On Irony

Last week, I purchased a bright green recycled vintage sweatshirt. Oh and it was the first item I bought in London. And it cost seventy-two dollars and fifty-six cents. And it has a martini glass embroidered on it in sequins. And I almost instagrammed it immediately. 

An hour later, I got back to my room, put on the sweatshirt, and turned to glance in the mirror. That's when it hit me: I was looking at seventy-two dollars and fifty-six cents worth of WEARABLE IRONY. 

I'll confess right off the bat that it only got worse from there. The next day, I went to Zara and bought two t-shirts. One of them was pretending to be the numbered jersey tee from Isabel Marant's spring 2012 collection and the other posed as a nearly identical replica of Balenciaga's Fall 2012 alien invasion graphics. Together, they cost thirty-two dollars and twenty-five cents.

Wearable irony total over a 48-hour period: $104.08.

Git ahold a'yourself, son, said a voice inside me. (My ulterior persona is apparently a wise, elderly ranch hand).  That's when I sat myself down and read Christy Wampole's New York Times article, How to Live Without Irony, for the second time since it was published in November. 

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Once finished, I knew it was time to for me to confess: I, Harling Ross, am a serial ironist. And this blog is an enabler.

Let me explain. Wampole's essay describes a phenomenon that has consumed my generation: an obsessive dependence on irony as a lifestyle. What's so bad about that? Well, Wopsle is concerned that irony is a defense mechanism--a mode of circumventing or escaping the real. In other words, our irony is purposeful, stylized, tangible indifference. It is a commercialized fascination with inverted manifestations of pop culture references and gummy bracelets and fake "I LOVE MOM" tattoos and your grandmother's oversized sweater vest. 

It's a joke, a dodge, a safety net, a t-shirt featuring a handlebar mustache-wearing baby. 

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At the root of our irony mania, writes Wampole, lies fear. Fear of risk. 

Hence, the intentional awkwardness, the hyperbole, the self-consciousness. (Is the joke really on ME or is it on YOU for thinking it's on ME?? Nevermind I don't care anyways. Look how irreverent I am!!).

Are we taking the act of "not taking ourselves too seriously"... too seriously?

As a so-called fashion blogger and rampant self-mocker, I was fascinated by this article and all of its startling indications. I realized that a lot of the current elements of fashion (clothing, voices, blogs, street style, etc.) that appeal to me are deeply, inescapably, mesmerizingly IRONIC. 

Uh oh?

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So, back to the sequin martini glass sweatshirt. I suppose, objectively speaking, it's pretty hideous. It's nostalgic in all the wrong ways (I just turned 21 a month ago...), it's the color of plastic grass, and it will only be funny for a somewhat brief moment in time. Maybe I should save my money for closet classics like a pair of beautiful black pumps or an impeccably fitted cocktail dress. 

BUT I LOVE THE SWEATSHIRT!!!! (In an ironic way). 

So what's the deal, folks? Weigh in here. Is irony the dooming enslaver of my (our) generation, or is it a transient and slightly amusing phenomenon that will soon fade away into the Justin Bieber-loving past?