As a writer, you are bound to be a language lover and enjoy the infinite combinations that produce a unique effect, striving for the occasional strike of reaching the near-magical.
You continuously learn words, perhaps obsessively dive into etymologies, underline admired phrases by other authors, and practice weaving words in the quest of developing your own style.
Photo by Emma Morgan
It’s not unlikely that you also write down sentences and paragraphs by others and read them aloud, enjoying their delicious taste which sometimes feels as if they’ve come from another, unknown and better universe.
Overreaching Equals Hardcore Sales
That’s all too well. I am one of you. I do all those things and yet often I run into writers who make a big overreach. You read their sentences and you understand what they want to say. But somehow rather than admiring them for the vocabulary they’ve developed or the effort they’ve invested into (un)tangling their thoughts, you are left with the feeling of unsophistication.
It’s not about pretentiousness or high style; it’s about overdoing it. The best comparison to this kind of writing will probably be of hard-core salespeople.
In sales, tiny, unnoticeable things make all the difference: whether you act as an advisor, whether you push too hard or just the right amount, whether you press down, negotiate or put your foot down. Small subtleties are the dividing line between being in league A, B or C.
Of course, comparing art to sales is unjust, because of art’s complex nature. In a way, though, it speaks all the more about the importance of details. Every word matters. Two big words in a six-word sentence can be costly.
Be A Natural
So, how to know when you’re overdoing it? If something comes naturally to you, then by all means do it. It is who you are. It is how you write; mutatis mutandis.
I’m pretty sure that Proust naturally wrote one sentence per page, and Shakespeare’s primary concern wasn’t to use as many words as possible or to be known as the biggest vocabulary user in the history of the English language.
Try and avoid pumping your writing. Yes, the rule of thumb is that you shouldn’t use the same word/phrase in a paragraph. This doesn’t suggest that you should insert the most complicated synonym in the Thesaurus.
The artificial can be sensed by its plasticity; the natural, on the other hand, spreads its scent in all directions.
The purpose of ornamentation, in all spheres, is to beautify. Overdoing it, though, inevitably leads to kitsch.
PRACTICE
For fifteen minutes write about something you find kitsch (a certain book, fashion style, a building, historical period etc.). Include the reasons you find it kitsch, describe the feeling it evokes in you. When you’re done, post your practice in the comments.
As usual, kindly support others’ practices with your honest feedback.
Boxes, heart or otherwise shaped, ornamented with shells and lined with rich
fabric – the epitome of kitsch. While no box looks the same, they
are alike. They appear to be assembled based on the premise that
more shells are better, without regard to any element of design. A
kitschy shell covered box even makes a key appearance in Jane
Austen’s novel Sanditon. The box is intended as a gift to show the
strong feelings of the giver toward the recipient, chosen
specifically so that others can’t see the real meaning behind the
gift. It succeeds so well in it’s intent that the recipient can’t
even see this real meaning!
When viewed as a collection on a shelf, shell ornamented boxes jump out at
you with their lack of taste, yet they capture your attention enough
to look more carefully. After all, shells are inherently beautiful;
translucent and opaque, stippled with color and pure white.You can
spend hours looking for the beauty in the kitsch. Perhaps this is the
essence of their “kitsch appeal”.
Would it make a difference if the shells were lovingly collected one morning at the beach and thoughtfully glued one at a time while thinking about where each one was found? Would it make a difference if it was a mother/daughter rainy day project – a way to bond over a craft project? Or what if the goal was to make a little cash, go to a craft store and buy a plastic bag of assorted shells imported from Mexico, and then randomly glue them quickly onto a box to elevate its value as an “art item”.? Do shells glued on a box need to be in a pattern? Your piece has brought up so many questions in my mind. I’ll never look at shell ornamented boxes the same way again. Thanks for sharing your writing.
I too will be more aware of shell boxes in general. I ignore them in stores, probably because they strike me as “tacky”. But I do have a special one I made with my granddaughter and the box has long since disappeared, but the top is on my wall. Your description of the shells was lovely.
I liked hearing the train of thought you had on reading this. A reminder to look for the story in everything. Thank you for sharing this, too.
JC, I love the comparison with beauty and kitsch and the referencing of Jane Austen. I too love kitsch and get it. Maybe it is like satire.
Thank you. The kitsch as satire is an intriguing view.
So many shells. Just makes me believe there is such a thing as too much.
