonging and seeking to belong. The trying-too-hard newcomer reveals, by getting it wrong, the rules that the genuine member follows unconsciously, exposes the uniform as a uniform by wearing it too deliberately. And the genuine members observe the newcomer with a mixture of recognition and disdain, recognition because they too were once newcomers trying too hard, disdain because they have forgotten that they were, because the casual unconsciousness they now possess was once an anxious performance just like the newcomer’s. We were all, once, the newcomer who tried too hard, before we learned to wear the uniform of nonconformity with the unconscious ease that marks the genuine article.
So I will finish my flat white, among the beards and the bicycles and the tote bags, and I will note, with affection, the universal individuality around me, the uniform of nonconformity we all sincerely wear. We are a community of individuals who all look the same, nonconformists in a uniform, rebels who have arrived, independently and sincerely, at exactly the same way of rebelling. It is ridiculous, and it is sincere, and it is, for better or worse, home.
SOURCE: https://bohiney.com
