If you're the only person left in the world, you can't be a dick. Who would you be a dick too?
Last Friday I went to the 78th Street Studios in the Detroit-Shoreway neighborhood to see an exhibit with some friends. I never feel very comfortable in art galleries when other people are around, because this is inevitably the conversation that goes on in my head:
"Wow! Art! Look at that one!"
"I wonder if anyone's looking at me, thinking 'that guy really appreciates art. He's been staring at that piece for like two minutes.'
"Shut up, Jonathan. You're here to see the art, not to have other people see you see the art."
"Okay, focus. Art. Art. Art. Fart. Fuck... I wonder if anyone saw me giggle. I wasn't laughing at the art. I was laughing because I said 'fart'... Fuck, I have to stop laughing. This is serious."
I can't help but imagine that other people I see at these fart shows are having the same exact conversation in their heads, yet looking so serious with their plastic cups of wine. Are we having fun? Are we getting the message? Are we taking anything from this art?
I learned that night, that yes, it is possible to take something away from such events. You just have to not give a shit, and that is hard. We all want to be accepted for who we are. The only problem is that we are all very unique and strange. There are parts of us we worry others won't accept or even understand. We hide these little pieces we think are marred and only let them out when no one is looking.
For me, I find nothing more satisfying than dancing in my underwear. Not regular white kid dancing, or frenetic head movements if you will, but some kind of mix between ballet, interpretive dance, and Footloose. Music has a very powerful effect on me and my gangly limbs. Whatever it tells my body to do, it does -- at least when it's just me and the cats. As a heterosexual six-foot-four full-grown American man, people don't expect to see me dancing like an idiot in the street. It's perfectly harmless, but unfortunately it's not seen as appropriate behavior.
So I hide the dancing and bring out my more hipster attributes that I know will get a response from the hipster community*. I express my love for tight-fitting, vintage clothes. I talk about my love for urban life. I sing karaoke. But I don't dance.
At least not before last Friday.
I looked at everyone at the gallery acting so interested and serious. I saw myself do the exact same. I started to feel uncomfortable. The infinite-mirrors of 'does-she-notice-that-I-notice-that-she-notices' started spinning in my head.
But then I heard some music.
Fun, dance-y music.
Did people judge me? Probably. Luckily, a good friend of mine who also loves to dance was right there with me, dancing in the same absurdly beautiful way. Surprisingly, the most beautiful part of the night was that for every ten people that gave us a what-the-fuck look, one person would join in.
At one point, a Ukrainian woman joined me, and every once in a while she would stop, laugh into her hands, and tell me I was such a beautiful dancer. Though she was a bit drunk and her English was a little hard to understand, when she told me "haters gonna hate," I knew it was genuine.
That acceptance meant so much to me. I was not only being accepted for the parts of me I usually show, but for the parts of me I usually hide. It made me feel human -- human within my strangeness.
This is definitely what I miss most about being in a relationship.
*NOTE: the greatest irony of the hipster group is that while they love fun, dance-y music, they don't dance -- it's just a lot of head bobbing. This kills me.
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