The essence of “kitsch appeal”, I love that. My sister had quite a kitschy shell box, and I remember I was always staring at it, examining it, when staying in her room. There was part of me that liked it, and other that despised it. Kitsch is complex.
Yes, it is ‘complex’….wait…maybe we are 😉
Good point 🙂
You call it kitsch, but I call it tacky. Oh, the things that are tacky when I was growing up. Tacky was the line I was never to cross; it was the entry i of “poor white trash” in the world of my mother. Therefore, perhaps in my rebellion as an adult; I have been as tacky as possible for the sake of art!
But now and then my “tacky borders” are assaulted. It happened in front of Lowes just the other day. There was a blow up elf house made for sitting in someone’s yard. It looked like a super size painted marshmallow and it cost $250. I went off like a firecracker.
I’ve always hated those things in people’s yards. They are so ugly, so unnatural, so plastic. Why on earth would anybody buy something like this? Why would anybody, especially in these times pay $250 for something so awful and then put it in their yard. I commenced to walking around the thing exclaiming my distaste. The $250 price tag really stuck in my craw. I could buy a lot of Christmas for $250. Who has that kind of money and why would they spend it on this?
I haven’t left that tacky plastic monstrosity at the store. It has come with me and surfaced in my mind over and over again. Finally, at a Christmas parade I saw where something like that might remotely be a handy thing to own after seeing it on a float. Maybe the cost of it could be justified if you were going to be in a parade, but not the one I saw at Lowes! It was so ugly. It was atrocious. It was too puffy.
As I write this, I realize just yesterday I spent my $250 in Christmas money which could have bought the puffy thing. That is if you count as part of Christmas the dance pants, shoes and PE clothes my granddaughters will start wearing today. I am glad my money did not go for the particular brand of tacky which resides in front of Lowes. I am pleased all those clothes I put in the cart will make three girls supremely happy in about 15 days.
I am ecstatic my family’s outdoor Christmas decorations won’t be displaying such an un-esthetic useless piece of plastic only an idiot would think was wonderful. And there I am, being my mother all over again, standing in judgement of others’ tastes.
Carole, Thank you for your honesty. You inspired me to write my ditty as I love kitsch and find it funny and charming. However, as in all things balance is important and you have found it. Your last line “And there I am, being my mother……” truly hit a note with me. I also loved “tacky plastic monstrosity” Very visual.
Loved the line about there you are being your mother all over again. I also appreciated the little tirade you had. It was in your mind, right. 🙂
I actually did say some of this to my husband. I don’t know why I went off like that.
I agree that some “decorations” can be REALLY tacky. One year in a store just before Christmas I saw this two-foot tall rubber &/or plastic “tree” with a mouth that gaped open and shut as the thing sang “Jingle Bells.”
Later I told a friend, “A person would be sick of that after about ten minutes.” He said, “I’m sick of it already, just hearing about it.”
I don’t know what the price was, but the cash would have been far more useful tossed into the Sally Ann Christmas kettle.
Struck by your closing. And I had an empathetic spurt of irritation about Xmas kitsch while reading this!
Har! Har! “Empathetic spurt of irritation”
I enjoyed this. It had a good moral for not judging others. Oh well. 🙂
The joy of kitsch, the humor, the camp and yes the tacky triggers the fun of exaggeration. Plastic leis and silly hats belong with little champagne glasses the bottom falls from to bounce on cold tiled floors reminding one of News Years Eve parties from years past.
Seashells on picture frames remind me of Bible verses from successful vacation bible school years. My daughter’s collection of pink flamingos both startle and delight me as she tends to shy away from the tacky. Halloween, one of my favorite holidays, celebrates all things kitsch.
The garden gnome who stands sentinel on a frosty bale of straw in my sleeping garden tells stories of the nightly wanderings of stray cats and a tailless raccoon when I sit near him and remain quiet enough to listen.
Which brings me to Christmas trees and tree ornaments. Every year, I dig out extremely ugly worn out decorations and touch them one by one reveling in moments long past when small children hung these very same baubles in clusters around the lower front part of the tree.
When I touch my Mom’s ornaments I remember her aluminum tree with the rotating lights. Despising that tree as a child I proceeded to drag a fir branch onto the porch and decorate it with popcorn and paper chains. Dad took pity on me and talked Mom into letting me place a tiny tree in my bedroom. He took me out on the horses in the snow beginning the yearly tradition of riding in the woods on our property to gather a natural live tree.
My bedroom smelling of Ponderosa Pine with the soft glow of tree lights felt warm and welcoming. Fifty years later I am on a hunt for kitschy aluminum trees. Not sure I want one in the house, but the memories they generate are treasured.
Cat, you expanded on the theme “tacky as art” quite nicely. Pink flamingos were the height of tacky for my mama, so I love that your daughter has a little kitsch in her. My journey is very focused on my mama now, so I appreciate your ornamental love notes from yours. My mama has never understood my love for funky little live trees that weren’t perfect and I have never understood her need for perfection. See how much your writing brings up?
Thank you. I give Sophie all the credit for such an inspiring blog to springboard from.
Thanks Cat, so glad you found inspiration in the post. Lovely practice. As someone shying away from kitsch, you did remind me of Christmas decorations and how much I loved those as a child. Though, even back then, I think I was going for the aesthetic. 🙂
Kitschy aluminum trees. Yes, I remember those. And we had one we put up at our family-owned Snack Shop. What memories that conjured up. Thanks. Love treasuring memories.
Thank you. Hope you got pictures of your shiny tree.
Cat, I like how you used kitsch as a trip through some of your favorite recollections and the generational divide between mother and daughter with your dad saving the day.
Me too – beautifully done!
Thank you so much. The blog by Sophie was inspiring.
Thank you. This was one of my favorite blogs to play with.
I read this and want to go out an get a garden gnome of my very own!
Eyrline Morgan
While driving from New York to Oklahoma, we saw many beautiful, not rehabilitated, but in their natural form. Most of these churches had historical pipe organs. My husband had been an organ builder and tuner, and knows about every pipe organ in these churches. One I remember most, the organ was in perfect tuning, still having original parts. But, what was so different about this church? It had original Tiffany stained glass windows. My husband adores stained windows, almost as much as playing the organ and building them.
He has a degree in organ performance, is a Registered Piano Technician, and loves both. As we went through Tennessee, he pointed out the windows on a church. With the sun shining in, on a beautiful warm day, we couldn’t pass up the opportunity to see this church, the windows, and the organ. We were given permission from the pretty blond secretary to go into the sanctuary and even to play the organ.
My degree is in Music Education with an emphasis in organ. I was as eager as he to see this historical wonder. As beautiful as it was, I found another more beautiful: my home church. It had been repaired, but the sanctuary was intact. In the middle was a stained glass dome. The old Hillgreen and Lane pipe organ was still there, but barely in playing order. When I was four, I told my mother that someday I would play that organ. After many years of playing at various churches in many different states, we returned to Oklahoma. As God planned, they needed an organist, and I needed an organ to play. The church an organ are now on the Historical list. This is important, as the church cannot be renovated and the organ will be repaired to it’s original state.
About a week ago, as I was standing in line at Aldi, a young woman in the next line caught my attention. Her tall slender form and long dark hair were striking. Then she turned around.
On one ear she had over a dozen mismatched earrings. There were studs, and ear bands, and other ear ornamentation I dont have a name for. In the other ear was a large heavy flashy earring that hung to her shoulder. Bright multi-colored stones glinted from random spots on the many tiers of the earring.
Her bright green eyes were rimmed with black. Each eyebrow sported a stud. Purple eyeshadow covered both eyelids and came to a dramatic point on the side of both eyes. The points were not even. One was longer and higher than the other.
In her nose three gold studs marched down one side. I think they were pointing to the silver loop between her nostrils.
Her lips were adorned with multiple studs and were slathered with bright red lipstick.
On one arm, a disarrayed army of bangles marched up almost to her elbow. They clanked as she moved. Her pretty hands were disfigured by the mismatched rings weighing down every finger. Her fingernails
were very long, squared off and painted bright lime green with sparkles.
Hanging around her neck were at least two dozen chains. Some were gold, others were tarnished silver. Several had large garish pendants.
A short shirt revealed her stomach, and the gold ring in her belly button.
She moved slowly through the line she was in. Several men in her area were graced by her flirtatious smiles. She tossed her long beautiful hair.
I was left wondering why a woman who was gifted with such natural beauty felt the need to drape herself in such garish adornment.
I’m afraid if I had seen this woman I too would have had the same question in my mind. I remember once watching a show that talked about the outrageous things people would wear and the answer which surfaced more than anything was “for attention.”
Yes, for attention and, perhaps, because they don’t feel they could fit in a “normal” group. By adopting outrageous clothes, hair styles and body piercings they now can fit it with others who do the same.
Adelaide
This produced a perfect picture! When I “saw” her, I saw her posing a question, “Who am I?”
I drive by the yard most every day. It’s a yard that has ornamental things. And I’m okay with that. Except when it’s like this yard which tries desperately to make sure every inch of grass is covered. The birdhouses are nice, but to me they look like they are jammed all together. The metal rust-looking pans are interesting but so many of them and I am not drawn in.
I have seen this kitschy look on other lawns. To be honest I have seen this in my sister-in-laws house.
To me it seems like something regurgitated things up. I guess it may be me though. My eyes need a place to rest, to just pause.
It is overstimulation. And if there is too much I see nothing, just a mass.
The gnomes on the front lawn next to the metal airplane, the birdhouses in a row. I keep trying to make sense of them and when I can’t I turn off, want to run. I believe that everyone has a right to decorate as they like. And their lawns are theirs. It’s just that I long for houses with a bench and a few bushes. Flowers free to pop up wherever they want. Maybe a trellis, maybe not.
Kitsch is not my thing. Except for the year I was a gypsy. Then I could not find enough bracelets to fit my young wrist. But come on! That was the point.
Except for the year I was a gypsy…
I suppose I should have added, for Halloween.
Hahaha! I loved the idea of a year as a gypsy.
Nicely put. I feel like we have seen the same yard. It irritates me, offending my preference for the understated.
Kitsch as sensory overload. I feel this way driving down a strip lined with franchises, one after the other, hard to distinguish after a while.
Here’s an opposite example: the excess of short and sweet. We have an acquaintance presently stationed in India who’s absorbed the concept of TERSE. No long and winding sentences from him. Now terse is fine in small quantities, but when you only write that way, your thoughts take on the sound of machine gun fire. Worse yet if you haven’t discovered paragraphs.
“It was chilly in Kalimpong last night. The heater provided gave off much light. Melissa turned it off toward morning to try to sleep better. The clear morning air invigorated the senses. Glad to be alive! Kanchenjunga and the Himalayan range were clear, magnificent and strong against the vast blue above! The breakfast in the dining room was an experience. Jeff thought the porridge really hit the spot. It was good, although Melissa would have preferred an Indian breakfast. We enjoyed toast and omelets also. With coffee. We paid up, put our luggage in their office, and walked out. New eyes saw the sights along the way into the main part of Kalimpong. Great Joy Bookstore was not open yet, so we looked in other shops going down main street.
One of the interesting things we happened on in our shopping were the Himalayan style bells. Cowbells, buffalo bells, or yak bells. They were unique, pleasant to the ear, and in imagination, look well on some wall inside or porch beam outside. We shopped at Thomas’ bookstore also among other various places. Steven was walking down the steps when we were going to the car, so we chatted for half a minute. We met Richard at his Bolero in the taxi stand. Tif was very pleased that Sonu, Richard’s daughter was able to come along. We went to The Himalayan Handmade Paper place first as Sanjay requested some. We watched the unique labor involved. Then we enjoyed the pleasant, sunny drive up to Deolo Hill. There were many people there, as it is Holiday time. We were able to enjoy good views of the Himalayan range.”
Does kitsch skip a generation? Or is it, like beauty, in the eye of the beholder? As I traveled back in my mind to the home where I grew up, I saw a Cadillac picture calendar hanging in the kitchen, keeping company with an Aunt Jemima cookie jar and a ceramic geisha planter on top of the refrigerator. Those treasures added to the congestion in a room where every surface was always covered. You needed to undertake the mini equivalent of an archeological dig to set the table for supper. The portable dishwasher was piled high with plastic logo giveaways like notepads, measuring spoons and thermometers, leading to a precarious situation every evening after supper when the time came to roll it over to the sink.
As a teenager, I vowed that MY kitchen table would never be cluttered like that. My decorating style would be sophisticated. And, I smugly believed I had accomplished that until the invitation for this practice prompted me to take a second look.
Yes, my kitchen is the epitome of modern decor — stainless steel appliances, granite countertop, glass mosaic backsplash, natural wood cabinets and floor. Yet, when I try to perform an unbiased appraisal, it see my own version of kitsch creeping in — four tiny fruit plates hang on one wall. A gigantic ceramic sunflower platter — a souvenir from a trip to Tuscany — dominates another wall. A baker’s rack is loaded with assorted cookbooks, salt and pepper shakes, candles and sundry kitchen implements.
Maybe I fell under the spell of kitsch after all.
As you said, kitsch is in the eye of the beholder. For me, acquiring kitsch has come in stages.
As a child I loved souvenirs, which were real kitschy: my replica of the Empire State Building, a cupie doll won at a carnival, a ceramic candy dish with a sour ball looking knob which my mother got at a free movie giveaway. I treasured these and others until our big move from the East Coast to the West Coast. No room to pack them.
Extensive travel in later years resulted in another stage of collecting kitsch, usually bought on impulse.: replicas of the Eifel Tower, the Coliseum, Buckingham Palace, a real cukoo clock which we soon got tired of hearing. These and more are in the attic now, and will probably be sold, given away or thrown out with the next big move.
It may annoy me to see the current types of kitsch, gigantic balloon figures, pink Christmas trees (yes, I actually saw one this year; they haven’t gone away.) but I’m sure many people wouldn’t like my decor if they came into my house.
Adelaide
What’s one person’s kitsch is another ones treasure?! That speaks to me!
I can relate so well to this!
I feel guilty now. 🙂 But from what you’ve described, it doesn’t sound kitschy to me. We’re human, after all, and our homes show human life in its true form.
Ah. It seems that you are under the spell. A true test is what you find and how you react to your assortments when you move!
I thought you made some good points. Your essay reminds me of what Coco Chanel said: elegance is restraint. But there was one point I didn’t understand. You write “the artificial can be sensed by its plasticity.” I think you meant fakeness, but that’s not what plasticity generally means, as I understand it. Merriam-Webster online says it means “the quality or state of being plastic; especially: capacity for being molded or altered.” When something has plasticity it’s moldable, adaptable. Plasticity is a hallmark of the living thing. The human brain, for example. If you meant plasticity in that sense, I don’t quite get what you meant.
Thanks for pointing this out Shannon. I did indeed mean fakeness, as in plastic = unnatural, artificial. Plasticity can mean other things too, like you’ve nicely indicated, and yet in this context I was going for the former meaning.
What a cool site!
I seriously need some writing practice, so here I go….
The discussion of kitsch and family makes me think of my grandmother.
My grandmother was the daughter of immigrants. Her father was a successful
grocer who sold cheese by the wedge and cold, cured meats by the slice.
Her mother was never talked about in my family. I only know that she
raised three daughters to respectable adulthood; they were all married
and managed stable homes. Two of them raised their own broods of
respectable children. One was my grandmother. She kept a clean, neat
home and dressed and behaved with utmost dignity in public. She was
active in the community. A local newspaper described her as “a truly
capable woman.”
But when I think back, my grandmother had a dark
side. She had an affinity for clown art. Clown paintings, to be
specific. Bright, garish faces with oversize black eyes and painted
sausage shaped mouths. Circular red, protruding noses. Tufts of curly
orange hair sprouting from the sides of flat, powdered bald heads.
Sometimes a puffy, white-gloved hand appeared beside a clown face
clutching a bouquet of balloons or the rubber bulb of a toy horn.
She kept these paintings in a sort of annex building on my grandparents’
property. It was used as a guest house when visitors, such as adult
grandchildren, came to visit. I ignored these paintings the best I
could. I cringed when I saw them, but quickly blocked them out. They
didn’t matter and I didn’t stop to analyze them. I denied to myself that
somehow they were part of who my grandmother was. What a frightening,
and somehow demeaning, thought.
Then one day I had a visitor while staying in the annex. It was someone I’d known in college and hadn’t seen for quite a while. When he entered the room, he was immediately overcome by the clown paintings. All he wanted to talk about was them. They were hilarious! They were evil! What was the story
behind them? Embarrassed, I laughed and brushed off these questions. I
got us both out of the building fast, on pretense.
Today, thinking about kitsch, I’m revisiting those questions, but I still can’t
answer them. When I look in the mirror, I see more and more of my
grandmother looking back at me. But I still hate clowns.
A warm welcome! I was quite intrigued by your grandmother’s affinity for clown art too. It’s a very interesting story. You should definitely turn it into a proper short story.
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